“Not much.”
“Well, Mrs. Hogan makes it before she goes to bed and leaves it out all night to air.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Dinah said.
She stubbed her cigarette in her saucer and got to her feet. She didn’t walk away, but stood, hesitating, gazing down at him for some time.
“My dear Dinah,” Prye said finally, “I can’t stand people who stand around watching other people eat. It makes me feel coarse and unspiritual. If you have anything to say, say it. I guarantee an answer.”
She said, “Are you an honest man, Prye?”
“Oh hell,” Prye said, shaken. “This is my most embarrassing moment.”
“You guaranteed an answer. Remember?”
“Very well. I think I’m pretty honest, in most things, in my profession, in my relations with my friends, about money—”
“And about facts, unpleasant ones?”
Prye smiled ironically. “I recognize unpleasant facts when they confront me but I haven’t your zest for going around hunting them. What are you leading up to?”
“The murderer,” she said. “I want the murderer to hang.”
“The customary end for murderers in your country, I believe,” Prye said. “What has my honesty to do with anything?”
“I want you to help me investigate. But, you see, it just might turn out to be someone you like, and you might not want a hanging.”
“True.”
“Can you honestly say that you want the truth to come out no matter what it is?”
“No,” Prye said.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “I thought not. You may be honest but you don’t carry it too far? I see.”
“Honesty,” Prye said, “is the word most frequently used or misused by the superior type of neurotic. The neurotic is fundamentally dishonest. His very personality is dependent on a confounding of issues. Hence the repetition of the word ‘honesty’—”
Dinah was not listening. “You have a reputation for snooping, but I notice you’ve been very quiet these days, very subdued. You aren’t sticking your nose into people’s drawers or tapping walls or tearing around in your stocking feet in the middle of the night.”
“I never have,” Prye said. “I always use running shoes in case of nails on the floor.”
“So my guess is you know who killed Duncan and Dennis and you’re not telling.”
“I don’t know.”
“And you know why they were killed.”
“Yes,” Prye said. “But Sands knows too. I’m not holding anything back.”
“Are you going to help me?”
He was silent, his eyes resting on her speculatively. “No, I’m not,” he said finally. “Because I’m not sure you didn’t kill them yourself.”
She was not offended. She merely turned away with a sigh. “I see.” She went out.
Shortly afterward the doorbell rang and Jackson came through the dining room to answer it. Prye could hear men talking in the hall. Their voices were loud and slightly belligerent, as if they were nervous underneath and would not admit it. When Jackson came back his face was white with anger.
“What’s up?” Prye asked him.
“Three plain-clothes men,” Jackson said. “They’ve got a search warrant.”
“That’s to be expected. Sands with them?”
“No sir. What do they expect to find in this house? It’s an imposition.”
Wonder what he’s got hidden in his room that he doesn’t want found, Prye thought. A diary, perhaps. Or some letters, or a collection of French photographs.
“They won’t read your correspondence,” Prye said. “They’re after something weightier.” He paused. “You know something, Jackson? When anyone says anything that interests you your ears wiggle. Honestly. It’s quite pronounced.”
Jackson put one hand up to his ear, blushing.
“Another argument for evolution,” Prye went on.
“I think,” Jackson said, “that you’re baiting me, and I don’t like it.”
“I’m trying to make you angry, Jackson, so you’ll make some off-the-record remarks you wouldn’t make otherwise. But I guess that won’t work. You Harvard men are too casual. You dress casually and talk casually and get casual haircuts. I often wonder where all this casualness is going to lead us.”
“So you think I’m holding out on you?” Jackson said bitterly. “To hell with you. You gave me twenty bucks yesterday to report a telephone call. Well, here’s your twenty. Now forget it. From now on—”
“I hate gestures,” Prye said. “Keep the twenty. Sorry I misjudged you.”
He went to the door and turned around with a dry smile. “If I misjudged you,” he added.
In the hall he saw two of the plain-clothes men on the way upstairs. The third, a tall, gangling young man, was standing on tiptoe peering behind a gilt-framed oil painting. He had his back to Prye.
“Looking for pixies?” Prye said pleasantly.
The man jerked around and stuck out his chin. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“The name is Prye, tough child. Dr. Prye.”
“Oh.” The man seemed embarrassed. “Well, I’ve got a message for you from Inspector Sands. He had to go to Boston.”
“What’s the message?”
The man looked cautiously up and down the hall and edged closer to Prye. “He said you could save him some trouble by getting handwriting samples from everyone in the house. He said you’re to be subtle.”
“Did Sands say that? The dog. I’m always subtle.”
“Those were his very words, ‘be subtle.’ He said to make a game of it, you know, like charades.”
“Sands,” Prye said, “is losing his grip. You don’t get handwriting samples by playing charades.”
“He says so,” the man repeated. “He says, too, if you don’t want to co-operate you don’t have to, but if you don’t he’ll have to get the samples by stealth or force.”
“I put my money on stealth. That’s all he said, eh? When will he be back?”
“Tonight.”
“I’ll get them,” Prye said coldly; “but Sands or no Sands you don’t get handwriting samples by playing charades.”
“He says so,” the young man repeated, and walked away toward the basement.
For the next two hours the Shane household found stray policemen in the most unexpected places.
Aspasia came upon one in her bathroom and promptly burst into tears. Jane, in a spirit of sweet helpfulness, attached herself to the policeman who searched her room. After falling over her several times the policeman escorted her firmly to the door and told her to go away.
Saddened and bewildered by this lack of appreciation, Jane drifted into the drawing room. Nora was at the piano idly picking out some mournful chords. Revel was sitting in a chair by the window holding a book. His eyes were closed.
“Hello,” Jane said. “I think policemen are horrid. One of them just shoved me.”
Revel opened his eyes and said, “The brute. Tell us all about it. Was it a hard shove? And in what spirit was the deed performed? Playful or sinister?”
“Oh, George,” Jane said reproachfully.
“Don’t mind him,” Nora said. “George has a bad conscience this morning.”
Revel smiled. “It isn’t so bad. I’ve made certain necessary adjustments of the truth but my hands are bloodless.”
“Rather a pity,” Nora said. “If true. You know, I can’t say I’m very fond of you, George. I think you know why.”
“Dinah,” Revel said.
Nora nodded. “Yes, she’s changed a lot in the past few years.”
“That couldn’t have been her fault, of course?”
“The judge thought not.”
“Judges,” Revel said, “don’t know everything. And, I’m sorry to be ungallant, neither do you.”
He flung his book down and went out. Jane stared after him with puzzled eyes.