Murder Has Its Points by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page B

“You’ll misunderstand. Try to make something out of it.” Very young; a little frightened.
    â€œNo,” Bill said. “Nothing that isn’t there. You did see him? Often?”
    â€œSeveral times. It was—there wasn’t anything. To dinner a few times and—oh, to the theater. And once up to have dinner at a place in the country. I can go where I want to. With—with people I want—”
    â€œOf course,” Bill said. “I don’t question that. But, Miss Rhodes, did Mr. Self? ”
    She looked surprised—managed to look surprised. That was it, Bill thought—“managed.” Candy from—
    â€œMr. Self?” she repeated, and got surprise into her soft voice. “Why on earth should—Oh, I see what you mean. It was always after I was through here, of course. I only work until—”
    â€œNo,” Bill said. “That wasn’t what I meant, Miss Rhodes. You know it wasn’t, don’t you? Because—how do you want me to put it? Mr. Self doesn’t want you going with other men? Particularly men such as Mr. Payne apparently was? And, of course, married men and—”
    â€œHis wife didn’t—” Again she did not finish.
    â€œUnderstand him?” Bill said, in a certain tone, and at that she shook her head from side to side.
    â€œCare,” she said. “It was—their marriage was just a—formality. It isn’t as if—”
    â€œHe told you that?”
    She saw it; saw it too late. If it had all been as casual as she said, Payne wouldn’t have—oh, she saw it. But at that moment, a little bell tinkled in the room behind the shop.
    She was facing toward the front of the shop. She spoke as Bill Weigand turned to face the door.
    â€œJim,” she said. “This man’s a detective. He’s been—”
    â€œGood afternoon, Mr. Self,” Bill said. “My name’s Weigand. From—”
    â€œCaptain,” Self said. He was a tall, spare man in his early thirties. He had black hair, which was beginning a little to recede. He had a wide forehead and a wide mouth and a surprisingly square jaw. “Homicide, Manhattan West. Badgering children, Captain?”
    â€œI’m not a—” Jo-An said, and her voice was not indifferent now. There was indignation in the young voice.
    â€œOf course you are, Jo-Jo,” James Self said. “I’m sure the captain discovered that. Get what you were after, Weigand?”
    â€œOh,” Bill said, “I was just waiting around until you got back, Mr. Self. To see whether you’d noticed anything at the party which might help us. There’s a lot of rou—”
    â€œThe hell with that,” Self said. “Jo-Jo—dust some books, will you? Or read one. Or, twiddle your pretty thumbs.”
    â€œI don’t have—” the girl said and Self said, “Sh-h-h.” He said, “You want to see me, come on,” and walked toward the rear of the shop. “The insufferable—” the girl said, and gave it up. Bill Weigand followed the spare man who, he now realized, vaguely reminded him of somebody he had met before. In almost the same moment, he remembered who—a lineman for a light and power company; a man called Harry; a very tough young man indeed and, certainly, no frequenter of bookshops. Bill was faintly amused by the vagary of his own mind.
    The room immediately in the rear of the shop was small, dim, obviously a storeroom. Beyond it, the room Weigand followed James Self into was as obviously an office. It had a tall window giving on a garden. There was a desk, rather cluttered. Self sat at the desk, back to window, and motioned, the gesture quick, peremptory, toward a chair. Bill thought, the image, of Harry, and sat down.
    â€œWhat did you get out of the child?” Self said, and his voice, too, was peremptory.
    â€œYou seem,” Bill said, mildly,