“How should I know?” he retorted. “You’re sitting on all the news these days.”
“Sitting?” Ernie’s huge shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Well, it’s safe to say anything I sit on’s bound to hatch out big,” he said. “But from what I hear you have a little something in the nest, too. What is it tonight, chapter two of Mrs. Wales’s personal memoirs?”
There it was again. One evening in the woman’s company and the whole town was buzzing. “And why not?” Mitch bristled. “Is she incommunicado?”
“Hell, no! Go ahead and have fun.”
Ernie waved Mitch on with one pudgy hand and sank back against the upholstery. Why he was parked there, and what he was waiting for, were a couple more items for Mitch to add to his collection of puzzles. Ernie wasn’t giving anybody anything.
But Norma Wales wasn’t having fun, that was for sure. She greeted Mitch like a rich relative come to pay off the mortgage, and listened with hungry eyes while he tried to make a big production out of all the zeros he’d accumulated in place of answers. And he couldn’t mention that theory about Frank Wales’s prolonged absence. With all the time and solitude she had for waiting and worrying Norma must have faced every possible fear by this time.
“But couldn’t the police find Singer?” she asked hopefully. “Couldn’t they make him tell whatever he knows?”
The police. Mitch crossed over to the window and looked down on the street he’d just left. Ernie was still sitting in the sedan, but now he’d been joined by a plainclothes man named McMahon who was hanging over the car door like a teen-ager at a curbstone convention. “The police have other irons in the fire,” Mitch replied. “I can’t see Ernie Talbot working up much enthusiasm for the little we’re going on.”
“He’s certainly not lacking enthusiasm for the little he’s going on,” Norma said bitterly. “He was here again today to ask more questions about my husband—and such interesting questions! Had he ever acted strangely? Had he ever suffered a nervous breakdown or any mental disorder? Apparently Frank’s supposed to be a homicidal maniac out to kill off the women in his life!”
That was more than just anger in Norma’s voice. Her eyes were a bit too bright and her voice a little too loud. She joined Mitch at the window and stared ruefully at the street scene below. “Look at them,” she said. “Waiting like vultures!”
“Ernie’s desperate for a motive,” Mitch suggested. “Don’t let talk like that upset you.”
“But it does! Suppose talk like that gets around. Suppose everybody gets to suspecting Frank of something like that and then he’s seen somewhere. Do you think I relish the idea of my husband being shot down like a mad dog?”
“That’s hardly likely—”
“And why not? Everything that’s happened is hardly likely, but it’s happened!”
Norma turned away from the window and began to pace the floor. How many hours she’d been doing that only God could tell, but Mitch could imagine. He wanted to come up with some conclusive argument to blast her fears, but what she’d just said had caught him off base. He started out doubting Frank Wales’s guilt because there was no motive, but sometimes there didn’t have to be a motive. And then Mitch realized what he was doing. One suggestion and he was suspicious—no wonder she was afraid! Imagine the headline Peter could come up with if he got wind of Ernie’s angle!
“I’ve been followed and watched all day,” Norma said. “Everywhere I go they’re watching. To the drugstore, to the dining-room, and you should have seen the interest when I went to the bank to cash a check! Late this afternoon I tried taking a walk—I was going to your office to find out what you’d learned—but I had to give it up. There was a dark, shabby, little man who kept tagging my heels all the way. Can’t you see, Mr. Gorman? We’ve got to do
“Sitting?” Ernie’s huge shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Well, it’s safe to say anything I sit on’s bound to hatch out big,” he said. “But from what I hear you have a little something in the nest, too. What is it tonight, chapter two of Mrs. Wales’s personal memoirs?”
There it was again. One evening in the woman’s company and the whole town was buzzing. “And why not?” Mitch bristled. “Is she incommunicado?”
“Hell, no! Go ahead and have fun.”
Ernie waved Mitch on with one pudgy hand and sank back against the upholstery. Why he was parked there, and what he was waiting for, were a couple more items for Mitch to add to his collection of puzzles. Ernie wasn’t giving anybody anything.
But Norma Wales wasn’t having fun, that was for sure. She greeted Mitch like a rich relative come to pay off the mortgage, and listened with hungry eyes while he tried to make a big production out of all the zeros he’d accumulated in place of answers. And he couldn’t mention that theory about Frank Wales’s prolonged absence. With all the time and solitude she had for waiting and worrying Norma must have faced every possible fear by this time.
“But couldn’t the police find Singer?” she asked hopefully. “Couldn’t they make him tell whatever he knows?”
The police. Mitch crossed over to the window and looked down on the street he’d just left. Ernie was still sitting in the sedan, but now he’d been joined by a plainclothes man named McMahon who was hanging over the car door like a teen-ager at a curbstone convention. “The police have other irons in the fire,” Mitch replied. “I can’t see Ernie Talbot working up much enthusiasm for the little we’re going on.”
“He’s certainly not lacking enthusiasm for the little he’s going on,” Norma said bitterly. “He was here again today to ask more questions about my husband—and such interesting questions! Had he ever acted strangely? Had he ever suffered a nervous breakdown or any mental disorder? Apparently Frank’s supposed to be a homicidal maniac out to kill off the women in his life!”
That was more than just anger in Norma’s voice. Her eyes were a bit too bright and her voice a little too loud. She joined Mitch at the window and stared ruefully at the street scene below. “Look at them,” she said. “Waiting like vultures!”
“Ernie’s desperate for a motive,” Mitch suggested. “Don’t let talk like that upset you.”
“But it does! Suppose talk like that gets around. Suppose everybody gets to suspecting Frank of something like that and then he’s seen somewhere. Do you think I relish the idea of my husband being shot down like a mad dog?”
“That’s hardly likely—”
“And why not? Everything that’s happened is hardly likely, but it’s happened!”
Norma turned away from the window and began to pace the floor. How many hours she’d been doing that only God could tell, but Mitch could imagine. He wanted to come up with some conclusive argument to blast her fears, but what she’d just said had caught him off base. He started out doubting Frank Wales’s guilt because there was no motive, but sometimes there didn’t have to be a motive. And then Mitch realized what he was doing. One suggestion and he was suspicious—no wonder she was afraid! Imagine the headline Peter could come up with if he got wind of Ernie’s angle!
“I’ve been followed and watched all day,” Norma said. “Everywhere I go they’re watching. To the drugstore, to the dining-room, and you should have seen the interest when I went to the bank to cash a check! Late this afternoon I tried taking a walk—I was going to your office to find out what you’d learned—but I had to give it up. There was a dark, shabby, little man who kept tagging my heels all the way. Can’t you see, Mr. Gorman? We’ve got to do
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