“That’s the only thing Greta and me ever fight about,” Bauer said.
“What is?” Conway asked. He welcomed conversation; it might take his mind off the food.
“Money. That is, wasting it — extravagance.”
“That’s not uncommon,” Conway said.
A forkful of pot roast paused on its way to Bauer’s mouth, and he looked at Conway. “I guess not,” he said. “I guess even married couples fight about one thing another every once in a while. Did you and your wife have many — er — disagreements about money — or anything?”
“No-o,” Conway said. Why should Bauer bring this up now, he wondered. And in Betty’s presence. Had she been telling the detective of Helen’s real character? He was on record with the police that their married life had been a happy one. He had to stick to his story; and no matter how well Betty had known Helen five years ago, she could not contradict his version of their marital relationship. “No,” he said, “less than most people, I think. We had very few in the four years we were married.” Betty looked at him but said nothing.
“Not about money?”
“No,” Conway said, and then it dawned on him. The waitress Bauer had spoken to passed close to the table, and Conway happened to glance up so that he saw her face from a low angle, and in that instant he remembered her. It was the woman who had served Helen and himself in that other National drugstore. It was so absurdly clear now that it was difficult not to laugh aloud. But — how much had she heard that night? What had she said to arouse Bauer’s suspicion? “We only quarreled about silly little things. Even quarrel is too strong a word—”
“What kind of silly little things? I’m just asking,” the detective explained, “because I might get married one of these days, and if I do I don’t want any trouble. Maybe you can give me a few tips.”
“Well, let me think.” Bauer could easily have confronted him with the waitress, and had her identify him, but that, Conway could only assume, would have been too easy. The sergeant must have gone to considerable trouble to have her transferred to this store for this one night so that she would be less readily recognizable; he would be hurt to learn that his elaborate stratagem had been so quickly seen through. “Things like — well, I hate to tell you this, because I don’t like to think about it. But we had a misunderstanding the day she — the last day she was here.” Conway, ever conscious of Betty, knew that he had to guard against overdoing it.