9

WEDNESDAY, 9:20 A.M. TO 1:15 P.M.

The late editions of the morning newspapers had noticeably lost interest. The Times did, to be sure, begin the story on Page 1, but not as if it were really proud of it. It did run it for two columns, giving a good deal more detail—including speculative detail about Mary Hunter—than the tabloids, but the account had a slight air of weariness. The Times, without saying so, indicated that the case was finished with the suicide of Murdock. And at the end of the second column, the Times definitely dropped the subject. The Herald Tribune retained slightly more optimism, and fought against its own gloomy conviction that the case was solved, but it did not fight with confidence. The News moved the story to Page 2 and gave Page 3 back to the war and the iniquities of the administration. The Mirror hinted that there was more to all of it than met the eye, but its hints were unusually shadowy.

It was all, Bill Weigand decided, as it should be. Always providing that eventually he got somewhere. He sighed and took up reports. For the most part they confirmed the already known—the fracture of Murdock’s wrist, the index fingerprint on the gun, the identity of the gun with the one used to kill Merle, the importance of Merle, who, in addition to being a banker, was in the Social Register, was affectionately mentioned in Dun and Bradstreet and was favorably known to the financial secretaries of half a dozen accredited charities. He was also, the Times noted, a distinguished layman.

“What I could do with,” Weigand told Mullins, “is somebody who didn’t like him. Somebody who thought he was a heel. I want the Nell he did wrong by. Nobody kills a saint.”

Mullins looked puzzled.

“Look, Loot,” he said, “that’s how they get to be saints. Lots of times. By being killed.”

Bill looked at Mullins sharply, uneasily suspecting him of cynicism. Then he smiled. He said he didn’t mean real saints—church saints.

“Oh,” Mullins said. “O.K., Loot.”

Mullins tapped a cigarette out of Weigand’s package. He lighted it.

“Like always,” he said, when the light was certain, “there’re rumors. About girls, mostly. Only not anything you can put a finger on. You say, maybe, that it looks like Mr. Merle was a pretty fine citizen, respectable and everything. And somebody says, ‘Yeah, that’s how it looks, doesn’t it?’ in a kinda funny way. Like they were thinking about girls, or maybe that he used to rob the poor box when he had the time. Or you say, ‘Did he have any girl friends?’ and people say they wouldn’t know about that as if they would know about it but ain’t saying.”

“But,” Bill said, “nothing you can pin down?”

Mullins shook his head. He said that was the size of it. Nothing you could pin down.

“Only,” he said, “I’ve been getting the idea that a lot of people didn’t like him much. Even if he did own a bank.”

Merle hadn’t, Bill Weigand pointed out, really owned the bank. Not all of it. He had merely run it. Mullins said that, as far as he could see, that was just as good. Either way, you made out all right. George Merle was an outstanding example of a guy who had made out all right.

“He’s really got it,” Mullins said. “He’s going to make the inheritance tax collectors a fine corpse. State and Federal.”

Bill Weigand said he supposed there wasn’t any doubt of that. Mullins said that he hadn’t, of course, counted it personally, but if it wasn’t there a lot of people were going to be mighty surprised. Including, Mullins said he wouldn’t wonder, the guy who bumped him off.

“Or,” Mullins added, looking at Lieutenant Weigand to see how he took it, “the girl.”

“Or the girl,” Bill agreed, without indicating anything by his tone. “Anybody can use a gun. Which girl do you favor, Sergeant?”

Mullins said he hadn’t thought of more than one. The girl who lived in the apartment. Weigand explained Laurel Burke-Murdock and Mullins nodded during the explanation, indicating that he would consider her, too. But he said he still thought that if it was a dame, it was the Hunter dame. If it was a guy, it probably was Josh Merle.

“On account of he probably gets the money,” Mullins said. “And when rich guys get killed, you look for the guy who gets the money.

“Oh, while we’re talking about him,” Mullins said, “the Navy came through.”

He took a two-page letter out of a brown envelope and tossed it to Weigand. It was “From: Bureau of Naval Personnel, To: Commanding Officer, Homicide Bureau, New York, New York, Police Department.” It was “Subject: Cadet Joshua Merle, Service record of and it was divided by numerals, one, two, three.

Extracted from verbiage, the facts were not complex. Joshua Merle had been a naval aviation cadet until eight months previously, in training as a bomber pilot. He had been separated from the service, honorably, because of injuries received in training.

“Subject cadet,” the letter said, “crashed in landing in a twin-motored training plane, sustaining extensive injuries to his right foot, said injuries necessitating his separation from the service. Cadet Weldon Jameson, flying with Merle at the time, was similarly seriously injured, sustaining a fracture of the right knee. Both cadets were separated from the service after treatment failed to render them fit for further active service in the United States Navy.”

Weigand read the letter, glanced over it again and tossed it into the “File” basket. He remarked that it didn’t say who was piloting the plane at the time of the crash.

“Should it?” Mullins said. “Do we want to know?”

“We want to know everything, don’t we, Sergeant?” Bill Weigand inquired, politely. “We leave no stones unturned, Sergeant.”

“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said, not evidently discomfited. “Do we want to know much?”

Bill Weigand thought it over for a moment. He said he didn’t think they wanted to know much. There were, anyway, things they wanted to know more. For one thing, he would like to know more about the way Joshua Merle had spent his afternoon in town—more specifically. He would like to have somebody find some people Joshua Merle had talked to; he would like to know what bars he had visited, and whether any of them remembered his visits. He would like to know when young Merle limped out of the Yale Club. He would like to know why he walked so much.

“Yeah,” Mullins said. “With a game foot and all.”

“Right,” Weigand said.

Mullins sighed and got up. Bill Weigand watched him a moment and then said, “Not you, Mullins. We’ll put some of the other boys on it. You and I are going out on Long Island to look around a bit.”

Mullins broke a sigh in two. He sat quickly and said, “O.K., Loot,” with enthusiasm. Weigand picked up the telephone. When he put it down he had talked to the State Police and arranged for one of the men from the Criminal Identification Department to go with him to the Merle house, lending authority where Weigand, directly, lacked it. He had talked to a lawyer in a small town—but a town with very rich connections—on the North Shore and had arranged to have a look at George Merle’s will.

He had talked to Deputy Chief Inspector O’Malley—he had listened to Deputy Chief Inspector O’Malley. Then he had stood up, looked abstractedly at his desk and let his fingers drum on it, and gone rather suddenly to the door.

In the Buick he let Mullins drive. But when Mullins, angling east toward the East River Drive, came to Fourth Avenue, Bill suddenly checked him.

“Uptown,” he said. “We may as well go by Mr. Merle’s bank.”

They went up Fourth and into Park; above Grand Central they turned west to Madison. The bank was a large and dignified one in the Fifties. It had not closed in memory of Mr. Merle; there was no display of crêpe. But the vice president to whom Weigand’s inquiries took them was adequately funereal. Pain crossed his face when Mr. Merle was mentioned and he murmured, with evident reverence, some memorial words. Weigand agreed that it was very sad. He nudged the conversation toward facts.

Mr. Merle had come in at a little after ten the day before, in accordance with his custom. He had been in his office until around one, when he had gone out, no doubt to lunch. He had returned before three and remained until almost four thirty.

“Rather later than usual,” the vice president said. “He was an example to all of us.”

Mullins started to say “Huh?” but Weigand’s eyes stopped him. Weigand repeated that it was very sad. He wondered whether he might see Mr. Merle’s secretary.

The vice president’s face was not a mobile one, but it displayed surprising mobility. He looked at Weigand with eyes, which, in the face of a lesser man, would have expressed astonishment.

“But—” he said and stopped. He tried it again.

“But, Lieutenant,” he said. “Mr. Murdock is—is dead. He—he died. I thought—that is, I understood—I mean—.”

“Right,” Bill said, smiling faintly. “I hadn’t realized that Mr. Murdock was Mr. Merle’s secretary. I am quite aware that Mr. Murdock is dead, as the newspapers say. But didn’t Mr. Merle have another secretary? A—I don’t know what you would call it. A stenographic secretary?”

“Oh,” the vice president said. “You mean Miss Werty?”

“Miss?” Weigand said. “Oh, yes—no doubt I mean Miss Werty. I wonder whether I might see Miss Werty?”

He could. He did. Miss Werty appeared, with notebook. Miss Werty was thin and dark and constricted. Her face was set in somber lines. When Mr. Merle’s name was mentioned she shook her head, unbelieving of the cruelty of fate. She said it was very hard to believe.

“Sad,” Weigand said. “Very sad indeed.”

Miss Werty, he thought, was the best evidence he had yet seen to disprove any hints about the unsaintliness of Mr. Merle. Miss Werty marked the late Mr. Merle as ascetic. Miss Werty had been chosen for efficiency.

She proved it. Mr. Merle had arrived at 10:34 the previous morning. He had answered some mail—nothing of importance.

“A matter of a loan,” she said. “And of a drive chairmanship. He was as efficient as he always was and as—as concise. He decided instantly as he always did—no or yes as the case might be.”

He had left at 1:10 and had returned at ten minutes of three. He had dictated several letters and had gone, leaving them to be signed in the morning, at 4:35. Miss Werty, it was clear, was Mr. Merle’s time clock. Weigand nodded and complimented her. He assured himself that none of the mail Miss Werty had opened for Mr. Merle had been of importance; that there had been two letters marked “personal” which she had not opened.

“By the way,” he said, “can you tell me anything about Mr. Murdock? What time he came and went, for example?”

Miss Werty said, “Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure,” in a tone which indicated that Mr. Murdock had by no means been important enough to keep track of. Weigand pressed, gently. Had Mr. Murdock, for example, been in during the morning?

“Oh, yes,” Miss Werty said. “Naturally. A little before Mr. Merle.”

And he had remained—?

“I really can’t say,” Miss Werty said. “He was around during the morning I suppose. No doubt his secretary would know.”

“No doubt,” Weigand agreed. “Did he see Mr. Merle?”

“I believe Mr. Merle summoned him about noon,” Miss Werty said. Her tone implied that the issuance of such a summons had been a regrettable, but minor, lapse on the part of Mr. Merle.

“And you were in the office at the time?” Weigand suggested. Miss Werty unexpectedly flushed.

“I summoned Mr. Murdock,” she said, and was haughty. “Then I—I had some other duties, of course.”

“Of course,” Weigand agreed. “Was Murdock with Mr. Merle for any considerable time?”

“I’m sure I—” she began. “About an hour,” she ended. “Mr. Merle sent Mr. Murdock somewhere and he left about ten minutes before Mr. Merle did.” She looked at Bill Weigand with meaning, although it was not clear what the meaning was. “He was gone all afternoon,” she said. “All afternoon. He didn’t come back at all.”

Weigand said it was all very interesting and thanked Miss Werty and praised the clarity and succinctness of her answers. Miss Werty left. The vice president smiled faintly, momentarily relaxed.

“The old girl didn’t like Murdock,” he said. “Call it professional jealousy. But don’t think she didn’t know every move he made.”

“Every move?” Weigand repeated.

The vice president looked at the detective with calculation.

“I don’t know,” he said, “that any of us knew quite every move Mr. Murdock made. Except Mr. Merle, of course.”

“Mr. Merle used him for—private errands?” Weigand suggested.

The vice president turned all vice president. He was sure he didn’t know. His tone implied that the president of a bank could have no private errands to be done; that with such a man all was openly arrived at.

“I have a feeling that Murdock was Mr. Merle’s—how would you say it—confidential man,” Weigand said. “His—personal representative. You think not?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” the vice president said sternly. “I never supposed that Mr. Merle had—had need for a confidential man.”

The vice president regarded the suggestion with distaste. He pushed it away with his fingertips.

“Right,” Weigand said. “Now—we have reason to think that Mr. Merle drew a check for a considerable amount yesterday and that he gave it to someone. Or that someone took it. Would you have any way of telling us whether that is true?”

The vice president smiled and was patient. Mr. Merle’s personal checkbook would, naturally, be the only source of such information. Weigand also was patient. He suggested that Mr. Merle might have several checkbooks for several purposes. He suggested that the bank records might show whether such a check had been cleared—whether any check drawn by Mr. Merle, for a probably considerable amount, had been cleared.

“Naturally,” the vice president said, “Mr. Merle’s account was frozen as soon as we heard of his death. No checks would be cleared.”

Weigand agreed. That was the rule. It went into effect when the bank had definite notification of the death of a depositor.

“In fact, however,” he pointed out, “checks do frequently go through after a person’s death—checks drawn before death and reaching the bank afterward. But before official notification. Isn’t that correct?”

The vice president supposed it happened.

Then, Weigand suggested, there might be just a chance that a check drawn by Mr. Merle, dropped into the mails the night before for deposit, say—or brought in just as the bank opened in the morning—might conceivably have been cashed? By someone who went through accustomed motions without analysis; possibly by someone who had not even heard of Mr. Merle’s death, or not taken in the fact of his death as having any application to routine business at hand?

The vice president thought it possible. He would check. He sent out orders. He and Weigand sat and looked at each other.

“What did you think of Murdock, personally?” Weigand asked suddenly. The other man looked at him and raised eyebrows. Weigand did not amplify.

“I had very little contact with Mr. Murdock,” the vice president said. “I knew very little of his relationship with Mr. Merle. I did not even know his exact duties.”

Bill Weigand waited. The vice president reached into his mind and chose words carefully.

“I should not,” he said, “I should not at all have taken him for a bank man. If I had met him elsewhere.”

Weigand smiled slightly. The vice president did not smile. His expression did not, on the other hand, reject Bill Weigand’s smile. Weigand lighted a cigarette, and an elderly man came in carrying an eyeshade in one hand and some papers in the other.

“Mr. Merle’s statement,” he said. “As of this morning. And Mr. Murdock’s.” He looked at the vice president and sighed. “I’m afraid there was a check,” he said. He sighed again and went away. The vice president looked at the yellow records and at a check clipped to them. Without comment, he pushed the collection across the desk to Weigand.

The day before, George Merle had drawn a check for $10,000, made out to Oscar Murdock. The check, not endorsed, had come in, in the mail that morning. The bank had endorsed it by stamp and transferred the amount to Murdock’s account, completing a transaction between dead men. Weigand raised eyebrows and looked at the vice president.

“Somebody slipped up,” the vice president said. “As you suggested, Lieutenant. The rest, of course, was routine.”

“Including the stamped endorsement,” Weigand said, not as a question.

“Routine,” the vice president agreed. “When we know both payee and payer. When it is entirely a deposit matter.”

Weigand studied the check and the records for a moment longer. He shoved them back.

“Is it your check?” the vice president wanted to know. “The one you were interested in?”

Weigand thought it was. He thought that, later, they might want it, in which case a proper order would be forthcoming. Meanwhile—

“Does it clear anything up?” the vice president asked.

“No,” Weigand said. “Not particularly.”

Weigand turned it over in his mind as Mullins angled the Buick across town to the East River Drive, uptown to the Tri-Borough and along parkways and into quieter roads on Long Island. It didn’t clear things up, particularly. It was not even certain that it was the check they were after. For why would that check be made out to Murdock, when it was meant for “L”? And why, if Murdock had it, would he take the chance of mailing it to the bank, knowing that it would inevitably suggest that he had been in at Merle’s death?

“Maybe,” Mullins said, “Merle was just paying off a bet. Maybe it hasn’t anything to do with us, one way or the other.”

“Right,” Weigand said. He considered. “But I think it has,” he said. He had a sudden idea, which fitted nearly enough. “Suppose—” he began. Then he saw a small sign pointing up a graveled road. It said: STATE POLICE BARRACKS.

“There,” he said, pointing. Mullins swung the car up the road and in the graveled circle before the barracks.

Weigand went in and came out with a tall, vigorous man in civilian clothes.

“Captain Sullivan,” he told Mullins. “Captain, Sergeant Mullins.”

With the man from the Criminal Identification Department of the State Police guiding them, they looped back to the road. The town of Elmcroft began around the next bend. It ended around the bend which followed. Two miles beyond it, they swung off on a private road between stone pillars. They left behind a band of evergreens screening the house from the road.

It was a large house, lying white under the June sun. It lay among lawns, and off to the left a man was riding a power-mower in narrowing circles, the lawn newly neat wherever he had been. When they stopped the car the smell of newly cut grass was fresh and Bill Weigand’s mind was ruffled by memories which the fragrance evoked.

“It’s odd,” he said, unexpectedly to himself, “how odors make you remember things. More than music. Or isn’t that true of you, Captain?”

The captain said he had never thought of it particularly. Mullins said that with him it was tunes.

“And,” he said, “every so often when I’m shaving I think of collecting for magazine subscriptions when I was a kid. I think of a Hundredth Street and between Second and Third Avenues.”

“Why?” Weigand asked.

“Hell,” Mullins said, “how should I know, Loot?”

They got out and stood looking at the house.

“It’s a fine place,” Captain Sullivan said. “One of the best around here. Over beyond the house they can go right down to the sound and a private beach. Pretty nice.”

If they didn’t want to go to the private beach, there was always the private swimming pool. At the side of the house toward the east, where the sun would reach it in the morning and shade cover it in the afternoon, was a broad stretch of level lawn. Beyond it, perhaps two hundred feet from the house, was a pool, and to the north of the pool a low structure, clapboarded and white like the house, evidently contained dressing rooms. Between the bathhouse and the pool, and along the side of the pool nearest the house, were deck chairs and tables, some of them protected by colored umbrellas. And as they watched, a girl in a white bathing suit came out of the bathhouse, walked out on a diving board, bounced once and arched into the water.

“Miss Merle,” he said. “Miss Ann Merle. The daughter.” His tone sounded slightly disapproving. “You’d think she—” he started to amplify. “Only she wouldn’t. Not Ann Merle.”

“What?” Weigand wanted to know. “Wear a black bathing suit?”

Captain Sullivan laughed briefly. He admitted that there was, after all, no reason why a daughter recently bereaved should, as a gesture of mourning, eschew a swim in a private swimming pool.

“Only,” he said, “it still don’t look right.”

The girl swam the length of the pool, swam halfway back again and turned suddenly toward the side nearest them. She pulled herself up and looked at them. Then she came out, twisting herself expertly over the edge. She said, “Hi!”

“Hi, Ann,” Captain Sullivan called across the lawn. Weigand looked at him quickly. It was unexpected.

“’Lo, Teddy,” Ann Merle said and moved a little way toward them. They walked across the grass toward her and she stopped and stood waiting. She was a very pretty girl from a distance and she was an even prettier girl as they approached. As they came closer, she pulled off a white bathing cap and her hair was black and smooth. She had deep blue eyes in a tanned face and all that the bathing suit did not hide of her was smoothly tanned. She stood easily, waiting for them, her arms hanging naturally by her sides and her hands, a little cupped, easy in repose. She was clearly undisturbed at the approach of the law; at the approach of three men, she was superbly confident.

“What,” she said, when they were near enough so that she did not need to raise her voice, “brings you—oh, Father, of course.”

“Ann,” Captain Sullivan said, “these men are from New York. Homicide men. They’re investigating the—your father’s death.”

He introduced them, and the girl was quiet and serious.

“I supposed somebody would come,” she said. “To—to look us over. I hope you don’t think all this”—she waved at the pool and included herself in the term—“means any of us is taking Father’s death casually.”

“No,” Bill Weigand said. “I was just telling the captain here—.” He broke off. Ann Merle smiled at Captain Sullivan.

“Teddy doesn’t approve?” she said. “No, I suppose he doesn’t. Teddy has trouble with us, don’t you, Teddy.”

Captain Sullivan smiled, with no great enjoyment.

“She and her brother drive like hell, Lieutenant,” he said. “The boys are all the time picking them up for it. That’s what she means.” He spoke to the girl. “You’ll do what seems all right to you, Ann,” he said. “It’s not my business.”

“Anyway,” Ann said, “it isn’t what the lieutenant wants to know about. Unless he thinks I’m—callous. And hence a suspicious character. And I don’t think he does.”

She looked at Bill Weigand.

“I’m not callous, Lieutenant,” she said. “I’m not forgetting about Father.”

Her voice was sober.

“I want to help,” she said. “We all do.”

Bill Weigand was sure she did. He agreed when she said that they would want to go up to the house. He agreed further when she said that she would get her brother to talk to him. He assured her that the whole matter was routine; that he would like permission to go over her father’s desk; that, as a matter still of routine, he wanted to meet the family. Herself, her brother—. He paused.

“Aunt Mae,” she filled in. “That’s all the family there is, really. Jamie’s around, of course, but he’s—he’s just a—a guest. And then there’s Arnold Wickersham Potts, of course. Wicky.”

“Is there?” Weigand said. “Does Mr. Potts live here?”

“Oh, no,” Ann Merle said. “Not here. Not at the house. He rents the guest house. Down by the beach. But of course you’ve heard of Mr. Potts. A. Wickersham Potts? He doesn’t use the Arnold much.”

“No,” Weigand said. “I never heard of Mr. Potts.”

“No?” the girl said. “The organist? He’s really celebrated, you know. Among organists. He plays at St. Andrew’s on Park. Where we go—where we’ve always gone in winters. When we’re in town.”

“Does he?” Bill Weigand said. “I don’t know many organists.”

He did not suppose that he would intimately know Mr. Potts—a tall, dark man, he supposed, with rather lank hair and a long, sharp, delicate face. His tone dismissed Mr. Potts. He ran over in his mind the things that might matter—the things and people. Ann Merle and her brother Joshua, Jameson possibly, the aunt possibly, George Merle’s checkbook, details of the will from the lawyer in Elmcroft, possibly a servant or two to corroborate details of George Merle’s movements the day before. And then? Then back to town, probably, with background in his mind—with Merle fitted into a habitat so that he could be seen against it, with whatever oblique light on Merle’s character, the place he lived, the books on his library shelves, the pictures on the walls, might shed. And then, in town, back to slow digging—digging into Murdock’s past and Laurel Burke’s, digging into the real character and the unadvertised activities of the respected gentleman who had come to so awkward an end in the little Madison Avenue flat. It was going to take long digging, Weigand decided; longer than the inspector would approve. Unless unexpected things happened—things of which there was now no sign.

An hour and a half later his views as to the probable future of the case were unchanged. He sat at Mr. Merle’s desk and reviewed from his notes.

The checkbook had given him something. It was not certain what that something meant—what a check, made out not the day before but the day before that, for $10,000 and entered on the stub, not to Murdock but to cash, had to do with three bullets in Mr. Merle’s chest. You could suppose it was the same check, entered as cash in the checkbook and made out on its face to Murdock. That was an interesting supposition, because it meant that Merle had not wanted the record of the payment to show to anyone who might be tempted to look at the checkbook entries. A housemaid dusting the room in his absence, perhaps? An inquisitive member of the family? Because the book was in an unlocked drawer of the desk.

He had found that the servants, and particularly the chauffeur who had driven George Merle to the train, agreed with Joshua Merle as to the time of the elder Merle’s departure for the city the day before. They also agreed with Joshua Merle’s account of his own movements. Merle himself was calmer than the night before and easier. And he had nothing to add. He had spent the day idly in town; he had dropped in at Charles for dinner and there someone, ostensibly a policeman, had telephoned him of his father’s death. He had met Jameson outside, told Jameson the news and asked Jameson to go around to the precinct house with him.

“By the way,” Weigand said, “this accident in training. You and Mr. Jameson were together at the time? I mean, you were both hurt in the same accident?”

Joshua Merle’s face showed unpleasant memories. He nodded.

“In the same plane,” he said. “A two-motored trainer with dual controls. Jamie and I were taking turns handling her. The next step, if we’d come through that all right, would have been the real thing.”

Weigand made a sound of sympathy.

“What happened?” he said.

“I cracked her up,” he said. “Coming in. I miscalculated and—cracked her up. And Jamie and I didn’t walk away. Neither of us walked anywhere so well afterward. His right knee got cracked to hell and I’ve only got part of a right foot. Not enough for the Navy.”

“You were piloting at the time?” Weigand said.

The dark young man nodded bitterly.

“It was my pigeon,” he said. “And did I foul it up.” He looked at Weigand darkly. “Snafu to a fare-you-well,” he said. “Not only myself but poor Jamie too.”

Weldon Jameson had not seemed nearly so bitter about it. It had been, he said, something that might happen to anyone. A lot of guys cracked up in training. They were lucky, in a way, to have got out as well as they had. There was nothing to indicate that he held any bitterness toward Joshua Merle. On the contrary.

“Poor Josh can’t forget it,” he said. “He keeps blaming himself—seems to feel that he owes me something. I keep telling him it’s just the fortunes of—well, of war. If I’d been flying her, likely as not I’d have cracked up too. There was quite a wind and probably we got a downdraft or something. He’s a sweet guy, old Josh.”

He paused at that point and looked at Weigand.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “that’s really why I’m more or less living here. Josh feels that he’s got to—well, repay me, I guess, for what happened. And I haven’t got any money and he has—so.” He shook his head. Weigand waited and let his waiting seem expectant.

“Hell,” Jameson said, “I’d actually rather be on my own. That is—I’ve got to start some time. But I hate to tell Josh that, because—well, he’s a funny sort of bloke. Sensitive. As long as he can feel that he’s doing something for me it maybe helps him get over it. You see what I mean?”

“Yes,” Weigand told him.

“Of course,” Jameson said, and he smiled suddenly, “I don’t pretend that this isn’t a very comfortable spot. It’s a break for me, all right.”

“Naturally,” Bill Weigand said. “Of course that enters into it.”

Jameson said he was damned right it did.

He had stood up and started to limp away, looking a very attractive young man.

“By the way,” Weigand said, “Mr. Merle was lucky he ran into you just after he heard about his father. It was a good time to have a friend along.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Jameson said. “I don’t know that I helped much. But probably it was a lucky break for Josh—running into anybody just then would have been.”

He stood a moment and his face was graver.

“It’s bad for Josh,” he said. “He was fond of the old man. I’m glad I happened to be around when he needed somebody.”

He went on, after that.

Ann Merle had changed into a dark blue sports dress when she talked to Weigand the second time, but her long brown legs were still bare. She corroborated the time of her father’s departure for the city, and also the times her brother and Jameson had left. She herself had been around until midafternoon and then had driven to a tennis club near by. Later, after a couple of sets, she and a friend—sex and identity left vague—had driven into New York for cocktails and dinner. It was late when they drove back.

“By the way,” Weigand said, “did you know that your brother was going to be at Charles for dinner?”

The girl shook her head and said, “No.”

“Why?” she said.

“Somebody did,” Weigand told her. “I’m curious to know who. You didn’t know. Mr. Jameson ran into him there entirely by accident, I gather. The police didn’t know, although they were supposed to have telephoned him there. And somebody did telephone him there.”

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I should think obviously it was Mr. Murdock. The man who killed Father.”

“Probably,” Weigand agreed. “Unfortunately I can’t ask him.”

“Which,” the girl said, “brings up a point. If Mr. Murdock killed Father and then himself, why isn’t the case closed? Why are you here at all?”

“Odds and ends,” Bill told her, evenly. “We try to leave things tidy. And, of course, Murdock didn’t leave any confession. It’s merely an assumption that he killed your father. A reasonable assumption, of course—probably a valid assumption. But we still like to have a last look around.”

“A last look around,” the girl repeated. “You are very thorough, Lieutenant Weigand.”

Bill Weigand said they always tried to be thorough. He asked her if he might see her aunt for a moment. He saw Aunt Mae for a moment—Aunt Mae dressed in black, with evidence of past tears, very dignified and grave and, in a grave and dignified manner, very vindictive toward Oscar Murdock. She was inclined to think that the laxity of the police in allowing him to escape punishment was difficult to excuse. Weigand forebore to point out that the police could hardly have done more to Murdock than was already done; he thanked Mrs. Mae Burnwood, widowed sister of the late George Merle, and let her go. He found Mullins, who had finished with the servants and added nothing to what they knew, sitting at the pool in comfort; he found Captain Sullivan, talking with Ann Merle. He indicated that he had finished.

“But of course,” Ann said, “you’re staying to lunch. You and Teddy and—Mr. Mullins.”

Bill Weigand started to refuse and Captain Sullivan looked at him with fixed hope in his eyes. After all, Weigand decided, they had to eat somewhere. He thanked Ann Merle and accepted. Captain Sullivan looked pleased and grateful.