She said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Lam?”
I sat down. She and Doc Alftmont took chairs. Alftmont seemed nervous.
Mrs. Alftmont said, “I understand you’re a detective, Mr. Lam.”
“That’s right.”
Her voice was well modulated and seemed to come without effort. There was no evidence of strain anywhere about her. Doc Alftmont gave the impression of weighing words with meticulous care lest he betray himself in a moment of inadvertence. She radiated the quiet poise and the calmness of a woman who has never tried to kid herself.
She said to her husband, “Give me a cigarette, Charles,” and then to me, “You don’t need to mince words, Mr. Lam. I know all about it.”
I said, “All right. Let’s talk.”
Dr. Alftmont handed her a cigarette and held a match. “Want one, Lam?” he asked.
I nodded.
Dr. Alftmont shook out the match, handed me a cigarette, took one himself, and we both lit off the same match. He turned to her and said, “Mrs. Cool was at my office, dear. Mr. Lam didn’t come with her. He came—”