“She killed herself, of course.”
“Lida,” Simon explained, “was shot through the heart in the grounds of the Quarterdeck Club.”
“You’re trying to frighten me,” Kerr said. “Lida couldn’t have been—”
“Who said so? Who told you she committed suicide?”
“Why, why — it was just a—” Kerr broke off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Saint did not actually groan out loud, but the impulse was there.
“I can’t understand why this is always happening to me,” he complained. “I thought I spoke reasonably good English. The idea should be easy to grasp. All I told you was that Lida Verity was dead. You immediately assumed that she’d committed suicide. Statistics show that suicide is a helluva long way from being the most common way to die. Therefore the probability is that something or someone specifically gave you that idea. Either you knew that she might have had good reason to commit suicide, or somebody else has already talked to you. Whichever it is, I want to know about it.”
Kerr licked his lips.
“I fail to see what right you have to come here and cross-examine me,” he said, but his voice was not quite as positive as the words.
“Let’s not make it a matter of rights,” said the Saint easily. “Let’s put it down to my fatal bigness of heart. I’m giving you the chance to talk to me before you talk to the sheriff. And you’ll certainly have to talk to the sheriff if the gun that Lida was shot with happens to be registered in your name.”