The Second Confesion

“My God, I don't know,” Kane protested. “I wasn't making notes of things like that.” “I suppose not,” Wolfe admitted. “But you saw, or felt, the bone sticking out?” “I-perhaps I did-I don't know.” Wolfe gave that up. “When you dragged him across to the shrub, what did you take hold of? What part of him?” “I don't remember.” “Nonsense. You didn't drag him a yard or two, it was fifty feet or more. You couldn't possibly forget. Did you take him by the feet? The head? The coat collar? An arm?” “I don't remember.” “I don't see how you could help remembering. Perhaps this will bring it back to you: when you got him behind the shrub was his head pointing towards the house or away from the house?” Kane was frowning. “I should remember that.” “You should indeed.” “But I don't.” Kane shook his head. “I simply don't remember.” “I see.” Wolfe leaned back. That's all, Mr Kane.” He flipped a hand. “Go and get on with your work.” Kane was on his feet before Wolfe had finished. “I did the best I could,” he said apologetically. “As I said, I don't seem to measure up very well in a crisis. I must have been so rattled I didn't know what I was doing.” He glanced at Sperling, got no instructions one way or another, glanced again at Wolfe, sidled between two chairs, headed for the door, and was gone.