“Of course we want you to be where we can get hold of you for a while — as long as there’s a chance of something turning up.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”
Conway, like any artist, had pride in the perfection of his work. He longed to ask the detective what he had checked; what detail, or combination of them, had been the convincing proof of his innocence. He would have enjoyed dwelling on each particular of his actions, and appraising the importance of each. But he had to console himself with the thought that not all artists are destined for public recognition; in his case, he would have to be content with anonymity.
“While I think of it,” Bauer said, “yesterday in Ramsden’s office, you said you and your wife only knew about a half-dozen people out here, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“I got the list of the people you mentioned here.” He tapped his pocket. “I’ll probably have to check ’em in the next couple days.”
“Check them? What for?”
“Chiefly so’s I’ll have something to put in those reports I got to make out; I can’t just sit around Headquarters when a case like this is still hot. And there’s always the chance that I’ll turn up something — you know, that she told one of her friends about some guy making a pass at her, or something like that. It won’t happen, but then again, it just might. Anyhow, I got to cover myself.”
“I see. Sort of routine investigation?”
“Yeah. But here’s what I wanted to ask you. You must of known more people than just the ones you said yesterday. Naturally, at a time like that, you wouldn’t think of all of ’em.”