Death of an Old Sinner by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

of the Medical Examiner was in. “One or two drinks was the most he had last night. Even on an empty stomach, that wouldn’t make him dribblin’ drunk, would you say?”
    Both Jimmie and Mrs. Norris shook their heads.
    “What does that leave us with?”
    “Him pretending to be drunk?” said Mrs. Norris, and shook her head again. “He was too proud a man for that, Mr. Tully. He wasn’t as proud of drinking as he was of holding it.”
    “Agreed,” said Jimmie.
    “Which leaves us with the possibility that he was their prisoner and doing a very corny act maybe at gunpoint,” Tully said.
    “Why?”
    “Jimmie, I used to tell you when you were in office, first you got to settle on what. Then maybe you have a chance of finding out why.”
    “What suit was he wearing?” Mrs. Norris asked in the silence that followed Tully’s lesson.
    “He was wearing the gray tweed when we found him,” Jimmie said.
    “He wore his dark blue into town,” she said.
    “He did,” Tully confirmed, consulting his notes. “Furthermore, during this trip he wore both suits to the same…house. They’re both in the laboratory, and both had bits of blond hair. They must know by now whether Angora cat or human.”
    “I could tell them and I wouldn’t need a laboratory for it,” Mrs. Norris said with a shrug. “I never knew a cat to run a brokerage.”
    Mr. Tully cleared his throat.
    Poor father, Jimmie thought. “That was a little joke between them, I suppose,” he said looking at Tully. “It seems when she called him, she would say it was his broker’s office.”
    “I know,” said Tully. “I was talking to people at his club this morning.”
    “I’d not be surprised if they know more than we do,” said Mrs. Norris. “He came home when he felt like behaving, and went to his club when he had notions.”
    Tully pulled down the corners of his mouth lest they be caught going up. “You remember the clerk saying she was carrying a box, Mrs. Norris?”
    “I do, the box I believe with his medals in it.”
    “A fair assumption, and we’re assuming, too, he put them on before he died. But now here’s a curious thing: the medals were all mixed up. I forget what each one is called, but the man I asked knows all about these things, and he says the arrangement was like wearing a Good Conduct medal in precedence over the Congressional Medal of Honor.”
    “Then she put them on him!” Mrs. Norris cried.
    “Dead or alive?” said Jimmie.
    Tully nodded. “That’s the question, lad. That’s it. Maybe the lab will turn up something, but not yet. The Medical Examiner says he died between seven and nine. I think we could be more exact ourselves. But maybe not. The tests are all under way, however. So you can go ahead with plans for the funeral.”
    Jimmie made his call to Nyack then and there. “The voice of an undertaker,” he said, the unhappy business settled, “you can almost hear the organ playing through it while he talks.”
    “I don’t approve of music at funerals,” Mrs. Norris said.
    “Do you like it at weddings?” said Tully slyly.
    “At weddings you don’t need it.”
    True enough, Tully thought, if you looked at it that way. “The Rock’s being laid away in old time splendor this afternoon, Jimmie. The boss thought you might like to go. He’d be glad to have you drive out with him.”
    “Thanks,” said Jimmie, not especially keen on spectaculars. But this one, he thought, he had better take in.
    “Now,” Tully said, “I’d like you to go over the contents of the General’s pockets and suitcase with me.”
    “Will you need me?” said Mrs. Norris hopefully.
    “We will,” said Tully. “You’re quicker witted then the both of us.”
    The right coat pocket of the General’s blue suit had contained two folded pages from the early edition of The New York Chronicle , March 16, according to the notation of the police property clerk.
    Mrs. Norris needed to overcome a certain reluctance to look at these