The Norths Meet Murder (11 page)

“My God,” said Mr. North, “hundreds of people did, probably. But they didn't all kill him. There's no harm in that.”

“Well,” said Mrs. North, “I still don't think we ought to. I didn't earlier, when he asked. Did I?”

Weigand tried to remember; did remember that she had assured him she had never heard of Brent; put two and two together and came out with, he supposed, about three and a half. The lacking half represented a faint probability that Mrs. North might have had some other reason. He said, in answer to Mrs. North's question, that she hadn't.

“But you had heard of Brent?” he said.

Mrs. North said, all right, they had because of knowing the Fullers.

“We've known the Fullers for two or three years,” she said, “and seen a good deal of them. But it was before that that they knew the Brents. I think they knew them rather well at one time.”

“How well?” Weigand wanted to know. Mrs. North hesitated and said she thought “quite well.” Weigand nodded.

“Did you ever hear that Brent and Mrs. Fuller were—well, playing around? I mean, you probably know people who knew them then, and things get around. Right?”

The Norths looked at each other; Mr. North nodded agreement to Mrs. North's glance, and Mrs. North said that, as a matter of fact, they had heard something of the kind. Gossip, it was.

“But of course, it could have been true, for all that,” Weigand said. “A good many people thought it was true, didn't they? Edwards did, for one—does, as a matter of fact.”

“It's just their minds,” Mrs. North said. “They want to think that, because they like to think things are happening. I know it wasn't true, ever, and isn't now.”

“Know?” Weigand said, doubtfully.

Mrs. North nodded in a decided way.

“You always know,” she said. “It's always perfectly clear, and Jane Fuller wasn't playing. I know Jane, so I know she wasn't.”

It wasn't, Weigand thought, as easy as that, but there was no point in an argument. It would, he thought, be pleasant if it were as easy as that; detecting would be much simpler, for one thing.

“But they didn't see each other just before Brent was killed?” he said.

Mrs. North shook her head vigorously, but Mr. North nodded his, reluctantly.

“As a matter of fact,” he said. “I think they did—I heard they did, until quite recently. I heard somebody talking about it, somewhere.” Mrs. North said, “Oh, Jerry!” Mr. North said that, of course, that might merely be more gossip.

“Look,” he said, “why don't you ask the Fullers? I mean—all we know is gossip, and I don't like to be passing it on. And, anyway, we get all this second or third hand. There were rumors, and they lasted until quite recently—that's all we know, really. And the Fullers are friends of ours. Right?”

“Right,” Weigand said.

“But there wasn't any truth in anything about Jane Fuller and Brent,” Mrs. North said. “That's perfectly clear.”

“Right,” said Weigand. “What kind of people are the Fullers, aside from the fact that she wouldn't play around.”

The Norths had trouble getting together on that. They agreed that Fuller was tall. Mr. North stopped there in describing him, and Mrs. North said he was homely in an attractive sort of way. “The red-haired sort of way,” she added, in explanation. “He's very full of energy,” she said, further. Mrs. Fuller, they both agreed, was much smaller, and dark. “Very attractive,” Mr. North said. Mrs. North looked a little doubtful at that, and shook her head hesitantly. “I wouldn't say she's good-looking, exactly,” she said. “She's got lovely hair and eyes, though. I think she's a very sweet person, really.”

“I always felt, somehow, that he would have a nasty temper, under the proper circumstances,” Mr. North said. “He looks it, somehow.”

“Why, Jerry!” Mrs. North said.

Weigand said, “Um.” Mullins produced a curiously artificial cough and looked at Weigand knowingly when Weigand looked at him.

“Bad temper, eh?” said Mullins, significantly, and retired into his drink.

“But listen,” Mrs. North said. “He isn't—”

“Right,” Weigand said. “I'll see him, anyway. Make up my own mind. Right?”

Mrs. North seemed a little mollified, but not entirely satisfied. “Prejudice,” she said, to nobody in particular. “Prejudicing detectives.”

Mr. North poured more cocktails and gestured Mullins toward the rye tantalus. Mullins said he didn't mind if he did, and proved it. Weigand said there was, while they were on it, one other point.

“I gather neither of you knew Brent, personally?” he said. “I asked Mrs. North and she didn't. How about you, North? Did you Know Brent?”

Mr. North, rather to everybody's surprise, nodded. Mrs. North said, in a shocked tone, “Why, Jerry!”

“I only thought of it a moment ago,” Mr. North said. “There was something about the name ever since I saw it in the paper. I knew him slightly, as a matter of fact. He was, counsel for the plaintiff in a suit against us.”

“Suit?” said Weigand. “Against you?”

It was, Mr. North said, against the publishing company—plagiarism suit.

“We brought out a book, and some woman argued it was stolen from something she had written,” Mr. North explained. “She'd sent us the manuscript earlier, as it turned out, and we'd sent it back. They tried to argue that we had given the idea to Peterson, our author. Nonsense, of course, and it was thrown out of court. And—”

“Oh,” said Mrs. North. “Was that the time you got so mad—” She stopped, as if she had stepped on something, and flushed. Mr. North grinned at her.

“All right, kid,” he said. “I was coming to that—no brick dropped.

“I was on the stand,” he explained to Weigand, “and Brent cross-examined me. He tried to make it appear I had passed the idea on to Peterson, because I had completed arrangements with him. All nonsense, of course, but rather annoying. As Pam says, I was annoyed. But it was nothing, really.”

“Look, Jerry,” Mrs. North said. “I'm sorry. I talk too much.”

She was, it occurred to Weigand, talking too much now, but that was all right with him—or ought to be all right with him. It was all right with him as long as he remembered he was a policeman.

“It was nothing,” said Mr. North. He seemed flurried and upset, and he was conscious that he must appear so, which annoyed him still more. “Molehills,” Mr. North said, rather explosively. “For God's sake—”

“Right,” said Weigand. “Obviously. All very silly.” He realized, however, that his next question was going to come in rather embarrassing juxtaposition.

“This is purely routine,” he said. “But the inspector will want me to have asked. Where were you Monday afternoon, Mr. North? At your office, I suppose.”

“Why, yes—” Mr. North said, and then he stopped, while a tiny tingle of alarm went through him. He hadn't been, now he came to think of it. He had been—

“Damn it all,” Mr. North said, exasperated. “As a matter of fact, I was at a reception for one of our authors. At the Ritz. There was a mob of people from about five o'clock on.”

“Well,” said Weigand, “if you left your office a little before five—”

That, Mr. North said, was the whole trouble. He had been reading a badly typed manuscript most of the morning and missed lunch and then, in the middle of the afternoon, turned up with a headache. So he had left the office about three.

“And?” said Weigand.

“Took a walk,” said Mr. North, rather desperately. “Just took a walk, in Central Park. But, for God's sake, I didn't even remember I knew the fellow then! If you'd said ‘Brent' to me it wouldn't have meant a thing. Not a thing.” He looked at Weigand anxiously, but Weigand was finishing his cocktail. He looked at Mrs. North, who looked back at him, Mr. North disturbedly realized, bravely. She looked at him as if she believed in his innocence.

“Listen!” said Mr. North. “Listen.”

“There,” said Mrs. North, “I'm sure he believes you. It's just a coincidence, really. You're going to be perfectly all right.”

“Damn it all,” said Mr. North. “Of course I'm going to be all right. It isn't even a coincidence—it isn't anything at all. Of all the—”

Then he saw Mrs. North's face again and suddenly grinned at her.

“O.K., kid,” he said. “Have your games.”

But the point was, he thought, whether. Weigand was playing the same game. He couldn't tell from Weigand's face. “But Weigand drank my cocktails,” Mr. North told himself. “Only,” he told himself, “that was before he knew I knew Brent.” He tried to remember whether Weigand had kept on drinking after he had known, and couldn't be certain. The detective had, to be sure, had his glass up to his lips, but perhaps it was already empty. Mr. North felt, on the whole, pretty worried. “If I only knew,” he thought, “whether there was anything in the glass—that would tell me.” Then he thought of offering Weigand another cocktail, but Weigand was beginning to stand up.

Mullins took a final gulp and stood up too.

“Well,” said Weigand, “thanks. We'll have to be getting along.” He paused. “You've both been helpful,” he said. Mrs. North smiled at that and Mr. North started to. Then he realized that Weigand might mean several things by that.

“Damn it all,” he said. “I
was
walking in the park.”

Weigand looked at him, and there seemed to be the beginning of a smile on his lips.

“Of course,” Weigand said. “Who said you weren't?”

Nobody, Mr. North realized, had even hinted that he wasn't, except, of course, himself.

“Well,” Weigand said, “we'll be seeing you.”

Weigand and Mullins went along, and the Norths looked at each other. They both looked a little taken aback.

“I was playing, of course,” Mrs. North said. “You knew that.”

Mr. North said that he did, obviously.

“The point is, did he know it?” Mr. North said. Mrs. North thought it over.

“The point
really
is,” she said, “is
he?”

“Is he what?” Mr. North said.

“Playing,” Mrs. North said. “Or does he think you did?”

They stood a moment and looked at each other, wondering. Then Mr. North said maybe they had better have some more drinks.

8

W
EDNESDAY

5:45
P.M.
TO
7:15
P.M.

When they were on the sidewalk again, Mullins appeared happier. (He also appeared, Weigand noticed, mellower.) Mullins fell into step and made knowing sounds.

“That guy Fuller,” he said. “There's the guy, all right. There's a guy that fits—motive, bad temper, everything. There's a guy to round up and go over. O.K., Loot?”

Lieutenant Weigand wasn't, he said, as sure as all that. But he saw what Mullins meant, and they would certainly have to go over Fuller, in one way or another. Mullins looked interested and expectant and said, “Now, Loot?” Weigand elevated his hopes and dashed them.

“Now,” he said, “but not you. You've got a couple of other things to do. Round up this laundryman named Edwards and talk to him, just to cover that. See if he knew Brent and ask him if he killed Brent. Tell him we'd sort of like to know. Then see that this slip gets over to the laboratory boys in Brooklyn. Tell them we want whatever they can find and see that they notice that little mark on the back. Did you see the little mark?”

“Sure, Loot,” Mullins said. “What dja think?”

“I thought you were wading into the Norths' rye,” Weigand answered, quite truthfully.

“Listen, Lieutenant,” Mullins said. “Who says I was wading into rye? Ain't I on duty?”

“Right,” Weigand said, and told him to get along. Mullins went along, showing that he was very much hurt, when they came to the corner of Fifth Avenue. Weigand watched him go, grinning, walked over to Sixth Avenue and went into Goody's Bar. He looked Fuller up in the telephone book and found a Benjamin Fuller conveniently in Grove Street. He found a gap in the bar fringe and ordered a dry martini. He sipped it, noting that North did them better and deciding that, whatever the experts said, he liked them with a twist of lemon find. He thought it would be comfortable to stay leaning against the bar the rest of the evening, perhaps in the end persuading the bartender to twist lemon peel over martinis. He looked at his watch, found it was almost six, and toyed with the idea of letting Fuller go over until tomorrow. Already, he told himself, he was beginning to feel like a house to house canvasser.

“Well,” he said to himself, “I may as well have some company.”

He withdrew wearily from the bar and went to the telephone, calling Headquarters. It was dimly and, he realized, a little morbidly, satisfying to send detectives out to keep eyes on the Brent apartment house and Edwards' front door, and to trail along if either Mrs. Brent or Edwards went out. It would almost certainly come to nothing, in either case, but it would be nice to know what a couple of suspects were doing—assuming that Mrs. Brent and Edwards constituted a couple of suspects.

Weigand came out of the booth and looked at his watch again. It still lacked some minutes of six and the bar was temptingly near.

Six o'clock was, Weigand told himself, a nice even hour, and if he didn't leave until six Fuller would have plenty of time to get home from his office, assuming he went to an office. What Weigand needed before the next interview, he told himself, was a martini, with lemon peel, to last him until six o'clock. He explained to the bartender that he wanted a very dry martini with a twist of lemon peel and the bartender, after looking him over, said O.K., buddy, he was the doctor. It was all right this time, but still not up to the couple he had had over at the Norths', Weigand thought, sipping it. He reached over for the salted peanuts.