“I insist it was a curtain,” April declared. Her sisters were saying something too, and Stauffer was shushing her, and Prescott and Miss Karn were making it a free-for-all, with nothing emerging for the record, until Wolfe’s voice came out on top:
“That will do! Ladies and gentlemen! My office is not a barnyard!” He gave me a withering glance. “Confound you, Archie!” He switched to the lawyer. “Mr. Prescott, I beg your pardon for having in my employ a young man whose soaring imagination alights on such clichés as sinister plots and forged wills — As for you, Miss Karn, I presume you think you are being audacious and intrepid—”
“Positively Penthesilean,” May inserted.
Wolfe ignored it. “Taking the bull by the horns. Pfui! It should be possible to adhere to the code of ordinary decent manners even when fighting for a fortune. It should also be possible for a young woman with eyes as intelligent as yours to avoid being hoodwinked by Mr. Goodwin’s elephantine capers. It may be, I admit, that you were disconcerted because, coming here expecting a private interview with me, you found these people here. That was not my fault, nor theirs. They did not know you were coming, nor did I know they were. They came, unannounced, to tell me that Mrs. Noel Hawthorne, immediately after leaving my office this afternoon, proceeded to engage a lawyer, and that he has already made formal application to Mr. Prescott for a copy of the will. As you see, you’re not the only one — Yes, Fritz?”
Fritz had entered in his grand manner, but an unexpected bump in his right rear cramped his style. My eyes widened as I saw who it was that had accidentally bumped him, brushing past — our old friend Inspector Cramer of the homicide squad. At his heels was that pillar of pessimism, District Attorney Skinner, and in the rear was a bony little runt with a mustache, carrying last year’s straw hat. Fritz, bumped, seeing there was nothing left for him to announce, stepped aside and tried not to glare with indignation.
Wolfe’s voice sang out, “How-do-you-do, gentlemen! As you see, I’m busy. If you will kindly—”
“That’s all right, Mr. Wolfe.” Skinner, his deep bass croaking, pushed in front of Cramer. He glanced around at the faces. “Mrs. John Charles Dunn? I’m District Attorney Skinner. Miss May Hawthorne? Miss April Hawthorne? I have some — uh — unpleasant news for you.” He sounded apologetic. “It was necessary to find you at once—”
“Permit me, sir,” Wolfe snapped at him. “This is intolerable! We are conferring on a private matter—”
“I’m sorry,” said Skinner. “Believe me, I am sorry. Our business is extremely urgent, or we wouldn’t come barging in like this. We wish to make some inquiries regarding the death of Mr. Noel Hawthorne last Tuesday afternoon. At your place in the country up near Nyack, wasn’t it, Mrs. Dunn?”
“Yes.” June’s dark eyes were piercing him. “What do you — why do you wish to inquire about it?”