to the end of the interest the view held for him. The one in the chair said with tactful overemphasis, as if afraid of giving offense, "Well, er, it wasn't your usual custom, though, to dine out without your wife, was it?"
"No, it wasn't."
"Well, as long as you say that, how is it you did tonight?" The detective didn't look at him, looked at the cone of ash he was knocking off his cigarette into a receptacle beside him.
"We'd arranged to take dinner out together tonight. Then at the last minute she complained of not feeling well, of having a headache, and—I went alone."
"Have words, anything like that?" This time the question was inaudible, it was so minor keyed.
Henderson said, in an equally minor key, "We had a word or two, yes. You know how it is."
"Sure." The detective seemed to understand perfectly how little domestic misunderstandings like that went. "But nothing serious, that right?"
"Nothing that would make her do anything like this, if that's what you're driving at." He stopped, asked a question in turn, with a momentarv stepping-up of alertness. "What was it. anyway? You men haven't even told me yet. What caused—?"
The outside door had opened and he broke off short. He watched uith a sort of hypnotic fascination, until the bedroom door had closed. Then he made a half start to his feet. "What do they want? Who are they? What are they going to do in there?"
The one in the chair had come over and put his hand to
his shoulder so that he sat down again; without, however, any undue pressure being exerted. It was more like a gesture of condolence.
The one who had been by the window, looked over, mentioned. "A little nervous, aren't you, Mr. Henderson?"
A sort of instinctive, natural dignity, to be found in all human beings, came to Henderson's aid. "How should I be—at ease, self-possessed?" he answered with rebuking bitterness. "I've just come home and found my wife dead in the house."
He'd made that point. The interlocutor by the window noticeably had nothing further to say on that score.
The bedroom door had opened again. There was awkward, commingled motion in it. Henderson's eyes dilated, then slowly coursed the short distance from door to arched opening leading out into the foyer. This time he gained his feet fully in a spasmodic jolt. "No, not like that! Look what they're doing! Like a sack of potatoes— And all her lovely hair along the floor—she was so careful of it—!"
Hands riveted to him, holding him there. The outer door closed muffledly. A little sachet came drifting out of the empt\' bedroom, seeming to whisper. "Remember? Remember when I was your love? Remember?"
This time he sank down suddenly, buried his face within his two gouging, kneading hands. You could hear his breath. The tempo was all shot to pieces. He said to them in helpless surprise, after his hands had dropped again, "I thought guvs didn't cry—and now I just have."
The one who had been in the chair before passed him a cigarette, and even lit it for him. His eyes looked bright, Henderson's, in the shine of the match.
Whether it was that that had interrupted it. or it had died out of its own accord for lack of anything further to feed on. the questioning didn't resume. When they resumed talking again, it was pointless, inane, almost as though they were talking just to kill time, for the sake of having something to say.
"You're a very neat dresser, Mr. Henderson." the one in the chair observed at random.
Henderson gave him a half-disgusted look, didn't answer.
"It's great the way everything you've got on goes together."
"That's an art in itself," the former magazine reader chimed in.
"Socks, and shirt, and pocket handkerchief—"
"All but the tie," the one by the window objected.
"Why do you have to discuss anything like that at a time like this?" Henderson protested wearily.
"It should be blue, shouldn't it? Everything else is blue. It knocks your whole get-up silly. I'm not a fashion plate, but y'know just
"No, it wasn't."
"Well, as long as you say that, how is it you did tonight?" The detective didn't look at him, looked at the cone of ash he was knocking off his cigarette into a receptacle beside him.
"We'd arranged to take dinner out together tonight. Then at the last minute she complained of not feeling well, of having a headache, and—I went alone."
"Have words, anything like that?" This time the question was inaudible, it was so minor keyed.
Henderson said, in an equally minor key, "We had a word or two, yes. You know how it is."
"Sure." The detective seemed to understand perfectly how little domestic misunderstandings like that went. "But nothing serious, that right?"
"Nothing that would make her do anything like this, if that's what you're driving at." He stopped, asked a question in turn, with a momentarv stepping-up of alertness. "What was it. anyway? You men haven't even told me yet. What caused—?"
The outside door had opened and he broke off short. He watched uith a sort of hypnotic fascination, until the bedroom door had closed. Then he made a half start to his feet. "What do they want? Who are they? What are they going to do in there?"
The one in the chair had come over and put his hand to
his shoulder so that he sat down again; without, however, any undue pressure being exerted. It was more like a gesture of condolence.
The one who had been by the window, looked over, mentioned. "A little nervous, aren't you, Mr. Henderson?"
A sort of instinctive, natural dignity, to be found in all human beings, came to Henderson's aid. "How should I be—at ease, self-possessed?" he answered with rebuking bitterness. "I've just come home and found my wife dead in the house."
He'd made that point. The interlocutor by the window noticeably had nothing further to say on that score.
The bedroom door had opened again. There was awkward, commingled motion in it. Henderson's eyes dilated, then slowly coursed the short distance from door to arched opening leading out into the foyer. This time he gained his feet fully in a spasmodic jolt. "No, not like that! Look what they're doing! Like a sack of potatoes— And all her lovely hair along the floor—she was so careful of it—!"
Hands riveted to him, holding him there. The outer door closed muffledly. A little sachet came drifting out of the empt\' bedroom, seeming to whisper. "Remember? Remember when I was your love? Remember?"
This time he sank down suddenly, buried his face within his two gouging, kneading hands. You could hear his breath. The tempo was all shot to pieces. He said to them in helpless surprise, after his hands had dropped again, "I thought guvs didn't cry—and now I just have."
The one who had been in the chair before passed him a cigarette, and even lit it for him. His eyes looked bright, Henderson's, in the shine of the match.
Whether it was that that had interrupted it. or it had died out of its own accord for lack of anything further to feed on. the questioning didn't resume. When they resumed talking again, it was pointless, inane, almost as though they were talking just to kill time, for the sake of having something to say.
"You're a very neat dresser, Mr. Henderson." the one in the chair observed at random.
Henderson gave him a half-disgusted look, didn't answer.
"It's great the way everything you've got on goes together."
"That's an art in itself," the former magazine reader chimed in.
"Socks, and shirt, and pocket handkerchief—"
"All but the tie," the one by the window objected.
"Why do you have to discuss anything like that at a time like this?" Henderson protested wearily.
"It should be blue, shouldn't it? Everything else is blue. It knocks your whole get-up silly. I'm not a fashion plate, but y'know just
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