He was in a very bad condition. That is why I told the police, they will find it was suicide.”
“The man was crazy!” This was a croak from Dudley Frost. “I've told you what he did yesterday! He instructed his lawyer to demand an accounting on Edwin's estate!
On what grounds?
On the ground that he is Helen's godfather?
Absolutely fantastic and illegal] I always thought he was crazy-”
That started a general rumpus.
Mrs. Frost expostulated with some spirit, Llewellyn with respectful irritation, and Helen with a nervous outburst.
Perren Gebert looked around at them, nodded at me as if he and I shared an entertaining secret, and got out a cigarette.
I didn't try to put it all down, but just surveyed the scene and listened. Dudley Frost was surrendering no ground:
“…crazy as a loonl Why shouldn't he commit suicide?
Helen, my dear, I adore you, you know damned well I do, but I refuse to assume respect for your liking for that nincompoop merely because he is no longer alive!
He had no use for me and I had none for himl So what's the use pretending about it?
As far as your dragging this man in here is concerned-”
“Dad! Now, Dad!
Cut it out-”
Perren Gebert said to no one,
“And half a bottle gone.”
Mrs. Frost, sitting with her lips tight and patient, glanced at him.
I leaned forward to get closer to Dudley Frost and practically yelled at him:
“What is it?
Where does it hurt?”
He jerked back and glared at me.
“Where does what hurt?”
I grinned.
“Nothing.
I just wanted to see if you could hear.
I gather you would just as soon I'd go.
The best way to manage that, for all of you, is to let me ask a few foolish questions, and you answer them briefly and maybe honestly.”
“We've already answered them.
All the foolish questions there are.
We've been doing that all day.
All because that nincompoop McNair-”
“Okay.
I've already got it down that he was a nincompoop.
You've made remarks about suicide.
What reason did McNair have for killing himself?”
“How the devil do I know?”
“Then you can't think one up offhand?”
“I don't have to think one up.
The man was crazy.
I've always said so.
I said so over twenty years ago, in Paris, when he used to paint rows of eggs strung on wires and call it The Cosmos.”
Helen started to burst,
“Uncle Boyd was never-” She was seated at my right, and I reached and tapped her sleeve with the tips of my fingers and told her,
“Swallow it.
You can't crack every nut in the bag.”
I turned to Perren Gebert:
“You mentioned suicide first.
What reason did McNair have for killing himself?”
Gebert shrugged.