Was he really, Lieutenant Valcour wondered, going mad? There seemed such terribly disturbing possibilities of fact in every absurd aspect on the case the woman facing him opened up. Who, after all, had identified Endicott? His wife, and that only by implication; his friend Hollander, again by implication; Roberts had seen the dead man’s face, but she, in common with all the world, was mad; Dr. Worth—what proof was there that Dr. Worth was Dr. Worth, or that the telephone number given him by Mrs. Endicott had been Dr. Worth’s? It could all have been arranged by some clever mob. …
“This is folly,” he said abruptly, really more to convince himself than the nutlike face peering at him from the armchair. What he needed was sleep—just a couple of hours of good sleep. “Madame Velasquez, that body on the bed is Herbert Endicott. Now tell me as lucidly as you can, please, just why you say that Marge is dead.”
Her little eyes began to glitter with rage. “I believe she has killed herself to spite me.” The knotted paste jewels on her thin fingers quivered indignantly. “She did it to make me suffer,” she added, “to stint me.”
“Just so she wouldn’t have to give you any more money,” he suggested.
Madame Velasquez began to weep noisily. “What’ll I do, Lieutenant—oh, what will I do?”
He continued to regard her through lazy eyes.
“Can’t you find somebody else to take her place?” he said. “Somebody else to blackmail?”
“I ain’t young. It’s too late .”
“Tut, tut, Madame Velasquez.”
“No, I ain’t. And unless it’s a case like Marge’s was, such rackets take looks.”