“Home all night?”
“Yes, it was a rotten rainy night. Why?” She looked from Dean to me.
Dean’s glance met mine, and I nodded an answer to the question that I read there.
“ Mrs. Whitacre,” he said bluntly, “I have a warrant for your husband’s arrest.”
“A warrant? For what?”
“Murder.”
“Murder?” It was a stifled scream.
“Exactly, an’ last night.”
“But—but I told you he was—”
“And Ogburn told me,” I interrupted leaning forward, “that you called up his apartment last night, asking if your husband was there.”
She looked at me blankly for a dozen seconds; and then she laughed, the clear laugh of one who has been the victim of some slight joke.
“You win,” she said, and there was neither shame nor humiliation in either face or voice. “Now listen”—the amusement had left her—“I don’t know what Herb has done, or how I stand, and I oughtn’t to talk until I see a lawyer. But I like to dodge all the trouble I can. If you folks will tell me what’s what, on your word of honor, I’ll maybe tell you what I know, if anything. What I mean is, if talking will make things any easier for me, if you can show me it will, maybe I’ll talk—provided I know anything.”
That seemed fair enough, if a little surprising. Apparently this plump woman who could lie with every semblance of candor, and laugh when