“Come again, buddy, a little slower. Just what happened?”
Conway was conscious that he made a somewhat ridiculous figure, standing there with a bag of popcorn in his hand, reporting a wife who had walked out on him — or, rather, driven off on him. It was necessary that they look on him as a rather pathetic figure of fun — now. The popcorn had been planned, and bought, with that effect in mind. Later they would remember his concern, which now seemed so exaggerated.
He told what had occurred, then, in sequence, being careful not to be too precise or detailed; something had to be saved for later. He told of his search of the neighborhood, he mentioned that he had left the keys in the car but explained that his wife didn’t like to drive; it was unthinkable that she would drive off and leave him to walk home.
As he went on with his account, he could see the quizzical look come into the face of the patrolman on the right. When the officer turned his head away to look at the driver, Conway knew it was to hide a smile, or perhaps to wink at his partner.
“Well, what do you want us to do, buddy?” he asked when he turned back to Conway.
“Why, find her — look for her.”
“Why don’t you try telephoning home? She’s probably there by now.”
“I called just a few minutes ago. She wouldn’t go off alone, I tell you.”
“Well, maybe she didn’t.” The patrolman was unable to hide the smile this time, and Conway was gratifyingly conscious of what he was thinking. “Maybe—” A sharp nudge in the ribs stopped him, and the driver continued the sentence.
“Maybe she got tired of waiting and a friend came along and drove her home.”