“I know,” Tony said. “It’s a hell of a thing. Can you tell me what she looked like, Rachel? Would you have known her if you’d met her someplace?”
“No,” Rachel said. “She was—I told you, Tony—she was just sort of a shadow. The light was on the typewriter. She was just—oh, just a shape with the light behind her.”
“A young shape? Or an old shape?”
“Not old, I’d think. She—I think she had hair almost down to her shoulders. I don’t know what color. I really don’t, Tony.”
“She was sitting there at the typewriter only in the evenings? And at night. After dinner. Every night, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t go past there every night. Mostly when I did, I think. When the window was open I would hear the typewriter going and look up and think—oh, how hard she was working.”
“Do you remember when you first saw her?”
Rachel hesitated. She shook her head slightly. She said, “Perhaps a month ago? A little more or a little less. Yes, I’d think about a month ago. But it’s no good, Tony. I can’t tell you what she looked like. Or whether she was sitting there every night. Somebody killed her?”
“It was meant to look like suicide,” Tony said, “but we don’t think it was—that is, Nate and I don’t think it was. She—well, she was in the bathtub with her wrists cut.”
Rachel said, “Oh!” again and put her right hand up to her lips. She shook her head again, her hand still pressing against her lips. She took the hand down and said, “I’m sorry, Tony. She was—she was just a shadow in the light.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Tony said. “We’re—oh, as usual, just trying to put the pieces together. Are you about finished here? Because if you are—”
“She’s not,” Ivan Mackenowitz said, his voice gruffer than ever. “Won’t be for an hour, Mr. Anthony Cook. An hour and a half if you keep on asking her damn-fool questions.”
“He’s like that, Tony,” Rachel said. “Most of them are like that.”
She slipped the robe off and went back to stand on the little platform. She stood, so far as Tony could tell, exactly as she had stood before.
“The head,” Mackenowitz said. “Damn it, Miss Farmer, the head.”
She moved her head a little. Tony said, “Tomorrow, then?” and, without moving her head, which was turned a little away from him, Rachel said, “Of course, Tony.”
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About the Author
Richard Lockridge (1898–1982) was one of the most popular names in mystery fiction from the 1940s through the ’70s. He is best known for the prolific detective series he wrote with his wife, Frances, including the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries, Nathan Shapiro Mysteries, and Captain Heimrich Mysteries. Upon Frances’s death in 1963, Richard continued writing, delivering new and much darker Nathan Shapiro and Captain Heimrich books. His works have been adapted for Broadway, film, television, and radio.
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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 © 1970 by Richard Lockridge
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5072-2
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THE NATHAN SHAPIRO MYSTERIES
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