“And you killed him. Your men killed him on your order.”
Wolfe nodded. “I won’t challenge your right to put it like that. Of course I would put it differently. I might say that the ultimate responsibility for his death rests with the performance of the genes at the instant of his conception, but that could be construed as a rejection of free will, and I do not reject it. If it pleases you to say that I killed him, I won’t contend. You have worked hard on it for ten days and should have some satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction, my ass.” He stood up. “Yes, ten days. I’ll reflect on it all right.” He went and got his coat and put it on and came back, to the corner of Wolfe’s desk, and said, “I’m going home and try to get some sleep. You probably have never had to try to get some sleep. You probably never will.”
He turned, saw the globe, and went and whirled it so hard that it hadn’t quite stopped when he was through to the hall. When the sound came of the front door closing, Wolfe said, “Will you bring brandy, Archie? And two glasses. If Fritz is up, bring him and three glasses. We’ll try to get some sleep.”