Shadow of Guilt by Patrick Quentin Page A

Miss Hadley’s relationship with Mr. Saxby might never come out at all. It was quixotic of him, of course, but he seems to love her very much indeed. That’s why he refused to say a word, even to his father, until I told him about the motel owners and Mrs. Fostwick. Then, of course, he realized there was nothing he could do any more, so he talked. He gave us a pretty full report of the episode between Miss Hadley and Saxby. He also told us exactly how Mr. Ryson’s gun happened to get into Saxby’s apartment.”
    “But he didn’t kill him.” The words came in anguish from Connie. “He didn’t, did he? It’s all been explained. He had nothing to do with it at all.”
    Lieutenant Trant looked down at the pencil. When he looked up again, his face was very solemn, almost, it seemed to me, commiserative.
    “The moment it was ready, a typed copy of Chuck’s statement was rushed to the D. A., Mrs. Hadley. I’m sorry to tell you this, but the D. A.’s just been on the phone to me. He’s read the statement and, on the strength of the statement, he is having us issue a warrant for Chuck’s arrest. He will be formally charged with the murder.”
    “No!” cried Connie. “No.”
    She got up. Her gloves fell off her lap onto the floor. She looked down at them dazedly as if the act of picking them up again was something far too complicated for her. Trant had got up too. Coming quickly around the desk, he bent, retrieved the gloves and held them out to her.
    “I’m glad you’re here, Mrs. Hadley,” he said. “I think it would be easier for Chuck if it is you and your husband who break the news to him…”

 
Twelve
    He turned away from her and pressed a buzzer on the desk. A policeman came in.
    Trant said, “Take Mr. and Mrs. Hadley to Chuck Ryson.”
    I took Connie’s arm. She went meekly with me like a little girl. The policeman led us down the corridor and up in an elevator. There was another bare corridor with the same featureless dinginess. We came to a door. A second policeman was standing in front of it. He let us into a bare room almost identical with Trant’s and locked the door behind us.
    Chuck was there, sitting on one of the flimsy wooden chairs. I’d been infected by Mal’s and Connie’s dread of the family insanity and I’d steeled myself to see something quite different from what I saw. Chuck looked exhausted and he hadn’t shaved. The golden stubble on his jaw glinted in the light from the single grimy ceiling bulb, but, so far as I could see, there wasn’t the slightest sign of any mental instability. What he looked most of all was scared, very scared and very young.
    He jumped up. For one moment he stood looking at us, then Connie took a step toward him and he was running to her, throwing his arms around her.
    “Connie. Gee, Connie.”
    “Chuck—Chuck dear.”
    “How is she? How’s Ala?”
    “She’s—she’s all right.”
    “I mean, she knows about Saxby now? She knows what sort of a heel—”
    “Of course she does.”
    “Then maybe later, I mean when she’s straightened out and all, maybe it’ll be okay between us again?”
    He drew a little away from Connie, looking down at her with pathetic, dogged hopefulness as if there was nothing in the world to worry anybody but the state of Ala’s feelings. Connie was looking back at him blindly, then she turned her head and threw a desperate glance at me.
    I said, “We’ve been talking to Trant, you know, Chuck.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I know.”
    “He says you’ve made a full statement.”
    His eyes, on my face now, were suddenly embarrassed. “I did my best. Honestly, I did. I wasn’t going to say a word until I had to. Then… then he found out about the motel and everything, so I told him. At least it’s over now. We’ve just got to wait till the D. A. reads the statement. With any luck I’ll be out of here in a couple of hours.”
    As he said that, he smiled a quick, sunny smile. I’d got up the courage to tell him