“Then it began to prey upon you?”
“Indirectly.”
“How?”
“In its possible relation to something else.”
Lieutenant Valcour became intuitive.
“You are wondering now,” he said, “whether or not you ought to tell me all about the tea.”
“How did you establish the connection?”
“Between your having tea with Mr. Hollander yesterday afternoon and Mrs. Siddons’s story?”
“Yes.”
“It’s rather simple, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Yes, Mrs. Endicott, I think it is. You won’t deny, will you, that you very definitely impressed on Mr. Hollander that your determination to ‘end it all’ either by committing suicide or killing your husband was sincere? Mr. Hollander was the confidant for your secret confusions, sort of a proving ground for reactions. I’ve already substantiated that theory, both through Mr. Hollander himself and his friend.”
“No, I won’t deny it.”
“And you believed that he would do something to prevent you from accomplishing your purpose.”
“I suppose I did.”
“And in your naturally upset state of mind last evening Mrs. Siddons’s curious prophecy concerning the maid’s husband taking his revenge made more of a genuine impression upon you than you cared to admit. You were subconsciously afraid that something would happen—that the sailor might really injure or kill your husband, and that Mr. Hollander, when the police investigated, would somehow become involved. There was even a possibility that worshipping you as he does, when he heard of your husband’s murder he might give himself up to the police and offer a false confession in order to shield you. It has often been done, you know.”
“You are right, Lieutenant. I did think exactly that. The muddle of the whole thing began to drive me crazy during dinner. I went down at seven-thirty and ate nothing. I don’t think I stayed at the table for more than five minutes. I went upstairs and into Herbert’s room, looking for something. I really don’t know what—unless it was for some sort of physical confirmation of his aliveness by the things he owned. Then I saw that note on his desk. I hadn’t the shred of a nerve left by then, and the note genuinely worried me. It was such a direct confirmation of Mrs. Siddons’s story. I wasn’t exactly panicky, but I felt as if things had got out of hand. I tried to reach Mr. Hollander by telephone, but he wasn’t in his apartment. I began to picture converging forces: himself—the maid’s husband—and Herbert as a focal point. I felt that something had to be done. Well, I telephoned the police.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the maid and her husband when I came, Mrs. Endicott?”
“It isn’t the sort of thing one would plunge into directly.”
“You would have told me in time, then?”
“Certainly.”
“And why,” he asked quietly, “did you try to direct my suspicions against Marge Myles when, in view of your special knowledge, that maid’s husband was the logical suspect? That’s a little inconsistent, isn’t it?”
She looked at him evenly.
“Do you always do precisely the proper thing at the proper moment?”
“Rarely ever, Mrs. Endicott.”
“Well, neither do I. I don’t think anybody does.”
She adopted again that patient, explanatory precision of the teacher. “A person’s actions or statements during any moment of great strain are dominated by that moment itself, rather than being any sane reflection of logical and contributory causes. At such times one clings to straws.”
“Marge Myles was a straw?”
Mrs. Endicott shrugged. “Herbert had gone, as I supposed, to see her. I believed that whatever happened to him would occur between this house and her apartment, or at some moment during the evening while they were together. I’m not claiming that there was any sense to my beliefs. I wasn’t feeling exactly sensible just then.”
“And you would have been quite willing to have Marge Myles blamed for anything that happened rather than either the sailor or Mr. Hollander?”
“Oh, quite.”
It was very convincing—her willingness, that is. As for her credibility, Lieutenant Valcour retained reservations. He started along another divergence.
“Why have you kept Roberts so long in your employ, Mrs. Endicott, when you must have known how deeply she hates you?”
Mrs. Endicott smiled with frank amusement.
“You’ve never kept a maid, have you, Lieutenant?”
“Hardly.”
“Then you can’t appreciate fully what I mean when I say that Roberts is a good maid. What earthly difference does it make whether she hates or loves me? I’m hiring her services, not her emotions, and her services are excellent. I’ve frequently wished that someone in my successive chain of cooks would develop a similar passion. There’s something so binding about it.”
He felt that she was escaping him again, that her armour was swiftly undergoing repair. In the brightening light her face shone clearer. She didn’t seem quite such an enigma, after all. Nothing ever was, he reflected, truly enigmatic in daytime. It was just a tired face, wearied by any number of things other than the lack of sleep.
“I wish you would trust me, Mrs. Endicott,” he said. “I’m not a bad sort, really, and I’m not trying to trap you into admissions that would prove injurious to yourself. There are still confusions that have to be straightened out. I have been assured by Mr. Hollander that you were devoted to your husband. You personally imply that your interest in Mr. Hollander is purely that of a friend, and yet you address him in your notes as ‘Tom, darling.’ And there isn’t any question but that he worships you. The situation doesn’t fall under the heading of the eternal triangle. It’s a hub, rather, from which radiate several broken and uneven spokes.”
“Broken spokes.” The phrase appealed to her in a tragic sense inordinately out of keeping with its flavour of triteness. But then—he had said so to her before,
