Murder a la Richelieu (American Queens of Crime Book 2) by Anita Blackmon Page B

white and absolutely expressionless except when now and then her husband paused beside her. It gave me a pang to see how hard she tried to smile up into his face, and once when he patted her shoulder she turned and laid her lips against his hand.
    Neither Mary Lawson nor her niece came down to breakfast that morning. Feeling uneasy, I telephoned up to their room about ten o’clock. Polly answered in a bright flippant voice, trying to be giddy about it all, although I was sure she had been crying.
    “No, Miss Adelaide, neither of us is ill. We just don’t crave food, if you know what I mean. However, after three sessions apiece with the inspector and more to come, or so he hinted, we’re having a full morning. Isn’t life just one long sweet song?”
    Now I could not condone Polly Lawson’s behaviour for the past two months, but suspecting her or Mary Lawson of murder was a cat of another odour, and my voice trembled with indignation when I said so.
    “The inspector is more of a fool than I took him for,” I insisted in conclusion, “if he seriously hopes to involve you and Mary in this sordid business.”
    To my surprise Polly’s bravado abruptly deserted her. “I-I take b-back everything I ever said about you, Miss Adelaide,” she faltered. “You may be an old fuss-budget in prosperity, but in adversity you’re an angel.”
    It was a dubious compliment; nevertheless, it touched me. “Thank you, my dear, and I quite understand why you tried to run off with that dratted knife.”
    “Do you?” she whispered.
    “Naturally your first thought was that, innocent as she is, being its owner, the police would be certain to think the knife implicated Mary.”
    “Yes,” said Polly with a little sob.
    “I should have done exactly the same thing in your place,” I said firmly.
    “I bet you would at that,” she said and, after hesitating a minute, asked, “Have you seen Howard, Miss Adelaide?”
    “The inspector sent for him again a few minutes ago,” I said.
    “Oh!” she gasped and then added huskily, “Did you say again?”
    “Isn’t it asinine?” I demanded. “I haven’t the slightest doubt that while the police are wasting precious hours, interviewing perfectly innocent people, the murderer is busy successfully covering up his tracks. No wonder the city can’t balance its budget.”
    “I guess so,” said Polly in a forlorn voice.
    “At least,” I went on, “the way Howard championed your cause last night did my heart good. I should be very happy, my dear, to see you two bury the hatchet or whatever it is that has spoiled love’s young dream lately.”
    Polly’s voice trembled. “If I only dared!”
    She hung up, to conceal her tears I was convinced, not far from tears myself. It has always seemed to me pathetic how often people hurt the ones they love. I did not know why Polly had deliberately wrecked her romance with Howard Warren, but at that moment nothing could have persuaded me that they were not in love with each other.
    “Perhaps some good will come of all this yet,” I muttered to myself. It seemed to me it would almost be worth it to bridge the breach between Howard and little Polly Lawson.
    Needless to say, I was exasperated when about eleven Polly came down to the lobby, painted up like a red Indian, and, ignoring Howard, who eagerly started toward her, made straight for Stephen Lansing, who had for some time ostensibly been absorbed in a punchboard at the desk while guardedly watching Kathleen Adair in the mirror behind the cigar counter.
    “Oh, h’lo,” Polly sang out, giving him an impudent smile and pretending not to see the look on Howard’s face as he turned away.
    “Hello yourself,” said Stephen Lansing, his wide grin displaying his very white teeth. “It must be telepathy. I’ve been wishing you or somebody just like you would come along.”
    “Really?” He caught her arm and turned her toward the entrance to the drugstore. “If one can’t leave the premises,