“Right here in my bag.”
“Let’s take a look at it.”
She opened her bag, and Sellers pulled the police car over to the kerb to a stop. He looked at the coin purse Irene Fulton handed him, said thoughtfully. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Neither do you!” she snapped, then said suddenly, “Isn’t it enough that I have all these troubles without having you come along and adding to them?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Sellers said, and eased the car out from the kerb. But all the way to San Robles he was scowling as he watched the road. He didn’t use the siren, and he was driving so slowly that a couple of times I was afraid we’d be pinched for blocking traffic.
Mrs. Fulton didn’t say anything, either. She sat with her face hard, white and strained, looking straight ahead through the windscreen. She had thoughts for company, and they weren’t nice thoughts.
We got to the house in San Robles and Sellers said, “I guess I’ll just take a look through the place. You can show me where the kids were sleeping and where the phone’s located.”
I made motions in the rear seat, and Sellers threw over his shoulder, “You sit right there, Lam.”
I settled back and smoked a cigarette.
Sellers was gone about ten minutes. When he came out, he had a cigar in his mouth that he had chewed into frayed wreckage.