“Just what do you know about all this?” he said softly.
“About all what, Mr. Hollander?”
“About the police being in the house.”
“Isn’t it just too thrilling?”
“Uh-huh. Whom do they suspect?”
Miss Murrow began to feel friendly again. He was so good-looking. She wished she had a whole lot of exciting and important information to give him that would keep him standing there listening, so that she could just stare at him and try to put her finger on the source of that amazing effect of fluidity.
“They haven’t said whom they suspect, really.” She lowered her voice to an appropriate pitch. “But I know they think it’s somebody who is in the house.”
Hollander’s voice was a whisper. “You wouldn’t say it was Mrs. Endicott whom they suspect, would you?”
Miss Murrow appeared a trifle shocked. “Oh, it would be too dreadful to think a wife would harm a husband. But it does happen.” Her mind tabulated the news offered daily by the papers. “Why, it happens almost every day. Oh, you don’t think —”
“Certainly I don’t think she did it,” Hollander said fiercely. “It’s what the police think that I’m trying to get at. What makes you so sure they’re going to hang it onto somebody who’s in the house?”
Miss Murrow nodded toward the bathroom door. “From the way they’re guarding Mr. Endicott from being attacked again. From being attacked,” she added, “before he can make a statement.”