“She wouldn’t do that.” Conway wondered if he was playing the part of the fatuous, doting husband too convincingly. He had done everything he could to seem a ludicrous figure to the squad-car men. He did not want this pile of suet behind the desk to take him too seriously, either; on the other hand neither did he want to have to insist too much, in order to get the report on the police blotter. And it had to be there, in writing that even an assistant district attorney could read.
“She’d never do anything like that,” he repeated. “She didn’t like to drive, and she wouldn’t go off in my car with anyone else — she wouldn’t be that inconsiderate.” Careful now, don’t overdo it, he cautioned himself. “Besides we know hardly anyone out here. Who would she meet to go anywhere with?”
The sergeant rubbed his face with his hand, and Conway saw the smile he was trying to conceal — the same smile which had been on the faces of the radio-car men. The memory of the disappearance of Mrs. Yates was still green. But this grin was too obvious to be concealed — or to be ignored.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Conway said. “You’re remembering that woman who left her husband in the market and went off to a motel with that boy.” Indignation came into his voice. “Well, my wife’s not like that, and don’t go thinking she is.”
The grin disappeared. “No, no — I wasn’t thinking of that at all. Nothing like it.” He was having difficulty keeping the smile off his face; he picked up a pen and bent over the desk. “Now, where’d you say this happened?”
Conway went over the details again; there were two forms to fill out and he had to sign both of them. He started to leave as two policemen came in.
“Just be sure to let us know if she turns up,” the sergeant called after him. Conway turned and nodded his assent. The sergeant’s grin was coming back; he could hardly wait to tell his story to an audience.
Conway did not delay. He only hoped the sergeant would make it good.
Conway was careful to stay in character on the bus, and when he reached home he did not even stop for the drink he had been longing for. He went directly to work.
He put Helen’s soiled glove, which he had retrieved from the theatre, in one of the drawers of his dresser, and placed his own gloves in another drawer. The wallet he put in a metal box in his desk in which he kept his insurance policies. He turned the pocket of his coat, in which he had carried the mustache, inside out and vacuumed it.