Confidentially Yours Read Free Page B

from downtown, a rambling cream-colored brick I’d built when Frances and I were married, replacing the old Warren house which had burned down in 1955. An extension of the circular drive goes back along the side of it to the two-car garage, which adjoins the kitchen. The house is roughly U-shaped, with the kitchen and dining room in the short wing, the long 35-foot living room and my den across the front with the entrance hall between them, while, a continuation of the hall runs back through the other wing past the guest rooms to the master bedroom with its fireplace, dressing room, and bath taking up the far end.
    Rain, wind-driven, beat against the house. I mixed a drink and tried to settle down in the living room with a book, but it was no good. I kept thinking of Roberts. It was fantastic. Why would somebody have wanted to kill him? And why out there—aside from the futile attempt to make it appear an accident? Only eight of us had keys to that gate. Besides Roberts and myself, there were Dr. Martin; Jim MacBride, the Ford dealer; George Clement, the town’s leading attorney; Clint Henry, cashier of the Citizens National Bank; and Bill Sorensen and Wally Albers, who were away at the moment, on a cruise to Jamaica with their wives. They were all good friends of mine. Of course, as Scanlon said, Roberts might have left the gate open when he came in, or the man could have walked in, but even so he’d have to be familiar with the terrain and the location of the blinds to get there, three miles from the highway, in the dark. The turnoff was fifteen miles east of town.
    I went out and mixed another drink. The telephone rang. There’s an extension in the kitchen; I sat down at the table in. the breakfast nook and reached for it.
    “Is this Duke Warren?” It was a girl’s voice.
    “Yes,” I said. “Who’s this?”
    “Never mind. I just thought I’d tell you—you won’t get away with it.”
    I frowned. “Get away with what?”
    “I suppose you think because you own most of the town they won’t do anything. Well, I’ve got news for you.”
    Somebody on a telephone jag, I thought, though she didn’t sound drunk. “I’ll tell you, why don’t you call me in the morning?”
    “Don’t try to brush me off. You know what I’m talking about. Dan Roberts.”
    I’d started to hang up, but caught myself just in time when I heard the name. “Roberts?” I snapped. “What about him?”
    “If you had to kill somebody, why not her? You don’t think he was the only one, do you?”
    I slammed the receiver down on the cradle and stood up, shaking with rage. When I tried to light a cigarette, I fumbled and dropped it in my drink. In a few minutes I began to get it under control, realizing it was childish to let a thing like that get under my skin. Nobody paid any attention to psychos and creeps. They crawled out of the woodwork every time something happened, spewed up their anonymous telephone calls, and went back. I washed out the glass and rebuilt the drink, tried the cigarette again, and got one alight this time, regretting now that I’d hung up on her. I should have made some effort to find out who she was. The telephone rang again. I went over and picked it up, very coldly this time. But it was probably somebody else; she wouldn’t have the guts to call back.
    She did. “Don’t hang up when I’m talking to you. You’re in no position to.”
    “No?” I asked. “Why not?” I knew practically everybody in town; maybe if she kept talking I could identify her. The voice was vaguely familiar.
    “Maybe you think Scanlon’s a fool? Or afraid of you?”
    She didn’t sound particularly bright; nobody who’d known Scanlon as long as an hour could have any illusions as to his being a fool, or that he’d ever been afraid of anything. “Get to the point,” I said. “What about Scanlon?”
    “I think he’ll be interested to learn that she’s been going to Dan’s apartment. Of course, she used to live there,