Love for Sale

so.
    Having gained entrance, he introduced himself properly. “I’m Chief of Police Howard Walker, Mrs. Rennie.”
    She paled. “Are you the man holding my husband in that awful place?“
    “I’m afraid I am. But I had to hold him along with those who were present when Brother Goodheart was murdered. I’d like to ask you a few questions.“
    “I don’t think I should be speaking with you.“
    “My questions are unofficial. I’m not taking notes. And I’m not asking about your husband.“
    “What are you asking then?“ she said, unwillingly ushering him to the living room. Like the hallway, this room was elegant and generously proportioned. The parquet floor was partially covered by a few beautiful Oriental rugs, a fire burned in the large white marble fireplace, and there was plenty of comfortable seating. Expensive-looking works of art hung on the wall, and there were a half a dozen tastefully framed family pictures on the grand piano. Someone, probably this woman, had very good taste. It was the sort of house Walker would have liked to live in someday.
    “I want to speak with you about Brother Good-heart. Or more accurately, Charles Pottinger. I understood from something that was said to me that you took something of an interest in the orphans at the Institute.“
    “Poor little things,“ she said. “They were mostly children of migrant families who couldn’t afford to take care of them and abandoned them. They should have been adopted out instead of being at the Institute.“
    “I take it you’re no longer involved with this, since you’re using the past tense. Or do you mean they are no longer there?“
    “I presume the children are still there. But it broke my heart to see them, and I couldn’t keep going there without saying something that my husband wouldn’t have approved of. I knew he would agree with me but not like hearing it from me. The children were treated as slaves.“
    “Whose fault was that? Who was supposed to care for them?”
    She looked at him with pity. “Brother Good-heart, of course. It was all his own idea. They were simple showpieces. But he seemed to feel they had to pay for the privilege.“
    “You didn’t like him?”
    She gave a long sigh, the sigh of a woman about to pour out her heart. “I loathed him. He was preaching simply for money. He should have called himself Brother Evilheart. Have you ever listened to him on the radio?“
    “Not willingly,“ Walker admitted.
    “He was a bigot,“ she said, her thin, pale face flushing. “He was always praising Herr Hitler for his wisdom. He went on and on about how the Jews, especially the greedy Jewish bankers of the world, were responsible for the state of our country. I suppose he believed this before the Crash. That gave him a cause and a downtrodden audience who needed to place blame on someone other than Hoover or themselves.”
    She’d obviously given this a lot of thought, and probably never could tell anyone else how she felt, Howard thought. He was glad she’d revealed her thoughts to him. She’d probably been bursting with views she had to be very careful to conceal.
    “These people he preached at were the poorest of all,“ she went on. “He was perfectly happy to take their pitiful savings. And in case you’re wondering“—she made a gesture that included her large, well-furnished house—“this was my parents’ house. I owned it before I was even married. If you’re holding my husband because you think he was part of the theft, you’re wrong.“
    “Have you visited him at the asylum?“
    “No, he said it was a place he hoped I’d never have to see. He’s very protective of me. He managed to talk someone into letting him use their telephone. He told me you’d seized all his financial records.“
    “I had to. You must know that,“ Walker said. “There’s an enormous amount of money at stake. That’s why Pottinger and his cronies were meeting in secret.”
    He probably shouldn’t have told her this, except that her husband clearly must have known. He’d probably already passed the information along to her, or she wouldn’t have told Walker she’d inherited this house.
    “Regarding Goodheart,“ he went on, “was his attitude real? Or do you think it was put on just to draw the crowds?“
    “Oh, it was real enough. He never privately admitted he did it for the money. He believed, God help him, that he was right. And being right, it entitled him to live, as they say,