“Yes?”
The word was clipped from some inner store of ice.
“Doesn’t that alter the surface of things, Mrs. Endicott—of your intention?”
“Why should it, Lieutenant?”
“I am sorry that you choose to continue evasive.”
“I’m not. It is you who see things, read things in people that are never there.”
“That isn’t true, Mrs. Endicott.”
“What is there further that you wish to know?”
There was no compromise, no yielding, and the hardness in her voice was very definite. She looked almost extravagantly capable, too, in the smart dark dress she had put on. She was, Lieutenant Valcour reflected, one of those rare women who always “look their best” no matter what the time is or the situation; who make a point of looking so even when quite alone, and especially so, he added, when committing suicide. But he was not deceived by her hardness. There were invisible forces working within her, still stirred into turmoil by that impressive emotional ladder she must have so recently climbed in order to arrive at the decision to take her own life. If he were ever to understand this complex woman he felt that he must do so now, while he and she stood where they were in their private world—a tight little sphere of shadows sifted with mists of sunlit dust—and before they descended the attic stairs to the routined environment of daily living. He decided to attempt to lead her by certain matter-of-fact paths that would end in quicksands.
“Why did you have the address of Marge Myles in your directory, Mrs. Endicott?”