Shock Treatment by James Hadley Chase Page B

long moment I sat staring at him.
    “Look, Sheriff,” I said, “does it matter whether he killed himself or whether he died accidentally? Why complicate things? If he did kill himself, and I am quite sure he didn’t, it’ll make things bad for Mrs Delaney. You can imagine how people will talk. Why make it hard for her?”
    Jefferson continued to puff at his pipe, his expression uneasy.
    “I know all that, son, but it’s my duty to keep the record straight. How did she get that bruised face? It looks to me as if someone gave her a pretty hard slap and that someone could only have been her husband. That tells me they didn’t get on together. That’s something that should be checked. Boos would check it fast enough.”
    “To hell with him!” I said. “You’re in charge up here. I think you’re making too much of this. Do you really imagine any man would kill himself by poking a screwdriver into the works of a TV set? I am as sure as Doc is: it was an accident.”
    Jefferson shrugged.
    “You could be right, son.”
    “Is Doc holding a post mortem?”
    “No. Between you and me, he’s got beyond holding a p.m. But that doesn’t matter. Anyone can see how the poor fellow died. It’s why he died that bothers me.”
    “Forget it,” I said. “It certainly doesn’t bother me.”
    He thought for a moment, then nodded.
    “I guess you’re right I like the girl. As you say, there’s no point in making it hard for her. If she did leave him, she changed her mind. That’s in her favour. She was coming back, wasn’t she?”
    “I met her at the cross roads. She was certainly coming back.”
    “Well, then . . .” He looked relieved. “He couldn’t have been easy to live with. Maybe she got nerves. Women get j nerves pretty easily.”
    He finished his drink and sat for a moment staring at the floor, then he got to his feet. “I guess I’ll be moving.” He looked tired and very old. “You’ll be down for the inquest, son? It’s at eleven o’clock.”
    Til be there.”
    We walked out into the evening sunlight and we paused by his old Ford.
    “What’s going to happen to her, do you know?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “Did he leave her much?”
    “I don’t know that either, Sheriff.”
    I thought of the hundred and fifty thousand she told me he I had. She was fixed all right, and so was I, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.
    “Well, I’ll get along.”
    I watched him drive away, then I walked back to my cabin.
    I had an urge to call Gilda, but I knew it would be unsafe. I wondered what she was doing and thinking. She had the night before her alone, and so had I.
    The thought of the coming night bothered me.
    When fear is nibbling at you, the coming of the night with its darkness, its silence and its loneliness can be a frightening thing.
    And because I had Delaney’s death on my conscience, I was frightened.
     
    II
     
    The inquest was held in the Glyn Camp recreation hall. There were only a dozen or so people sitting on the public benches, and they had drifted in because they had nothing better to do. Delaney hadn’t been known in Glyn Camp and there was no interest in his death.
    I walked into the hall at five minutes to eleven. A minute later, Gilda came in. With her was a well-dressed, youngish man I had never seen before.
    She came over to me and introduced the man to me. He was George Macklin, Delaney’s attorney, who had come up from Los Angeles.
    Macklin was around thirty-eight: a short, compact man with a lean, alert face and shrewd dark eyes.
    As he shook hands with me, he said, “This shouldn’t take long. I’ve talked to the Coroner. He’s not going to call Mrs Delaney.”
    This was good news. I had been scared that Stringer might have questioned Gilda, and she might have given something away.
    At eleven o’clock, Sheriff Jefferson and Doc Mallard came in. They shook hands with Gilda, nodded to Macklin and to me and sat down.
    Joe Stringer, the Coroner, came in and sat behind