“I thought you had a good story for me,” Parker said, disappointed. “That’s damn dull.”
“I guess it is,” Ken said, his face expressionless.
As they drove into the parking lot behind the bank, Parker said, “Are you going to tell Arm what happened?”
Ken shook his head.
“You may be a mug,” he said as he got out of the car, “but I’m not.”
IV
Five days later, Ken stood on the platform waiting for the train that was bringing Ann home.
He was feeling particularly virtuous. For the past four evenings he had worked ceaselessly in the bungalow and in the garden. All the various jobs that Ann had been asking him to do for the past months, and which he had put off, had been done. The garden had never looked better. The kitchen had been decorated. The windows had been cleaned. The broken hinge on the gate had been repaired; even the car had been polished.
The newspapers had been full of the shootings. The City’s Administration had come under fire, and several prominent members had resigned, among them Captain Joe Motley, who felt that his work was becoming too arduous for his easy-going methods. Lindsay Burt’s name kept cropping up in the papers as the next likely political leader, and the Herald was prophesying that Lieutenant Adams would shortly be elected Captain of Police.
For the first time since Ken had found Fay’s dead body, he felt safe. With a feeling of intense excitement, he watched the train come slowly along the track.