'Yes, it is,' Adams said, crossing one leg over the other. 'Your marriage supplies the motive for Fay Carson's murder.'
Gilda looked at O'Brien, who was standing motionless, his eyes glittering.
'Don't believe him, Sean. He's either mad or drunk!'
'You'd better be careful what you are saying,' O'Brien said to Adams.
'I can produce evidence of her marriage by tomorrow morning,' Adams said indifferently. 'She's wasting time denying it.'
O'Brien went to Gilda, took her arm and looked intently at her.
'Are you married to Yarde, kid?'
She hesitated, then gave a despairing little shrug.
'Yes. I'm sorry, Sean. I should have told you. I'm getting a divorce. I was a fool to have married him, and I've paid for it. I didn't live with him for more than a month before I found out what he was. I was too ashamed to tell you.'
O'Brien gave her a crooked little smile.
'Forget it. We all make mistakes.' He patted her arm. 'It's okay, kid.' Then he turned to Adams. 'You've poked your goddamn nose into too much of this. Take that guy out of here, charge him with the murder of Fay
Carson and make it stick! If I have any more bleating from you, I'll have you thrown off the force!'
Adams stroked the tip of his thin nose as he met O'Brien's furious eyes.
'It can't be done. He didn't kill her.'
'Then who did?' O'Brien snarled.
Adams nodded at Gilda.
'She did, of course.'
'My God!' O'Brien exploded. 'I'll make you pay for that! I'll . . .' He broke off as he caught sight of Gilda's face.
She was now as white as a fresh fall of snow. Her eyes stared past O'Brien, her hand at her throat. He followed the direction of her staring eyes.
In her bedroom doorway, looking up at her, was a fawn Pekinese dog.
III
Deliberately, the dog crossed the room and stopped outside the door leading to the kitchen. It scratched at the paintwork, whined, then scratched at the door again.
Gilda screamed, 'Get it out of here! Get it out!'
'Gilda!' O'Brien exclaimed, shaken by her terror. 'What is it?'
Adams left his chair, crossed the room with two strides, turned the door handle and threw the door open.
The dog darted into the kitchen.
Adams watched it run to where Sweeting lay face down on the floor. There was a puddle of blood at his side; an ice-pick was embedded
between his fat shoulder-blades.
The dog paused beside him, sniffed at his face, then backed away, whimpering, and crept under the kitchen table.
Adams looked swiftly at Ken, then towards the door leading into the hall. His eyes were expressive.
Ken got up, went over to the door and set his back against it. He was watching Gilda, who abruptly sat down, her face ashen.
'You might like to take a look,' Adams said to O'Brien.
O'Brien walked into the kitchen, kicked Sweeting over on his back and stared down at the dead face.
'Who's this?' he asked, and Adams could see he was badly shaken.
'Raphael Sweeting, a blackmailer,' Adams said. He was watching the Pekinese, which had come out from under the table and was now sniffing excitedly at the refrigerator. It stood up, whined and scratched at the door. 'It can't be that easy,' Adams went on, under his breath. 'He can't be here too.'
'What the hell are you muttering about?' O'Brien snapped.
Adams took hold of the handle of the refrigerator, lifted it and let the door swing open.
O'Brien caught his breath sharply when he saw the crumpled body of Maurice Yarde in the refrigerator.
'For God's sake!' he exclaimed. 'Who's this?'
'Her husband - Maurice Yarde. I wondered where she had hidden him,' Adams said.
O'Brien pulled himself together with an effort. He walked into the sitting-room.
Gilda stared at him.
