The Dishonest Murderer by Frances Lockridge Page A

part of the city in which men like that are—numerous. He had been given a heavy dose of chloral hydrate. Perhaps it would not have killed him except that he had a weak heart.”
    He looked around at them.
    â€œYou all knew his heart wasn’t good?” he asked. “Was that fact widely known?”
    He paused, to give them a chance to answer. He looked from one to another, and one and then another shook his head. He raised his eyebrows at that, as if he were surprised. But the surprise, Freddie Haven thought, did not go deep; it was professional surprise, leaving the man himself untouched. His confidence was untouched, his assurance. He’s very intelligent, Freddie thought and then, belatedly: Was there really something the matter with Bruce’s heart?
    Freddie looked at Celia, because Lieutenant Weigand’s gaze had stopped at Celia. The girl with all but youth washed out of her face looked at Freddie and shook her head, her eyes wide, and then at Weigand and said, “No. I didn’t know. He—Dad never—” Her head went down, then, her face in her hands.
    â€œMrs. Haven?” Weigand said, and Freddie shook her head, in turn, and said, “No, Lieutenant, I didn’t know.”
    And the others said they did not know. Fay Burnley, who had kept house for Bruce Kirkhill for years; her daughter, who perhaps once, briefly, had known him very well indeed; Howard Phipps, who had sometimes said that he lived in the chief’s pocket; the admiral, who was to have been Bruce’s father-in-law and Curt Grainger, who certainly had hoped to be his son-in-law—none of them knew Kirkhill’s heart had been (what did they say?) “involved.” It must, Freddie thought, seem unlikely to Lieutenant Weigand. It must seem—
    â€œApparently he was very reticent,” Weigand said, his voice without inflection. “However.”
    Of course, he told them then, Senator Kirkhill might, under circumstances as they were, have died in any case of exposure. But, if his death was intended, the person who intended it could not have been entirely sure of that. The weak heart might have provided the assurance.
    He seemed content to leave it at that. He went on. He was succinct, unemotional; he seemed to apply no pressure. He is very sure, Freddie thought; he is very confident. The thought disturbed her; she looked at her father. To her, Admiral Satterbee’s face showed nothing. Did it show more to this undisturbed, intelligent man who seemed so sure? Was her father’s face, in its very absence of revelation, revealing?
    As he understood it, Weigand said, Senator Kirkhill had been expected at the New Year’s Eve party about ten o’clock, expected to check in at the Waldorf some two hours earlier. He had not come to the party. He had not checked in at the Waldorf. “Right?” Weigand said, and let silence confirm.
    â€œApparently,” Weigand said, “he came up from Washington on an earlier train. As he had planned?” The question was for Phipps. Phipps looked puzzled, but did not speak. “Where he went then, we don’t know,” Weigand said. “He went somewhere and changed into this—into this masquerade. He went somewhere and had several drinks, one of them full of chloral hydrate. He walked a while, got sleepy, collapsed in a doorway, died, we think, rather quickly after that. That is all we know—now.”
    He stopped, and looked at them, looked around at them.
    â€œI hope one of you, perhaps several of you, know more,” he said. “Can help us fill in. Right?”
    But nobody offered anything. Freddie looked around at the others, saw their faces blank. But then Phipps spoke.
    â€œIt wasn’t as he planned,” Phipps said. “The time he came, I mean. He planned to take the Congressional. I suppose he found he could get away earlier.” He paused, shook his head. “Of course,” he said,