Murder Is Served by Frances Lockridge Page B

call from Tony Mott, asking her to come to his office. “From my husband,” she said. “My dear husband.” Weldon Carey told her to skip that. “Skip the whole line,” he said. His voice was still rough. But he reached out across the table and covered one of her hands with his.
    â€œYou got this call,” he said. “You’re sure it was Mott?”
    â€œI thought so,” Peggy Mott said. “It sounded all right.”
    â€œGo on,” Carey said. “Tell me again.”
    She had gone to the office, getting there perhaps five minutes before her appointment with Mott. She had gone in the back way, as she had done before, as he suggested she do. She had knocked, thought she heard him speak—she was not certain now that she had heard anything—and had opened the door. “I was keyed up,” she said. “I thought—I hoped—”
    â€œAll right,” Carey said. “I know. Go ahead, Peg.”
    â€œHe was lying there,” she said. “He’d—he’d fallen forward across his desk. There was—was blood all over the desk.”
    â€œHe was dead?” Carey said.
    â€œI thought so,” the girl said. She began to shake; he could feel the movement in her hand. “I thought so.”
    â€œYou didn’t touch him?”
    â€œOh, no! No!”
    â€œAnd you went out. Did you run?”
    â€œI think I walked.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell anybody? Go for help?”
    â€œI was afraid. Oh, don’t you see? Don’t you see, Weldon? I was afraid.”
    â€œYou found him, you don’t know whether he was dead, you didn’t call anybody. Sure I know. It’s what I’d have done, or anybody. But you’ll be talking to cops, Peg. Don’t you see? You’ll be talking to cops.”
    She kept on shivering. Her wide eyes were fixed.
    â€œIt was that way,” she said. “What shall I do?”
    They were in a booth, in a little restaurant near Fourth Street. There were cocktails in front of both of them. He finished his in a kind of fury.
    â€œDrink your drink,” he said. “For God’s sake—drink your drink.”
    She took the glass, raised it to her lips, set it down again as if she had forgotten why she lifted it. Her eyes were fixed; she was not using them to see with. Damn those eyes, Weldon Carey thought. Damn those beautiful eyes. Oh, lady, but you’re lovely! He was furious at her, trapped by her loveliness; resentful of her loveliness. Good God, Weldon Carey thought, haven’t I had enough of the big things? Can’t I just have the little, easy things? The pleasant, trivial things? Do I have to beat my brains out all my life?
    He was a dark, angry man. His black hair was disordered and there was a kind of fury in his black eyes. He leaned a little toward the girl; even seated, his whole body had a kind of thrusting, forward movement. Now he snapped his fingers, holding his hand up in front of her face.
    â€œDrink your drink, I said,” he told her. “Drink your drink, Peg. Drink it!”
    The girl’s eyes came back.
    â€œWhy do you bother?” she asked him, and her voice was suddenly quiet. “It’s hard on you—wrong for you. You ought—”
    â€œShut up,” Weldon Carey said. “Shut up, Peg.” He made her eyes meet his. “Don’t be a fool, Peg,” he said. “Don’t be a fool, darling,” he paused. “Darling,” he said again, very slowly, very carefully, as if it were a word which held some special magic.
    â€œStart over,” he said then. “Drink your drink.” He waited, making her conscious that he was waiting. She lifted the glass again, and this time she drank from it. She put it down and looked at him, and now she smiled.
    â€œIt’s a mess, Weldon,” she said. “Maybe I’m a mess. Tony—and all.”
    â€œQuit it,” he said.