Wolfe said, “There’s a chair for Mr. Prescott there by yours, Archie.”
I nudged Prescott’s elbow and he moved across to it and lowered himself. Johnny Keems got out of my chair and moved to one in the rear alongside Saul Panzer. He knew damn well I didn’t like anyone sitting in my chair.
May Hawthorne said sarcastically, “This is impressive, Mr. Wolfe.”
Wolfe’s eyes moved to her. “You don’t like me, do you, Miss Hawthorne? I understand that. You’re a realist and I’m a romantic. But all this isn’t for effect. I shall need some of you and I may need all of you. It’s a job. I’m out after a murderer and he’s here.” He looked at the district attorney. “It may be slippery going, Mr. Skinner. I expect you to stick to our bargain.”
“As stated,” said Skinner sharply. “I’m not gagged and I won’t be.”
“Yes, sir, as stated.” Wolfe’s eyes circled around the faces and settled on the one least presentable of all. “Mr. Prescott, I know you can’t talk without discomfort, so I’ll try to do most of it myself. Being a lawyer, you understand of course that you are under no compulsion to answer questions, but I warn you I’m going to be pretty stubborn and disagreeable. First I’ll ask you to verify a few facts I’ve collected. In March, 1938, your private secretary was a young woman named — what’s that name, Saul?”
Saul spoke up from the rear: “Lucille Adams.”
“And when did she die?”
“Two months ago, in May, of tuberculosis, at her home at 2419—”
“Thanks. Is that correct, Mr. Prescott?”