Payoff for the Banker by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page B

example, counting that interest as another cautious blind; it fitted, perhaps, with Merle’s character, assuming—as more or less Weigand did assume—that Merle’s public austerity was privately superficial. If he had been aroused by Laurel Burke, however frostily, he would go to lengths to keep it quiet. He would, perhaps, accept a situation which might have depressed a more forthright man. And it was, at least in theory, possible that Oscar Murdock, if he found out about it, might not be so complacent. That was so far only a theory, unsupported by facts.
    â€œI don’t say Ozzie shot him,” the girl said, when Weigand finished. “I just say he might have had a reason—if he found out about us. He never said he found out.”
    â€œBut if he found out, you think he might have done it?” Weigand said. He looked at her after he had spoken.
    â€œYou don’t think I’m worth it?” she said, unexpectedly. Consciously, she raised her arms, clasping her hands behind her head. She looked back at Weigand. Her look was a challenge.
    Bill Weigand smiled, without amusement.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” he said. “I really wouldn’t know.” He looked into her challenging eyes. “And, baby, I’m not going to try to find out,” he added. “So you can quit stretching.”
    Without violence, Laurel Burke told Weigand what he was. When she had finished, he laughed at her. She started up and then, as quickly, dropped back on the sofa.
    â€œWhat the hell,” she said. “You wouldn’t be worth the trouble.”
    Weigand sat for a moment, looking at her. Then he stood up.
    â€œI don’t know,” he said, “whether I’m going to buy your story or not. It’s a very pretty little story. I can still think of other little stories—not so pretty. Or just about as pretty. So I wouldn’t try to go anywhere, if I were you.”
    â€œYou’ll be back, Lieutenant?” she said.
    Somebody would be back, he promised her. He would be—or someone else would be.
    â€œSo just wait around,” he suggested. “Just wait around.”

7
    T UESDAY , 10:15 P.M. TO 10:45 P.M.
    Pam and Jerry North had had a story to tell Bill Weigand and no Weigand to tell it to. Weigand was not at his office; Mullins had been dispirited on the telephone. He had even been plaintive.
    â€œYeah,” Mullins said. “Yeah. I know. Sure, Mr. North. All I can say is, you oughta of heard the inspector.” Mullins sighed, remembering. “I tell you how it is, Mr. North,” Mullins went on, his sigh completed. “The inspector knows who did it, like he always does. The loot don’t know so easy, like he usually don’t. The inspector thinks that’s because of you and Mrs. North. And all I can say is, you oughta of heard him.”
    â€œHe,” Jerry said, “oughta to hear us. Or Bill ought. All I want to know, Sergeant, is—where’s Bill.”
    â€œYou’ll send me to Staten Island,” Mullins said. “Or Rockaway. On foot.”
    â€œDo you know where he is?” Jerry wanted to know.
    Mullins sighed.
    â€œWell,” he said, “in a manner of speaking. I don’t know where he is now, Mr. North. I know where he was. He was talking to a dame named Laurel Burke, who he thinks maybe killed Merle. He’s going to talk to a guy who maybe killed Merle if Laurel didn’t. He just called in. When he called in he was in a drug store.”
    â€œI—” said Jerry. “All right, Pam. You try.”
    â€œListen, Mr. North,” Mullins said. “Listen!”
    â€œSergeant,” Mrs. North said, “we want to know where Bill is. It’s important.”
    â€œStaten Island,” Mullins said. “Or Rockaway. Or even Jamaica. Listen, Mrs. North.”
    â€œIf you don’t you certainly will,” Mrs. North said. “Because you’ll be