They gave in, of course. We went into the house together, and Sarah Barstow telephoned the Robertsons and her brother phoned the club and Manuel Kimball. I had decided that there wasn’t a chance in a million that I would get anything out of any of the servants, particularly if they had been trained by that tall skinny butler, so as soon as the telephoning was over I got my panama from the hall and beat it.

Larry Barstow went with me out to the side terrace, I suppose to make sure that I didn’t sneak hack in and listen at keyholes. Just as we came to the steps a car rolled along the drive and stopped in front of us. A man got out, anol I had the pleasure of a good grin as I saw it was H. H. Corbett, the dick from Anderson’s office who had tried to crash the gate at Wolfe’s house the morning I was acting as doorman. I passed him a cheerful salute and was going on, but he called to me: "Hey, you!"

I stopped and turned. Larry Barstow stood on the terrace watching us. I said, "Did you address me, sir?"

Corhett was moving into my neighborhood. He paid no attention to niy fast one. "What the hell are you doing here?"

I stood and grinned at him a second and then turned to Larry Barstow on the terrace. "Since this is your home, Mr. Barstow, maybe it would he better if you would tell him what the hell I’m doing here."

It was plain from the look on Larry’s face that although he might never send me a Christmas card, I would get one long before Corbett would. He said to the dick, "Mr. Goodwin has been here at my sister’s invitation, to consult with us. He will probably be here again. Would you like to investigate that?"

Corbett grunted and glared at me. "Maybe you’d like a trip to White Plains."

"Not at all." I shook my head. "I don’t like the town, it’s so slow you can’t get a bet down." I started to move off. "So long, Corbett. I don’t wish you any bad luck, because even with good luck you won’t have much of a tombstone."

Without bothering to think up an answer to the threats and warnings he tossed at my back, I went over to the roadster where it was parked, got in and turned around, and rolled off.

I went to the Robertson's first because I knew it wouldn’t take long and I might as well get it done. Mrs. Robertson and both ot the daughters were at home, and expecting me after Sarah Barstow’s phone call. They said they had been at the Barstow’s the evening of June fifth, the day before the funeral, arriving well before eight o’clock and leaving after midnight. They were certain that Larry and Sarah and Mrs. Barstow had been present the entire evening. I made sure there was no possibility of a mistake about the date, and then tried a few casual questions about the Barstow family but soon gave it up. The Robertsons weren’t discussing their old friends that afternoon with a stranger; they wouldn't even let on that Mrs. Barstow was otherwise than completely all right, not aware of how much I knew.

I got to the Kimball place a little after five o’clock. It wasn’t as dressed up as the Barstow estate, but was much larger; I drove over half a mile after I entered their private road. It was mostly on low ground, with some of the old stone fences still running through the meadows and a couple of brooks wandering around. Some woods were at the left. The house was on a knoll in a park of evergreens, with a well-kept lawn not very large and no sign of flowers that I could see as I drove up. Not as big as the Barstows, the house was brand-new, wood with panels and a high steep slate roof, one of the styles that I lumped all together and called Queen William.

Back of the house, over the knoll, was an immense flat meadow. I was sent in that direction, along a narrow graveled drive, by a fat man in a butler’s uniform who came out of the house as I drove up. In the large meadow were no stone fences; it was level and clean and recently mowed and was certainly perfect for a private landing field. On the edge about halfway down its length was a low concrete building with a flat roof, and the graveled drive took me there. There was a wide and long concrete runway in front, and two cars were parked on it.

I found Manuel Kimball inside, washing his hands at a sink. The place was mostly full of airplane, a big one with black wings and a red body, sitting on its tail. In it tinkering with something was a man in overalls. Everything was neat and clean, with tools and oil cans and a lot of junk arranged on steel shelves that ran along one side. Beside the sink there was even a rack with three or four clean towels on it.

"My name’s Goodwin," I said.

Kimball nodded. "Yes, I was expecting you. I’m through here for the day; we might as well go to the house and be comfortable." He spoke to the man in overalls. "Let that wait till tomorrow if you want to, Skinner, I won’t be going up till afternoon." When he had finished wiping his hands he led me out and took his car, and I got in the roadster and drove back to the house.

He was decent and polite, no doubt about that, even if he did look like a foreigner and had made me nervous at lunch. He took me into a large room in front and steered me to a big comfortable leather chair and told the fat butler to bring us some highballs. When he saw me looking around he said that the house had been furnished by his father and himself after their personal tastes, since there had been no women to consider and they both disliked decorators.

I nodded. "Miss Barstow told me your mother died a long time ago."

I said it casually, without thinking, hut I always have my eye on whoever I’m talking to, and I was surprised at what went over his face. It was a spasm, you couldn’t call it anything else. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but for that moment something was certainly hurting him inside. I didn’t know whether it was just because I had mentioned his mother or he really had a pain; anyhow, I didn’t try it again.

He said, "I understand that you are investigating the death of Miss Barstow’s father."

"Yes. At her request, in a way. Larry Barstow’s father too, and Mrs. Barstow’s husband, at the same time."

He smiled and his black eyes swerved to me. "If that is your first question, Mr. Goodwin, it is neatly put. Bravo. The answer is no, I have no right to distinguish the dead man in that fashion. No right, that is, but my own inclination. I admire Miss Barstow--very much."

"Good. So do I. It wasn’t a question, just a remark. What I really want to ask you about is what took place on the first tee that Sunday afternoon. I suppose you’ve told the story before."

"Yes. Twice to a detective whose name is Corbett, I believe, and once to Mr. Anderson."

"Then you ought to have it by heart. Would you mind telling it again?"

I sat back with my highball and listened without interrupting. I didn’t use my notebook because I already had Larry’s tale to check with and I could record any differences later. Manuel Kimball was precise and thorough. When he got through there was little left to ask, but there were one or two points I wasn’t satisfied on, particularly one on which he differed from Larry. Manuel said that after Barstow thought a wasp had stung him he had dropped his driver on the ground and his caddy had picked it up; Larry had said that his father had hung onto the driver with one hand when he was opening his shirt to see what had happened to him. Manuel said he felt sure he was right but didn’t insist on it if Larry remembered otherwise. It didn’t seem of great importance, since the driver had in any event got back into the bag, and in all other respects Manuel’s story tallied with Larry’s.

Encouraged by his sending for more highballs, I spread the conversation out a little. He didn’t seem to object. I learned that his father was a grain broker and went every day to his office in New York, on Pearl Street, and that he, Manuel, was considering the establishment of an airplane factory. He was, he said, a thoroughly skilled pilot, and he had spent a year at the Fackler works in Buffalo. His father had engaged to furnish the necessary capital, though he doubted the soundness of the venture and was entirely skeptical about airplanes. Manuel thought Larry Barstow showed promise of a real talent in structural design and hoped to be able to persuade him to take a share in the enterprise. He said: "Naturally Larry is not himself just at present, and I’m not trying to rush him. No wonder, first his father’s sudden death, and then the autopsy with its astonishing results. By the way, Mr. Goodwin, of course everybody around here is wondering how Nero Wolfe--that’s it, isn’t it?--how he was able to predict those results in such remarkable detail. Anderson, the District Attorney, hints at his own sources of information--he did so to me the other day, sitting in the chair you’re in now--but the truth of the matter is pretty generally known. At Green Meadow day before yesterday there were only two topics: who killed Barstow, and how Nero Wolfe found out. What are you going to do, disclose the answers to both riddles at the same dramatic moment?"