detective’s eyes. “And myself. We were the five on the panel. There was the guy in the control room. I don’t know if you want to investigate him or not. And there was Susan Veldt. She was in the control room too. And a couple of other girls—Betty Rafferty from the office, and Miss Sweeney, Craigthorn’s secretary. She came with Jesset, but she didn’t stay long. She and Betty went home after a couple of hours.”
“Who else?”
“No one at all. That’s it.”
“All right. Whose show was it?”
“Well, Skinny Simon’s. Of course he was there. Didn’t I mention him?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“All right, Skinny Simon. I thought you knew whose show it was.”
“So that makes a few more than five people. That makes … five panelists, and Skinny, and the engineer, and three women. How many of these people were at the dinner Friday night?”
“Well, all of us on the panel were, and all the women.”
“Was Skinny at the dinner?”
“Sure, he was there. We were talking about the show that night.”
“Okay,” the detective said. “Where were you this afternoon after you and Susan Veldt left here?”
“Where was I? Well, part of the time I was up at Harry Fox’s office, till I called you. Why? Are you suspecting me of this thing now?”
George gave a customary shrug. “Look, you called me to come down here with you, to find the body with you. It’s exactly the sort of thing a murderer would do. I know, because I read it in a detective story once.”
“All right. Call Harry Fox. He’ll tell you I was with him.”
“Were you with him all the time? All afternoon? Since you left this apartment?”
“Not all the time. I took Susan uptown and we had lunch. It was probably two-thirty or three before I went up to Harry’s. Then I was with him the rest of the afternoon, till now.”
“All right,” the detective said. “Stay available.”
“Can I go now?” Barney asked.
“Yeah, I guess there’s nothing much for you here. You can go. We’ll be in touch.”
He went downstairs, started up to MWA headquarters, and then paused at a pay phone to call Susan Veldt at her office. But it was after five, and they told him she had left for the day.
15 Susan Veldt
O N TUESDAY MORNING, AS she was leaving her daily rough draft of the article in Arthur Rowe’s file basket, Susan heard his secretary call to her. “Mr. Rowe wants to see you. He asked you to wait in his office until he’s free.”
“All right,” she said.
She knew very little about the murder of Irma Black. Only what she’d heard on the late news, and read in the morning Times. They hadn’t played up the story too much, apparently not yet connecting it with the Craigthorn killing. She’d been unable to reach Barney, and so she knew no other details. But in her own mind she saw the makings of a fabulous story. She wished for perhaps the first time in her life that she worked on a daily newspaper—that she didn’t have to wait for a weekly deadline to roll around.
Arthur Rowe entered in his shirt sleeves, looking somehow dishevelled. She wasn’t really used to seeing him like this, and the sight startled her for a moment.
“All right,” he said. “Give me what you’ve got.”
“What I’ve got is next to nothing. You read in the paper about this woman, this Irma Black?”
He nodded.
“She’s the one that sent the telegram to the programme.”
“Did you go down there yesterday with him?” He picked her notes out of his basket
“That’s my rough draft. Read it and weep. As near as I can tell, we were there about an hour before the murder.”
“Great.” He slumped in his chair. “Look, we’re on to something big. I don’t want you to blow it. This can be the making of the magazine. With you on the inside track, we just might beat Mr. Barney Hamet to the solution.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m no detective.”
Rowe lit his pipe, drew on it, took it from his mouth, and studied
“Who else?”
“No one at all. That’s it.”
“All right. Whose show was it?”
“Well, Skinny Simon’s. Of course he was there. Didn’t I mention him?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“All right, Skinny Simon. I thought you knew whose show it was.”
“So that makes a few more than five people. That makes … five panelists, and Skinny, and the engineer, and three women. How many of these people were at the dinner Friday night?”
“Well, all of us on the panel were, and all the women.”
“Was Skinny at the dinner?”
“Sure, he was there. We were talking about the show that night.”
“Okay,” the detective said. “Where were you this afternoon after you and Susan Veldt left here?”
“Where was I? Well, part of the time I was up at Harry Fox’s office, till I called you. Why? Are you suspecting me of this thing now?”
George gave a customary shrug. “Look, you called me to come down here with you, to find the body with you. It’s exactly the sort of thing a murderer would do. I know, because I read it in a detective story once.”
“All right. Call Harry Fox. He’ll tell you I was with him.”
“Were you with him all the time? All afternoon? Since you left this apartment?”
“Not all the time. I took Susan uptown and we had lunch. It was probably two-thirty or three before I went up to Harry’s. Then I was with him the rest of the afternoon, till now.”
“All right,” the detective said. “Stay available.”
“Can I go now?” Barney asked.
“Yeah, I guess there’s nothing much for you here. You can go. We’ll be in touch.”
He went downstairs, started up to MWA headquarters, and then paused at a pay phone to call Susan Veldt at her office. But it was after five, and they told him she had left for the day.
15 Susan Veldt
O N TUESDAY MORNING, AS she was leaving her daily rough draft of the article in Arthur Rowe’s file basket, Susan heard his secretary call to her. “Mr. Rowe wants to see you. He asked you to wait in his office until he’s free.”
“All right,” she said.
She knew very little about the murder of Irma Black. Only what she’d heard on the late news, and read in the morning Times. They hadn’t played up the story too much, apparently not yet connecting it with the Craigthorn killing. She’d been unable to reach Barney, and so she knew no other details. But in her own mind she saw the makings of a fabulous story. She wished for perhaps the first time in her life that she worked on a daily newspaper—that she didn’t have to wait for a weekly deadline to roll around.
Arthur Rowe entered in his shirt sleeves, looking somehow dishevelled. She wasn’t really used to seeing him like this, and the sight startled her for a moment.
“All right,” he said. “Give me what you’ve got.”
“What I’ve got is next to nothing. You read in the paper about this woman, this Irma Black?”
He nodded.
“She’s the one that sent the telegram to the programme.”
“Did you go down there yesterday with him?” He picked her notes out of his basket
“That’s my rough draft. Read it and weep. As near as I can tell, we were there about an hour before the murder.”
“Great.” He slumped in his chair. “Look, we’re on to something big. I don’t want you to blow it. This can be the making of the magazine. With you on the inside track, we just might beat Mr. Barney Hamet to the solution.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I’m no detective.”
Rowe lit his pipe, drew on it, took it from his mouth, and studied
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