O'Hara grinned.
"Not since the reporters left," he said. "One of them left a telephone message for you. Said to call some place in Connecticut."
Close took it and read it aloud.
"Old dame called up from this number. Didn't tell her anything, as not responsible for heart attacks in the aged."
"Know who left this, O'Hara?"
"Daily News man, I think. Don't know his name."
Inside, the apartment was spotlessly neat, except for the living room, where bloodstains had turned brown on the carpet, where print powder was dusted here and there, and used flash bulbs from the cameramen littered the floor.
Forsythe felt sickened, but Close had no such scruples.
"Not a bad place," he said. "Kept it nice, didn't she?"
"I said she was a lady," Forsythe said gruffly. "She lived like one."
But everything bore out Close's statement, even the chalk marks indicating the location of the ejected shells where Anne Collier's body had lain. Forsythe stared about him, remembering the last time he had seen her. Despite the evidence in front of him, it was impossible to believe that she had killed her husband and shot herself. It was impossible to believe the frightened girl of only a few days before had turned into a desperate woman who was willing to leave her young son alone in the world. It was wrong. All wrong. Fred Collier might have killed her, but she had never killed him.
"It works out like this," Close said. "They were quarreling, or he was. Maybe he had a gun. We don't know. Maybe he threatened her. We don't know that either. But perhaps he put it down and turned his back, and she got hold of it. Anyhow the safety was off, so somebody meant trouble. You can be sure the defense will use that."
Forsythe tried to control himself, and for fear of the adrenalin which was making him shake with fury he stalked to the kitchen. He was still standing there when the detective followed him.
"You wanted to come here," he said. "It's your idea. For God's sake, what's the matter?"
Forsythe was staring at the kitchen table.
"Perhaps you'll tell me," he said, "why a woman prepares to fix herself a glass of hot milk to make her sleep and then leaves it to murder her husband? Look at this!"
There was an empty glass on the table, and on the stove a small pan with the remnants of what had been boiled milk. Close looked slightly shaken.
"How do you know when she did all this?" he asked. "It was eleven o'clock when the shots were fired."
"Look around you," Forsythe said impatiently. "Dinner was over. The place was cleaned up. And would she sit quietly by and let that milk pan boil dry? Don't be a fool, Close. Look where she was found, by the door there. It's my guess she was in the kitchen when it happened, and she came running in, to be shot herself."
"And so what?" Close said. "It's a guess. That's all."
"Was the hall door locked?"
"I wouldn't know. The squad car got here first. Maybe the super let them in."
"And maybe not. Let's get him."
Hellinger, when he arrived, said he had not had to admit police to the Collier apartment. The door had been closed but not locked. He had taken the officers up himself. And the little pan of milk had been boiling at the time. He had shut off the gas himself. Had to watch those stoves. They could raise hell. But he seemed uneasy while he was talking, and Forsythe had a strong feeling that he was not telling all he knew. He was not the same man who had shown him the wire only a couple of days before.
He said nothing, however, and it was clear Close had lost some of his assurance when Hellinger left. He eyed Forsythe soberly.
"Maybe you got something, at that," he said. "But who the devil stood to gain by shooting both of them? Let's go over that story of yours again, about the will and so on. Maybe there's a hole in it."
There seemed to be no hole, however. Forsythe wearily repeated what he knew, Anne's fear of her husband, the radio scripts, the accumulation of the money—to be left to her son—and the way it had been deposited. Close looked skeptical at this last.
"Damn fool way to do business," he said. "Doesn't help her any, though, that I can see. Never trust a woman when it comes to money. Well, I guess that's all, isn't it?"
"If you'll agree there's a reasonable doubt about her guilt, yes."
"Didn't by any chance do it yourself, did you, Forsythe?"
Sheer shock kept Forsythe still. Then:
"Why would I?" he asked. "And her? Do you think I would try to kill her?"
"Suppose you're shooting at Collier and she gets in the way?" Close said nonchalantly. "Looks to me as if you knew her better than you claim. That's all. Not in love with her, were you?"
"I told you—" Forsythe began violently, but Close put up a protesting hand.
"All right, all right," he said. "I'm not accusing you. I keep forgetting that you need another hundred thousand about as much as I need an extra leg. Somebody killed Collier, that's all. If she didn't, who did?" He jerked at his hat. "Sorry to upset you. Apologies and all that. But you've laid yourself wide open, old man. What's the girl to you, if you've only seen her twice?"
"She's my client," Forsythe said, and felt himself flushing. "Also I think you're off on the wrong foot about this case. That's as good a reason as any. Mind if I stay? I'd like to be here if the aunt calls again."
Close nodded and jammed his hat down on his head. "Be seeing you," he said, "and give Hellinger the key when you leave."
Forsythe closed the door behind him, and stood still. All along he had hoped the apartment would tell him something, but outside of the milk pan he found nothing. The place was beautifully neat and well kept, but Anne's room was bare of the usual fripperies with which most women surround themselves. A bottle of cologne on the dresser, a silver comb, brush and mirror, and a jar of inexpensive face cream were her sole concessions to the amenities of living.
Life had been hard, he thought, for the seventeen-year-old girl he remembered, with her wide eyes and tender young mouth, and in an odd way he felt that her battle was now his. It was a long time since he had felt the tender pity which almost shook him. Poor brave little Anne, he thought, and touched the jar of cream gently.
Unconsciously he had been putting off the call to Connecticut, uncertain what to do. Now the shrill bell in that quiet place startled him.
"Is that Murray Hill 3-3861?" the operator asked.
"Yes."
"Danbury calling. Hold on, please."
A moment later a thin elderly voice was on the wire.
"Is that you, Anne?" it said.
"Anne's not here just now. Can I take the message?"
The voice stiffened slightly.
"This is Anne's aunt, Eliza Warrington," it said. "I've been trying to get her for hours. Will you have her call me?"
"Can't I give her the message?"
"Who are you?"
"Just a friend."
"Well, I—I really suppose there's no hurry. I'll call her later."
She hung up, leaving Forsythe with a sense of frustration. There had been urgency in her voice, controlled at it was, and he still had no address for her, except that she was near Danbury. But at least so far she did not know of the tragedy.
He left the apartment reluctantly. Downstairs Hellinger was waiting for the key. There was still something evasive about him, and Forsythe was convinced he knew more than he had told.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked menacingly. "Don't think you fooled