The law was designed, apparently, to discourage gangsters from carrying weapons—although it didn't always work that way—and a young writer, without a criminal record, would be shown a great deal of leniency.
Everyone, even judges, expected writers to behave a little strangely, a little differently from other people and that would count in his favor.
He hoped the big detective was right about that. It would worry him and keep him awake nights until the ordeal was over, because just the thought of appearing in court to answer a quite serious charge terrified him.
No reason why it should now, he told himself. He'd had the book thrown at him, hadn't he? He'd been booked at a police station, taken into court, fingerprinted and confined in a cell for more than a week. If he could survive that, he could survive anything.
And the way they'd questioned him, in a room without windows and a bright light flooding down—Not the third degree really, nothing as bad as that. But it had been bad enough.
There was a tap on the door and he looked up quickly.
"Who is it?" he demanded.
"It's me—Nora. I heard about all what happened to you. I wanted to die myself, Ralph—I swear it."
He arose slowly, went to the door and opened it. "I told your mother about it," he said. "I went to that office with the intention of killing her. But at the last moment—I couldn't do it. I went there on the very morning of the murder. And I bought a gun—"
"I know, Ralph ... I know, darling. It's painful to talk about and there's no reason why you should, now. You know I love you."