that have money. I supposeâbut that would be a dreadful thing to say, wouldnât it?â
âThat Mr. Latham was counting on his sisterâs marrying a very rich man? Was disappointed enough to kill because of that?â
âI told you it was wrong,â she said. âIt was justâsomething happened to my mind.â
âSo far as you know, Mr. Fitch hadnâtââ He hesitated. âMiss Latham isnât expecting a child by him?â
She straightened at that, opened her large eyes very wide.
âPeople like that?â she said. âBut really, captain! That sort of thing doesnât happen to them.â
Only to poor little working girls, her tone implied.
The othersâwhat did she think? That they knew too much? The files of almost any adoption agency, if she could look at themâwhich she could notâwould tell her a different story.
âSo far as you know, Mr. Fitch hasnât left her money? Asâas a sort of compensation?â
âWhy,â she said, âhe wouldnât have done that . That would beâsuch a crude thing to do.â
âYes,â Bill said. âVery crude, Miss Shaw. You know Mr. Latham, Jr.? His sister?â
She had met Arnold Latham once or twice, before she and Fitch hadâmade up their minds. Peggy Latham, she thought, only once. âA blond girl, quite tall. The kind who plays golf.â
âDid Mr. Latham seem to be a violent person?â
âNo. I told you it was allâthat it wasnât right. You made me tell you about it.â
âYes,â Bill said. âI did. When you were formulating this theory, Miss Shaw. Didnât it occur to you that, if Mr. Latham was going to kill anyone, it wouldnât be Mr. Fitch?â
She looked at him. She appeared to be puzzled.
âI donâtââ she said, and then shook her head. The heavy, dark brown hair swayed with her headâs movement.
âYou,â Bill said. âIf anyone. Thatâs obvious, isnât it? On the assumption that, with you out of the way, his sister would be back in the money? Literally, in the money?â
âI didnâtââ she said. âWhat aâa frighteningââ
âMiss Shaw,â Bill Weigand said, âwhy did you ask me to come here?â
She had an expressive faceâfor all its dainty beauty, a very expressive face. They had told Mary Shaftlich that, years ago, when she was taking elocution at Northeast High School. Her face was, now, extremely expressive. Words were unnecessary. Sheâs really good, Bill Weigand thought. But itâs true sheâs better when someone else writes the words.
âYou didnât ask me to come here to tell me this,â Bill said. âYou were frightened when you calledâfrightened and entirely wide awake. Not because of thisâthis nebulous theory. Thisââ
âI donât understand,â she said. âItâs all true. About Mr. Latham. His sister. Itâsââ
âRight,â Bill said. âSay itâs all true. Orâsay thereâs truth in it. Why did you want me here?â
âBecauseââ
âWhat happened between the time you called me and the time you came to the door and let me in? To make you give this very excellentâperformance?â
âI donât perform,â she said. âIâm an actress . Anywayââ
A man laughed. The laughter was brief, it was heavy, it was more derisive than amused. Bill Weigand whirled in his chair; his right hand made an instinctive movement toward the revolver which New York policemen are required to carry at all times. Bill saw the manâs legs, first, as the man came down the narrow flight of stairs in the corner of the long room. Then he saw the manâa man of medium height, a rather stocky man. The manâs hands were in full view.
The man reached the foot of the staircase
Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson