“Let’s look back on it for a moment,” I say, feeling better now that his anger’s giving way to a bit of resignation. “Let’s think about all those cases, and see if we can’t find one that might be less of an out-and-out shocker but still suit the purpose.”
“It can’t be done, Stevie,” Mr. Moore mumbles, depressed. “You know as well as I do that the Beecham case was the first and best illustration of the things Kreizler’s been trying to say all these years.”
“Maybe,” I reply. “Then again, maybe there’s others as good. You always acknowledged that I had the best memory of all of us-it may be that I can help you think of one.” I’m being a little coy, here: I already know the case I’d put forward as the most puzzling and fascinating of all we ever worked on. But if I advocate it too fast and with too much vigor, well, it’ll just be the rag in front of the bull to a man in Mr. Moore’s condition. He produces a flask, is about to take a pull, then jumps a foot or so in the air when a flatbed Ford motor truck backfires like a cannon out in the avenue. Your old folks’ll react that way to such things; haven’t ever quite got used to the sounds of modern times. Anyway, after he settles back into his chair with a grunt, Mr. Moore allows himself a minute to think my suggestion over. But a slow shake of the head indicates that he’s come full circle to the same hopeless conclusion: in all our experiences together, there’s nothing as good, nothing as clear, as the Beecham case. I take a deep breath, followed by a drag off my stick, and then I say it quietly: