The Murder of a Fifth Columnist by Leslie Ford

Sergeant Buck does not approve of. Pete came quickly over to Ruth Sherwood.
    “I’m dreadfully sorry about this. If there’s anything I can do—”
    “There is,” Colonel Primrose said evenly. “You can tell us how you found out about it.”
    “—What do you mean, ‘found out about it,’ Colonel?” Pete asked. “Do you think Corliss Marshall can die without anybody knowing it?”
    “I’m asking you how you did know it, Hamilton.”
    “It was a confidential report from a usually reliable source, Colonel,” Pete replied coolly… and when Pete is ostensibly cool it means his adrenalin content is rising sharply. I wondered if Colonel Primrose was deliberately making him angry.
    “—The reliable source,” he said slowly, “is what we’re looking for, in this case. No one else, Hamilton—except Mrs. Sherwood and Mrs. Latham, and the police who are in the house—knew anything about it so far as we are aware. Except, of course, the murderer himself. That’s why I’m asking you who told you—if that’s how you did find out.”
    “You mean, unless I knew already?”
    “Yes.”
    “I see.” A grin that was not amused twisted Pete’s big mouth. “The old Army game, Colonel. Everybody knows I hated Corliss Marshall’s guts. Therefore it was me that spilled ’em. Then I barge in on the scene of the crime and give myself away red-handed. No soap, Colonel. Too easy. Try again.”
    “All right, Pete. Now you’ve had time to think up a story, let’s have it. Who did tell you?”
    “Nobody,” Pete said coolly. He was self-controlled, but I could see the tell-tale lines still sprayed out at the corners of his eyelids. “Believe it or not, I figured it all out for myself. Corliss left before any of the rest of us, but his coat and hat are still out there. They were there when we all went. I was down in the lobby when Lamb and his Gestapo came in and asked the number of Mrs. Sherwood’s apartment. I didn’t put any of it together until I called up Marshall’s hotel and found you’d been there and he hadn’t. After that it was easy. Homicide squad—homicide. Marshall’s coat and hat, no Marshall—Marshall’s homicide. Simple, after ten years of reporting politics.”
    “What did you phone Marshall for, Pete?” Colonel Primrose asked.
    “Just to say good-night to him. That’s the way I spend my early mornings. Calling up all my old friends.”
    Captain Lamb was looking increasingly bewildered by all this, I thought.
    “What made you come back here, Hamilton?” he said.
    “To find out what did happen. And that’s what I’d like to know,” Pete replied promptly. “I take it he didn’t just pass out, the way they’re fingerprinting everything out there.”
    He turned back to Colonel Primrose.
    “I also figured maybe Mrs. Sherwood might need a little help. That’s another reason I came. And another is what I just got through saying. I’m the Number One suspect, and I know it. There’s no use sugar-coating the pill. I thought I’d save the taxpayers the expense of having you guys run me to earth.”
    Colonel Primrose was looking at him with quiet interest.
    “What’s the matter, Pete? What’s on your mind?”
    Pete hesitated for a bare instant.
    “Plenty, Colonel. I’ve just found out, about fifteen minutes ago, that I’m the guy that’s writing ‘Truth Not Fiction.’ All my friends have been keeping it from me. It’s the old gag. The husband’s the last one to know.”
    “And that’s why you killed Corliss Marshall?” Colonel Primrose asked.
    “That’s the idea, Colonel.”
    Captain Lamb looked from Pete to Colonel Primrose, and back again.
    “What’s that?” he demanded.
    “ ‘Truth Not Fiction,’ ” Pete said. “Or ‘Fiction Not Truth’—if anybody thinks I write it.”
    “Well, what the hell is it?” Captain Lamb exploded. “Who does write it?”
    “That,” Colonel Primrose said calmly, “is what the F. B. I. has been trying to find out.”
    “—Did