“I know. You even called me and told me you’d be delayed. But can you prove that you were actually there all the time?”
“See here, Vera—” Jack began angrily.
“To make matters worse, you knew Larry had left home. Our windows were open and we heard him leave.”
“What is this? Do you suspect me of having killed Larry, too?”
“There you go again, saying positively that Larry is dead.”
“It’s a logical assumption.”
“Don’t be angry with me, Jack,” she said quietly. “I’m frightened. What would you do if you were accused? What would I do?”
Her distress dissipated his anger. He set his glass down and went to her and put his hand on her head as if she were a child. “You’re a rare gal, darling. You’re worth all the others put together.”
“I love you, that’s all. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
He grinned. “Thanks! Now let’s go up. I’ll give you something to help you sleep.”
“You go ahead, dear. I’d like another drink.”
“I’ll fix it for you.”
“No, you need your rest. I’ll do it myself.”
He went upstairs, and Vera Richmond went into the kitchen and fixed the drink. She began to think after a while that she would like to move. She and Jack could well afford a better house in a more exclusive neighborhood. It had been difficult living here, with Lila just next door. Now that Lila was dead, it ought to be better, but somehow Vera doubted it.
Stanley Walters sat down on the edge of the bed and bent over his pot with a grunt to remove his socks.
“I don’t see why we have to keep going over and over it,” he said.
Mae’s voice responded from the bathroom, its strained quality advising her husband that she was in the act of struggling out of her girdle.
“I’m sure you don’t,” she said. “I’m sure you think it was perfectly proper for you to be down in the alley at midnight with Nancy Howell — in your pajamas. As for me, I have more decency than that, and David Howell would think so, too, if he had any sense.”
“Well, you heard what David said. He didn’t see anything wrong in it.”
“I heard him, all right. I also heard what Nancy said.”
“Oh, nuts. She was just breaking it off in you for making such a fool of yourself about it.”
“Is that so? Maybe I’m not such a fool as she thinks. Nancy Howell is tricky, and I’m on to her if no one else around here is. She’s just the kind who’d deliberately tell the truth in a way to make everyone think it was a lie.”
“Mae. All Nancy did was call me over to the alley to borrow a cigaret, that’s absolutely all.”
“Was it?”
“I’ve said so until I’m sick of saying it!”
“I’m not thinking of what you may have done with Nancy. I’m thinking of what you may have done after Nancy left.”
“I didn’t do anything. Damn it, I came back to the house and went to bed!”
“That’s what you say. I’m not so sure. I’ll bet Lieutenant Masters won’t be, either, when he gets around to thinking about it.”
Mae emerged from the bathroom in her nightgown, and Stanley looked at her impressive approach with alarm.
“What’s that? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said.”
“Why should Masters doubt it?”
“If you can’t convince your wife, Stanley Walters, how can you expect to convince a detective? Everyone around here knows that Lila Connor made advances to you every chance she got, and that you lapped it up like a — like a fish out of water. Nancy told you Larry had left home for the night. You’ve admitted that. I had taken a sleeping pill, which you also knew. So what was to prevent your paying a little social call on Lila while you had the chance?”
“Lila was dead. Larry killed her before he left. We know that now.”
“Do we? It seems to me it remains to be proved. You haven’t heard about Larry confessing or anything yet, have you?”
“Are you for God’s sake suggesting that I may have killed Lila because she repulsed my advances or something?” asked Stanley excitedly.
“I didn’t say that. You said it. I only say that your Don Juan tendencies have made you a suspect in a nasty murder case.”
“By God, I like that! First I’m accused of making love to Nancy in the alley, then of sneaking over for a fling with Lila! You make me feel like a darned tomcat!”
“If I were you, Stanley, I’d just feel frightened.”
Which, as a matter of fact, was exactly what Stanley was feeling.
9
Masters was at Larry Connor’s office before eight o’clock on Monday morning. He didn’t know what time the dead man’s secretary reported for work, but he banked on the prevailing eight-to-five routine in town. He was right; it was one minute before the hour when he heard a key in the front door. Masters was waiting for her on the corner of her desk, hand shoved into a side pocket of his baggy pants fingering a lone quarter. The secretary was a pretty, well-set-up redhead in, he judged, her late twenties. She looked more surprised than alarmed when she saw Masters where he clearly had no right to be. Masters didn’t much like her hair. The color was a good natural red, but the hair had been ratted before combing to give it an illusion of excessive body.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Lieutenant Masters. Police.” He showed her his credentials.
“But, Lieutenant, why are you here? Is Mr. Connor in already?”
“No. He won’t be in at all. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You’d better sit down.”
He drew his hand from his pocket as she moved past him to reach the chair side of the desk. She moved carefully, and he got the impression that she was anticipating very bad news. She deposited her purse in a drawer and sat down, folding her hands on the desk like a schoolteacher about to call a child to the blackboard.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “Has something happened to Mr. Connor?”
“I don’t believe I know your name.”
“It’s Ruth Benton.”
“Tell me, Miss Benton, have you been secretary to Mr. Connor long?”
“Over a year. About fifteen months. Why?”
“That would give you time to have become pretty well acquainted with him. What kind of man was he?”
The true answer was visible in her eyes, and he understood that Larry Connor, whatever he had been to others, had been very special to her. Had she been to him? Quite possibly. Ruth Benton would look very good to a man who had a wife like Lila Connor.
“He was kind, and thoughtful, and honest. He wouldn’t do anything dishonest, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t. Did he show signs of emotional disturbance?”
“He had his troubles.” She stopped, aware all at once of the tense Masters was using which, following his cue, she had used in turn without realizing it. “What has happened to Mr. Connor? Is he dead?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“Is he?”
“He is. He apparently committed suicide last night, here in the office.”
She took it well; and Masters, who had been dreading her reaction, was grateful. He waited patiently, and soon she looked up and spoke quietly. The quaver in her voice seemed as much the result of anger as of shock and grief.
“So she finally drove him to it,” she said.
“Who did?”
“His wife.”
“Yes, I understand that he wasn’t happy with Mrs. Connor. Was it that bad?”