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sardonically. "Doesn't appear he'll be needing it any longer." |
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Proctor felt a cold uneven chill tiptoe across his broad shoulders. He had every intention of drinking his coffee and getting the hell out of there. He had had enough of Dawkins and Driver and the drafty old house to last him for a lifetime. Besides, he rationalized, there were things to be done, loose ends, reports to write and file. The military paperwork alone was going to be a bitch, and that was before he even started to consider how it all had to be tied into provincial requirements. Besides, he was in no particular mood to sit and speculate about the hows, whens and whys of what had transpired in the old house. All of that, he figured, could be done later. |
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"Well, Lieutenant, how do you figure it?" |
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Proctor shrugged. "Just a few hours ago I think you were convinced Driver had killed Flora Saint Quentin. What happened to that theory?" |
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Dawkins noisily sucked the scalding coffee out of his too full cup and studied the young man. "I still could be right about that part of it." |
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"Maybe, maybe not. But the larger question is, who killed Harry Driver?" |
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"Lots of possibilitiessomeone who wanted to revenge the murder of Flora Saint |
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