“Well, I’ve been a fool,” she said, studying her nails; “naturally, I wanted to keep it to myself. You’ve guessed by now that I lied to you about writing a book?”
Duffy said, “You’d be surprised how much I do know.”
“Cattley was blackmailing me,” her voice was suddenly weary; “I’ve had to pay and pay. I did something crazy once and Cattley was there. My father would have been in a hopeless position to run for election if it got out, and Cattley was smart enough to know this. He put the screws on, and I had to pay. It’s awful of me to say this, but his death was a great relief to me.”
Duffy said, “You’re giving me a grand motive for his killing.”
She slid off the table and came over to him. “You know I didn’t kill him,” she said, “you believe that, don’t you?”
“Go on,” he said, “it don’t matter a damn what I think, it’s what the jury would think that counts.”
She moved away again, and began wandering round the room, fingering the furniture aimlessly as she moved. “Cattley was a brute. He made me visit him. He gave me the key of his apartment. I had to go to him whenever he called. I knew he had some proof of what I did, so when he was killed, I came down to find it. That’s the truth, you do believe that?”
“Sure,” Duffy beamed, “a hophead would believe it.”
She sat down suddenly in the arm-chair and hid her face in her hands. “I’m so unhappy,” she said, her voice breaking; “please be kind to me.”
Duffy came over and sat on the arm of her chair. “When you went into the Johnny just now,” he said casually, “you smuggled something in your pants or some place. You can now go right back to the Johnny and dig it out again. Then you can give it to me.”