It was very quiet in the room. It was as if a section of the world enclosed between four walls and a floor and ceiling had been moved out into unrelated space. Ice settled in the shaker with a startling collapse like an avalanche.
“Of course,” she said.
“So it had to be a woman,” he said. “It couldn’t be Trilby Andrews, because she’s dead. But it might very likely be someone that he’d treated the same way, who reacted differently. She killed herself, but a different kind of girl might prefer to kill him. Or, it could be someone who was squaring accounts for Trilby.”
“Either way,” she said, “you came to me.”
He just looked at her.
She put out her cigarette and looked at the red tip where her lips had left their color. Then she turned to him again. Her eyes were strangely hard to read.
“So you’re still a great detective,” she said. “Now what happens?”
“We could have another drink.”
“Do you think I should give myself up, or would you rather turn me in and get some glory?”
“Neither. I may be a detective, but I’m not a policeman. I can be my own grand jury. From what I’ve found out about Ufferlitz since I began meddling with this, I’d just as soon leave everything as it is.”