Harry didn't say anything. He was thinking of Glorie. She had tried so hard to make him safe. He was glad now she was dead. It was better for her not to know all her careful planning had failed.
“Then there's this,” Hammerstock went on. He produced the bloodstained car wrench which he held carefully at the extreme end between finger and thumb. “Who have you killed? Was it her?”
“No, I didn't kill her,” Harry said. “You can't pin that on me.”
Hammerstock grinned.
“We can try,” he said and got to his feet. “That sounds like the wagon. Come on; get up. You and me've got work to do.”
He went over to the cabin door and opened it. The headlights of an approaching car fell directly on him. He turned his head to look at Harry.
“Of course you killed her,” he said. “She never reached Collier City. The boys are searching the beach now. That's where you planted her, isn't it? We found the shovel in the boot of your car. There's sand on it.”
“I didn't kill her,” Harry said, getting slowly to his feet. “She was everything to me. I wouldn't kill her. I loved her.”
Hammerstock shrugged.
“From what my sister told me, you loved her like a rat loves poison.”
“I didn't kill her,” Harry repeated.
“Okay, tell that to the jury,” Hammerstock said, “but don't expect them to believe you. Come on. Let's go.”
With slow, unsteady steps, Harry crossed the room and went out to where the police car was waiting.