3

TUESDAY, 6:55 P.M. TO 8:05 P.M.

On the east side of Madison Avenue, between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth, police cars seemed to be piled like jackstraws. That drew the crowd. The crowd stood and stared at the cars and waited. On the sidewalk in front of the old building, with a window bowing out in front, marked discreetly JAMES SELDEN, ANTIQUES, containing, as discreetly, a chair and a mirror, policemen in uniform told people to move on. People moved sluggishly and stopped again and stared at Mr. Selden’s sign. They stared up at the windows of apartments above the shop.

“Nothing to see,” the patrolmen said. “Nothing’s going to happen, bud—lady. Move along, now. Keep moving now.”

Across the street photographers had found vantage point in a shop window on the second floor. They took pictures of the house. Other photographers, immune to orders to move on but gaining little by immunity, smoked cigarettes on the stairs which led up to the building entrance, spanning an areaway with barred, low windows. They flicked the butts away and lighted fresh cigarettes and kept the gear of their trade close where they could nudge it with their feet.

The ones without camera cases and with cards in their hatbands were reporters. There were only a couple of them, standing by. This wasn’t it; the precinct house was it, or headquarters of the Homicide Squad. Depending. One of the reporters was very young and wore very thick glasses and leaned against the stair railing and stared at nothing. He didn’t want to be there; he didn’t want to be working for AP local. He wanted to be in an airplane. The other reporter was in his sixties and red-faced and stocky. He wanted to be in a bar, and was going to arrange it. The Daily News thought of the damnedest things for him to do. You didn’t see anybody from the Times hanging around, or from the Trib. What the hell—did the city editor think somebody was going to murder old Merle all over again for the exclusive benefit of the Daily News? Or that Weigand was suddenly going to walk out with the guy who did it in handcuffs? Anybody who’d been around town more than a week knew that nothing was going to break here. And that they weren’t going to let him or anybody else in to poke around the apartment. Did the desk think he was a bloody sleuth?

Two patrolmen guarded the entrance, one at the door and one at the elevator. James Selden, a sparse gray man seemingly overlaid with a coating of dust, looked out of his door and, by peering diagonally through the glass, could see the patrolman at the outer door. It was just as well that Mrs. Belknap had decided not to come and examine the authentic table he had found for her. The policeman would have startled Mrs. Belknap, if anything could. Privately, Mr. Selden thought nothing could. But the whole business would have annoyed her, and probably she would have decided that JAMES SELDEN, ANTIQUES, was shady and mixed up in things. Mrs. Belknap would not like to trade with people who got mixed up in things.

Mr. Selden wished, mildly, that he had taken a more ordinary show room—a modern shop, with a front door which was privately his front door and not shared by apartment tenants, who, it now appeared, would fall into the habit of getting themselves murdered. There was, unquestionably, something old-world about the setup he had, with the bow window on the semi-second floor and the general air of almost British reticence. People like Mrs. Belknap were—he hoped—persuaded to think that bargains lurked unobtrusively in seclusion. Which showed what Mrs. Belknap knew.

Mr. Selden went to the other side of the door and looked diagonally in the opposite direction. There was a patrolman at the elevator, doing nothing. Mr. Selden sighed. He pulled a green shade down over the glass of the door. The shade had the word CLOSED printed on it. Mr. Selden withdrew to his apartment in the rear, furnished comfortably with non-antiques. He lighted a lamp which had been made three years before out of all new materials and moved the box of cigarettes nearer. He picked up a lending library copy of Goodbye, Mr. Chippendale and began to read it, chuckling occasionally. It wasn’t going to be good for business, but it was quite a book.

In the yard behind the building, men in plain clothes—and with weathered faces—went over the ground inch by inch. They investigated the contents of ash cans and poked into dark corners, now and then surprising a rat. They seeped into the basement under the building and looked in darker corners with the aid of flashlights and found crated furniture and Mr. Selden’s workshop. Some of the things in the workshop would have surprised them if they had been in the antique business, but they had interest only in things of the very recent past.

They did not find the gun they were looking for, which was as good as if they had found it, in one way. Detection lies as much in discovering what did not happen as in discovering what did. They were not annoyed by the fruitlessness of their search; they were entirely dispassionate. They were finding out what was in the court behind the house, under the windows of the apartment Mary Hunter had rented from Oscar Murdock, and what wasn’t in the court. It was all the same either way.

Mullins and Detective Stein attended to the apartment itself, while Weigand went over the things which had been taken from the pockets of the recent Mr. Merle. Mullins and Stein went over things thoroughly, opening Mary Hunter’s luggage with Mary Hunter’s keys; picking up her lingerie from the drawers of the bureau and from her trunk, and putting it back. They went through the clothes hanging in the small closet; they examined the papers and the checkbook in her brief case. Mullins whistled when he looked at the checkbook and showed it to Stein, who said, “Yeah.”

“Hey, Loot,” Mullins said, “look at this.”

Weigand looked at it, turning from the envelope he held in his hand. It was a very pretty cash balance; very pretty indeed.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Weigand said. “That’s very nice. She said she had some money, you know.”

“O. K., Loot,” Mullins said. “She could have said it again.”

He laid the checkbook with some other things—letters, bills, memoranda without immediately apparent meaning—which would bear further examination.

Weigand read over again the brief letter he had taken from the envelope. The envelope bore that Monday’s postmark and had been addressed to George Merle at the bank. The letter had been typed on a sheet of white bond paper.

“Mullins,” Bill Weigand said, and held the letter out. Mullins crossed the room and bent over it, not touching what Bill Weigand touched so gingerly. He read it and said, “Hey!” It read:

Dear Mr. Merle: Everything is fixed up, finally. L. will show up there about five tomorrow and a check will be O.K. But no shaving of the amount, L. says. Sorry. But apparently it is the best we can do.

O.M.

The signature, as well as the body of the note, was typed. Mullins read it again.

“Murdock?” he said.

“Well,” Bill said, “it fits. Oscar Murdock for O. M. and here for ‘there’ as the place Merle was, apparently, to meet L. Whoever L. is.”

“But—,” Mullins said. Bill Weigand nodded.

“But Oscar doesn’t live here any more,” he agreed. “Or had he forgotten?”

“Or,” Mullins said, “maybe he hadn’t forgot. Maybe he wanted the Hunter girl to walk in on it. Or—or maybe the Hunter girl is L. A nickname or something.”

“I knew a girl once that everybody called ‘Lovely’,” Detective Stein said, leaning around Mullins to read the letter.

“My God,” Bill said.

“I don’t know,” Stein told him. “After a while you got used to it and it didn’t sound funny any more. Come to think of it, I also knew a girl everybody called ‘Sweetheart’.”

“You don’t live right,” Mullins told him.

“Murdock knew Mrs. Hunter was working,” Weigand said, more or less to himself. “She stood to get home some time after five. ‘About five’ doesn’t fit it too badly. She’d have been earlier if she hadn’t stopped to shop. And the nickname wouldn’t have to be ‘Lovely.’ Maybe she has a middle name and people call her by it—some people. Old friends or what not.”

“As a matter of fact,” Stein said, with interest. “She has got a middle name. And it does begin with L. Louise. It’s that way on some of her papers and things. ‘Mary Louise Hunter.’”

“And,” Mullins said, “she’s got a nice bank account.”

Bill Weigand looked at him and waited.

“I mean,” Mullins said, “maybe that’s the way she got it. Maybe people give her checks.”

Weigand nodded slowly and started to put the letter back in its envelope. Then he took it out, laid it flat and drew a faint pencil mark circling the place his thumb had been. He flipped the letter over with the point of the pencil and made another faint mark on the opposite side.

“Except in those two places, I don’t think I touched it,” he said. He raised his voice. “Connors!”

Connors came in from the bathroom, where he had been spraying dust on the plumbing fixtures and blowing it off. Weigand gestured toward the paper. Connors blew dust on it and blew it off. He pointed to a whorling outline which appeared on the edge, near the pencil mark.

“Mine,” Bill Weigand told him.

There were other marks. Connors studied them through a glass. He waved toward the chalked outline on the floor which marked the previous resting place of Mr. Merle.

“His,” he said briefly.

He flicked the paper over and dusted again. The powder adhered in the swirls of a print on the edge and on two other prints.

“Mine again,” Bill said. “Thumb.”

“Obviously,” Connors said, distantly. “And his again. Nobody else.” He regarded Bill Weigand. “I guess you wrote it yourself, Loot,” he said. “O.K. for me to get back to the bathroom? We’re getting all kinds in there. Including toes. Somebody turns the bathtub off with his toes. Or her toes.”

Weigand gestured him away. Using the pencil, and touching as little as possible, he refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

“The little man without any fingers,” he said. “Or with gloves on them.”

“That,” Mullins said, “I’ll buy.”

“And so,” Weigand said, “Oscar Murdock writes a note to his boss, inviting him to come and get killed, and initials it—and then uses gloves to keep his prints off. Ingenious.”

“Well,” Mullins said, “it could be at that, Loot.”

Weigand agreed.

“When first we practice to deceive,” he said. “We may practice twice. If we have that kind of a mind. So policemen will think that somebody else wrote the letter and tried to pin it on us. But why not merely tell Merle and not write at all? Why not telephone him?”

“I’ll buy that, too,” Mullins said. “Whoever wrote it. Why write it at all? Unless somebody wanted to pin it on Murdock.”

“Or unless that’s what Murdock wants us to think, being in it anyway,” Weigand said. “We’ll just have to ask.”

The telephone rang. Mullins picked it up, listened, handed it to Bill Weigand. Weigand listened and said “Right.” He listened and said, “We’ll be along. We’re about through here. Ask him to wait, will you?”

He put the telephone back.

“The old boy’s son has turned up,” he said. “At the precinct. He says the precinct telephoned him that his father was dead. We’ll—.”

He broke off and began again.

“No,” he said. “Sergeant, you and Stein go along and keep him company. Extend sympathy and tell him we’ll catch whoever did it. And you might find out where he was around five, just for routine’s sake. I’ll be along later.”

He watched them go. He wandered about the living room; stood for a moment in the door of the bathroom and watched Connors and the photographer at work. He paused at one of the windows which opened over the courtyard and looked down at the men who still scratched for secrets in the court. One of them looked up and shook his head and Weigand nodded and left the window. He took his hat, called to Connors to lock up and bring the key with him when he was finished, and went into the hall. The elevator lumbered up with the old man at the control. The old man said nothing, and started the car down.

“So you didn’t hear anybody scream,” Weigand said. “Or any shots.”

“No,” the man said. “Unless I thought it was backfires. Nobody screamed.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “Did Murdock leave an address?”

“Not with me,” the old man said. “Maybe with his nibs.”

“Selden?” Weigand guessed. “The antique man?”

“Sure,” the old man said. “Don’t he own the joint?”

“Does he?” Weigand said.

“Sure. Who else?”

“I don’t know,” Weigand said, getting out.

The antique shop was closed for the night. But there was a bell signal beside the door and Weigand pushed it. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. James Selden ran up the shade and looked out at him.

“Closed,” Selden said through the door. “Come back tomorrow.”

“Police,” Weigand shouted through the door. “I want to see you a minute.”

“Damn,” Selden said, loud enough to be heard through the glass. He had a good voice for a dusty man. He opened the door and stood in the doorway.

“How long are these cops going to blockade me?” he demanded. “Suppose somebody wants to buy something?”

“Tonight?” Weigand inquired, mildly. “They’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

“All right,” James Selden said. “I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t hear anything or see anyone. I didn’t shoot the girl.”

“What girl?” Weigand said.

“The girl who got shot,” the antique man told him with asperity. “In the fourth floor rear. In Murdock’s old apartment.”

“No girl got shot,” Weigand told him. “A man. A man named Merle.”

“Merle?” the antique man asked. “Not George Merle?”

“Why not?” Weigand said. “Did you know him?”

“Everybody knew him,” James Selden said. “Or knew of him. As a matter of fact, I did know him, slightly. I sold him a mirror. Authentic, too.”

“Some time,” Weigand said, “you tell me about that. It might be interesting. Tomorrow, maybe. Now—give me Oscar Murdock’s address, if you’ve got it. And I’ll quit bothering you.”

“Why not?” the antique man said. It was a great house for questions, Bill Weigand decided. “Did he kill him?”

Bill was patient.

“Not that I know of,” he said. “I want to talk to him, that’s all.”

“The Main,” the antique man said. “Him and the girl too, I wouldn’t wonder.”

“Right,” Weigand said. “I didn’t know about the girl.”

“His wife, he says,” James Selden told him. “I wouldn’t know.” He paused and peered at Weigand from under his layer of dust. “Merle was here several times about that mirror,” he said. “A couple of months ago, maybe. And a month or so before that he was here about a chair.”

“Did he buy it?” Weigand asked.

“No,” James Selden told him. “He said it was too damned uncomfortable.” He paused and reflected. “God knows it was,” he added. “Good night.”

He closed the door.

The Hotel Main was dignified and had an air of permanence. It was the proper distance over on the East Side and on a proper street. Bill Weigand parked the Buick with careful regard for parking signs and the hotel doorman told him it was a good evening. Weigand nodded. The clerk behind the desk also thought the evening good. Weigand wanted to see Mr. Oscar Murdock.

“Room—” he began, and also began a reserved gesture toward the house telephone. “Oh, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “This gentleman—.”

He spoke to somebody behind Bill Weigand and Weigand turned around.

“—was just asking for you,” the clerk said.

Murdock gave, first, the impression of good barbering. He was of medium height and just over medium roundness and he had innocent blue eyes in an innocent pink face. He looked at Weigand and did not know him and his manner intimated that that had been, until now, his loss. His voice was gentle and encouraging.

“Yes?” he said. “Mr.—?”

“Weigand,” Weigand told him. “Lieutenant. Police lieutenant.”

The effect was not startling. Oscar Murdock did not blanch nor tremble nor otherwise show alarm. But for a moment his eyes changed. They seemed to grow more shallow; tiny muscles moved around them. All you could say was that his expression changed; you could not say, definitely, what his expression changed to. But his calling had not, Weigand suspected, endeared him to Mr. Murdock.

Murdock’s voice remained bland.

“The police?” he said, questioning it. “You want to see me?”

“About Merle’s death,” Weigand said. “His murder, you know.”

The change of expression was more marked this time. The man looked shocked and something more than shocked. Perhaps the something more might be called disappointment. But perhaps Weigand was imagining things.

“Merle!” Murdock repeated. “Not George Merle?”

Everybody seemed to think it must be another Merle.

“George Merle,” Weigand said. “The banker. Your employer, wasn’t he?”

“My God, yes,” Murdock said. “Did you say murdered?”

“Yes,” Weigand said. “The banker—the Mr. Merle. Murdered. Somebody filled him full of lead. Or full enough.”

“My God,” Murdock said.

“In,” Weigand told him, “your apartment. On Madison Avenue.”

“My God,” Murdock said. “I tried to—.” He stopped suddenly. “When was it?”

A couple of hours ago, Weigand told him. More or less.

Murdock told him it wasn’t possible. Two hours ago he saw Merle at the office. He was just as always. Murdock couldn’t believe it.

“Two hours ago somebody was using him for a target,” Weigand explained. “Accurately. What time did you see him?”

“A little before five,” Murdock said. “I can’t believe it.”

Merle had been, Weigand explained, killed a little after five. Now it was a little after seven—now it was seven thirty. Murdock had seen him nearer three hours ago. Murdock shook his head, still showing that he couldn’t believe it, and that it was a tremendous shock. His expressions and movements were plain enough now; they represented a loyal employee, and possibly a friend, who was bewildered and grieved by sudden death. His attitude was correct, which did not prove that the small gestures and muscular movements, the look in the eyes, the hand touching the forehead—that all these did not grow out of emotions sincerely felt. Mr. Murdock appeared a man who did things in order, which did not prove insincerity.

“This is a great shock to me, Lieutenant,” Murdock said. “You can have no idea how great a shock. He was a great man—a great friend.”

Weigand expressed his sympathy.

“It was considerate of you to tell me—to come here yourself, I mean,” Murdock said. “I appreciate it. Old G. M.” He looked at Weigand and shook his head. “I feel I should have been with him—have done something,” he said. “I did so many things for him, you know. It was more than a job.”

Murdock was more confiding than was to be expected. Suddenly he seemed to think of something. It was as if murder as a reciprocal activity, requiring a murderer as well as a victim, had just occurred to him.

“But who?” he said. “Who would want to kill G. M.? Do you know who, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Weigand said. “We’re trying to find out. That’s what brought me here, Mr. Murdock. I thought you might be able to help.”

Oscar Murdock shook his head doubtfully. He said he didn’t see how. Not that he didn’t want to help. Of course, if there was anything he could tell him that would help—. But probably they already knew all about Mr. Merle that would help. Everybody knew about Mr. Merle. Except for the personal things, of course. There he might help.

“He was a dignified, generous gentleman,” Murdock said. “He was of the old school.”

Murdock liked to say things the easy way, Weigand decided. What old school? There had been a good many—some of them, from their product, reform schools. Probably Murdock really meant that Mr. Merle had been a very rich man, head of a big bank, director of numerous corporations, generous in fund drives, titular head of charitable organizations with professionals doing the work. All very right and proper, of course; not necessarily a subject for pæans.

The detective’s voice was grave, reflecting none of this.

“I’m sure that will be very—helpful, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “We’ll be very glad to hear about Mr. Merle from one who knew him as you did. However, there are one or two more specific points. If we could sit down somewhere?”

Murdock said of course, with the air of one who has been negligent in hospitality. He led the detective to a small lounge, offered him a cigarette, rang a little bell on a little table before Weigand could stop him. He seemed to guess that Weigand had been about to stop him.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I need a drink. Won’t you join me?”

Weigand was gravely tempted. Weigand resisted temptation. He waited, smoking, while a waiter came and took Murdock’s order for scotch and plain water. Double scotch, not too much water. He let the waiter go and then he decided he had waited long enough.

“Mr. Merle went to your apartment at your invitation, Mr. Murdock,” he said, in a voice without inflection. “He carried your invitation with him.”

Murdock looked unbelieving. Then he slumped a little in his chair, and began shaking his head decisively.

“Wait a minute,” Weigand said. “I saw the invitation. It was a note. I’ll tell you what it said.”

From memory Weigand told Oscar Murdock what the note said.

“Signed ‘O. M.’” Weigand said. “On a typewriter. ‘O. M.’ for ‘Oscar Murdock,’ obviously.”

He stopped to let it sink.

“All right, Mr. Murdock,” he said. “Be helpful. You said you wanted to be.”

Murdock continued to shake his head.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t send him any such note. I don’t understand it. It was somebody else.”

“Named—what?” Weigand wanted to know. “Oliver Murphy? Orville Mansfield? Did Mr. Merle know dozens of people with initials O. M.?”

“But,” Murdock said, “that proves it, really. When I sent him memoranda and things I didn’t sign O. M. I signed Oz—an O with a kind of a wriggle which meant ‘Z.’ Because he called me Ozzie. It was—a sort of a joke.”

“Was it?” Weigand said. “A funny joke?”

“All right,” Murdock said. “That’s all I can say. I suppose you’re going to arrest me?”

“Do you?” Weigand said. “Well, you may be right. But there’s lots of time. You’ll be around, won’t you? You weren’t thinking of going anywhere, were you?”

“I—” Murdock said. He looked at Weigand. “I guess not,” he said.

“No,” Weigand said. “I wouldn’t. That would make it too easy. You and your wife—by the way, is your wife around?”

“My wife?” Murdock repeated. “Oh—you mean Laurel. No, she—”

“Isn’t she your wife, Mr. Murdock?” Weigand said.

“Of course,” Murdock said. He looked at Weigand. “Well,” he said, “no. It was just—simpler. Real estate agents prefer it.”

“She was just—?” Weigand said.

“Precisely,” Murdock agreed. He looked at Weigand and smiled, man of the world to man of the world. “After all, Lieutenant,” he said. “It does happen.”

Weigand agreed it did, frequently. It would explain a thing or two, taken that way. It would explain why a man of Murdock’s presumable affluence, trusted lieutenant to a man like George Merle, would be content with the comfortable but unquestionably small apartment over the antique shop.

“Did she know Merle?” Weigand wanted to know.

Merle had met Laurel, Murdock agreed.

“Her name’s Laurel Burke,” he said. “I’d like to keep her out of this.”

That was natural, Weigand said. It did him credit. It was not likely to be possible. Particularly as the apartment was more hers than Murdock’s.

“Did Merle think she was your wife?” Weigand wanted to know.

“I introduced her as my wife,” Murdock said. “I don’t know what he thought. I don’t know that he thought about it.”

Apparently, Weigand decided, the two men had known each other only during working hours. There was no meeting of families to match the advertised meeting of minds.

“By the way,” Weigand said and stopped. The waiter returned with the drink. Murdock said he needed it. Murdock proved it.

“Did you happen to know Mr. Merle’s family?” Weigand asked, casually.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Josh and Ann. They’re his children. His wife’s dead, you know. And his sister—Mr. Merle’s sister. She lives at the place out at Elmcroft. And Jamie. It’s going to be pretty tough on Josh and Ann.”

Weigand agreed that it was a very sad thing. He thought that Murdock knew more about Mr. Merle’s domestic life than Merle had known of Murdock’s. Which might very well be the way it would work out, considering their respective positions. If Merle were of an old enough school.

Murdock seemed ready to go on about the Merle family, but Weigand did not encourage him. They would have to be met—Joshua Merle was even now waiting to be met. Weigand summed it up.

“So you did not write Merle a letter telling him to come to the apartment. Right? You have no idea why he happened to go there. Right? You know nothing about his murder?”

“That’s right,” Murdock said.

Weigand said he hoped so.

“And he wasn’t in the habit of dropping in at your apartment, I gather—at Miss Burke’s apartment. Since he had only met Miss Burke casually. Right?”

“I don’t think he was ever there,” Murdock said. Weigand watched his eyes. Just for a second Murdock’s eyes grew shallow again. “I didn’t spread it around. I don’t see how—”

“Right,” Weigand said. “We know where we stand, at the moment. You’ll understand that this is only the beginning as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Murdock. You’ll understand that there’s still a lot to explain—a lot for you to explain.” He stood up and looked down at Murdock. “I could arrest you now,” he said. “I could make it stick, maybe. I’m not, simply because there is too much still to be cleared up. But stick around.”

Murdock’s barbered round face sagged. He nodded without speaking.

“And,” Weigand said, “I want Miss Burke’s address. I want to see her—and I don’t want you seeing her until I do. Or communicating with her. If I find out you have—and I will find out—I’ll have you picked up on suspicion. Is that clear?”

“All right,” Murdock said. “That’s clear.”

Weigand wished it were quite that clear, really. He wished he knew how he was going to keep Murdock from getting in touch with Laurel Burke—how he was going to find out if Murdock did. There was just a chance that Murdock might credit him with clairvoyance and be afraid to risk it.

He noted down the girl’s address.

“Is her name still Mrs. Murdock?” he inquired politely.

Murdock nodded.

“Right,” Weigand said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

This promise did not enliven Murdock perceptibly. As Weigand walked away he heard the little bell on the table tinkle anxiously. Murdock needed sustenance. That was fine.

Weigand stopped at a telephone booth. He arranged to have Laurel Burke’s apartment picketed from without; he arranged to have a man attend on Mr. Murdock at the earliest possible moment. If the two got together the men were to move in, break it up and bring both to Weigand’s office. Otherwise, no action at the moment.

Then he telephoned Charles and chatted with Hugo, who answered. Hugo wanted to know when the Lieutenant—Hugo promoted him to captain, out of cordiality—was coming around. Hugo said the lobsters were good again and indicated that Gus was pining for the lieutenant’s familiar face. Hugo summoned Jerry North.

The girl was still with them. Jerry would tell her that her apartment was not available, but that she could get such personal things as she wanted from it by application. He and Pam would take her to a hotel and remember what hotel.

“Any hotel except the Main,” Weigand requested.

“O.K., Loot,” Jerry North said broadly. “Wait a minute. Here’s Pam.”

“Bill,” Pam said. “The old boy’s son was here. Josh. A while ago. And somebody telephoned him and afterward he looked as if he had heard. And the girl knows him better than I thought.”

“Does she?” Weigand asked. “How well did you think?”

“Oh,” Pam said. “Just a long time ago, a little. But I think now it was a lot. And not such a long time ago. Anyway, in her mind. Because she looked like that.”

It was quite a way to look, Bill told Pam. Mary Hunter must have an unusually expressive face. Pam told him all right, to wait and see. Bill promised that he would.

There were a good many coincidences around, Bill Weigand thought as he got into his car and headed for the precinct. A good many people seemed to know a good many people, with a nondescript apartment on Madison Avenue as a geographical center. It began to look complex.

Or, as Mullins would certainly say, screwy. Which Mullins would attribute to the presence of the Norths in it.