“I’m sorry to disturb you at a time like this,” I apologized when I had finally insisted my way into his presence. “I won’t take up more of your time than necessary. I am an operative of the Continental Detective Agency. I have been trying to find Ruth and Myra Banbrock, who disappeared several days ago. You know them, I think.”
“Yes,” he said without interest. “I know them.”
“You knew they had disappeared?”
“No.” His eyes switched from a chair to a rug. “Why should I?”
“Have you seen either of them recently?” I asked, ignoring his question.
“Last week—Wednesday, I think. They were just leaving—standing at the door talking to my wife—when I came home from the bank.”
“Didn’t your wife say anything to you about their vanishing?”
“No. Really, I can’t tell you anything about the Misses Banbrock. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Just a moment longer,” I said. “I wouldn’t have bothered you if it hadn’t been necessary. I was here last night, to question Mrs. Correll. She seemed nervous. My impression was that some of her answers to my questions were—uh—evasive. I want—”
He was up out of his chair. His face was red in front of mine.
“You!” he cried. “I can thank you for—”
“Now, Mr. Correll,” I tried to quiet him, “there’s no use—”
But he had himself all worked up.
“You drove my wife to her death,” he accused me. “You killed her with your damned prying—with your bulldozing threats; with your—”