“Where you stumbled, Joe, was in sending the telegram right after the murder.”
“He’s dead?” It popped out before his eyes had even had time to grow round and wide.
The question threw me off balance. I had to wrestle with my forehead to keep it from wrinkling, and I put too much calmness in my voice when I asked:
“Is who dead?”
“Who? How do I know? Who do you mean?”
“Who did you think I meant?” I insisted.
“How do I know? Oh, all right! Old man Hambleton, Sue’s father.”
“That’s right,” I said, and took my hand away from his chin.
“And he was murdered, you say?” He hadn’t moved his face an inch from the position into which I had lifted it. “How?”
“Arsenic—flypaper.”
“Arsenic flypaper.” He looked thoughtful. “That’s a funny one.”
“Yeah, very funny. Where’d you go about buying some if you wanted it?”
“Buying it? I don’t know. I haven’t seen any since I was a kid. Nobody uses flypaper here in San Francisco anyway. There aren’t enough flies.”
“Somebody used some here,” I said, “on Sue.”
“Sue?” He jumped so that the sofa squeaked under him.
“Yeah. Murdered yesterday morning—arsenical flypaper.”