Druse repeated: “Very special.” His full lips were curved to a thin, cold smile.
Crandall stared at the gun. He spoke as if making a tremendous effort to frame his words casually, calmly: “What’s it all about?”
“It’s all about Mrs. Hanan.” Druse tipped his hat to the back of his head. “It’s all about you gypping her out of her rubies — and her threatening to take it to the police — and you having her murdered at about a quarter after ten tonight, because you were afraid she’d go through with it.”
Crandall’s tense face relaxed slowly; he tried very hard to smile. He said: “You’re crazy,” and there was fear in his eyes, fear in the harsh, hollow sound of his voice.
Druse did not speak. He waited, his cold eyes boring into Crandall’s.
Crandall cleared his throat, moved a little forward in his chair and put his elbows on the wide desk.
“Don’t ring.” Druse glanced at the little row of ivory push buttons on the desk, shook his head.
Crandall laughed soundlessly as if the thought of ringing had never entered his mind. “In the first place,” he said, “I gave her back the stones that were stolen. In the second place, I never believed her gag about telling about it.” He leaned back slowly, spoke very slowly and distinctly as confidence came back to him. “In the third place, I couldn’t be chump enough to bump her off with that kind of a case against me.”
Druse said: “Your third place is the one that interests me. The switched rubies, her threat to tell the story — it all makes a pip of a case against you, doesn’t it?”
Crandall nodded slowly.