without warning.â
I wanted to laugh. Burke has a way of saying things in deadly earnest, yet giving an impression, to one who knew him as well as I did, that he was laughing inside.
âJust my idea,â Jelcoe said emphatically. He turned back into the house with a stride as nearly a strut as his thin legs and rounded shoulders could manage.
Burke and I followed him into a large living room. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the floor, and at one end there was a huge fireplace of native stone. Rows of well-worn books filled the bookcases lining one side, and a long center table was littered with books and papers. A covered typewriter sat on a desk in one corner.
Up above was a narrow balcony with its balustrade strewn with bright shawls and Indian rugs. A triple row of shelves held an array of what-nots which I imagined Leslie Young had brought from Mexico. There was nothing in particular to give the room an air of disarray, yet the impression was given. As if Myra Young gave little time and thought to housekeepng.
Jelcoe wore rubber-soled shoes and had a catlike way of treading soundlessly. He reminded me of Slim Summerville in a burlesque. We followed him to a door leading onto a screened rear porch which gave onto a splendid vista across a small wooded valley. The stone gables of the magnificent Dwight mansion peeped through treetops on a small plateau beyond the valley.
Myra Young lay outstretched on a leather-cushioned glider. She wore a manâs khaki shirt, faded riding breeches and well-worn boots. Her black hair was uncombed, her mouth sullen. Little lines ran down from the corners of it as if she spent many hours with desperately unhappy thoughts, during which her lips drooped. Her dark eyes were smouldering when she looked up from a book in her lap and saw Jelcoe standing in front of her. She didnât seem to notice us standing slightly behind him.
âI told you to go ahead with your detecting and leave me alone,â she flared.
âIâm all through.â Chief Jelcoeâs voice was oily with certitude. âI believe you told me you didnât have a pistol?â
She tensed and then relaxed. âI did tell you that. And I havenât.â
âThen why are these hidden in your house?â Jelcoe palmed his find under her nose.
She glanced down at the brass cylinders and shrugged disdainfully. âHidden?â
âIn a baking powder can where you didnât think Iâd find them.â
âItâs no concern of mine whether you found them or not.â
âIs that so? Whereâs the pistol that they fit?â
âIt was Leslieâs pistol.â
âA .25?â Jelcoe leaned forward and his voice was harsh. âThatâs a ladyâs choice ⦠not a manâs.â
âLeslie bought it for me ⦠for my protection when I was alone here while he was traipsing off God-knows-where.â Myra Young managed to put a sneer into the words without changing her facial expression.
âAh! He bought it for you? Then you did own a .25 pistol? Why didnât you tell me that yesterday instead of denying it?â
âI donât own a pistol. Iâve never owned a pistol. Leslie bought the one those bullets are for.â She swung her legs off the cushions and sat up, seeing Burke and me behind Jelcoe. Her eyes narrowed and she said:
âReinforcements, eh? Are the three of you going to try and beat a confession out of me?â
Jelcoe waved a bony finger under her nose. âWhere is that pistol?â
âI donât know.â She stood up and her lips were twisted. Her hips filled out the riding pants, and the loose shirt didnât wholly conceal full breasts.
âSomeone stole it three weeks ago. It disappeared after that Yates wench was here the last time. You might ask her where it is. She probably stole it because she was afraid I might use it on her ⦠and I might have. Now, get the hell out of