a mistake in the theory, so didn’t rule out the artist at once.
Who else would have a motive? The lover’s wife, if indeed he had one. Roger toyed with a wild idea of finding this wife, seducing her. What triumph that would be! But not to the purpose. The wife had a motive—enough. He disciplined his mind, running a line through
A
, circling
B
, and ran his eyes down to
C
.
C: does not know whom he is working for
. That would mean the subcontractor never meets, talks to, or has written communication with the contractor; ideally does not even suspect the existence of the contractor. The implication: he believes that the crime originates in his own mind!
Oh, this was wonderful, to work so hard, to drive his mind through all these difficulties like an icebreaker. Ice. Roger thought at once of Brenda’s cottage, and then of cubes floating in a tumbler of Scotch. Perhaps one little snort would help him think even better. He went upstairs to the kitchen, saw through the barred oval window on the landing that it was day.
And there at the table sipping coffee with a faraway look in her eye sat Francie, wearing a robe. Roger composed his face into friendly upturned patterns—that was essential from now on—and said, “Morning, Francie. Not working today? I thought you were feeling better.”
“It’s Saturday, Roger.”
“So it is.” He checked the clock: 9:45, perhaps too early for a drink. He poured himself a cup of coffee instead.
“But you look like you’re going somewhere,” Francie said.
“I do?”
“Somewhere dressy,” she said. “Or a funeral.”
Roger glanced down, saw with dismay that he was still wearing his black Brooks Brothers suit. And just as sloppily, he’d left his list on the desk in the basement office. Suppose she’d been in the laundry room, not the kitchen, and wandered in while he was upstairs? “The fact is,” said Roger, “I was going to ask you out to lunch.”
“With the godfather?”
He made himself laugh, that strange barking sound. But how could it be a normal laugh when he had no desire to take her to lunch at all? And to think how recently he had tried to get into her bed! It suddenly hit him, after the fact, and perhaps harder for that reason, what her state of mind must have been that night. He laughed again, needing some outlet for the hot surge inside him, and said, “That’s a good one, Francie—your reference being to the suit again, I take it.”
Francie gave him an odd look.
Well, it might be odd,
you slut, you whore
. He kept his eyes from veering toward the block of knives on the counter.
“Did you say something?” he said, vaguely aware that she had.
“I said I won’t be able to make lunch today, but thanks.”
“Otherwise engaged?”
“The tournament,” Francie said. “Second round.”
He had forgotten that she had indeed been at the tennis club last night, had not lied about that; he sensed gaps in his knowledge, gaps that might undermine his thinking, thinking being no substitute for research. “You won?”
Francie nodded.
“And celebrated long into the night?”
“If you call one whole beer a celebration,” Francie said.
He could have killed her easily, right then. “Who’s your partner?” he heard himself ask.
“You wouldn’t know her.”
He busied himself with cream and sugar, mastered his emotions. “Don’t be so sure. I’ve traveled widely in tennis circles, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Her name’s Anne Franklin.”
“I knew Bud Franklin—played for Dartmouth. Is she married to Bud?”
“I haven’t met her husband.”
“Is he in real estate? Bud went into real estate.”
“I don’t remember what he does. But it wasn’t real estate.”
C
. Back downstairs, Roger had trouble bringing his mind to bear on the problem. How he regretted that night in her bedroom. How hobbled he was by his breeding, education, background. Any bricklayer or welder would have punched wifey in the mouth and raped her on
Who else would have a motive? The lover’s wife, if indeed he had one. Roger toyed with a wild idea of finding this wife, seducing her. What triumph that would be! But not to the purpose. The wife had a motive—enough. He disciplined his mind, running a line through
A
, circling
B
, and ran his eyes down to
C
.
C: does not know whom he is working for
. That would mean the subcontractor never meets, talks to, or has written communication with the contractor; ideally does not even suspect the existence of the contractor. The implication: he believes that the crime originates in his own mind!
Oh, this was wonderful, to work so hard, to drive his mind through all these difficulties like an icebreaker. Ice. Roger thought at once of Brenda’s cottage, and then of cubes floating in a tumbler of Scotch. Perhaps one little snort would help him think even better. He went upstairs to the kitchen, saw through the barred oval window on the landing that it was day.
And there at the table sipping coffee with a faraway look in her eye sat Francie, wearing a robe. Roger composed his face into friendly upturned patterns—that was essential from now on—and said, “Morning, Francie. Not working today? I thought you were feeling better.”
“It’s Saturday, Roger.”
“So it is.” He checked the clock: 9:45, perhaps too early for a drink. He poured himself a cup of coffee instead.
“But you look like you’re going somewhere,” Francie said.
“I do?”
“Somewhere dressy,” she said. “Or a funeral.”
Roger glanced down, saw with dismay that he was still wearing his black Brooks Brothers suit. And just as sloppily, he’d left his list on the desk in the basement office. Suppose she’d been in the laundry room, not the kitchen, and wandered in while he was upstairs? “The fact is,” said Roger, “I was going to ask you out to lunch.”
“With the godfather?”
He made himself laugh, that strange barking sound. But how could it be a normal laugh when he had no desire to take her to lunch at all? And to think how recently he had tried to get into her bed! It suddenly hit him, after the fact, and perhaps harder for that reason, what her state of mind must have been that night. He laughed again, needing some outlet for the hot surge inside him, and said, “That’s a good one, Francie—your reference being to the suit again, I take it.”
Francie gave him an odd look.
Well, it might be odd,
you slut, you whore
. He kept his eyes from veering toward the block of knives on the counter.
“Did you say something?” he said, vaguely aware that she had.
“I said I won’t be able to make lunch today, but thanks.”
“Otherwise engaged?”
“The tournament,” Francie said. “Second round.”
He had forgotten that she had indeed been at the tennis club last night, had not lied about that; he sensed gaps in his knowledge, gaps that might undermine his thinking, thinking being no substitute for research. “You won?”
Francie nodded.
“And celebrated long into the night?”
“If you call one whole beer a celebration,” Francie said.
He could have killed her easily, right then. “Who’s your partner?” he heard himself ask.
“You wouldn’t know her.”
He busied himself with cream and sugar, mastered his emotions. “Don’t be so sure. I’ve traveled widely in tennis circles, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Her name’s Anne Franklin.”
“I knew Bud Franklin—played for Dartmouth. Is she married to Bud?”
“I haven’t met her husband.”
“Is he in real estate? Bud went into real estate.”
“I don’t remember what he does. But it wasn’t real estate.”
C
. Back downstairs, Roger had trouble bringing his mind to bear on the problem. How he regretted that night in her bedroom. How hobbled he was by his breeding, education, background. Any bricklayer or welder would have punched wifey in the mouth and raped her on
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