A sob broke her voice.
“It was—gay,” she said. “We thought it was so gay. And funny. And now—”
Weigand made sounds which might comfort her. She looked up and tried to smile. She said she was all right, now.
“You and Sproul at the dinner,” Weigand prompted. “And—who is Georgie?”
Georgie was George Schwartz, who had been on the Paris Tribune in the old days and was a copy-reader now on one of the morning papers and had been a great friend of Sproul’s in the old days. “Poor old Georgie,” the girl said. “He drinks so much,” she said, explaining herself. In addition there had been the Akrons—Jean, who also had been in Paris in the old days, and her brother, Herbert, who evidently had not. Momentarily there was nothing to identify the Akrons for Weigand. There had been a man named Ralph White, also of the Paris-in-the-old-days group. And Mr. Burden had dropped in at the end and had coffee with them.
It had been an early dinner, because of the lecture. They had eaten at Florio’s in Forty-fourth Street and finished about seven-thirty. Or Sproul had finished then and gone on, leaving the others—except Burden—to finish their coffee and follow. They stayed about fifteen or twenty minutes, she thought; possibly longer. Then she had left the others, pleading she had to stop by her apartment for a moment, but really wanting to see Sproul again before he went on the platform.
“Why?” Weigand wanted to know.
Loretta Shaw shook her head.
“No reason,” she said. “I just wanted to see him. It had been—oh, so gay and noisy at the party. I just wanted to see him a minute. Just the two of us. For—oh, so that we’d remember.”
Weigand found himself thinking, suddenly, of Dorian. For reassurance, the girl meant. Or might mean. For a moment of being together, quietly without others. That was what she might mean. But you couldn’t tell.
It had not, it developed, worked out that way. Loretta Shaw had come to the club and explained what she wanted and been told the way to the speakers’ room. She had found the door unlatched and lights on, but nobody in the room. It was ten minutes, anyway, before Sproul came, and then he was not alone.
“Mrs. Williams was with him,” the girl said. “The woman who was on the platform and introduced the other man. Mr. West.”
“North,” Weigand told her. She nodded. The man who in turn was to introduce Lee. That was it. Apparently Sproul and Mrs. Williams had met downstairs and not come up directly. She thought they had stopped for a drink. It had not been clear, or important, she said. But she gathered that they had sat for a few moments in the lounge downstairs, perhaps having a drink and, she supposed, meeting people. Then it had got too crowded—“too many damn people,” Sproul had said, and they came on to the speakers’ room. But apparently Sproul had not got his drink, or had not finished it, because a few minutes later a waiter had come with a fresh drink. She had been offered one and declined it; she thought Sproul was finishing his when Mr. North arrived. She did not remember whether Mrs. Williams had had her drink, or what had become of the glasses. It hadn’t been—important.
“Is it now?” she asked, puzzled By the guiding questions.
Weigand spread his hands slightly. It could be; if Sproul had not died naturally, or taken something voluntarily—the girl shook her head anxiously at this—then he must have been given something. Morphine, they thought, in a large quantity.
“By the way,” he said, “did he ever use morphine, as far as you know?”
The girl shook her head so that the long brown hair swayed.
“Never,” she said. “It—it horrified him. So many people in Paris did, and it was something he couldn’t stand.”
Weigand repeated the words, “Couldn’t stand?”
She looked puzzled.
“He thought it was a dreadful thing to do,” she said. “It really—he was really serious about it. Because of what it did to people.”
It sounded like a new side of Sproul. But Weigand let it go. After a moment, he let the girl go too, advising her to go home, taking her address, expressing sympathy. She went and Weigand looked after her and remembered the notes and swore. He went to the door and called Mullins, admitted without pleasure what had happened, and they went into it.
If it was the little dark man, he might be anywhere. No little dark man, identifiable as such, had left the building. Since they had heard of him. But the loopholes were large in that. The doors opening from the rear of the stage had been open for perhaps ten minutes before Weigand went out. Dr. Dupont and Dr. Klingman had gone out through them, hunting a place where the tall, old man could lie down and rest. Mullins thought that Mrs. Williams had also gone out, although she was now back on the stage, and that Mr. Burden might have. And the doors led into a corridor which connected with that from which the speaker’s room opened. Mr. North had been right about that. So there was nothing to prove that anyone on the stage had not taken the notes, although it was difficult to see how they could have known Weigand would leave the notes available and unguarded.
“Why did you, Loot?” Mullins asked. His question apparently was serious and interested. Weigand stared back at him and advised him to skip it. Mullins said, “O.K., Loot.”
“Presumably,” Weigand said, after thinking it over, “whoever took the notes was an opportunist. Perhaps he came in for something else and was lucky.”
“What else, Loot?” Mullins inquired.
Weigand asked to be told how he would know. He looked at Mullins without favor. Then the telephone rang.
“Jerry,” the telephone said, “they’ve got sailors. Sailors. They’re not babies at all.”
“No, Pam,” Bill Weigand said. “They don’t sound like it. This is Bill, Pam.”
“But they can’t be more than fifteen,” Pam North said, “at the oldest, and the other one fourteen. It’s just that they’re mature. For their ages. You know what I mean, Bill? Is Jerry around?”
Bill Weigand said he knew what she meant. And that he would call Jerry.
“Because I need him,” Pam North said. “I can’t cope. It’s so—sudden. And Martha won’t be enough.”
Bill Weigand thought of Martha, ample and dark and, on occasion, firm with the Norths. He thought Martha might, on the whole, be enough even for nieces with attached sailors. But that was up to Pam.
“I shooed them,” Pam said. “But you can’t tell. There are such a lot of sailors. Not that they aren’t nice. Jerry was one last time, you know. But that was before I knew him.”
It was not entirely clear to Bill Weigand this time. He motioned to Mullins, held a hand over the transmitter and said: “Get North, will you, Sergeant?” Mullins looked perception and went out.
“Bill,” Pam said, “are you still there? Before Jerry comes, I thought of something. The thing that was bothering me, you know?”
“No, Pam,” Bill Weigand said. “Was something bothering you?”
“I told—no I didn’t,” Pam said. “I just told the taxi driver. Or did I? Anyway, there was something wrong. There, I mean. With the murder, or the people. And when I saw the sailors I remembered what it was. Because the sailors were the same sort of thing, in a way.”
“Please, Pam,” Bill Weigand said. “What is it?”
“Mrs. Williams,” Pam North said. “She’s so—proper and everything. But I remember we saw her one night at the Roundabout and she wasn’t. Proper, I mean. On the contrary. So much so that we both noticed. With a man.”
Weigand thought about it.
“Listen, Pam,” he said, “you mean you’re all steamed up because you saw Mrs. Williams at the Roundabout with a man? Just that? And she’d had a drink or two?”
There was a slight pause at the other end, and during it Jerry North came in, preceding Mullins. He gestured toward the telephone, but Weigand held up a hand, telling him to wait.
“It doesn’t sound like much,” Pam admitted. “Put that way. And I don’t suppose it matters, or has anything to do with Mr. Sproul. But she was�
��like another person. The way she was looking at the man and—letting him look at her. It doesn’t belong with Mrs. Williams and you always say discrepancies are important. Anyway, it worried me. You can forget it now, if you want to. Or talk it over with Jerry. Where is he, by the way?”
Weigand held out the telephone to Jerry North who took it and said “hello.” Jerry listened for a minute or two, ran the fingers of his free hand through his hair and after a moment more said: “Good God!” He listened further and said “good-bye” gently and put down the telephone. He looked at Weigand, who grinned.
“Sailors,” Jerry said, in a strange voice. “The nieces have got sailors.” He stared beyond Bill Weigand for a moment and recovered himself. “I’ve got to get along,” he said. “Pam’s upset.” He looked at Bill, seeing him. “Listen,” he said, “couldn’t you drop down after a while and—and—”
“Pam already has,” Weigand said. “Shooed them. Do you want an armed guard? Or moral support?”
“Both, I expect,” Jerry North said. He grinned, finally, in his turn. “The future is dark,” he said and went out through the door leading to the corridor. Weigand, remembering that he wanted to check Jerry’s impression of Mrs. Williams, started to call him back. He decided against it, smiled as he thought of the nieces, frowned when he remembered the notes, and sat for a moment drumming his fingers on the desk, Mullins watched the fingers. The rhythm was slow, as yet. That meant Weigand didn’t see a clear road ahead. Things were still screwy, and getting screwier.
5
Thursday, 10 P.M. to 11:15 P.M.
Clearly, Lieutenant William Weigand decided, looking at Mrs. Paul Williams and listening to her crisp answers, Pam North had got her people mixed. It was, admittedly, unlike her; Pam mixed words more often than people, and it was never entirely certain that she mixed words. But Mrs. Paul Williams was not the woman Pam had seen at the Roundabout, evidently the worse—or the better?—for alcohol, looking with languishing eyes on an anonymous man. That went against nature, or against Mrs. Paul Williams’s improvements upon nature, which were manifold. Nature was never so trim as Mrs. Williams, so precisely and confidently in place, so decisive. Mrs. Williams had pulled herself together, now, and her togetherness was almost alarming.
She introduced herself crisply when she answered Weigand’s polite summons, politely enough conveyed through Mullins. Mullins came with her and brought his notebook, leaving shepherding outside to Detective (First Class) Stein. She gave Weigand her name, which he knew, as if she were disposing of a questionnaire. Only then did the name become faintly familiar to Weigand. The familiarity was not decisive; it was a name he had heard. Possibly he had heard of her husband. His question was to satisfy his mind’s vague inquiry.
“Isn’t your husband an attorney, Mrs. Williams?” he asked. “I believe I’ve heard of him.”
“My husband is dead,” Mrs. Williams told him, with something like severity. “I am an attorney.”
Weigand said, “Oh.”
“Corporation,” Mrs. Williams added. “So you would not have encountered me in magistrate’s court, Inspector.”
“Lieutenant,” Weigand said. He was puzzled. “You use your husband’s name,” he pointed out. “Possibly that confused me.”
Mrs. Williams obviously thought that Weigand’s questions were frivolous. Her tone said so.
“Obviously,” she said. “I prefer to be Mrs. Paul Williams, although my husband has been dead for many years. My own name is Daphne. It is not suitable.”
Weigand said, “Oh,” again.
“And,” Mrs. Williams said, “I have two children. Both daughters. The eldest is sixteen, the other a year younger. My husband died in 1927, a few months after our second daughter was born. And surely, Lieutenant, all this is beside the point.”
Weigand had to admit that he had asked for it, although not for as much as he had got. But he did not look particularly disconcerted.
“Entirely, Mrs. Williams,” he said. His tone left with Mrs. Williams responsibility for a spate of unsought information. She looked as if she were about to protest, so he continued.
“We are merely collecting information which may have a bearing on Sproul’s death,” he told her. “It is naturally necessary to talk to those who were with him immediately before his death. In the event that it becomes a police matter.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Williams said. “I met Mr. Sproul for the first time a week or so ago, when I had luncheon with him and Mr. Burden. At the Astor, for some reason. We talked about the lecture. I am program chairman of the club this season. I had not met him before. I met him for the second time this evening.”
“Yes?” Weigand encouraged. He was entirely polite. Mrs. Williams was not engaging, but she was specific. A good thing in witnesses.
“He came to the club about a quarter of eight,” Mrs. Williams said. “I had dined here and only just finished. One of the club servants said that Mr. Sproul had arrived and I went out to meet him. He said he was very early and something about having had an engagement which had not materialized. I said that it was very pleasant to see him, and something about how much we preferred lecturers who were early to lecturers who were late, and kept us worrying lest they had forgotten the engagement. I said we might go into the lounge and meet some of the members.”
“Yes?” Weigand said.
“We went into the lounge,” Mrs. Williams said. “It was about five or ten minutes of eight. I asked Mr. Sproul if he would care for a drink, and ordered him a brandy and soda. I had ginger-ale. I very seldom drink; never when I have responsibilities.”
She looked at Weigand firmly. Weigand said she was very wise. She nodded.
“However,” she said, “there were a great many people in the lounge and all of them wanted to meet Mr. Sproul and after a while I thought so many people might not be good for him. I find that lecturers usually like to have a few minutes of repose before they speak.”
Weigand nodded.
“So I suggested he might prefer to go to the speakers’ room and he agreed,” Mrs. Williams continued. She was being a very good witness. “He left his drink after taking only a few sips and when I noticed this, in the speakers’ room, I naturally suggested that he have another. He decided that he would and I called the bar steward, who sent up another brandy, and soda. Miss Shaw, who I gathered was an old friend of Mr. Sproul’s, was waiting in the speakers’ room when we got there. Mr. North came five or ten minutes later. We talked until it was time to go on the stage.”
Weigand nodded. He said she was very helpful.
“During that time did anything odd happen?” he asked. “I don’t know what sort of odd thing I mean. Anything you noticed. Did Sproul seem upset at all?”
“He seemed very gay,” Mrs. Williams said. “In excellent spirits—quite unlike most of our lecturers, who are inclined to be—a little morose before they go on. I noticed that, particularly. But I can’t say it was odd. Perhaps Mr. Sproul was always in good spirits. I was not familiar with his usual manners, remember.”
The counsellor-at-law qualified, keeping the testimony neat around the edges. Weigand was appreciative.
“Did you have another ginger-ale in the speakers’ room, Mrs. Williams,” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“I don’t know why,” Weigand told her. “I wondered.”
This struck Mrs. Williams, it was apparent, as irregular. It seemed to confirm a rather low opinion she had formed of Lieutenant Weigand, as a frivolous man. She stood up. Weigand stood with her.
“Yes,” he said, “that is all, Mrs. Williams. Thank you.”
She left and Mullins joined Weigand in looking after her.
“Quite a dame,” Mullins said. “Quite an old dame.”
Not so old, Weigand told him. Thirty-five, at a guess. “A very precise person,” Weigand said. “We must try to be more precise ourselves, Sergeant.”
Mullins looked doubtful, and finally said, “O.K., Loot.”
So they had Sproul’s activities charted from about 7:45 to the time of his death. Now they would work back. Then the telephone rang. Weigand said “Yes?” to Dr. Jerome Francis.
“It was morphine, all right,” Dr. Francis told him. “A lot of it. Plus, evidently, a special sensitivity—what you’d call an allergy, probably.”
“Would I?” Weigand said.
“Sure,” Francis told him. “With Sproul a little morphine went a long way. The whole way. Partly because he had a mild heart condition. Partly because—well, his system just didn’t resist morphine. And if you want to know why I can’t tell you. It was just the kind of a guy he was.”
Weigand assumed that Sproul wasn’t, under the circumstances, addicted to morphine. Dr. Francis snorted mildly and said of course not.
“He’d have died first,” Dr. Francis said. “Literally.”
Weigand thanked the assistant medical examiner and cradled the telephone. So it wasn’t natural causes. It was suicide or murder, and you could take your choice. And he, as the policeman responsible, had to take the choice and prove it.
“What’ve we got, Sergeant?” Weigand asked Mullins. “Did he jump or was he pushed?”
“Hell,” Mullins said. “Who’d suicide before a mob? He was pushed.”
Weigand found he thought so, too. He nodded.
“Can you picture our Mrs. Williams going all soft over some guy in a restaurant?” he asked. “And getting a little high in the process?”
Mullins said “Hell, no.”
“Pam North thinks she saw Mrs. Williams doing just that,” Weigand said. Mullins looked puzzled.
“Mrs. North said that?” he repeated. Weigand nodded. Mullins shook his head slowly.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “But if Mrs. North says so.” He looked at Weigand. “Sometimes I get the idea Mrs. North ain’t as screwy as she sounds,” he confided. Weigand pretended astonishment. He said, “Not really, Sergeant!” Mullins nodded. “Sometimes I do,” he insisted. “But it’s hard to see the Williams dame unlaxing.”
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