Free An Air That Kills by Margaret Millar Page A

up here or something?”
    â€œCould be.”
    â€œMy God, that’s a laugh.”
    â€œNot to her, it isn’t.”
    â€œEsther’s a funny girl. When I compare her with Thelma, for instance—why that’s the last thing in the world Thelma would suspect. Thelma likes me to go away and have a good time. There isn’t a selfish bone in her body.”
    Turee felt like gagging but he managed to say quite calmly, “Hurry up and get ready.”
    â€œAll right.” Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and began putting on his shoes. “A policeman, eh?”
    â€œYes.
    â€œWhat kind?”
    â€œOne of the Provincial Police on duty in this area. He got the report from Toronto by radio and was asked to check up.”
    â€œAnd you say Esther reported it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œFunny, when you talked to her last night she wasn’t worried at all, wouldn’t hear of bringing in the police.”
    Turee, too, had noticed the discrepancy but had ascribed it merely to the unpredictability of women.
    Harry stood up, ran a comb through his hair, and buttoned the collar of his flannel shirt. “I ought to shave, Esther being here and all that.”
    â€œThere isn’t time.”
    â€œThelma wouldn’t like it if she . . .”
    â€œThelma’s not here.”
    â€œWell, all right.”
    â€œAnd Harry, listen, this inspector, he seems pretty cagey. Watch yourself.”
    â€œHow do you mean?” Harry asked.
    â€œDon’t talk too much.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout anything you and I discussed last night.”
    â€œWe discussed a lot of things last night.”
    â€œYou know what I’m referring to.”
    â€œBut I don’t. So help me, I don’t.”
    â€œAbout Thelma—Ron’s having a crush on her, I mean. Don’t mention it.”
    Harry blinked. “Why should I? It’s not true. I told you that last night. Thelma likes to daydream, to pretend things. I told you that last . . .”
    â€œI know you told me.”
    â€œWell, don’t you believe it?”
    â€œCertainly, certainly,” Turee said, trying to keep the irrita­tion out of his voice. “But the Inspector might not. He doesn’t know Thelma the way we do. So keep quiet about it, eh?”
    â€œYou never give me any damn credit for any damn sense. You’d think I was a moron.”
    â€œEverybody’s a moron about something.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œNo meaning, no meaning at all,” Turee said and walked out of the room with Harry following along behind, taking short angry little steps.
    Downstairs, Esther and the Inspector had apparently reached the end of their conversation. Cavell, an unlit pipe in his hand, was studying the rows of books in the bookshelves, while Esther stood with her back to the fire, watching him with silent intensity. She was smoking a cigarette, rapidly and furiously, as if she had a great many things that she wanted to say and couldn’t, and was using the cigarette as a cork to bottle them up.
    Turee introduced Harry and Cavell, and then he turned and said pointedly to Esther, “You and I can wait in the game room. The Inspector might want to talk to Harry alone.”
    Esther gave him a sharp look, but she made no verbal objection as he put his hand on her elbow and guided her out into the hall.
    The game room, which was across the hall from the kitchen, contained ample proof that the fellows were not as enthu­siastic about fishing as they were about certain other sports: a well-used poker table with ivory chips, a pinball machine, an elaborately carved billiard table with a dozen cues racked up on the knotty pine wall.
    Esther perched on the side of the billiard table, her right leg swinging aggressively as if it wanted to kick at something or someone.
    She said, “All right, let’s have it.”
    â€œHave what?”
    â€œThe reason