“I wonder if you always look like that,” he said to Clair, speaking his thoughts out aloud.
“She’ll look like that at the trial, if you decide to call her,” I said. “And she’ll hurt your client’s case if you try to make out she’s a vamp.”
He passed his fat hand over his bald head, frowned. He knew when he was licked.
“I don’t think I’ll call her,” he said. “All right, Cain, I guess I’m wasting time. I thought your wife would be a different type.” He looked wistfully at Clair, shook his head, went.
We breathed again. Maybe it was going to work out all right. Maybe we weren’t going to get any publicity.
The District Attorney’s man was the next to call. He had a report from the State Highway cop who had arrested Lydia on the drunk while driving charge. As soon as he learned that Lydia had tried to wreck the Cadillac with me in it, he hotfooted over to see me. He said it was just the kind of evidence he wanted. It proved that Lydia was a dangerous drunk, and it’d carry a lot of weight with the jury. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was too burned up with the idea.
The next morning the press had the story.
They began arriving before we had breakfast, and they crawled all over us. The little guy who had tried to photograph us on the night of the murder was well in the forefront. He snarled at me, and there was nothing I could do about it.
“Hello, wise guy,” he said. “So you don’t like publicity? My editor will sure fix you for smashing that plate.”
Flash-lights exploded around us for the next hour. We tried to duck out of sight, but it was like a siege. When they had gone, I went upstairs, hunted out Bat’s .38. I sat on the bed, cleaned, oiled and loaded it. It seemed odd to have a gun banging against my side again. I didn’t like the feel of it any more. I was worried too that I was so much slower on the draw than I used to be. It was nearly four months since I pulled a gun, and I knew I’d have to get in some practice if I was going to match Bat.