He hung up. Lily, with Diana and Wade, was over by the fireplace with her back to it, watching television, and when I asked if we could take the car to run up to Farnham's she said of course with no question or comment, and I went to my room for ponchos.
I had never seen Wolfe in a hooded poncho of any colour, and the ones Lily stocked were bright red. They were all the same size, barely big enough to take his dimensions, but even so he looked very gay-leaving out his face, which was pretty grim. It was still grim when, leaving the car under the firs at Farnham's, we splashed around to the front, with a flashlight to spot puddles, and I opened the screen door and knocked on the solid one, which was closed. It was opened by William T. Farnham.
And, after shaking hands with Farnham and getting his help with the poncho, Wolfe put on an act. He always welcomed a chance to show off, but there it served two other purposes: impressing the audience and avoiding shaking so many hands. Besides Farnham there were six people in the room: three men and a woman around a card table over near the fireplace, and two men standing, kibitzing. Wolfe walked over, stopped four paces away, and said, 'Good evening. I have been told of you by Mr Goodwin.' He nodded at the woman. 'Mrs Amory.'
At the man across from her-round-faced, wide-browed, with his balding process well started: 'Dr Robert Amory, from Seattle.'
At the man at her left-late thirties, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, needing a shave: 'Mr Joseph Colihan, from Denver.'
At the man at her right-middle forties, foreign-looking, dark skin, bushy eyebrows: 'Mr Armand DuBois, also from Denver.'
At the man standing behind Amory-nudging sixty, rough weathered skin, thick gray hair, in working Levi's and a pink shirt with a tear on one shoulder: 'Mr Bert Magee.'
At the man standing back of Colihan, farther off-around thirty, thin scrawny neck, thin bony face, undersized-also in Levi's, with a shirt that looked like dirty leather, and a red and white neck rag: 'Mr Sam Peacock.'
Farnham, there after disposing of the ponchos, said, 'Now I call that a roundup.' Of the six men present, not counting Wolfe and me, he was the only one I would have called handsome-rugged outdoors open- spaces handsome. He asked Wolfe, 'How about some wet cheer? Anything from Montana Special to coyote piss, if I've got it.'
'He drinks beer,' Armand DuBois said.
Wolfe asked, 'What's Montana Special?'
'Any open moving water but rainwater. Creek or river. Good for you either plain or diluted, but in weather like this it's better diluted with gargle. Name it. Beer?'
'Nothing now, thank you. Perhaps later. As you know, Mr Goodwin and I have a job to do. But we're interrupting a game.'
'Bridge isn't a game,' DuBois said, 'it's a brawl. We've been at it all day.' He pushed his chair back and rose. 'We would much rather hear you ask questions, at least I would.'
'I hear you're tough,' Farnham said, 'but you don't look tough. Of course like the dude said to the bronc, you can't always tell by appearances. Do you want us one at a time or in a herd?'
'One at a time would take all night,' Wolfe said. 'We are officially accredited, but we came to inquire, not to harass. Shall we sit?'
They moved. There were two long roomy couches at right angles to the fireplace, and DuBois and Farnham took the card table and chairs away. Knowing that Wolfe would share a couch with others only if there was no alternative, I brought a chair that would take him and put it at the end of the couches, facing the fireplace, and one for me. They got distributed-Farnham, Peacock, Magee, and Colihan on the couch at our left, and DuBois and the Amorys on the one at the right. As she sat, Mrs Amory said to Wolfe, 'I'm trying to think of something you can ask me. I'm closer to tight than I've been for years after this rainy day and I want to see what I'd say.' She put a hand to her mouth to cover what might have been a burp. 'I think I'd make something up.'
'I advise against it, madam. Mr Goodwin has informed me thoroughly.' Wolfe sent his eyes around. 'I know, from Mr Goodwin, how each of you spent that Thursday afternoon-what he has been told. I know that all of you, except Mrs Amory, think it likely that Mr Greve killed that man. Mr Goodwin and I think he didn't. Mr Jessup, the county attorney, knows that, but he also knows that we don't intend to try to concoct evidence to support our opinion; we intend only to find it if it exists, and the best place to start is here, with those closest to Mr Brodell during his last three days and nights. First, Mr Farnham, a point you can cover best. As you know, no bullets were found, but the nature of the wounds indicated the kind of gun that fired the shots. You own such a gun?'
'Sure I do. So do a lot of other people.'
'Where is yours kept?'
'In a closet in my room.'
'Is it accessible? Is the closet locked?'
'No.'
'Is the gun usually loaded?'
'Of course not. Nobody keeps a gun loaded.'
'Is ammunition accessible?'
'Yes. Naturally. A gun's no good without ammunition. On a shelf in the closet.'
'Was there, that Thursday, any other gun on your premises-to your knowledge?'
'None that could have done that to Brodell's shoulder and neck. I've got two shotguns and a revolver, and Bert Magee has a shotgun, but that's all.'
'You told Mr Goodwin that you and Mrs Amory spent that afternoon on horse-back on what is called
