Bergstrom had his bad moment. “You’re not going to …” he began at the sight of the gun. He tried again. “You must be joking.”
“I have very little sense of humor,” Zarwell corrected him.
“You’d be foolish!”
Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was to death. Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.
“Why would I be foolish?” he asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable confidence?”
Bergstrom shook his head. “I know it’s been broken before. But you need me. You’re not through, you know. If you killed me you’d still have to trust some other analyst.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“No.” Bergstrom was angry now. “But use that logical mind you’re supposed to have! Scenes before this have shown what kind of man you are. Just because this last happened here on St. Martin’s makes little difference. If I was going to turn you in to the police, I’d have done it before this.”
Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said. “Why didn’t you turn me in?” he asked.
“Because you’re no mad-dog killer!” Now that the crisis seemed to be past, Bergstrom spoke more calmly, even allowed himself to relax. “You’re still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more in those comanalyses than you did. I even know who you are!”