Elihu Willsson carefully pulled the covers up over his legs again, leaned his head back on the pillows, screwed his eyes up at the ceiling, and said:

“Hm‑m‑m, so that’s the way it is, is it?”

“Mean anything?”

“She killed him,” he said certainly. “That’s what it means.”

Feet made noises in the hall, huskier feet than the secretary’s. When they were just outside the door I began a sentence:

“You were using your son to run a⁠—”

“Get out of here!” the old man yelled at those in the doorway. “And keep that door closed.” He glowered at me and demanded: “What was I using my son for?”

“To put the knife in Thaler, Yard and the Finn.”

“You’re a liar.”