Denson stepped to the car when he halted and said: "Nothin' to it, sir. It's Ketlar."
"You mean he's made a confession?" Calvin asked.
"No. He's got a girl who's putting up an alibi for him. We've shot it full of holes, but he'll go to a jury, I guess, on the strength of that girl. We've got him and her up the street at his place. But here's where his wife was livin'."
Calvin followed the man into the brick and plaster camping place and to the room where the body of Adele Ketlar lay.
She had been of the sort he had expected to see; she had been young and pretty, with a weak, shallow, vain expression persisting even in death. She was very pitiful, and the rouge on her cheeks and the paint on her lips grotesquely exaggerated the piteousness of her. It was impossible that she had been slain in a struggle of mighty emotions. Pique, a shallow, momentary pique of some self-willed, ill-constrained person, had put her to death. And Calvin looked up from her, doubly determined to punish that person.
Denson led him about the room, making explanations and pointing out objects of evidence. Calvin ordered that they be photographed in place and carefully preserved, but he gave them little attention.
He was thinking about the girl. He asked Denson, "What nationality is she?"
"Oh, she's an American," the policeman replied confidently.
American! That was it! Her weak, vain, characterless face, marked by no strong trait of any race, was now American! Her husband who—probably—had killed her also would be found to be an American!
Denson went on detailing the evidence against Ketlar.
"You see, sir," said Denson, exhibiting the objects.
