Someone Is Bleeding by Richard Matheson

night?”
    “Yes.”
    “What’s that you said about having trouble with him?”
    The way he spoke made me start. As if he were trying to rip away all incidentals and get to the core of everything.
    “He was . . .” Peggy started. She lowered her eyes. “He . . .”
    ”Albert tried to rape her last night,” I said.
    “Lies, lies!” cried Mrs. Grady. “He was a dear, clean man, a dear clean man.”
    “You’ll have to stop this,” Jones said to her, “or I’ll have to ask you to leave this room.”
    She slumped back in silence again, blubbering helplessly, her toothpick shoulders twitching with violent sobs.
    I was sitting there, suddenly wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. Because all I could think was that I’d given Peggy a perfect motive. Like a fool I’d practically accused her.
    Jones looked at Peggy.
    “Is this true?” he said.
    She tried to answer but couldn’t. She nodded her head once, jerkily.
    Jones looked back at me. “Well,” he said, “what about it?”
    I told him about the scrapes on Albert’s face. I told him about Funland and the attack on me and Peggy. My words were punctuated by moans and muffled denials from Mrs. Grady. I didn’t know whether she really doubted me or not. After all, I kept thinking, the icepick had been in her hand. And she certainly had a motive.
    “Did you see him?” Jones asked.
    “You mean last night?”
    “I mean last night.”
    “No, I . . .”
    “Why not?”
    “It was pitch black.”
    “I see,” Jones said. But he really said, in effect, thirty days, next case. It occurred to me that he might even think I did it. The jealous lover. I lowered my eyes.
    Jones worked on Peggy again. “You two were together then?” he said.
    She swallowed. “Yes.”
    “And you went to . . .” Jones consulted the pad in his hand, “to Newton’s apartment later.”
    Peggy looked flustered. “I . . .”
    “What time did you go there?”
    “She came to my room about . . .” I started.
    “Will you kindly let Miss . . .” He consulted the pad again. “Miss Lister answer her own questions?”
    “About two,” Peggy said.
    “Why did you go there?” Jones asked.
    “Because I saw the scrapes on Albert’s face. I didn’t want to . . .”
    “Lies..-lies!” Mrs. Grady again. “Murderess!”
    Her voice broke off with a choking gasp as two men carried a stretcher into the room, a blanketed body on it.
    “Couldn’t you go the back way?” Jones asked sharply.
    “Alley’s too narrow,” said a bored cop.
    Mrs. Grady was up. Her face was strained and wild.
    “I’m going with him,” she said, “I’m going with my darling.”
    “That won’t do any good,” Jones said quietly.
    “I’m going, I tell you.” Her voice was cracked, her eyes almost glittered.
    Jones let her go. He said a few words to one of the cops. While he was talking, I turned to Peggy. “Don’t tell him how you feel about men,” I whispered.
    “What?”
    I glanced at Jones. “I said,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth, “don’t tell this man how you feel about men. It would only . . .”
    She was looking at me curiously.
    “What were you saying to her?” Jones asked me.
    “Nothing,” I said instinctively.
    Jones looked at me coldly. “No talking,” he said. Then he sat down as the door shut behind Mrs. Grady and her dead husband.
    “How sure are you that the dead man is the one who tried to rape you?” Jones asked Peggy.
    “I know how I scratched the face of the man who . . . And Albert had scratches all over his face too. You saw him . . .”
    “I know.” Jones said, “did you see anyone else last night?”
    “My . . . lawyer,” Peggy said.
    “When?”
    “When . . . when we came home from Venice.”
    “You told him about the attack?”
    “Yes.”
    ‘Did you suspect the dead man of being the one who had attacked you at the time you were speaking to your lawyer?”
    Not then. I told him later that it was Mr. Grady who had done it.”
    “You saw him