Fletcher:
What?
Miss Orton:
Gerry?
Fletcher:
Yes?
Miss Orton:
Where are you?
Fletcher:
I was just looking over some of these books.
Miss Orton:
Do you think you can tear yourself away? So we can discuss . . .
Fletcher:
Forgive me, darling.
Miss Orton:
. . . a matter of some small importance. Like our wedding.
Fletcher:
I’m sorry.
Miss Orton:
If the trial starts in March . . .
Fletcher:
It may or it may not. I told you I was only guessing.
Miss Orton:
Well, say it does start in March.
Fletcher:
If it starts in March . . .
Miss Orton:
How long could it run? At the outside?
Fletcher:
Not very long. A week?
Miss Orton:
I thought murder cases . . .
Fletcher:
Well, they have a confession, the boy’s admitted killing her. And there won’t be a parade of witnesses, they’ll probably call just me and the boy. If it runs longer than a week, I’ll be very much surprised.
Miss Orton:
Then if we planned on April . . .
Fletcher:
Unless they come up with something unexpected, of course.
Miss Orton:
Like what?
Fletcher:
Oh, I don’t know. They’ve got some pretty sharp people on this case.
Miss Orton:
In the district attorney’s office?
Fletcher:
Investigating it, I mean.
Miss Orton:
What’s there to investigate?
Fletcher:
There is always the possibility he didn’t do it.
Miss Orton:
Who?
Fletcher:
Corwin. The boy.
Miss Orton:
[Inaudible] a signed confession?
Fletcher:
I thought you didn’t want another one?
Miss Orton:
I’ve changed my mind. [Inaudible] the end of April?
Fletcher:
I guess that would be safe.
Miss Orton:
[Inaudible]
Fletcher:
No, this is fine, thanks.
Miss Orton:
[Inaudible] forget about getting away in February. That’s when they have hurricanes down there, anyway, isn’t it?
Fletcher:
September, I thought. Or October. Isn’t that the hurricane season?
Miss Orton:
Go after the trial instead. For our honeymoon.
Fletcher:
They may give me a rough time during the trial.
Miss Orton:
Why should they?
Fletcher:
One of the cops thinks I killed her.
Miss Orton:
You’re not serious.
Fletcher:
I am.
Miss Orton:
Who?
Fletcher:
A detective named Carella.
Miss Orton:
Why would he think that?
Fletcher:
Well, he probably knows about us by now . . .
Miss Orton:
How could he?
Fletcher:
He’s a very thorough cop. I have a great deal of admiration for him. I wonder if he realizes that.
Miss Orton:
Admiration!
Fletcher:
Yes.
Miss Orton:
Admiration for a man who suspects . . .
Fletcher:
He’d have a hell of a time proving anything, though.
Miss Orton:
Where’d he even get such an idea?
Fletcher:
Well, he knows I hated her.
Miss Orton:
How does he know?
Fletcher:
I told him.
Miss Orton:
What? Gerry, why the hell did you do that?
Fletcher:
Why not?
Miss Orton:
Oh, Gerry.
Fletcher:
He’d have found out anyway. I told you, he’s a very thorough cop. He probably knows by now that Sarah was sleeping around with half the men in this city. And he probably knows I knew it, too.
Miss Orton:
That doesn’t mean . . .
Fletcher:
If he’s also found out about us . . .
Miss Orton:
Who cares what he’s found out? Corwin’s already confessed. I don’t understand you, Gerry.
Fletcher:
I’m only trying to follow his reasoning. Carella’s.
Miss Orton:
Is he Italian?
Fletcher:
I would guess so. Why?
Miss Orton:
Italians are the most suspicious people in the world.
Fletcher:
I can understand his reasoning. I’m just not sure he can understand mine.
Miss Orton:
Some reasoning, all right. Why the hell would you kill her? If you were going to kill her, you’d have done it ages ago.
Fletcher:
Of course.
Miss Orton:
When she refused to sign the separation papers.
Fletcher:
Sure.
Miss Orton:
So let him investigate, who cares? You want to know something, Gerry?
Fletcher:
Mmm?
Miss Orton:
Wishing your wife is dead isn’t the same thing as killing her. Tell that to Detective Coppola.
Fletcher:
Carella.
Miss Orton:
Carella. Tell him that.
Fletcher:
[Laughs]
Miss Orton:
What’s so funny?
Fletcher:
I’ll tell him, darling.
Miss Orton:
Good. Meanwhile, the hell with him.
Fletcher:
[Laughs] Do you have to change?
Miss Orton:
I thought I’d go this way. Is it a very dressy place?
Fletcher:
I’ve never been there.
Miss Orton:
Call them and ask if pants are okay, will you darling?
According to the technician who had wired the Orton apartment, the living-room bug was in the bookcase on the wall opposite the bar. Carella leafed back through the typewritten pages and came upon the section he wanted:
Fletcher:
Have you read this?
Miss Orton:
What is it?
Fletcher:
This.
Miss Orton:
No. I don’t like his stuff.
Fletcher:
Then why’d you buy it?
Miss Orton:
I didn’t. Maria gave it to me for my birthday. What I was saying, Gerry, is that we ought to set a date now. A provisional date. Depending on when the trial is.