Gavegan loomed. “Grand Central Station. Train at 10.30. And meetin’ there with ... M.”
“Plausible,” I said, and was unsure if I agreed or if I mocked. “I suppose you know already who is ‘M’?”
He eyed me with omniscience. “That we don’t give out, sir. Even to a distinguished friend.”
“But the wound, Gavegan! Have you looked at the wound?”
He was stupid. I prepared to tell my thoughts. Was it because or despite that he was too stupid to receive them?
“The wound might puzzle you, I think, if you had studied more anatomy. The man who dealt it did so from above, for it struck the right auricle of the heart at an angle of less than forty-five degrees! How could a short man do that to a man six feet one and a half? And how could any man murder LaMotte like that, if LaMotte were not literally baring his breast: parting his arms, even raising his arms (the muscle wound shows that, besides) in order to receive the blow?”
The image of a victim coöperating with his slayer was too much for the law. The discomfort of my analysis struck Mr. Gavegan as an impertinent invasion. He barred it with laughter. I could see his thought in his mouth and his eye.
“—These scientist cranks.”
I went on: not knowing, again, if my motive was to convince or was bravado in the certainty that my man was beneath convincing.
“Gavegan, have you ever noted the subtle stigmata of the hypnotic trauma?”