Read Confidentially Yours for Free Online Page A

who did kill Roberts, which—if you’re under suspicion—is as much in your interest as it is in his. So stop acting like an adolescent and answer his questions; you have to, anyway, so you might as well do it gracefully. And for God’s sake, stop riding Mulholland.”
    “What’s he got to do with it?”
    He sighed. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that sending Mulholland to pick you up could have been deliberate? Scanlon’s a smooth operator, and as brainy as they come, and the chances are he was trying to capitalize on that low flash-point of yours. A man who loses his temper is always-more likely to say too much, or trip himself. Also, what Scanlon is trying to check is this hypothetical motive of jealousy; so behaving as if you were capable of unreasoning jealousy certainly isn’t helping you much.”
    “Wait a minute!” I stared at him. “You mean, of Mulholland? Why would I be jealous of that posturing nitwit?”
    “Face it, Duke; you’ve never liked him since he and Frances were in that Little Theatre play last spring. It’s ridiculous, naturally, but you’ve gone out of your way to insult him.”
    “Nuts! I’d forgotten all about it.”
    He smiled and held up a hand. “All right, all right. Don’t bite my head off. Just take my advice and cooperate with Scanlon. I’ll stick around and drive you home.”
    “Should I say anything about the telephone call?”
    “No. It’s his problem; let him cope with it.” He smiled, and you could see the well-oiled legal mind at work.
    “Never deny an accusation that hasn’t been made.”
    We went back to where Scanlon was waiting. Jealous of Mulholland, I thought scornfully. I hadn’t even thought of that play for months.

iv
    I T TOOK LESS THAN AN hour, and was a very relaxed interrogation. It was, in fact, too relaxed now; it was obvious he had realized this other approach was a mistake and was only going through the motions in order to justify getting me down here. He was marking time until he could get some proof or verification of that girl’s story; when he had that, he’d land on me like a brick wall. I had to repeat the story of the whole morning, from my arrival at Crossman Slough and the blinds until the time I was back on the highway again on the way home, sometime around ten, and answer a lot of questions that were slanted to give the impression that what he was after was some detail I might have overlooked before, which would point to the third person who obviously had to be out there. Had I heard a car at any time? No. Had I heard anybody wading out to the blind where Roberts was? No. It was too far away, at least 150 yards. George sat at another desk, quietly smoking and taking no part in it.
    At last, Scanlon rubbed a hand wearily across his face, and said, “Well, that’s all, I guess.” Then, as we were leaving, he tossed me a parting shot. “Looks as if the only lead to this is going to be the motive; we’re not going to get anywhere until we find out why he was killed.”
    We went out and got into George’s car. As we pulled away from the curb, he said, “Forget that telephone call, Duke. There’s always at least one psycho in every town.”
    “I know,” I said.
    He turned into the cold desolation of Clebourne Street where the tinsel swayed and rustled in the wind. There was something reptilian about it. I had a splitting headache from the whiskey I’d drunk, and I was thinking of Frances again. She’d be gone now, and nobody knew she’d come home, but inevitably there was going to be talk when it was learned we were separated and being divorced. Scanlon would take a long hard look at it, but he couldn’t prove it had been because of Roberts —not with what he had now. George turned right where the traffic light was blinking amber at the corner of Montrose, and drove the five blocks to the house in silence. When he pulled into the circular drive and stopped, he asked, “When will Frances be home?”
    Not even George, I