Murder Is Served

by Frances Lockridge

  But—and Bill’s fingers tapped more briskly on the desk—there was always another possibility. Elaine had seen Peggy going into the building next to the restaurant, on her way to Mott’s office. Might she not also have seen Leonard coming out? If she had, if she recognized him, perhaps tried to cash in on what she had seen, Leonard had a valid motive for killing her. (Just as Peggy Mott had.) This, obviously, was speculation; it was also entirely possible. The whole thing, the whole case against Leonard, was entirely possible.

  But, looking at it, Bill realized that it was no more than that. It was merely possible. It was strong enough to weaken the case against Peggy Mott, but it was not strong enough to stand on its own feet against John Leonard. It was weak on facts, but facts might be found to fit it. They would have to look for them, certainly. But there was, Bill decided, a more fundamental weakness. The case as it stood forced the conclusion that John Leonard was two entirely different men with radically different emotional responses. Motive and method did not accord; they were even violently disparate.

  Bill Weigand was, he realized, asking himself to believe that Professor John Leonard was emotional to the point of instability, and at the same time calculating as a chess master. Even tired as it was, Bill’s mind boggled. Leonard had killed the man who had done an injury to his sister, killed him years after the event and under the compulsion of an emotion engendered by the recent sight of the sister in a condition worse than he had expected—a condition, it might be assumed, which put a period to hope. A flare of bitterness might be expected, under those conditions, against the man who had caused that condition. It was conceivable, given a man of a certain sort, that that bitterness might have carried over into action.

  But the action would, almost certainly, have been violent, unbalanced, like the emotion which occasioned it. The action as Weigand postulated it, and as the facts presented it, had been precisely the reverse. It had been shrewd, contrived and, as it concerned Peggy Mott, entirely merciless. (And Leonard was, Bill thought, rather fond of Peggy than otherwise.) If Leonard had done both things, he was two men, in which event he was, almost by definition, psychopathic. Bill tried to think Leonard was that, and failed.

  He had argued himself into it and through it, out on the other side. But that did not alter the fact that it was still there, and that as long as it was still there the district attorney—and Bill himself, for that matter—would be very reluctant to proceed against the pretty widow of Tony Mott.

  Bill Weigand shook his head. I need a fresh mind for this, he thought. He wished he knew where he could get one. Or I need fresh facts. And then, as that thought came to him, his eyebrows drew together, and lines formed between them. It began to look as if that might, indeed, be the whole trouble.

  What had happened, Bill thought now, was what now and then did happen, and was difficult to guard against. A problem had been presented and, almost simultaneously, a solution which appeared to be in all respects neat and adequate. Under such circumstances it was desirable, as always, to keep an open mind, but it was very difficult. The digging you would do, the police machine would do, was still done, but almost unavoidably in perfunctory fashion. The machine had its answer, the machine’s heart was not in further research. The machine was, after all, humanly susceptible.

  With Peggy Mott so obviously meeting all the requirements—with her motives abundant, her opportunity demonstrated, her flight in itself almost convicting—they had merely not been as thorough as usual. Part of it, Bill thought, was his fault; part of it was nobody’s fault. It was almost by chance that the evidence against Leonard, the hypothesis against Leonard, had been noticed at all. To a man who prided himself upon thoroughness, upon the way he did his job, that thought was disquieting. If there was a case, even this much of a case, against Leonard, if he had come upon it by accident, what might there be in other corners, so far only partially explored?

  Bill wondered if he were creating difficulties where there were none: if a tired mind were inventing phantoms. Nine times out of ten, perhaps ninety-nine out of a hundred, the obvious was the true. O’Malley had had a long and reasonably successful career merely by playing on those odds. You could not very well miss, granted you were bright enough to see the obvious. Justice might miscarry here and there, but justice would in any case. Not for the first time, Bill Weigand wished he could adjust his behavior to this evident logic. But it was no good.

  “All I can do,” he had told Dorian once, “is to convince myself. I can’t act on anything less, and I can’t hold out for anything more. I don’t know any other way to play it. I’ve got to use the mind I’ve got and try not to cheat it. Right?” They had been relaxed in front of a fire, with drinks. They talked most freely then, quite often about themselves, saying more than they would often have said, but not often anything they did not mean.

  What it came to now was that his mind was not satisfied. The case against Peggy Mott remained good and probably—nine to one the probabilities ran—it was true. But Bill Weigand was no longer certain in his own mind. If O’Malley had been in the habit of using the word, he would have told Bill Weigand that he was being squeamish. Bill could not see any help for that.

  The practical outcome of all this was that Bill no longer wanted very badly to have Peggy Mott, and her angry rescuer, brought in. If she was picked up now, her presence would raise an issue—an issue with O’Malley, eventually with the press—for which Bill decided he was not ready. Perhaps it was just as well, he thought—and was interrupted by Mullins, who appeared at the door with a rather odd expression on his face. Bill Weigand said, “Yes?”

  “The Norths are here,” Mullins said, and it occurred to Bill that Mullins’s tone was somewhat dazed. “They’ve—ah—got people with them.” Mullins’s voice reflected his own awe of his understatement. “They’ve—” He waved a hand then, and Pam North came in, and after her came Peggy Mott. Bill Weigand merely looked at them and waited, and a small, vivid girl with red hair came in after Peggy Mott. Then Weldon Carey came in, thrusting toward Weigand, wearing his shoulder chip proudly, and after him a slender youngish man with what appeared to be an amused smile, and then Jerry. Mullins stood aside to let them in and then looked past them at Weigand and slowly shook his head.

  “That’s all, Mullins,” Pam North said. “Just the six of us. Hello, Bill,”

  “Only six?” Bill Weigand said. “Close the door, Mullins. Stay in.”

  “O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. He looked at the crowded office. “O.K.,” he said again, doubtfully.

  “Bill,” Pam said, “Mrs. Mott wants to give herself up, but you’re wrong just the same. We’ve gone over it and over it, and she didn’t.”

  “All right, Pam,” Bill said. He looked at Peggy Mott. He looked at Weldon Carey. “You’ve made trouble,” he said to both of them. His voice, however, was mild. “What was the idea?” This last was to Carey.

  “So what?” Carey said. “She’s back.”

  “I’d like to let Sergeant Stein answer that,” Bill said. “I really would, Carey.”

  “Any time,” Carey said, and was angry.

  “I can’t,” Bill said. “But I’d like to. Stein was a paratrooper, Carey. He knows some very interesting tricks.”

  “I—” Carey began, but Bill Weigand shook his head and, rather surprisingly, Carey did not continue. Bill said, and his voice still was quiet, that they might go into that later.

  “Let’s,” Pam said. “Bill, you didn’t hear me. Mrs. Mott didn’t do it.”

  “No?” Bill said. “Who did, Pam?”

  “Somebody else,” Pam said. “We haven’t quite worked it out, but it wasn’t Peggy.”

  “Why?” Bill said, and was told by Pam North to look at Peggy Mott. Bill looked at her. He looked back at Pam.

  “Can’t you see?” Pam North asked him, with something like indignation in her voice. “Look at her, Bill! Listen to her!”

  “I have,” Bill said. He turned to Peggy Mott. When he spoke next his vo
ice was without any particular expression. “I listened to her for quite a time,” he said. “She lied and got caught in it. She ran down rat holes.”

  Watching the blond girl with long eyes, Bill saw the eyes go blank. He had not expected that; he saw her shudder, almost imperceptibly, and had not expected that, either.

  “The holes are all stopped up,” the girl said, not as if she were speaking to anyone. “I—” She swayed, this time perceptibly. Instantly Carey was beside her, an arm around her, and almost as quickly, and very gently, almost reluctantly, she moved out of the circle of the arm. “All right, Wel,” she said, softly. Then she looked at Bill and her eyes were no longer blank.

  “I came back,” she said. “The Norths said I had to. But I think—I think I would have come back anyway, Lieutenant.” She looked at him for a moment without speaking. “I didn’t lie about what counted,” she said. “I know I—I ran down rat holes. But not when it counted.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Pam said. “Anybody would have.” It was momentarily unclear, but Pam did not wait. “Bill,” she said, “don’t you see? It’s too perfect. That’s what’s the matter. If it were true—if it just happened—it’d be fuzzy. Everything is. But this isn’t, so somebody arranged it. Don’t you see how logical it is?”

  Bill Weigand found he was smiling at Pam North; that his mind, for some reason, was no longer so weary as it had been. His mind was panting slightly, but it was no longer really tired.

  Bill transferred his gaze, and his faint smile, to Jerry North.

  “You know what she means,” Jerry said. “That is—well, near enough. She knows it doesn’t prove anything. But—”

  “But,” Pam repeated. “That’s it, Bill. But. You have to get around ‘but,’ Bill. The more you think about it, the more you see that. We all did.” She made a small gesture which encompassed Jerry, the Fosters, Carey and Peggy Mott.

  “The deputation,” Foster said, suddenly, and smiled widely. “My name’s Foster, Lieutenant. This is my wife.” He indicated Paula.

  “Thanks,” Bill said. “I’d begun to wonder. And—where do you and Mrs. Foster fit in?”

  Foster continued to smile. He explained where they fitted in.

  “Harboring,” Foster said. “Probably that isn’t the word, Lieutenant. We took Carey and Mrs. Mott in, knowing they were fugitives. Accessories after the fact?”

  Bill Weigand waved it off, abstractedly. Unexpectedly, Foster sobered. He said, “Sorry, sir.” Bill waved that off, also. Pam North seemed about to say something, and to be stopped by the expression on Weigand’s face, or by the gentle tapping of the fingers of his right hand on the desk in front of him. It occurred to Pam that, from Bill’s point of view, something had gone wrong. That was puzzling, because the most obvious thing was surely something which had gone right. They had persuaded Peggy Mott and Carey to come in. Bill should, she thought, be pleased with them. But she thought he was not. Which could only mean—

  “Mrs. Mott,” Bill said, “I’m not going to hold you. I’m not clearing you, you understand. But I’m not holding you. There are two conditions. If you’ll agree to them, I’ll let you go for the time being.”

  Peggy Mott looked surprised, and Carey continued to direct an angry, suspicious gaze at Weigand. The girl nodded.

  “First,” Bill said, “you don’t try to hide. You don’t leave the city, you show up at your apartment tonight by ten o’clock and you stay in it. I’ll take steps to find out whether you do or not. If you don’t, I’ll turn the town upside down to find you, and when I do I’ll lodge a homicide charge against you. You understand that?”

  Peggy Mott nodded again.

  “That goes for you, Carey,” Bill said. “I’d still like to give you to Stein, and I may yet. Or I can see you serve a stretch for, resisting. I may yet. But now you can go—and you’ll be in your apartment by ten o’clock tonight, and I’ll check up on you.” Bill looked directly at the glaring young man. “Do you want to play it that way?” he asked.

  Carey seemed to hesitate for a moment. “You can’t—” he started, and looked at Peggy Mott. “All right,” he said. “I’ll play it that way. For now.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “Now—and this goes for all of you.” He looked from one to the other. “All of you forget that you came in here. Forget that Mrs. Mott gave herself up; forget that you saw her today.” Carey seemed to thrust himself forward. “No, Carey, I’m not framing her,” Weigand said. “Obviously, if it comes to that, all of you’ll see that she gets credit for having come in. If charges are made—and you all understand they probably will be—you can talk your heads off. Until then—nothing. You agree?”

  One by one, nodding, they agreed.

  “Right,” Bill said. “That’s all, then.” He nodded toward the door, toward Mullins at the door. And, by the slightest of gestures, imperceptible to a person who was not looking for it, he indicated Peggy and Weldon Carey. Mullins slightly closed his eyes, reopened them.

  Carey put his arm around the girl again, and she did not, this time, move out of its circle. The two of them, close together, went through the door first, and Paula Foster smiled at Weigand and went after them. Her husband raised his right hand in what was almost a salute and followed, and Jerry said, “Come on, Pam.”

  Pam looked at Bill Weigand and her eyebrows went up.

  “Timing,” Bill said. “Bad, Pam.”

  Pam North said, “Oh.” Then she said, “Bill—” and Bill Weigand shook his head at her and said, “Later.” She said, “Oh,” again and then, “Are you and Dorian coming down this evening?”

  “Unless something—” Bill said, and threw it away.

  “About six then,” Pam said. “We thought you wanted her.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “So did I. Perhaps I do.”

  “But you’re not sure any more?” She looked at him. “Good,” she said. “I think you’re right, Bill.”

  Bill Weigand did not say anything to that, and watched them go. Beside Mullins, Pam North paused. “You come with Bill and Dorian,” she said, “if they do?” Mullins looked at Bill Weigand, who nodded. “Sure, Mrs. North,” Mullins said. “O.K.”

  They went, then, and Mullins went after them, momentarily, and returned. Bill looked up at him, and Mullins nodded. “They got company,” Mullins said. “Mrs. Mott and this guy Carey. Listen, Loot—does he get away with it?”

  “I don’t know, yet,” he said. “We may have to leave it up to Stein.”

  Mullins reflected and said, “Yeah. Only this Carey needs—” He let it rest. He looked puzzled. “Listen, Loot,” he said. “I didn’t get it. Should I of?”

  “Have,” Bill said. “Did you ever hear of enough rope, Sergeant?”

  “Oh,” Mullins said, “that.”

  “For everybody,” Bill said. “By the way, we’d better cancel the pick-up for the girl. And Carey.”

  Mullins said, “O.K., Loot,” and started out. “And then come back,” Bill said. “I want to talk to you about a guy named Leonard, Mullins. And maybe we’ll think of a couple of other guys to talk about. Right?”

  “O-o-oh?” Mullins said, and seemed enlightened. He went out.

  11

  SUNDAY, 6:10 P.M. TO 9:45 P.M.

  Bill Weigand was late at the Norths. Dorian came, a few minutes after six, and said that Bill was coming; that he had telephoned her and asked her to go on ahead and said he might be a little late. The young cats sat in front of Dorian Weigand and adored her, with purrs. Martini sat a little distance off and considered everything, without committing herself. Jerry North suggested that there was no use waiting for Bill, and Dorian and Pam agreed and watched, with anticipation, while he stirred. One of the cats jumped to the chest which served as a bar and offered to help, smelled gin and crinkled its nose. It left.

  “Don’t be silly,” Pam told the little cat. “You were named after it.” She regarded it. “And you cast a damper,” she said. “You’re a prohibitionist.” The cat, apparently regarding
this as an endearment, jumped to Pam’s lap and tried to rub noses. Pain held it for a moment and put it down, just as Martini spoke in a low, harsh voice. “Jealous,” Pam explained. “It’s all got very complicated. Did Bill say anything?”

  “No,” Dorian said. “Just that he was coming.”

  Dorian curled in the big chair, looked at the fire. The three of them drank slowly, relaxed, watching the cats play. It was six-thirty, or a little later, when the doorbell rang.

  Bill Weigand looked very tired as he stood in the doorway, his eyes moved quickly until they found Dorian. Then his gaze stopped moving, having come home, having found her there. Pam North, watching, thought he had never quite got over the feeling that if he left Dorian, she might vanish. It was not unreasonable, Pam thought. After all, there had been a time, and a very bad time for a while, when Dorian had vanished, and been hard to find.*

  Pam saw Dorian nod, smile, to prove that she was surely there. Then Pam looked back at Bill Weigand’s face and did not need Dorian’s “No, Bill?” and his shaken head to realize that this one wasn’t over. It was a long way from over, she thought, looking at Bill’s tired face.

  “Mullins?” Jerry said, practically, moving toward the chest which served as bar. “Coming,” Bill said. “Parking the car.” Almost at once the doorbell rang again, and Mullins appeared, looking as he always did. Jerry made another round of drinks, and until he had almost emptied his glass, Bill Weigand merely sat. Then he looked at the Norths, smiled and said, “Right. Ask it.”

  “All right,” Pam said. “Why, Bill?”

  Bill turned to Dorian.

  “They brought Peggy Mott in,” he said. “I turned her loose.” Dorian nodded and he turned back to Pam North. “Because I’m not sure we want her,” he said, paused and added, “yet.” He finished his drink. “Among us,” he said, “I’m not sure of anything.” The words seemed to make him more tired, his face showed it. He spoke to his empty glass, as Jerry got up and went to the bar. “It looked so damn simple,” Bill told the glass.