“And it isn’t illegal, either,” she went on, “to go to sleep, is it?”
Lieutenant Valcour decided that if anything was to be gained from the interview he would have to give a turn to the screw.
“No, Mrs. Endicott, sleeping isn’t illegal. Even,” he added negligently, “if your husband has just been killed, and your—well, whatever state of relationship exists between you and Mr. Hollander—your friend, let us say, is wounded to the point of death.”
The cigarette dropped from her fingers to the floor. Lieutenant Valcour crushed it with the sole of his shoe.
“I don’t believe you.”
Her voice had the same pallid qualities as her skin.
“You must have seen for yourself, Mrs. Endicott, that he was pretty badly hurt when he slipped to the floor. There was blood enough smeared around, goodness knows.”
“You’re trying to trap me.”
“Just stating facts, Mrs. Endicott. Of course you may have left the instant after you fired and so not have seen Mr. Hollander shot down by the police.”
“You are being vulgarly brutal.”
“You were certainly in a frantic enough hurry to have dropped your slipper and not to have bothered to pick it up. Did you throw the gun into the garden, Mrs. Endicott? We’re bound to find it, you know.”
“Is Mr. Hollander still in the house?”
“No.”