She stood by the table, fixing a Scotch. He took the glass from her before she could add a Seltzer and tossed the liquor down his throat. It was good Scotch. Silky and full of body, with no raw bite in it. He felt it in his belly, a round little knot of warmth. He took the bottle from the table and poured himself another glass.
“Did you kill him?” he said, looking at her over the top of the glass.
She spread her hands across her breasts, standing very quiet for a moment, then she said, “Was he killed?”
Duffy took another pull at his glass. “Use your head,” he said shortly, “how could he have fallen down the shaft? He wasn’t drunk, was he? Think a moment. He goes out of your apartment. The elevator is standing on the ground floor. He opens the grille to look at it, then he feels giddy and falls down. They wouldn’t pass it in a nut factory.”
She was going white again and she sat on the edge of the table. Her wrap fell open, showing her knees, but neither of them bothered with that.
“This is the way it went. Cattley goes out to the elevator and is smacked on the dome, then he is tossed down the shaft. That makes sense.” Duffy put the glass down on the table and lit a cigarette. “You ain’t answered my question Did you kill him?”
“No,” she said.
“There’s only one person who’s going to believe that,” Duffy said, “and that’s you.”
She raised her head. Her big eyes were frightened now. “You don’t think I killed him?” she said; her words ran into each other.
“Can’t you see what a spot you’re in?” he asked patiently. “Look, let me wise you up. Cattley calls on you to sell you something. You say it’s material for a book; okay, it’s material for a book. You show him the door and then, there he is on the elevator roof smashed to bits.”