Death on the Aisle by Frances and Richard Lockridge

polish them.
    â€œApproximately,” he said. “That is—the same seat, or back a row or down a row. I didn’t notice exactly.”
    â€œAnd you stayed in it?”
    â€œExcept for getting up once or twice to talk to Humpty, yes,” Smith said. “I may have walked down to the stage and back a couple of times. I stayed on that side of the house, however—I remember that.”
    â€œWhy?” Weigand said. “I mean—why do you remember that, particularly?”
    â€œBolton was on the other side,” Smith said. “I preferred not to have to talk to him. It disturbed me. I preferred to concentrate on the play.”
    Weigand nodded.
    â€œBy the way,” he said, “it seems to be a very amusing play, if you don’t mind an outsider’s opinion.”
    Smith smiled at him.
    â€œI’m delighted to have an outsider’s opinion, Lieutenant,” he said. “After all, people who pay for seats are outsiders.”
    â€œAnd a very good cast,” Weigand said. “Or am I just a bad judge of acting?”
    Smith looked judicial. He put the glasses away. Finally he said that, considering everything, he thought the cast was shaping up very nicely.
    â€œEspecially this Miss—what’s her name?” He made a business of looking at notes. “James,” he said. “The girl who plays the daughter.”
    Smith nodded.
    â€œVery nice little actress,” he said. “Very nice. Works well with Humpty too, of course.”
    â€œOf course?” Weigand repeated. He smiled slightly.
    Smith smiled back, and nodded.
    â€œOf course,” he repeated.
    Weigand devoted a moment to looking like a man who has encountered a new idea. He arranged to look a little puzzled. He arranged suddenly and frankly to share his puzzlement with Smith.
    â€œSomehow,” he said, “I got the idea that Bolton was making a play for Miss James—I don’t know where I got it. Out of the air apparently.”
    Smith shook his head and said that that was very shrewd of the Lieutenant. As a matter of fact—
    â€œWell,” he said, “it won’t be the first time in history that two men have made a play for the same girl, Lieutenant. Or that she has—hesitated between them.”
    Weigand nodded.
    â€œOnly,” he said, “I shouldn’t have thought that Bolton was the sort of man who lets girls—hesitate.”
    Smith agreed that he didn’t, often. Possibly he was having difficulty with Miss James. Smith made it clear that he didn’t know and hadn’t investigated. Weigand cast again.
    â€œI should have thought that Miss Grady would be more his type,” he suggested. “More—polished.”
    Smith looked at him a moment. Weigand doubted whether he was extracting anything that Smith didn’t want to give, or that his finesse was escaping notice. Smith spoke, after a moment, and spoke drily.
    â€œMiss Grady has the same thought, I suspect,” he said. “Or had, up to 1:18 this afternoon.”
    Weigand looked at him with interest.
    â€œOne eighteen, Mr. Smith?” he said. “Why 1:18?”
    Mr. Smith looked very bland and said, “Really, Lieutenant.”
    â€œWhen young Hubbard saw the cigarette fall,” he said. “As of course you know.”
    â€œDo I?” said Weigand.
    â€œCertainly you do,” said Smith. “Your sergeant here timed it very carefully. So, as a matter of interest, did I. I made it 1:18, didn’t you, Sergeant?”
    Mullins looked at Mr. Smith darkly. Mr. Smith returned a sunny gaze.
    â€œListen, Loot,” Mullins said, growlingly.
    â€œAll right, Sergeant,” Weigand said. “Skip it. Mr. Smith is merely observant.” He looked at Smith. “Merely observant, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?”
    Smith put his glasses back on and nodded brightly.
    â€œOf course, Lieutenant,” he said. “What else would it