I saw Roberta Fenn’s face show surprise.
I said, “That’s where you’re making your fatal mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
I said, “Nostrander’s secretary will probably remember that you were in the office. His books will show that, at least at the start, he received a fee from you. The people at Jack O’Leary’s Bar will remember that you were in there together. They’ll trap you in perjury. Your husband would spend a fortune on private detectives tracking all that stuff down. They’d bring that out in court, and a judge would realize you’d simply—”
She interrupted me to say, “All right, I knew him.”
“How well?”
“I–I’d consulted him.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Told me that the only thing for me to do was to quit worrying, and,” she went on triumphantly, as she realized the strength of this new defense, “he told me not to do anything at all until papers were served on me, that as soon as papers were served on me to let him know.”
I said, “That’s a swell line. Nostrander’s dead. He can’t contradict you on that, you know.”