me—well, after all, I am only his wife. And it is hardly likely that any new indignities either of you can devise will be worse than those to which I have already submitted.”
I grunted at this theatrical speech and went ahead.
“ Mrs. Gungen, I’m only interested in learning who robbed and killed Main. Anything that points in that direction is valuable to me, but only in so far as it points in that direction. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Certainly,” she said. “I understand you are in my husband’s employ.”
That got us nowhere. I tried again:
“What impression do you suppose I got the other evening, when I was here?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Please try.”
“Doubtless”—she smiled faintly—“you got the impression that my husband thought I had been Jeffrey’s mistress.”
“Well?”
“Are you”—her dimples showed; she seemed amused—“asking me if I really was his mistress?”
“No—though of course I’d like to know.”
“Naturally you would,” she said pleasantly.
“What impression did you get that evening?” I asked.
“I?” She wrinkled her forehead. “Oh, that my husband had hired you to prove that I had been Jeffrey’s mistress.” She repeated the word mistress