I was out of my chair, but I wasn’t needed. Davis had jerked himself up, halfway to his feet, and Cramer had thrust out an arm to block him, but even that hadn’t been necessary. He had made an inarticulate noise of pain, no words, and dropped back again as if it was too much for him. He flopped there limp, staring at Wolfe.
Wolfe looked not at Davis, but at his partner, and went on: “Now, Mr. Prescott, it’s up to you. I have a couple of items of evidence, but before I present them I want an understanding with you. Your attempt to save your firm from ruin has failed. The murderer of Hawthorne and Miss Karn is going to pay for it. If you want to help us in that, this is your chance and your last one.” Wolfe’s eyes went to the right. “Mr. Skinner, I said I have evidence, and I have. But Mr. Prescott can help us if he feels like it. I suggest that if he gives valuable testimony for the state against a murderer, it would be appropriate not to prosecute him as an accomplice in a forgery.”
Skinner growled, “That’s in my discretion.”
“I know it is.”
“Well,” Skinner looked wary. “It depends on the testimony.” He eyed Prescott. “I’ll say this. If you help me, I’m likely to help you. If you don’t, and you concealed a forgery, God can help you.”
Everybody was looking at Prescott. His face was certainly a sight. Added to the fact that it was swollen and puffed and bruised, it was now a sickly purplish tinge all over, as if the traffic in the blood vessels had got into a jam that couldn’t be untangled. He wouldn’t look at Davis; he wouldn’t even look at Skinner because he was in Davis’s direction. With one fairly decent eye and one only a slit, he regarded Wolfe and stammered:
“What — what do you want me to say?”
“The truth, sir. About the will, what—”
Davis put in sharply, “Don’t be a fool, Glenn. Keep your mouth shut.”
“About the will,” Wolfe repeated. “Davis is done for anyway. What sum did Hawthorne will to Miss Karn?”