Convery’s eyes were bright, watchful. “One of the patrolmen will go with you while you get the rifle.”

Breton shrugged and led the way down into his basement workshop. He sensed the patrolman’s tenseness as they stepped off the wooden stair onto the concrete floor, so he halted and pointed at the tall cupboard in which he stored a jumble of large tools, fishing rods, archery equipment and his rifle. The patrolman shouldered quickly past him, opened the doors and dragged out the rifle. He had to disengage the sling, which had snagged a fishing reel.

Back in the living room, Convery took the rifle and rubbed a fingertip in the fine coating of dust which lay over the stock. “You don’t use this much?”

“No. The last time was a couple of years ago. Before I was married.”

“Uh-huh. It’s a high velocity job, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Breton could feel the bewilderment building up inside him to an almost physical pressure. What had happened?

“Ugly things,” Convery commented casually. “They destroy animals. I don’t know why people use them.”

“It’s a good machine, that’s all,” Breton replied. “I like good machines. Oh, I forgot — it isn’t working.”

“Why not?”

“I dropped the bolt one day and I think it jammed the pin.”

“Uh-huh.” Convery removed the rifle’s bolt, examined it, smelt the breech, peered through the barrel at a table lamp, then handed the weapon back to the patrolman. “That the only rifle you own?”

“Yes. Look, Lieutenant, this has gone on long enough. Why are you here?” Breton hesitated. “Has anything happened to my wife?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Convery’s blue eyes roved Breton’s face. “Your wife is all right. She was foolish enough to walk through the park tonight, without company, and a man attacked her — but she’s all right.”

“I don’t understand. How… how can she be all right if she was attacked?”