I started the motor on the office heap.
“Didn’t you want to talk, Donald?” she asked.
“There’s nothing to talk about now,” I said. “The beans are spilled.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was going to tell him that a witness had seen a man leaving the apartment. I wasn’t going to let on that we had any idea of who it could have been. His conscience would have done that.”
“If he knows, why shouldn’t we let him know that we know?”
“Just a legal difference,” I said. “If we were helping him without any idea that he was the one, we’d have been acting as detectives. He naturally wouldn’t have climbed out on a limb and told us anything. I suppose now you know it all.”
“Yes,” she said. “He went down to see her. He wanted to find out who sent her and what she’d discovered and see if he could make a deal with her.”
“She was dead when he found her?” I asked.
“That’s what he says.”