“She’s crazy drunk,” I said. “I don’t figure in it at all. I only grabbed her gun.”
“What’s this about her car?”
“We had a little accident this morning. There was nothing to it.”
He took out his note-book, asked me my name. I told him Jack Cain. My middle name was Jack, anyway. I gave him my address, went into details about the Cadillac, said nothing about the man in the white dinner-jacket trying to mash Clair. I guessed it would come out at the trial, but I wasn’t going to help unnecessarily.
“Any idea why she shot the guy?” the Homicide man demanded.
I shook my head. “I wasn’t watching them,” I lied. “He suddenly punched her, began kicking her. I went to her help; before I could reach the guy, she shot him.”
“Okay,” he said, eyeing me over. I could see he wasn’t entirely satisfied, but he had a lot on his mind. “We’ll be needing you again.”
I said all right, and could we go now?
He sent a cop out to check the licence tag on the Buick. The cop came back, nodded.
“Okay, you can go,” the Homicide man said. “Stick close.”