The Black Door by Collin Wilcox

Would you care to tell us what you’ve discovered about this aspect of the case, Captain?” Campion’s manner was perfectly straight-faced and wide-eyed—a burlesque of innocence.
    Larsen suppressed a twitching at the corners of his mouth as he answered. “I’d rather not comment on Miss Grinnel’s morals until they become pertinent to the case. Besides, I have a pension to consider.”
    “Do you consider the ‘small, informal party,’” someone asked, “to be completely irrelevant to Roberta Grinnel’s subsequent murder?”
    “As of right now, yes.” Larsen thought about it for a moment, and then said, “I think a lot of you are making a mistake that’s probably understandable. You’re assuming that the motive for murder—if there is a rational motive, which I’m frankly inclined to doubt—is centered around Roberta Grinnel. You’re assuming, let’s say, that a rejected lover of the girl’s flipped his lid. This is perfectly understandable from your viewpoint. The girl’s father is a big shot, and that means a big story. However, it’s equally possible that something in Pastor’s background might provide the motive. For instance, you mention Miss Grinnel’s reputation as a—a—lover, we’ll say. Well it so happens that Pastor enjoyed a considerable reputation in that area himself. His background and movements might offer better possibilities for solving the crime than Miss Grinnel’s, in fact. I shouldn’t have to tell you that, as a general rule, college boys from some of the country’s most prominent families just aren’t accustomed to committing double murders.”
    “Well, what about Pastor?” Kreuger asked.
    Larsen shrugged and smiled at a private little joke.
    “I was just giving you an example for the sake of argument. However, as of now, we’ve got nothing that points any more to Pastor than it does to Miss Grinnel.” The small smile widened. “So you can still hope, gentlemen.” He shifted impatiently in his chair. “I’ll just have time for a few more quick questions,” he said.
    Immediately, a dozen hands shot up.
    “Are your investigations of students complete?”
    “Almost. The preliminary investigations are complete. Unless there’s something that doesn’t check out, I’d say ‘yes.’”
    “Did John Randall have an alibi for the time of the murder?”
    “I don’t think I’ll comment on that, except to say that Mr. Randall is not a suspect. Repeat: not.”
    “Is that a pension-protecting answer, Captain?” It was the man from Graphic Detective.
    Larsen regarded him with chill blue eyes. “No,” he answered quietly. “No, it’s not.”
    “Was Pastor married?” someone asked.
    “Divorced, about two years ago.”
    “Is his wife in the area?”
    “No. She’s in Chicago.”
    “Had Pastor ever been threatened?”
    “No, not to our knowledge.”
    “Had Miss Grinnel?”
    “No.”
    “Had Pastor and Miss Grinnel known each other long?”
    “About three months, as nearly as we can determine.”
    “Were they sleeping together all that time?”
    “No comment.”
    “How often did they see each other?”
    “Once, twice a week.”
    “Did they always end up in his apartment?”
    “Well, I—” Larsen looked unhappy, and for the first time uncertain of his answer. “I understand they spent a lot of time in the vicinity. Her car, at least, was well known in the neighborhood.”
    “Did Pastor have a car?”
    “No.”
    “Did they always meet at The Quiet Place?”
    “That’s my understanding.”
    “Then they’d go to his apartment. Is that right?”
    The blue eyes hardened. “That’s an assumption you’re entitled to make if you like. Just don’t attribute it to me.”
    “From the, ah, disrobed condition of the bodies when they were found, Captain, would you say Pastor and Miss Grinnel were lovers?”
    Larsen thought about it, ominously. He was being whipsawed by the reporters, something I never thought he’d permit. And I was right. Slowly,