“Naturally you’re upset because she was murdered. But that doesn’t mean you have to put on this big grief act.”
He stared at her for several moments before he dared speak. “What are you talking about?” he said.
“You were married for four years, weren’t you? Well, after living with her for four years, you certainly couldn’t have liked her. Nobody who’d had four years of Helen could be sorry when it was over, no matter what had to happen to put an end to it.”
There was utter candor in her eyes, and he could not face them. “You — you’re out of your mind,” he said. He fled to his room and locked the door.
What did she know? What did she suspect? What was she plotting? How was she planning to trap him? The questions to which there were no answers went reeling about in his brain. Her seeming honesty and artlessness were so disarming that it was difficult to guard against them. She had to be got out of the house, and quickly; that would help.
But — would it be enough?
He was horrified as he realized the implication of what he was thinking. Was that the only way he could save himself — by killing this girl, too? But he wasn’t a killer, even though he had murdered Helen. He had no qualms about that: it had been his only chance of salvation. Even Betty knew that was justified. Or did she? Had that remark been a trick to decoy him into some damning revelation? She seemed such a completely engaging person — or might have, at another time or place. He couldn’t kill her — but what other way out was there? Except that he couldn’t get away with it: even his perfect murder, so carefully planned, showed signs of coming apart at the seams. And if two sisters, within a week— Not even Bauer would be fooled under those circumstances. But — was there any way?
He heard her come upstairs, and a long time after her door closed, he peered out. No light showed under the door, so he went downstairs and made himself a drink. Then, on second thought, he took ice, soda and the bottle of whisky to his room and locked himself in.
Chapter eight
When Conway’s eyes opened in the morning, the first thing they saw was the small clock on the night table. When the eyes focused, he jerked to a sitting position, surprised to discover that it was ten o’clock. He tried to sort out the thoughts that came crowding into a head which was too full of riveting machines to be able to think. At least there had been no phone call from Bauer, which meant that he was not wanted at the line-up. As for Betty, perhaps he could cope with her after some coffee.