Murder Is Served (27 page)

Leonard shook his head.

“The lieutenant wouldn't approve,” he said. “Emily Post. Anyway, I'm waiting for a friend. Got lost somewhere, I'm afraid.” He nodded. He was not drunk, Pam thought. On the other hand, it would be venturesome to call him sober.

“Sit down,” Bill said. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“No,” Leonard said. “Can't do that. But I wanted to ask you something, Lieutenant.” He stood up, dignified. “May I ask you something?”

“Right,” Bill said. “Ask away, Professor.”

“I will,” Leonard said. “Did you know that Peggy Mott's here? In the restaurant?”

“Yes,” Bill said, nodding. “I saw her, Mr. Leonard.”

“That's Carey with her,” Leonard said. “Weldon Carey. You knew that?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Leonard said. “You know she's here.”

Bill nodded again.

“So far as I can see, no handcuffs,” Leonard said. “On Peggy. On Carey. No minions of the law.” He paused and shook his head. “The sort of thing Handleigh says,” Leonard told them. “Minions. Could I be intoxicated?”

“No,” Bill said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Leonard said. “Or did you mean, no minions?”

“Both.”

Leonard said, “Oh.” Then he said, “And that, I take it, means that you no longer think she killed her husband? You're no longer looking for her?”

“Obviously, I'm not looking for her,” Bill said. “At any rate, not to arrest her. Now.”

Leonard looked at Bill Weigand intently. He was obviously trying to go beyond the words.

“She's clear, then? In your mind?” Leonard said, after a little pause.

“Now, Mr. Leonard,” Bill said. “You want to know a lot, don't you?”

“Why not?” Leonard said. “You come to me and ask a lot of questions. Imply a lot of things. And then I find you no longer want the obvious person—the girl who hated the man who got killed, who gets his money. Why wouldn't I be interested?”

“Why?” Bill said.

“Off with the old suspicion, on with the new,” Leonard said. “Is that it, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, that,” Bill said. “Should it be? And did I say, off with the old?”

“But—” Leonard said.

Weigand looked at him more intently. He shook his head at Leonard.

“For your information, Mr. Leonard,” Bill said, “nobody is entirely in the clear. Including yourself. But we don't always arrest suspects—immediately. Including yourself, obviously.” He let it sink in. “Don't jump to conclusions, Mr. Leonard,” Bill said. “Right?”

Leonard again studied Bill Weigand's face.

“Then—?” he said.

“Any conclusions,” Bill told him. “One way, or another way.”

“You can't keep me from guessing,” Leonard told him, and Bill shrugged.

“Why should I?” he said. “Guess away, Mr. Leonard.” He sighed faintly. “Half the town is, probably,” he said. “Why not you? Sit down and have a drink.”

“Enough rope,” Leonard said. “No, I'll go back and wait for my friend. Unless?” He looked at his wrists. Bill Weigand told him to wait for his friend. He went off toward the bar.

Pam North was looking at Bill Weigand. “Isn't it—” she began, and Bill shook his head at her. He motioned faintly with his head, and she saw that André Maillaux was only a little way off, talking to a waiter. She did not understand the warning entirely, although she obeyed it. What difference would it make if Maillaux heard her say it was interesting that Leonard was so interested in Peggy Mott's continued freedom, that he had gone out of his way, almost, to review for Weigand the evidence against the girl? Could it be that Bill had expected her to say something else, something Maillaux should not overhear? And—could it be that Bill had missed Leonard's odd, intent interest? Leonard was worried for his own sake, his own safety. That's obvious, Pam thought; how can Bill have missed it? And M. Maillaux is, just as obviously, worried about Peggy Mott, worried about the facts against her. Pam shook her head.

Enough rope, she thought; it's true he's giving somebody enough rope. He's waiting for something to happen, for somebody to do, something. And then, looking at Bill, remembering how he had spoken, first to Maillaux, then to Leonard, Pam had an unhappy conviction that she knew who was getting the rope. Because, although he seemed to have tried not to, he had given it away in his words to both the men.

He's back where he started, Pam thought. He thinks it's Peggy Mott. Only—this time he's sure. This time he hasn't any doubts. She looked at Bill, who was looking at her, smiling faintly, abstracted. She knew him that well, she thought. He knows where he's going, now. Only—he's going wrong. It has to be that he's going wrong.

Pam, eating
crêpes Suzette
without tasting them, looked across the room at Peggy and Weldon Carey. They seemed secure, she thought. Almost happy. It would be so very—so very upsetting if Bill Weigand wasn't going wrong.

It was then that Pam North realized, for the first time fully realized, that they were all there in accordance with some plan; that they were there waiting for something to happen. The plan was Bill's, and now, remembering what he had said, studying his expression, she was convinced she knew at whom the plan was directed. She did not know what the plan was; she did not know what' Bill Weigand expected to happen. But he had let Peggy Mott go, and Carey with her, because he believed that, free, they would lead him to something; that their freedom would force an issue. It is true, she thought, that he hasn't enough evidence—enough evidence to exclude all other possibilities. He is waiting for them to give it to him. He has set the stage. Now he is waiting.

She looked at him, saw that his eyes, as hers had been, were on the couple across the restaurant. He was watching them, waiting for them to move, to do whatever it was he had arranged for them to do, or whatever some inescapable logic of events, to which he had somehow become privy, was forcing them to do. She looked at Peggy and Weldon Carey again, and tried to work it out.

But they were, so far as she could determine, merely finishing dinner. There was nothing in that to account for the intent look on Bill Weigand's face; for her own tightening nerves, her own conviction that it was almost time. There was nothing in anything that was happening, or had happened within the past hour, to account for the way she felt now. It was obscure, baffling.

She was in a restaurant, in which perhaps sixty or seventy men and women were dining, at leisure, well and at considerable expense. The atmosphere was one of relaxation, of contentment. Of all places, Pam thought, this was one of the ones least likely to create, of itself, that odd stretching of the nerves, that kind of impatient irritability, which she now felt. She could see Maillaux patrolling his restaurant, stopping at a table to speak to patrons, as he had stopped at theirs to speak to them, bowing and smiling and moving on, watching a captain who was slicing, with almost ludicrous care, a ham fixed by prongs to a wheeled table, pointing to an empty table and sending a busboy scurrying. There was nothing in what Maillaux was doing to create tension. There was nothing in what Peggy Mott was doing, or the man with her.

William, the immaculate, the maître d'hôtel, was at his station near the ropes, and he was merely standing, easily, greeting the final trickle of the evening's trade. He bowed to a couple as she watched, went a few steps with them and assigned them to one of the greater captains. He smiled and bowed to someone at a table near the ropes, and went back to wait. There was nothing in any movement of his, any attitude of his, to suggest that he could be involved in this—this thing, this action—for which Bill Weigand was waiting.

The two at the table across the room, Maillaux, William—the sense of tension she felt did not seem to emanate from any of them. And they, surely, would be in the center of it; if Bill was right, Peggy Mott and Weldon Carey would
be
the center of it. Unless Leonard—she looked around, seeking John Leonard. At first she did not see him, and for a moment she had a quick hope that his absence was what Bill had been waiting for; that it was Leonard, rather than Peggy Mott, who was to be at the center of things.

Because I still don't believe it, Pam thought; I still don't believe it was Peggy. I think it's too easy that way, too—made up. She looked at Bill again, and the hope lost quickness. She knew that expression. Bill Weigand was sure, was very sure. He was merely waiting for a thing he knew to be inevitable.

Leonard appeared then at the top of the short stairway leading to the bar. He stood there, very tall, peering at the restaurant, looking for something. He shook his head after a moment and went back. Pam looked quickly at Bill Weigand, and thought he had also been watching Leonard. But Leonard had done nothing.

It was all, outwardly, so matter-of-fact, so free of—threat. Pam, her nerves growing still tighter, felt that she was somehow shut away from it, or lifted somehow above it. It was as if she were watching the gathering of a storm of which she alone had cognizance; as if all these others, the actors and the spectators, were moving in a dream of ignorance, of imperviousness, while the storm gathered—while the air drew itself together and held heavily still. She wanted to shout a warning; to do something which would break this slowly gathering spell.

“Pam,” Jerry said. “Hey, Pam!” His voice was casual, reflecting no tension such as hers. He was smiling at her. She heard herself speak, heard herself say, “Yes, Jerry?” and watched him shake his head. “Just ‘hey,'” he said. “You'd gone off.”

“No,” she said. “No, I'm around.” She realized, then, that Dorian and Jerry, and Mullins, had been talking idly; that a waiter was pouring coffee for them, that, here as elsewhere in the restaurant, things went on matter-of-factly. It was only around Bill that there was that tension, that charge, and she was the only one aware of it. For an instant it occurred to her that all she felt was subjective, lacked any outer reality. Then she saw that Dorian, now; was also watching Bill Weigand, and that her gaze was intent, as if she, too, were trying to break into Bill's mind. It's reached her now, Pam thought.

Then Bill spoke. He turned his eyes, his attention, back toward the others, and spoke to Mullins.

“Sergeant,” he said, “d'you want to give them a ring? See if anything's turned up. They know where we are, of course, but—”

“Yeah,” Mullins said. “O.K., Loot. Sure.”

Mullins did not feel it, Pam thought. But then she saw his almost imperceptible nod, thought it was an answer to some signal Weigand had given him, and looked quickly at Bill. But Bill's expression, now, was merely easy and relaxed, as his voice had been. Mullins got up and went among the tables toward the foyer of the restaurant. They watched him.

“You expect something?” Jerry said, and Bill Weigand shook his head. He said something about routine; he seemed to prove his indifference by taking up his coffee cup and drinking from it. “You know,” Jerry said, “I could do with a brandy. Anybody else?”

Pam was suddenly, briefly, furious. All hell was about to break loose, and Jerry wanted a brandy. Oh, damn! Pam thought. What's the matter with everybody?

Then they saw Mullins coming back through the restaurant, and he was moving quickly. When he was still some distance away, he raised his right hand in a gesture, commanding Bill Weigand's attention. Bill Weigand got up, unhurriedly.

“There's something—” Mullins said, when he was near enough. He looked around at the Norths, at Dorian, and seemed to decide not to go on. “One of the boys—”

“Right,” Bill said. “I was expecting it.” He seemed suddenly morose. “Just let me settle down a minute,” he said, “and something—” He did not finish.

“Bill,” Dorian said. “What a shame! You'll be back?”

Bill Weigand shrugged, and seemed to consider. Then he nodded. He said he would try the telephone; if that wasn't good enough he'd come back and tell her.

“Sit tight,” he said, including the Norths, this time. “Probably it's nothing much.”

He joined Mullins and they went off together. Pam saw that Peggy Mott and Carey were watching them; thought that M. Maillaux was aware of their going; knew that William must inevitably see them as they passed. The Fosters? She turned to look back, seeking the Fosters. She did not see them; apparently they had eaten more quickly and gone on.

And now Bill was going. But I was right, Pam thought, I'm sure I was right. Did it miss? Fail to go off? Or—or is this the start of it?

“Jerry,” she said, “I'll take a brandy.”

She was aware that something in her voice surprised Jerry North, and that he was looking at her oddly. I must have sounded as if I needed one, Pam thought. Whatever's the matter with me?

*
During the investigation of
Untidy Murder
.

12

S
UNDAY
,
9:45
P.M. TO
10:25
P.M.

“O.K., Loot?” Mullins said. “What you wanted?”

“Right,” Bill told him. “Just what I wanted.”

“Look,” Mullins said. “What was I supposed to mean? Back there?” He moved his head toward the restaurant.

“God knows,” Bill told him. “However—we're out. Very publicly.”

“All set, then?” Mullins said. Bill nodded.

“It's set,” he said. “Now—we'll see whether it goes off. Only—” He paused and Mullins waited. Bill picked up his hat and coat, handed out Mullins's hat and coat; put money on the counter. The girl was not Cecily Breakwell, this time; Cecily was nowhere visible.

Bill turned away from the coatroom, started to join Mullins nearer the door and hesitated. He stood for a moment and then nodded to himself, half smiling. He turned back and said, “Sheet of paper?” to the girl at the stand. She had a sheet of paper. Using the counter as a desk, Bill wrote briefly, folded the paper and wrote a name on the back of it. A page boy, watching, showed anticipation and appeared at Bill's elbow. “Oh,” Bill said. “Yes, will you?” He moved back, with the page, to a position from which they could see into the restaurant. Weigand pointed; gave the page half a dollar and then rejoined Mullins.