At first, we both had the jitters, catching each other listening to any unusual sound, breaking off our conversation at an approaching step, looking uneasily at each other whenever the telephone rang. But that kind of tension doesn’t last. After the fourth week we were almost back to normal, although I took care never to approach any car that came into the station unless I could see the driver. If I couldn’t see who was driving, I sent Bones. I never did a night shift either.
Lydia Hamilton’s trial was a three-day sensation. Kuntz knew she hadn’t a chance to beat the rap so he pleaded her guilty, but insane. The D.A. was after her blood, and he didn’t call me, as my evidence would have helped establish the fact that she was insane.
Kuntz got his verdict after a terrific battle, and after the usual ballyhoo from the press the story died a natural death.
A week after the trial, and five weeks after the newspapers had first discovered me, Lois Spence showed her hand.
I had finished for the night, and had handed over to Ben the old guy who handled the night shift, when the telephone in the office rang.
“I’ll answer it,” I said to Ben as a car came up the driveway.
I returned to the office, lifted the receiver.
“Cain?” a woman’s voice asked.
I knew at once who it was. I felt my lips lift off my teeth in a mirthless smile. So it had come at last.
“Hello, Lois,” I said. “I was expecting you to call.”