CHAPTER EIGHTEENUnknown Quantity
Gamadge sat relaxed in a deep armchair drawn up to the office fire, Malcolm sat relaxed in another. The little table between them held whisky, and they had each had a long drink.
“I wouldn’t have been in your shoes,” said Malcolm, “when you drank that highball she made you.”
“I had to drink it; I was watching that left hand of hers with the handkerchief in it, watching pretty sharply; but she wasn’t going to poison me.”
“Why did you think she was likely to have poison on her?”
“People like Mrs. Leeder always keep an out for themselves, and I knew she’d be jittery after Garth’s murder; she hadn’t planned for it, she had to work fast. She couldn’t be absolutely sure that she hadn’t left any traces. There were none, of course—she was so clever.”
“Nothing
