“He was at the time the letter was written. He isn’t now.”
She studied me for a few seconds. “Look here,” she said, “if this is some kind of a racket—”
“It isn’t. I’ve come prepared to prove what I’m saying.”
I took from my pocket the piece I’d cut from the Las Vegas newspaper and handed it to her. “Helen Framley’s boy friend,” I said, “was Sidney Jannix. You’re not married to anyone. You’re a widow.”
She read it through carefully. I watched her eyes moving back and forth as she shifted them from one line to the other. After a while, they quit moving, but she kept them focused on the paper, pretending still to be reading, gaining time to think before she had to look up and face the situation.
Abruptly she looked up at me. “He was murdered then?”
“Yes.”
“Who— Who did it?”
“They don’t know.”
“But you know, don’t you?”