“I did. Two steps brought me to that conclusion. The first resulted from my examination of the stories used by the three first-named as the bases of their claims. They were all written by the same person. The internal evidence-diction, syntax, paragraphing-is ineluctable. You are professional word-and-language people; study those stories and you’ll all agree with me.”
“I’m not a writer,” Cora Ballard said. “I just work for writers.”
“Not
“It’s not only important,” Knapp declared, “it’s remarkable. It seems to me you
“So it seemed to me,” Wolfe said, “until I took the next step. All that remained, it seemed, was to learn which of the three had written the stories; then it would be simple. I procured a book written by Alice Porter, and one written by Simon Jacobs, and studied them, and I re-read the testimony Jane Ogilvy had given on the witness stand, including the three poems she had recited. I shall not expound; I merely state that I am convinced that none of them wrote the stories.”
“But damn it,” Imhof objected, “somebody did! And now Alice Porter is repeating.”
“By God,” Oshin exclaimed, squashing a cigarette, “Rennert! Kenneth Rennert!”
Wolfe shook his head. “I doubt it. The reasons for my doubt are not conclusive, but they are cogent.” He upturned a palm. “So. When you left here six days ago I thought I had four culprits to expose. When I had read the stories I thought I had just one and he could be easily identified; the others were only tools. That was progress. Now there is still just one, but who and where is he? The only approach to him, the only hope of finding him, is through the contacts he must have made with his tools. That kind of investigation does not fit my talents, and it will probably be prolonged and expensive. It will demand an exhaustive and meticulous inquiry into the movements and associations of those three people-four, with Kenneth Rennert included. That is regress.”
“Do you mean you’re quitting?” Dexter asked.