Any Shape or Form by Elizabeth Daly Page A

Mosson, “I’m not sure that it’s particularly sane of him to be cool and chatty.”
    Griggs rose, and the others also got to their feet. Griggs said: “You can go home whenever you want to, Miss Ryder. Thanks for giving us your opinion.”
    â€œI’ll wait and see whether I can be of any further use to Johnny Redfield.” She stood looking from one to the other representative of authority. “You couldn’t use any of this guesswork as evidence, could you?”
    â€œAfraid we couldn’t,” said Mosson. “We’re just trying to get a picture.”
    He opened the door for her. When he turned back he was smiling. So was Griggs.
    â€œGo ahead and gloat,” said Gamadge. “Poor Abby.”
    â€œI said Miss Ryder wouldn’t lie,” Griggs reminded him smugly.
    â€œWhat I call transparent honesty,” agreed Mosson. “You can see right through it. I don’t think she includes Cora Malcolm in the case, though; she didn’t bother to give her a build-up.”
    â€œWell”—Griggs started for the door—“we’ll clear off the Drummonds now. Start with Mrs.”
    Mosson sank back upon his sofa. He said gloomily: “I hate this case.”
    â€œSo do I,” said Griggs. “Hate it like poison.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
Animated
    S TATE OFFICER STROMER, who ushered Blanche Drummond into the studio, was a phlegmatic youth; but even he stood for a moment as if bedazzled, looking after the straight, tall, long-waisted figure, and the curled arrangement of gold-brown hair drawn up from the long white neck, before he withdrew and shut the vision out.
    It was the new animation in her face that made it seem really beautiful, the unwonted color in her cheeks that brightened her eyes. But the brightness made the eyes seem harder, and the animation aged her by years. Gamadge had never seen her so handsome or so old.
    She went quickly around the end of Mosson’s sofa and sat down beside him.
    â€œMr. Mosson,’“ she said, “isn’t this dreadful? Could you give me a drink? I really need one.”
    Mosson began to pour the drink. Griggs, ignored and rather at a loss, waited standing behind his table. Gamadge, ignored, leaned forward smiling to push the siphon nearer and drop a piece of ice in her tumbler.
    â€œWalter and I were so glad to know you were here,” said Blanche. “It’s such a comfort to have somebody on the spot who knows all about such things and isn’t likely to jump to conclusions. Now of course we all think that an insane person got in. Unless that little Wilson boy—”
    Mosson said: “Here’s your highball, Mrs. Drummond. The Wilson boy was at home with his family. I wonder if you’d be so good as to address yourself to Lieutenant Griggs? He’s conducting the examination of witnesses.”
    â€œOh.” Her head slowly turned, and she smiled at Griggs. “How silly of me. Am I to sit there?” She rose, glass in hand. “I didn’t know this was a formal investigation. I thought the sheriff conducted them—our dear old sheriff in Old Bridge.”
    Gamadge, with a knowing grin at her, carried his little table over and set it beside the middle witness chair.
    â€œLess than dust though I be,” he murmured, “let me make myself useful in my poor way.”
    â€œHenry, darling, we adore you! But you’re not a professional. We must rely on professionals now.” She sat down, took a cigarette from Gamadge, and a light.
    Griggs sat glumly down and looked at her. “Sheriff is on holiday,” he said. “And we’re out of the town limits anyway. We scratched up a deputy in Old Bridge, though, and he’s now down in the grounds helping our cameraman. You won’t get anything more formal than this, Mrs. Drummond, until the inquest tomorrow afternoon.”
    â€œOh. I see.” She sat with her tumbler in