On the third day I made up my mind to go back East and do the necessary writing in New York, away from Paul’s hectic influence and Cave’s advice. Cave asked me to stay with him for the rest of the week but I could see that Iris regarded me now as a potential danger, a keeper of secrets who might, despite promises, prove to be disloyal; and so, to set her mind at ease as well as to suit my own new plans, I told her after lunch on the third day, when we were for a moment alone in the study, that I had said nothing to Cave, that I was ready to go back that evening if she would drive me to Spokane.
“You’re a good friend,” she said. “I made a fool of myself the other night. I wish you’d forget it ... forget everything I said.”
“I’ll never mention it. Now, the problem is how I can leave here gracefully. Cave just asked me this morning to stay on and ...”
But I was given a perfect means of escape. Cave came running into the room, his eyes shining. “Paul! I’ve just talked to Paul in L.A. It’s all over! No heirs, nothing, no lawsuit. No damages to pay.”
“What’s happened?” Iris stopped him in his excitement.
“The old man’s dead!”
“Oh Lord!” Iris went gray. “That means a manslaughter charge!”
“No, no ... not because of the accident. He was in another accident. A truck hit him the day after he left the hospital. Yesterday. He was killed instantly ... lucky devil: and of course we’re in luck too.”
“Did they find who hit him?” I asked, suddenly suspicious. Iris looked at me fiercely. She had got it too.
“No. Paul said it was a hit-and-run. He said this time the police didn’t find who did it. Paul said his analyst calls it 'a will to disaster’ ... he wanted to be run over. Of course that’s hardly a disaster but the analyst thinks the old way.”