Free Shadow of Guilt by Patrick Quentin Page A

reply. When she didn’t, he said, “So that’s all you’re able to tell me, Mrs. Hadley?”
    “I really think it is, Lieutenant.”
    “I see,” said Lieutenant Trant.
    I was looking at him, thinking of the dozens of flimsy deceptions which might collapse at any minute and give us away, trying to gauge something of what was going on behind his enigmatic priest’s face. I didn’t get to first base. He merely sat upright in the red leather chair, looking at nothing in particular and saying nothing.
    When his silence was becoming embarrassing, Connie said, “I’m afraid I don’t know the Greens’ address, Lieutenant. But if you want to get in touch with them, I’m sure that Ala—”
    “Oh, no,” said Trant. “I don’t need to get in touch with them. They’ve already got in touch with me. Mr. Green called me just a couple of hours ago to tell me about Mr. Saxby and your daughter being there for Friday night. That’s why I felt a little hopeful about your being able to give us some pointers. You see, since your daughter was there with him, and Mr. Green seemed to feel they were on quite friendly terms, I got the impression that Mr. Saxby must have been—well, almost one of the family.”
    “Oh, no,” said Connie quickly, too quickly. “Ala hardly knew him. In fact, I think she’d only met him twice; once here. He stopped by one evening for a drink. And then at a party. It was more or less an accident that they drove up to the Greens’ together. I suppose it was just because the Greens happened to invite them both at the same time.”
    That sounded the most improbable of statements, and it seemed incredible to me that Lieutenant Trant could be satisfied to leave it at that. I was waiting for another glimpse of claw from behind the very velvet paws. But then, quite unexpectedly, he rose.
    “Well,” he said, “it doesn’t look as if I’m having much success with you, does it, Mrs. Hadley?” He turned to me. “There’s nothing you want to tell me, I suppose, Mr. Hadley?”
    “Oh, nothing,” said Connie at once. “George only met him once, didn’t you, George?”
    “I believe so,” I said.
    “So he was more a friend of the womenfolk,” commented Trant. “Well, I think the most sensible thing for me to do next is to talk to your daughter. So far she’s the last person we know to have seen him alive.”
    He stood looking blandly at Connie. Connie looked back just as blandly.
    “I’m terribly sorry, Lieutenant,” she said, “but I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment.”
    “Then I’ll stop by again when I have the time.” Trant was smiling again, a warm, almost affectionate smile which brought a grotesque reminder of Don Saxby’s smile. “I imagine it will be a mere formality because we don’t expect to have much trouble in catching the murderer.”
    He had said that with an almost theatrical casualness, as if it were a statement which wouldn’t particularly surprise us.
    “Yes, Mrs. Hadley. You see, Saxby had two suitcases packed and he’d burnt some papers in the fireplace. They’re analyzing the ash but I doubt whether they’ll be able to reconstruct anything. However, all that implies he was getting out of town in a hurry, presumably because he was scared of someone. And then, the gun that killed him was left at the scene. There are, of course, no fingerprints, but the gun doesn’t seem to have belonged to Mr. Saxby himself. There’s no record of any license issued to him. I know it sounds unlikely for a murderer to leave his gun behind, but it happens much more frequently than you might suspect. They’re tracing the ownership right now. In a couple of hours, they should at least know who its original purchaser was, and with any luck the owner may be someone with a known grudge against him and… well, that will be that.”
    His smile bathed us in its blandness. Then, without the faintest change of expression, he said, “One thing more, Mrs. Hadley. You mentioned that