Ding dong bell

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Mrs. Reilly’s murder mysteries nearly al-ways deal with the kind of people you know,could be your own friends and neighbors.They are reasonably well-to-do people,sometimes wealthy and glamorous, whomove in circles neither Bohemian nor stuffy,but frequently their lives impinge upon sub-urban ways or Greenwich Village free-wheeling. The characters are women oftaste and breeding, businessmen of probityand good standards. All the more shockingthen to find them drawn into the horror ofmurder, and a net of suspicion.

So with this, her latest book. Liz Bowen,a career girl in advertising art, is about tomarry widower Philip Montgomery. Lizlives on the edge of the Village: Mont-gomery has a house in Spuyten Duyvil onthe northern tip of Manhattan. Both haveextensive family connections in New Yorkand Europe. And both have secrets in theirpast which now reach out to destroy theirmutual faith, their happiness, and indeedmay enmesh them in charges of murder.

When the killer strikes the first time, cir-cumstances point dangerously to Liz as wellas to Montgomery for reasons which neithercan understand at first, so deeply rooted arethey in the past. Yet Inspector McKee’sskepticism rejects the obvious, and fortu-nately he digs deeper and deeper. His policework and the mystifying actions of thisgroup of New Yorkers make one of Mrs.Reillymost fascinating novels of guiltysecrets and murder.

Digitized by the Internet Archivein 2016 with funding fromKahle/Austin Foundation

Mrs. Reilly’s murder mysteries nearly always deal withthe kind of people you know—could be your ownfriends and neighbors. They are reasonably well-to-dopeople, sometimes wealthy and glamorous, who move incircles neither Bohemian nor stuffy, but frequently theirlives impinge upon suburban ways or Greenwich Villagefreewheeling. The characters are women of taste andbreeding, businessmen of probity and good standards.All the more shocking then to find them drawn into thehorror of murder, and a net of suspicion.

So with this, her latest book. Liz Bowen, a career girlin advertising art, is about to marry widower PhilipMontgomery. Liz lives on the edge of the Village; Mont-gomery has a house in Spuyten Duyvil on the northerntip of Manhattan. Both have extensive family connec-tions in New York and Europe. And both have secretsin their past which now reach out to destroy their mu-tual faith, their happiness; and indeed may enmesh themin charges of murder.

When the killer strikes the first time, circumstancespoint dangerously to Liz as well as to Montgomery forreasons which neither can understand at first, so deeplyrooted are they in the past. Yet Inspector McKee’s skep-ticism rejects the obvious and fortunately he digs deeperand deeper. His police work and the mystifying actionsof this group of New Yorkers make one of Mrs. Reilly’smost fascinating novels of guilty secrets and murder.

THE CANVAS DAGGERCOMPARTMENT KTELL HER IT’S MURDERTHE VELVET HANDTHE DOUBLE MANLAMENT FOR THE BRIDEMURDER AT ARROWAYSSTAIRCASE 4THE FARMHOUSETHE SILVER LEOPARDMURDER ON ANGLER’S ISLANDTHE OPENING DOORNAME YOUR POISONTHREE WOMEN IN BLACKMOURNED ON SUNDAYTHE DEAD CAN TELLDEATH DEMANDS AN AUDIENCEMURDER IN SHINBONE ALLEYALL CONCERNED NOTIFIEDDEAD FOR A DUCATDEAD MAN CONTROLMR. SMITH’S HATTHE LINE-UPMCKEE OF CENTRE STREETTHE DOLL’S TRUNK MURDERTHE MAN WITH THE PAINTED HEADMURDER IN THE MEWSTHE DIAMOND FEATHERTHE THIRTY-FIRST BULLFINCH

Philip Montgomery and Liz Bowen were to be marriedin mid-May. On the nineteenth of April Liz went up toSpuyten Duyvil, on the northern tip of Manhattan, tolook at the house in which Philip had lived with hisfirst wife until her death the previous July. He didn’tknow whether she’d like the place or not. He said thatit was convenient—he could get to the office by train orcar in less than three-quarters of an hour—but prettybig. “Maybe you’d rather have an apartment in town,and we can pick up some little place in the country forweek ends by and by. Look at it anyhow and see. Thatwill be one thing out of the way.”

Philip was to meet Liz in the Biltmore cocktaillounge, and they were to go up together on the five-fifteen from Grand Central. She reached the hotel first,got a table for two near the entrance and ordered avermouth. There was a soft crash of voices and laughterwith music in the background as people milled about,filling up the lounge. Other women looked as smart andattractive as Liz, but glances lingered upon her, held bya vitality, a sort of shining force, on her lips and in hergray eyes. Sitting there, she was calmly, deeply happy.The moment remained with her, as isolated momentswill; it was etched in memory. Not that she particularlycared for this trip to Spuyten Duyvil—Philip’s friends

there had also been his first wife’s. Nothing was im-portant though except that the world existed, she andPhilip were in it, and their way was clear before them.

Liz sat facing the clock. The hands moved on. It wasfive minutes of five and then it was five; she paid thecheck, they might have to run for it. They didn’t catchthe five-fifteen.

“Philip couldn’t make it,” LaTesca said with a grin.“He’s fit to be tied. Board meeting—called at the lastminute. He phoned your apartment but you’d left, soI said I’d come along. I live uptown and my car’soutside. I’ll drive you to Polly Ford’s—you’re stayingwith her for the night, aren’t you? Philip said to tell youhe’d make it as fast as he could. I guess”—he lookedwistfully at a tray of cocktails being carried past—“we’dbetter get going. I don’t want to get a ticket.”

Liz gathered her gloves and purse and got up with afeeling of reluctance. She had met Miss Ford, herhostess, only once, at a luncheon arranged by Philip; shewas an old friend of his and one of the first people hehad told. She was in her late thirties and would havebeen handsome except for a heaviness in the lower partof her face; her mouth seemed to have too many teethin it. She dressed well and her skin was good. Underdark hair, threaded with silver, her odd violet eyes werelovely—soft, appealing. Liz had put her down as verymuch a lady, with a slight Jehovah complex, not muchhumor and loads of money—used to having her ownway.

Afterward Philip had said, “Polly was crazy aboutyou,” but Liz doubted it. Polly Ford had also been aclose friend of Philip’s first wife, Sarah; they had livednear each other, and there had been a covert appraisalin the older woman, a suspended judgment. Not thatshe hadn’t been pleasant. She had. She was so glad forPhilip, so glad to see him happy; he deserved it. Shehad grown up with Sarah. “I was very fond of her andher death hit me hard but—I suppose the truth is thatshe and Philip were just never really suited to eachother.”

She had been friendly and gracious, but Liz decidedit would definitely be nicer if Philip were with her onthis initial trip into strange territory. Oh well, shethought resignedly as she got into LaTesca’s car parkeddown the block, Philip wouldn’t be long.

Thirty-five minutes later LaTesca turned in at thegates of Polly Ford’s house on the banks of the Hudson.It was a rambling affair of white painted brick, ninetyor a hundred years old, set well back on a rise, inrolling, tree-dotted lawns. LaTesca said, “Nice place,isn’t it, and it fits Polly. Don’t know what we’d do with-out her. If you’re out of liquor on a Sunday, she has it.If you’re out of cigarettes, she has them. If you wantto cry on her shoulder, she’s there. But she can give youthe devil, too. Says I drink too much—which is ob-viously absurd.”

Liz got out and thanked him, and he drove off with afriendly wave. She mounted a low flight of broad steps,crossed a terrace to a heavy blue door and pressed thebell.

with her in the spacious hall. He was just leaving. Hehad his coat on. He was a short, stout, yellow-hairedman in his middle fifties, foppishly dressed, with around, shrewd face and small, piercing, dark eyes.

Polly said, “Liz, dear,” with pleasure and looked pasther. Liz explained that Philip was stuck at the office, andthat LaTesca had driven her up.

Polly didn’t introduce the man, waiting hat in hand.She said to him with perfunctory politeness, “Thanks,Mr. Adams, we’ll let you know,” and held the dooropen.

The man called Adams didn’t immediately move. Hewas looking at Liz. There was no expression in hisround black eyes except intentness. The scrutiny wasoddly disagreeable. He came to with something ap-proaching a start.

“Oh, ah—yes . . . Well, thank you, Miss Ford.” Heclapped on his hat with a flourish and went out. Pollyclosed the door behind him.

Polly’s house was as attractive inside as out and verymuch what Liz had expected. It was ordered, com-fortable. There were some beautiful old pieces scatteredthrough the spacious rooms, and what wasn’t old wasright. Polly was cordial and seemed pleased to have herthere. Liz’s vague uneasiness, discomfort, didn’t goaway. It was an alien atmosphere, and if she had cometo look at the Montgomery house as a possible futurehome, she herself was up for observation, too. Overcigarettes in front of the living-room fire Polly said thatCarol would be in presently.

Liz looked at a jewel of a desk under one of the win-dows, at a row of bookcases. Philip was very fond of hisstepdaughter. It was important to get off on the rightfoot with her.

Polly held a match to Liz’s cigarette, lit her own andsettled back. "I wouldn’t let that worry me if I wereyou. Oh, she may be a little difficult at first, she likes todramatize herself . .

"Not to such an extent . . . She’s an adopted child,you know—not that that matters—they were frankabout it from the first, and it was just as though she wastheir own. It isn’t that. Basically it’s her eczema, Ithink.”

"Yes. She’s had it since she was a baby. The doctorshave done about everything, but she simply won’t fol-low rules. It bothered Sarah frightfully. . . . PersonallyI think Sarah made far too much of it, but then she wasa woman who—well, appearance meant everything toher. ...”

Sarah, Philip’s first wife, the wife with whom he hadbeen unhappy, to whom he had been married for morethan eleven years . . . She couldn't talk to Polly Ford

about her, ask the questions she wanted to ask—Pollyhad been Sarah’s friend.

A big, jolly colored maid appeared. Polly was wantedon the phone. She had only hung up when she gotanother call. She was very much in demand. After thattwo people came in, a woman who wanted Polly on theschool board and a man to borrow a book. Polly refusedthe school board with vigor. “No you don’t, Anne. Ihad to put off a trip to Mexico last year because of thatblasted hot-lunch affair.’’ Both visitors studied Liz withthinly veiled curiosity. By the time they went it wasafter six and Polly wanted to fix some hors d’oeuvresPhilip liked—“Charlotte has a heavy hand with an-chovies. But first come upstairs and I’ll show you yourroom.”

The guest bedroom, across the hall from one Caroloccasionally occupied, was charming. The Montgomeryhouse was still open and staffed with servants, butPhilip often stayed in town and Carol spent a lot oftime with Polly, particularly since her mother’s death.Liz washed her face, did her hair and unpacked hercase. The Inghams, Sarah’s sister and brother-in-law,were coming in after dinner. She wondered what theythought of Philip’s remarriage.

She had asked him about them and he said with ashrug, “They’re all right.” Would they like her, approveof her? Why should they? Did a first wife’s relatives everlike the second wife? And, after all, Sarah Montgomeryhad only been dead ten months. When she had pointedthat out to Philip he tossed it off. He said calmly,“Whose life is it anyhow, mine or my brother- andsister-in-law’s?” He was right, of course. Nevertheless

she wished Philip would come. What the devil was shedoing up here among these strangers anyhow, Lizwondered. All right, so Philip wanted her to be friendswith this woman he liked. That was fine, but whycouldn’t she and Polly Ford and the others have metagain in New York? Why be a house guest up here?Philip had been sure Polly Ford wanted her; Liz wasequally sure Polly Ford didn’t give a damn—but thatwas a man for you. Anyhow she was uncomfortable onher own without Philip to sweeten the atmosphere.

Perhaps he had arrived. She left the room, listened inthe upper hall, couldn’t hear anything and started downthe broad shallow stairs that doubled on themselves.She had almost reached the landing and was about -tomake the turn when she stood still at the sound of herown name in a strange voice, a girl’s voice.

“Liz Bowen—don’t try to give me that, Polly!’’Below in the hall the maid Charlotte came into viewcarrying a vase filled with flowers. She disappeared intoa room at the front of the hall. Liz realized what hadhappened. The maid had left a door to the kitchenregions open behind her, which was why the voice wasaudible.

The girl with Polly was Philip’s stepdaughter Carol.Polly said sharply, “Carol, stop it. You’re being anidiot. Why shouldn’t your father marry again?’’

“You heard me—and I heard you the night mymother died. Oh yes, I heard you. After you called thedoctor, while you were waiting for him, you calledPhilip at his office. He said he had to work that night.

And he wasn’t at his office when you called. Then later,when he did come home after Mother died, he admittedto you that he’d been out with a woman—that woman.Liz Bowen. His mistress. Mother knew about her—I’msure she knew—and it killed her. He killed her.”

Polly was stern. “That’s a lie, Carol. There’s no truthwhatever in it—not a jot, an iota. Look, you’re not achild any more. You know your mother and fatherweren’t happy together, that they lived separate livesfor years. I loved Sarah, she was my friend—but factsare facts. If it was anyone’s fault it was Sarah’s, notPhilip’s, and as long as she was alive he was faithful toher. Now he has a perfect right to do what he wants—just as much right as you have. Would you stay at homeand take care of him? Give up a life of your own? Ofcourse you wouldn’t—and you shouldn’t. Stop being ababy ...”

The maid had reappeared, retracing her steps. Thedoor closed. Then there was nothing but silence in thelower reaches of the house. Out on the river a boatwhistled.

The rail she gripped was hard and cold under Liz’shand. The night Sarah Montgomery died . . . Everydetail of it seemed minutely clear. She was in love withPhilip and he with her. He had a wife and there wasnothing for it but a clean break. They had to be to-gether for good or not at all. A brief rapture and ashes—that was unthinkable. She had warned Philip earlier,but he refused to listen. So she had taken steps. The im-mense agency she worked for was international in scope.She had been offered a post in the London office and had

accepted it. She had written to tell him so. That nighthe had come striding into her apartment.

Wait for what? She hadn’t said yes or no, but she hadbeen fully determined to leave New York and put fourthousand miles between herself and temptation.

Later on that same night, hours after Philip got home,his wife died. She had been suffering from hypertensionfor years and nobody was surprised. That was whatPhilip had meant when he had implored her not to doanything in a hurry. He was too sensitive, too con-siderate, Liz thought, to weigh her down with theburden of waiting for a dead woman’s shoes. Carol wasconvinced they hadn't waited. . . . What was she todo? How was she to meet the girl, smile at her, tryuselessly to win her over? And the others—Sarah’s sisterand brother-in-law, her friends? Did they think thesame thing? Did Polly Ford think so? Maybe she did.Maybe that was why there was an undercurrent of cool-ness, questioning, in her.

Liz stood clear of the railing and returned soundlesslyto her room. No one should suspect that she had over-heard Carol Thayer’s outburst. She waited fifteenminutes and then wen^ downstairs, braced for an en-counter with Carol. But Carol was gone, and Polly saidnothing about her having been there, betrayed nothing.Her black hair was drawn back from a broad foreheadand fastened in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Lizobserved her patrician nose above the slightly unfor-tunate mouth, her soft violet eyes. Polly was arranginga clump of daffodils earnestly, and with close attention.

Liz reflected how little you could tell from the outsidewhat another person was really thinking or feeling.

Philip arrived while they were having a cocktail infront of the living-room fire. At once the focus changedand everything was fine. He kissed Liz, greeted Pollyaffectionately, made a fresh batch of drinks and sat backcontentedly, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

Polly told him Carol was home and he seemed sur-prised. He hadn’t gone to the house but had comedirectly here from the station.

“I thought she was going to stay another week withthe Pembertons. She all right?”

His eyes asked Polly a question. Did he know howCarol felt? Liz wondered. Had he and Polly talked itover? She had a sensation of being shut out. It was newand disturbing. Until then she had had all of Philip, orthought she had. . . . She wasn’t being a jealous cat,was she? The idea was revolting. She pushed it away.

Polly didn’t answer Philip’s unspoken question di-rectly. She said, “Fine,” and got up. “Let's go in.Dinner’s ready and I don’t want Charlotte’s souffle tofall or she’ll be in a rage.”

The meal was pleasant, the food well cooked, theatmosphere easy and relaxing; everything Polly Forddid was well done. There was a good Medoc with theroast—at least Polly and Philip said it was good. Onered wine tasted much like another to Liz. Philip carved.While he was carving Polly told him about Mr. Adams,said he had been there that afternoon.

“He’s found Joan Chambeau. He wanted to knowwhether you want to go after her. I said I’d talk to you.”

Polly explained to Liz that Joan was a maid who hadmade off with some money and jewelry shortly beforeSarah died.

“The devil with it,’’ Philip said. “As I recall, thestuff the girl took wasn’t particularly valuable—and Ialways felt rather sorry for her, with that upbringingand that brute of a father.’’

Polly said, “She got away with hundreds of dollars’worth—and think of the innocent victims who go onhiring her, she looks so simple and ingenuous.’’

“Now Polly, none of your civic conscience . . .”They sparred amiably and Polly conceded. “Very well,you’re the boss.”

The Inghams, Philip’s sister-in-law and her husband,arrived while they were having coffee and brandy in theliving room. Liz was agreeably surprised. Alice Inghamwas a short, square, sturdy-shouldered woman in herforties, with flyaway lavender hair that looked as thoughit had been trimmed with a buzz saw, pink and whiteskin and very blue eyes. She must have been an ex-tremely pretty girl. Her face was fresh, open, and hermanner easy and pleasant.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said, bustling upto Liz with an attractive smile, and offering a smallshapely hand.

Joshua Ingham was the reddest man Liz had everseen. His weathered skin was ruddy, his eyes a reddishbrown, and thinning ruddy hair retreated from a highforehead. He was as lean as his wife was plump.

He beamed and took Liz’s two hands, shaking themheartily. He was delighted, he said; might have beenwaiting to meet her all his life. “Well, well, well, thebride-to-be . . . Where’s Phil been hiding you, eh? I’mnot going to congratulate you, Miss Bowen. Phil’s theone. When’s it to be, Phil?”

Philip said they were getting married on the eight-eenth of May. “Four weeks from now.”

Four weeks ... A little worm of dread uncurleditself in Liz. She hadn’t realized . . . The fire waswarm but she felt suddenly chilled, as though an icydraft had invaded the room. The cup and the lip—fourweeks was exactly the same interval as before. Not thistime. It wasn’t possible. Philip didn’t know about theother time, she hadn’t told him. It was over and donewith, finished—if a thing like tha* could ever be fin-ished. . . . Someday she would tell him, after they weremarried—part of it anyhow . . .

A warning bell rang in Liz’s mind and she pulledherself into steadiness, looked away from the flames, andfound Alice Ingham’s blue eyes fastened on her face. Itwas the same sort of look Mr. Adams had given her inthe hall that afternoon, intent, probing, evaluating . . .

It was a shock because it was out of character. Thelook lasted only a fraction of a second. Then AliceIngham turned to Philip and made a remark aboutCarol. “. . . ought to settle it soon. I think she ought

At that point family politics reared a head. AliceIngham was jealous of Polly Ford’s influence over Carol.Polly said gently, “Carol and I had sort of planned alittle run abroad for July and August—Scotland, Wales,Ireland ...” Alice Ingham bridled. She was a womanfor whom the obvious had no terrors. She said, “I dofeel that all this running about is bad for Carol, Pollydear. What the child needs is a settled home, a feelingof permanence, security, of belonging . . .” Philip saidnothing, and sawed wood and drank his coffee with awithheld gleam of amusement.

Josh Ingham began questioning Liz. No, she told him,she had no sisters or brothers, just a cousin with whomshe was brought up, who was married and lived inEngland with her husband who was stationed there. Notthe army. No, he was the British representative of hisfirm.

There was the sound of a car beyond the windows. Itpulled up outside. Polly said, “That’s probably Caroland Tony LaTesca.” The front door opened. It wasCarol. Invisible in the hall, she said to someone, “Oh—I left my cigarette case in the car. Get it, will you?” Lizbraced herself. Carol appeared in the doorway &ndpaused there.

She was a small girl with a small round head. Per-fectly straight hair of a peculiar and pleasing light tancut in a short bob covered the round head smoothly. Shelooked like an alert and attractive doll, very young. Theshort dinner dress of beige wool with swinging skirt

molded a pretty figure. But her face . . . Liz felt aswift stab of pity. Carol held a compact in her hand,used the puff—it was probably a habitual gesture.Powder failed to hide the disfiguring eczema coveringher left cheek and part of her chin.

They all turned. Carol had called Philip a mur-derer that afternoon. No matter what she had saidit was evident that she adored him. She had eyes only forhim. “Philip,” she cried, and came running across theroom. Reaching up, she threw her arms around his neck.“Darling, darling, I’m so glad to see you.”

Philip appeared to be slightly surprised at the exuber-ance of her greeting. He patted her shoulder and heldher off. “I’m glad to see you, pet. Didn’t expect youuntil next week.”

“I know, but I got tired of the Pembertons. Deadlydull. Besides, I wanted to come home.” She took herhand in his and swung it, as though she couldn’t bear tolet him go; or perhaps, Liz thought, as though shewanted to establish prior rights. Ingham said, “What’sthis, eh? What’s this? No kiss for your old uncle?” andshe blew him one. Polly said, “Come and meet Liz,Carol.”

So far the girl had ignored Liz as if she weren’t there.Now she rounded slowly, a doll with a smooth tan head,and looked at Liz directly.

The head inclined itself. The nod was small and stiff.“How do you do, Miss Bowen.”

It was her voice, and her expression—a slap in theface couldn’t have been more direct. There was no mis-taking her attitude. The small embarrassed pause brokeand they all began to talk at once. Philip’s face showed

nothing, but Liz could feel his anger. It mustn’t be thatway, that would only widen the breach; he crossed toher. “More coffee, Liz?” “Please.” He got her some.Alice Ingham asked Carol solicitously how she was andif she was taking her vitamins. Josh Ingham said some-thing to Polly about Adams: “Saw that detective johnnySarah hired, at the station this afternoon, waiting on thedowntown platform. Was he here? Not hounding thatpoor little girl Joan?”

In the middle of the chatter a man entered the room.He was carrying the cigarette case for which Carol hadsent him. He paused tentatively near the door. Caroltook a step toward him, sparkling again. “Del, dar-ling . . ”

Liz had seen him only out of her eye corners, hadn’tfully taken him in. She turned and looked at him—andthe room pinwheeled.

Liz sat very still, everything in her arrested, frozen.There was blackness all around her. Waves of it pulsedin and out, crowding down the lights, swallowing themup. Delphin Saunders was advancing into the room withhis inimitable poise, big, easy and assured, a man withexcellent manners, a man with charm. The whitemuffler, under the dark topcoat that he wore dashinglylike a cloak, set off his fair head, his handsome face. Oh,very handsome, and yet fully mature. He was—sheadded up—thirty-six. If you could believe him, wiiichyou couldn’t—ever.

He and Carol were on first name terms. “Come andsay hello to my family, Del.”

How long had Carol knowTn him, and where had theymet? Had he mentioned her to Carol? She must be care-ful, careful, nothing must show . . . Carol was a childwith a prize, a new toy. Murmured how-do-you-do’s.. . . And then Delphin Saunders was in front of Liz’schair, six feet in front of it, and Carol, a small prettyhand on his sleeve, was speaking their names.

Liz was holding the demitasse Philip had broughther. She raised the cup, took a sip of coffee and looked

So he hadn’t said anything. Was it a hidden club?Perhaps he hadn’t known about her, known she wouldbe there. Yet there was no surprise in him.

Saunders said, “Yes, we’ve met before. . . . It’s beenquite a while. Miss Bowen.”

It was over. He and Carol had turned away and weretalking to the Inghams, standing in a group between herand Philip. Philip couldn’t see her. She had to havetime. . . . She started to put her coffee cup down on atable at her elbow and instead let it spill deliberatelyover her skirt.

A small flurry. Liz retrieved the teetering cup andjumped to her feet. “Oh dear—how stupid of me.”Philip took the cup from her and Polly came with anapkin. Liz used it. “I’d better go and change.” Pollysaid yes, that it might stain. “Use cold water, Liz.” “Iwill. Cold is better, isn’t it? I won’t be a moment.” Andthen she was out of the room and mounting the stairs.

In the bedroom on the floor above she closed thedoor, put her back against it and stood staring unsee-ingly at the lamplit bed turned down for the night, thegleaming blue satin of the puff across the foot. Don’t

panic, she told herself; try and think clearly. DelphinSaunders was here as a friend of Carol’s. He hadn’t cometo see her. Their being in the same house was chance,pure and simple—she could have run into him anynumber of places dozens of times. No, his presence hadno significance whatever as far as she was concerned.None. How could it have? He had done all the harmhe could. . . . Oh, had he? her mind asked cynically.She recoiled from that, fought terror fiercely, her breath-ing fast, shallow. After a minute or two she forced her-self out of the numbness of mental exhaustion, movedfrom the door, took off her stained dress and got intothe one she had worn in the car. She redid her face andlips and finally made herself leave the room. It wouldlook odd if she were among the missing too long—therewere watchful eyes here, inimical eyes.

Blessedly, when she got downstairs Del Saunders andCarol weren’t there. They had gone on somewhere. TheInghams had gone, too, to play bridge with friends, andPolly and Philip were sitting side bv side on one of thelittle sofas at right angles to the fireplace. Liz droppeddown on the sofa opposite.

They didn’t appear to have noticed anything. Pollysaid, “Go and sit beside her, Philip,” but Philip said,resuming his seat, “No, I’m going to sit here and lookat her. Isn’t she lovely?”

It was all right, all right. His posture was easy, un-strained. Liz smiled back at him. “Two can play thatgame. Isn’t he gorgeous, Polly?”

Polly flushed a little. She wasn’t used to lightness. Butshe tried. She said, “You’re both delightful—and I’mgoing to get my book, go to bed and read, and leave you

“I’m sorry, Liz, very sorry,” he said gravely. “I apolo-gize for Carol’s behavior—but she’s only a kid. Bearwith her, she’ll come around.” He was puzzled as wellas disturbed and angered. “I don’t know what got intoher.”

Polly knew. Only a few hours ago Carol had calledPhilip her mother’s murderer. Polly wasn’t going totalk about it. She said pacifically, “She is a child, notwanting her world to change and hitting out when itdoes, but she’ll get used to the idea.” She paused andwent on slowly. “Did it occur to either of you that shewas rather—interested in Mr. Saunders?”

It hit Liz with the force of a bullet. For a moment herheart stopped beating. That child and Delphin Saunders—the thought was horrible. It couldn’t happen, mustn’tbe allowed to happen.

Philip was frowning. “But she’s only just met thisSaunders—and what about LaTesca? I thought—youknow how she was about him last year. Except forLaTesca, there was no one in the world. You remem-ber . . .”

Again there was that voiceless interchange betweenPhilip and Polly Ford, as there had been when Philipasked Polly how Carol was. Polly shook her head.

“Tony’s out of the picture at the moment. I believethey had a stand-up knockdown fight a month or so ago.And as far as Carol’s having just met this man Saundersgoes, well, she’s young and impressionable and all

wrought up about you people. . . . Who is Saunders,Liz? What do you know about him? You’ve met himbefore.”

There it was, Liz thought, and she was squarely upagainst it. There was nothing she could say, not a singleword, that wouldn’t be dangerous. If she said, “I wasengaged to Delphin Saunders; a month before the wed-ding I stopped being engaged to him,” they wouldask why. It couldn’t be done. A council of despair—butshe had no choice. She was going to have to lie.

Philip said briskly, “Well, I think we’re all jumpingto conclusions, Polly,” and Polly said, “Maybe, but withall that money . . .” After that the subject was droppedand the talk turned to other things.

Around eleven Polly got her book and left Philipand Liz alone together, but the sweetness of the hourwith him in front of the fire was destroyed by Liz’sinner turmoil. Once she almost told Philip some of it.Two things stopped her. One was a solemn oath. Theother was a reluctance to speak, even to think of thatdark interlude. It was almost pathological. She recog-nized that, she could do nothing about it. No. Sheslammed a tiny inner door firmly, as she had slammedit so often before. Forget. Accept the status quo and goon from there.

She and Philip made plans for the next day. In themorning they’d go over the house and see what shethought of it. Then there would be lunch at the Ing-

hams’—a nuisance but it had to be done. After thatthey’d have the rest of the day to themselves. Philipleft reluctantly a little after twelve and Liz went up-stairs to bed in the charming comfortable room, but notto sleep. “All that money”—what had Polly meant?

The next morning over breakfast Polly explained.Carol had a sizeable fortune. “I don’t know exactly howmuch, but plenty.” Most of it came from GilbertThayer, Sarah’s first husband. Carol wouldn’t get itoutright until she was twenty-five, unless she marriedbefore that time with her guardians’ consent. Philipand Alice Ingham were the guardians. By and large,Carol would be a rich woman.

Hay for the reindeer, fodder for the ox, steel for themagnet—money for Del Saunders. What so sweet orso necessary? Nevertheless this information held somegrains of comfort for Liz. If, as Philip said, they weren’tall jumping to conclusions about Carol’s own feelings,if she was strongly attracted to Del Saunders, and if hedid make a play for her, Philip could put a stop to it.He hadn’t seemed to care for Saunders, and Saunderswould certainly not marry a child like Carol unlessthere was a fortune pinned to her skirts.

Polly said with a sigh, “I do wish Sarah had done whatshe said she was going to do. I wish she’d made me oneof Carol’s guardians, instead of Alice Ingham. Aliceis not good for Carol. I’m fond of Alice but she’s hare-brained, fuzzy-minded and indulgent in the wrong way.She has no idea of responsibility, what it means . . .”

Polly was very earnest. “There’s nothing personal init, Liz. It’s simply that if Philip hadn’t decided to marryand settle down, if he’d gone wandering around the

world as we rather expected him to do, Alice Inghamwould have been left in complete charge of Carol andCarol’s funds—not that Alice would do anything wrong.I don’t mean that. But she doesn’t know how to handlemoney or people. And under the circumstances, I dothink Sarah was wrong.”

She explained that Carol was a distant relative of herown, the child of a third cousin. Both Carol’s parentshad been killed in an accident when she was six weeksold and it was through Polly that Carol’s adoption hadoriginally been arranged. Polly said, “I would havetaken her myself—there was no one else—but myfather was alive then and he was an invalid, needingconstant and unremitting care.”

They began to talk of other things. Liz asked aboutTony LaTesca and Carol. “I like Tony.”

“So do I,” Polly said, “but Sarah didn’t—some fanciedslight on his part—I don’t know. She ordered Carol tostop seeing him, which was absurd. But then, Sarah’sblood pressure made her difficult, edgy. I think we alloverlooked that a bit . .

She broke off, glancing through the window. “Here’sPhilip now,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot.

Half an hour later Liz and Philip went over to lookat the house in which Philip had lived with his firstwife for more than ten years. The house was beautiful,much larger than Polly’s, with endless bedrooms andbaths. It was furnished and decorated with a cool per-fection, which gave it somewhat the air of a museum ora double-page magazine spread of an ideal for graciousliving. There was a swimming pool, and there weregardens and lots of trees. Before she had been in it a

half-minute Liz made up her mind that she couldn’t livethere. She said so in the hall as they were about to leave.

“Philip, if you don’t mind—and you said you didn’t—I’d rather we took an apartment in New York.”

Philip’s dependability was rocklike, his mental housewasn’t built on sand. He agreed at once, reaching outand ruffling her hair.

“It’s whatever you want, Liz.” His voice was tender,as it always was when they were alone, but he wasthoughtful. “The only reason I suggested it at all wasbecause Carol could live with us. If I’m not verymuch mistaken, Alice Ingham will jump at the chanceof taking this place over, for the present anyhow.” Aftera pause he continued thoughtfully. “Of course if welived in town we could have a room for Carol.”

He left her then, to go and speak to the cook. “Waithere a minute. I want to tell Mrs. Rice we won’t be infor dinner.”

Standing in the middle of the wide entrance hall, Lizlooked around at wall-to-wall lavender broadloom, paleyellow paneling, a single landscape by Gaubert, at thegraceful staircase rising at one side and curving upacross the rear wall. She moved into the living-roomarchway. The room was done in the palest of greens andsilver. Off on the right was the Empire sofa on whichSarah Montgomery had sat playing cards with Pollywhen she was suddenly stricken. Philip had told her thatmuch.

Liz went back over Carol’s outburst yesterday after-noon. There was a telephone on a stand at the foot ofthe stairs. She could visualize Polly at the phone callingthe doctor, then ringing Philip’s office, Carol listening

to Polly from the hall above . . . Philip had not beenin his office; he had been with her in the apartment onMorton Street. He had dined at home, they had hadguests, and after dinner he said he had to go to theoffice to do some work. If only he hadn’t come to herthat night. His plea to her, “Wait—only wait,” echoedemptily in the corridors of her mind. *

Whv hadn’t Carol rushed downstairs at once whenshe heard her mother was ill? It would have been thenormal, the natural reaction. Shock? But Sarah’s col-lapse was not unexpected. Then—remorse, regret? HadCarol and her mother quarreled earlier? Was that whathad held the girl motionless in the upper hall? . . .Too tenuous . . .

Philip was calling her name. She rejoined him in thehall and they left the house.

It was good to get out into the cool clean air, tobreathe it in deeply. The day was radiant with the be-ginnings of spring. It was there in the tenderness of thesky, a clear blue with small opalescent clouds floatingjust above the horizon; in the reds and greens andyellows of the budding trees swaying in the light breeze.It was a little like autumn, only subtler, more delicate—a looking forward.

Liz forgot, made herself forget the night that waspast. She was with Philip—and now there was one dayless. She was over the bar, had broken the jinx. Theywalked hand in hand, talking of nothing important, andhappiness had come back. Philip seemed deeply con-tent. It was a small interlude outside time.

a road and were in a more populated section. Seeing theInghams’ house Liz could understand why Alice Ing-ham liked the one that had been her wealthier sister’s.Theirs was a pseudo-Norman affair with mullions andturrets, fifty feet back from the street, with somewhatsimilar houses on either side. Alice and Josh drove up intheir car just as she and Philip arrived. Polly was attheir heels in her car.

Carol was supposed to have been there but she didn’tappear. At the end of a half-hour Alice Ingham saidthey wouldn’t wait and they went in to lunch. Josh Ing-ham liked his food and attacked it with cheerful vigor.The talk was inconsequential, nothing was said aboutthe Montgomery house.

Carol arrived with dessert. She didn’t sit down. Shelooked very young and pretty. The eczema was in abey-ance, scarcely perceptible, nerves evidently had a lotto do with it. Standing with her hands on the back ofthe empty chair meant for her, she said, “Sorry I didn’tphone. I have a lunch date.”

A maid came in with a small slip of paper and ad-vanced to the table. She said, “A man called while youwere out, Mrs. Ingham. He said it was important.”“Who was it, Phyllis?”

“Yes, miss. The gentleman didn’t give his name. Iasked if there was any message and he said to give youthis number and for you to call him when you got backto New York today.” She handed Liz the slip of paper.Liz read the number aloud. “I don’t know who . . .”

She thanked the maid and dropped the slip of paperinto her bag. Curious . . . Who could know where shewas going to be?

Josh Ingham said, “Probably someone who wants tosell you something.” Carol said, “I’ve got to dash. Bye,everybody,” and went. The front door slammed. Amotor started up. They all saw the car go past, throughthe wide window. It was a Jaguar two-seater. Del Saun-ders was behind the wheel. Del Saunders was Carol’slunch date.

So that was it, Liz thought. Delphin Saunders knewshe would be here at the Inghams’, and that she wasgoing back to New York that afternoon. It was DelSaunders who had called her.

It wasn’t Del Saunders. She didn’t find that out untilshe was alone in her apartment late that afternoon.

Click, click, click, click—the sound was loud in thestillness. Liz dialed the number she had been given,with a rigid forefinger. She had told herself over andover again through the long hours that she wouldn’tphone, but had known all the time that she must, thatshe couldn’t afford not to. The connection was com-pleted. At the other end of the wire a man’s voice saidhello.

It might be a friend or a servant. She wasn’t going togive her name. “I was asked to call this number. Is Mr.Saunders there?”

Lights winked on in the apartment across the street.The ailanthus tree was coming into bud. How did theman at the other end of the wire know her name? And—was there something vaguely familiar about his voice?

Adams, the private detective Sarah Montgomery hadhired to look up her larcenous maid, the tubby man

with the butter-colored hair who was just leavingPolly’s when she got there yesterday. What could Mr.Adams want with her?

He answered that. “I thought Tmight drop ’round.Miss Bowen, and have a little talk with you.”

The man must be out of his mind. “I’m sorry,” shesaid curtly, “but I’m afraid not,” and started to put theinstrument down.

“I wouldn’t hang up, Miss Bowen, I really wouldn’t—not if I was you. You see, it’s about something thathappened three years ago in Boston . . .”

Liz turned to stone. Her lungs refused to function.She couldn’t breathe. Adams went on.

“I guess you know what I mean. Don’t worry about it.I’m sure we can fix something up, but I gotta see youso we can talk. Suppose I drop around to your place?Let’s see. It’s five after five. I could be there maybe inhalf an hour.”

It was raining. She looked through the window at wetrooftops, a slab of gray sky. Philip was coming to theapartment to pick her up for dinner. She had partedfrom him at around four. He had things to do and sohad she. He might finish his chores, might come early.She tried to swallow in a closed throat, thinking. Shehad to see this man, had to be sure. She said, “No.Suppose I come to you?”

He gave her the address of an office building on EastFourteenth Street. “The main entrance will be closedbut there’s a side door on University, and a freight

It was raining harder, the gutters were beginning torun and as always in New York in the rain she thoughtshe would have difficulty getting a cab, but one pulledup to discharge a passenger as she reached SeventhAvenue. The driver was on his way home and wasreluctant to take her until she told him where shewanted to go. “All right, lady, get in.” They went southto Carmine, and across to Sixth. A turn there, overEighth Street and up Fifth Avenue. She got out at Fifthand Fourteenth when traffic jammed on a red light. Itwould be quicker to walk the short distance.

In spite of the rain the pavements were crowded withlate Saturday afternoon shoppers. Liz was conscious ofseas of umbrellas, hurrying figures alone and in groups.The store windows blazed; music blared from a recordshop. A stout woman in a rusty sweater was sellingbagels at the curb. A boy buying one said disconsolately,“It’s wet,” and the woman, wiping dripping hands onher rusty black skirt, said belligerently, “It’s not, it’sfresh.” Liz turned the corner.

There was the door—she went through it into a long,narrow, dingy hall. A corridor disappeared into gloomon the left. The freight elevator was there, open andempty. She didn’t like the look of it. She climbed theopen staircase beyond. The place smelled of mice anddust, of damp and crumbling plaster. The building was

old and dilapidated. The offices she passed were dark,the deserted halls shadowy; there was only a single dimbulb to each floor. As she went on climbing in the murkshe had an odd feeling, of not being alone, of ghostfootsteps echoing hers, of a stir of air created by unseenmovement. But there wasn’t anybody. When shestopped and listened all she could hear was her ownbreathing. The place was as empty of life as a tomb.

She reached the third floor and started scanning doors.Three-eighteen, Mr. Mueller, Furrier—326, Jones andJones—349 . . . The corridor went around a turn. Theoffice she sought was halfway along it. There was lightbeyond ground glass. The lettering on Room 364 saidJ. H. Adams, Private Detective, with the words “WalkIn” below it on a card.

She opened the door and closed it behind her. Thesmall, square waiting room was empty. It was furnishedwith three chairs in a poor state of repair, a couple ofstand ash trays and a rickety table with old magazines onit. The single window gave on a court. The panes werethick with grime, the rug had seen better days and thefloor needed mopping. Not a prosperous layout. Per-haps Mr. Adams didn’t believe in show.

Adams was there. A ceiling light was on and she sawTlight behind the ground glass of a door in the side wallthat led into his private office. Was he alone? She hadno wish to be seen by any other client, by anyone. Butthere was no sound of voices. Traffic roared faintly.Nearer, rain splashed the window sill. Liz crossed thefloor and tapped on the ground glass. As she did so,another door closed somewhere—a hinge whined anda lock clicked. Was it Adams? Had he gone out into the

corridor or into another room? He might have a wholeseries of them for all she knew. There was no answerand she rapped again impatiently.

Silence, thick, heavy. Curious . . . The man was ex-pecting her. She wasn’t going to wait indefinitely. Hemust have gone into another room, or he would haveheard her. She hadn’t been that quiet coming in. Sheopened the door, took one step, and that was all.

Adams was there, very much there, and he wasn’tgoing anywhere else in a hurry. He was sprawled facedown across the desk, his arms flung out. One handgripped the back of the desk. There was blood comingfrom under his body. It spread over the blotter inblurring tongues. As she watched, the fingers of thegripping hand loosened and the body began to slip.

The room was swinging like a lantern in the night.One part of Liz’s mind cried, Run. Get help. He’s dead,or dying. Another part said. No. You can’t. There maybe something here. You’ve got to look, see, before any-one conies. She fought the room back into place withicy desperation. A filing cabinet against a wall, the deskitself—she started across the tightrope of the floor.

A long time passed, an eternity. Five minutes? Ten?Anyhow, it was done. If she couldn’t find anything,neither could anyone else. Go now quickly. She straight-ened, dusted off her hands, put on her black suedegloves and brushed off her coat sleeves. She was on thewaiting-room threshold when she stood still, nailedthere by footsteps. Someone was walking briskly downthe corridor toward Adams’ office.

Too late. She had waited too long. The hall dooropened. A tall man filled the opening. Incredulity—and

then comfort, unbelievable, overwhelming. “Philip.”Liz gave a frozen half-sob.

He was across to her, holding her arms, keeping heron her feet. He looked at her and then past her atAdams. His face was grave, thoughtful, no more thanthat.

He put her into one of the shabby waiting-roomchairs and went into the office. He came back and closedthe door behind him. Liz raised heavy eyelids. She feltsleepy.

Philip nodded. “Yes. Not long . . . Did you meetanyone when you came in here, in the halls, on thestairs?”

The rain kept on hitting the window sill and drop-ping into the court with a hollow, hissing sound.

“Good,” Philip said and studied her. “Can you walk?Are you able to?” She nodded and he came over to her,drew her to her feet and looked deeply into her eyes.His own were clear, steady. “This is what I want you todo. I want you to go downstairs and out by that sidedoor. Go up to Fourteenth and over Fourteenth toFifth. Turn down Fifth on the east side of the street.There’s a little restaurant, the Pidgeon, a few doors

south of the corner of Twelfth. Go into the Pidgeonand get yourself a drink. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”“What are you going to do?”

“For one thing, when you’re clear of this place I’mgoing to call the police.”

He said with quiet firmness and a smile, “No morequestions out of you now. Come on, get going.” Thenhe changed his mind. “No, wait.”

He went out into the corridor, looking out first. Shecouldn’t hear him. She didn’t want to be alone with thething in the other room. . . . Darkness filled her mind,and slow horror. Philip came back.

“All clear. Come on.” He took her arm, walked herto the top of the stairs. He looked over the banister andlistened. There was no disturbing sound. He asked herwhether she had a handkerchief and she said yes. Hesaid if she heard anyone coming, met anyone, to tifrnher face away, hide it. “You’re sure you’re all right?’*She said, “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” and he gave her a pat.She started down the stairs holding onto the railing witha gloved hand. This was the way whoever had killedthat man must have gone fifteen or twenty minutes ago.. . . Why had Philip come to see Adams? He hadn’tsaid anything about coming earlier in the afternoon.. . . More pressing and more immediate—what wasshe to say to Philip when they met in the Pidgeon? Howwas she going to explain her having gone to see Adamsherself? What reason could she give—what possiblereason?

Narrow halls and dust. She didn’t have to use herhandkerchief to hide her face. She met no one on the

way out through the side door. Fourteenth Street then.The scene was a vast Ali Baba’s cave of coruscatingjewels hung on the purple of evening and reflected backfrom the wet streets. People streamed in both directions.She lost herself in the tide of bodies, stepping sideways,eeling in and out but going fast away. That was theimportant thing, to get away.

Broadway, across Broadway, past brilliantly lit shopwindows with mannequins posturing emptily. It wouldbe funny if they started moving around. . . . Sheheard scraps of laughter, bits of conversations she wouldnever hear the end of, a mother dragging a crying child,the child’s face wet and rosy with rain. Fifth at last. Sheturned down Fifth, found the little restaurant, wentinside and sat down at an empty table near the door.

Philip was a long while. Liz was beginning on asecond Scotch and water—and she was a slow drinker—when he finally arrived. He ordered a Scotch for himself.When the waiter was gone, the place half empty andthere was no one near them, he began to talk. He had

called the police. “They’re probably on their way therenow.” And then it came, as it had to.

Simple curiosity at a surprising development—noth-ing else. She would have a perfectly good explanation—that was implicit in his tone. She put down her glass andreached for a cigarette.

Philip lit her cigarette. He was staring at her inter-estedly, his head a little on one side, his brows up. “You—wish you knew?”

“That’s right. You remember at lunch today at yoursister-in-law’s—the maid saying some man had called meand that I was to call him when I got back to New York?I did call and it was Adams who answered. I didn’tknow it was his number. I hadn’t the slightest idea.”“And . . . ?”

“He asked me to come to his office, said it was im-portant he should see me and that he couldn’t leave. Iasked him what he wanted to see me about, but hewouldn’t give me an answer. He said he’d explain whenI got there.”

Was there the beginning—more than a beginning,was there full-fledged incredulity in Philip? Or was itjust that he was genuinely puzzled? You couldn’t tellfrom his face. Liz went on with studied irrelevance,“. . . brushes—and some paint. I was out of umber andvermilion and Chinese white. Arthur Colt at Balboa’sasked me as a favor whether I’d do a rough of an ad lay-out for him over the week end. He had to go out oftown. There’s an art store I sometimes use on UnionSquare, just north of Fourteenth on the west side.Adams’ office was only a step away, so I decided to gothere and find out what in the world he could want tosee me about.”

“And you found him dead.” Philip was meditative,not questioning. “You didn’t do any shopping in a storecalled Banes on your way there, did you?”

Philip smiled. “I didn’t think so. Don’t be so uppish.”“I didn’t say Banes wasn’t a perfectly good store. . . .”“Someone,” he said, “left a brassiere and a pair ofpanties bought at Banes this afternoon—or today any-

how—in Adams’ waiting room. I threw the bag out thewindow. I thought you just might have left it, and thatsomeone might just remember your buying the things.Maybe that was a mistake. Might have been a sweetieof Adams he was double-crossing who paid him a sur-prise visit with a gun.”

Liz hadn’t looked on the floor or under the furniture.Her preoccupation was with the desk itself and the filingcabinet.

“No, but the wound looked like a gunshot wound—Isaw plenty of them in service. You’re sure nobody sawyou going in or coming out of the building?”

Liz thought of the feeling she had while she wasclimbing the stairs, of a presence, of footsteps dogginghers, and dismissed it. Probably nerves.

Philip said, “Someone searched Adams’ place, gave.it a pretty good going-over. ...”

His voice was absent. He swirled ice in his glass. Liz’sheart raced. Did he suspect her, or didn’t he? The bestdefense was an attack.

“What were you doing there, Philip? You didn’t sayanything earlier about going to see Adams. What madeyou go?”

“Oh, yes, I remember. . . . Philip, when you phonedthe police—did you tell them who you were?”

“I did not. Look, darling”—he leaned across thetable, his fine hands cupping his glass—“you didn’t killAdams, I didn’t kill him, we’re not concealing anyevidence that would solve his death, so what’s the use ofour getting mixed up in a murder case? Think of thered tape, the endless questioning—they might easilykeep us from leaving New York on the nineteenth. Andthe ship isn’t going to sail without us—not if I can help

He spoke firmly. What he said was reasonable. Thefirst finger of uneasiness not connected with herself andher own bitter problem touched Liz coldly. To duckresponsibility was unlike Philip. It was wildly out ofcharacter. She searched his face; wide, firm mouth,steady eyes. The uneasiness withdrew. He was right, ofcourse.

“I don’t see why not. You say nobody saw you go inor out, and no one saw me as far as I know. And we leftno fingerprints; we both had gloves on.”

“What about papers, notes, records?” There might besomething that she had overlooked, that didn’t haveanything to do with her—something to do with Joan,the maid, for instance—that might send the police toSpuyten Duyvil and bring Philip into it.

“Nothing,” he said. “I looked. There was only asmall filing cabinet and the desk.” He signaled thewaiter for the check.

“Just what we intended to do in the first place. We’llgo and have a leisurely dinner somewhere . . .” He

< broke off and looked at her scrutinizingly, at her pallor,the taut lines of her face, and put a hand over hers. “Tryand forget it, Liz. Put it out of your mind. Don’t letyourself think of it, dwell on it. It was nothing youcould help, and there’s nothing you can do about it.’’Two things to forget now, Liz thought despairingly—one as impossible as the other: Adams’ death, and herown involvement, what she had done . . .

“Let’s go, shall we?” Philip stood and she got up.Outside the rain had almost stopped. To the northand east the rise and fall of a siren—Fourteenth andUniversity wasn’t far away; Liz’s step quickened.

“Whoa.” Philip’s hand on her arm steadied her, andthey began to walk south toward Washington Square.

The anonymous call that there was a dead man in Room364 in an office building at the southwest corner ofFourteenth Street and University Place went into theprecinct at 6:02 p.m. The desk man who took the calland passed it on to first-grade detective Halliday said,“Guy who called in wouldn’t give his name. When Iasked him he hung up. Might be some joker.” Hallidayagreed, it wouldn’t be the first time. “But we’d bettertake a look.”

Halliday, his partner Bates and Captain Pierson ofHomicide, who happened to be with Bates on anothermatter, did take a look. They found Adams, GeorgeHampton Adams, private detective, sprawled acrosshis desk dead as mutton. Bates had run into Adams acouple of times and knew who he was. His uncle hadformerly owned the Admiral Detective Agency, andAdams had worked for Admiral before the uncle died.Afterward Adams started out on his own. He handledsmall-time stuff, mostly divorce. There was nothing onhim, no complaints, and his license was in order.

A tour man from the Medical Examiner’s office ar-rived. Adams was dead from a bullet through the heart,the entrance and exit wounds were clearly defined. Noslug. The killing was easy to figure. Adams had beenseated at his desk and had started to rise when he got

it. The bullet had gone through the body and em-bedded itself in the black imitation leather of the chairfrom which Adams had partly risen. The hole was therein the upholstery, bloodstained and singed, but theslug itself was gone. The killer must have dug it outand taken it, and the gun that fired it, when he fled. Onthe floor in front of the desk, across which the dead manlay, was a lighter. Adams’ initials were on it. He hadevidently half risen to give someone a light, and got ashot through the heart for his pains.

The men from headquarters, Ballistics and Finger-prints, appeared and did their stuff. It didn’t take long.The premises were small, just the office and the waiting-room. The office furniture consisted of a shabby steelfiling cabinet, the desk, a hat rack, four chairs, twostraight ones against a wall and two armchairs, onebehind the desk and one at the side. In a corner behinda pasteboard screen was a washbasin.

The washbasin was half full of burned paper. Thefiling cabinet held only a few records, all apparentlyold. Whoever had done the burning had made a goodjob of it; burning and rinsing away and burning again,stirring the ashes well so that very little remained.

Bates said, “Some dame he had something on,maybe.” Halliday said, “Could be.” Pierson said, wavinga hand at the basin and the pipes below, “Might besomething left.” So the contents of basin, pipes and trapwere tenderly retrieved and handed over to the lab men.

The drawers of the desk were a blank. There weretwo things lying on top of it as though they had beentossed there, Adams’ initialed wallet and a small loose-leafed notebook. The wallet was empty except for the

usual identification papers, licenses, credit cards, socialsecurity and such. Pages had been ripped from the frontof the notebook, the rest of the pages were blank.

His suit pockets held a couple of door keys and ahandkerchief. His hat and topcoat hung on the hat rack.The pockets of the topcoat held a cigarette pack with afew gone, a box of matches and a racing form. Severalof the horses were checked. They were small checks;Adams had been precise, tidy. There was a hole in oneof the pockets. Bates fished through the lining and cameup with another folder of matches and part of a can-celed railroad ticket to Spuyten Duyvil, New York.

Bates said gloomily, “It don’t look good,’’ and Halli-day said, “No, this place would be deserted on a lateSaturday afternoon, empty halls and corridors, no onearound, and the streets outside jammed with peopleunder umbrellas hurrying along and minding theirown business.’’ The two men began collecting therecords of Adams’ former cases. The top drawer wasempty except for telephone books—a Red Book anddirectories covering Manhattan, Queens and West-chester. The Manhattan directory was on top.

It wasn’t a case on which the whole department wouldroll; the precinct would be left to handle it. CaptainPierson said, “Good night, boys, happy days,’’ and went.

Liz and Philip Montgomery got back to Liz’s apart-ment on Morton Street after half past nine.

Two martinis before dinner, a bottle of wine with itand a liqueur afterward, combined with a naturalbuoyancy, had done a certain amount for Liz’s mood.

Adams had been put away behind a closed door. Itwasn’t as if they could have done anything for the man—or as if they had done anything to him. He was ashocking accident, horrible to think of, necessary toforget about. People died every hour of every day. Itwas exactly as though she and Philip had witnessed afatal car accident, not a pleasant experience but mostcertainly not one to dwell on.

As for Delphin Saunders, Liz had also locked him up.In all probability she had been too pessimistic earlier.Del Saunders would disappear, as he had disappearedbefore, and after she and Philip were married, monthsfrom now, she might be able to tell him, some of itanyhow. She was profoundly thankful that her cousinMelissa was in Europe. Melissa was the only one whoreally knew—and she didn’t know everything. At thattime Liz herself had had no close personal friends inNew York. Her aunt and uncle had recently died, thehouse in Weston had been sold, and she had just cometo New York and got herself a job. Melissa was alreadymarried then, had been married for almost three years.

Liz and Philip were going abroad on their honey-moon and Philip spoke of Melissa and Melissa’s hus-band, Edward Trent, when they were in the livingroom, sitting on the sofa and drinking coffee. “We’llsee the Trents on our way home in August,’’ he said.“We’ll stop in Paris a few days so you can buy things,and then cross to London. Trent is settled there perma-nently?’’

“I imagine so,’’ Liz said. “Edward’s very good at hisjob and they both like the life. They have a flat in

London and they’ve bought a place in Surrey. Melissa’salways urging me to go over.”

Philip put down his empty cup, took hers and put itdown. He slid a long arm around her shoulders andpulled her close to him. “Do you realize that in twenty-nine days from now we’ll be out of The Narrows andon the high seas?”

Ding dong dell—ding dong bell—the soft musicalchimes sent her sharply upright. There was someone atthe door, not downstairs but out there in the corridor.Who could it be at that hour? It wasn’t late, for NewYork, but she wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Damnation and hellfire.” Philip got to his feet lazilyand glanced down at her.

The two men who entered the apartment when heopened the door were Inspector McKee of the HomicideSquad and Captain Pierson, one of McKee’s own men.

An hour and a half earlier, as Pierson was leaving thebuilding on East Fourteenth Street, McKee had arrivedthere and they went back upstairs together. The reasonMcKee was there at all was because he had knownAdams, or rather had known of him, as far back as fiveyears ago, when he was employed by his uncle, JohnDennison, who owned the Admiral Agency. Dennisonwas a square shooter, a clean-handed ex-cop who hadoften worked with the police. A few months before hisdeath Dennison had dismissed Adams for blackmailinga client. Blackmailers were McKee’s particular bete

noir, but murder was murder, and there were too manycurrently unsolved—he had been discussing that withthe Commissioner shortly before the call about Adamscame through to headquarters on Centre Street.

McKee took in the man, the room and the girl as headvanced and introduced himself and Pierson—anddidn’t like what he saw.

She was an extremely attractive young woman,twenty-five, twenty-six, with a face that would haveinterested a painter and black hair sweeping back froma widow’s peak. The face was both delicate and strong.She looked highly intelligent and her gray eyes underarched dark brows were striking. A girl you would lookat twice, anywhere, with pleasure. Except on an occa-sion like the present.

Montgomery was a man somewhere in the middlethirties, almost as tall as the Inspector, with an erectcarriage, good eyes, good brow, good mouth, thoughtfuland contemplative as well as resolute, and in thoroughpossession of himself. No, McKee definitely didn’t likeit. Both these people were reacting too strongly. Theywere guarded, wary, and the girl at least was definitelyfrightened under surface control. He didn’t attempt totrick them.

The Scotsman’s estimate of Liz’s state of mind wasinadequate. Surprise was the thing that hit her hardest.

She had made sure, she thought, that there was nothingleft in Adams’ office to connect her with him. She wasthrown completely off center by the Inspector’s arrival,was poised on the lip of a cliff that was crumbling be-neath her feet, and in another moment she was goingover the edge. Philip’s voice dragged her back.

“Inspector,” Philip said, “we know Adams and weknow that Adams is dead. Miss Bowen and I went to hisoffice late this afternoon and found him dead, sprawledacross the desk. I called the local precinct.”

“Why didn’t you say who you were, and wait thereuntil the police arrived, Mr. Montgomery?”

“Because I didn’t want to get mixed up in a murdercase—there was no gun around, that I could see.”

“I’m very sorry about it, Inspector. I suppose I shouldhave told the police who I was, given my name—andstayed. But—well, Miss Bowen and I are going to bemarried shortly and she was pretty shaken up. In furtherexplanation, let me add that some months ago I was awitness in an accident case in Milwaukee on my waywest on an important business assignment and as a con-sequence of being detained unduly, without any goodreason, my firm lost a valuable contract. I repeat. I’msorry about it, but there it is.”

McKee put his hat down on a table. Pierson was writ-ing busily. Montgomery didn’t add, “And that’s thetruth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and Iwash my hands of it. It’s got nothing to do with either of

us.” His manner did—and made a good job of it. He wascalm and incisive. Then why the girl’s fear? because itwas still there. He let Montgomery go on leading, it wastoo late to stop him anyhow. When he was through, hewould check his story and go after her.

Montgomery said that he and Miss Bowen had comein together from Spuyten Duyvil where his home wasand where she had been visiting, early that afternoon.He had some business to attend to and so had she. Be-fore they separated around three o’clock they had ar-ranged to meet at Luchow’s where they were going todine. Whoever was first would wait for the other. Theyhad arrived at the same time, he in a cab and she onfoot. It was then half past five or perhaps a few minutesafter, and neither of them was hungry. He had to seeAdams anyhow, so they had walked to Adams’ office first.It was only a short distance away.

Montgomery lit a cigarette and blew smoke. His evenglance followed the gray plume. “My stepdaughter ap-pears to be going about with a man I don’t particularlylike the look of. Adams did some work for my first wifebefore her death—a maid who had stolen things. Adamshad finally located this girl, and he came up yesterdayafternoon to say so. I wasn’t there at the time but itmade me think of him. I’m one of my stepdaughter’sguardians, and I decided to have Adams look up thisfellow.”

Liz didn’t move. Panic locked her muscles. NowDelphin would come into it—and that was the end ofthe road. This Inspector was no ordinary police officer;he was a clever, astute, dangerous man. It would take

very little to put him on the scent. . . . She started tobreathe again, gently. But there was more. McKeedidn’t ask for the name of the man Philip wantedAdams to investigate; the attack came from a differentquarter. They were given rope first. McKee had Philiprepeat the story they had arranged, in detail, andsummed it up.

“I see. Your statement is that you went to Adams’office together, saw nothing suspicious, touched nothing,left together, and then you, Mr. Montgomery, phonedthe precinct. Is that correct?”

McKee’s eyes were on her. He barely waited for hernod before he shook his head.

“Your name and telephone number were under-scored in pencil in the telephone book in a drawer ofAdams’ desk. The place was marked with a piece of tornnewsprint from tonight’s newspaper, an edition not onthe streets until after two o’clock. Adams telephonedyou here at your apartment and you went to his office,not with Mr. Montgomery but alone.”

Liz could have denied it, but the truth had a way ofknocking you cold. Besides—she thought of the faintfootsteps behind her when she entered the building—someone could have seen her and told this man.

“Liz,” Philip said sharply and warningly. She didn’tlook at him; it was useless to lie. McKee knew.

“No.” Liz searched frantically for a way out of thenet. “I never saw Mr. Adams in my life until yesterdayafternoon up in Spuyten Duyvil.”

She explained about the message she had receivedwhile she was lunching with Philip’s sister-in-law thatday, and what she had done after she got back to town,and about the art store.

“I was in the neighborhood and I was curious as towhy Mr. Adams wanted to see me. He didn’t say overthe phone. He refused to say. He was mysterious aboutit.”

No escape was possible. How right she had been tobe afraid of this man, how right. The torture went on.

Liz got up, holding herself tightly so as not to stum-ble, went to the hall closet and produced her tweedtopcoat. The gloves were in the pocket, balled up andturned inside out. Why, oh why, hadn’t she thrownthem away?

McKee examined the ends of the coat sleeves care-fully and then the gloves and looked up.

“Miss Bowen, you didn’t just go to Adams’ office andfind him dead. You did more than that, much more. Youburned Adams’ current records, loose papers, everythingyou could lay your hands on, in the washbasin in thecorner of his office. Why?”

McKee didn’t get the answer he wanted, but then hedidn’t expect to. The victims of a blackmailer are vic-tims precisely because they can’t afford to have thetruth revealed. White desperation in the girl, quietdesperation; no matter how he approached it, from whatangle, the reply was the same. “I can’t tell you.” Obvi-ously no amount of pressure was going to make LizBowen come clean with what Adams had had on her.Well, there were other ways—Adams hadn’t got his in-formation out of the air. And at least they had clearedthe ground, some of it.

The accents of truth were in the girl’s story ofexactly what she had done, seen and heard from themoment she entered the building. McKee listenedthoughtfully to her account of the following footsteps,and her sense of motion, of someone near her, on herway up the stairs. It was a new and disturbing note. Thekiller returning to see what was what? It was a possi-bility. There was another possibility: that Philip Mont-gomery had killed Adams; that, surprised by the girl’sunexpected arrival, he had beaten a hasty retreat, andhad then staged a fresh arrival, a second coming dis-guised as a first. Montgomery was grave,^ considering andimpassive. His face, voice, manner revealed absolutely

nothing. Either of these two, both together, or neither?You could take your choice unless . . .

Pierson did a good job. No gun. But there was thelittle matter of the dispatch box.

Liz’s bookcases were set in recesses to the right andleft of the fireplace. On the lower shelf of one of themwas a green metal dispatch box. As Pierson approachedit, Liz said, “You’ll want the key, Captain,” and reachedfor her purse.

She spoke indifferently; there was no tension in her.But the key wasn’t necessary. The dispatch box hadbeen broken open. It was a simple matter, the thing wasflimsy, a child could have pried up the lid and snappedthe lock. The effect on the girl was sharp. Surprise, be-wilderment, and then some sort of inner certainty, in-cluding shock.

The box contained papers of various kinds, canceledchecks, insurance policies and several bulky envelopes.Pierson was looking for a gun. There was no gun. Heclosed the lid, and put the box back on the shelf.

Adams, McKee thought—Adams could have removedsomething from the box that threatened this girl withdisgrace or worse, and that gave him the groundwork fora squeeze. But how had Adams got on to her? She re-peated, firmly, that she had seen him for the first timein her life in Spuyten Duyvil on the previous afternoon.

The girl said she had no gun and never had ownedone. Montgomery admitted owning a gun but left him-

self a way out. He had brought his service revolver backfrom Korea and got a license for it the first year, butthen—“To tell you the truth, I forgot about it.” How-ever, he said, it must be somewhere up in the SpuytenDuyvil house.

McKee could have held both Liz Bowen and Mont-gomery on a number of charges: tampering with evi-dence, destroying it, leaving the scene of a crime, with-holding information after the fact of murder. He con-templated no such procedure at that point; it was far tooearly. One or the other, or both in collusion, could haveshot Adams. There was no proof yet that they had.There was a lot of work to be done and he had gotabout all he was going to get there. At the end of an-other ten minutes he said good night pleasantly, and heand Pierson left the apartment, escorted politely byMontgomery to the elevator—no doubt to make surethey were safely off the premises.

The door had no sooner closed behind the three menwhen Liz got a new and utterly unexpected blow. WhenCaptain Pierson had raised the desk lid he had disar-ranged the pile of mail she had brought upstairs withher, coming in from dinner with Philip. There was a

absently, her thoughts elsewhere. The Inspector hadbeen bad enough; Philip was infinitely worse. He wouldbe back in a moment. He knew now that she had burnedAdams’ records, and he would expect her to tell himwhy—and she couldn’t. She tore open the yellow en-velope, read the message, and dropped whitely downinto a corner of the couch. Her cousin Melissa and

Melissa’s husband, Edward Trent, weren’t in London;they were in New York. They had flown from Englandand had arrived that morning.

“No,” Liz whispered, “no.” But it was true. Edward. . . She was afraid of him, terribly afraid. He wasn’ta particularly clever man but if he managed to getanything out of Melissa he would never stop until hegot it all. She pushed hair away from her temples withpressing palms. Once your feet were on the path ofsubterfuge, deception, there was no end to the blacklabyrinth.

Philip was back. He closed the front door, put thechain on, and walked into the living room.

“They’re gone, thank God.” He was brisk, cheerful.“No, not a word until I get us both a drink. It’s not ourneighbors as needs it.” He started for the kitchen.

She didn’t look at him but past him at the silly, use-less blocked-up fireplace that she had never been ableto decide what color to paint. The red was bad. Itclashed with the rose in the rug. She would have to dosomething about it, because now she wouldn’t be givingup this place. . . . She plunged.

“Why I went to Adams’ office this afternoon, why Iburned those papers, recklessly, haphazardly, becauseI was afraid and there was so little time.”

He was looking at her hard. It was a long steady look.He came over to the couch, sat down beside her and put

“Look at me, Liz . . . No, look at me.” His eyesprobing hers, he went on slowly, choosing his words. “Isthere any reason, any legal reason, why we can’t bemarried? Adams didn’t—you haven’t got a husbandtucked away somewhere, or a divorce that misfired?”

“Then”—his arm tightened around her—“step down.Counselor—to hell with it, that’s all I want to know.”

After a few minutes he made his position plain, sothat she wouldn’t have any doubts. He said soberly, “Ithink there are things in all our lives that we don’t wantto talk about, can’t talk about, readily. It’s O.K. withme. If you ever do feel like talking, that will be O.K.too. Adams appears to have been a simon-pure, first classrat. He’s dead, and that’s that. Forget about it.”

Liz would have obeyed his admonition wholeheart-edly and with infinite joy if they could have been leftto themselves, if there had been no one else to thinkof, and if they could have gone away then and there.That was impossible.

Philip didn’t leave until late. Before he went sheshowed him the telegram that had been mixed up withher mail and called the Waldorf. She talked first to hercousin Melissa, then to Edward. The next morning shewent to their hotel.

Melissa flew across the bedroom floor, threw her armsaround Liz, hugged her, and held her off. “Oh, I’m glad

to see you. It’s been almost a year, do you realize that?A whole year. Take your things off and come and sitdown. I thought you’d never get here.”

Edward had opened the door. He stood by, smilingpleasantly. But then, he was always pleasant, affable,when things were going his way, except when he flewinto one of his sudden and unpredictable rages, which,to do him credit, wasn’t very often. He didn’t kiss Liz,nor she him. They shook hands in the friendly mannerthey had carefully adopted.

The truth was she didn’t like Edward and he didn’tlike her. How could they like each other? There wasn’ta single thing in the world they thought alike on, exceptMelissa. Liz knew that Edward was jealous, that heresented Melissa’s absorption in her. It was naturalenough. He adored Melissa, was more in love with hernow than he had been when they were married. He wasjust the same, a well-built man of medium height witha neat, good-looking head, smooth black hair untouchedwith gray and a small black mustache. His dark eyeswere piercing. He was always very well dressed, natty.Everything he wore matched. Melissa had told her once,moaning, that he had thirty-four pairs of shoes and overa hundred ties.

“Here,” Melissa cried, “come and sit beside me onthe couch, Liz, and tell me everything. Since you wroteabout Philip Montgomery I’ve been simply dying tosee you, dying.” She went on with a babble of ques-tions that were as light and frothy as her fair clippedcurls. Her white skin was tinged with pink and herbig blue eyes sparkled. She was prettier than ever.

night before, and they had decided to stick to the storythey had originally told Inspector McKee, with onechange: that they had agreed to meet at Adams’ officeand that Liz got there first and found Adams dead. Itwasn’t an adventure anyone would pass over lightly andit was better to come ^put in the open with it, in theevent there should be repercussions and the policeshould appear again. So far that morning there had beennothing new. Liz had scanned the papers. The story wasthere, a few lines on a back page simply stating thatJohn Hampton Adams, a private detective, had beenshot and killed in his office and that the police were in-vestigating.

Melissa was explaining their sudden trip to NewYork. Another man in the London office was to havecome but he had gallstones. “So I made Edward seizethe chance. We had about an hour to make the plane.That’s why we didn’t cable from London. Besides, Ithought it would be nice to surprise you.”

No one, Liz thought somberly, should ever surpriseanyone but a child. They had called her when they gotto the airport and again when they reached the hotel;then they had sent the telegram. After that, Edward hadhad to go over to the west Village to see a man wholived on Leroy Street and he had stopped by at Liz’sapartment on the chance of catching her there, but shewasn’t in.

Liz felt cold. It was what she had been half afraid of.The malevolence of chance . . . Melissa and Edwardhad a key to her door. Melissa had written hopefullymore than once that some day Liz would walk in andthey’d be sitting there.

Liz explained that she had been in Spuyten Duyvilovernight and didn’t get back until late. “What timedid you get to my place, Edward?”

He looked up. “What time? Fourish, maybe aroundhalf after. When you weren’t there we figured that youwere probably out of town over the week end.”

No, nothing about him had changed, absolutely noth-ing. He wasn’t liking the way she and Melissa were talk-ing together, although he kept his smiling, cheerful air,studying the menu card; they were going to have acombined breakfast and lunch.

Was his gaze at her over the menu too intent? Adamscould have rung her before she got in. Suppose Edwardhad gone upstairs and had answered the telephone?Surely Adams wouldn’t have said anything informativeover the wire—but he might have, he had said the neces-sary few words to her. No, no—if that had happened,Edward wouldn’t look like this. . . . Or would he?

Melissa said plaintively, “We hoped you’d have din-ner with us, and we waited and waited for vou on thechance, you miserable wretch.”

“If I’d only known,” Liz said. “Ordinarily I wouldhave gotten the telegram and read it earlier, but you see,Philip and I had a horrid thing happen.” She told themabout Adams then, baldly. “I found him dead in hisoffice, and then Philip came and then we had to talk tothe police.”

Melissa gave a little scream. She was horrified. “Youfound him, Liz. Oh, how ghastly—a dead man—don’ttalk about it, don’t tell me any more.”

Edward, however, was keenly interested. He started toask details but Melissa would have none of it.

“Edward, don’t. Stop it. I can’t stand it, it’s too dread-ful. I don’t want to hear about it, not another word.”

No, Melissa hadn’t changed either, Liz reflected. Putunpleasant things behind you, refuse to look at them,and they’ll go away and cease to exist. Maybe she hadsomething at that.

She started to talk determinedly about other thingsand Liz got a surprise. Edward had known Philip’s wife,Sarah, when she was married to her first husband, whowas a cousin of his. “Edward didn’t like her, did you,darling?”

Liz looked inquiring. Edward said that the family hadhad a little trouble with Mrs. Montgomery and he hadbeen deputed to handle it. After Gilbert Thayer’s deathand her remarriage, Sarah Montgomery had kept in herpossession some family jewels and some stock that hadbelonged to Gilbert Thayer’s sister. She claimed theywere hers, Georgia Thayer claimed they weren’t, butGeorgia had no proof so the matter was finally dropped.

Melissa was eager to hear about Philip and about thewedding. “We’ll stay for it, of course, won’t we, Ed-ward?” He said he hoped so and she said, “We’ve gotto.” She asked about Philip’s stepdaughter and made aface. “I don’t think I’d like a built-in stepdaughter—but you can manage anything, Liz. Do you remem-ber . . .”

This was just the sort of thing Edward Trent hated,their closeness, their shared past, friends, experiences aschildren. He broke in to ask briskly what they wantedto eat and ordered. Presently the waiter knocked and

wheeled in a table. . . . Then lunch was over and itwas time for Melissa and Edward to get moving. Theywere going up to Larchmont to have dinner with anaunt of Edward’s.

His amiability increased as the time came for themto go, and he brought Melissa her furs, draping themaround her shoulders. Liz found herself disliking him alittle more than usual. His desire to get rid of her wasrather blatant. Was Melissa so used to him that shedidn’t notice, or was she deliberately shutting her eyes?. . . Well, after all, Edward was her husband.

They were down in the street, waiting for a cab underthe canopy, when Edward sent his bombshell rollingtoward Liz. Just as a cab slowed and started to pull in,he turned to her.

“What was the name of that fellow you used to goaround with, Liz—Sanburn, Sanford?”

Liz’s heart skipped a couple of beats. So Edward didknow that much. She said, her voice level, “Saunders.”“Yes,” Edward said, “Saunders, that’s right. Big,handsome fellow. I ran into him at the corner of yourstreet and Seventh Avenue when I was leaving yourplace yesterday afternoon.”

It was an idle remark, idly put—or seemed to be. Lizglanced quickly at Melissa. She either hadn’t heard orshe wasn’t paying any attention. She was humming alittle tune and looking around her with pleasure. Thecab was at the curb. Melissa kissed Liz and got in, say-ing she’d call her in the morning and to save the dayfor lunch and shopping. The cab door closed and theydrove off.

The sun was shining brightly, the air was soft and warmand the sky blue with the tender blue of spring; Lizmight have been plunging through an undergroundtunnel for all she saw of her surroundings. She walkedsouth and east in a daze. She was back in the wet andthe gloom of the evening before, with rain falling as shedashed for the cab that had discharged a passenger at thecorner of Seventh, just under the bakery sign.

The driver had been balky and she had had to tellhim where she wanted to go before he consented totake her. Pedestrians passing to and fro—anyone couldhave heard her name her destination, and according toEdward Trent, Delphin Saunders had been in the im-mediate neighborhood less than twenty minutes earlier.Suppose he had rung her bell and when she wasn’t in hehad had a drink in the tavern on the corner; suppose hehad seen her and come out in time to hear her give theaddress of the office building on East Fourteenth Streetto the cab driver? And then? Well, he could have gotto Adams’ office before her, might have taken a differentroute. So?

So then, he had a reason for killing Adams. Adamscould have cooked his goose nicely if the inclinationtook him to do so. The two men were birds of a feather,under different plumage; each in his own way was a

vulture. If her line of reasoning was correct, then Adamswould have had to have been in touch with Del Saun-ders. All right, why not? The man had been good atgetting in touch with her.

It occurred to Liz then, for the first time, to wonderwho or what had put Adams on her trail. She knew howhe had accomplished his game. It was by way of thosecanceled checks in her dispatch box. She didn’t doubtfor a moment that he had managed to get into herapartment either with a passkey or through the vacantapartment next door. One of the living-room windowsopened on the fire escape, and sometimes she forgot tolock it. Besides, who else would have broken the boxopen—and he did know.

Oh yes, he knew. Adams was dead but Liz could stillhear his voice in her ears. “I wouldn’t hang up, MissBowen, I really wouldn’t—not if I was you. You see,it’s about something that happened three years ago inBoston.” It had been spring then as it was now. Timerolled back to a spring dawn, budding leaves, a flushedsky, and that terrible cab ride—pain, terror and heart-break, and the way she had eyed two early policecars. . . .

Forcibly she wrenched her mind back to the present.Someone or something—someone almost certainly—had originally directed Adams’ attention to her. Who?She tinkered with the thought of Edward, fearfully, andwith a touch of despair. Was it coincidence that Edwardhad come back from England at this time? If he knewsomething and his source of information was Adams—Adams had known something but not necessarily all, shehad been very careful—but . . . Liz pulled herself out

of a tailspin. Wait and see, she told herself resolutely;don’t start screaming until you get hurt.

The phone was ringing when she got into her apart-ment. It was Philip. He was to have picked her up at twoo’clock and they were to have driven out into the coun-try and had dinner somewhere. He couldn’t leaveSpuyten Duyvil. Inspector McKee was on his way thereand Philip wanted her to go up. He said that as soonas the Inspector was through with him they would havethe rest of the day for themselves.

“Your car’s there at the curb and you might as wellget some use out of it. It won’t take you more than halfan hour on the West Side Highway. I’ll meet you atPolly’s. Remember that we’re sticking to our story.’’

The Inspector knew it wasn’t true, that they hadn’treached Adams’ office together, but it would do for gen-eral consumption if he didn’t bring it out in public—which she doubted. McKee was a man who gathered in-formation, casting no bread on the waters in return—unless as bait. What was he going to Spuyten Duyvil for?To verify Philip’s account of Adams’ visit on Friday andthe purpose of it—and about Philip’s gun? Please Godthe gun would be there and unused.

Before she left the apartment she went through thecanceled checks in the dispatch box and tore up andflushed away every check that would give the police alead, twelve for the previous year and four for this one.She didn’t drive herself; her little Renault wouldn’tstart and she was too impatient to fuss with it. So shehailed a cab. Philip was right, the distance on the high-way was nothing. The cab deposited her at Polly Ford’sat twenty minutes of three.

Making herself think of other things on the way up,she had reflected that the Spuyten Duyvil house wouldhave been convenient for Philip, he could have drivenin to his office when he wanted to-—but she knew shecouldn’t bring herself to live there, to sit in the samechairs Sarah Montgomery had sat in, at the same table,give orders to the same cook in the same kitchen andwalk through the same rooms. The woman who hadbeen Philip’s first wife was haunting enough as it was.Odd that Edward should have known Sarah Mont-gomery. She did sound rather grasping—but the versionhad been Edward’s, and what did it matter now?

Philip was waiting for Liz, walking up and down infront of Polly’s. The crocuses were still blooming, yel-low and white and purple cups puncturing the grass,and in the borders along walls tulips were thrusting tinygreen spears. Philip gave her a scrutinizing look as hehelped her out.

She said fine and he paid off the cabman. McKee hadalready arrived and was with Polly. He wanted to talkto all of them and had sent for the others. Liz and Philipwent inside.

In the living room McKee was drinking a cup ofcoffee, and Polly sat opposite him in the middle of awelter of Sunday papers. “Hi, Liz.” She waved towarda chair. “You two did have a time for yourselves yester-day, didn’t you? That terrible man . . .”

In spite of her natural vigor Polly looked tired. Lizfound out later that she had sat up with Philip until allhours. Her lights were on when he went past and he had

The man did something to her; any opportunity toget away from him was more than welcome. But he said,“No, no. Miss Bowen—just a few points to clear up,”and went on talking to Polly. Polly corroborated whatPhilip had told McKee, that on Friday afternoon Adamshad come about the maid, Joan, whom he had finallymanaged to locate.

“Let me see if I’ve got the dates straight.” McKeeconsulted a battered red leather notebook. “A monthor so before she died the first Mrs. Montgomery hiredAdams to find out who was stealing from her. Therewere at that time three servants, a chauffeur whodoubled as gardener, a cook and a housemaid.”

Polly said that besides the jewelry and other objectsaround the house, cash kept disappearing.

“And Adams arranged a trap with marked money,and both the money and the housemaid vanished ator around the time Mrs. Montgomery died?”

McKee looked at Philip who shrugged. Polly said, “Ata time like that it’s hard to remember, but I’m prettysure Joan was there that night and that she was gonethe next day without giving any warning.”

“I don’t know,” Polly said. “I didn’t see him untilmore than two months later—wasn’t that about it,

Philip? He’d sent you a bill and you asked me to handleit and gave me a check for him.”

Philip was vague about dates. He thought it was inearly November that Adams had called him at the officeasking for instructions. “I know I was going south ona field trip and didn’t want to be bothered, but AliceIngham”—he explained that Alice was his wife’s sister—“Alice made a fuss. She said as executors we were re-sponsible.” The check to Adams for services alreadyrendered had been for two hundred dollars.

Polly said he was at the house when she got back fromthe florist’s, and that he told her about Joan, that he hadmanaged to locate her. “He wanted to know what Mr.Montgomery wanted done about Joan, and I said we’dlet him know.”

Adams’ office concerning the housemaid. “What was thisgirl Joan’s last name?” McKee asked.

Polly had heard it but couldn’t remember. Philiphadn’t the slightest idea, but he was interested in Mc-Kee’s interest.

It was exactly the viewpoint Liz had feared. The tallinspector with his courteous manner and penetrating,deep-set brown eyes wouldn’t be satisfied until the

Philip said that his wife paid the servants by checkand he could look it up. He didn’t have to. The Ing-hams came in then; Captain Pierson had snatched themaway from a Sunday walk down by the river. Alice Ing-ham was a picture of wonderment, her blue eyes wide,in worn British tweeds, her lavender hair flying everywhich way. As usual, Josh Ingham’s ruddy face was veryalive under his red brush. “Well, here we are, boys andgirls. Ah, Inspector. Adams, eh? Fellow got it, did he?Phil told us.”

“Oh, Josh, do be quiet.” Alice Ingham was full of thesubject of the thieving housemaid. Her name was JoanChambeau. “I never trusted that girl, never from thefirst day she was in the house. I tried to warn my sister,but she wouldn’t listen. . . . You have news of the girl.Inspector? Of Sarah’s jewels, her pearl pin and the dia-mond and emerald ring? You recovered them?”

“To me—about the Adams man?” Alice was startled.Her blue eyes opened wider.

“Yes.” McKee took a cellophane envelope from hispocket and held it up. The envelope contained a pieceof blackened paper roughly four inches by two.

“Mrs. Ingham,” he said, “this is the remains of acheck for two hundred dollars, dated Friday and signedwith your name. It was found in a mass of burned pa-pers in the washbowl of Adams’ office on FourteenthStreet after his death. When did you give Adams thischeck, and for what?”

Alice Ingham stared at the envelope and then atMcKee. Blood rushed into her face, dyeing it a deeppink. The pinkness ebbed. She said quietly and withconsiderable dignity, “I gave Mr. Adams no check onFriday or any other time, Inspector.”

“But you did give this check to someone on Friday;you can see the date and your signature for yourself.It’s quite clear.”

Alice Ingham’s pretty mouth opened. She closed it.Somebody had entered the hall, was coming into theroom. It was Carol.

She stood in the doorway looking from face to face.Then she sauntered to a chair and sat down on the armof it, facing McKee. She was in riding clothes, jodhpursand boots and a jacket. Her small tan head was high.She had evidently heard the questions about the checkfrom the hall. She said in a light, even voice, “Aunt gavethat check to me. Inspector, and I gave it to Mr. Adamswhen I saw him on Friday after he left here.”

“A little investigating.” Carol was carrying a highballin one hand. She took a sip, lowered the glass, lookedinto it, swirling ice. Suddenly she put the glass on thetable with a slam and stood. She was shaking.

“Her.” Carol pointed at Liz. “Her, that woman, thewoman who’s going to marry my stepfather. Adams toldme on Friday afternoon . . .”

Now, Liz thought, now, and braced herself for theimpact, fighting mortal sickness. This was the end of it,the end of everything. The floor tilted up, the wallsswayed—and abruptly the room settled into place.

McKee said, “Adams told you what?” and Carol said,“He told me that he had discovered something impor-tant about her, Liz Bowen, but that he needed moremoney to get proof. He got proof, I know he did—andthat’s why he was killed. He was killed so he couldn’ttell me, tell anyone, what he had found out. That’s why.Don’t you see?”

Carol’s declaration was as near as might be an accusa-tion of murder. It plunged the room into a momentarystate of trance. Liz looked unseeingly at distance. Soit was Carol who had put Adams on her trail, shethought. Whether the Inghams knew it or not, PollyFord and Philip certainly didn’t. Polly was stunned,couldn’t seem to believe her ears. As for Philip—a faintshiver went through Liz. She had never seen him looklike that before. She put a hand unobtrusively on hisarm. He didn’t seem aware of her, sat staring steadilyat Carol, his gray eyes pieces of slate above a mouththat was a ridge.

The Inspector remained bland. He went on question-ing Carol in matter-of-fact tones. She said she had hiredAdams a month or so earlier, after Philip told themhe was going to be married to Liz Bowen. What hadmade her think of Adams? He had called Polly aboutthe maid, Joan—something about possibly having alead to her—but Polly wasn’t home when he called andshe had answered the phone. She remembered then thathe had done work for her mother, and she went to seehim in his office in New York. Adams had promised dis-cretion, secrecy. “I didn’t want anyone to know if there

Now they were all looking at Liz, including Philip.Philip . . . How long was his magnanimity, his trust,going to stand up against these continued assaults? Shehad to speak, give some answer . . . Liz addressed her-self to McKee.

“I can only repeat what I’ve already told you, Inspec-tor, what I told you last night in my apartment—that Idid not kill Adams, that he was dead when I entered hisoffice, and that I don’t know what he wanted to see meabout.”

It wasn’t very good, but it was the best she could do.There was a gleam of what looked like admiration inJosh Ingham’s twinkling red-brown eyes. McKee saidmildly, “Yes, you did, Miss Bowen,” and abandoned herand began going into the subject of Philip’s gun.

Philip hadn’t been able to find it. He had looked forit briefly the night before, when he got home, and againthat morning, more thoroughly, but it didn’t appear tobe in the house. He couldn’t recall when he had lastseen it, had no idea—except that it was a long whileago.

Adams had been shot, Philip Montgomery had beenpractically on the scene at the time of the shooting, andthe gun Montgomery admitted to owning had mysteri-ously disappeared; McKee made no effort to hide hisgravity. None of the others knew anything about thegun—or said they didn’t.

He already had Philip’s and Liz’s accounts of theirwhereabouts at the time of Adams’ death, for what theywere worth. He asked Carol Thayer and the Inghamsand Polly Ford where they had been and what they had

down the results. They were vague, inconclusive, andthoroughly unsatisfactory—shopping, looking in at apicture gallery, having a drink, walking from this pointto that. McKee saw that he would have to check inde-pendently, but unless he was wrong there wasn’t an alibiamong them that was worth a hill of beans.

There was nothing to be got there at the moment,not while he was around personally anyhow. PhilipMontgomery had a rod in pickle for the sullen, defiantgirl who was his stepdaughter. Carol Thayer had beenforced into the confession that she was having LizBowen investigated because of the discovery concerningher aunt’s check. She wouldn’t have come out with itotherwise. She was a pretty little thing, or would beexcept for her eczema. She was also tempestuous, un-balanced and undisciplined—and Adams had an un-pleasant habit of not only investigating for his clients,but investigating the clients themselves. The girl mighthave been up to some hanky-panky—he wouldn’t trusther an inch with a gun if her temper was roused—andAdams could have had a number of visitors on Saturdayafternoon.

It didn’t stop at Carol Thayer. Adams knew all thesepeople, and each would have to be gone into moreclosely. There were undercurrents in the room, a gen-eral air of unrest that had nothing whatever to do withthe direct questions he had asked them. It was almost asthough they were waiting for other questions. . . . Theatmosphere seemed to grow warmer when the maidJoan Chambeau was mentioned.

Nobody knew exactly how the maid had been hired,whether it was through an agency or not. He got the

name of the Yonkers employment bureau Sarah Mont-gomery had sometimes used and took his departure,savoring the silence in his wake, a silence that wouldendure until he was out of earshot.

McKee was right. As soon as he was gone the othersganged up on Carol, even Polly. It was a concerted at-tack. Philip began it.

For once Alice Ingham put indulgence aside. She waswhitely angry. “My check,” she exclaimed. “Mine. Youcould at least have cashed it and given the creature themoney—but no, you had to involve me.”

Carol was quivering like a nervous colt, twisting andturning in her chair, scarred cheek and chin flaming.Some of the starch had gone out of her, but she was stilldefiant.

“I wanted to find out about her”—she didn’t look atLiz, she pointed—“and—and Philip, how long it hadbeen going on before Mother died. I thought maybethere were other men, and if there were and Philipfound out about it, he’d know and—and come to hissenses. And Adams did discover something. He did.”She kicked the chair leg with a booted foot. “He toldme so Friday afternoon.”

Philip laughed contemptuously. “Just a come-on.Adams was giving you the run-around in order to jackmoney out of you, and you were fool enough to fall forit. An infant in arms would have had more sense.”

But Carol had another shot in her locker. “I don’tbelieve it—and what about your gun? She could havetaken it when she was over in the house yesterday morn-ing. I was upstairs—I took care to keep out of sight—but I heard you—you left her alone when you went totalk to Mrs. Rice. She had plenty of time.”

Liz felt sorry for the girl. Polly Ford was right; shewas all twisted up emotionally. At the same time shewould like to have given Carol a smart slap.

Carol refused to acknowledge her existence. Sheturned her face away with a sharp movement, refusedto look at her. The gesture was childish, hysterical. Thegirl was being pushed into a corner, and part of hervenomous anger was fear, but Liz saw no reason why sheshould remain there and listen. She got up. “I’ll be wait-ing outside, Philip.”

He woke from an inner absorption, went with her tothe door and opened it. “Be with you in a few minutes.”He touched her shoulder and went in and closed thedoor behind him. Liz wandered out on the terrace thatran around three sides of the house. At the back it washemmed in by tall cedars. Beyond the cedars was anenclosed quadrangle walled with lilacs coming intoleaf. The air was sweet, clean. Sunlight fell tranquillyon the lawn below. There was a sundial, and flowerborders full of dark earth. The quadrangle offered ashelter of sorts, where she could be alone, with time tothink; she went down a flight of stone steps in themiddle of the terrace.

There was a bench on one side under the cedars,backed against their feathery branches. Liz didn’t real-

screen. “Not here?” Polly said. “She’s probably upstairs—no, Philip—wait. I want to talk to you.”

Polly said slowly, “I lied to the Inspector when I saidI didn’t see it. I did see it last week. I think it was onWednesday. Bell Trainor wanted to borrow some of my

Dickens you had, and I went over to collect them. Theywere in the book cupboard to the right of the fireplace.So was your gun. Did you look there?”

“Polly—why didn’t you tell McKee? Did you thinkthe gun might have been used? Do you think I killedAdams with it?”

“No, no, no, no, no. Carol wouldn’t. What reasoncould she have—what possible reason?”

“And we were wrong, thank God. I’ll go over andlook in the cupboard now, the gun may have got shovedback ...”

Philip said steadily, in a perfectly normal voice, “Thegun’s in a safe place where it won’t be found by any-one, and that, Pol dear, is all I’m going to tell you. Theless you know, the better off you’ll be.”

A plane went by overhead. The roar of the enginesdwindled. Footsteps retreated on the terrace above,Philip’s and Polly Ford’s. A door closed. Liz sat staringat a patch of sunlight hemmed in by darkness on everyside.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, gazing fixedlyat the spot of brilliance at her feet. Her mind was awhirl of kaleidoscopic images: Philip holding his gunin a lean sinewy hand; Philip hiding it; the formidableInspector, keen-eyed and deadly; the pretty girl with the

small tan head, scarred cheek and chin who hated her;Adams lying across his desk, inert and heavy, with bloodcoming from the gunshot wound that had killed him.

She thought of the feeling she had had in the desertedbuilding on Fourteenth Street, of cautious movementbelow her in dimness—the faint sounds could have comefrom above just as well. . . . Was it Philip who hadmade them? Had Philip killed Adams, perhaps notmeaning to? Had he retreated back into the dead man’soffice as she advanced, perhaps to get something he hadforgotten, or to get out of sight? Was it Philip who hadgone out of Adams’ office through the door into the hallas she rapped on the other door, and had he then stagedan open return?

She rejected this idea in toto, would have no part ofit. Then—why had Philip hidden his own gun? Whyhadn’t he produced it? There was no gun in Adams’office—at least she had asked Philip and he had said no.Was he telling the truth, or wasn’t he?

There were other things. . . . Philip had put thequestion to Polly plainly. If Polly didn’t suspect him,did she suspect Carol? Philip had said, “You know whatwe thought before,’’ and Polly had been vehement inher denial—overvehement? ‘No, no, no ... We werewrong, thank God.’ An analogous situation, anothersudden death? Whose?

The darkness under Liz’s eyelids pulsed in and outaround the spot of brilliance on the lawn. Blades ofgrass, a stir of ants at their roots, a wandering bee. Thepatch of sunlight vanished. It was wiped out. Liz lookedup, and her heart hammered.

Delphin Saunders was there, not ten feet from her,between her and the sun. He stood easily, indolently,with that suggestion of physical power his big body andhandsome blond head conveyed. Philip had power too,but his was the strength of a rapier, undrawn except inthe interests of others. This man was for himself, first,last and all the time. Where had Del Saunders comefrom so silently? How long had he been in the immedi-ate vicinity? Had he heard Philip and Polly Ford talkingon the terrace above?

He hummed a snatch of “Glocca Morra” in a pleasantbaritone. It was one of the many assets he knew so wellhow to exploit. She mustn’t antagonize him, get his backup, until she could find out more. How she hated him,she thought. She answered with cool tartness.

“I’d feel a good deal better if I hadn’t been putthrough the wringer by the police. You heard what hap-pened in New York yesterday, about that man Adams?”

Del Saunders nodded. He, too, was in riding clothes.He switched a polished boot with a crop. “Damnednuisance, our brave bully boys in blue. A particularlyburly specimen practically dragged Carol off her horseand brought her over here. I understand from her that

you and Montgomery found the fellow dead in his office.Tough—so near your wedding, too. Only a few weeksoff, isn’t it?”

Was there menace in his drawling nonchalance? Washe warning her? She said yes and got up off the bench.She had meant to brace him, to ask what he was doingoutside her apartment on Morton Street Saturday after-noon, to suggest that he had hotfooted it to Adams’office as soon as he heard her give the taxi driver theaddress. After what she had heard about Philip and thegun, she decided against it. It was too dangerous. Sheturned toward the steps leading to the terrace.

Del Saunders carried the battle to her and broughtup the subject himself, blocking her way.

“Don’t go, beautiful. We’ve got things to discuss. Asa matter of fact, I went down to your place on MortonStreet yesterday afternoon to have a chat with you, talkover old times. You weren’t there, but as I was leavingI ran into your cousin-in-law. So the Trents are backin the States on a visit. How’s Melissa?”

His arrogance, insolence, took Liz’s breath away. Hewas reestablishing himself in her life as though nothinghad ever happened, as though the past didn’t exist. . . .What struck colder into her was the knowledge that hewas doing it deliberately, for a purpose. How sheloathed him! The loathing was so deep that it wasdifficult to control.

He smiled. “That, my dear, is where you’re mistaken.Come, Liz, use your head—you’ve got one. I noticethat when we met Friday evening you said nothingabout our having been going to be married once. I

Boston . . . Liz’s pulses thrummed. Oh well now,that was nonsense. Boston was a big city. She fought offnightmare.

“Yes, I knew that you and Montgomery were plan-ning to marry; I read a little notice in one of thecolumns. Carol was quite vocal about it to her friends.I don’t think she quite approves—too bad, dissensionsin families—a pity.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

Liz stood stiff and motionless under the weight of it.The country somnolence was broken by the sound ofher name. It was Philip, calling her from somewhere offon the left.

“Ah,” Del Saunders murmured, taking his hand away,“the bridegroom cometh. Our little talk will have towait. A pleasure deferred, but I’ll be around and intouch with you. . . .”

Philip called again and Liz called back. Then Philipcame walking around the corner of the house and acrossthe lawn.

He looked at Del Saunders with his usual calm glancethat betrayed nothing, even when you knew him well.Saunders said, “How are you, Montgomery? MissThayer around? We were going for a ride ...”

have a word with her, if I may.” Without waiting for ananswer he sauntered up the steps and vanished from.sight.

' Philip looked after him thoughtfully. There was anodd expression in his eyes. He made no comment. Heshrugged, turned back to Liz and linked an arm throughhers. “My car’s around in front. I’ve had just aboutenough—so have you, more than enough—come on,let’s get out of here while the going’s good.”

Liz was only too glad to get away from further contactwith Delphin Saunders, or, for that matter, with theInghams and Polly Ford and Carol. They drove up theriver by small side roads Philip knew. At first not muchwas said. Liz was content simply to sit back and rest ina mental and emotional vacuum, watching the trees andthe hills and an occasional stretch of river go by. Philipseemed to feel the same way. The air was cool and sweet,the peace heavenly. It couldn’t last. It didn’t. PresentlyPhilip began to talk about Carol, musingly.

“She’s an odd girl,” he said, “hard as nails on thesurface but soft underneath—she’s young and impetu-ous and doesn’t stop to think. It’s natural enough; she'shad too much of everything, and not enough of thethings that count. Don’t be too hard on her, Liz—butI know you won’t. What she really craves is affection.That’s why she’s so fond of Polly. Sarah didn’t give hermuch . . .” He seemed about to say more, caught him-self up, and then went on.

“I think Carol feels she was a disappointment toSarah, that Sarah would have liked her to be a beauty.And I—I suppose I’m to blame too—Carol wasn’t homemuch, there were schools and camps, and I did a lot of

traveling myself. The idea that I was getting marriedevidently disturbed her. I think she’d built up some sortof fantasy, had a notion that she and I were going toroam around the world together . . .” He was rueful.“Poor kid, I didn’t realize . . . Certainly if I’d knownhow deeply she felt about us and what she did—andthere was no excuse for that—I wouldn’t have asked youto come up here today. It was hellish for you.’’

He went on after a moment in a harder tone. “I’lltell you one thing I don’t like. I don’t like that fellowSaunders. He was around yesterday and again today.Rather heavy dating, considering that he and Carolhave only known each other a month or so. What’sSaunders after? He’s years older than she is, and he can’tbe in love with a child like that. Her money?’’

Liz said carefully, “It does rather look like it, doesn’tit? But I don’t know. Maybe not. Carol’s very attrac-tive.”

“Well,” Philip declared, “he’ll never lay a finger onCarol’s money, if that’s his game. Alice and I are herlegal guardians. If she marries without our consent, shecan’t touch a penny until she’s twenty-five—and I verymuch doubt whether Saunders will hang around thatlong with his tongue hanging out.”

Liz wanted to implore Philip to let the whole matterride until Adams’ death was solved and disposed of.Delphin Saunders could be as dangerous as an asp if hewere crossed. And after what had happened at Polly’shalf an hour ago—he might have overheard Philipand Polly talking on the terrace. Anyhow, she hadheard . . .

“Philip,” she said, gazing ahead of her through thewindshield, “I was down in the garden below the cedarswiien you and Polly were on the terrace—when youfirst came looking for me—and I heard what you said toPolly about your gun.”

He gave a quick glance at her profile. His long stronghands didn’t tighten on the wheel, lay along it easily.He said after a moment, “How much did you hear,Liz?”

Silence for another moment; Liz waited, her eyes onthe road, dappled with sunshine and shadow.

Philip sighed. “You’ve had trouble enough. I’m sorryyou overheard us. You see, I had to stop Polly. Thepolice were over in the house and if they’d caught herrummaging around in that cupboard—well, she’s aboutas transparent as a pane of glass. They’d have had it outof her that my gun was there a week or so ago; they’dhave forced it out of her.”

He slowed the car, pulled in on a grassy verge at theside, killed the engine and turned to her. He was grave,worried. He said so.

“When you and I were over in the house yesterdaymorning, you didn’t go near the cupboard in the livingroom, did you—while I was downstairs talking to Mrs.Rice?”

“Good. I didn’t think so, but Alice and Josh Inghamheard Carol’s ridiculous charge that you might havetaken the gun. Don’t let Alice fool you. I like her well

enough, but she’s not as simple as she looks under thatingenuous exterior. Also I was thinking of fingerprintson the cupboard door . .

He grinned briefly at her expression. “Don’t glare atme like that.” His face sobered. He hesitated, fingereda cigarette without lighting it, then went on. “I wishyou could bring yourself to tell me what Adams said toyou over the phone that made you go to his office. . .

“O.K. It’s all right, Liz. I know. . . . Things happen,you get mixed up in them, and then before you know itand through no fault of your own you’re involved,although someone else is really to blame. . . .”

I alone, Liz thought. I’m the one. If I hadn’t donewhat I did, if I hadn’t taken the law into my ownhands . . .

Philip said gently, “I’m not pressing )ou. I under-stand. As a matter of fact, I’m in the same boat myselfnow—in it deep, and good and plenty.” Then he toldher.

He had found the gun, his gun, lying on the floorunder Adams’ desk in Adams’ office. There was no mis-take; he recognized it at once from a scar across the buttwhere the metal was damaged. After Liz had gone hepried the spent bullet out of the back of Adams’ chair.Then he took a taxi across to the garage where his carwas parked, and locked both gun and bullet in the glovecompartment before joining her at the Pidgeon.

Liz stared at a piece of blue that was the distant river,at a tug pulling a barge. She was relieved and at thesame time appalled and dumfounded. Adams had been

shot and killed with Philip’s gun. There was no gettingaway from it—otherwise why would the gun be there?They talked about it at length with a coolness at whichLiz marveled inwardly. But there was nothing else todo. It was a fact that had to be faced. Anyone with accessto the house could have taken the gun, and the list wasextensive. Besides Philip and Carol and Polly Ford andthe Inghams and the servants, there were friends andneighbors. And then there was Adams himself. He hadbeen in the house on Friday after he left Polly’s, seeingCarol. That was when Carol had given him Alice Ing-ham’s check. Where all was mystery, nothing could bedismissed. Adams might have taken Philip’s gun. Whenthey touched on motive, Liz felt Philip going away fromher.

She said that Carol had no motive, or Polly, or for thematter of that, the Inghams; Adams wasn’t threateningany of them. Philip said, his eyes inscrutable on distance,“I have an idea that Adams knew a good deal more thanwe have any idea of.”

Liz felt the blood rising to her face. She was hot, andthen she was bitterly cold. A slowly rising barrier wasthere between them; Philip knew things he wasn’t tell-ing her, couldn’t tell her, and she knew things shecouldn’t tell him. Struggle as they might, the situationwas building a wall between them. There was nothingthat could be done about it for the present, she thoughtwith bleak resolution, but accept the status quo andgo on from there.

I didn’t. . . . But in ways I was a fool. Removing essen-tial evidence in a murder is not only stupid, it’s danger-ous. If the police were to find out about it, I’d be behindbars before you could say Jack Robinson. . . . Oh, yes,there’s no doubt about that. But . . .” He shrugged.

But. That was it. The unsaid, the things that weren’tgoing to be said, by either of them.

Philip didn’t go into the fears, surmises, suspicions,that had made him remove his gun to a safe hidingplace. No, he wasn’t being frank with her—or she withhim. Had Delphin Saunders been in the Montgomeryhouse on Friday? Could he have got hold of the gun?He had a possible motive—very definitely.

After a while they drove on. Philip’s mood hadchanged. He was determinedly cheerful. He said therewas no use worrying or crying out until they were hit,and began to talk of other things. Liz pointed out jack-in-the-pulpits under some elms, a first cluster of wildiris, but it was no use; the color had faded from the bud-ding trees, from the sky and the river. The onenessbetween them was gone.

Meanwhile back in Spuyten Duyvil another name hadbeen added to the list of people who could have re-moved, and used, Philip Montgomery’s gun.

The police found out—not from Polly but from theMontgomerys’ cleaning woman, a Mrs. Davis—wherethe gun was kept, and that it had been in the wall cup-board beside the fireplace in the Montgomery livingroom when she dusted the cupboard the previous Wed-nesday.

McKee talked to the cook, who gave them her name andaddress. It didn’t take long. Mrs. Davis, stout, competentbut bristling, said, “I didn’t steal no gun, you can’t pinit on me. It was there when I dusted them shelves in thatcloset on last Wednesday. I give it a real good turnout.What would I want a gun for—and I ain’t no thief.”

The cupboard was thoroughly examined. There wasno gun, but there was something else. Lying on the bot-tom shelf, between a first and second row of books, werethe pearl brooch and the diamond and emerald ringbelonging to Philip Montgomery’s first wife Sarah, thathad disappeared more than nine months ago.

According to Mrs. Davis, neither the brooch nor thering had been in the cupboard the previous Wednesday.McKee thought about this new development at length.The case was growing darker and darker and more in-volved, but he had expected little else. From the begin-ning it had had a feel he disliked. It refused to straightenout, form a definite pattern. If the maid, Joan Cham-beau, was the thief—and Adams had said she was—itlooked as though Joan Chambeau had paid the Mont-gomery house a visit sometime between late Wednesdayof the former week and Saturday, when Adams was shot.

When Joan took to her heels with her assorted bootymonths earlier, she could also have had a key to theback door, and nothing would have been easier thanto enter the house unseen. It was large and very oftenuntenanted except by the cook, who was frequently outherself and seldom entered the family living quartersout of hours. She had her own room on the top floor.McKee could see Joan Chambeau replacing the jewelry.With Adams on her tail, it had become a menace to her;

the gun was something else again. However, thoughtMcKee, it was possible that she had taken it for pur-poses of her own.

Mrs. Ingham declared that she was a magpie, a pickerup of unconsidered as well as considered trifles. Mont-gomery’s gun might have been a considered trifle, readyto the maid’s hand. She might have intended to sell it,or have wanted it for a boy friend, or she might havedecided to threaten Adams with it.

Thinking about Joan, McKee could hear her: “Ididn’t take that stuff. It’s in the house somewhere. Yougo and see. Go and take a look. I’m going to be framed.I’m not going to jail—I’ll put a bullet through you ifyou try anything.”

All surmise, the Scotsman reflected, and nothing butsurmise. No nice, cold, hard, positive facts you couldgo to town with.

And then they got a piece. A discovery had been madein New York that could be corroborative evidence ofJoan Chambeau’s presence in Adams’ office on Saturdayafternoon. She could have been there, all right. A closersearch of the building on East Fourteenth Street hadbeen made, and a rain-soaked paper bag containing abrassiere and a pair of pink panties had been found atthe bottom of the court outside Adams’ windows. Thatit had been thrown from his waiting room was estab-lished by a sales slip under the single window. It haddropped down behind the radiator, on which the baghad probably lain.

The name on the bag was Banes, and Banes was onlytwo doors away from the building Adams was in. It wasnot a store that any of the women in Spuyten Duyvil

The maid’s possible removal of Montgomery’s gunwas theory; the brooch and ring, the brassiere and pan-ties, were facts. McKee talked to the local precinct andcalled headquarters. He got Dalligan in Fingerprintsand Dalligan said no, he wasn’t busy and he’d be rightalong. As soon as the precinct men arrived at the house,McKee and Pierson left for New York. To find JoanChambeau had now become imperative.

By nightfall McKee’s stock of information on all con-cerned in the murder of John Hampton Adams, or allwho could have been concerned as far as the police thenknew, had been considerably augmented. Their generalbackgrounds were beginning to fill in. Joan Chambeauwas first and foremost; she headed the list.

The first break, for Homicide, was that Joan had arecord. She was twenty-four years of age, white, blue-eyed, blond hair, height five feet, weight around a hun-dred pounds, flashy dresser. She had been in troublewith the police on more than one occasion. There werea couple of petty larcenies, sentence suspended, and thena more serious shoplifting, for which she got six months.That was three years ago. She was out and about sometime before she went to the Montgomerys’. Judging byher thefts there, she seemed to be incurably light-fingered, but more by good luck than good guidance—perhaps because of the sudden death of Philip Mont-gomery’s first wife at the time the thefts at the Mont-gomery house were perpetrated—she had managed tokeep clear of another brush with the law. There wasn’tmuch else. Joan Chambeau’s last known address was34 Schuyler Place, Yonkers.

McKee called the Yonkers police, and an officernamed Tomkins was sent to Schuyler Place. Number 34

was a small battered house in a rundown development.The only person Tomkins found at the house was JoanChambeau’s stepmother. Her own mother had diedwhen she was a small child and her father had marriedagain. According to the slatternly but good-natured sec-ond wife, Joan and her father didn’t get along, “notnever,” and the girl hadn’t lived at home since she gotinto hot water when she was fourteen. “Went off onher own after that, she did. Such ructions—I guess itwas all for the best she left.”

The stepmother had no animosity toward Joan butfelt rather sorry for the girl. She said that her Bill, Joan’sfather, was an “awful good man, but kind of hard,”and that “lickings didn’t do nothing at all but makethings worse.” The trouble with Joan was the crowdshe’d run with from a kid. She never came to the housenowadays, she hadn’t been there in a couple of years, butshe’d sent a box of stuff last Christmas. The stepmotherdidn’t know Joan’s exact address. She thought she livedwith another girl somewhere around Two Hundred andThirty-eighth Street, something like that, when she wasout of a job and not sleeping in.

The Kingsbridge precinct was reached. One of theradio patrolmen working out of it knew Joan Cham-beau. She hung out in a tavern on Two Hundred andThirty-first Street and had been netted in a couple ofbrawls but wasn’t personally involved. They had adrunk and disorderly on her, but she didn’t seem a badkid and she had been given a talking to and taken home.Her present address, as far as was known, was 3266 WestTwo Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street.

Chambeau lived there but she wasn’t home. She shareda two-room apartment on the first floor with a Miss MayPollett. Miss Pollett, a large brunette, was in and shewas civil and cagey. What did the cops want to comebothering Joanie for? It was mean. Joanie was goingstraight. She was out of a job at the moment, kind oftaking a rest. Her last employer till a month or so agohad been a Mrs. Cantrell, a terrible stingy old bag inone of those big houses in Fieldston who half starved thehelp.

Adams had been killed late Saturday afternoon. Joanhadn’t been home the night before, Saturday night. No,Miss Pollett didn’t think anything about it. Why shouldshe? Joanie might have been with friends, or she mighthave taken a flyer somewhere with her boy friend overthe week end. Here Miss Pollett became suspicious. “Isit Tom? Did he sick you on her? Is that why you come,why you’re here?”

She looked at the detective with considerable dis-favor; he assured her that Joan Chambeau was wantedas a witness to an accident, nothing else as far as heknew, and asked who Tom was.

Tom was Tom Trout, Joanie’s steady, she said. Steadywas right. He was a nice enough guy but as slow asmolasses, with lead in his pants and his shoes as well asin his head, who wanted Joan to get married and settledown in some Godforsaken hole out somewhere in thewilds of Jersey and have a whole flock of kids. Whatdid he do for a living? He worked for Con Edison as alineman and got pretty good pay. Joanie wasn’t bornyesterday.

some shopping and have her hair fixed—at least thatwas what she had said. Nothing wrong with that wasthere—for crying out loud! The name Adams woke noresponse in Miss Pollett, but she did admit that Joaniehad been kind of down in the mouth lately, like shehad something on her mind, was worrying about some-thing. “I figured it was money, that she was running out,but when I offered her some she said she had enoughfor a while. I guess it was Tom Trout at that. She kindalikes that guy I guess, but she don’t want to get marriedyet, you gotta have a bit of fun first. I always say if youdon’t have it when you’re young, when will you have it?You’re old a long time—and young only once. That’s

Tom Trout, and the tavern on Two Hundred andThirty-first Street that was Joan Chambeau’s hangoutwere the next ports of call. The bartender in the tavernknew Joan well. She was in and out a lot at times, andthen for a while she wouldn’t be there at all. Smallish,but a good-looking kid. They’d had trouble with heronce or twice maybe, sure, when she’d had a drop or sotoo much, but not often, and it was nothing out of theordinary, nothing to make a song and dance about.

The bartender was patient. “You figure it, Mister.”He threw out an arm and pointed. “I don’t know noth-ing about what goes on outside them doors. In here shewas O.K. Sure there were guys—she’s a nice-lookingchick like I say, bright, laughs a lot, and likes to play thefield.”

Joan hadn’t been in during the last week. The nameTom Trout woke no response in the barman, but he

said Bella might know, and shouted for her. Bella wasa short, tubby blond waitress with a round platter face.Summoned from the nether regions Bella was helpfuland big-eyed, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Sure sheknew both Joanie and Tom Trout. Less reticent thanEddie the bartender, she said to the detective with awedexpectation, “Did he do it, Mister? Did he go afterJoanie? Did he beat her up—is she hurt bad?”

It developed that Tom Trout was not a regularpatron but he had come in once or twice looking forJoan, and if she was there he’d have a beer or two withher. About a month ago they had a stand-up knockdownfight, and he had dragged Joan out of the place by thehair of her head. She told Bella afterward that she wasscared of Trout, real scared. He wanted to marry herand she liked him all right, but he was too serious forher. “Not her type at all—you know?” Joanie liked tokid around and have fun.

The quarrel on that particular night a month or so agowas about money Trout had lent Joan to have her teethfixed and she had spent it on other things. He was ajealous guy, too; if she so much as looked sideways atanother fellow he hollered and screamed and blew histop. Yeah, she was scared of what he might do to hersometime if he got really mad, but generally she couldmanage him.

By a stroke of luck Bella also knew where Tom Troutlived. It was on Bailey Avenue, across the street fromher cousin Julie—she had seen Trout going in and outof the building. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, if youdidn’t mind them short and stocky and going a little

Tom Trout lived with his widowed mother in a four-room apartment on the second floor of a five-storywalk-up. Mrs. Trout admitted the officer. No, she said,Tom wasn’t there. What did the policeman want to seehim about? She was a woman in her sixties, plump, gray-haired, respectable and dressed neatly in black. She wasalso badly worried. Was there something wrong, wasTom in an accident, “hurt—maybe? . . She startedto cry.

The detective reassured her and began to ask ques-tions. If the others had been cagey where Joan Cham-beau was concerned, Mrs. Trout was not. Far from it.She said, choking back tears, “That girl, that bad, hor-rible girl—I knew no good would come of it. I knew it,I felt it in my bones. I warned Tom, but would he lis-ten? I might as well have saved my breath to cool myporridge. No, when it comes to girls they’re all alike.He said she’d had it hard. Hard? I’d hard her.”

Mrs. Trout was sorrowful and outraged. Tom hadbrought Joan Chambeau there about six months ago.One look and anyone could see what a tramp she was,anyone that wasn’t blind in both eyes. “Have they runoff and got married? That was what that girl wanted,that was what she was after. It was as plain as the noseon your face. Are they in trouble? It’s her fault, Officer.Tom’s a good boy, he was brought up decent . . .”

Tom Trout had not been home the night before,Saturday night, and he hadn’t telephoned to his mother.It was the first time in his life he had stayed out all night

without letting her know where he was, the very firsttime. He had had Saturday afternoon off and he was go-ing to meet Joan Chambeau somewhere in New York.He had told her that much, but only because she keptafter him—he hadn’t been very nice about it, either. Heleft the house at around two o’clock Saturday afternoonin his car, dressed in his good clothes and his new hat.He had said he’d be home by twelve and for her toleave the chain off the door, but he hadn’t come homeand she hadn’t had a wink of sleep. She had lain awakeall night.

The detective soothed Mrs. Trout as best he could,got a description of the clothes Trout was wearing, andthe make, model and license number of Trout’s car. Hesaid he’d let her know if they heard anything, andreturned to the precinct.

Half an hour later McKee studied these findings athis desk in his office. Both the tavern on Two Hundredand Thirty-first Street where Joan Chambeau hung out,and the apartment she shared with May Pollett, wereonly a stone’s throw from Spuyten Duyvil on the heightsto the west*/The city stopped at the edge of the flatsthat had once been marshland, and the country beganwith the climb. Joan Chambeau could easily havewalked up there to the Montgomery house last week,and there was also a bus. He would have the buschecked on by the local men. The phone rang. It wasDalligan from Fingerprints.

Joan Chambeau had left her John Hancock on thepearl brooch found behind books in the cupboard inthe living room of the Montgomery house on WildwoodRoad. There were no one-finger classifications in the

bureau at Centre Street, but Dalligan said, “It’s theMcCoy, all right, Inspector. It’ll stand up. Girl had ascar on the ball of her right thumb. Dandy print of it,nice and clear, on the back of the brooch, that flat goldplate.”

There were no prints on the cupboard door or any-where else in the room, but Joan Chambeau might havebeen wearing gloves while she was in the house. McKeethanked Dalligan and hung up thoughtfully. Anothercall came in then from a Kingsbridge man who hadbeen sent to question Mrs. Cantrell at her home inFieldston, an expensive development several miles tothe north of Spuyten Duyvil. Mrs. Cantrell had ap-parently been Joan Chambeau’s last employer, and Mrs.Cantrell had dismissed Joan not only because delicacieswere missing—smoked oysters and caviar and such—butalso a valuable coral necklace. She had made no ac-cusations—“that would be unwise, those people can getback at you.” She had simply let the girl go, immediatelyafter she had called Mrs. Joshua Ingham in SpuytenDuyvil, whose sister, the late Mrs. Montgomery, hadformerly employed Joan. The call had bten made sixweeks earlier.

The Scotsman stared meditatively at rooftops underthe dark sky. The whole case continued to be elusive,slippery. There was no solid anchor. Senseless dis-crepancies like this kept cropping up. He had asked theInghams that afternoon about Joan Chambeau, whetherthere was anything they could tell him, and the answerhad been no. Yet the ingenuous Mrs. Ingham with thepleasing face and the frank eyes knew where the girl hadrecently been employed. Not only that, but she had put

on a great show of eagerness at the idea that there mightbe news of Joan, and of the missing brooch and ring thathad belonged to her dead sister. Very interesting, veryinteresting indeed. It was also puzzling. Why had AliceIngham lied about so simple a matter?

McKee considered it from half a dozen angles,shrugged, and filed it for exploration later. There wasa great deal of digging to be done; they had scarcelyscratched the surface yet. An alert for Joan Chambeauwas already out. Another one was put on the air and onthe teletype for Tom Trout’s car and Tom Trout him-self, age 32, olive skin, brown eyes, height five feetseven inches, weight around a hundred and sixty-pounds, when last seen wearing . . .

Tom Trout and Joan Chambeau were becomingmore and more important. The family that had for-merly employed Joan, and the relatives and friends ofthe family, had been unproductive, and Alice Inghamhad been something less than outgiving. The helparound the neighborhood might do better by them. Hehimself had had only a few words with Mrs. Rice, theMontgomery cook, early that afternoon. The womanhad been with the Montgomerys for some years; hewould put Pierson on her tomorrow and see what hecould get. McKee picked up a sheaf of reports on therest of the people he had seen and talked to that day inSpuyten Duyvil, and began to read again.

Liz and Philip got back to Polly’s that evening,Sunday evening, at around six o’clock. They hadn’tintended to go back. Philip had been going to drivestraight down the highway, but Liz had left her purse

at Polly’s when Philip swept her away in the middle ofthe afternoon without letting her reenter the house. Onthe whole, in spite of the reticences—the things it wasimpossible to talk about—the mood between them wasone of contentment. Liz always felt that lovely peacewhen she was alone with Philip and free of other people.Little things went by the board, irrelevancies weren’timportant, didn’t really matter.

The moment they went into Polly Ford’s they weregreeted with the news about Joan Chambeau, that thegirl had been in the Montgomery house within the lasttwo or three days, and that Sarah Montgomery’s stolenjewels, the ring and the pearl pin, had been returned.The Inghams were there drinking cocktails. Josh Ing-ham was redly subdued, almost solemn, in spite of theliquor, and oddly, Alice Ingham didn’t show the en-thusiasm, the pleasure, she should have displayed at therecovery of valuable property.

Josh Ingham said, “The police are figuring that shemust have taken your gun, Phil; but you know, some-how or other, I don’t believe it.” Running her handthrough her hair until it stood practically on end likea hedgehog’s quills, Alice Ingham said firmly, “Thatgirl would take anything that wasn’t nailed down. She’sa born thief. She’s also a liar. . . . Oh, dear—heavenonly knows what wild tales she’ll tell the police about uswhen they get hold of her.” Polly said tolerantly, “Ohcome on, Alice, she wasn’t all that bad.” Her long-lashedviolet eyes, fixed on Philip, were clouded, questioning.Under outward composure Polly Ford was puzzled.

Of course, Liz thought— Philip’s gun. She herselfknew the truth about it, that Philip had found his gun

lying on the floor under the desk in Adams’ office; butPolly didn’t know that. He had simply told her that hehad hidden it in a safe place where no one could find it.Would he speak now? If the maid had stolen his gun,that removed suspicion from everyone else who couldpossibly have got hold of it.

Philip didn’t speak. Throwing himself into a chairand crossing his long legs, he took a sip of his drink, lita cigarette and said with alert attention, “Joan, eh?. . . Well, well. What do the police think?”

Alice Ingham said tartly, “What Josh says—that JoanChambeau took your gun to shoot Adams with, becausehe found out definitely that she stole Sarah’s brooch andring and was threatening her with prison.”

“Umm . . Philip held out his glass absently for arefill. “Rather an extreme measure, don’t you think, toexchange a felony rap for a charge of murder? And Ican’t say that the girl struck me as a homicidal type. Butit could be—she might have meant simply to threatenAdams, and lost her head and given the trigger a squeeze. . . Well, we’ll find out when the police catch up withher. No use bothering ourselves now.”

He changed the subject and spoke of the house, thebeautiful, cold, curiously empty house on the hill be-yond, that nobody seemed to stay in much.

“Alice,” he said, “there’s something I’ve been wantingto talk to you about. Liz and I have decided to take anapartment in New York and live there after we’remarried. Carol can live with us if she likes—it’s up to her.If not—after all, she was brought up here in SpuytenDuyvil and has a lot of friends around the neighbor-

hood, and she does need a home, a permanent base—I’ve been wondering whether you and Josh . .

Alice Ingham’s whole face lit up. She sparkled withpleasure. “Oh, Philip, I’m—I’m overcome. So gener-ous . .

She said she’d be only too delighted to take the houseover. She simply hated the place they were in, so smalland poky and undistinguished, and their lease wouldrun out shortly. It couldn’t be more convenient. AndCarol did need a real home and her own people, a feel-ing of belonging, and a settled life—the child ranaround the country far too much. “If she’s with us itwill be different.”

Polly Ford was cool to the idea. She said discon-solately, “Liz—Philip, you rats to desert us.”

Liz knew that what was really troubling her wasCarol’s being handed over to Alice and Josh Ingham.But if she didn’t approve of the plan, she was toodiplomatic to say so outright. Josh Ingham showed noperceptible elation. “Yes . . . Yes, very nice—whateveryou people want ... It will take some keeping up, allthose lawns—and I’m not exactly what you’d call anoutdoor boy . . .” They were in the middle of a discus-sion of ways and means when Carol herself came in.

Liz had been relieved not to find Carol there whenthey arrived; she had had enough of Philip’s step-daughter for one day. She looked at Carol, apprehensivenot for herself but for Philip. Soon her apprehensionvanished and surprise took its place. Less than fourhours had passed since Carol’s open and bitter attack,her stinging charge which amounted to an accusation of

murder—this was a different girl. Her voice was differ-ent, her manner, her whole appearance, her approach,were different.

As though walking a tightrope^ she came straightacross the room to Liz and halted in front of her. Herglance didn’t stray; she didn’t look at anyone else. Herface showed the marks of weeping but it had smoothedout. It had a candid open look, and her eyes were clear.She was nervous but determined. Her hands were thrustinto the pockets of a plaid jacket over a white shirt anda brown pleated skirt. She was rather like a young soldieron parade carrying out a difficult but necessary assign-ment.

“Liz”—she spoke with a rush—“I’m sorrier than Ican say about what I did to you, sorry about that dread-ful man Adams and what I asked him to do, sorry aboutthe way I spoke to you this afternoon ... I know now,I’ve had time to think, and I also know that Philip isright, Adams was just fooling me—but I deserved it.And I deserve anything you want to say to me.”

Liz was startled, embarrassed, uncomfortable andmoved. It was rather an abrupt about-face, but therewas no last vestige of animosity visible in Carol, and sheseemed to mean what she said. . . . Doubts or nodoubts, it would be ungenerous not to meet her halfway.

She said quickly, “Don’t say another word, Carol. It’sall right, perfectly all right. I understand. We’d nevermet and you didn’t know anything about me . . .”

“. . . but I shouldn’t have, it was horrible . . .”“It’s over and done with—finished,” Liz said. “Let’sforget about it, shall we—and go on to bigger and betterthings. O.K.?”

She put out a hand. Carol pressed it and the rap-prochement was completed, to the general relief. Philipwas openly pleased.

It was a little-girl voice, uncertain, subdued. Verysweet—but Liz wondered. She said with mock gravity,“Let me see . . . Yes, on the whole I think it’s per-missible,” and smiled. Josh Ingham brought Carol acocktail and Polly resumed work on the hooked rug shehad dropped when Carol walked in. “I don’t know whyI keep on with this,” she said. “Isn’t it hideous?”

Liz reflected that the trouble with all of them exceptPolly—Philip included—was that they treated Carollike a child, and she wasn’t a child. She was a woman,with a very definite character and a will of her own.Talk continued, about the Montgomery house and theInghams taking it over—Carol was indifferent aboutliving up here, pleased with the idea of an apartment intown. “Now I’ll have two homes. New York—that’sgoing to be simply divine. . . .”

Half an hour later Liz and Philip left. Polly wantedthem to stay and have something to eat, and AliceIngham pressed them not to go. “I feel we’re justgetting to know you, Liz.” But Liz explained that her .cousin Melissa Trent was on from England, she wasexpecting a call from her and had to get back to town.

They left on a note of sweetness and light, in whichsomehow or other Liz couldn’t quite bring herself tobelieve. But she might be cynical, unkind—it mightvery well be genuine . . .

Take the goods the gods provided and stop askingquestions, she decided. When they got back to her apart-ment that night, after a leisurely dinner at Arno’s,Philip moved her car from one side of the street to theother as usual. It was going to be a relief to get rid ofthe thing; the city rule of alternate parking on alternatedays was one of the nuisances of a New Yorker. She wasrunning an ad in the Villager and had several bites butno takers.

If she had moved the little car herself she might havebeen able to answer with more certainty the questionsthat were asked about it on the following day.

Monday morning saw Joan Chambeau firmly estab-lished as having been in Adams’ office the previousSaturday afternoon approximately an hour and a halfbefore his body was purportedly discovered by LizBowen.

Sunday over, the termites returned to their nests; theoccupants of the building on Fourteenth Street wereback at work. They were all questioned thoroughly andat length. A Mr. Issacson, two offices down the hall fromAdams, was the only one besides Adams himself whohadn’t left the building early. On Saturday Issacson hadremained to finish some bookkeeping until nearly fouro’clock. While he was locking his door a girl came outof Adams’ office and walked past him.

Issacson said that the girl seemed to be feeling good.She was kind of smiling to herself and she walked witha bounce. She had blond hair and a nice figure, smallbut well stacked, and she had on—he identified in-dependently the clothes worn by Joan Chambeau asdescribed by her roommate in the Kingsbridge apart-ment—a tight black and white checked suit with anarrow skirt that showed plenty of leg, high-heeledblack pumps and a small green hat with a feather in it.

Issacson remembered the hat particularly. It fell offas the girl went past him and he picked it up and

handed it to her. She said, “Thanks, Mister, can’t keepthe damn thing on my head no matter what I do,” andwalked away laughing and swinging the hat in her hand.The only other item Issacson could remember was along pair of dangling diamond and pearl earrings—fake,of course.

Issacson was a stroke of pure luck. The luck didn’tlast long; it ran out on them after that. The girl’s trailended there, outside the building on East FourteenthStreet, around four p.m. Saturday. There wasn’t anotherpeep, a whisper, of Joan Chambeau, either alone orcompanioned by Tom Trout. The girl had not goneback to the apartment she shared with May Pollett, norhad May Pollett heard from her in any shape or fashion.Trout hadn’t returned home either, he hadn’t tele-phoned to his mother, and he hadn’t turned up for workthat morning at the Con Edison plant where he wasemployed. The two of them, Trout and Joan Cham-beau, separately or together, could be hundreds of milesaway from New York by now—the alarm for the girlhadn’t gone out until eighteen hours after Adams’death, and you could add another four for the lineman.

Discussing it later with District Atorney Dwyer,McKee said that Adams was alive when Joan Chambeauleft him at four o’clock—he had called Liz Bowen ataround half past four—“when the Chambeau girl lefthim for the first time, that is.”

“You mean she might have gone back later and . . .You figuring her for the killer, McKee?” Dwyer asked.

The Scotsman shrugged. “I didn’t say that. It’s—outof character, but leaving that aside, and from whatwe’ve got on her so far, she had no hard motive. She’s

a thief, no doubt of it, but most of it was petty stuff,anything lying around loose. No, as of now I’ve got adifferent picture of what might have happened—might—it’s only that, that’s all I’m saying.” He explained thatwhen Joan Chambeau left Adams’ office at four o’clockon Saturday afternoon she left a shopping bag contain-ing a brassiere and a pair of panties behind her inAdams’ waiting room. She either forgot the things, orshe left them there deliberately, because she intendedto go back and collect them later. “There’s a pos-sibility,” he said, “that she did go back, and that TomTrout caught up with her in the middle of a wingdingwith Adams and”—he made an expressive gesture witha thumb and cocked forefinger.

“Not so fast, Jack Harkaway—hold your horses,”McKee told him. “There’s a second possibility—andthat is that Joan Chambeau did go back and that sheran into the real killer, someone perhaps who stoppedher in her tracks by saying that the police were withAdams and that he had sold her out and that she’dbetter take to her heels fast. Mind you, I’m not sayingthat this is what did happen. I’m only saying that it’sa possibility.”

Dwyer inclined strongly to the first theory. “Jealouslover bumps two-timing girl’s new boy friend—looksO.K. to me—looks great.”

But McKee was dissatisfied. There were a lot ofthings about Adams it didn’t explain. And about thoseothers, too. Liz Bowen destroying everything in Adams’office she could lay her hands on in the limited time at

her disposal, she would have been afraid of an interrup-tion, of someone walking in on her; Philip Montgomeryprobably finishing up what Liz Bowen had begun. Hehad asked the girl whether she had torn the pages fromthe front of Adams’ notebook—apparently the only realfile he kept—and her blank expression more than herdefinite no had answered him. If Montgomery wasn’tguilty himself, for whom was he covering up? What didAdams have on the Bowen girl that sent her flying overthere to his office when he whistled? And then there wasthe way Adams had buzzed around those men andwomen up there in Spuyten Duyvil like a bee around ahoney pot. No, McKee thought, there was too muchdarkness altogether, there were too many questions un-answered. It would be useless to try to draw any firmconclusions yet. It couldn’t be done.

In addition, there was Joan Chambeau. In some oddway the girl was a hot spot in the middle of the murk.It was like the old guessing game. Whenever the maidwas mentioned there was a quickening . . . One thingwas for sure, if the Montgomerys’ former maid wasn’tguilty but knew who the perpetrator was and if shetried to cash in on her knowledge, there was going tobe trouble, and in this case that was something theydidn’t need. If only the maid would show.

Joan Chambeau did show in two separate manifesta-tions later on that day, in widely separated spots. Onewas concerned with a brawl in a tavern; the other,which actually took place earlier, was even more pecu-liar—and very much more menacing. McKee heard ofthe tavern brawl first.

with her friend, and also on the bar and grill on TwoHundred and Thirty-first Street she frequented in herhours of ease. Ed’s Bar and Grill was a clean, well-keptplace with a varied clientele. Not only the usual cornerboys and habitues, but also prosperous businessmenwould stop in for a quick one on the way home. Therewere women, too. By five o’clock the place began tofill up.

Joshua Ingham was an occasional patron. Sometimesin the morning Ingham took the train from SpuytenDuyvil; sometimes, if he was late and in a hurry, heparked his car on Two Hundred and Thirty-first andtook the subway. He had taken the subway that day, andat five o’clock that evening he entered Ed’s Bar andGrill for a refresher before going home. He had a Scotchat the bar, ordered a second one and was chatting idlywith a casual acquaintance, apparently without a carein the world, when the door was thrown open and a mancame bolting in at a crouching half-run.

The man was short, dark, stocky, and in a bad stateof repair. It was more than evident that he had been ona bender and was still deep in the throes. He had sleptin the clothes he wore, his tie was gone, buttons weremissing from a soiled shirt torn open at the throat, andthere was a rip in one sleeve.

The bar ran along the back of the room. It was justcomfortably filled, no more. All the drinkers standingwith their backs turned were clearly visible. The en-raged drunk had no difficulty spotting his quarry. Heflung himself along the wide aisle between the boothswith a furious roar. Heads turned and people begangetting to their feet; the drunk launched himself at

“Where is she,” he shouted, shaking Ingham vigor-ously, “what have you done with her,'damn you? Whereis she, I say?”

Ingham couldn’t have answered if he wanted to. Thebartender was already in action. He vaulted the end ofthe bar and came running. He and some other mengrabbed for the drunk, but Ingham was able to takecare of himself. He reached up, grabbed the drunk’sclutching hands, tore them loose, swung round, and asthe fellow staggered back off balance, he gave him asmashing punch that sent him to his knees.

The drunk knelt there dazed and bleary-eyed, shakinghis head from side to side to clear it.

“Who the hell are you, anyhow,” Ingham askedcalmly, rearranging his tie and shrugging his coat intoplace, “and what are you talking about?” In spite of theunprovoked attack he showed no particular rancor. Hisvoice was good-humored.

The drunk managed to struggle to his feet with somedifficulty. Two bystanders let him get up but held himfirmly by the arms. The man’s bloodshot eyes buggedout and he was so enraged he was just about able tospeak.

“Joanie,” he shouted thickly. “Joanie. Where is she?What did you do with her?”

“Don’t try and lie out of it. You know damn well who—my girl, Joan Chambeau.”

It was at that point that Officer Parr entered thetavern. Parr was followed by the patrolman on the beat.

The drunk was Tom Trout, for whom the whole de-partment had been searching for more than twenty-fourhours. Without further ado Trout was forcibly removedand taken to the Kingsbridge station house.

Officer Parr remained behind to talk to Ingham. Itwas a passer-by who had alerted the radio car. A womanwalking along the pavement had noticed Trout catchsight of Ingham’s convertible parked up the block andthen start for the tavern at a dead run. He lookeddangerous, as though he was going to cause trouble,maybe murder someone, and she gave a yell.

Ingham refused to prefer charges against Trout. “It’sall right, Officer. He didn’t do much damage, I’m nothurt. The fellow obviously didn’t know what he wasdoing—he’s out of his head, bunned to the ears.” Asfor Joan Chambeau, Ingham had seen nothing of thegirl in ages and couldn’t make out what the devil Troutwas getting at.

Officer Parr said with a shrug, “When they’re likethat they’re bughouse, cuckoo, don’t know where theyare or what they’re doing. He’ll probably pull a blank.. . . Maybe we’ll want to ask you a few questions later,Mr. Ingham.”

Ingham said, “Any time at all, Officer,” gave his nameand address, got into the convertible with a friendlywave and drove west across the flats and up into theSpuyten Duyvil hills.

Meanwhile, in lower New York, Joan Chambeau haderupted in a more concrete fashion.

Liz finally sold her car that day. The transaction wasshort and sweet. The buyer was a Mr. Sokoloff, who hadalready looked at it, along with half a dozen others. Mr.

Sokoloff meant business. He gave her a check and shegave him the necessary papers and one set of keys; toher annoyance she couldn’t find the spare set. Theyweren’t in the zippered compartment in her bag whereshe always kept them. Sokoloff was very nice. He said itdidn’t matter, she could give him the spare keys whenshe found them, and went off to get the registrationtransferred, leaving the car where it was and saying he’dbe back to collect it later.

That was about ten o’clock in the morning. Liz wentout a couple of hours later. What she had told Philipabout Arthur Colt, and the rough layout she hadpromised to do for Arthur, wasn’t all fiction. She hadhalf promised Arthur she would, if she could getaround to it. Anxious to get away from the horror ofAdams and her own pressing thoughts, of Melissa andEdward, of Carol, and of Del Saunders, she had goneto work after she’d had coffee; she finished the sketchat twelve. Polly Ford had said something about cominginto town to have her hair done and that she mightstop by. Before she left the apartment Liz called her butshe wasn’t home. Liz deposited Sokoloff’s check at herbank on Waverly and Sixth, and went uptown toArthur’s office, delivering the layout to him. ThenArthur, Marcia Talon, Bugs Rierson and she went downto the cafe in the basement and had a drink and a sand-wich. It was after three when Liz got back to MortonStreet to find Polly Ford on her doorstep. She was justturning away.

Polly was delighted to see her. She hadn’t phonedbecause she had understood Liz to say she’d be in. “Myfeet hurt, I hate town shoes, I’ve gotten out of the habit

of wearing high heels. Never mind, you’re here now,thank goodness. What I want is a gallon of tea and towash my face. I’m sure I'm black. How you can standthis New York dust . . .”

She looked very smart in a black suit and a small blackhat with a white wing in it. Her manner was easier;there was more warmth in it. Liz thought with an innergrin that after much cogitation Polly Ford had decidedshe was acceptable; needed a little toning down perhaps,but on the whole not a bad wife for Philip, and not toobad a stepmother for Carol, with Polly’s own guidinghand at the controls of course. Liz was still faintly leeryof Carol, and that was all right with her. She used herkeys and they went upstairs. Standing outside Liz’sdoor and propped against it, was a long, white, florist’sbox.

In the apartment foyer, while Polly went to wash up,Liz opened the box. It held two dozen long-stemmedAmerican Beauty roses on a bed of fern. She rummagedaround in the tissue. There was no card enclosed.

“Umm,” Polly said, coming out of the bathroom andburying her face in the blooms, “lovely, lovely—butthey always remind me faintly of a funeral—do theyyou? Who sent them? Philip?”

Liz said, “I don’t know, there’s no card,” and put theroses in water, an unpleasant suspicion forming in hermind that this might be one of Del Saunders’ tricks toraise questions, embarrass her. It would be just likehim. But perhaps not. It might be Philip. She didn’tthink so, and she was right.

She called Philip to say that Polly was there and askedhim what he was doing. She told him about the roses.

He said, “Roses—red roses? No, not me—but I wouldhave if I’d thought you’d like some. An unknownadmirer—I’ll have to look to my laurels. Don’t go outanywhere. I’ll be along in a little while.’’

“Why don’t you call the shop they came from andask?” Polly suggested. The name on the box was Stan-forth, a flower shop close by on the corner of Groveand Seventh. Certainly not that; Liz was afraid of theanswer she might get. She said, “They’re probably fromArthur Colt. I did some work for him.” But it wasn’tArthur. The flowers had come too fast, Arthur wouldhave put a card in, and there was no delivery tag withher name and address on it attached to the box. It hadbeen delivered by hand, personally, by whoever boughtthe roses.

Polly had come to ask Liz to be married from herhouse in Spuyten Duyvil. It developed there was moreto it than that, and Liz was secretly amused. Polly said,a little anxiously, “Did Alice Ingham call you or come?She said she might. You haven’t arranged anything withher? Good. I know she’s going to ask you but her placeis far too small. I’ve got ever so much more room, Liz—and then there’s the garden.”

Liz started to speak and she put up a hand. “Don’tsay no right off, Liz. You’re so—impetuous. Seriously,a country wedding’s ever so much nicer than a cityaffair. The tulips may be gone but there’ll be plenty ofother flowers. No fuss, I know you don’t want that, orPhilip either. Alice would ask half the countryside;we’ll just ask whoever you wish. I know your cousin’shere, and she’s at a hotel. I could put her and her

husband and you all up the night before; it wouldn’tbe the slightest trouble.”

Polly was full of energy, she liked to be busy, shemeant well, and she was one of Philip’s oldest friends,but Liz said no. “It’s lovely of you to suggest it, Polly,and Alice Ingham, too—you’re a dear—but we’re notgoing to make a thing of it. Philip and I are going towalk quietly around to church and then go on board—our ship sails at four in the afternoon.”

She got up and crossed the room to rearrange theroses. “Don’t forget that Philip was married before—and that his first wife hasn’t been dead very long.” Itwas a somber note; she struck a lighter one. “What areyou trying to do, regularize our marriage?”

Polly laughed, and then sobered. “I’m sorry, Liz. Itwas Alice who put the idea into my head, and I thoughtthat now that Carol’s come around so nicely it wouldbe better and more fitting—but have it your way. Afterall you’re the boss; certainly a girl’s entitled to have herway about her own wedding.”

The scent of the roses filled the room. The heavyfragrance sickened Liz a little and she opened a window.A funeral—they did smell like a funeral. Who had senther the flowers? Outside in the street the thin clank ofa rusty bell sounded from the ragman’s cart. She wentinto the kitchen and made tea. Then Philip arrived andwanted a cup, so she started to make a fresh pot. Shewas at the stove waiting for the water to boil, and Pollyand Philip were talking in the living room, when thedoorbell rang.

wasn’t Del Saunders standing outside in the hall; it wasonly Mr. Sokoloff. Mr. Sokoloff had got his license andwas going to take the car away. She said she was so sorrybut she hadn’t located the spare keys yet, and Mr.Sokoloff said that was all right, he’d get another set cut.

Liz looked at the hat blankly and shook her head.“It’s not mine, Mr. Sokoloff.”

“Well it was under the front seat on the floor. Maybeit belongs to one of your friends. That’s probably it.”He handed her the hat and went. Liz walked into theliving room carrying the thing in her hand. She wascompletely mystified. She explained about having soldher car. “That was Mr. Sokoloff, the man who bought it.He found this hat under the seat and insisted onpresenting me with it. It’s not mine, and I can’t thinkwhose it could be. I never saw it before in my life andexcept for Sunday when I tried to start the Renault andcouldn’t, I haven’t been in it for weeks and weeks.”Polly eyed the hat askance. “It’s certainly no creation,and it’s not too clean, either. . . . Maybe someonethrew it through one of the car windows.” But Liz saidthe windows were closed and the doors locked. “You didlock the door last night when you moved the car, didn’tyou, Philip?”

“It was dark. Only the dash lamps were on, and if itwas under the seat . . .”

But the hat troubled her. First the roses and now this.Pin pricks but unexplained pin pricks. She was about togo and throw the hat into the trash when Philip said,“Let’s have a look at it,” and she tossed it to him. Heturned it over.

They looked at each other. Liz’s eyes slowly widened.The brassiere and panties left behind by Joan Cham-beau in Adams’ office, that Philip had thrown out thewindow, had been bought in Banes. . . .

Philip gave his head a shake, like a man drowsy withsleep trying to get rid of a nightmare. “It’s all nonsense.

. . . She doesn’t even know who you are, let alonewhere you live. . . . It’s crazy. . . .”

Polly was looking from one of them to the otherperplexedly. She said in a patient tone, “Would youmind letting me know what this is all about?” andPhilip told her.

Polly was gently derisive. “Don’t be foolish. I’ve seendozens of those hats around town, sort of Tyrolish cumSeventh Avenue—they must turn them out by the gross—and how many customers do you suppose a store likeBanes has in one day? Practically millions. And whatwould Joan Chambeau want with you, Liz? If you wereone of her own ilk, a lady burglar or a forger or some-thing in her own line, or even someone she could makemoney out of . . . Oh, the whole thing is laughable.You’re both being ridiculous. My advice is to throw that

With every word Polly said, a knife twisted in Liz.Someone Joan could get money from, blackmail secondhand—Adams, and Joan Chambeau had known Adams,had had the knowledge with which to blackmail her—and Philip was aware of it. She couldn’t tell what Philipwas thinking, what judgments, suspicions, surmises,questions were going through his mind. The phonerang. She put the hat down on a table and answered it.

It was Carol—and the puzzle of the flowers was ex-plained. Carol had brought them to the apartment.

She said, “Did you get your roses, Liz? I rang yourbell, rang and rang, but you weren’t in and I couldn’twait. I was in your part of town early this afternoon andI thought I’d stop in to say good-bye—I’m going toBaltimore to stay with friends for a week or ten days.”She went on talking vivaciously in her light prettyvoice.

Liz gazed at a stretch of wall, the corner of the mirror,shadows thick around her; she tried to fight clear ofthem. There was nothing sinister about Carol’s visit toMorton Street, nothing whatever. It was a spontaneousgesture, generous, graceful, and nothing more. . . .What would Carol be doing with Joan Chambeau’s hat?She thanked Carol for the roses, wished her a pleasantjourney, dropped the phone into place, and went backinto the living room.

One thing she didn’t imagine, one hard cold fact, wasthe spare set of car keys that unaccountably wasn’t inher purse. For the green hat to get into her car, the

door had to be unlocked—and the spare keys were notwhere they should have been.

Philip asked about spare keys and she told him. Shedidn’t add that the only time the bag had been out ofher possession was yesterday afternoon at Polly’s for threehours, while they were driving up the Hudson—becausethe keys mightn’t have been in her bag then. She simplydidn’t know.

The affair ended by Philip’s turning the green hat inat the local precinct on the way to dinner. Polly thought,and said, he was crazy, but he was quietly firm. He saidthat if the hat was unimportant it wouldn’t matter, butif by any wild chance it was Joan Chambeau’s—whichhe didn’t believe for a moment—then they’d be in theclear.

Early that day, before the appearance of the green hator the episode in the tavern on Two Hundred andThirty-first Street, Captain Pierson went up to theMontgomery house in Spuyten Duyvil and had a talkwith the cook. Mrs. Rice was a stout, comfortablewoman in her early sixties, not at all disinclined to talkof her employers, and she had been with the Mont-gomerys for five years. Since her death—she never re-ferred to the deceased Sarah Montgomery as anythingbut she or her—no other indoor servants had been kept.There was no need of it. Miss Carol and Mr. Mont-gomery were out and away a lot. It was different whenshe was alive, there was always something more to do,she’d run you off your feet. She had been hard to getalong with, stingy, always bought separate food for thekitchen. If they had lobster, you had cod, and for allshe was very handsome—a real picture to look at—she had a nasty temper, cold like, cutting. It was herown fault with Joan, all her own fault. She had no oneto blame but herself. Joan knew which side her breadwas buttered on and it was always “Yes, Mrs. Mont-gomery . . . Oh, no, Mrs. Montgomery,” and “Oh,Mrs. Montgomery, don’t you look beautiful!” UntilJoan got too bold.

head but boys and having herself a gay old time.” Mrs.Rice shook her own head. She had a natural sympathyfor the underdog. It was wicked, she went on, the wayshe had sneaked that man Adams into the house lastyear, not coming out with it, telling them instead thathe was a man from an architect’s office about changes inthe upstairs rooms and to give him all the help hewanted. He would have caught Joan cold then, on thespot, if she hadn’t up and died sudden so that in thefuss and to-do Joan had a chance to pick up and beat it.Mrs. Montgomery died in the night and Joan was gonebag and baggage by lunchtime the next day.

“So Mrs. Montgomery died suddenly,” Pierson said,and Mrs. Rice nodded vigorously. “You could haveknocked me over with a feather. I was upstairs in bedand asleep and I didn’t know a thing till morning.” Inher opinion she had brought it on herself. In a terribletemper she was all that day, before she got the strokethat killed her. She had a fight with Miss Carol and thenwith Mr. Josh—Mr. Joshua Ingham, her brother-in-law—and then a set-to with Mr. Montgomery himself, anda finer man never walked, because he had to go back tohis office that night to do some work. Joan had told Mrs.Rice about the blowups with Miss Carol and Mr. Josh.Mrs. Rice had heard her going on at Mr. Montgomeryherself, when she was fixing coffee for them in thedining room after dinner.

“She was giving it to him good in her sarcastic way,about how she knew he enjoyed his work so much anddon’t let her keep him a minute, he must be anxious toget away from a tiresome invalid, poor boy.” Mrs. Ricesniffed. She didn’t know what the fight with Carol was

about. She never raised her voice, but Miss Carol wouldget real excited. Joan thought it was something aboutmoney with Mr. Josh, money she’d lent him and wantedback right off. Joan had often said she wouldn’t besurprised if one of them bumped her off some day. Mrs.Rice shook her head again. It did seem like fate, didn’tit?

His coat draped over the back of a chair in the bigkitchen, Pierson went on eating cake and drinking coffeeand gently extracting all the information the cook couldgive. In spite of the fight with Mr. Josh, him and hiswife had stayed to dinner that last night, “her last onearth,” and Miss Polly had come over later in time forcoffee. Then the Inghams went and after that Mr.Montgomery left for the office. Miss Carol? She wouldn’teat any dinner. She got herself a sandwich and a drinkon a tray and took it upstairs to her room.

Mrs. Rice had last seen her playing cards with MissPolly in the living room. She looked all right, rougedand powdered and perfumed like always, and with herhair—she had lovely hair and took a lot of care of it—just so. She seemed kind of nervous and edgy thatnight, but nothing unusual, she was often that way.Maybe she was a little worse that evening. Nothingsuited her. She complained that the curry was too hot—though goodness knows she generally liked it so itwould take the throat out of an ostrich—and she saidthe peas were overdone and the rolls soggy. “I got realmad. I was sorry about it later, when she was took. Shejust keeled over at the card table and fell all of a heapon the sofa she was sitting on. Miss Polly ran to thephone and got the doctor and he came and gave her

At that point an acquaintance of the cook’s came in.Pierson thanked Mrs. Rice heartily for the refreshments,and returned to the office. If he had stayed longer hemight have learned more, but the woman was alwaysavailable. McKee wasn’t in the office; he was over at thewest side hotel at which Adams had lived, looking overAdams’ room, and the Captain joined him there.

Adams’ actual office had quite definitely been in hishat. He had committed very little to paper. The hotelroom produced nothing informative beyond the factthat the dead private detective had a taste for expensiveclothes and, from an elderly page boy, that he was adedicated horse player, a dyed-in-the-wool devotee, andoften went to the track. He had lived at the hotel formore than a year, had no known relatives, no visitors,was neither liked nor disliked, and was a fair tipper.The ponies appeared to be his real occupation exceptfor such work as was necessary to provide him with therequisite funds in as much abundance as could bearranged.

Pierson gave McKee a resume of his talk with theMontgomerys’ cook, Mrs. Rice. The Scotsman was di-gesting it thoughtfully over a beer in the hotel bar whenthe call came through from the Kingsbridge police sta-tion about Trout and his apprehension after the attackon Ingham in the tavern on Two Hundred and Thirty-first Street.

The Kingsbridge lieutenant said, “He’s not in goodshape, Inspector; in fact he’s in pretty bad shape, drunkas a coot. What do you want us to do with him?”

Trout sat slumped in a chair in the lieutenant’s officeat the back of the Kingsbridge station house. He wasa short, thickset man with a heavy jaw and a two days’growth of dark beard on his face. There was a bruise onhis chin where Joshua Ingham had socked him. Itdidn’t add to his beauty. He had already had an emetic.A detective tried to give him more coffee and he pushedthe cup away. He wasn’t within measurable length ofsobriety; the fumes of many continuous hours of alco-holic refreshment were still floating around in his brain.

McKee took it easily and little by little the man beganto come to. The Scotsman gave an order. A sandwichwas brought, corned beef on rye. Trout stared at thesandwich dully, picked it up with reluctance, took abite, and began to eat ravenously. McKee held his fire,not a word about Adams yet. The fellow’s mother first.

“Your mother is badly worried about you and if youwant to get out of here under your own steam,Trout . .

“She’s waiting to see you, Trout; she wants you home.She’s very much upset, and she’s not a young woman.This is pretty hard on her. All you have to do is makea simple statement, answer a few simple questions.”

“But why, Trout, why? You must have had a reason.What made you attack him like that, without anywarning?”

“Because he’s fooling around with my girl, that’swhat. Thinks he’s a big shot because he lives in a bighouse and has a lot of money, the . . .”

Trout agreed that he had had a date with Joan forSaturday afternoon. She had to do some shopping andshe went to the city first. He was to drive down to NewYork and pick her up at Carneys’, a bar on FourteenthStreet where he knew the bartender, at five o’clock.They were going to have a couple of drinks and theneat at the Turkey Coop and then maybe go dancing—Joan loved dancing. He wasn’t much good at it and shelaughed at him but he was getting better. He’d beentaking lessons on the sly—to hell with it. Joan hadstood him up.

He parked his car on Leroy Street over by the river,the Hudson River—the cops didn’t bother you there,it was a lot belonging to a factory—and walked acrosstown. He got to Carneys’ at five on the button. WhenJoan didn’t show up right away he didn’t think any-thing of it. She was more often late than not, dawdlingin front of shop windows like a kid with her tonguehanging out, but when it got to be half past five, he gotmad. He went out in the street and looked around and

then, afraid of missing Joan, he went back to Carneys’again. It was after six by that time and she wasn’t there,and she didn’t come. He wasn’t much of a drinkerordinarily, maybe four or five beers when they werestepping out, but he began ordering boilermakers andthe more he drank the madder he got. He knew whathad happened all right, Joan was two-timing him,double-crossing him, and he was dead sure that Inghamwith the flossy manners and the grin was at the bottomof it.

The rest of that night, all day Sunday, and most ofthat day, Monday, were a blank. All Trout knew wasthat he had come to briefly in the subway, and then hewas walking west on Two Hundred and Thirty-firstStreet on the way to Joan’s apartment to tell her whathe thought of her, when he caught sight of Ingham’scar. It was parked near Ed’s tavern, and he’d foundJoan in Ed’s once before having a drink with theIngham guy. So he went in.

First Ingham’s wife’s reticence about Joan Chambeau,McKee reflected, and now Joshua Ingham himself.Ingham had the look of a womanizer, on a mild scale;made no secret of it. Had it been on a mild scale wherethe former Montgomery maid was concerned? Perhapsnot, and that was the reason why Alice Ingham had saidnothing; he would do a little probing there. McKeereturned his attention to Trout.

The man was not unintelligent; he was slow, steadyand a plodder, until aroused. Then look out. If JoanChambeau had removed the gun from the Montgomeryhouse when she returned Sarah Montgomery’s jewelry,and if Trout had seen her enter Adams’ office late Satur-

day afternoon and had followed her upstairs and sur-prised her canoodling with Adams, he most certainlycould have shot Adams with Montgomery’s gun—granting that it was in the girl’s possession at the time.Just as Liz Bowen could have, if she could have got holdof the gun in the Montgomery house when she wasthere Saturday morning, or Montgomery himself couldhave, or any of those other people in Spuyten Duyvilfor that matter.

Liz Bowen had far and away the best motive; Adamsvery definitely had something on her. Trout had anexcellent motive, too; his fierce jealousy of a girl whowas giving him the run-around. His statement would

have to be checked in detail, his exact procedurethrough the hours of Saturday afternoon and eveningdug out.

They had enough to hold him on and he’d be betteroff behind bars, for the present anyhow; he was still ina dangerous mood as far as Joshua Ingham was con-cerned. McKee and Pierson left the Kingsbridge pre-cinct and drove downtown, talking the case over as theywent.

What Pierson had come up with, what he had learnedthat day in Spuyten Duyvil via the Montgomery cook,Mrs. Rice, might turn out to shed new light—possiblya leading light? Undoubtedly the first Mrs. Mont-gomery’s death, her suden death, had been a stroke ofgood luck for both her husband and Liz Bowen. Fromwhat McKee had been able to gather, they were deeplyin love with each other and had been for quite a while—and Sarah Montgomery’s death left them free tomarry. The first Mrs. Montgomery had been a wealthy

woman. . . . Among other things it would be nice toknow whether Montgomery had benefited financially toany extent by her death.

Pierson said, “Think there’s anything in it, Inspector?Think the first Mrs. M. could have—got it? That curry,now—poison maybe?’’

McKee shrugged. “Could be ... I think it might beas well to look into it, and have a talk with Mrs. Mont-gomery’s lawyer. She almost certainly had one; she wasan independently rich woman.”

“Yes. It would figure in with Joan Chambeau, too,wouldn’t it? The maid was a snooper. Dollars to dough-nuts, she knew pretty much what went on in the Mont-gomery house while she was there. She might haveknown that Montgomery was in love with some otherdame, and when Mrs. M. died Joan might have seensomething phony. Even if she couldn’t add it up herself,she could have told Adams about it when he let herget away with that jewelry, without taking a rap for it.”McKee nodded and Pierson went on talking in hisshrewd way. He said that Adams could have put twoand two together, made four out of it—and put thesqueeze on someone. All that about tracing Joan Cham-beau could have been my eye and Betty Martin. Adamscould have been using it as an excuse for keeping in thepicture, circulating around up there in Spuyten Duyvil,figuring what the tariff would bear. “Maybe JoanChambeau got wise after Adams was shot, maybe she’sgoing to try and get her hands on a hunk of real money—and that’s why she’s hiding out.”

McKee agreed tentatively. It would fit in very neatlywith the covert agitation, or stir, in all those people up

there in Spuyten Duyvil whenever Joan was mentioned.He looked at his watch. If he could get hold of SarahMontgomery’s lawyer and doctor that night, he mightbe able to clear the ground, to find out if there wasanything solid to this latest development. The wholething might be a mare’s nest.

They pulled up at the next drug store and Piersongot out to phone. He came back with the information,given by Mrs. Joshua Ingham wonderingly, that thelawyer who had handled her sister’s estate was a Mr.Jeffrey Carmichael. She didn’t know Mr. Carmichael’snumber but was sure he was in the book. He was;Pierson called Carmichael’s home and found him in.Twenty minutes later they were with the lawyer in hishouse on East Seventy-first Street.

Carmichael received them pleasantly and took theminto a handsome study. The firm of Carmichael, Duffand Carmichael evidently did well for itself. The lawyerwas a small neat man in his early thirties, courteous,close-lipped and attentive.

The moment McKee mentioned Sarah Montgomery’sname Carmichael said, “Ah, it’s my father you want.Yes, Dad handled Mrs. Montgomery’s affairs for years,and wound up her estate.” He added that unfortunatelyhis father was abroad. “But if there’s anything I can tellyOU—I have a fair idea of the general outlines.”

The will itself was simple enough. Sarah Montgomeryhad left the house in Spuyten Duyvil, her equity in it—she had put considerable money into it and into the

grounds—and fifty thousand dollars in Tel and Telstock to her husband. She left another twenty thousandto her sister, Mrs. Joshua Ingham, and the rest of theestate went to Carol, her adopted daughter, in trustuntil the girl was twenty-five, or until she married withthe consent of her trustees and guardians, who wereMontgomery and her sister, Mrs. Ingham.

So Carol was an adopted child. . . . That was thefirst McKee had heard of it. It could explain certainthings about Carol—but not necessarily.

The lawyer told him that a Miss Polly Ford was aconnection—a very distant connection—of Carol’s, andexplained the circumstances. Sarah Montgomery, as shelater became, was at that time married to GilbertThayer. Thayer had wanted a child badly—and adesirable infant had been available.

“I see,” McKee said thoughtfully, and moved on toSarah Montgomery’s demise.

Carmichael said that Mrs. Montgomery’s suddendeath had been a shock to his father. “As a matter offact, Dad was talking to her early on the evening of herdeath. She wanted to make some changes in her willright off, then and there, but he was tied up that even-ing, and he told her he’d go up and see her the next daywithout fail. Unfortunately she died late that samenight. Dad spoke of it later regretfully. . . . Inspector,is there anything—wrong?”

“Not that we know of at present,” McKee said.“After all, women do change their wills without rhymeor reason sometimes.”

“And how!” Carmichael grinned. “But changing willsis not confined to women; men, too, for that matter.”

He verified the cook’s account of the way SarahMontgomery had died. Her death was the result of astroke. It had come suddenly, but it was not unexpected;she had been suffering from hypertension for years. Itran in the family. Her father, and an older brotherliving with her at the time, had gone the same way. Itwas a pity. She was only forty-one or two and hadeverything to make life pleasant: a husband who wasdevoted to her, a daughter—Carol had been legallyadopted—and plenty of money. The money, most of it,had come from her first husband, Thayer.

Did Carmichael know anything about the first hus-band? Only, the lawyer said—and that was sad, too—that Gilbert Thayer had committed suicide. He hadjumped from a window of the Thayer apartment tenstories above the street. He himself remembered it verywell, although he had been little more than a boy inlaw school; perhaps because it had been a blow to hisfather, who had known Thayer intimately.

“Nobody could ever figure that one out, Inspector—why Thayer did it, I mean. There was no financialangle; Gilbert Thayer had plenty. But also there wasno hocus-pocus.” Thayer was alone in the apartmentat the time the unfortunate affair had happened; hiswife and daughter were not due home until the next dayfrom a trip abroad. Sarah Montgomery was a beautifulwoman, younger than Thayer, and he was very much inlove with her, but toward the end he had apparentlybecome moody and withdrawn. Very sad ... It wasjust one of those things that happened every day.

That was all Carmichael had to tell him; it wasenough, the Scotsman decided as he thanked the lawyerfor having seen them at that hour, and they took theirleave; it opened a whole new line of investigation. Thesudden death of a woman about to make a redisposalof her property, a sizeable estate; the presence, prac-tically on the scene, of a private detective who was laterkilled himself; a shrewd-eyed maid hovering on thefringes and disappearing—yes, there was plenty to begoing on with. Joan Chambeau had to be found. Thatwas more essential than ever.

When Pierson and the Inspector got back to theoffice, a report from the Charles Street precinct waswaiting on McKee’s desk. The green hat found in LizBowen’s car that afternoon was Joan Chambeau’s. Therewas no possible doubt about it. Her roommate hadidentified it. There were, plenty of green boucle hatsaround the city, but not with chicken feathers in them.Joan had added the feather herself.

A woman with a hat, a woman without a hat, a hatwithout a woman—McKee didn’t care at all for theshape in which the hat, undeniably Joan Chambeau shat, was presented to them. It was a spear pointedstraight at Liz Bowen. The precinct men had gonearound to Liz’s apartment after the identification of thehat. The Scotsman skimmed their report.

Miss Bowen: “I never saw Joan Chambeau in mylife. I wouldn’t know her if I fell over her in the street.

I never held any communication with her. No, shenever telephoned to me to meet her, and there was nomeeting, in my car or anywhere else.”

Interrogating officer: “Then how do you account forthe hat being in your car? Do you think Mr. Sokoloff

Miss Bowen: “No, I don’t. If Mr. Sokoloff says hefound the hat in my car, he did. I can’t account for it.Except that I lost the spare set of keys for the cai.

Liz Bowen didn’t know when or where she had mis-laid them, or how long ago. They had been in a sidepocket of the purse she habitually carried when she had• last seen them. She hadn t looked for or at themspecifically, in months, she had had no occasion to do so.

The Charles Street men put very little stock in thetale of the lost keys. It was a yarn anyone could tell whowanted to throw suspicion elsewhere, divert it from her-self. McKee was inclined to believe Liz Bowen. Shewasn’t a girl to lie gratuitously, and the hat hadn’t yetbeen discovered when she first missed the car keys—Sokoloff, the man who had bought the car, had beeninterviewed, and he was positive about it. In addition,the car itself had been gone over, without result. Therewere no fingerprints of Joan Chambeau’s on the hard-ware, or other evidence of her presence in the Renault.This of course was negative. There didn’t need to be;the maid could have worn gloves.

At any rate, as far as Liz Bowen went, if there wasanything wrong about Sarah Montgomery’s death—such as a pinch or two of something in the curry, forinstance—the girl Montgomery was shortly going tomarry was completely in the clear. Whatever else shehad done, Liz Bowen had never gone to the Mont-gomery house while Sarah Montgomery was alive.

Early the next morning McKee paid another visit toSpuyten Duyvil, not to the dead woman’s sister or toany of her friends, but to the Montgomery doctor,Alfred Laughton, before Dr. Laughton started on hisrounds.

Laughton was fifty-one or two, gently rotund, witha thick cap of gray hair, pink skin, china blue eyes anda pleasant, easy manner.

The moment he spoke of Sarah Montgomery’s deathLaughton sat erect. He said, “A little late, isn’t it?” andMcKee said, “Well, things come up ... At the timeMrs. Montgomery died there was a maid in her employwe’re interested in, a Joan Chambeau.”

Dr. Laughton had expected another name. Heblinked. “Oh . . . Oh, yes, Joan Chambeau. I remem-ber the girl. I treated her for bronchitis once—pertpiece, pretty—the tubercular type.”

Laughton's account of Mrs. Montgomery’s death wasmuch the same as the lawyer’s. Sarah Montgomery haddied from a stroke, a massive hemorrhage involvingvarious organs, among them the liver. Dr. Laughtonremembered the night she died very well. He had beencalled away from a bridge game. When he got to theMontgomery house Sarah Montgomery was already be-yond help. There was almost no pulse. Everything hadbeen done that could be done, everything administeredthat would be of the slightest use—but it was too late.It was too late before he got there. He gave the samedetails Carmichael had given, in slightly more technicalterms. There was no possibility of a mistake as far asthe cause of death was concerned because . . .

Then and there the tenuous structure that had beenbuilding about Sarah Montgomery collapsed to theground with a crash. The evidence was complete, incon-trovertible, and documented by men whose reputationwas without question, men who had no axe to grind.There had been an autopsy, and the autopsy established

McKee was presented with a copy. It was jarring. TheScotsman didn’t often make the mistake of prejudgmenton insufficient evidence. He had been practically surethey were getting to the roots of this devious case. Hewas mistaken, badly mistaken. He picked himself up,dusted himself off, ready to start over again.

“/ was perfectly satisfied. Inspector, perfectly. I hadno doubt whatever. It was on the cards. Mrs. Mont-gomery could have lived for years, or she could havedied at any moment.” Laughton hadn’t suggested theautopsy, her husband had. His reason? He wanted tobe sure that everything possible had been done for hiswife, that she couldn’t have been saved.

Laughton pursed his lips. “Oh, I don’t know. . . .Mrs. Montgomery’s sister, Mrs. Ingham, objected stren-uously, but I think on the whole, all things considered,that Montgomery was right. There was the usual cropof rumors. Never saw it fail. You know how people talk,and you can’t stop them. . . . Why is it that when aman dies the wife is always suspected, and vice versa—by some people, anyhow? Rather a reflection on the joysof matrimony, isn’t it?”

Laughton’s information was better than the lawyer’s.He gave it frankly enough. The Philip Montgomerys

hadn’t gotten along very well—on the surface, perhaps,but not actually. You had only to look at them together.Sarah Montgomery was nervous and high-strung, andher blood pressure didn’t make things any easier. Inaddition, she was four or five years older than her hus-band, with different ideas on practically every subject,and a very beautiful but a very demanding woman. Thepity of it was that she didn’t realize the effect her thor-oughly egocentric approach had on other people. Shewas cold by temperament and completely wrapped upin herself. It wasn’t her fault; she was made that way.“. . . I hear Montgomery’s going to be married again.Why not? He is a nice fellow, and young, thirty-sevenor eight.”

Digesting this, McKee probed for the root of Laugh-ton’s unease when he had first mentioned the Mont-gomerys, and presently got it. It was Carol Thayer. Thedoctor was fond of Carol. Like Sarah Montgomery shewas highly strung. “Pity about the eczema—nerves,nothing but nerves.” And the background was un-fortunate, Thayer’s having committed suicide, yes.Carol wasn’t really unstable. She was simply young andimpetuous and had a hot temper. “Don’t believe all youhear, Inspector. There was nothing to that telephoneincident. Sarah Montgomery wasn’t hurt, just knockedout temporarily.”

Laughton was too smart a man to reverse his enginesthen. He explained it offhandedly.

Sarah Montgomery had forbidden Carol to phonesomeone, some lad, and had come toward Carol with

the intention of taking the phone from her. Carol hadtorn the instrument out by the roots and flung it at hermother. The moment she did it she was horrified.

All water over the dam as far as Sarah Montgomerywent, but not where Adams was concerned. Carol hada streak of violence in her, buried under the little-girlexterior, as witness her flashing attack on the girl Philipwas going to marry. . . . The Scotsman thanked Laugh-ton and went.

He was not dissatisfied with his visit, on the whole, inspite of the complete upset about Sarah Montgomery—at least the dead wood had been cleared away and theyhad been kept from going all out on a false trail. Hedrove back to the office. The search for Joan Chambeauhad been stepped up and widened, hospitals were beingchecked, the morgue, floaters in New York and neigh-boring states. Nothing and more of it. Tuesday cameand went, Wednesday and Thursday.

Tom Trout was questioned and requestioned and letgo with a tail on him. Pierson talked to Joshua Ingham—and got nothing for his pains. Yes, Ingham hadbought Joan Chambeau a drink—oh, perhaps a coupleof months ago in the tavern on Two Hundred andThirty-first Street, when he ran into her there. “Not acrime. Captain, I take it?” As for the boy friend who hadhalf throttled him, Ingham was unperturbed and ratheramused. He felt sorry for the fellow, a victim of Erosand alcohol—dangerous union.

Didn’t he know when he met up with her that hisdead sister-in-law, Sarah Montgomery, had accused themaid of being a thief? Ingham answered with one of his

His wife listened, busy with some knitting. Piersonasked her why she hadn’t mentioned the call from thewoman in Fieldston concerning Joan Chambeau. AliceIngham had forgotten about it; it had gone clean out ofher head. Besides—Joan had already left the place inFieldston, or was leaving; what the Inspector hadwanted to know was her present whereabouts, and ofthat she had no knowledge. So much for the Inghams.

There was no way of pinning down the time the miss-ing maid’s hat had been placed in Liz Bowen’s car. MissFord had been on Morton Street that day, so had CarolThayer—but any number of others could have comeand gone unobserved. McKee saw Liz briefly on Wed-nesday night. She could tell him nothing about themissing set of car keys that she hadn’t already told theCharles Street men, but when pressed she admitted thather purse had been unguarded in Polly Ford’s housefor three hours the previous Sunday afternoon.

Any one of those people up in Spuyten Duyvil couldhave taken the keys, McKee reflected. To unlock the car,toss the hat on the floor and relock the door would havebeen the work of a few seconds. By day the street wasdeserted, by night it was dark under the trees. Or JoanChambeau could have dropped the hat there herself.There was another, darker possibility—but nothing tosupport it yet. The Scotsman put it aside.

The usual alarms kept coming in. Joan Chambeauwas seen boarding a bus in Toledo, Ohio; dancing in anight club in the Village. A body turning and twisting

in the waters of the Hudson was hers. The alarms wereall false. The girl herself remained hidden in impene-trable shadow—and then on Saturday the break came.

After Monday and the puzzle of the green hat in hercar, the week had passed uneventfully as far as she wasconcerned. The alarms and excursions died down, thepolice withdrew and day quietly succeeded day. Philipwas busy at the office clearing up work before his leaveof absence, and she had plenty to occupy her, last-minuteshopping and friends to see. Melissa wasn’t in NewYork. She had flown with Edward to see his mother inMilwaukee.

On Tuesday Liz and Melissa had a few hours to-gether, but only a few. Melissa was desolated. “I hateto go, when we have so little time, darling. I simplyhate it, but I can’t not—Edward would be awfullyhurt.”

Edward had probably arranged it, Liz thought. Hewanted them to be together as little as possible. At themoment it suited her own book. One of her fears hadbeen a chance meeting between Edward and Melissaand Delphin Saunders. It couldn’t happen with Melissaaway and Carol in Baltimore. That same night, Tues-day, Philip and Liz dined with the Trents. Philip andMelissa took to each other at once, and got on like ahouse afire. Melissa said, “Darling, I adore him, he’sterrific,” and Philip said, “Her husband seems a nicechap.” Liz looked at him and he laughed. “Well, a littleon the stuffy side—but she’s got life enough for two.”

hands was in the bedroom at the Waldorf when she wasthere Sunday morning, and Edward had been in townon Monday. . . . She put cogitation on the subject ofthe car keys firmly aside. Adams was a gradually reced-ing nightmare. The image of him printed on her eye-balls, the vision of his slumped body lying across thedesk in the dreary office with rain falling outside wasbeginning to dim.

Also when McKee had come to ask her about her keys,he told her about the autopsy on Sarah Montgomery.It was news to her. Philip had never mentioned it, norhad Polly Ford. Ever since she had heard that cry ofCarol’s to Polly, up in Polly’s house that first day,“Don’t call Philip my father—call him a murderer,”there had been a knot in Liz somewhere, a small spot ofdark pressure that she had never put into words. Theknot untied itself and the pressure vanished at what theInspector said.

On Thursday evening Alice Ingham phoned. She andJosh wanted Liz and the Trents to dine with them onSaturday night. Alice said in her vivacious voice thatthey hadn’t had a chance to really talk with all thosepolicemen about. It would be quiet, just a few friendsof Philip’s who were anxious to meet Liz. “And we’dlike to meet your cousins.” She was cordial, pressing.Philip was with Liz in the apartment at the time. Shetold him and he shrugged.

Liz thanked Alice and accepted provisionally, but itwas finally arranged. Over the phone, when she andEdward got in Friday night, Melissa said they’d love

to, and on Saturday afternoon Liz and Melissa andEdward drove up in the car Edward had hired on hisfirst day in New York. He couldn’t do without a car formore than a few hours, and he entertained them chat-tily on the way north with a dissertation of how muchhe’d saved on time, effort, cab fares and, when you cameright down to it, shoe leather.

They went to Polly Ford’s first. Philip was waitingfor them there. Other people kept dropping in andpresently, at Edward’s suggestion, the four of themwalked over to see the Montgomery house. Anythingwhatever to do with property interested Edward.

“But darling”—Melissa halted in the middle of astretch of lawn as the house came fully into view—“it’sbeautiful. I had no idea. . . . Why ever don’t you de-cide to live here? It’s much nicer than an apartment intown—any apartment, infinitely nicer, so much room—and you always did like the country best. I don’t under-stand it.’’

Liz smiled at her enthusiasm. “There’s much toomuch room, I’d rattle around in it—and I’m used totown now.”

Melissa shook a puzzled head. “Well, I think you’reinsane. I adore it. Can one go in, Philip? I’d love to seethe inside.” Philip said there was nothing easier andtook out his keys.

Melissa had become a proper housewife. She oh’dand ah’d over the kitchen, the proportions of the livingroom, the sweep of the staircase, the views of the gardensand the swimming pool through the windows. “Don’tyou love it, Edward? You’re mad, you two, both of you—to think of giving this up.” Edward said that it was

ivery fine and the construction seemed excellent, nosettling, no cracks—unlike a good deal of modern work,and asked interminable and intricate questions about[the heating system.

They were out on the terrace when a car turned in at[the gates and Hashed up the driveway. Liz looked, andI her heart sideslipped. It was Carol’s convertible. Caroland Del Saunders? . . . Her leaping pulses steadied.The top was down. There was no one with Carol, sherwas alone in the car.

“Phil, darling—Liz!” She pulled up smartly beforeIthe terrace steps and jumped out. There hadn’t beeniany sea change, Carol hadn’t reverted. She seemed‘genuinely glad to see Liz, was gracious with Melissa andDEdward; she had plenty of poise. The eczema was inabeyance and she looked very pretty with wind ruffling;the light tan hair hugging her round head like a Dutch<cap. Edward was charmed. He expanded as he invari-ably did with strangers; they demanded nothing of him,threatened to take nothing of his away.

The people Carol had been staying with in Baltimorehad flown to Bermuda; they had a house there. Theyhad wanted her to go with them, but she couldn’t seeit herself, not with the wedding coming up. Certainlynot. Please, wouldn’t they all come in and have tea or adrink or something?

They said they were dining at the Inghams’—theywere on their way back to Polly’s to pick her up—andCarol said all right then, she’d see them at Alice’s later.What she had to have instantly were a shower and achange. She’d been driving since morning and was sim-ply choked with dust.

Walking beside Edward under the fading sky andacross the lawns and through the trees, some of themcoming into full leaf, Liz answered Edward in mono-syllables and railed inwardly at the malevolence ofchance that had brought Carol back that afternoon ofall times. Where Carol was, there was danger. But herreturn was apparently unexpected; Delphin Saunderswouldn’t know she was home.

When they arrived at the Inghams’ half an hourlater Del Saunders was in the living room. The momentshe saw him, Melissa turned one look on Liz. There wasbewilderment in it, shock, accusation and an unspokenquestion: “How could you, Liz—you of all people.”She had gone white and her eyes were enormous, but noone noticed in the flurry of greetings, introductions.After a moment her face smoothed out and her colorcame back and she was’herself again—she had alwayshad not only an excellent social sense but surprisingreserves of strength as well.

Liz nodded to Del Saunders, not trusting herself tospeak. Big and blond, erect and solid, he was in perfectcontrol of himself—he always was. Any situation hecouldn’t dominate he walked away from. Josh Inghamsaid genially, “Oh, that’s right, I forgot—you peopleknow each other, don’t you?” Melissa said, “How do youdo, Mr. Saunders,” in a light cool voice, and turnedaside to speak to Polly. Edward greeted Del Saundersaffably.

He explained to Alice Ingham. “Met the other dayon the street in front of Liz’s apartment, my first day in

< ew York—come to think of it, it was the day thatMow—what was his name?—Adams—was killed. Butte were both disappointed; Liz wasn’t home.”

Trust Edward—Liz was in a cold fury, she couldave shot Edward where he stood. Had Philip heard?te didn’t seem to have. He was talking to Melissa and■strange woman. The situation was intolerable. Rage aste would inwardly, Liz realized that there was no wayf putting a summary end to it. Del Saunders was re-larking in his mellow voice that as he was in theeighborhood he had stopped by to return a pair ofloves of Carol’s and that Mrs. Ingham had kindlysked him to stay for a bite. “She said you people wereoming—sounded inviting.”

His lips, his eyes, the glance he bent on her; Delaunders was enjoying himself, and there was nothingAz could do about it. She was absolutely helpless andte knew it, and it was giving him pleasure. She finishedhe cocktail someone put in her hand in two swallows;nd Josh Ingham brought her another.

“These I recommend, the more the merrier, and notn ounce of harm in a bucketful.”

How much had Josh Ingham’s bright little reddishyes seen? He was a very observant person. Could thenghams deliberately have confronted her again withDel Saunders? Had they noted her reaction on thatYiday night a week ago when he had arrived at Polly"ord’s with Carol? Del Saunders might be here bythance tonight, and then again he might not. Youcouldn’t believe a word he said.

After a few minutes more people began coming in.The rooms filled up and that at least was a comfort.

Then Carol arrived when they were in the dining roomwhere a buffet supper was laid out.

Carol’s face lit up at the sight of Saunders. Liz wasstanding near them. “Darling ” Carol said, “how nice.Food, too—food, food, I’m famished. For me, I trust?’’Del Saunders put a hand on her elbow and steered hertoward the table.

They were certainly very much at home with eachother. . . . Liz glanced around for Philip, but he wasopening a bottle of champagne and intent on his task.Anyhow he wouldn’t give anything away in public; healways played it with that perfectly straight face. Shemet Polly Ford’s gaze instead.

Polly had seen. Her brows were up over her largeeyes, and she gave her shoulders a helpless shrug. Illogi-cally the concern in her added to Liz’s covert fury—and her fear. She told herself that Polly Ford was alwaysworrying about someone or something—probably be-cause she hadn’t anything more important to do. Shewas a prophet of doom. Alice Ingham’s comfortableattitude was much nearer right. She had said that Carolcouldn’t be kept on a leash, that she’d been interestedin half a dozen men in the last two years and nothinghad come of it. “The child has her wits about her; she’sjust amusing herself.”

A Mrs. Parker to whom Liz was talking said some-thing she didn’t catch and she smiled vaguely. It wasthe wrong answer. Mrs. Parker repeated her questionand Liz said, “Oh—oh, yes, we’re going to be marriedaround the middle of next month,” and went on withher own uncomfortable thoughts.

ter wits about her and she might have had a certainmount of experience with men, but not with one likeOel Saunders, experienced in evil /with a natural affin-ty for it, preferring the crooked to the straight way•ecause it was crooked. Liz heard another snatch be-iween the two of them a short time later. She wasnomentarily alone in the hall and they were just inside:he pantry, the door of which was open.

Carol was saying, “I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?”nd Del Saunders said, “And I’ve been a good boy—brought your aunt flowers.”

His voice was low, caressing. How well she knew(hat note. Feeling sick, Liz moved off quickly. Flowers—votive offerings, propitiatory—the roses Carol hadDrought to her apartment—as part of a plan? Inspired»>y Del Saunders? Don’t show your hand, be sweet asugar . . . And yet Carol’s change of heart where shevas concerned had seemed sincere. Liz thought help-essly, I just don’t know.

It wasn’t her last encounter with Del Saunders thattight. More people arrived and someone put recordsm and there was dancing. Liz danced with Josh Ingham,diilip and a Mr. Pratt. The one with Mr. Pratt was avaltz. He wasn’t very good. In the middle of the waltzDelphin Saunders cut in. He was a superb dancer.

To have his arm around her was torture, burned herip. A few turns and she would free herself. She didn’took at him. He said over her head, “Like old times,sn’t it, Liz? . . . We’ve got to have a little talk—andhis would be as good a time as any.”

Her hand lay limply in his. His pressure on herfingers tightened. She wanted to tear herself out of thehateful formal embrace.

He swung her dexterously around a road block. “Ah,but I have something to say to you, sweet.”

She had to listen and she knew it. The floor wascrowded. People stood around the edges in groups,laughing and talking and smoking and sipping drinks.Eyes might be watching. . . . She’d better be carefuland not let anything show. Long windows at the rearof the room opened on a terrace. Delphin was movingher nearer the windows. Then they were through oneof them and out in the cool night air.

Liz freed herself and walked twenty feet to the walland stood looking down and out into darkness. DelSaunders came to stand beside her, big and solid andfrightening.

They were out of the light from the windows, wherethey couldn’t be seen. There was no one else in sight.The rest of the terrace, strewn with hammocks andchairs and tables that were the vaguest of shapes, ap-peared to be empty. Saunders lit a cigarette for himselfand sat down on the wall facing her. The stone wasflat and cold under her pressing palms. Someone mightcome—get this over with as fast as possible. She didn’tlook at him.

He blew smoke, taking his time because he knew shewas on edge, in a hurry. “The estimable Edward is

]uite right, Liz. I did go down to your place on MortonStreet Saturday a week ago. You weren’t in. Then, aMttle later on, I caught sight of you getting into a cabOn the corner of Seventh. I followed you to that chapAdams’ office on East Fourteenth Street and saw you gon the side entrance. I was behind you when you wentup the stairs.”

Liz had envisioned exactly this set of circumstances;yet certainty was an icy deluge. She said the first thingthat came into her head.

Del Saunders chuckled lazily. “I said I followed youh—and follow means to go after, trail along behind.Adams was dead when you went into his office, remem-ber?—or so you declared to the police. No, I neverwent farther than the second floor. There was a con-venient corridor there. It made an excellent observa-tion post. The light was practically nil. I really had adox seat at no cost—yes.”

“I am not a public prosecutor, my dear, nor am Iinterested in vengeance—as you seem to be. Naughty,naughty, Liz—you shouldn’t be that way. I’m sur-prised.”

The music and the lights that ended ten feet behind:hem seemed far away. Beyond the Ingham house a tractDf woodland ran steeply down to the railroad tracks and:he river bank. There was no moon, no stars. DelSaunders’ face was only a faint blur, his big figure darkngainst blackness. Every word he said was torture.

She was back again in Adams’ waiting room in thegaunt half-lit building on Fourteenth Street with rainfalling outside the dirty window. She was listening tothe sound of the rain and, just before she opened thedoor to the inner office, to other sounds, the whine ofa hinge, the click of a lock, as though someone inAdams’ office had left it by the door opening into thehall. If so, whoever had gone out and down the stairshad walked past the mouth of the corridor in whichDel Saunders was stationed. Like a spider, she thought—a spoiler, as the Irish called them. That was whatAdams had been, spinning webs to entrap his prey,poisoning them and feeding on their bodies—and thatwas what Del Saunders was, par excellence. . . . Philiphadn’t killed Adams. He hadn’t come for a lon^ whileafter she entered that dreadful place. And yet . . .

“I didn’t happen to be present. Let’s say I might beable to make a good guess.’’

Del Saunders spoke softly. He was closer to her. Hisnearness was nauseating. She edged awray. “Why did youbring me out here? What do you want?”

He threw his cigarette over the wall. The glowing tipdescribed an arc on blackness. Strains of music comingthrough the open windows mingled with the ringingsingsong of peepers in the woods.

exchange is no robbery—and it would be a fair ex-change. Three years ago you left a trail a mile widebehind you, to anyone really looking—yes, a mile wide.And then those canceled checks in your cash box—youought to be more careful, you really should/’

He knew. He knew it all. It was no surprise. It wasstill an overpowering shock. But—the cash box, thatfilled her with a dull amazement. She had thought itwas Adams who had broken it open and examined thosechecks. She was wrong. Adams had found out someother way.

“Yes, my dear. I got the keys for the vacant apartmentnext door to yours from the superintendent’s wife. Shemust weigh all of two hundred pounds and she didn’tcare about any extra effort, so I obliged her by goingup alone. It was no trick at all to cross the fire escape toyour window.”

He ran a hand caressingly down her arm. Liz shud-dered at his touch and goose flesh sprang up on herskin. Suddenly his hand contracted sharply, gripping herwrist hard. There was a vague stir of leaves, a rustle outin front of them, then a high, thin, unearthly scream.Without warning the object came hurtling at them outof nowhere.

Liz caught at the wall. A spitting sound and twosmall circles of glowing light—she dragged herself erect.It was only a cat, a black cat. The cat landed on the walland huddled there, facing out, poised and ready tospring.

Del Saunders looked at the cat. Then he leaned overthe wall and looked downward. There was no further

sound, no movement anywhere. He straightened. “Poorpuss. An undesirable suitor, no doubt.”

But he stopped baiting her. Drawing her back fromthe wall and the edge of the terrace into dense shadowbetween two windows, he began to talk in a low voice.Inside the house the music and the laughter and thedin went on. Below in the garden a shadowy figuredrifted soundlessly away.

Earlier on that same day, Saturday, Joan Chambeaufinally emerged from her hiding place and came outinto the light of day. The police got their hands on hershortly after four p.m. that afternoon. It was an AlfredBenjamen of 34 Brown Street in Spuyten Duyvil whomet up with her first, entirely by accident, and gave thepolice the tip-off.

Benjamen, a married man in his middle fifties whowas locally employed, lived with his wife in one of acluster of little old houses that had been built in the1880’s and had comprised the nucleus of the originalvillage when the rest of the section was nothing butempty fields and woods and a few great estates.

A1 Benjamen was an amateur ornithologist. It washis birthday and to his great delight he had receiveda pair of field glasses from a son in another city as agift. After an excellent midday dinner Benjamen an-nounced to his wife that he was going out with his newglasses and have a look around for birds. Mrs. Benjamentried to dissuade him. “With the sun high and bright,it’s very little you’ll see of birds—they’ve got moresense. They’re all doing what I’m going to do and whatyou oughtta—have a nice lay-down.’’ But Benjamenwas not to be dissuaded. “With these you can see any-thing, May.” He patted the field glasses fondly. “You

can pick out the veins in the leaves a couple hundredfeet off. A miracle, that’s what it is.”

Benjamen set out on his walk around two o’clock. Heproceeded up the south face of the hill, then across therounded flank to the west side, which was even steeper.There he entered the long, narrow, straggling area ofwoodland that ran down to low cliffs just above the NewYork Central railroad tracks and extended northwardfor almost two miles. High up to the east was the resi-dential section with big houses in their own grounds.

It was cool and quiet under the trees and there wasno one about—it was too early in the season for picnick-ers from the city. But Benjamen’s wife had been right;for the first half-hour Benjamen saw very little. Andthen, to his great delight, on a high spot in the middleof a stretch of oaks and maples, he caught sight of asmall brown shape flitting ahead of him through theboughs. Focussing his glasses hurriedly, Benjamen tookoff after the strange bird, not looking where he wasgoing.

The thrill of the chase was his undoing. Oblivious ofhis surroundings, he was running across the flat top ofan outcrop of granite when he reached the edge andsailed off into space. Actually he was in no real dangerto life or limb. The drop was less than eight feet. Hewrasn’t hurt. He landed on his feet in the middle of agreat pile of dead leaves at the base of the miniaturecliff, landed on something soft and yet solid beneath theleaves, wrinkled his nose, and sprang out and awayinstinctively, then turned back. His fall had disturbedthe leaf masses matted by rain and mold, and here andthere a clump slid.

Benjamen looked at what was under one of theseclumps, looked again, ran another few yards and wasviolently sick. After that he took off in earnest as fastas his legs would carry him.

From a Kingsbridge radio patrol car to the Kings-bridge precinct at 3:48 p.m.: “Man named Benjamenout looking for birds ran into us on River Road near theold Freeman place. Benjamen says there’s a body in thewoods near there.”

From Sergeant Watts to the radio patrol car: “HoldBenjamen and stay where you are.”

A detail headed by Sergeant Watts proceeded to RiverRoad and picked up Benjamen, who led them, re-luctantly, back up the hill and into the woods.

The body lying in the shallow grave—it wasn’t evena proper grave, it was a mere fold under the overhangof rock—was that of a small fair-haired woman withblue eyes, wearing a black and white checked suit. High-heeled black pumps and a black purse, empty, had beenthrown into the impromptu grave. The woman underthe piled leaves was Joan Chambeau.

An area of the woods about the spot was staked off,the ambulance was sent for, the Medical Examiner camein due course, the body was removed, and InspectorMcKee of Homicide was informed. McKee didn’t go upto Spuyten Duyvil. There was no necessity for it. Theprecinct men had things well in hand.

Even if Joan Chambeau had been in worse shape thanshe was, there would have been no difficulty about heridentification; both her photograph and her fingerprintswere on file. Her skull had been smashed. She had beenstruck over the head from behind with a heavy instru-

ment such as a tire iron or a wrench—or a gun butt, theScotsman thought? There had been two or three blows.In all probability the girl hadn’t been killed where shehad been found; she had been dumped there after deathoccurred. There were signs of the body’s having beendragged over rough ground.

The patch of woodland where she had lain under acovering of leaves was within easy distance of a sideroad, and there was a sort of lover’s lane where carsparked less than fifty yards from the haphazard grave.No great strength would have been required to put herthere—she was small and light, and the grade wassharply downhill. A twelve-year-old boy could havemanaged it without too much difficulty. For the rest, shehad been dead approximately a week, give or takeroughly twenty-four hours either way. Which meantthat she had died shortly after Adams, on either Satur-day or Sunday night of the previous week. No elimina-tion of the various people under observation was pos-sible. Tom Trout was still in the picture; he hadn’tbeen picked up until Monday night.

On Sunday night McKee talked to District AttorneyDwyer over the phone and gave him what little therewas. The plump, choleric District Attorney was vio-lently out of temper at the Scotsman’s conclusions.

“You mean to tell me. Inspector, that after a wholeweek and this second killing, you don’t know, you can’tsay, you have no idea ...”

McKee remained calm. “What do you want, Dwyer—ideas or evidence? I’ve got plenty of ideas, each oneleading in an entirely different direction. But as far

as proof goes, rock-bottom, ironclad proof against anysingle individual, we’ve got precisely nothing.”

“What about this Liz Bowen? The maid’s hat wasfound in her car, and a car must have been used totransport the maid’s body up there to that grave in thewoods.”

McKee said slowly, “Miss Bowen is the one personwho’s out of it, at least as far as my thinking at themoment goes—precisely because of the hat. She’s muchtoo clever a girl to have let a thing like that happen bychance or simple carelessness. No, the placing of thehat in Miss Bowen’s car was either desperation, or if notthat, then . . .” He paused.

McKee said, “Someone doesn’t like Liz Bowen—verymuch doesn’t like her. You can take it either way.”

Beyond that the Scotsman refused to be drawn. Asfar as Joan Chambeau was concerned, he was sure ofonly one thing. She had been killed because she hadgone back to Adams’ office in the building on Four-teenth Street to collect the bra and panties she had leftbehind earlier, and on that return journey she had runinto the perpetrator, who was someone she knew, orhad seen on a former occasion and recognized.

“All right, so Joan Chambeau ran into the killer—then what happened?” Dwyer demanded. “She was tomeet Trout in a tavern not far away that Saturdayevening.”

McKee said, “If it wasn’t Trout—and it could havebeen—she was coerced or persuaded to accompany theperpetrator to a car somewhere—and that was it. Shewas killed in the car or near it in an isolated spot, and

her body was disposed of later in the woods. All thosepeople, including Edward Trent, have cars, and all theiralibis for that Saturday night are formless and uncheck-able.”

“You mean to say that Joan Chambeau would walkaway with someone she knew was a killer, McKee?”

“She needn't have known that then, Dwyer. The pointis that she would have found out and then, as far as theperpetrator was concerned, the jig would be up, the fatin the fire. I can think of two powerful levers that couldhave been used—avarice and fear, or a combination ofboth. The Chambeau girl might even have been toldthat Adams was dead and that she was suspected becauseshe had been in his office earlier. It might have gonesomething like this—‘What are you doing here, Joan?’‘I came back to get something I left in Adams’ office.’‘You killed him.’ That would get to Joan. Don’t forgetshe had a record. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t . . .’ Disbelief andthen acceptance and a show of pity. ‘AJ1 right, I'll helpyou.’ Or the girl might have been told that Adams hadturned her in to the police and they were on their wayto his office. Or she might simply have been appealedto. ‘Joan—you’re just the person I want to see. I needhelp. Would you be interested in making somemoney?’ ”

Dwyer conceded grudgingly that it could have hap-pened something like that. The thing that troubledhim . . .

McKee said dryly, “You and me both, pal. I’ll keepyou informed,’’ and hung up.

Although the Scotsman hadn’t gone to Spuyten Duy-vil himself, he had sent a man up there before sundown,and at twelve o’clock that night this man, first gradedetective Todhunter, reported in.

Todhunter was the shadow who had drifted off intothe garden behind the Ingham house when Liz andDelphin Saunders moved away from the wall of theterrace shortly after nine o’clock that evening. The de-tective was a small man done in one color, dun gray:eyes, hair, skin, clothes. No one who didn’t know himwell ever remembered his face. His inconspicuousnesswould have been high art if it hadn’t been completelynatural; he could melt into any background, join orleave any group as silently and self-effacingly as a disem-bodied spirit.

Spuyten Duyvil was well suited to Todhunter’s tal-ents. To keep a close eye and ear on suspects in NewYork was extremely difficult. People were anonymous,you couldn’t get close to them, there were few crumbsto be gathered from neighbors, and they shut them-selves up in apartments that were fortresses. The coun-try was different. The windows of the houses were excel-lent check points, and the flora and fauna around thehouses themselves offered convenient cover to a hiddenobserver even by day, but particularly at night.

The little detective sidled into the Scotsman’s officein his customary unobtrusive manner and came to a haltdiffidently just inside the door.

“Well now, I don’t know.” Todhunter took out adog-eared pad and began thumbing pages with a mois-tened thumb.

“O.K.” McKee said, “Sit down and run through itfor me. You can write it up in detail later. Like somecoffee?”

Todhunter accepted gratefully, said there was akind of a chill in the air, and began to talk. He coveredthe late afternoon and evening in Spuyten Duyvil, thearrival of Miss Liz Bowen and the Trents, the unex-pected return of Carol Thayer from a trip south, thebuffet supper at the Inghams’. One by one the actorsemerged in the round in his murmuring voice. AliceIngham, a busy and cheerful Martha with flyaway laven-der hair, in a dark blue silk dress; the genial, ruddyand active Josh Ingham who should have been stonedbut wasn’t—“he can handle the stuff”; Delphin Saun-ders, bearing gifts, “a nice bunch of roses.” CarolThayer and Saunders were gone on each other; the girlhad it the worst. They were very thick. . . . Miss LizBowen didn’t like Saunders but she had had a lengthyconversation with him out on the terrace in back ofthe Ingham house while the dancing was going oninside.

“Seemed like, when they were alone, they kneweach other better than they let on, Inspector.”

“Yes,” McKee said, “they do. Miss Bowen was en-gaged to be married to Saunders at one time, but forsome reason or other it didn’t come off. They split up.”

Todhunter made an observation about Saunders, andMcKee shook his head. “No, Mr. Delphin Saunders maylook like money and talk like it, but he hasn’t got any.

He works in a Wall Street brokerage house for a hun-dred a week take home, which must just about give himpocket money. That Jaguar is on loan from a friend andthe penthouse he’s living in belongs to a Mr. and Mrs.Holeman who are currently in Europe. What did LizBowen and Saunders talk about?”

Todhunter hadn’t heard the beginning of their con-versation; he had had to move cautiously to work him-self into position near the base of the wall of the terrace.The night was very still. When he got within hearingdistance, he couldn’t see too much. Saunders seemed tobe kind of threatening the girl, because she demandedto know why he had brought her out there, what hereally wanted. And he said—Todhunter consulted hisillegible notes and quoted exactly—“To propose a bar-gain. Fair exchange is no robbery—and it would be afair exchange. Three years ago you left a trail a milewide—and then those canceled checks.”

“Well, well,” the Scotsman’s eyes began to shine.Now it was beginning to come, now they were begin-ning to get the picture under innumerable coats ofvarnish.

Todhunter went on to describe the way Saunders hadgot into Liz Bowen’s apartment on Morton Street, viathe fire escape from the empty apartment next door, andMcKee played a soundless scale on the chair arm withhis finger tips. So it was Saunders who had broken openthe girl’s cash box, and not Adams. Adams had prob-ably worked it another way. ... If he had, theycould ... A pity they hadn’t had a look at thosechecks. Spilt milk . . . Someone appeared to hate LizBowen, and Saunders filled the bill nicely.

Three years ago . . . Saunders knew whatever it wasAdams had had on the girl. To date they themselves hadhad no luck in running down the purple patch in herpast she was so desperately concealing. Whatever it was

—it must be pretty sticky. If Saunders wanted to marryCarol Thayer and her money, he was in a good positionto put pressure on Liz Bowen not to oppose the mar-riage but to give it a helping hand. There were otherdisturbing elements in the talk between them. . . ,“Did anyone else appear on the terrace while Saun-ders and Miss Bowen were having their little chat?”“Not that I saw.”

“Well, like I say. Inspector, it was pretty dark, realdark, and there was a lot of background noise, peoplelaughing and talking inside and the music. The windowswere open, and the frogs in the woods were making aracket, too. But I suppose so, yes—I suppose someonecould have been there.”

McKee began doodling triangles on the blank formon the desk in front of him. “Go on, Todhunter.”

The little detective moistened his lips. “I’m movingcloser to get a better earful when”—he shook his head—“it happened.”

Todhunter sighed. His expression was morose. “Istepped on the cat. I guess it was its tail. It was a blackcat. I couldn’t see it in the dark. It lets out a yell andjumps up on the wall near the girl, and she and Saun-ders go away.”

He was distressed at his break in technique. McKeesaid with a grin, “Never mind the cat—what about therest of the evening?”

The Trents and Liz Bowen had left the Inghams’early while the party was still going strong. Mrs. Trentdidn’t feel well. Mr. Montgomery wanted to drive MissBowen home but she insisted on going with her cousin.He didn’t like it, and they were kind of stiff with eachother. Mr. Trent was real annoyed with Miss Bowen.He had had to go look for her and found her just com-ing in from the terrace with Saunders and Mr. Ingham.It was Mr. Ingham who found her for Mrs. Trent.

“How long was this after Saunders and Miss Bowenmoved back from the edge of the terrace and youcouldn’t hear their voices?”

McKee nodded thoughtfully. It would be nice toknow what the rest of their talk had been about. . . .It might be crucial, or could be.

Todhunter said that Mr. Trent didn’t seem to wantMiss Bowen along. He said he was quite capable oflooking after his wife, that she was just tired from doingtoo much, but Miss Bowen went with them anyhow. “Ihad my car ready and I followed them down the WestSide Highway. When they got to the Waldorf MissBowen didn’t go upstairs with the Trents. She got acab and went straight down to Morton Street. That’swhere I left her, in her apartment.”

“All right, Todhunter,” McKee said. “Go home your-self and get some sleep when you’ve finished your re-port. I may want you up there again tomorrow.” Thelittle gray man faded.

The Scotsman sat on alone, his thoughts circling LizBowen and Saunders, and the connection between them.Three years ago ... It gave them a starting point.

. . . He finally roused himself. Nothing more could bedone that night. Get after it first thing in the morning—and see Trout early. With Joan Chambeau dead theymight be able to get a little more out of him.

They did get a little more from Trout, but not much.Trout drunk and Trout sober were two entirely dif-ferent kettles of fish. As far as the Inspector couldjudge, the man was genuinely grief-stricken at the newsof Joan Chambeau’s death. He hadn’t killed Joan, hewouldn’t do a thing like that—God, no. Yes, Joan hadtalked a lot about her former employers—the Mont-gomerys, was kind of hipped on them. She didn’t likeMrs. Montgomery, said she was a first class bitch, falselyaccusing her of stealing stuff.

“I wouldn’t know about it—she didn’t tell me,”Trout said heavily. “Maybe she did and maybe shedidn’t.” Joan hadn’t cared for the daughter, either; saidshe was a snippy piece who thought people who workedfor a living were dirt. Montgomery she had liked; hewas a real guy. She knew he was engaged to some girland was going to be married again. A friend of hers whoworked in Spuyten Duyvil had told her. No, Troutsaid he had no idea who Montgomery’s girl was, anddidn’t give a damn. Joan’s hat found in this girl’scar? Yeah? What difference did it make now? Joaniewas dead.

To the question of whether he didn’t want to helpconvict her killer, he said, “Look, mister, you mind yourbusiness, see—and I’ll mind mine.” But gradually heopened up a little. It came in dribs and drabs. It ledthem straight back into the cul-de-sac from which there

was no exit. Joan was sure Sarah Montgomery had beenkilled—at first, anyhow. Trout hadn’t paid too muchattention; he didn’t put a lot of stock in Joan’s tales.She had a great imagination, and it used to make himlaugh. After the autopsy she had sort of given up, butnot quite. The gist of it, the burden of her song, was, “Iknow what I know, what I saw in that bathroom withmy own eyes. Why didn’t it never come out?” Andsomething about a bottle, a little bottle.

McKee hammered at the bottle, and didn’t get any-where. His next question caught Trout off base. McKeesaid, “All this about the Montgomerys is hearsay—whatJoan told you—you didn’t know the Montgomerysyourself, never came into contact with them?”

Trout saw the trap and scrambled for safety. Theinformation had come in just before McKee left theoffice. Trout had done electrical work for the Mont-gomerys on his own time while Joan was employedthere. The man corroborated it in a backhanded fashionbecause he had to.

“No, I didn’t know those people. I might have seenthem while I was fixing some outlets in the house andrepairing some lamps. I don’t remember.” Joan had gotthe money for him. And then he produced a final pieceof information. Sarah Montgomery had not only com-missioned Adams to find the thief in her houshold butalso to investigate her husband. She was suspicious ofhim, thought he was running around with anotherwoman.

This might or might not be true. If so, Carol hadsimply picked up where her mother left off—it waswater over the dam now as far as Sarah Montgomery

went. There was nothing more to be done with Troutat that stage except keep an eye on him. McKee let himgo. Lines were out in a number of other directions.Later on that day one of them caught a fish. The detec-tive backtracking on Liz Bowen came up with newmaterial.

A little more than three years earlier, while she wasstill engaged to Delphin Saunders, Liz Bowen had livedin an apartment on Horatio Street in the north Village,a duplex in one of the old houses there near the river.She had had a two-year lease on the Horatio Streetplace. At the end of four months she had tried to breakher lease. The landlord was sore about that andwouldn’t permit it, and she had finally sublet to a cou-ple named Fischer. This much they had already known.The landlord had no idea where Miss Bowen had goneafter she left Horatio Street, and the Fischers hadmoved. The Fischers had been located by the police.

At that time, three years earlier, Mrs. Edward Trentwas still in New York, staying at a hotel while she waitedto join her husband abroad—Trent hadn’t yet beenpermanently assigned to London. The Fischers hadsent Liz Bowen the monthly check for the HoratioStreet apartment in care of Mrs. Edward Trent, to atown in Massachusetts. The town was Marblehead,northeast of Boston. The address was 123 Valley Road.

The Boston police were reached immediately, andthey got in touch with the Marblehead men. Mrs.Edward Trent had rented 123 Valley Road from a realestate agent. Interviewed, the renting agent rememberedvery little about the transaction except that the rent hadarrived punctually. The cottage was isolated and there

were no neighbors to supply additional information.The agent knew nothing about any Liz Bowen andcouldn’t say whether Mrs. Trent had lived alone or not.At the end of six months of residence the cottage wasgiven up and the keys turned over to him. But a milk-man was found who said there was another girl livingin the Valley Road cottage with Mrs. Trent, and thather name was Liz. He never saw her, but he heard thetwo of them talking through the windows and he re-membered the name because it was his sister’s.

From catcher to short to first—from New York to anisolated cottage in Marblehead to . . . Boston was onlya few miles away, and Boston was a name to conjurewith in certain circles.

It was only a hunch but it was a strong one. As a gen-eral rule the pattern was much the same—but threeyears 'was a long time and the turnover in people wasterrific. McKee played the hunch hard. On Monday atmidday it paid off, and Adams’ hold on Liz Bowen wasrevealed, laid wide open. Liz Bowen had changed hername. She was down in the case book as Mrs. JohnRobbins. But no wonder Saunders had said she had lefta broad trail behind her. The friend who entered thehospital with her, and who gave the receiving nurse thenecessary data, was Mrs. Edward Trent. On the twenty-third of April a posthumous child—Mr. John Robbinswas dead—had been born to Liz Bowen, alias Mrs.Robbins, in Boston Lying-in Hospital.

In view of this discovery and of the distinctly disagree-able possibilities inherent in Todhunter’s report on thesituation in Spuyten Duyvil, McKee put men on LizBowen at once. “I want her watched around the clock,the others too—but particularly Miss Bowen. I don’twant her lost for a minute, and I want full reports.”

To want was one thing, to get was another—a factof which McKee was fully aware. In a city like NewYork complete coverage of an individual was an ex-tremely difficult proposition. Pure chance could disruptit ten times in an hour, the sudden changing of a light,the unexpected outpouring of a crowd, a chance whimon the part of the person being trailed, to say nothingof deliberate evasion.

The findings on Liz Bowen were pretty much whatthe Scotsman had surmised. The girl was not a criminal,and it had to be something of that nature. The basicpicture remained, a picture that in spite of what cameand went, refused persistently to fall into sharp focus. Itwas blurred, awry, with some basic factor missing.

Adams was a blackmailer, which was why he had beenkilled. Well and good. Going away from the scene thekiller had run into Joan Chambeau. Result: eliminationof Joan. In the silence of the night. Deep night. Alibiswere useless. A car, a driver and a corpse. The body

dumped and covered hastily with leaves. Go home, goto bed, and carry on as usual. That was the essence ofit.

All cars that could possibly have been involved hadbeen unostentatiously but minutely scrutinized. Result:zero. The perpetrator had been very cautious. If youaccepted blackmail as the motive for Adams’ death,from which Joan Chambeau’s had stemmed—and Mc-Kee did—blackmail for what? They had the answerwhere Liz Bowen was concerned. Had Liz Bowen anexclusive on it? What about the rest of those people?Adams hadn’t caught up with Joan for quite a while.Had the former maid given him a hint of somethingimportant, a pointer to hidden gold that she hadn’tbeen quite clever enough to figure out for herself?Could Adams have deepened and widened this knowl-edge, hanging around up there in Spuyten Duyvil? . . .

If only, McKee thought frowningly, their hunchabout Sarah Montgomery had panned out. But it hadn’t.It was a bust, and a complete one. His own personalfriend, and New York’s Chief Medical Examiner, Fer-nandez, was in Mexico City on vacation, and LaMottawas carrying the ball. LaMotta was a first class man andLaMotta said that the history of the case in conjunctionwith the autopsy findings was in perfect order, thatthere was no doubt whatever that Sarah Montgomery’sdeath was the result of natural causes.

On impulse, shortly after the news from BostonLying-in had come through, McKee put in a person-to-person call to Fernandez in Mexico City, and finallytracked him down. The Scotsman outlined the situationto Fernandez briefly. “I’m airmailing you a copy of the

P.M. on Sarah Montgomery. You ought to have it inten or twelve hours. Look it over, let me know whatyou think, and call me back, will you?” The vacationingMedical Examiner groaned and agreed.

Hanging up, McKee realized that he had called•Fernandez simply because it was something to do. Thecase was moribund, going nowhere as far as the policewere concerned—and that was dangerous. To date, thekiller had been successful. You might as well be hungfor a sheep as a lamb. ... If anything else came up,another danger, threat, the same resolution would beput into effect again with dispatch. . . . McKee pulledreports toward him and began going through themsourly.

Joan Chambeau’s death had caused scarcely a rippleup there in Spuyten Duyvil; the Kingsbridge men hadbeen around. How shocking . . . Poor creature . . .Some man . . . One was always reading about suchthings in the papers, but when it was someone you hadknown—horrible. Collectively, there was nothing theycould tell the police about Joan Chambeau that theyhadn’t already told.

The Scotsman sat back and thought about the jewelryJoan Chambeau had stolen from Sarah Montgomeryeleven months earlier, jewelry found in the wall cabinetin the Montgomery living room on the Sunday fol-lowing Adams’ death. It hadn’t, according to the clean-ing woman, been there three days earlier. But the gunhad, Montgomery’s gun. A gun that was now missing.If Joan had returned the jewels to Adams, he mighthave put them there when he was in Spuyten Duyvil onFriday, the day before his death by a bullet. But why

should Adams put the jewels back without a word? Nogood reason. Adams was out. Montgomery? Mont-gomery might have. He had an excellent reason—notto get into the mess, mixed up with it in any way—danger, keep out. McKee went on brooding. Twodeaths, and a missing gun, a gun floating around loose. . . If only they could get their hands on the gun. If. . . McKee gazed out morosely over gray rooftops un-der a sky piled with clouds. It was going to storm later.

. . . He was concentrating on Liz Bowen; she was thefocal point now, if he was right. He looked at the clockexpectantly, and waited for the phone to ring. He oughtto have a report at any moment.

In her apartment on Morton Street that same after-noon, doing a dozen unnecessary tasks and always watch-ing the clock, Liz thought the day would never end.Saturday had been bad and Sunday, too; this was worse.She was well aware that Philip had been disturbed byher abrupt departure from the Inghams on Saturdaynight with Melissa and Edward. He had expected todrive her home. Her short “No, Philip, it’s better thisway, then you won’t have the journey back alone, hadput him off, particularly after that interlude on theterrace with Del Saunders, which Josh Ingham hadinterrupted with a message that Melissa wasn’t feelingwell and wanted to leave.

Philip couldn’t understand—how could he?—heranxiety to talk to Melissa alone. Because she had seenanger in Melissa’s eyes, as well as bewilderment andshock, when they walked into the Ingham living roomand found Del Saunders there. Did Melissa think that

after all that had come and gone she was still infatuatedwith Del Saunders? Could she think that? Perhaps, un-der the circumstances.

The trouble was that Melissa wouldn’t talk, or lether talk. They had ridden downtown almost in silence.“Do you mind if I keep my eyes shut, Liz? It’s mystupid head, it aches so.” There was to be no talk at all.She had clung to Edward, using him as a shield, keep-ing him between them. When they reached the hotelshe went straight upstairs. “Sorry, darling. I’d ask you tocome up for a nightcap but I’m all in. I’ll ring youtomorrow.” “Tomorrow,” Edward told her, “you’regoing to stay in bed and see no one and do nothing.”

The little ailanthus leaves outside Liz’s window blewin the wind. They were like green hair. A sparrow liton the fire escape, examined Liz with bright, tiny eyesand flew away. She had to keep Melissa clear of thishorror that had descended on them out of the blue withthe death of Adams and the reappearance of DelSaunders. Edward didn’t matter, and if worse came tothe worst she herself could take what she had to—it hadbeen her responsibility, her own acts, and hers alone,from beginning to end. But Melissa must not be hurt.And not—David.

Liz turned swiftly away from the image of a three-year-old boy, his fair head on one side, his intent gazeon hers, an argumentative hand out. Not now, shethought, her eyes suddenly wet—not now. There wastoo much heartbreak in it.

Philip had come in yesterday, Sunday, and they hadlunched at Charles’. He said nothing about the nightbefore except to ask after Melissa, how she was. Corn-

munication between them was blocked. They were twoseparate people in two separate compartments with nodoor between. The poison was working, as she hadknown it must. Philip no longer trusted her, at leastnot completely.

There was Carol, for instance. He was anxious aboutCarol, worried, but he spoke in an offhand tone. Hesaid something would have to be done about the Saun-ders lad, and watched her while he spoke.

Anything to break down the barrier cutting them offfrom each other—it was rash, it was foolish, and it waslate in the day, but suddenly Liz made up her mind.

“Philip,” she said, ‘Tve got something to tell you. Ididn’t mention it before because—well, the whole thingwas so—so distasteful, I wanted to forget about it,didn’t want to go into it—but I was engaged to DelSaunders once.”

Philip had picked up a fork. He held it motionlessand looked at her across the table with the look analmost strange man would have worn, alert, casuallyinterested—and nothing more.

“That’s nice to know.” He seasoned his salad, sippedhis wine. “What busted it up?”

She had to be careful in view of the eventualities thatmight or might not come about. “Nothing in particular,everything in general. I found I’d made a mistake.”“Well, as long as you found out in time ...”

He was pleasant, detached, and a million miles away.Anger stirred in Liz. Philip had married a woman three

or four years older than he was, presumably because hewas in love with her and thought they’d be happy to-gether, and he had been mistaken.

She said coolly, “Yes, I found out in time.” Only shehadn’t. That was the terrible part of it. Her eyes hadbeen blinded and her ears stopped by what she nowknew was an infatuation that had sprung initially fromloneliness. It had no roots, no depth, but it had beenstrong while it lasted—and at a time like that you wereswept off your feet and didn’t know whether you werecoming or going. Her eyes had been opened and herears unstopped when it was too late, and only after theharm had been done, the irreparable harm.

Philip had continued to watch her. He was extremelyperceptive, and her mood wasn’t lost on him.

“What’s the matter, Liz? Don’t you like your steak?Is it tough? Order something else.” “No, no,” she hadsaid hastily, “it’s just that I’m not hungry, I suppose.”The bitterest part was that they couldn’t talk to eachother any longer. Even thinking was getting to bedangerous when she was with Philip.

He had gone home early to pack some things, andwas coming into town to stay at a hotel so that AliceIngham could have the house to herself. She was goingto make changes, wanted to bring some of her own stuffover. They talked about Alice a little, and Philip wasmore himself. Liz said, “I don’t think you’re keen aboutAlice, are you? I like her—she’s direct and she’s simple.”

“Not as simple as you think,” Philip answered. “Alicehas a fixed eye on the main chance under that airysweetness and light. Josh is a hedonist, pure and unde-filed. He doesn’t make any bones about it, but some-

times I imagine he has a lot to put up with. . . . Takethat black Irish scowl off your face. Oh well, we won'tbe seeing much of them."

When he left Liz at her door, he wouldn’t come up;said he could just catch a four o’clock train. For amoment the division between them was wiped out. Inthe vestibule he took her in his arms and held her close.But almost at once he was thinking of other things.

Tomorrow was today and it was almost five. So far shehadn’t heard from him, but he might have called whileshe was out at the bank. At a quarter past five the phonerang. She had her excuse all ready for not seeing Philipthat evening, but she didn’t have to use it.

It wasn’t Philip, it was Polly Ford. They exchangedamenities and then Polly asked whether Liz had seen orheard anything of Carol that afternoon. Liz said no andasked why. Polly was vague. Oh, nothing much . . .Carol wasn’t around, and her car was gone. “We were tohave gone to dinner together and then to that show atthe Colosseum. . . . Probably Carol forgot . . ." ButPolly was worried. She said she was coming into townanyhow later on.

She sounded unsettled, at a loose end—which was oddfor her. Liz said quickly that she was seeing some oldfamily friends down from Maine and in town fleetingly,then coming home to dive into bed. She was tired andwanted nine hours of sleep end to end.

After Polly rang off, Liz talked to Melissa. There hadbeen a suggestion last week of Melissa, Edward, Philip

and Liz going to a festa in the lower reaches of the cityMonday night. Melissa had read an article about thefesta in a magazine. It was supposed to be something tosee, a real show, strange foods and customs and lightdisplays and fireworks. Liz had completely forgottenabout it, and when Melissa mentioned it after sayingshe was fine, Liz’s heart sank. She should have thoughtof an excuse that would do everyone; Melissa wouldnever be taken in by the Rumbeaus from Maine. ButMelissa begged off. Edward’s boss, the big chief, wasthrowing a party that night. Command performance—it was a frightful bore but they simply had to go; therewas no way of getting out of it. “See you tomorrow,darling.’’ Liz said yes, and hung up. Only Philip left tolie to now, she thought dispiritedly.

It was almost half past five by then. The sun haddisappeared behind clouds. The sky was heavily overcastand the living room was dim. She wandered to a windowand looked out. The piled clouds were dark, heavy,there would be a storm later on. It looked as though itmight be going to rain buckets. People were hurryingalong in the street below, clothes blowing: a womanwith a dachshund and a very dirty white wire-haired,a man in a red shirt carrying a bundle, two girls, theirskirts whipping around their knees.

Almost directly opposite, on the other side of thestreet, an artist was doing a sketch of a group of olderhouses, including the one she was in. She watched himabsently. He was holding his pencil awkwardly and hispad was at an odd angle. He was neither young nor old,wore a gray suit and a pale blue shirt open at the throat.A battered hat was pushed back from a round forehead.

Liz frowned, and her gaze sharpened. A painter her-self, she noted something familiar about the man’s out-line, the shape of his head and shoulders. . . . She hadseen him before that day somewhere, hadn’t she? Notdown there sketching, no. Somewhere else—standingstill. And there had been something in his hands then,too, but not a pad and pencil—a—a bankbook and adeposit slip. She had seen the man in her bank when shewent to get the money out. He had been two placesbehind her in line when she left the window.

Her breath caught. Could the sketcher down there be—a detective watching her apartment? ... It mustn thappen. No, not now, not tonight, not until she hadcompleted her errand . . . There was a way of settlingwhether he was a detective or not, whether she wassimply imagining things.

She went to the desk, found a post card, scribbled amessage on it to Tubby Crothers, threw on a raincoatand went downstairs, out into the street. She didn tglance at the opposite sidewalk or the sketcher, waitedto cross the street until she was halfway along the block.It was darkish under the trees but she didn’t look back.The mailbox was on the northeast corner of Mortonand Hudson. She dropped the card to Tubby into theslot and turned north. The Diamond grocery store wasonly a few yards up the block. She went into the store.A wide plate-glass window partially obscured by gro-ceries gave a view of the street. Nobody suspicious ap-peared in it.

She bought a loaf of bread and a package of cigaiettes,left the store and retraced her steps. Morton Street wentaround a slight curve. She reached the curve and looked.

The artist wasn’t there. He had finished his sketch andgone. Nobody was watching her; it was simply nerves.The man had been in the bank because he lived in theneighborhood. She went back upstairs. As she ap-proached her door she heard the phone ringing, but bythe time she got inside it had stopped.

It must have been Philip; she would call him soon ifhe didn’t call again so that there would be no dangerof his coming. She hung her coat in the closet andcrossed the living room to the window, just to make sure.She gazed out and down; and the floor shifted underher feet and the walls moved in threateningly. She wasbeing watched. The sketcher was back. The man downthere in the street was a detective.

She must not he followed when she left here. Liz leftthe window, sat down deliberately and tried to thinkit out. At the end of a couple of minutes she gave a nodand got up. It was almost six and she wasn’t due at DelSaunders’ until eight o’clock, but what she contem-plated might take time—if it was any use at all. She hadto try. She went into her bedroom and began to dress.

It was six-thirty when Liz left the building withoutso much as a glance at the other side of the street. Shehad chosen her clothes carefully. She wore a dark bluelinen suit, no hat, and carried her bag and her beigetopcoat over her arm. Before she locked her door behindher she had called Philip at his office. He wasn’t thereand his secretary said he had been gone some time. Itbothered her not to know where he was, but it wasnothing to worry about really. She ought to be back inthe apartment by nine at the latest, and she could sayshe’d gone to see Jane Larson or the Taits. Lies and

more lies—so what? It had to be done. Her task nowwas to lose the man or men she was quite sure were ather heels.

The clouds were heavy but the visibility was stillgood. She crossed Seventh, went down Bedford toCarmine toward Bleecker. There were more cars outahead on Sixth, and more people. The dome of thechurch of Our Lady of Pompeii was vivid against thedark sky. The sidewalks were full of shoppers. Thunderrolled distantly in the north. Rain threatened but didn’tfall. Liz negotiated Sixth on the lights and continuedalong Bleecker. She moved at a fair pace but not reallyfast. A medium crowd here; as she proceeded south andeast and neared St. Philomena’s the crowd began tothicken. Three blocks more and it was dense. She hadreached the rim of the festa area. She plunged into it.

Men, women and children, laughing and talking andjostling and buying. Booths lined the street as far as theeye could reach. Colored lights were strung overheadin ropes of brilliance, and at the far end, five blocks tothe south, there was a tremendous illumination as abackdrop. The air was full of noise. Venders called theirwares enticingly above the ferment. There were pizzashot from impromptu ovens; sausages of all sizes sim-mered in huge pots; sizzling pastry in queer shapesbobbed about in caldrons of fat. The smell made Lizfeel hungry. Red flares smoked and flamed on thepacked throng, picking out a clump of faces here,another there.

She hesitated and went on. Not yet, she thought; waitand choose a good spot. What she had to have was aminute to herself unobserved. There were spaces be-

tween the booths that lined the street proper. Behindthem the sidewalks were also jammed; there were peopleeverywhere. One of those spaces might do. They werefairly dark. But she would have to make sure first.

The general din grew louder. A third of the distancealong the midway Liz stopped at a stand, bought apizza, and stepped into a space in gloom between twobooths, starting to eat, and looking idly around. She hadthe casual air of a person passing the time beforemeeting someone, or simply enjoying the passing show.Had she lost her tracker? Her eyes roamed, and a knotin the pit of her stomach tightened.

She had not. Gray Clothes was sauntering along lessthan ten feet from her. He had also refreshed himself.He was eating a frankfurter and carrying a can of beer.She would have to do better than this—but how? Thecrowd would be even denser later but she couldn’t wait;the trip uptown and the search for a cab would taketime. She wiped her fingers on the paper napkin, tossedit and the remains of the pizza into a trash can andresumed her strolling.

For all she knew Gray Clothes might have a com-panion. She must try and find out. She negotiatedanother half-block, letting herself drift with the crowd;then glanced at her watch as though aware of the timeand began to weave around groups and through them ata faster pace, taking advantage of every loophole. Shealmost tripped over an obese dog on a piece of rope, anda stout woman in rusty black said something in Italian.She didn’t stop. Watching the vivid light and patches ofdimness, she side-stepped into shadow near an immense

barrow of Italian sausages. Surely she was clear now. Allshe needed was a single unobserved minute. . . .

Her heart sank. She hadn’t succeeded in shaking offthe man in the gray clothes. He might have been pastedto her, or attached by an invisible string. She didn’t lookdirectly at him, he didn’t look at her, but he was there,not more than eight feet away beyond interveningbodies. How was she to get rid of him, cut the string?If he did have a partner out ahead, they had her boxedin; Gray Clothes was slightly behind her. Sideways then,and double back, if she could. But the crowd, which hadbeen a help earlier, was now an impediment. Independ-ent movement at any speed was impossible. And timewas passing.

It was a small girl holding out a hand. The dodge wasan old one in the neighborhood. Liz smiled. There waschange in the pocket of her topcoat. She took out a ten-cent piece and dropped it into the extended hand, thentook out something else, a white scarf. “Oh, thank you,lady.” Liz said, “You’re welcome,” and concealed thescarf under folds of her coat.

There was dancing out ahead somewhere. The musicwas getting louder. That meant that there would be acleared space, which was no good. People shoving andpushing from in back, the ones in front resistingsolidly . . . Gray Clothes was almost level with hernow; he had moved in closer. There was only a man andgirl between them. He was gazing disinterestedly infront of him. The brass of a hidden band was goingstrong with “Funiculi, Funicula” and people were sing-

ing. All at once Liz got a violent shove from in frontand an indignant push from behind. She would havefallen, only that close-pressing bodies held her erect.Ohs and ahs and exclamations, heads craning; a flyingwedge of sailors in dress whites was slicing through thepacked throng like a knife through cheese. Wheat inthe wind—rows of toppling dominoes, people weresent backward off center, Liz was almost knocked fromher feet. She fetched up against the side of a stand-inside the stand in smoky half-light an elderly womanwas peeling a pear. Indignation, laughter, music, cries;she struggled erect, straightened herself out. Surely shehad lost her tracker. Her eyes roved. She closed them fora moment. She had done nothing of the kind. The manin the gray suit was there, not three yards from her. Shecould have wept aloud with frustration and the begin-ning of despair.

“Excuse me, lady.” She was being pushed to thejammed sidewalk; she let herself be carried along withthe tide. Out in front pasted on upper darkness theneon sign of a restaurant swayed in the wind. It was theGreen Jade Lantern. When she reached the restaurant,she freed herself on impulse, and turned in through therestaurant doors.

The man in the gray suit, Detective Farrelly, haltedoutside the Jade Lantern in shadow and watched Lizthrough the window. The restaurant was long and nar-row with tables down one side and booths down theother. The place was full and there were people waiting,the girl among them. A waiter was coming forward. Hehad a finger up to signify one place. The girl detachedherself and followed him down the aisle. Out on the

sidewalk Farrelly was joined by his partner, McGovern.Farrelly thumbed the restaurant. “She’s in there. I don’tknow but I think she has me spotted. Maybe there’s aback way out; you’d better go and take a look.”

McGovern shook his head. “There’s no way out theback. I’ve eaten in this joint; pretty good, too. Thejohns are on an air shaft and the kitchen ends up in asmall backyard with walls ten feet high.”

But Farrelly was uneasy. “You’d better go in andcheck—and while you’re in there, call the office.”When McGovern went past the booth in which Lizwas seated with three strangers, she was sipping a glassof wine and giving the waiter her order. He found thephone, got the office and asked for the Inspector. Hehad to wait; McKee was busy on another line.

The man McKee was busy with was New York’s ChiefMedical Examiner, Fernandez, talking from MexicoCity. Fernandez said, “I’ve been thinking over thesituation you outlined, McKee. A very pretty littleproblem, very pretty . . . There is a way it could havebeen done . .

“Wait a minute, Fernandez,’’ McKee said. “You meanthat in spite of the autopsy report Sarah Montgomerycould have been killed?’’

“It’s a possibility. I haven’t got the report yet, but Ipresume there was a quantitative as well as a qualitativeanalysis of the findings. Perhaps not—we all more or lesssee what we expect to see and don’t go looking any far-ther. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Give me the name andphone number of the doctor who attended the Montgom-ery woman and I’ll check with him, then check that withthe report when it arrives. But don’t get your hopes up.If it was done the way I’m figuring it just might havebeen, I very much doubt whether you’ll ever be ableto prove it to twelve good men and true.’’

“No, I can’t. Not until I talk to the Montgomerywoman’s doctor. And even at that—well, there’s a barechance . . . I’ll do the best I can for you.”

McGovern. The Scotsman was relieved, and at the sametime he didn’t particularly like what he heard. Not atall. For one thing, almost certainly Liz Bowen knewshe was being tailed; otherwise what would she be doingalone in a place like that—but McGovern and Farrellywere both good men. Very good. They’d been in tighterspots than this before and come through. . . . Yes.Certainly.

McGovern said, “We’ll be here in the restaurant foranother good forty minutes at least; I can see her. She’sjust getting her soup now and the service is slow. But ifshe does make a move we’ll be ready for her.”

“All right,” McKee told him. “Just don’t lose her,that’s all, and keep in touch.”

Inside the restaurant on James Street in lower NewYork Liz slowly spooned her soup and chatted with hertable companions, people named DeMaso. Outside therestaurant McGovern relieved Farrelly, who went to geta sandwich. And in his office three or four miles to thenorth McKee sat on, chain-smoking, and watched theclock. Half a dozen other things and people demandedhis attention; his mind remained riveted on Liz Bowen.The storm, the darkness, a quick bullet and a quickergetaway ... If the girl did manage to shake off hertail that night, she might well be signing her own deathwarrant. . . . She couldn't shake McGovern and Far-relly, they were two of the best. . . . But reassure him-self as he might, the Scotsman’s uneasiness refused todissipate.

There was a solid basis in fact for the Inspector’sunease. Less than ten minutes after she entered the

Green Jade Lantern Liz left it, unrecognized and un-hindered, under Detective McGovern’s nose. There wasevery excuse for McGovern. Liz wasn’t the same girl heand Farrelly had followed away from Morton Street.The interval in the booth had given Liz the time sheneeded to make the change.

The party she had joined, a mother, an aunt and ayoung daughter, were kind, homely, friendly people.They had almost finished their meal when she sat downat their table and fell into talk with them. After hersoup came she complained of not feeling well andmanaged to do a good job of it. “I think perhaps I’dbetter go home . . “I would, dearie. You don’t lookso good,” the older woman said, and the others agreed.“No, you certainly don’t.”

Liz put money on the table. Her topcoat was re-versible, beige on one side, scarlet on the other. Hud-dled in the booth and out of sight of the pavement, sheturned the scarlet side out, got into the coat, buttonedit to her chin, then tied a white silk scarf over her headcompletely concealing her hair and her forehead—andthat was it. When she walked out past McGovern, ap-parently one of a party of four, an arm through Mrs.DeMaso’s, he never gave her a tumble. Ten minuteslater Liz was riding uptown in an east side express.

Watching the subway pillars flash past, Liz’s exhilara-tion at having eluded the man or men following herbegan to fade and the problems she had to face resumedtheir steady pressure. One thing at a time, she told her-self; get this meeting with Del Saunders over with andthen worry about the rest. Yet what she was on her way

to do would really solve nothing. Nothing at all . . . Itwas simply a respite, a staving off.

Her fingers tightened on her purse. There was twothousand dollars in cash in it. That was what DelSaunders had asked her for up there on the Inghamterrace just before Josh Ingham came in search of herand they went in. “I’m a little short. If you could obligeme with a small loan ...” A loan—he would probablymilk her of the rest of what she had left. The moneydidn’t matter. She had been afraid of something else,was still afraid . . .

Sitting there in the rocketing underground train, Lizwas invaded by a feeling of helplessness; she was almostready to stop fighting and throw in her hand, let herselfbe beaten to the ground without further struggling.What was the use when Delphin Saunders could destroyher by a word? He was a man who liked to destroy, andhe hated her—that went without saying. You generallydid hate the people you’d injured irreparably. It didthings to your self-esteem, and even his thick hide wasn’tcompletely impervious. ... A woman chewing gumacross the aisle was staring at her with round dark eyes.Could she be a—a policewoman? . . . No, she was toofat and her shoes were run down at the heels.

They were coming into Grand Central. The womandidn’t move. Liz got out, crossed the platform, got intothe waiting local, got out at Sixty-eighth Street andmounted the steps, to be met by a blast of wind andwetness. The storm had broken. Rain was falling.Lightning slit the sky and thunder boomed. OrdinarilyLiz hated thunderstorms, but not that night. She was

too frozen—an automaton locked into a mold, with oneend in view, to get to Del Saunders’ apartment, give himthe money and go.

She crossed Lexington and started toward Park. Afew scattered pedestrians hustled for cover, but therewere plenty of cars and cabs on the black satin streets.She was a third of the way along the block betweenLexington and Park when her heart gave a sickeninglurch. A man was striding toward her, a tall man in araincoat, the collar up, his hands thrust into his pockets,his head down against the drive of the rain. It wasPhilip.

He wasn’t more than fifty feet away and coming fast.There was no shelter. They were going to run into eachother. Liz’s movements were instinctive, faster thanconscious thought. There was a lighted doorway on theright, recessed a few yards. She turned in under theawning and darted into the vestibule. It was small andsquare and horribly bright, and every inch of it wascompletely visible from the sidewalk. A brass plaque onthe wall was studded with bells. The inner doors wouldbe locked. She pretended to press one of the bells, wentto the inner door and stood there with her back to thepavement. Would Philip see her and come in? Her heartpounded, wiping out the thunder. She stood there forwhat seemed like an eternity. Nothing happened andno one came. The outer door didn’t open. After a longmoment she turned. The sidewalk was empty. Philiphad gone.

Liz left the vestibule, her knees weak. What -wasPhilip doing up here in this neighborhood? . . . Couldhe—have been seeing Del Saunders about Carol, warn-

ing Del Saunders off? In retaliation could Del Saundershave . . . She told herself savagely to stop panickingand use her head. If Del Saunders came out with thetruth, he would lose his hold on her. It was stupid,silly, to cry out before you were hurt. She peered at herwatch, and hurried on faster. Those damn detectives—already she was more than twenty minutes late.

Rain stung her face. She blinked wetness out of herlashes and searched for numbers. . . . There it was.She turned into Del Saunders’ apartment house. Nodoorman, thank heavens. The vestibule was very likethe one into which she had retreated from Philip. DelSaunders’ penthouse was on the twelfth floor. He hadsaid eight and it was twenty-five minutes past. Would hebe there? She put her finger on the bell. He was. Aftera moment the buzzer clicked energetically and sheopened the inner door and went quickly along a widehall past a Chinese tapestry on one side and pottedorange trees on the other to the self-service elevators atthe rear.

A car stood open and empty. She got in, pushed thebutton labeled 12—and crowded back into a corner, herheart in a tumult again. Someone was hurrying into thelobby. It might be Philip coming back. . . . She re-leased held breath. The door was sliding shut. Theelevator began to rise.

At almost that precise moment, down on James Street,Detectives Farrelly and McGovern discovered that LizBowen was not in the Green Jade Lantern, that the girlhad foxed them. She had vanished into thin air.Knocked back on their heels, they wasted another

The connection took a slice out of another minute.Before more than ten words were out of McGovern'smouth McKee dropped the phone into place. He did itgently. Lightning filled the room. He didn’t see it,

pinned a lot on having the girl closely guarded. Theothers had all been watched intermittently. They wereall in New York, that much he knew. He hadn’t had areport on them in almost an hour but that wTas in-evitable if they were moving around. It was Liz Bowenwho was vital; he had no doubt that she was going tomeet Delphin Saunders and hand over to him themoney she had withdrawn from her savings bank thatafternoon. Where were they going to meet? That wasthe crux.

He picked up the phone and dialed Saunders’ pent-house. No answer. With the girl’s disappearance hiscarefully laid plan had blown up in his face. Minutes,seconds were vital—if it wasn’t already too late. He letthe phone ring six times, dropped it into place and madefor the door.

Meanwhile, in the apartment house far to the north,Liz got out of the elevator on the twelfth floor. Thesmall, square outer hall had only two doors, one to thestairs and one to the penthouse. The sound of musicfilled it. The penthouse door wasn’t quite shut; leftopen for air probably; she often left her own door opento get a through draft. She rang the bell.

heard a shout, a fusillade of bullets, the echo of gallop-ing hoofbeats; even muted by distance the sound wasloud. Why didn’t Del Saunders turn the thing down? Hemust be deaf, she thought irritably, and waited. No onecame. He probably couldn’t hear the bell for the din.She glanced over her shoulder, and her breathingquickened.

The elevator had been rung down, the car wasn’tthere. Someone might be coming up. . . . Get thisover with and get out of here . . . She pushed the dooropen, stepped into a big, shadowy, ell-shaped foyer,looked, listened, and moved on around the corner. Adining room on the left was empty. Out ahead, a widecorridor lined with closed doors ran on to a room someforty feet away. Glass doors leading into it were open.The television set was there; it was going full blast. Lizwalked down the corridor and into the room at the farend.

It was huge and made almost entirely of glass. Win-dows and doors were let into glass brick walls sur-rounded on three sides by broad-awninged terraces. Aglass door on the left was partly open. Gay stripedcanvas flapped in the wind. No Del Saunders, no bigassured figure advancing smilingly, hand out, saying,“Welcome to my eyrie, a little late but better late thannever.” Where was Del Saunders? He mustn’t haveheard her, didn’t know she had come in. She had gotan elevator at once, hadn’t had to wait. She went to thetelevision set and snapped it off. That should fetch him.

He didn’t appear. The room, the corridor beyond,remained empty. There was no sound of footsteps inthe sudden silence, nothing but the far-off growl of

thunder and the vague hum of the sprawling city below.A breeze from the open door ruffled her damp hair atthe temples. She took the kerchief off and thrust it intoher pocket. Perhaps Del Saunders had gone out to lookat the storm. She crossed to the open glass door and wentthrough it.

The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun butthere was water everywhere, on the breast-high wallshemming in the terrace, on the cedars lining it, on thebluish flagstones shining in reflected light. Del Saunderswas nowhere in view. In the clearing air below, the citywas a dazzling pattern of brilliance spread in every direc-tion. Liz started along the terrace, and followed it allthe way around to the far side. To the south the EmpireState Building sent out sweeping beacons that lit up thetattered, cloud-strewn sky. She looked ahead.

The terrace she was on was divided halfway along itslength by a tall privet hedge. No Saunders in sight.Nothing, no one. She went on through a narrow gap inthe hedge, getting a wetting, and entered a square out-door cocktail room. Raindrops beaded the furniturethere, a lacy, white iron sofa and chairs, an immenselow table. Here flagstones ran twenty feet to a low,wrought iron railing not more than nine or ten incheshigh. Dangerous for drunks, she thought absently, andcame to a halt just inside the hedge.

Where was Del Saunders? Where could he be? It wasdecidedly queer that he hadn’t put in an appearance. Hewouldn’t be lurking anywhere, hiding out on her. . . .Where money was concerned he was very much on theball, and he was expecting her arrival. He had pushedthe buzzer when she rang from the lobby downstairs,and his door was open.

Lightning played along the horizon. Thunderboomed dully. She had to find him. Liz’s throat achedwith frustration and mounting anger. She took a stepand came to a sharp halt at a tinkle underfoot. She hadkicked something. She looked down—and saw it.

It was a small, hammered silver buckle not more thanan inch long and half an inch wide. It winked gently inthe light from one of the windows. It was a buckle sheknew. . . . Liz’s eyes absorbed the little silver buckle—and her heart stood still. It stood completely still. Andthen, in the stillness, the utter cessation, two thingshappened almost simultaneously. She heard movement.The movement came from behind her. There was some-one there, beyond the hedge. . . .

She had no time to turn. The blow was hard, swiftand accurate. It had been carefully planned. Even thespot had been selected. Walk into my parlor—and Lizhad obliged. The weapon connected, and Liz pitchedforward on her face.

Liz’s head hurt. Conscious of little else, she was con-scious of that. Her head was an immense ball of fire.The pain was frightful. . . . She was being draggedalong ground, hard ground, and her feet were caught,clamped tightly. She tried aimlessly to free them andcouldn't.

Confused and broken images shot across an innerscreen, a mingling of what she dimly realized was factand fancy. She was going over something—a cliff? No,the wetness—Niagara Falls. It wasn’t a falls either, itwas a—a bridge, she thought pettishly, a bridge with alow, wrought iron railing and she was going over it.. . . But what would a white sofa and a cocktail table

be doing on a bridge? Well, they were there and it wasa bridge and she was going over it. That was it, she wasgoing out over the low iron railing; she knew it deep inthe recesses of her mind. She was going over the railinginto space and she would spin in the air like a toy, arag doll, plunging down and down and down into abottomless abyss.

A bell was ringing somewhere. . . . Ding dong bell. . . It wasn’t a funeral bell. The sound was small andsharp and clear. It exploded her last traces of conscious-ness into bits, and she dropped into blackness, stoppedfeeling anything at all.

The Scotsman was out of the Cadillac before it cameto a full stop in front of the apartment house on Sixty-eighth Street. Pierson, Hatch and Ennis tumbled outafter him. They were joined by Carr, a detective whohad been put on Delphin Saunders. “Saunders here?”McKee asked, and Carr, running to keep up with him,said yes. McKee nodded. No use asking Carr about LizBowen, or any of the others; Carr didn’t know them bysight. In the vestibule McKee played a tune on a num-ber of bells, the buzzer clicked, and they entered thelobby. The two elevators were in use. He looked at theindicators. One was at the penthouse twelve storiesabove, the other was at the fifth floor and coming down.At the head of a small flight of steps beyond the mailboxes a door was labeled Superintendent.

The superintendent, who had been advised by phone,produced the penthouse passkey, looking interrogative

and scared at the force of cops. McKee gave no ex-planation. “Stay here and watch it,” he said to Ennis. Aman and a woman got out of the elevator; he and Pier-son, Hatch and Carr got in.

Like all self-service elevators the car was damnablyslow. No one spoke. The door finally slid open and theyerupted into the small square hall on the twelfth floor.The hall was occupied. A woman was standing at thepenthouse door, ringing the bell with one gloved handand rapping on the door with the other. There wasurgency and fear in her posture. It was Polly Ford. Sheturned. Her face was white, her mouth bunched, herfine eyes dark with anxiety and strain.

Her expression didn’t change. She accepted the pres-ence of McKee and the men with him without theslightest surprise, as though they had come at her in-stance, on the same errand.

“It’s Carol,” she said, “Carol’s here. I’m sure she’shere. Inspector. Her car’s down in the street. But—Ican’t—can’t get an answer.” Her mouth shook. She triedto pull herself together. “We think she may be planningto—to go away with this man tonight.”

McKee gave a nod, fitting the key into the lock. Tod-hunter had called from Spuyten Duyvil, saying thatthere had been a rumpus over Carol, who had slippedoff to New York, and that the others were after her.

They tracked them to their source. It was CarolThayer who was screaming, in the huge glass-walledliving room at the end of the long hall beyond the foyer.The girl was pressed against a wall, looking down at

something at her feet behind a sofa. There was spacebetween the sofa back and doors leading to the terrace.

Delphin Saunders was stretched full length on thefloor behind the sofa—and Delphin Saunders wasn’tgoing anywhere—or rather, wherever he was going, hehad already gone. He lay partly on his side. His eyeswere open but they were beginning to glaze over. Acrossthe back of the white jacket he wore there was a hugescarlet splotch. McKee knelt. Saunders had been deada very short time.

McKee got to his feet and nodded to Pierson, whowent to the phone. Miss Ford was holding Carol Thayer,who was struggling and trying to push her away. Herscreams were now a wild sobbing. “He’s dead—he’s dead—he’s dead . . .”

McKee ignored her. Was Liz Bowen here, and if so,where? “Carr, search the apartment. Hatch, take thatside.” He waved to doors on the far side of the room,went himself through the glass doors behind Saunders’motionless body. He saw a round, white iron table, awhite iron sofa and chairs under a gray- and red-stripedawning, wet greenery; one of the white chairs was over-turned. Blue flagstone wet with rain ran to a low ironrailing not more than ten inches high. Liz Bowen wasthere on the flagstones, within a foot of the railing.

She was not conscious. Her face, what he could see ofit, was scratched and dirty and smeared with blood. Butshe was alive. McKee felt for a pulse, found one, pickedher up and trod on something. He looked down. It wasa Colt .38—a standard service revolver, army issue.

As he lifted Liz she stirred. Carr came runningaround the corner. McKee said, “It’s all right, Miss

Bowen, don’t try and talk,” and didn’t know whethershe heard him or not. He gestured toward the gun andCarr picked it up.

As the Scotsman appeared in the doorway with hisburden, Carol Thayer’s sobbing stopped abruptly. Shewas in a chair, with Polly Ford standing over her. Sheleaped to her feet, her little head upflung, her face con-torted. “She killed him,” Carol screamed. “That gun—she killed him. She did, she’s the one. She knew he lovedme, that we were going to be married and she killedhim . . .”

The Scotsman reflected grimly that that was exactlywhat they were expected to think, that was the way thescene had been set. . . . He said nothing.

The screaming voice hit Liz’s eardrums. She openedher eyes. They were dull, unfocused. McKee put hercarefully down on another couch at some distance fromthe body. Pierson was coming away from the phone.McKee nodded toward Carol. “Get that girl out of hereand then get me some whiskey or brandy.”

He was forcing the brandy through Liz’s swollen lipsand down her throat with no help from her when PhilipMontgomery walked in. He was followed shortly after-wards, without their being summoned, by Joshua Ing-ham and his wife Alice, in agitated pursuit of Carol.McKee went on giving instructions to his men. A num-ber of things could be settled then and there, for therecord.

“I think we’d better get down to it,” McKee said.“There are a number of questions to be answered,”

Light from two crystal chandeliers fully illuminatedthe huge glass room twelve stories above the street. TheScotsman stood near a table, at the end of which thepolice stenographer Corbett was seated. More than halfan hour had passed. The Inghams were side by side;Polly Ford had been summoned from her attendance onCarol in a room down the hall, where the girl wasresting after a shot from the police doctor; Montgomerywas close to Liz Bowen, who was propped up on pillowson the couch. They were all blank-faced and waiting,people in shock.

Routine had taken its course. Saunders’ body hadbeen removed after the tour man from the MedicalExaminer’s office had made a brief examination. Saun-ders had been shot in the back, presumably with thegun found on the terrace close to where Liz had beenlying unconscious, within inches of the low iron rail.

He had already acknowledged it, tight-lipped andwithout further comment. “Yes, it’s mine. No, I do notknow how it got here.”

The gun was there on the table together with a smalloval buckle of hammered silver, the buckle Liz had seen

She didn’t look at the buckle. She looked at her handsloosely linked in her lap. There was no tension in hernow that she knew. Tension belonged in another world.. . . People didn’t really want to know anything; youspent most of your life with your head in the sandrefusing to face what was, making reality over to suityour fancy.

“Mr. Montgomery,” McKee said, “you might as wellcome clean about this gun.”

“Yes . . .” A considering pause, then Philip told him.He said that on the night Adams was killed he hadremoved the gun from Adams’ office where he found itlying on the floor under the desk. He took it acrosstown to his car and locked it in the glove compartment.Late that night, after he got home, he buried the gunin the garden, at the root of a yellow climber on theterrace wall. There was a circle of spaded earth aroundeach vine, filled with fertilizer and peat moss. The roseswere cared for in late May, wouldn’t be touched foranother two months. He hadn’t gone near the gun since,had no idea how it came to be here in Saunders’ pent-house.

McKee let this go without challenge. “And you dugthe slug that killed Adams out of the chair he wasseated in.”

A curt “Yes.” Philip took something wrapped intissue from an inside pocket and handed it to the In-spector.

McKee examined it. “We will almost certainly findthat this will match the bullet that killed Saunders.”

He put the misshapen lump of lead down on the tablebeside the gun and the silver buckle. Walking up anddown, he covered Joan Chambeau’s death briefly. AfterAdams was killed, he said, the murderer had run intoJoan on the way out through the building on Four-teenth Street. Recognition was mutual and abrupt.Suspicion on the maid’s part—an anterior suspicion—“I’ll come to that presently.” At any rate, the personfigured that although Joan Chambeau didn’t know thatAdams was dead, she would soon know, and so had tobe disposed of. McKee went on to Delphin Saunders.Saunders, posted in a corridor below Adams’ office, hadbeen a witness to this encounter between the killer andJoan, which was why he had been eliminated.

The Scotsman turned to Liz—hindsight—but it hadto be true. “Miss Bowen, I think Delphin Saunders toldyou that much on Saturday night, out on the terrace atthe Inghams’ in Spuyten Duyvil.”

“Yes.” Liz didn’t look up. Why didn’t he get it over?. . . Three nails on her right hand were broken, butnot the thumbnail nor the one on the little finger.Odd . . .

McKee said to the room at large in his calm matter-of-fact tone that before that Liz Bowen had been selectedas the culprit. Witness her stolen car keys and the maid’shat placed in her car as a pointer, a signpost. “It wasclumsy, but we didn’t seem to be paying much attentionand needed nudging.”

The perpetrator of the crime had overheard the ar-rangements for tonight between Saunders and MissBowen, that Miss Bowen was to come here to Saunders’penthouse at eight o’clock. McKee shrugged. “What

could have been sweeter, two birds with one stone ...”Saunders, he said, had been killed first, and then hadcome the attack on Miss Bowen. “It was neatly planned,all set up for us. We were to think that Miss Bowenkilled Saunders and then that she threw herself over theterrace outside. A fall of twelve stories would haveeffectually concealed the preliminary blow.”

An indrawn breath from someone, the whisper ofwind was heard around the walls, then silence.

McKee quickened his pace. He said that the mur-derer had neglected one very important thing.

“What did you and the late Sarah Montgomeryquarrel about on the afternoon of the day Mrs. Mont-gomery died? We have a pretty good idea, but for therecord . . . ?”

Alice Ingham gave a sort of gasp and her hand wentto her mouth. Josh Ingham ran his tongue over his redlips. He didn’t speak.

“A little matter of fifteen thousand dollars, wasn’tit?” McKee asked. “Money Mrs. Montgomery hadloaned you and wanted back? Yes. You didn’t have it.

You lost the entire sum in the market. She wanted itat once. Her sudden death, as far as you were con-cerned, was providential. . . . That was one of thethings Adams found out. By and large, Adams foundout a number of things over the months. Enough to sethim up for life. Miss Ford . . .”

Polly started. She was pale, exhausted, with darksmudges under her violet eyes. “Yes, Inspector?”

Trout had been positive. . . . McKee said, “Beforeshe died Mrs. Montgomery was having her husbandwatched by Adams, wasn’t she? Carol Thayer simplytook up where her mother left off. Isn’t that correct?”Polly said dully, “Sarah thought there was anotherwoman. ... I told her she was mad, that Philipwouldn’t—he wasn’t that sort of man.”

“But you found out that you were wrong, that therewas another woman. Mr. Montgomery told you afterhis wife was dead, when you caught him out in the lieabout having had to work late at the office the night Mrs.Montgomery died.”

Polly sat mute, her lips pressed together. McKeeabandoned her. “Mr. Montgomery, there are severalquestions I’m going to ask you, or rather I’ll put themto you, and you can say yes or no as you please. Thatgoes for everyone here. You have your legal rights . . .”It was a subtle form of torture, leaving them allhanging, Liz thought. It didn’t touch her. None of thiswas really relevant, she knew.

“You suspected your stepdaughter Carol Thayer ofkilling Adams when you found your gun in his office.Just as you suspected Carol when your wife died sud-denly. Which was why you had that autopsy performed.”“And I was wrong about Carol, and about Sarah,”Philip said flatly.

Fernandez, relayed to this apartment. It wasn’t much,but Fernandez had said one thing, apropos of his talkwith Sarah Montgomery’s doctor, that was a lead. It wasfar from conclusire. It probably never would be con-clusive. ... If he himself could force the issue inanother way . . .

“Your wife’s death was murder, Mr. Montgomery—the first murder. The other three stemmed from hers.”Philip sat up sharply. “You’re—crazy.”

“No, oh no—and we know exactly how it was done.”The Scotsman’s eyes traveled over their faces, white,shocked, unbelieving faces, except for one. His gazestopped moving. No incredulity there in that face,simply blank amazement—and wonder.

It was Polly Ford who spoke, compulsively, withoutthinking. The words weren’t intended to be uttered.They were forced out. They hung on the air.

McKee thought of Joan Chambeau’s prattle about abottle, and the information from Sarah Montgomery’sdoctor that Fernandez had relayed . . .

“Miss Ford, you killed Sarah Montgomery with ananti-coagulant, not her own mild one but an older andmuch more powerful one prescribed for Mrs. Mont-gomery’s brother, and still in the Montgomery house ina medicine chest. Joan Chambeau saw you give Mrs.Montgomery the tablets dissolved in a drink after din-ner, although you told the doctor she had had nomedication prior to his arrival. Why did you tell thedoctor that? Because you knew the pills you had givenSarah Montgomery were lethal, that that amount of thedrug would produce severe internal hemorrhaging and

thus cause death. Later on after Adams got hold of Joanand got this information from her, Adams blackmailedyou, and you killed him. Then it was Joan Chambeau’sturn—and tonight you shot Delphin Saunders with Mr.Montgomery’s gun, the gun you saw Mr. Montgomerybury, and then dug up.”

Polly Ford was sitting motionless. Her brows were up.She was smiling a little. It was a white smile with an oddsort of glitter to it. Her eyes were large and clear andbright.

“Don’t be absurd, Inspector. All of that, every bit ofit, is nonsense. I was outside the front door of this pent-house when you arrived. I have no key. I had only justarrived.”

“No,” McKee said, “you were in this apartment formore than a good half hour. When Saunders opened thedoor to you he was confronted with a gun. You forcedhim at gun point into this room and shot him in theback. Then Miss Bowen came and you struck her down.You were in the act of throwing her over the edge of theroof out there when Carol Thayer rang the doorbell.Carol Thayer had a key. When there was no answer sheunlocked the door. You heard her enter this penthouseand you slipped around the other way to the front doorand out through it. The door locked itself behind you.When you saw the elevator coming up you started ring-ing and knocking.”

Polly Ford wasn’t smiling now. She was listeningattentively, consideringly. There was no longer anysuggestion of girlishness about her; she was a maturewoman with poise and balance. There was a frown

“I’m sorry, Inspector. A convincing enough state-ment. I suppose it could have happened that way—onlyit didn’t.” She was getting to her feet, and began pullingon a glove with deliberation. “I’m not going to remainhere and listen to any more . . .” The other glove andher purse were on the arm of her chair. She half turnedto pick them up.

McKee didn’t often make a slip. He did then. Hetook his eyes off Polly Ford and looked at the detectivesnear the door.

Polly was opposite the couch on which Liz and Philipsat, the Inghams were on her immediate right, McKeewas to the right of them, at least fifteen feet away. OnPolly’s left was the long table on which the exhibits lay.The police stenographer sat at the end of this table, butthe far end.

With incredible speed Polly Ford was at this table andhad the gun in her hand, Philip’s gun, the gun that hadalready been fired to kill earlier that night. The safetycatch was off and Polly’s finger was on the trigger.

She commanded the room. Her quiet voice was bell-clear. “Don’t make any mistake about this,” she said.“I’m a good shot. The first person who moves is goingto get it.” Her glance moved. So did the muzzle of thegun. It was pointed straight at Liz.

A timeless pause. Then, as out on the terrace earlier,everything happened almost too fast to see. Liz triedto twist sideways. Philip flung himself forward, but notin time. Polly pulled the trigger. The click was loud. No

bullet issued from the barrel. Another click—thenMcKee and Philip and some more men hid Polly fromview and the gun fell to the floor. Liz closed her eyes.

Ten minutes later Liz was alone with Philip andthe Inspector in the big glass room. Polly had beenremoved. The Inghams were gone, too; they had gonespeechlessly, taking Carol with them. Over and abovethe shock of the pointed gun, the relief in Liz was sogreat that she couldn’t get her brain to function prop-erly. Philip and the Inspector were talking. She listenedin a daze.

McKee was saying, “She didn’t know the gun wasn’tloaded, so we have her cold. Attempted murder, withindependent witnesses—that’ll do it, with what we al-ready have ...”

McKee said, “Your wife felt very little, Mr. Mont-gomery, and she was a doomed woman. She couldn’thave lived very long in any case. . . .”

Polly shot Adams on that Saturday afternoon she hadremoved the jewelry lying on Adams’ desk which hehad forced Joan to return to him, not wanting to pointan arrow toward Spuyten Duyvil, except where Philip’sgun was concerned. Liz could have got hold of it, andLiz had been selected as the victim from the beginning.

“But why?” Philip said wearily. “Why did Polly doit? Why did she kill Sarah? They were close friends.. . . I don’t . . .”

“No trouble there.” McKee lit a cigarette. “It’s quitesimple. Miss Ford was a woman with strong emotions.

kShe was in love with you, she thought you were in love'with her and that if your wife was out of the way you’d^marry her.”

Philip stared blankly. He was appalled. “Good God—I never gave her any cause to think . . . She was justa good friend, a close neighbor ...”

McKee shrugged. “Miss Ford believed what shewanted to believe. . . .” He said that when Philip’s gunwasn’t found in Adams’ office, Polly’s plan was knocked< out of joint and that there was danger to her in a closeinvestigation. She had put the jewelry, the pin and thering, in the cupboard in the Montgomery living roomto suggest that Joan had been there and might have re-moved the gun. Just as, later, to return suspicion to Liz,from whom it had unfortunately been diverted, sheplaced Joan Chambeau’s hat in Liz’s Renault.

He wandered across to the table. Philip’s gun wason the way to Centre Street, together with the cartridgesthat had been removed from it, but the little hammeredsilver buckle was still there. McKee touched it with hisfinger, and turned to Liz.

Fear was in Liz again. Could this man have been fool-ing her all the time? Was everything he had said anddone camouflage?

He smiled at her expression. “No, Miss Bowen, yourcousin, Mrs. Trent, didn’t kill anyone. Yes, she was hereearlier tonight, much earlier. She came around seveno’clock, probably to offer Saunders money. . . . Don’tyou think you’d better tell Mr. Montgomery the truth?”

“Philip . . She got it out in short phrases, briefly.She and Saunders were engaged, then he and Melissamet and Melissa was swept off her feet. . . . Edwardwas in Europe. It was a madness. “I was blind, stupidlyblind. I had no idea what was going on, that they weremeeting secretly—until it was all over. . . It didn’tlast long. Then Melissa found she was going to have achild. “She didn’t want to go through with it, but Imade her.” She was terrified of anyone’s ever findingout, which was why they had changed names, changedplaces. “I became Mrs. Trent,” Liz said. “It was a meas-ure of protection for Melissa, because it was obvious tothe tradesmen and the few people we encountered afterwe left New York that Mrs. Trent wasn't going to havea baby.” They had stuck to that except for the hospitalin Boston where Liz kept the name of Mrs. Trent butMelissa took a false name. She called herself—wentdown on the hospital records as—Mrs. John Robbins.

Liz said, “I promised her that she would never bebothered with the child, would never hear of it again,wouldn’t even know whether it was alive or dead—andshe has never asked.” Old friends of Liz’s in DuchessCounty were bringing up the child with as much loveas though he was their own. They had wanted to adopthim, but with all the forms, the rules and regulations, itwas too risky. “They think he’s mine, and I’ve neverundeceived them. Perhaps in some way, later on, they’llbe able to adopt him legally. He’s a dear little boy . . .”Her voice broke.

Philip was not a demonstrative man when other peo-ple were present. He put an arm around her shouldersand pulled her close. “You idiot, Liz, not to have toldme.” His voice was gentle.

He interrupted her suddenly, his head raised. “Lis-ten,” he said, “listen.”

Out on the river a hoarse whistle blew a stentorianblast, and another ... It was a big ship’s departingsalute to the land. Liz gave a long sigh. The barrierhad crashed. She was in Philip’s mind again, knew whathe meant, all that he meant. In two weeks it would bebehind them, the whole nightmare of pain and distress,and they would be sailing away.

HELEN REILLY is a native New Yorker. Her father,the late Dr. James Michael Kieran, was President of HunterCollege. In 1914, before graduating from Hunter, she mar-ried the late Paul Reilly, an artist-cartoonist. John Kieran,former New York Times sports writer, naturalist, and for-mer expert on the “Information Please” radio program, isher brother.

Mrs. Reilly gets her plots for her Inspector McKee storiesfrom police files and the pattern of lives about her, but shemust often simplify actual cases, for they would be too in-credible as fictional works. Some of her recent books areThe Canvas Dagger (1956), Compartment K (1955), TellHer It’s Murder (1954), The Velvet Hand (1953), TheDouble Man (1952), Lament for the Bride (1951), and Mur-der at Arroways (1950). She has served as president of theMystery Writers of America.

Helen Reilly is a native New Yorker. Herfather, the late Dr. James Michael Kieran,was President of Hunter College. In 1914,before graduating from Hunter, she mar-ried the late Paul Reilly, an artist-cartoon-ist. John Kieran, former New York Timessports writer, naturalist, and former experton the "Information Please" radio program,is her brother.

Mrs. Reilly gets the plots for her Inspec-tor McKee stories from police files and thepattern of lives about her, but she mustoften simplify actual cases, for they wouldbe too incredible as fictional works. Someof her recent books are THE CANVAS DAG-GER (1956), COMPARTMENT K (1955),TELL HER IT’S MURDER (1954), THE VEL-VET HAND (1953), THE DOUBLE MAN(1952), LAMENT FOR THE BRIDE (1951),and MURDER AT ARROW AYS (1950). Shehas served as president of the Mystery Writ-ers of America.

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