intimidated by his own methods. “And if one word of this gets into the papers before I’ve given the green light, there’ll be hell to pay around here Monday when the Commissioner gets back.”
I told only one other person about Laura’s return. That was Jake Mooney. Jake is a tall, sad-faced Yankee from Providence, known among the boys as the Rhode Island Clam. Once a reporter wrote, “Mooney maintained a clam-like silence,” and it got Jake so angry that he’s lived up to the name ever since. By the time I came out of Preble’s office, Jake had got a list of the photographers for whom Diane Redfern posed.
“Go and see these fellows,” I said. “Get what you can on her. Look over her room. Don’t tell anyone she’s dead.”
He nodded.
“I want all the papers and letters you find in her room. And be sure to ask the landlady what kind of men she knew. She might have picked up some boyfriends who played with sawed-off shotguns.”
The telephone rang. It was Mrs. Treadwell. She wanted me to come to her house right away.
“There’s something I ought to tell you, Mr. McPherson. I’d intended going back to the country today: there was nothing more I could do for poor Laura, was there? My lawyers are going to take care of her things. But now something has happened . . .”
“All right, I’ll be there, Mrs. Treadwell.”
As I drove up Park Avenue, I decided to keep Mrs. Treadwell waiting while I saw Laura. She had promised to stay in the apartment and keep away from the telephone, and I knew there was no fresh food in the house. I drove around to Third Avenue, bought milk, cream, butter, eggs, and bread.
Behrens was on guard at the door. His eyes bulged at the sight of the groceries, but he evidently thought I’d set up housekeeping.
I had the key in my pocket. But before I entered, I called a warning.
She came out of the kitchen. “I’m glad you didn’t ring the bell,” she said. “Since you told me about the murder—” she shuddered and looked at the spot where the body had fallen “—I’m afraid of every stray sound.”
“I’m sure you’re the only detective in the world who’d think of that ,” she said when I gave her the groceries. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Now that you’ve reminded me, no.”
It seemed natural for me to be carrying the groceries and lounging in the kitchen while she cooked. I had thought of that kind of girl, with all those swell clothes and a servant to wait on her, as holding herself above housework. But not Laura.
“Should we be elegant and carry it to the other room or folksy and eat in the kitchen?”
“Until I was a grown man, I never ate in anything but a kitchen.”
“Then it’s the kitchen,” she said. “There’s no place like home.”
While we were eating, I told her that I had informed the Deputy Commissioner of her return.
“Was he startled?”
“He threatened to commit me to the Psychopathic Ward. And then—” I looked straight into her eyes “—he asked if I thought you knew anything about that other girl’s death.”
“And what did you say?”
“Listen,” I said, “there are going to be a lot of questions asked and you’ll probably have to tell a lot more than you’d like about your private life. The more honest you are, the easier it will be for you in the end. I hope you don’t mind my telling you this.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
I said, “It’s my job to suspect everyone.”
She looked at me over her coffee cup. “And just what do you suspect me of?”
I tried to be impersonal. “Why did you lie to Shelby about going to Waldo Lydecker’s for dinner on Friday night?”
“So that’s what’s bothering you?”
“You lied, Miss Hunt.”
“Oh, I’m Miss Hunt to you now, Mister McPherson.”
“Quit sparring,” I said. “Why did you lie?”
“I’m afraid if I told you the truth, you might not understand.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m dumb. I’m a detective. I don’t speak
I told only one other person about Laura’s return. That was Jake Mooney. Jake is a tall, sad-faced Yankee from Providence, known among the boys as the Rhode Island Clam. Once a reporter wrote, “Mooney maintained a clam-like silence,” and it got Jake so angry that he’s lived up to the name ever since. By the time I came out of Preble’s office, Jake had got a list of the photographers for whom Diane Redfern posed.
“Go and see these fellows,” I said. “Get what you can on her. Look over her room. Don’t tell anyone she’s dead.”
He nodded.
“I want all the papers and letters you find in her room. And be sure to ask the landlady what kind of men she knew. She might have picked up some boyfriends who played with sawed-off shotguns.”
The telephone rang. It was Mrs. Treadwell. She wanted me to come to her house right away.
“There’s something I ought to tell you, Mr. McPherson. I’d intended going back to the country today: there was nothing more I could do for poor Laura, was there? My lawyers are going to take care of her things. But now something has happened . . .”
“All right, I’ll be there, Mrs. Treadwell.”
As I drove up Park Avenue, I decided to keep Mrs. Treadwell waiting while I saw Laura. She had promised to stay in the apartment and keep away from the telephone, and I knew there was no fresh food in the house. I drove around to Third Avenue, bought milk, cream, butter, eggs, and bread.
Behrens was on guard at the door. His eyes bulged at the sight of the groceries, but he evidently thought I’d set up housekeeping.
I had the key in my pocket. But before I entered, I called a warning.
She came out of the kitchen. “I’m glad you didn’t ring the bell,” she said. “Since you told me about the murder—” she shuddered and looked at the spot where the body had fallen “—I’m afraid of every stray sound.”
“I’m sure you’re the only detective in the world who’d think of that ,” she said when I gave her the groceries. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Now that you’ve reminded me, no.”
It seemed natural for me to be carrying the groceries and lounging in the kitchen while she cooked. I had thought of that kind of girl, with all those swell clothes and a servant to wait on her, as holding herself above housework. But not Laura.
“Should we be elegant and carry it to the other room or folksy and eat in the kitchen?”
“Until I was a grown man, I never ate in anything but a kitchen.”
“Then it’s the kitchen,” she said. “There’s no place like home.”
While we were eating, I told her that I had informed the Deputy Commissioner of her return.
“Was he startled?”
“He threatened to commit me to the Psychopathic Ward. And then—” I looked straight into her eyes “—he asked if I thought you knew anything about that other girl’s death.”
“And what did you say?”
“Listen,” I said, “there are going to be a lot of questions asked and you’ll probably have to tell a lot more than you’d like about your private life. The more honest you are, the easier it will be for you in the end. I hope you don’t mind my telling you this.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
I said, “It’s my job to suspect everyone.”
She looked at me over her coffee cup. “And just what do you suspect me of?”
I tried to be impersonal. “Why did you lie to Shelby about going to Waldo Lydecker’s for dinner on Friday night?”
“So that’s what’s bothering you?”
“You lied, Miss Hunt.”
“Oh, I’m Miss Hunt to you now, Mister McPherson.”
“Quit sparring,” I said. “Why did you lie?”
“I’m afraid if I told you the truth, you might not understand.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m dumb. I’m a detective. I don’t speak
Similar Books
