Prisoner's Base

Oliver Pitkin sniffed for the hundredth time. A rye and ginger ale had been provided for him some two hours back, and he was still working at it. I had been wrong about him Tuesday when I figured that he had always been fifty years old and always would be. He had already put on at least five years, and he had shrunk. Instead of tagging him a neat little squirt I would now call him a magnified beetle. Apparently he had heard somewhere that it is impressive, when you are conversing, to keep your head tilted forward with your chin on your chest, and to look up from under your brows, like a prizefighter in a crouch-and maybe it can be, but not when he did it.

"I'm not sure," he said cautiously, "that I know what a catharsis is. Will you define it?"

"I'd rather withdraw it. Let's revert to my question to Miss Duday: what have you to say to remove or discredit the suspicion that you are a murderer?"

"That's not the way to do it." He sniffed. "That's un-American. First show me the evidence back of the suspicion, if there is any, and then I will answer it. That's the American way."

"I have no evidence."

"Then you have no suspicion."

Wolfe regarded him. "Either, sir, you're an ass or you're masquerading as one. When there is evidence that you have murdered, there will be not a suspicion but a conviction. If I had evidence that one or more of you is guilty I wouldn't sit here half the night, inviting you to jabber; I would phone the police to come and get you. Have you anything to say?"

"Not like that, no. Ask me a question."

"Do you think you are capable of committing a murder-not killing in defense or an explosion of passion, but deliberate murder?"

Pitkin studied him from under his brows. He wasn't going to be caught off guard. "No," he said.

"Why not? Many people can and do. Why couldn't you?"

That took more study. Finally: "Because of the way I look at things."

"How do you look at things?"