dried my face on a dish towel, dropped it on the edge of the sink, and sat down at the breakfast table to fumble for a cigarette.
Mother of God! Darrow come back from the grave couldn’t save me.
Fragments of thought went whirling through my mind, too jumbled and disconnected to make sense or form any recognizable pattern. It had to be Mulholland. No one else had even known she was home. He had seen the glove, and knew all the time the suitcase was hers. Then he must have killed Roberts, and she was mixed up in it some way—No, I thought then, it didn’t have to be Mulholland; it could still be anybody. She’d let the man into the house, so it followed she could also have called him and told him she was home, the minute I was out the door.
And what had she really been doing in New Orleans? What had she needed all that money for? I sprang up and ran back to the bedroom, looking wildly around for her purse; there might be something in it, some kind of information. How did I know she was even in New Orleans today, or last night? She hadn’t got back to the hotel to check out until sometime between five-thirty and seven P.M .; she could even have been here in Carthage. I spotted her purse on the bed beside the two suitcases, pulled it open, and began pawing through the litter women carry around with them—lipstick, comb, mirror, car keys, tissues, handkerchief. There was nothing here. Wait— receipted hotel bill, with her credit card number. December to January 5th. That was right. I opened her billfold. It held two fives, and three ones.
She’d had six hundred in cash when she left here, and presumably had cashed a check for five hundred today, she’d sold stocks worth six thousand, she’d paid the hotel bill by credit card, and she had thirteen dollars. Good God. Then I remembered she hadn’t been wearing her coat when she came in, one of those light shades of mink that had cost around four thousand. I ran back to the kitchen, yanked open the door to the garage, and looked in the Mercedes. There was no coat in it.
I came back to the living room and stood by the desk, staring blankly at the slip from the broker’s office, still dazed and only half conscious of what I was doing. What did it all mean? What had she done with it? Then my head cleared a little, and I wondered savagely what difference it made. The question was what I was going to do. Call the police? Run? Call George, and tell him? Then I went rigid with fear. Tires crunched on the gravel in front. I heard a car door slam, and then footsteps on the porch. The doorbell sounded. It rang again before I could even move. Sweat broke out on my face as I tiptoed to one of the front windows, parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, and peered out. It was a police car, the red light flashing in the darkness.
It was too late to run. Even if I could get the garage door open without his hearing me, his car was blocking the drive. I could get out the back on foot, but where would I go? They’d run me down in an hour. I couldn’t see the man in front of the door, but it must be Mulholland. The bell rang again, three or four angry, insistent bursts, then a fist pounded on the panel. If I didn’t let him in, he’d break it down. I took a deep breath, trying to get air past the tightness in my chest, and walked down the hall.
It was Len Owens, the night deputy. He looked faintly sheepish. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Warren—”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out, so I closed it.
“We had a call from Mrs. Ryan,” he went on. “She was pretty upset. She said she’d just been talking to you on the phone, and then called back a few minutes later and couldn’t get an answer.”
I managed a smile, wondering if he could hear the noise my face made as it split. “I was—uh—lying down, and must have dozed off. I guess that was it. I must have been asleep.” Now that I had finally achieved speech, I couldn’t seem to shut myself off.
“I guess
Mother of God! Darrow come back from the grave couldn’t save me.
Fragments of thought went whirling through my mind, too jumbled and disconnected to make sense or form any recognizable pattern. It had to be Mulholland. No one else had even known she was home. He had seen the glove, and knew all the time the suitcase was hers. Then he must have killed Roberts, and she was mixed up in it some way—No, I thought then, it didn’t have to be Mulholland; it could still be anybody. She’d let the man into the house, so it followed she could also have called him and told him she was home, the minute I was out the door.
And what had she really been doing in New Orleans? What had she needed all that money for? I sprang up and ran back to the bedroom, looking wildly around for her purse; there might be something in it, some kind of information. How did I know she was even in New Orleans today, or last night? She hadn’t got back to the hotel to check out until sometime between five-thirty and seven P.M .; she could even have been here in Carthage. I spotted her purse on the bed beside the two suitcases, pulled it open, and began pawing through the litter women carry around with them—lipstick, comb, mirror, car keys, tissues, handkerchief. There was nothing here. Wait— receipted hotel bill, with her credit card number. December to January 5th. That was right. I opened her billfold. It held two fives, and three ones.
She’d had six hundred in cash when she left here, and presumably had cashed a check for five hundred today, she’d sold stocks worth six thousand, she’d paid the hotel bill by credit card, and she had thirteen dollars. Good God. Then I remembered she hadn’t been wearing her coat when she came in, one of those light shades of mink that had cost around four thousand. I ran back to the kitchen, yanked open the door to the garage, and looked in the Mercedes. There was no coat in it.
I came back to the living room and stood by the desk, staring blankly at the slip from the broker’s office, still dazed and only half conscious of what I was doing. What did it all mean? What had she done with it? Then my head cleared a little, and I wondered savagely what difference it made. The question was what I was going to do. Call the police? Run? Call George, and tell him? Then I went rigid with fear. Tires crunched on the gravel in front. I heard a car door slam, and then footsteps on the porch. The doorbell sounded. It rang again before I could even move. Sweat broke out on my face as I tiptoed to one of the front windows, parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, and peered out. It was a police car, the red light flashing in the darkness.
It was too late to run. Even if I could get the garage door open without his hearing me, his car was blocking the drive. I could get out the back on foot, but where would I go? They’d run me down in an hour. I couldn’t see the man in front of the door, but it must be Mulholland. The bell rang again, three or four angry, insistent bursts, then a fist pounded on the panel. If I didn’t let him in, he’d break it down. I took a deep breath, trying to get air past the tightness in my chest, and walked down the hall.
It was Len Owens, the night deputy. He looked faintly sheepish. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Warren—”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out, so I closed it.
“We had a call from Mrs. Ryan,” he went on. “She was pretty upset. She said she’d just been talking to you on the phone, and then called back a few minutes later and couldn’t get an answer.”
I managed a smile, wondering if he could hear the noise my face made as it split. “I was—uh—lying down, and must have dozed off. I guess that was it. I must have been asleep.” Now that I had finally achieved speech, I couldn’t seem to shut myself off.
“I guess
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