“And what do you think about Trilby Andrews?”
“I never heard of her. Who is she?”
“She isn’t. She was.”
She leaned back with her glass in her hand.
“Hawkshaw Rides Again,” she said. “Go on. You do the talking. I told you last night I could see it coming. I’m not a detective. Tell me how it works.”
He took another cigarette and lighted it from the stub of one that was only half finished. He refilled both their glasses from the shaker. Then he relaxed beside her and gazed up at the ceiling. He felt very calm now.
“I’m a lousy detective,” he said. “I never really wanted to be one... Maybe all detectives are lousy. They only get anywhere because the suspects are lousy too, and it doesn’t matter how many mistakes a detective makes. You just blunder around and wait for something to pop... That’s all I’ve been doing. I’ve thrown accusations all over the place, and been sure I’d strike a spark somewhere. You rush around and jump to conclusions and have kittens over every flash, and get gorgeously master-minded and confused... But in the end I’ve started to think.”
He was thinking now, while he talked, picking up the loose ends that his driving imagination had so blithely pushed aside.
“Byron Ufferlitz was shot through the back of his head, in his study, in his home, by somebody that he presumably knew pretty well — at least well enough to give an opportunity like that to. That gives the first list of suspects. None of them have very good alibis, but on the other hand nobody except the murderer knows exactly when it was done, so alibis aren’t so important. I could have done it myself. So could you.”
“And you’ve decided that I did.”