“He’s dead, isn’t he? Isn’t something bad when you’d rather die than live with it?”
“Do you mind telling me how you became familiar with his private life?”
“Larry told me. He had to talk to somebody.”
So now it was “Larry,” with no pretense. Masters rather liked her for it.
“You were friends?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“No.” She stated it with neither defiance nor bravado, but as a fact. “We had a sort of special relationship. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I see. You met outside the office?”
“Sometimes.”
“Where?”
“Various places. For drinks at the hotel. Now and then for dinner. A few times he came to my apartment.”
“Thanks for being honest.”
“Why shouldn’t I be? We didn’t try to sneak anything. We weren’t sleeping together — it was all very innocent, Lieutenant. I wish now it hadn’t been.”
“Did he hate his wife?”
“I wouldn’t say he hated her. She kept him in despair. He wanted to leave her.”
“He took her with him, Miss Benton.”
“What?” She gripped the desk.
“He killed her.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Well, her body was found stabbed to death in her bedroom some time before his was found here.”
Ruth Benton stared down at her clenched hands, and then she slowly lowered her head until her forehead was resting upon them. He waited for her to break, expecting a storm of tears; but again he was relieved. She rose after a few moments and retrieved her purse from the desk drawer.
“I’d like to go home,” she said.
“Can I find you there if I need you?”
“I’m in the directory.”
“All right, Miss Benton.”
Clutching the purse she walked out, still giving the impression of rigid controls rigidly imposed. She was, he thought, a remarkably tough and durable young woman. Masters locked up and left.
At headquarters he reported to the chief, bringing the old man up to date on the two deaths and their apparent connection.
“It’s a mess,” the chief said, “but at least it’s a neat mess. Murder and suicide. All in the family. Wrap it up.”
“Before I wrap it up, Chief, there are a couple of things I’d like to look into.”
“Why? What things?”
Masters dug into his pocket and produced the leather key-case that he had borrowed from Larry Connor’s office. He opened it and laid it on the chief’s desk.
“This key-case, for one. These two keys are to his car — one to the doors and the ignition, the other to the trunk. These two are to the front and back doors of his office. I’ve checked all four. This fifth one, I’m guessing, is to either the front or back door of his house. The point is, why didn’t he have two house keys — to both doors?”
“That seems damn unimportant to me, Gus. Maybe the fellow just carried one key.”
“True. Still, I want to run out to the house again. If you don’t mind.”
“You be careful, Gus. We can’t afford any repercussions from this thing.”
“The soul of discretion, that’s me.”
“You said a couple of things. What’s the other one?”
“The air-conditioners. They were off at the house and office both. I wonder why.”
“Damn it, a man planning to commit suicide would hardly bother to turn on an air-conditioner!”
“But what about the house? It was a scorching day. The air-conditioner should have been running. There should have been no question of turning it on or off.”
“Maybe a fuse blew.”
“It didn’t. I checked. Dr. Richmond believes they may have intended to open their windows. The night had cooled off, and it’s possible.”
“That’s it, then.”
“Only they didn’t get it done. All windows were closed.”
“All right, Gus. Worry about keys and air-conditioners if you have to, but remember what I said. You be careful.”
Masters repeated that he would, and went across to his own office, where he found a memo from the man who had dusted for fingerprints. The report contained no surprises. Prints of both Connors had been found on various surfaces in the murder room. The husband’s prints had been all over his office, including the box and bottle Masters had found in the lavatory. On the handle of the murder weapon, the prints of Connor’s right hand had been found, no others. This in itself was not odd, but apparently there was only one set of them. Surely, even if Connor had been the only one to handle the letter-opener, he must have handled it many times. Why, then, a single set of prints?
Filing this slight puzzle away in his cluttered mind, Masters drove out to Shady Acres Addition. The Connor house on this quiet Monday morning looked normal and secure. He parked in the drive and cut across a corner of bluegrass to the front door. The key in the leather case fitted and worked smoothly.
He shut the door behind him and went upstairs. The bedroom had been relieved of its only disorderly item, the corpse, and the officers had left the room as neat as they had found it. It was, Masters thought, an inviting nest for the exercise of conjugal love, and it seemed to be waiting patiently for love’s resumption. Later, maybe, by others. Mr. and Mrs. Larry Connor were not in love, not at home, and not coming back. Masters sighed, reflecting on the waste, and went downstairs and let himself out, this time by the back door. He tried the front-door key on the back door from outside. It did not fit; it would not even enter the lock. Had there been another key in the case? If so, where was it?
Masters had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. He squinted sidewise and spotted a lusciously constructed young woman in white shorts regarding him intently from the terrace next door. Nancy Howell, that schoolteacher’s wife. There was something engaging in her curiosity, which she made no attempt to conceal. In fact, there was something engaging in her every line and curve, Masters thought. An appetizing dish for a pedagogue to come home to.
He returned the key-case to his pocket and made for the dish.
“Good morning, Mrs. Howell,” he said.
“Good morning,” Nancy said. “I was just wondering what you were up to.”
“Having another look. Sometimes you see something new when you come back.”
“Did you?”
“I can’t say I did.”
“Have you found Larry yet?”
“Yes.”
“I knew you would.” She gave her shorts a needless tug, which had the effect of directing attention to her legs. But this time Masters was watching her eyes, which were equally lovely, and deeply disturbed besides. “He was right there in his office, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right. All the time.”
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Poor Larry. Poor Lila. I feel sorry for them both. I don’t suppose you can understand that.”
“My sympathy is usually for the victim, Mrs. Howell. But I’ve always got some left over for the offender.”
“Isn’t that an unusual attitude for a policeman?”
“Is it? To me, a person in trouble is a troubled person.”
“What a lovely way to put it! It sounds like an epigram. Did you just think it up?”
“Probably not. I don’t usually think in epigrams.”
“Would you mind telling me how Larry died?”
“Not at all. It will be public knowledge soon. In all likelihood he died from a fatal dose of chloral hydrate taken in brandy.”
“Chloral hydrate? What’s that?”
“Knockout drops. Basic ingredient of a Mickey Finn. Harmless enough in small doses, fatal in large ones.”