Shadow of Guilt by Patrick Quentin

with us. They recognized Miss Hadley’s picture in the paper as the girl who arrived there with a man on Saturday night and registered with him as Mr. and Mrs. Donald Saxby.”
    He paused, watching Connie as the flush in her cheeks deepened. The suggestion of the smile was still there in his very clear, very alert eyes. “And not only that. A few minutes ago a call from Canada came in. It was from a rather emotional lady, a Mrs. Fostwick. She said she felt it was her duty to communicate with us. She told us the whole episode concerning the daughter of the Duvreuxs. She also told us that on Sunday morning Mr. Hadley called her in a very agitated state, as she put it, to inquire about these people. So. I may be wrong, but I’d say I have a pretty clear picture of Don Saxby’s relationship with your family, don’t I?”
    That wasn’t just a rhetorical question. He was waiting for Connie to answer.
    She squirmed uncomfortably on her chair. Then she stammered, “Why, yes, Lieutenant, I’d say you do. But you must understand—”
    “How embarrassing it was for you? Of course I understand that, Mrs. Hadley. Your daughter, presumably, was infatuated with a most undesirable man; she spent the night with him in a motel; and almost immediately afterwards he got himself murdered. Even the most public-spirited citizen should be excused for lying to the police under those circumstances.”
    It was strange. Everything he said should have had the bite of sarcasm to it, but it didn’t. He couldn’t have been much older than we. For all I knew, he was younger, and yet he was gently, almost affectionately reproving us like a long-suffering uncle. It made him completely unorthodox as a policeman; it should also have made him seem unalarming. But in fact he had managed to intimidate me far more than an ordinary cop with an ordinary cop’s crassness would have done.
    Even Connie was feeling it, I could tell, although with her, embarrassment merely manifested itself as a heightening of the grand manner.
    With a great effort at dignity, she said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I realize now it was very wrong of us.”
    “I’m sure you do,” said Trant, “and I’m sure that you and your husband will now be ready to co-operate.”
    “Of course,” said Connie.
    “Good. Then I’ll be around at your house tomorrow morning.”
    “You mean you’re finished with us for now?”
    “For the moment, Mrs. Hadley. The D. A.’s waiting for me and—”
    Instantly Connie was the “boss lady” again. “In that case, please let us see Chuck right away. His father tells us he refuses to say what he was doing on Sunday afternoon. I know there’s some perfectly good explanation and I’m quite certain I can persuade him to tell you the truth.”
    “I’m quite certain you could, too,” said Trant, “but, as it happens, there’s no longer any need for your kind offices as an aunt. Chuck has already given us a full statement.”
    Connie sat up very straight in her chair. “He has?”
    “The lawyer his father hired for him, Mr. Macguire, was present at the time. He made the statement quite voluntarily, and I assure you it was all aboveboard.” Trant paused, still studying Connie’s face with his bland, unwinking attention. “His reasons, by the way, for not having talked earlier were touching. It was all a rather romantic attempt to protect Miss Hadley.”
    A sudden image came to me of Ala in that mustard-colored little room, standing like a dummy by Don Saxby’s body with her gloved hands clutched together over the middle button of her coat. Was it conceivable then that Chuck could have known she’d been there?
    “Protect Ala?” I said sharply.
    Trant turned to me. It was the first time during the interview that he had shown any interest in me at all.
    “Yes, Mr. Hadley. He was trying to protect her from scandal. Since he knew he could rely on you and your family not to say anything, he felt that if he didn’t say anything either,