“I’m afraid there isn’t very much we can do for you,” he said. “It’s always private inquiry agents who handle work of that—well, of that rather delicate character.”
“No—I haven’t made myself plain.” Mrs. Endicott’s indeterminate thoughts began to crystallize. “I’m not looking for evidence to secure a divorce. This woman is nothing of any permanence, but I’m afraid of her—of what she might do to Herbert.” Then she added, as if the simple statement in itself would insure his comprehension, “You see, I’ve seen her.”
“With him?”
“Yes. They were lunching at the St. Regis. Herbert always was a fool about those things. She’s foreign-looking—the Latin type.” Mrs. Endicott felt the need for being meticulously explicit. “Her eyes are like the black holes you see in portraits of Spanish women. They’re the entire face; everything else blurs into a nonessential whiteness. This woman’s eyes are like that—like weapons. I know she’s the sort who would kill if she got stirred up over something—got jealous or something. People do get jealous enough to kill,” she ended.
“Frequently.” Lieutenant Valcour stored away in his memory the broken nail on the little finger of Mrs. Endicott’s left hand. The uniform perfection of detail in the rest of her appearance made it stand out jarringly. “This is all most unfortunate,” he said sympathetically, “but I still doubt whether there is anything we could do. If there were only something definite—say a threat, for example—we’d be very glad to investigate it and to offer Mr. Endicott suitable protection.”
Mrs. Endicott stood up. The abruptness of the movement spread the folds of chiffon that streamed from a bow on her left shoulder, and Lieutenant Valcour’s deceptively indifferent eyes lingered on bruise marks that showed blue smears upon white skin before the chiffon fell back into place.