Payoff for the Banker by Frances and Richard Lockridge

surprise, as if it were shocking. She looked as if she could, for the moment, think only of the central fact of George Merle’s death.
    â€œOscar—it will be a terrible blow to Oscar,” she said, as if to herself. She seemed to remember Weigand. “My husband,” she said. “He was devoted to Mr. Merle. He’ll—he’ll be terribly upset.”
    Weigand made a sound which might mean anything and waited. She seemed to be recovering from her first surprise.
    â€œWait a minute,” she said. “You said something else. Something about—” She paused, apparently trying to remember.
    â€œI said he was shot in your apartment,” Bill told her, patiently.
    â€œYes,” she said. “That’s what you said. I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been here all afternoon—it’s—”
    â€œThe apartment on Madison,” Weigand said. “The one over the antique shop. Your former apartment, if you like that better. The one you had with Mr. Murdock. Your—husband.”
    She looked at him; her eyes measured him.
    â€œWell,” she said. “Well? I thought you were a homicide dick.”
    â€œI am,” Weigand told her.
    â€œYou sound like the morals squad,” she said. “Or something. Who says Ozzie isn’t my husband?”
    â€œOzzie,” Weigand told her.
    She twisted her lips down; then she twisted them up, making it a smile—a derisive smile.
    â€œTrust a man,” she said. “Trust them not to be worth trusting. Ozzie’s a heel.”
    Weigand had no comment.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “The apartment I used to live in. As Mrs. Murdock—without being Mrs. Murdock. And Merle was killed there. So I suppose I killed him.”
    People jumped to conclusions, Weigand thought. His voice was tired.
    â€œI haven’t supposed you killed him, Mrs. Murdock,” he said. “Did you?”
    â€œMake it Burke,” she said. “Miss Burke. No. Why should I?”
    â€œLaurel Burke,” Weigand said, not as an answer. “Laurel—beginning with L.”
    â€œThe man can spell,” Laurel remarked to the room, in a tone of wonderment.
    â€œAnd,” Weigand said, “somebody with the initials O.M. wrote Merle a note telling him that somebody with the initial L would be at the apartment at about five. To get a check. And Merle went and was killed.”
    She looked at him for rather a long time before she answered. She drew in a deep breath and her breasts rose pointedly against the silk of her pajamas.
    She moistened her lips before she spoke, and when she spoke her voice was less low pitched.
    â€œNo, damn it,” she said. “It wasn’t me. I wasn’t anywhere near there. He didn’t bring me the check. He—” She broke off. She started over.
    â€œI don’t know anything about it,” she said. “What do you want me to say?”
    What she had said was all right, Weigand told her. If true.
    â€œI’ll swear it’s true,” she said. “Anywhere I’ll swear it’s true.”
    â€œAll right,” Weigand said. “You weren’t at the apartment. You didn’t meet Merle—or shoot him. You didn’t take the check.”
    â€œNo,” she said. She said it dully. “No.”
    â€œSomebody did,” Bill Weigand told her. “Somebody met Mr. Merle there and shot him. Somebody took the check. If he brought a check. How well did you know Mr. Merle, Miss Burke?”
    She shook her head; for a moment she seemed a long way off. Weigand repeated. “How well did you know Mr. Merle, Miss Burke?”
    â€œJust through Ozzie,” she said. She moved slightly. “He came to the apartment a few times to see Ozzie. He knew about Ozzie and me.”
    She was not speaking dully now. She was speaking carefully—slowly, as if she were thinking it out.
    Bill Weigand waited a moment