“And that,” said the Saint, “answers just half my question. So you weren’t thinking about suicide. So somebody told you. Who?”
Muscles twitched sullenly over Kerr’s brows and around the sides of his mouth.
“I fail to see—”
“Let me help you,” said the Saint patiently. “Lida Verity didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. It wasn’t even a planned job to look like suicide. This unanimous eagerness to brush it off as a suicide was just an afterthought, and not a very brilliant one either. The sheriff doesn’t believe it and I don’t believe it. But there’s one difference between the sheriff and me. I may be a red herring to him, but I’m not a red herring to myself. I know this is one killing I didn’t do. So I’ve got a perfectly clear head to concentrate on finding out who did it. If anyone seems to be stalling or holding out on me, the only conclusion I can come to is that they’re either guilty themselves or covering up for a guilty pal. In either case, I’m not going to feel very friendly about it. And that brings us to another difference between the sheriff and me. When I don’t feel friendly about people, I’m not tied down by a lot of red tape and pettifogging legal procedures. As you may have heard. If you are covering up for a pal he must mean a lot to you, if you’re willing to let me hang you for him.”
Kerr took another sip of his drink. It was a long sip, turning gradually into a gulp. When he set down his glass, the last pretense of dignified obstinacy had gone out of him.
“I did have a phone call from one of the men at the club,” he admitted.
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know exactly. He said, ‘The Saint’s on his way to see you. Mrs Verity just shot herself here. Esteban says to tell you not to talk.’ ”
“Why should this character expect you to do what Esteban told you?”
Kerr fidgeted.