“Oh, I’m sorry…” she said, backing out.
“Come in,” I said. “This is Mr. Clem Kuntz. Th e Mr. Kuntz. ” I looked at the mulberry coloured face. “This is my wife. Satisfied?”
He was looking narrowly at Clair. There was an expression of startled dismay in his eyes.
I suddenly got what he was driving at. I grinned.
“Not what you expected?” I said. “I bet your client told you she was hard, brassy, and on the make.”
He drew in a deep breath, bowed to Clair.
“I merely wanted to know, Mrs. Cain, if you spoke to Gray Howard on the night of his death,” he said, clinging to the shreds of his dignity.
She looked at me, shook her head.
“Look, Mr. Kuntz,” I said, “I know what you hope to establish. It’s to your client’s advantage if you can prove that Clair was trying to make Howard. She wasn’t, and I don’t think, however hard you try, you’d ever convince a jury she was. Howard was propositioning her. I wanted to fix him, but Clair didn’t want a scene. We had been working hard for three months, and it was our first night out together. It was our hard luck that we should run into Howard. Clair didn’t encourage him. Your client was sore because Howard couldn’t keep his eyes to himself. But that didn’t cause the murder. It touched it off, but it had been coming to a head for some time. A guy doesn’t punch a woman in the lace unless he’s sick to death of her. It was the punch that killed Howard… not Clair.”
Kuntz cleared his throat, grunted.