“You’ve found her?” Conway sat, but only so that he could watch the detective’s eyes more closely. He had to determine how much the other knew.
“We’ve found your car.”
“But Helen — Mrs. Conway—”
“This is going to be a shock, Mr. Conway. There was a body in the car, and I’m afraid it’s your wife. I’d like you to come down with me now to identify her — if it is her.”
“What happened?” Larkin hesitated and looked at the floor. “Tell me,” Conway insisted.
“Found the car a little over an hour ago. Then they discovered her, on the floor, covered with a coat. She’d been strangled.” The detective seemed to have finished.
“But — what else? I mean, how did it happen — and when? Tell me.”
The detective rose. “There’s no use your getting all upset when we don’t even know for sure if it’s her. You come along now — then if it is — well, we’ll talk about it.”
Conway looked at him for a moment, trying to assay how much the detective was withholding. The eyes were guileless, but he might be acting, too. “I’ll get a tie and my coat,” Conway said. “I’ll be right down.”
A uniformed patrolman was at the wheel, and Conway and Larkin sat in the back for the long ride downtown. They drove for some time in silence, with Conway staring out the window. That, he was sure, was all right — normal behavior. But he was conscious that the detective was eying him from time to time, and he had to make another effort.