“You’re here helping to prove Hawthorne was murdered. Or that he wasn’t. I see.” He turned to survey me. “So Turner announced me to you instead of to Prescott. And told you I was drunk, I suppose. It’s Prescott I came here to see. I’ll find him.”
He started off, but Wolfe snapped, “One minute, Mr. Dawson!”
Halfway to the door, he halted, stood there for four seconds with his back to us, and then slowly turned around. “My name’s Davis,” he said with careful precision. “Eugene Davis.”
“Not on 11th Street. There it’s Earl Dawson. And how did you know Hawthorne was murdered? Did Mr. Prescott tell you? Or did you learn it from Miss Karn when you were dining with her last evening?”
He had things under control all right. Knowing the feeling he must have been experiencing in his stomach under the circumstances, I admired him. All he did was stand and gaze at Wolfe and chew his lower lip. Finally he crossed to a chair, steadily and without haste, sat down, and asked:
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk with you, Mr. Davis.”
“What about?”
“This mess. This murder. This will business.”
“I know nothing about either one. How did you know I am Earl Dawson on 11th Street?”