“Somehow I don’t seem to mind.” She kissed him lightly. “It was sometime between dinner and when I first kissed you,” he said.
She sighed contentedly, her head against his shoulder. “It’s been a wonderful evening. Since we’ve been home, I mean,” she amended. “Why did Bauer take us to that frightful drugstore?”
Conway smiled at the recollection. “He had the waitress there who served Helen and me before we went to the movie. That was his unique method of having her identify me.”
“Why did you tell him all that stuff about Helen having a roll of money, and your ‘little disagreements’?”
Involuntarily Conway tightened, and he knew that the girl must have felt it too. “It just happened to be true,” he said, and was conscious that his voice had taken on an aggressive note. He stroked her hair and tried to recapture their earlier mood. “I’m glad you didn’t find an apartment,” he said.
She drew away from him and sat erect. “Don’t say that,” she said.
“Why not? Don’t you love me?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Of course I do. Since the moment I walked in the door, I guess. I’m going to hate being alone and away from you. But — it isn’t any good.” She slipped from his arms and stood looking down at him. “Not unless we trust and believe in each other. And I don’t believe you’ve told me the truth — I don’t believe you trust me enough to tell me. I don’t blame you for anything you’ve done — not anything. I understand. But if we’re to mean something to each other, I’d have to know the truth — I’d have to know that you knew you could trust me that much. I can’t love a man who has to be suspicious and on guard every other minute we’re together.”
“You’re wrong,” he said without hesitation. Then he looked at her, rose, and flicked his cigarette into the garden. The answer had been instinctive, but now he was wallowing in a sea of indecision. She knew the truth — and for a moment he longed for the peace he could find only with someone who did know, someone with whom he could drop his eternal vigilance. He looked at her: the luminescent eyes were guileless; she was a figure of utter enchantment, offering him love and tenderness and peace. Then he brought himself up sharply and realized he was being naive. The alluring charm might be bait, the promised tender raptures could be the promise of a noose around his neck. The gamble was too great: he had to play it alone.
“I’ve told you the truth,” he said. “I had nothing to do with Helen’s death.”