'I don't use spirits. I don't allow them in my house.'
I thought about that and decided he wasn't in a position to set rules. I took a long drink.
He said, 'You can't prove any of this.'
'Are you sure of that?'
'Some conjecture on your part. A great deal of it, as a matter of fact.'
'So far you haven't refuted any of it.'
'No, if anything I've confirmed it, haven't I? But I'll deny having said any such thing to you. You haven't the slightest bit of truth.'
'You're absolutely right.'
'Then I don't see what you're driving at.'
'I can't prove anything. The cops will be able to, though, when I go to them.
They never had any reason to dig before. But they'll start digging, and they'll turn something up. They'll start by asking you to account for your movements on the day of the murder. You won't be able to. That's nothing in and of itself, but it's enough to encourage them to keep looking. They've still got that apartment sealed off.
They never had a reason to dust it for prints. They'll have a reason now, and they'll find your prints somewhere. I'm sure you didn't run around wiping surfaces.
'They'll ask to see your razor. If you bought a new one since then, they'll wonder why. They'll go through all your wardrobe, looking for bloodstains. I guess you had your clothes off when you killed her, but you'll have gotten traces of blood on something or other and it won't all wash out.
'They'll put a case together a piece at a time, and they won't even need a full case because you'll crack under questioning in no time at all. You'll crack wide open.'
'I may be stronger than you seem to think, Mr. Scudder.'
'You're not strong so much as you're rigid. You'll break. I couldn't tell you how many suspects I've questioned. It gives you a pretty good idea of who's going to crack easy. You'd be a cinch.'
He looked at me, then averted his eyes.
'But it doesn't matter whether you crack or not, and it doesn't matter whether they put a solid case together or not, because all they have to do is start looking and you've had it. Take a look at your life, Reverend Vanderpoel. Once they start, you're finished. You won't be up there on the pulpit Sunday mornings reading the Law to your congregation. You'll be disgraced.'
He sat for a few minutes in silence. I took out my flask and had another drink. Drinking was against his religion. Well, murder was against mine.
'What do you want, Mr. Scudder? I have to tell you that I'm not a rich man.'
'Pardon me?'
'I suppose I could arrange regular payments. I couldn't afford very much, but I could-'
'I don't want money.'
'You're not trying to blackmail me?'
'No.'
He frowned at me, puzzled. 'Then I don't understand.'
I let him think about it.
'You haven't gone to the police?'
'No.'
'Do you intend to go to them?'
'I hope I won't have to.'
'I don't understand what you mean.'
I took another little drink. I capped the flask and put it back in my pocket.
From another pocket I took a small vial of pills.
I said, 'I found these in the medicine cabinet at the Bethune Street apartment. They were Richie's. He had them prescribed fifteen months ago.
They're Seconal, sleeping pills.
'I don't know if Richie had trouble sleeping or not, but he evidently didn't take any of these. The bottle's still full. There are thirty pills. I think he bought them with the intention of committing suicide.
A lot of people make false starts like that. Sometimes they throw the pills away when they change their minds. Other times they keep them around in order to simplify things if they decide to kill themselves at a later date. And there are people who find some security in having the means of suicide close at hand. They say thoughts of self- destruction get people through a great many bad nights.'
I walked over to him and placed the vial on the little table beside his chair.
'There are enough there,' I said. 'If a person were to take them all and go to bed, he wouldn't wake up.'
He looked at me. 'You have everything all worked out.'
