Murder Is Served (39 page)

“Not that there was,” he said. “But I was the nearest relative.” He smiled faintly. “I mean I was the closest,” he qualified. “In a physical sense.”

He waited. It occurred to Weigand that he was, for practical purposes, disposed of. The next question was routine; Weigand prefaced it with an explanation that it was routine. It was something they asked everyone.

“From the medical evidence,” he said, “your brother-in-law appears to have been killed between around twelve thirty—a few minutes earlier or later—and two o'clock. But since he was seen leaving the office at about ten minutes after one, we can narrow that a little. Naturally, we want to know where all the people who were—well, associated with him—were during that period. Make it from about one ten to two thirty, to be on the safe side.”

Nickerson Smith nodded as Weigand spoke. He replied as soon as Weigand had finished. He was matter-of-fact about it.

“I was in my office from one o'clock until Nurse—” He paused for the name. Weigand gave it to him. “Nurse Spencer called me,” he said. “For about fifteen minutes of that time—from one until say one fifteen, I was alone. Then my secretary came in. I don't know whether she noticed what time it was, of course. And I didn't. I'm guessing. But I'd say she came in about ten or fifteen minutes after one. She can assure you I was there the rest of the time.”

He considered his own statement.

“That seems to leave some five minutes unaccounted for,” he said. “Assuming the doctor went out at one ten and my girl came in at one fifteen. But—”

Weigand nodded. The rest of the sentence could be taken as implied. If the doctor left at one ten; if Nickerson Smith was in his office three floors or so above at one fifteen, Nickerson Smith was out. Because he would have had to come down three floors, meet the doctor, persuade—or force—him to return to the office, walk back with him to the private office, kill him—and make sure he was dead—and retrace his steps. All of which, Weigand agreed with himself, couldn't be done in five minutes. Fifteen would be more like it, and quick work at that. If his secretary agreed, Nickerson Smith was out of it.

Weigand thanked him and thought that would be all. Smith got up, started across the reception room, hesitated and came back. When he came to speak, he hesitated again and then asked whether he could ask a question. Weigand nodded.

“About the boy,” he said. “About Dan. I hope you don't—I hope he isn't—”

“Under suspicion?” Bill said. “Of killing his own father? Why should he be, Mr. Smith?”

“I'm glad,” Smith said. “He shouldn't be, of course.” He looked at Bill Weigand then as if he had just heard something Weigand had said. “His own father?” Smith said. “But he wasn't, of course. I supposed you knew.”

“No,” Weigand said. “Obviously I didn't.”

“Stepfather,” Smith said. “My sister had been married before and he was her son. Not Andrew's. He took Andrew's name when he was old enough to decide.” He nodded, keeping it straight. “My sister was Andrew's first wife, you know.”

Weigand said he knew that.

“And,” Smith said, “there's no doubt the boy's manner is—unfortunate. He can appear to be very violent. Not that he is, you understand. His own worst enemy, really. But meeting him for the first time—” His tone seemed rather anxious. “I can see how you might get an unfortunate impression, Lieutenant.”

“Had he quarreled with his stepfather?” Weigand said. “Is that what you're getting at?”

“Oh, no,” Smith said. “Not actually. Dan was devoted to his father—really. It's just that—”

He stopped, and smiled. He spoke again in a tone of great frankness.

“Put my foot in it, haven't I?” he said. “Fond of the boy, you know. Hope I haven't given you ideas.”

Weigand shook his head. He assured Smith, inaccurately, that he had been given no ideas. He watched Smith go.

“Ingenious,” Pam said. “Or is he?”

Bill told her he could stand to know that one himself. He watched Smith close the office door behind him. Then Bill's head summoned Stein. Stein was to get him Dan Gordon.

“He's with the girl,” Weigand said. It occurred to him that it would have been better, after all, to keep people separated.

Stein went. He returned. He looked a little red. And he brought Deborah Brooks, not Dan Gordon.

“He wasn't with the girl,” Stein said. “She was by herself. She says he's—gone.”

There was action then, quick and, on Weigand's part, angry. As she watched it begin, Deborah Brooks began to cry again.

The action got nowhere. Dan Gordon was not in the office. And the patrolman who should have been outside the back door was in the men's toilet. It was one of those things. Dan Gordon had, not knowing whether there was a guard outside the door, taken a chance. The patrolman had taken a chance. Dan's luck was in; the patrolman's was out. He would go to some dismal beat on Staten Island, or in distant Queens. And where Dan Gordon had gone was anybody's guess. And why he had gone—

Bill Weigand turned on the girl, then. He was not gentle or suave, any longer. His questions were crisp; his attitude was obvious. And Debbie Brooks put her head down on her desk and her answers were muffled in her arms, and by her sobs. He had just gone. She had tried to persuade him not to. She had told him it was dangerous, that it wouldn't work. But he had gone, anyway.

“How long ago?” Weigand said.

Fifteen minutes. Twenty.

“And you didn't think of letting us know?” Weigand asked her, his voice unrelenting.

The girl looked up then. She did not try to stop the flow of tears. She let tears run down her cheeks. She merely looked at Bill Weigand, and she did not need to answer him. Nor did he need an answer.

“Of course you thought of it,” he said. “And you decided it would be better to cover up for him.” He gave her a chance to answer, and she did not take it. “You were a fool,” he said, flatly. “He couldn't have done a worse thing. You couldn't have done a worse thing than help him.”

She put her head down on her arms again. Weigand looked at her a moment and spoke to Stein.

“Have Barney take her home,” he said. “If he's finished the sketch?” Stein nodded. “Right,” Weigand said. “See she gets home.” He turned to the girl. “And stay there,” he directed. “If Gordon shows up, get in touch with us. Do you understand?”

Her head moved on her arms. She understood.

And she was as unlikely to get in touch with anybody if her Dan came back, as she was to shave off that softly waving brown hair, Bill told himself. Less likely. So that that would have to be taken care of. Humanity was frequently exasperating; particularly humanity in love.

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About the Authors

Frances and Richard Lockridge were some of the most popular names in mystery during the forties and fifties. Having written numerous novels and stories, the husband-and-wife team was most famous for their Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries. What started in 1936 as a series of stories written for the
New Yorker
turned into twenty-six novels, including adaptions for Broadway, film, television, and radio. The Lockridges continued writing together until Frances's death in 1963, after which Richard discontinued the Mr. and Mrs. North series and wrote other works until his own death in 1982.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1948 by Frances and Richard Lockridge

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3129-5

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THE MR. AND MRS. NORTH MYSTERIES

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