He had walked away, a bitter man. She had had many enemies, he mused, and almost as many friends. He did not know of anyone who knew her who was not either violently for or violently against her and all that she stood for.
He looked up.
"How old was your wife when she died?"
"Thirty-one. Two years younger than I am."
"Do you know of anyone who would want to kill her?" It was a routine question, but to Keller it was very important.
"No. I knew many people who disliked her intensely—I'm not denying that—but not to the point of murder. Of course, she wasn't around me half the time. I might not know."
"Well, Radcliffe, I think that'll be all for today. Mind if I go with you back to your apartment to look it over?"
"I don't live there any more. I moved out after I had disposed of her body. I couldn't stand to live there any longer."
Radcliffe shook hands and departed. Keller read confidence and positiveness that he, Keller, would come through. Keller was not so sure. He decided to have a look around Radcliffe's apartment.
He strolled aimlessly around the apartment for a few moments, pausing here and there to check details which might or might not help him in analyzing the Radcliffes' character: furniture design, carpeting, thermostat setting, toilet articles and so on. Then he got down to a thorough examination of the room.