“I can picture the working of his mind. He would meet me when I returned to the house, sound me out. If there was no chance at all that I’d keep my mouth shut, then he’d appear beaten and pour us a drink, in which he’d already dumped his sleeping capsules. Only he wouldn’t drink his and later he’d force enough whisky down my gullet and over my clothes to make it seem that my efforts to turn alcoholic had succeeded only too wall.
“McGinty would be spirited away, I would be found dead in my bed, and the doctor of Papa Joe’s choice would have little reason to doubt Papa Joe’s words as to my recent activities with a bottle. A death certificate would be quickly signed that would end it. But a drink from the wrong bottle spoiled it for Papa Joe. When Hagan has all the facts, he will have little trouble checking up to discover the truth of what I am saying. In the light of this knowledge, that weak motive he thinks I might have had for harming Papa Joe will go pale. Hagan will have method and means, the instrument of police science at his beckoning. For instance, there may be fingerprints on the Old Seaman bottle, or little signs in Papa Joe’s room, little signs all around for Hagan to read when he knows what to look for. Be that as it may, it’s a chance we’ll have to take, all of us.”
Vera turned and started from the room. Harold pushed himself up out of his chair with her name on his lips. She stopped at the doorway, and he caught her hand. She looked at him. Yes, she was sure of her man — but not for the reasons she had believed.
He had lost her. She might stay with him; she might even grow old with him; but Harold had lost his beautiful Vera forever. As she moved again, the soft curves of her breast were as full and promising as ever, but their promise was no longer for Harold.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he pleaded.
She stepped aside to allow him to walk ahead of her.
She glanced back at me.
“You never know what tomorrow holds,” I said. “I thought it was all over for me once, too.”
She said nothing, but turned to follow Harold. I picked up the phone. There were two calls I had to make. The call to Hagan could wait a few minutes. First things first.
I dialed, and the room clerk at the Lang Park Hotel came on the wire.
“We do not have a Mrs. Bryanne Martin registered,” he told me. “The only Martins registered are a Mr. and Mrs. Steven Martin.”
“Mrs. Steven Martin will do nicely,” I said. “This is her husband calling.”
While I waited for them to call her room, I thought, Mr. and Mrs. She registered for both of us.