Murder Comes First by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

to join the humans in a drink.
    â€œAll the same,” Pam said, when Jerry had passed the drinks, “they are my aunts. If nobody else is going to help them, I am.” She paused. “Oh dear,” she said. “Probably they tried to telephone me when they came back and found the men there and I wasn’t here, but out being followed. I’m sure Aunt Pennina would try to call me. Or Aunt Lucy. If they knew our number.”
    They did know that, Bill told her. Aunt Thelma had written it down, identified Pam’s name, in firm, neat figures, on a pad by the telephone in her room. Whether they had, in fact, tried to call Pam, Bill Weigand didn’t know. He doubted whether they would have been given the opportunity.
    â€œThen—” Pam began, and the telephone rang. She answered it, handed it to Bill Weigand, who listened, said, “Right,” said that they might be asked to keep at it for a bit. He put the receiver back.
    â€œThe Kansas City police don’t find Mrs. Sandford at any of the likely places,” he said. “They don’t find evidence she’s been at any of them, under her own name, anyway. They’ll keep on checking. She ought to be told about her aunt’s death.”
    Pam nodded. She said, “Bill, can I see my aunts?”
    Bill was doubtful. He used the telephone again, Gin assisting. He asked, listened and looked a little surprised. “Well, that makes two of us, Tommy,” he said. He listened. “Not the right two, as you say,” he agreed. He replaced the receiver.
    â€œThompkins isn’t satisfied entirely,” he said. “He can’t quite swallow the motive. The inspector’s satisfied; the D.A. himself is satisfied. However, Thompkins has managed to get this much—the Misses Whitsett have been taken back to the hotel. More or less because they’re too respectable for jail until everybody’s damn sure. They checked Cleveland for the respectability.”
    â€œOf course they are!” Pam North said. “They’re my aunts! ”
    The aunts would be watched in the hotel; had been advised to stay in it. Meanwhile, two detectives from the D.A.’s Bureau had flown to Cleveland to dig there into the past of Thelma Whitsett and Mrs. Paul Logan. So, Pam North could see her aunts.
    â€œWe’ll all go,” Pam said, and started up. Bill Weigand hesitated a moment. But then he said, “Right,” and they finished drinks and went.
    The aunts were having dinner in Aunt Thelma’s room. Aunt Thelma offered coffee to Pam and Jerry; after a moment of, evidently, somewhat dour consideration, she included Bill Weigand.
    â€œAlthough,” she said, “it’s nothing but hotel coffee.” She paused. “ New York hotel coffee,” she added.
    â€œThelma thinks none of this would have happened except in New York,” Aunt Pennina said calmly, buttering a roll. “I keep telling her—”
    â€œNonsense, Pennina!” Thelma Whitsett said, sharply. “There is no cause to defend New York. What I say is perfectly true. There would have been no such nonsense in Cleveland.”
    She looked sharply at Bill Weigand, ready to pounce upon any disclaimer of this obvious fact. Bill merely nodded with interest.
    â€œIn Cleveland,” Aunt Thelma said, “the person is considered. That inspector of yours, young man!”
    It appeared that, in regard to the inspector, words failed Thelma Whitsett.
    â€œIt’s all just like a play,” Aunt Lucy took the opportunity to say. “The trial of somebody or other. There was this young woman who was suspected of murdering somebody and the young district attorney—”
    â€œLucinda!” Thelma Whitsett said. “That inspector of yours, young man. An entirely preposterous man! Merely because I decided, after consideration, not to marry Paul Logan.”
    â€œAunt Thelma,” Pam North said. “The