“Victor, Victor, Victor,” said Sims, each recitation of my name accompanied by a shake of the head. “Why are you making this so hard? You’re only going to hurt yourself. There is no use trying to protect her.”

“I’m not trying to protect anyone,” I said, “but myself.”

“Siding with her is not the way to do it. This is what we’ve got so far, and you can figure out for yourself what it adds up to. Dr. Denniston was shot once, straight on. There was no apparent forced entry, no apparent robbery, no evidence of a struggle. The live-in housekeeper, a woman named Gwen McGrath – who makes a fabulous pecan pie, or so we’ve been told by Mr. Swift – said there was a loud argument between the Dennistons while she was still at the house. Not, she informed us, an unusual occurrence. In the middle of the argument, Mrs. Denniston told Gwen she could go on out for the evening. Gwen, who has a standing date for Sunday dinner with a man named Norman, locked up behind herself and set the alarm, leaving only the doctor and the wife in the house. When she came back a few hours later, about nine o’clock, she found the alarm activated and the house empty, except for Dr. Denniston dead in the library.”

“With the candlestick?” I said.

Sims smiled vaguely at the comment. I tried not to show how shaken I was.

“A single bullet in the forehead,” said Sims. “No weapon has yet been found, but Mr. Swift kindly informed us that Dr. Denniston did have a revolver, a quite shiny one, he told us. He kept the gun in the safe.”

“Is it still there?”

“We don’t know, we haven’t been able to open it yet, though a representative from the safe company will be at the house tomorrow. According to Mr. Swift, the combination was apparently known only by Dr. Denniston and his wife.”

“It’s nice that Mr. Swift has been so helpful.”

“Isn’t it, though?” said Sims. “And he is very interested in you, our Mr. Swift. Wanted to know your relationship with Mrs. Denniston. Wanted to see everything we had with your name on it.”