by Frances
Weigand paused again; his voice had grown heavy on the last sentence. He repeated it.
He was making them see it, take it in, Liza thought. And she saw the little man in the depths of the closet, crumpled as if he had been tossed there, discarded there; saw again his horrible face, the marks of fingers on his throat, and the eyes—oh, she thought, will I ever forget the eyes? Please—
“But Sneddiger had been for a time with Miss O’Brien,” Weigand went on. “One of you believes he told her something; believes it whatever Miss O’Brien says. And—you may be right. There is no point in my denying that; in Miss O’Brien’s not admitting what it—might mean.”
Now he was looking at her; waiting for her. She moved her head slowly, wearily. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? she wondered. Why doesn’t—
“One of you tried to kill her,” Weigand said. “Would have succeeded if, I suppose, Mr. Brian Halder hadn’t returned when he did.” He looked at Brian. “I suppose that,” he said. “I don’t know. Mr. Halder may be lying. On one or two points I’m certain he is.”
All the heads turned towad Brian. It was strange, frightening, to see the detachment, the speculation, in those alien eyes. Liza pressed his hand, but his fingers did not answer hers.
“But more than one of you is lying,” Weigand said. “Perhaps for what seem good reasons. And at least one for—for the obvious reason. Because you did the things I’ve just told you.”
He paused again.
“I’m not expecting anyone to confess,” he said. “Obviously, that would be absurd. But we will find out, you know.” He shook his head slowly, as if deprecating the stupidity of the one he was talking to. “We’ll dig back; we’re digging back. We’ll find who once bought strychnine to—kill rats, was it? Or to—put to sleep—some pet? We’ll find out all about you, you know. All about all of you. Or didn’t you know?”
He half smiled, then.
“One of you thinks, ‘He’s bluffing. He’s talking big. Trying to scare me,’” Weigand said. “That is very stupid. But the whole thing has been stupid, of course. It is stupid to kill. Stupid to kill in this—spectacular way. One of you has been stupid that way.” He might have been talking to children. “One of you will be stupid again,” he said. “Will do something. Or forget to do something. Take too big a risk, or fail to take a necessary risk.”
As if involuntarily, against his will, Weigand looked at Liza; looked away again, almost guiltily.
“I—” Weigand said then, and was interrupted. He was interrupted by Aegisthus, who came into the room gayly, apparently from his lodgings below stairs; who was clearly delighted to see so many people, anticipatory of their varying odors. He began the rounds, but Mary Halder called him and he went to her, put forepaws on her knees, looked up at her with enquiry in his eyes and with his tongue slightly hanging out. He was told he was supposed to be in bed; he wagged his rear end. “Bed,” Mary Halder repeated. He stopped wagging but continued to beam, contending that the word had not been spoken, or had been spoken in jest. “Bed!” Mary Halder said, firmly.
The little black dog continued to look at her, hopefully indicating disbelief.
“Bed, Aegisthus,” Mary Halder said. “Go to bed.”
He got down, then. He looked back at her over a shoulder, from the corners of his eyes. She would relent, of course; of course she did not mean it. He moved reluctantly toward the area behind the circular staircase; toward the stairs leading down to darkness, away from the enticing odors, the pleasant sounds, of the humans.
“Really, Mary,” Barbara Whiteside said. “That dog! Of all times!”
Aegisthus looked at Barbara Whiteside briefly. He looked away. He looked back at Mary Halder, but she made a negative motion with her head. Aegisthus became smaller; he was a dog abused, crushed by human ingratitude. He went behind the spiral staircase; he thumped down other stairs, not rapidly.
The appearance, the unhappy withdrawal, of Aegisthus relaxed the tension which Weigand had slowly built. Liza could feel the change as now, with the dog gone, the others looked again at the detective. Apparently, Weigand could feel the change too. He did not resume the sentence which had been interrupted. Instead, he said, “Right,” with a kind of finality.
“Before I go,” he said and smiled faintly at the look of relief on the faces around him. “Oh, yes, I’m going. It’s late; you can have some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll start again—the slow way, the hard way—unless one of you, or several of you, decide to tell—what you know. Tomorrow, anyway, you’ll have the chance. But, before I go tonight, I want to get one thing clear.”
Briefly, he told them what it was. They had all, he understood, come down to this room Monday night after finishing dinner. Here, presumably, had happened whatever had moved J. K. Halder to his sudden departure, to his eventually fatal decision about the will. Now, Weigand wanted all of them to sit as they had sat that evening, insofar as possible, do what they had done then.
There was a moment of hesitancy, then they began to move. They rearranged themselves, Pine withdrew entirely, the place he had occupied beside Mary Halder was left vacant.
Only Mrs. Whiteside seemed at first not to remember, looked around doubtfully.
“I don’t think I—” she began and interrupted herself. “I stayed upstairs for a few moments,” she said. “When I came down, Father was already leaving. I—” She looked at the stairs, back at Weigand. “Really, Lieutenant,” she said.
It was not necessary for her to go upstairs, Weigand told her. If she would merely come out of the circle? She did so, imposingly. Liza also abandoned her place, moving reluctantly from Brian’s side, joining the Norths in an area which seemed for spectators. Or was it for the jury? Pam North patted Liza’s arm, smiled but did not speak.
“Mr. Halder?” Weigand asked, and Mary Halder put her hand on the seat Pine had left. “Here,” she said.
“Mullins,” Weigand said and then stopped. “No,” he said. “Wait. Pam, will you sit there? Where Mr. Halder sat?”
(I wish, Pam thought, I knew what Bill’s up to. She had been wishing that for some time. He’s not like himself so he’s up to something, Pam thought, because he usually doesn’t needle people unless—)
“Please, Pam,” Bill Weigand said, and she went to sit beside Mary Halder.
“You can see the foyer?” Bill asked, and Pam looked. She could see the foyer.
“Now—Mr. Pine,” Bill said, “will you go down to the foyer and stand about where you did Monday night?”
Pine looked at Mary Halder. It was evident that her eyes told him to go. He went.
They watched him walk the length of the room, saw his stature diminish slightly as he went down the steps to the foyer level.
“Now,” Weigand said. “You have all come down. Except Mrs. Whiteside. What happened?”
But they looked at one another, and seemed puzzled. It was Lieutenant Colonel Whiteside who spoke, finally.
“Nothing,” he said. “At first, anyway. We—somebody had served coffee. I offered brandy around. I think Father Halder took some. I suppose we talked, but I don’t remember—”
For how long? Perhaps ten minutes, perhaps a little longer.
“Then?”
“Then,” Mary Halder said, “the doorbell rang and Burns answered it. There are stairs directly to the foyer, you know. From the kitchen area. The door opened and—well, Sherman came in. But I—I guess none of us paid any attention.” She smiled at Weigand. “This silly house,” she said. “No service entrance. The front bell’s always ringing.”
“You thought it was a delivery of some sort?”
Mary shrugged. She had not, she indicated, thought about it one way or another.
But then Burns had come up the steps into the living room and started down it, and, a little way down, had indicated, without words, that Mary Halder was being asked for.
“I got up, and then I saw it was Sherman,” she said. “I went to the foyer. Shall I now?”
“Pl
ease,” Weigand said.
She got up from beside Pam North and moved, unhurriedly, the length of the room. She joined Pine there. Weigand looked interrogatively at Pam North.
“Yes,” she said. “I can see them.”
“And recognize Mr. Pine?”
“Of course,” Pam said. “But then, I know he’s there, don’t I? I mean if I didn’t—if I thought it was going to be the boy from the cleaner’s, only it would have been pretty late for that.”
“If you knew Mr. Pine fairly well,” Bill said.
Pam looked.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course, what one person can see another—”
“Right,” Bill said. He addressed the others, generally. Had the elder Halder had normal vision?
“Twenty-twenty,” Whiteside said. “Thereabouts, anyway. He was far-sighted.”
“Right,” Bill said. “Now, at this point, what happened?”
“Aegisthus came down,” Jasper Halder said. His voice was oddly harsh. “Came down fast and yelped. Looked around, heard Mary’s voice, apparently. Went to tell her his troubles.”
“Down the stairs?” Bill asked, nodding at the spiral staircase.
They all agreed.
“He had been lying on one of the beds,” Barbara Whiteside said. “He’s very badly trained. I put him off, closed the door of the room. I suppose that—annoyed him. He’s not supposed to be above this floor at any time.”
Mary Halder had come back with Pine.
“He’s just a little dog,” Mary said. “A puppy, almost. Barbara’s very—stern with him.”
“Really, Mary,” Barbara Whiteside said. “Somebody’s got to be.”
Mary did not deny this.
“I came back, carrying Aegisthus,” Mary Halder said. “And then J. K. stood up. He—he looked at us. That is, at me, of course.”
Bill looked at Pam. She stood up.
“Then he said something like, ‘I’m going, now. Good night,’” Mary Halder said. “And—well, just went.”
Weigand looked around at the others.
“That’s the way it was,” Whiteside said. “Only, Barbara came down—oh, just as Mary was returning with the dog. I think it was about then, dear?”
The last was to his wife. She returned from her exclusion, joined the others. She had, she said, reached the foot of the stairs almost at the moment her father had stood up.
“He looked hard at Mary,” Barbara said. “Of course, dear, I don’t mean—” This last was to Mary.
“I’ve already said that,” Mary Halder said. “I’m sure the lieutenant heard me, Barbs.”
The edge in her voice was faint; it might almost have been the edge of amusement.
But Bill had turned away for the moment, was conferring with Sergeant Mullins. When he turned back, he was almost as abrupt in leave-taking as J. K. Halder had been. They were to stay in town, stay available; they were to see that they could be reached at any time. Weigand gestured with his head to Pam and Jerry North and started toward the door. Then he seemed to remember something.
“Oh, Miss O’Brien,” he said. “Will you come here a moment, please?”
She went down the room toward him. He spoke for a moment in a low voice, his words indistinguishable to the others. She answered him, shaking her head.
“Right,” Weigand said then, his voice more carrying, an edge of exasperation in it. “I can’t force you. I think you should let us—” He broke off; they could see him shrug. He gathered Mullins and the precinct detective; he departed.
Pamela North announced, out of the darkness, that she didn’t care what Jerry said.
“Fine,” Jerry said. “In that case I’ll go back to sleep.”
“You!” Pam said, and turned on the light and sat up in bed; then leaned forward so she could look around the light at Jerry in the other bed. She was wearing the nightdress which had looked so attractive partially on Liza O’Brien. It was also partially on Pam North. “What do you say?” Pam demanded.
“Hello,” Jerry said, looking at her
Pam reassembled the nightdress, insofar as that was possible. She told Jerry to be serious. Why did he think everything would be all right?
“After all,” Pam said, “it seldom is.”
Jerry sighed; he reached for a cigarette and lighted it; he was told to throw one to Pam and did so, and pushed the lighter to her across the night table between the beds.
“Because,” he said, “unless I am very much mistaken, Bill is planning to put something over. Is, specifically, setting a trap.”
“With Liza as bait,” Pam said. “Would you like me as bait?” She leaned forward again.
“Well,” Jerry said, thoughtfully.
“Will you be serious?” Pam asked him.
“Seriously,” Jerry said. “Of course not. Which is one of the reasons I think we should leave—”
“Whatever you think, we can’t do that,” Pam said quickly. “Because we could have insisted. We could have made her.”
Gerald North drew deeply on his cigarette and sat up in bed.
“Listen, Pam,” he said. “We asked Miss O’Brien if she wouldn’t feel safer coming here with us. We said—you said—you’d feel much happier about things if she did. We insisted. And she said ‘No.’ And her hair’s too short.”
“What?” Pam North said. “Jerry!”
“Sauce for the gander,” Jerry said. “To drag her by.”
Pam looked at her husband with some suspicion. His expression was guileless.
“Some time,” Pam said, “I’ll take that one up. There’s something wrong with it, somewhere. Do you argue we just lie here?”
Jerry didn’t, he told her. He argued they should go to sleep.
“Think of something else,” Pam said. “If you don’t care about that poor child, who’s going to do the pictures? Think of that.”
“In the morning,” Jerry said. But then he shook his head. “Seriously,” he said, “what do you want us to do? Bill’s at least as conscious of the risk as you are. It’s almost certain he’s taken precautions.”
“Almost,” Pam said. “And once when he did, a vase got broken over—oh!”
“Precisely,” Jerry said. “He took precautions against a murderer. You broke a vase over my head. A heavy one.”
“Well,” Pam said, “it came out all right. And it was a good vase to get rid of. Aunt Flora would never have thrown it away. We could at least call her up.”
“Listen,” Jerry said. “It’s”—he looked at his watch—“twelve minutes after two. After two. In the morning. Probably she’s been asleep—”
“Don’t say for hours,” Pam advised. “After all, we came straight here. It hasn’t been more than—it hasn’t been half an hour.”
“In ten minutes, I can go to sleep,” Jerry said. “In five. On a bet, I could—” But then he looked into Pam’s eyes; saw the real worry in them. “Baby,” he said. “Call her, then. You won’t sleep till you do.”
The telephone was on the table shelf; but Liza’s number was in the address book by the living room extension. Jerry got it, read off the number for Pam, watched her fingers twirl the dial. He watched her expressive face as it prepared itself for speech, saw the breath drawn in. But she did not speak. He did not need to hear the tone of ringing, repeated over and over, futilely, to know that the telephone in Liza O’Brien’s apartment went unanswered. But Pamela held the telephone toward him, so that he could hear the repeated tone.
Pam replaced the receiver and handed the telephone to Jerry. Sometimes, not often, she made a mistake in dialing. He read Liza’s number again, dialed it carefully. He gave her plenty of time.
“Of course,” he said, “she may have decided to go out again. Been hungry, gone for a sandwich.”
Pam looked at him.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s give her—oh, ten minutes. She could have been under the shower, not heard the bell.”
They gave her ten minutes. When again the telephone in
Liza’s apartment rang unanswered, Pam merely looked at Jerry and waited. He dialed again, this time the number of Bill Weigand’s office. There was an answer, this time; no call to the office of Homicide West goes unanswered. But the answerer was not Bill Weigand, nor Mullins, nor Stein. When Jerry identified himself, there was polite elaboration of the earlier “Sorry, not in.” But it was merely elaboration; it added nothing. Bill and Mullins and Stein were out; probably together. The lieutenant was not at his home; when he called in, if he called in, he would be told the Norths had called. Was there another message?
“Tell him—” Jerry began, and decided it was fruitless. “Never mind,” he said. “Just that I called.”
He replaced the receiver. Pam was already out of bed, the nightdress sliding from her. And now Jerry, getting out of his own bed, reaching for clothes, did not protest. He did not even want to protest. They should have brought Liza home with them, should have insisted. Now he no longer believed, as he had told himself he believed, that Bill had laid a trap. A trap would necessitate that Liza remain, under guard, available; that she be in an expected place, her apartment almost surely. But if she were in her apartment—free, unhurt—she would have answered her telephone.
It was not until they had found a cab, with unexpected ease, and started uptown that Jerry thought of another possibility. By then, it had been more than an hour since they left had Liza O’Brien to go alone into the apartment hotel in which she lived; had waited until she was safely walking through the big, old-fashioned lobby, about to enter the automatic elevator.
12
Thursday, 1:45 A.M. to 3:05 A.M.
I’m not brave, Liza O’Brien thought; I’m terribly afraid. She wanted to turn back, wanted to run through the lobby to the sidewalk, wanted to tell the Norths that it was wrong, all wrong, that she would go with them—be safe with them. Each step away from the entrance, toward the elevator which would carry her to her apartment floor, was possible only with a conscious effort; only by determining that now, once more, she would step away from safety, walk alone toward peril. If only Brian—