The Second Confesion

When I explained why I hadn't insisted on something better than Jimmy's corny tale about letters Gwenn had written Rony, in spite of the way Mom had scrambled it for him, Wolfe nodded in approval, and when I explained why I had walked out of the law office of Murphy, Kearfot and Rony without even trying to look in a wastebasket, he nodded again. One reason I like to work for him is that he never rides me for not acting the way he would act. He knows what I can do and that's all he ever expects; but he sure expects that.

When I got to the end I added, “If I may make a suggestion, why not have one of the boys find out where Aloysius Murphy was at nine-thirty Monday evening? I'd be glad to volunteer. I bet he's a D and a Commie both, and if he didn't kill Rony he ought to be framed for it. You ought to meet him.” Wolfe grunted. “At least the afternoon wasn't wasted. You didn't find the membership card?” “Yeah, I thought that was how you'd take it.” “And you met Mrs Sperling and her son. How sure are you that he invented those letters?” I shrugged. “You heard me describe it.” “You, Saul?” “Yes, sir. I agree with Archie.” “Then that settles it.” Wolfe sighed. “This is a devil of a mess.” He looked at Fred and Orrie. “Come up closer, will you? I've got to say something.” Fred and Orrie moved together, but not alike. Fred was some bigger than Orrie.

When he did anything at all, walk or talk or reach for something, you always expected him to trip or fumble, but he never did, and he could tail better than anybody I know except Saul, which I could never understand. Fred moved like a bear, but Orrie like a cat. Orrie's strong point was getting people to tell him things. It wasn't so much the questions he asked. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very good at questions, it was just the way he looked at them. Something about him made people feel that he ought to be told things.

Wolfe's eyes took in the four of us. He spoke.

“As I said, we're in a mess. The man we were investigating has been killed, and I think he was murdered. He was an outlaw and a blackguard, and I owe him nothing. But I am committed, by circumstances I prefer not to disclose, to find out who killed him and why, and, if it was murder, to get satisfactory evidence.

We may find that the murderer is one who, by the accepted standards, deserves to live as richly as Mr Rony deserved to die. I can't help that; he must be found.