The rest had been detailed in the newspapers many times. Thirty minutes later, on the fairway of the fourth hole, Barstow had suddenly collapsed on the ground, kicking and clutching the grass. He had been still alive when his caddy seized his arm, but by the time the others reached him he was dead. A crowd had collected, among them Dr. Nathaniel Bradford, an old Barstow family friend. Manuel Kimball had gone for the sedan and driven it along the edge of the fairway to the scene. The body had been lifted into the back of the sedan, Dr. Bradford had sat on the seat holding the head of his old friend on his lap, and Larry had taken the wheel.

Larry could remember nothing of the golf bag. Absolutely nothing. He knew the caddy’s story, that the bag had been placed in front leaning against the seat, but he could not remember seeing it there while driving or at any other time. He said that he had driven the six miles slowly and carefully, and that later, after getting home, he had found blood all along his lower lip where he had bit it. He was a better liar than his sister. If it had not been for her give-away I might have been fooled by his tale as he told it. I went after him from every angle I could think of, but he didn’t leak once.

I passed that up and asked him about the Kimballs. His story was the same as his sister’s. There had been no contact to speak of between the families; the only connection had been himself and Manuel, and the basis of that was Manuel’s convenience as owner and pilot of an airplane; Larry had intended to get one for himself as soon as he secured a license.

Then I asked the question that had started the fireworks with Mrs. Barstow before lunch. I asked both Larry and his sister, but not only was there no fireworks, there was nothing at all. They declared that they knew of no one who had a serious grievance against their father, or hatred or enmity for him, and that it was unthinkable that there ever should have been such a person. In his remarkable career--he had achieved the presidency of Holland University at forty-eight, ten years before-he had many times faced opposition, but he had always known the trick of melting it instead of crushing it. His private life had been confined to his own home.

His son, I gathered, had had deep respect for him and a certain affection; his daughter had loved him. They agreed that no one could have hated him; and as his daughter told me that, knowing what I had heard from her mother’s lips oniy three hours previously, her eyes challenged me and appealed to me at once.

Next Dr. Bradford. I turned to Miss Barstow oti that instead of her brother. The v~ av the thing seemed to shaping up excellently some hesitation at1 covering, but there certainly was no sign of it. She told me, simply, that Bradford had been a schoolmate at college with her father, that they had always been close friends, and that Bradford, who was a widower, had been almost like one of the family, especially during the summer since he was then also a neighbor. He had been the family physician, and it was on him they had chiefly relied to remove Mrs. Barstow’s difficulty, though he had called in specialists to assist.

"Do you like him?" I asked

"Like him?"

"Yes. Do you like Dr. Bradford?"

"Certainly. He is one of the best and finest men I know.

I turned to her brother. "Do you like him, Mr. Barstow?"

Larry frowned. He was tired; he had been pretty patient; I had been after him for two hours. "I like him well enough. He’s what my sister says all right, but he likes to preach. Not that he ever bothers me now, but when I was a kid I used to hide from him."

"You arrived here from the university Saturday noon. Was Dr. Bradford here between that hour and Sunday at two?"

"I don’t know… Oh yes, sure. He was here Saturday for dinner."

"Do you think there is any chance that he killed your father?"

Larry stared. "Oh, for God’s sake. Is that supposed to shock me into something?"

"Do you, Miss Barstow?"

"Nonsense."

"All right, nonsense. Anyhow, who suggested first that Bradford should certify it as a heart stroke? Which one of you? Him?"

Larry glared at me. His sister said quietly, "You said you wanted me here to see the agreement was observed. Well, Mr. Goodwin. I’ve been patient enough."

"Okay. I’ll lay off of that." I turned to her brother. "You’re sore again, Mr. Barstow. Forget it. People like you aren’t used to impertinence, but you’d be surprised how easy it is to let it slide and no harm done. There’s only a couple of things left. Where were you between seven o’clock and midnight on Monday evening, June fifth?"

He still glared. "I don’t know. How do I know?"

"You can remember. This isn’t another impertinence; I seriously request you to tell me. Monday, June fifth. Your father’s funeral was on Tuesday. I’m asking about the evening before the funeral."

Miss Barstow said, "I can tell you."

"I’d rather he would, as a favor." the servants, and the He did.

"There’s no reason I shouldn’t. Or should either. I was here, at home."

"All evening?"

"Yes."

"Who else was here?"

"My mother and sister, the Robertsons."

"The Robertsons?"

"I said so."

His sister spoke. "The Robertsons are old friends. Mr. and Mrs. Blair Robertson and two daughters."

"What time did they come?"

"Right after dinner. We hadn’t finished. Around seven-thirty."

"Was Dr. Bradford here?"

"No."

"Wasn’t that peculiar?"

"Peculiar? Why? But yes, of course it was. He had to address a meeting in New York, some professional meeting."

"I see. Thank you, Miss Barstow." I turned back to her brother. "I have one more question. A request rather. Does Manuel Kimball have a telephone at his hangar?"

"Yes."

"Will you telephone him that I am coming to see him and that you would like him to give me an interview?"

"No. Why should I?"

Miss Barstow told me, "You have no right to ask it. If you wish to see Mr. Kimball that is your business."

"Correct." I closed my notebook and got up. "Positively correct. But I have no official standing in this affair. If I call on Manuel Kimball on my own he’ll just kick me out on my own. He’s a friend of the family, anyway he thinks so. I need an introduction."

"Sure you need it." Larry had got up too and was brushing grass from the seat of his trousers. "But you won’t get it. Where’s your hat, in the house?"

I nodded. "We can get it when you go in to telephone. Look here, it’s like this. I’ve got to ask you to phone Manuel Kimball, and the Robertsons, and the Green Meadow Club. That’s all I have on my mind at present, but there may be more later. I’ve got to go around and see people and find out things, and the easier you make it for me the easier it will be for you. Nero Wolfe knew enough, and told the police enough, to make them dig up your father’s body. That was a good deal, but he didn’t tell them everything. Do you want to force me to go to the District Attorney and spill enough more beans so that he will give me a ticket that will let me in wherever I want to go? He’s sore at us now because he knows we’re holding out on him. I’d just as soon go and make a friend of him, I don’t mind, I like to make friends. You folks certainly don’t. If this strikes you as some more blackmail, Mr. Barstow, I’ll just get my hat and call it a day as far as you’re concerned."

It was a crime, but I had to do it. The trouble with those two, especially the brother, was that they were so used to being safe and independent and dignified all their lives that they kept forgetting how scared they were and had to be reminded. But they were plenty scared when it came to the point, and if I had cared to make them a present of all my ideas that afternoon I would have had to admit that it looked to me as if they had reason to be scared.