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Moffat came back in as the other man regained the living room. “They’re on their way,” he said. “I’ll stick around here. You might as well go on home, Trig.”

“I suppose so.” Yamamura hesitated. “Who’ll notify his wife?”

Moffat regarded him closely. “You’ve met her, you said, and know something about the case. Think you’d be able to break the news gently?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. Anyhow, looks as if I’ll have to tell his son, when we find him.”

Moffat tilted back his cap and rubbed his head. “Son left town? We’ll have to interview him ourselves. To tie up loose ends, make sure he really was away and so forth. Not that—Huh?”

Yamamura picked his pipe off the floor.

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“What’s the matter, Trig?”

“Nothing.” The detective wheeled about, stared at the body on the couch and then out the window into night.

“Uh, one thing,” Moffat said. “Since you do know a little about her. Think we should notify Mrs. Cardynge at once, or let her sleep till morning?”

It yelled within Yamamura.

“I mean, you know, theoretically we should send someone right off,” Moffat said, “but even if she has left him, this is going to be a blow. Especially since she’s indirectly respon—”

Yamamura snatched Moffat’s arm. “Yes!” he cried. “Right away! Can you get a man there this instant?”

“What?”

“To arrest her!”

“Trig, are you crazy as that stiff was?”

“We may already be too late. Get back to your radio!”

Moffat wet his lips. “What do you mean?”

“The purse. Hers. The evidence will be there, if she hasn’t had time to get rid of it— By God, if you don’t, I’ll make a citizen’s arrest myself!”

Moffat looked into the dilated eyes a full second before he pulled himself loose. “Okay, Trig. What’s her address again?” Yamamura told him and he ran off without stopping to put on his coat.

Yamamura waited, pipe smoldering in his hand. A dark peace rose within him. The wrongness had departed. There was nothing here worse than a dead man and a night gone wild.

DEAD PHONE

115

Moffat re-entered, drenched and shivering. “I had to give them my word I had strong presumptive evidence,” he said. “Well, I know what you’ve done in the past. But this better be good.”

“Good enough, if we aren’t too late/’ Yamamura said. He pointed to the ashtray. “Cardynge was pretty nervous when he talked to me,” he went on. “He hated to bare his soul. So he smoked one cigaret after another. But here—two butts for an entire evening. If you look in the kitchen, you’ll find that he made a hearty meal. And washed up afterward. Does any of this square with a man utterly shattered by a Dear John letter?

“The dishes are dry in the rack. But something was washed more recently. The towel is still moist, even thought the saliva has dried in the corpse’s mouth. What was washed? And by whom?”

Moffat grew rigid. “You mean that letter’s a plant? But the envelope—”

“Something else was in that envelope. ‘Dear Aaron, can I come see you tonight on a very private matter? Lisette.’ She came with a pretext for discussion that could not have been particularly disturbing to him. Nor could her presence have been; his mind was made up about her. But they had a few drinks together.

“At some point she went to the bathroom, taking her glass along, and loaded it with powder poured from the capsules. Then, I’d guess, while he went, she switched glasses with him. She’d know he used sleeping pills. Convenient for her. Still, if he had not, she could have got-116

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ten some other poison without too much trouble or danger.

“Of course, she couldn’t be sure the dose would prove fatal, especially since I doubt if they drank much. Maybe she patted his head, soothed him, so he drifted into unconsciousness without noticing. He’d take a while, possibly an hour or two, to die. She must have waited, meanwhile arranging things. Washed both glasses that had her prints on them, fixed the one on the table here and clasped his hand around it for prints and poured most of the whiskey down the sink.