Murder Is Served (24 page)

“Of course she didn't,” Pam said. “Anybody would have.” It was momentarily unclear, but Pam did not wait. “Bill,” she said, “don't you see? It's too perfect. That's what's the matter. If it were true—if it just
happened
—it'd be fuzzy. Everything is. But this isn't, so somebody arranged it. Don't you see how logical it is?”

Bill Weigand found he was smiling at Pam North; that his mind, for some reason, was no longer so weary as it had been. His mind was panting slightly, but it was no longer really tired.

Bill transferred his gaze, and his faint smile, to Jerry North.

“You know what she means,” Jerry said. “That is—well, near enough. She knows it doesn't prove anything. But—”

“But,” Pam repeated. “That's it, Bill. But. You have to get around ‘but,' Bill. The more you think about it, the more you see that. We all did.” She made a small gesture which encompassed Jerry, the Fosters, Carey and Peggy Mott.

“The deputation,” Foster said, suddenly, and smiled widely. “My name's Foster, Lieutenant. This is my wife.” He indicated Paula.

“Thanks,” Bill said. “I'd begun to wonder. And—where do you and Mrs. Foster fit in?”

Foster continued to smile. He explained where they fitted in.

“Harboring,” Foster said. “Probably that isn't the word, Lieutenant. We took Carey and Mrs. Mott in, knowing they were fugitives. Accessories after the fact?”

Bill Weigand waved it off, abstractedly. Unexpectedly, Foster sobered. He said, “Sorry, sir.” Bill waved that off, also. Pam North seemed about to say something, and to be stopped by the expression on Weigand's face, or by the gentle tapping of the fingers of his right hand on the desk in front of him. It occurred to Pam that, from Bill's point of view, something had gone wrong. That was puzzling, because the most obvious thing was surely something which had gone right. They had persuaded Peggy Mott and Carey to come in. Bill should, she thought, be pleased with them. But she thought he was not. Which could only mean—

“Mrs. Mott,” Bill said, “I'm not going to hold you. I'm not clearing you, you understand. But I'm not holding you. There are two conditions. If you'll agree to them, I'll let you go for the time being.”

Peggy Mott looked surprised, and Carey continued to direct an angry, suspicious gaze at Weigand. The girl nodded.

“First,” Bill said, “you don't try to hide. You don't leave the city, you show up at your apartment tonight by ten o'clock and you stay in it. I'll take steps to find out whether you do or not. If you don't, I'll turn the town upside down to find you, and when I do I'll lodge a homicide charge against you. You understand that?”

Peggy Mott nodded again.

“That goes for you, Carey,” Bill said. “I'd still like to give you to Stein, and I may yet. Or I can see you serve a stretch for, resisting. I may yet. But now you can go—and you'll be in your apartment by ten o'clock tonight, and I'll check up on you.” Bill looked directly at the glaring young man. “Do you want to play it that way?” he asked.

Carey seemed to hesitate for a moment. “You can't—” he started, and looked at Peggy Mott. “All right,” he said. “I'll play it that way. For now.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Now—and this goes for all of you.” He looked from one to the other. “All of you forget that you came in here. Forget that Mrs. Mott gave herself up; forget that you saw her today.” Carey seemed to thrust himself forward. “No, Carey, I'm not framing her,” Weigand said. “Obviously, if it comes to that, all of you'll see that she gets credit for having come in. If charges are made—and you all understand they probably will be—you can talk your heads off. Until then—nothing. You agree?”

One by one, nodding, they agreed.

“Right,” Bill said. “That's all, then.” He nodded toward the door, toward Mullins at the door. And, by the slightest of gestures, imperceptible to a person who was not looking for it, he indicated Peggy and Weldon Carey. Mullins slightly closed his eyes, reopened them.

Carey put his arm around the girl again, and she did not, this time, move out of its circle. The two of them, close together, went through the door first, and Paula Foster smiled at Weigand and went after them. Her husband raised his right hand in what was almost a salute and followed, and Jerry said, “Come on, Pam.”

Pam looked at Bill Weigand and her eyebrows went up.

“Timing,” Bill said. “Bad, Pam.”

Pam North said, “Oh.” Then she said, “Bill—” and Bill Weigand shook his head at her and said, “Later.” She said, “Oh,” again and then, “Are you and Dorian coming down this evening?”

“Unless something—” Bill said, and threw it away.

“About six then,” Pam said. “We thought you wanted her.”

“Right,” Bill said. “So did I. Perhaps I do.”

“But you're not sure any more?” She looked at him. “Good,” she said. “I think you're right, Bill.”

Bill Weigand did not say anything to that, and watched them go. Beside Mullins, Pam North paused. “You come with Bill and Dorian,” she said, “if they do?” Mullins looked at Bill Weigand, who nodded. “Sure, Mrs. North,” Mullins said. “O.K.”

They went, then, and Mullins went after them, momentarily, and returned. Bill looked up at him, and Mullins nodded. “They got company,” Mullins said. “Mrs. Mott and this guy Carey. Listen, Loot—does he get away with it?”

“I don't know, yet,” he said. “We may have to leave it up to Stein.”

Mullins reflected and said, “Yeah. Only this Carey needs—” He let it rest. He looked puzzled. “Listen, Loot,” he said. “I didn't get it. Should I of?”

“Have,” Bill said. “Did you ever hear of enough rope, Sergeant?”

“Oh,” Mullins said, “that.”

“For everybody,” Bill said. “By the way, we'd better cancel the pick-up for the girl. And Carey.”

Mullins said, “O.K., Loot,” and started out. “And then come back,” Bill said. “I want to talk to you about a guy named Leonard, Mullins. And maybe we'll think of a couple of other guys to talk about. Right?”

“O-o-oh?” Mullins said, and seemed enlightened. He went out.

11

S
UNDAY
,
6:10
P.M. TO
9:45
P.M.

Bill Weigand was late at the Norths. Dorian came, a few minutes after six, and said that Bill was coming; that he had telephoned her and asked her to go on ahead and said he might be a little late. The young cats sat in front of Dorian Weigand and adored her, with purrs. Martini sat a little distance off and considered everything, without committing herself. Jerry North suggested that there was no use waiting for Bill, and Dorian and Pam agreed and watched, with anticipation, while he stirred. One of the cats jumped to the chest which served as a bar and offered to help, smelled gin and crinkled its nose. It left.

“Don't be silly,” Pam told the little cat. “You were named after it.” She regarded it. “And you cast a damper,” she said. “You're a prohibitionist.” The cat, apparently regarding this as an endearment, jumped to Pam's lap and tried to rub noses. Pain held it for a moment and put it down, just as Martini spoke in a low, harsh voice. “Jealous,” Pam explained. “It's all got very complicated. Did Bill say anything?”

“No,” Dorian said. “Just that he was coming.”

Dorian curled in the big chair, looked at the fire. The three of them drank slowly, relaxed, watching the cats play. It was six-thirty, or a little later, when the doorbell rang.

Bill Weigand looked very tired as he stood in the doorway, his eyes moved quickly until they found Dorian. Then his gaze stopped moving, having come home, having found her there. Pam North, watching, thought he had never quite got over the feeling that if he left Dorian, she might vanish. It was not unreasonable, Pam thought. After all, there had been a time, and a very bad time for a while, when Dorian had vanished, and been hard to find.
*

Pam saw Dorian nod, smile, to prove that she was surely there. Then Pam looked back at Bill Weigand's face and did not need Dorian's “No, Bill?” and his shaken head to realize that this one wasn't over. It was a long way from over, she thought, looking at Bill's tired face.

“Mullins?” Jerry said, practically, moving toward the chest which served as bar. “Coming,” Bill said. “Parking the car.” Almost at once the doorbell rang again, and Mullins appeared, looking as he always did. Jerry made another round of drinks, and until he had almost emptied his glass, Bill Weigand merely sat. Then he looked at the Norths, smiled and said, “Right. Ask it.”

“All right,” Pam said. “Why, Bill?”

Bill turned to Dorian.

“They brought Peggy Mott in,” he said. “I turned her loose.” Dorian nodded and he turned back to Pam North. “Because I'm not sure we want her,” he said, paused and added, “yet.” He finished his drink. “Among us,” he said, “I'm not sure of anything.” The words seemed to make him more tired, his face showed it. He spoke to his empty glass, as Jerry got up and went to the bar. “It looked so damn simple,” Bill told the glass.

“Too simple,” Pam North said. “The too-perfect murder.”

“As you said,” Bill agreed. “But you see—you don't have to be right, Pam. I do, in the end. That's the catch. I can't just say ‘too perfect' and close my eyes.” He nodded, slowly. “Nine to one,” he said, “it was Peggy Mott. Only—”

“Only the one,” Pam said. “Your trouble is, you're honest.” She looked at Dorian. “Isn't he?” Dorian said, lightly. “An inconvenience, sometimes.”

Bill looked at her and his lips curved. But they went back almost at once to a tired line.

“A great inconvenience, if that's the trouble,” he said. “But there's a practical point. We can't leave loopholes. That's really the reason I turned her loose. And Carey because the two things go together. If we finally charge her, we'll charge him, too. But first—”

The telephone rang.

“For me, probably,” Bill said. “Right?”

Jerry North nodded and Bill said, “Weigand speaking” into the telephone. He listened for several minutes, making only encouraging sounds. Then he said “Right,” and hung up.

“There'll be more,” he said. “We're going over the whole thing again, in a way. Doing what we should have done earlier, I suppose. There was a lot of dope about Mott. Business affairs, girl affairs. The highlights, from Stein.” He paused, looked with pleasure at his refilled glass, and drank. “Nothing spectacular,” he said. “Grist.” He did not continue and they all drank, companionably. Mullins speared the cherry in his old-fashioned and the cherry vanished into Mullins. Jerry made a new old-fashioned.

“Leonard's sister was involved with Mott,” Bill said. “She got a dirty deal.” He told them part of it.

“That opened it up?” Jerry North said, and Bill nodded.

“Cracked it,” he said. “Made me go over it. It was accident I happened on that. So—”

He did not need to develop it. They all nodded.

“So—we start over,” Bill said. “Get it clean, if we can. Find out—”

The telephone rang again. Again Bill answered it. Again he listened and ended with “Right.” He put the telephone back and said, “More grist” and did not amplify. “It will go on all night, probably,” he said. “And with nothing coming of it.” He was morose.

“Take time out, Bill,” Dorian said. “Drink your drink. Watch the cats. Suggest some place for dinner.”

“Not me,” Bill said. “I'm resting.”

“Charles,” Mullins said. He seemed surprised it needed saying; more surprised when Pam shook her head at him. “Not on Sundays,” she said. “So many places aren't.” Mullins said, “Oh.” The news appeared to depress him.

“Sundays are so difficult,” Pam said. “Why do they all want to be difficult on the same day?”

“People out of town,” Jerry told her. “A dull day.”

“Out of town?” Pam said. “In this weather? When you could stay home and curl up with a warm radiator?”

Jerry said he didn't know. He said all he knew was what the restaurants appeared to think. Pam said she could make an omelet.

“Several omelets,” she said. “Only there wouldn't be anything else.”

“We go out,” Jerry told her. He suggested several places; Dorian suggested several places. Each place was languidly approved and, so, dismissed. They had another drink.

“Look,” Pam said, “maybe Maillaux's is open. Would that be too—”

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Much.”

“Anyway,” Mullins said, “the food's not worth it.”

They all looked at him. Bill came out of what was apparently a deep reverie and looked at him.

“Look,” Jerry said, “it's supposed to be very superior—very special.”

“O.K.,” Mullins said. “I don't like it. I was there two, three weeks ago—on the Simpkins case, Loot, remember?—and it cost a lot and so what? Four guys serve you, and so what? This steak I got—”

“Oh,” Pam North said. “Well, steak. I don't suppose M. Maillaux really feels much about steak. After all, steak isn't French, Sergeant.”

“O.K.,” Mullins said, comfortably. “O.K., Mrs. North. You get something à la something, and I'll get steak. All the same, a restaurant ought to be able to do a steak.” He nodded. “Anybody ought to be able to do a steak,” he said. “This steak I got—”

He shrugged the steak away.

“So Maillaux's is out,” Pam said. “Anyway, the prices are ridiculous. Luchow's?”

Everybody agreed that Luchow's was fine. Nobody made any move to go toward Luchow's. Jerry made more drinks.

“Of course,” Dorian said, “we could just stay here and drink dinner. Only—”