The Second Confesion

“You don't have to be sarcastic, Goodwin.” “No, sir.” I grinned at him. “Nor do you have to be so goddam sympathetic with a guy who got a bat on the head on a public road in your jurisdiction. Thank you just the same.” “All right.” He flipped a hand to brush it off. “Why did you feel so bad you couldn't eat anything all day Sunday?” I admit that surprised me. Wolfe had mentioned the possibility that there would be a first-rate man among the questioners, and while this sudden question was no proof of brilliancy it certainly showed that someone had been good and thorough.

“The boys have been getting around,” I said admiringly. “I didn't know any of the servants here had it in for me-maybe they used the third degree. Or could one of my fellow guests have spilled it?” I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “I had nine drinks and they were all doped.” “Don't clown,” Wolfe muttered, putting down an empty glass.

“What then?” I demanded. “Can I tell him it must have been something I ate with my host sitting here?” “You didn't have nine drinks,” Archer stated. “You had two or three.” “Okay.” I surrendered. Then it must have been the country air. All I know is, I had a headache and my stomach kept warning me not to make any shipments. Now ask me if I went to a doctor. I ought to tell you, Mr Archer, that I think I may get sore, and if I get sore I'll start making wisecracks, and if I do that you'll get sore. What good will that do us?” The District Attorney laughed. His laughing routine was quite different from Spelling's, being closer to a giggle than a roar, but it suited him all right.

No one joined him, and after a moment he looked around apologetically and spoke to James U. Sperling.