CHAPTER TWELVEHalf a Pint
Durfee said: “I always like your rigmaroles. I’ve heard a lot of ’em, and I’ve enjoyed ’em.” He fluttered the fingers of both hands, then picked up his cigarette again. “This one, no. Not this time.”
Gamadge said nothing; his eyes were on a framed photograph of a bridge over the Seine, which hung just above Durfee’s head.
“It’s the plainest case of suicide I ever saw,” continued Durfee, “it can’t be anything but suicide, and you supplied the motive yourself.” He leaned forward and tapped the desk. “Don’t you admit you’re responsible for this woman’s death?”
“In a way, yes, I am.”
“In a way? In a way? What happens? You come here—bust in on her this afternoon and give her the shock of her life; tell her we know Paul Bradlock called here the evening he was kille
