The Norths Meet Murder Read online

  There were a few gasps, which sounded a little theatrical, and several candles were poked into the bathroom, which was merely an empty, and immaculate, bathroom. A few wandered into the front living-room, and a few more looked out of the rear windows and down the fire-escape toward the dark yard. And nowhere was there anything to see. Interest and excitement seeped out, and there was the scuffling uncertainty of people who realized, all at once, that they are engaged in an escapade which has gone silly on them.

  “Well,” Mr. North said, in the flickering darkness. “This is it. I told you there would be nothing.”

  He moved toward the door.

  “Everybody had enough?” he said. “If so, we may as well go down before we set something on fire.”

  He went out and started down, and the others followed him. Seeing his calm, and feeling the calm of the others, Mrs. North regained her own. She even spoke, assuring those nearest her that that was all there was; that she would hold the light until they were out and close the door behind them. Her previous excitement seemed, all at once, absurd. After all, she had only to wait for Lieutenant Weigand and tell him what she knew, and then the rest could be carried out quietly and in order, probably tomorrow. Now she ought to go down and save the party, if it could be saved.

  “Although it was a fool thing to give,” Mrs. North told herself, with her new-found clarity.

  The rest filed out in front of her, and the stairs were confused in the half-light with people going down. She had her hand on the door to leave and close it after her, and her finger pressed the button which would set the snap-lock and end any chance for more thrill-seeking. But then something brushed against her feet, and moved softly on, and in the light from her candle and a few feet away toward the front of the apartment, two shining spots appeared.

  “Pete!” said Mrs. North, to the two shining eyes of the cat which had passed her and turned to look back. “Come here, Pete!”

  There was a soft, pleased cat sound from the darkness, and the eyes disappeared. There was the faint thud of a departing cat on bare boards, and the faint scratch of cat claws going away.

  “Miaow,” said Pete, interestedly, pleased by the new game.

  “Pete!” said Mrs. North, sharply. The sound of retreat stopped and the eyes reappeared. Pete gave the small, excited cry of a cat which enjoys being chased, and departed toward the front of the house. Mrs. North commented to herself on the ways of cats, and followed, leaving the door ajar behind her. As she moved, the thud of retreat became a scamper, punctuated by tiny, excited cries. Pete disappeared into the large living-room, where there was plenty of space to run. Mrs. North, leaving another door ajar behind her, went after him. Inside the living-room door, she set her candlestick on the floor and watched for eyes. They were in the corner and she advanced cautiously. She could almost reach him when they vanished, and a black blur departed for another corner. Pete was having a lovely time.

  But Mrs. North, also, knew a trick. Instead of following, she stooped down and became deeply interested in a spot of bare floor. Gently she scratched on the floor with her nails, and then she squatted and examined the floor even more intently. The eyes reflecting the candlelight moved a little. Mrs. North continued to scratch gently on the floor. A soft black blur came curiously forward, passed out of arm’s-reach, hesitated and came on; suddenly was gathered up, struggling angrily for a moment, purring as fingers found the right place behind a furry ear. Pete held gently to Mrs. North’s shoulder and looked over it as she started back toward the hall.

  And then, from very close, Mrs. North heard the firm snap of a closing door. It was a little sound, but it snapped against her nerves and drew them taut. Feeling the difference in her body, Pete wriggled for a moment and, unconsciously, she let him drop to the floor. He did not run, but crouched against her ankles, and growled softly. Mrs. North found that terror made her cold and curiously ready. The candle a few feet away, on the floor—she must get the candle.

  Then, beyond the candle, there was a dark shadow, and a foot came out, sharply, toward the little light. The candle went over and went out, and in a moment there was the penetrating scent of an extinguished wick, smoldering. The shadow came on into the half light of the front room, and boards creaked under weight. The light from the street shone faintly on the face Mrs. North, desperately, had known she would see. She made a little, gasping cry.

  “So,” said the voice, “I thought you did. You should learn not to show what you think, Mrs. North. You should have learned. When you could.”

  The voice was calm, unexcited, almost expressionless. That made it more terrible. There was not even anger in the voice; in the words there was only a change of tense. “Should learn”—“should have learned.” It was a horrible difference to Mrs. North, backing slowly from the voice, with the black cat growling softly at her feet.

  “But you can’t—you can’t!” she said, and her voice was low, too, and almost steady. “Everybody will know, this time—they’re all around you.”

  “No,” said the voice. “It is all very confused down there. Nobody knows where anybody is. And I’ve left, you see. I took my hat and coat after you came up here and left. There were several who saw me leave. And this will not be noisy. You can’t scream, you see.”

  But she could scream; blindingly it came over Mrs. North that she could scream, and the people would run; that she should have screamed—that she had forgotten—

  She backed away and a scream formed in her throat. Then there was sudden movement, and a hand was hardly, bruisingly over her mouth. Another hand was at her throat. She could scream—her hands went up, frantically, to the other hands—she could scream—

  “Jerry!!” she screamed. “Jerry!”

  But the scream died against the palm of the pressing hand, choked in the constricted throat.

  “No,” said the voice. “You can’t scream. People die quite quietly. I know that, you see. I know—”

  But they did not, Mrs. North knew. Now there was a beating sound in her ears; a rising, roaring sound, drowning the voice—drowning—they would hear it and come—they would—

  Lieutenant Weigand walked along briskly, with the air of a man who knows where he is going. It would be simple, now; now that he had his hunch. A good deal was still obscure; he would have to recast some things, and look further. He would have to prove some things, too, but that would be easy, now that they knew what to look for. They could fill in after the arrest. He planned the arrest—a tap on a shoulder, a request for a moment’s time, the formal words. It would be well, however, to have Mullins on hand in case of trouble. It was lucky he had told Mullins to wait for him outside so they could go in together. They could get it over with and hardly disturb Mrs. North’s party.

  Weigand smiled as he thought of the party, now so unnecessary. He wondered what he would have got out of it by questioning them all together, and what questions, half an hour before, he would have thought to ask. Weigand rounded the corner and neared the Buano house, looking in the light from the street lamps for Mullins. There was no Mullins, and Weigand made a remark or two to himself. Then he looked at his watch and withdrew the remarks. He had said about ten-thirty, and it was less than that by several minutes. He could go in, or he could wait. There was, he decided, no hurry. He lighted a cigarette and leaned against a railing across from the Buano house. Looking up, he could see lights in the windows of the North apartment; looking higher he was startled to see faint light in the top-floor apartment.

  “What the—” he said. Then he guessed that some of them must have gone up to look at the scene of the crime. He smiled, amusedly. Well, they would do no harm—nor get much satisfaction; and down the street he saw a dark figure. The figure passed under a light, and he saw it was Mullins.

  Weigand whistled softly and Mullins came across.

  “O.K., Loot?” Mullins said.

  “Right,” said Weigand, enjoying it, and drawing deeply on his cigarette. “Right. It’s broke.”
r />   Mullins said “Yeh?” in a delighted tone. Weigand drew again on his cigarette and tossed it away, almost reluctantly. They might as well finish it.

  “Come along,” he said.

  Mr. North stood at the door of the apartment and greeted the detectives. He looked sharply at Weigand’s face for a moment, and then he smiled slowly. Weigand realized that his face told the story.

  “So?” Mr. North said. “So—you’ve got it?”

  There was curiosity in his voice, and Weigand was pleased by it.

  “I think so,” he said. “Yes, I think so. I’m going to make a pinch, anyway. If—?” He paused. Perhaps the Norths would prefer that it finish somewhere else, and now that made no difference to him. “Is your wife around?” he said. “She ought to be in on it.”

  Mr. North said, “Yes, sure,” and led the detectives into the living-room. There were fewer there, now, and they glanced quickly around. Mr. North’s voice was puzzled when he spoke.

  “She ought to be,” he said. “She was just a minute ago—when we all came down.” Then his voice became more doubtful. “Or was she?” he said. “Come to think of it—”

  Weigand was looking quickly for another face—and not finding it, suddenly, hardly knowing why, he was worried. He spoke quickly and sharply, and Mullins, who knew the tone, looked at him with inquiry as quick and sharp. Mr. North swung on them.

  “Yes?” he said. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Weigand said. “Did you all go upstairs?” Mr. North nodded. “And all come down?” the detective asked.

  “I thought so,” Mr. North said. “Some went out, though—I thought Pam—”

  “Come on!” Weigand said. “We’ll look. Come on!”

  Turning, he stepped quickly toward the stairs, and North was quick after him. Mullins started to follow, checked himself and ran to a rear window of the apartment. He threw it open, jumped through and in a moment was running up the fire-escape. The men and women in the living-room swung, suddenly quiet, and stared after them. They heard the pounding steps of hurrying men on the stairs; a moment later the hollower pounding at a door.

  The door was locked. Weigand flung his weight against it and it rattled but held. Together, he and Mr. North hurled themselves on it, and it threw them back. They hesitated a moment, and from inside there came the angry yowl of a frightened, furious cat, and the sound of scuffling movement. Frantically, the two men surged against the door. Weigand whirled angrily when he realized Mullins was missing; then whirled back as glass crashed inside.

  “The fire-escape!” he said, grasping it. “Mullins—the window.”

  The two men raced downstairs, through the window Mullins had left open, and up the fire-stairs outside to the window of the fourth-floor apartment. Weigand’s flashlight beam bit into the darkness, as, on North’s heels, he hurled himself into the room.

  But there was no need to hurry, any longer. The beam picked out Mullins, enormously tall and burly, with his shadow enormous behind him. Even as they ran across the room toward him he stooped over one of two figures lying at his feet, and there was a flash of metal and a click. Then he stood up again, turned to face the flashlight.

  “O.K., Loot,” he said. “Got him. Only—the lady—”

  But Mr. North was already beside the other figure on the floor, and held its head in his hands and was saying, over and over, “Pam. Pam. Pam, kid!”

  What had been black in front of Pam North’s eyes began to eddy and whirl, and her hands went up to soothe a clutching burning at her throat. She fought to push hands away and the black swirled into gray, and then in the center of the gray, light broke through and she heard a voice saying: “Pam. Pam, kid!” She had to scream, she remembered—she had to scream. She had to scream and bring them and she had to tell them about the murderer.

  The light space in the center grew, and she could see a face in it. It was not a face she knew, and below the face there was stiff whiteness, and a voice, which she didn’t know, either, said:

  “She’ll do now, I think.”

  Then the lightness grew still larger and she could see Jerry, kneeling at her feet, and knew it was he who was calling her name. She smiled and tried to speak, and he nodded and smiled. He was terribly white, she thought, and she wondered if he was going to be drunk, because he looked like a person who was going to be drunk. She wanted to tell him that he should lie down a while and then there was another face, and it was the face of that detective—that detective?—Lieutenant Weigand, of course.

  “It was—” she said. It was terribly hard to speak, but Weigand was nodding. “I told you he left his name,” Mrs. North said. “From the first—”

  The ambulance surgeon was shaking his head at her and telling her not to try to talk, but she could see Weigand nodding.

  “Right,” Weigand said. “You said that all along. Sure you did.”

  The ambulance surgeon was less gentle in restoring consciousness to Clinton Edwards, out from the effects of a blackjack laid with scientific precision behind his right ear. And when Edwards came to, he found that his wrists were cuffed together, and that Weigand was standing over him, looking down without expression. When Weigand saw Edwards’ eyes open, he turned and nodded to Mullins.

  “All right,” he said. “You can take him along and book him. Felonious assault.” He looked down at Edwards, who was trying to sit up. “Just for now, Mr. Edwards,” he said. “Don’t get any wrong ideas. We’ll have something else for you in the morning.” He stared down at Edwards. “We’ll make it murder in the morning,” he said. “And glad to.”

  22

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 2

  Mr. and Mrs. North finished their lunch in a little restaurant near the Criminal Courts Building, and finished their coffee and had more. Their waiter had begun to hover when finally Lieutenant Weigand came in the door and walked across to their table and looked down at them. He looked down and, after a moment, answered their unspoken inquiries with a nod.

  “Yes,” he said. “They voted the indictment. Murder in the first degree.”

  He sat down and ordered coffee.

  “And that’s that,” he said. “Except for the trial, at which you’ll both have to testify. But heaven knows when that will be. I hear he’s hiring Verndorf, and Verndorf’s good.” He paused. “Verndorf will need to be,” he said, rather grimly.

  “Well,” said Mr. North, a little uncertainly. “You don’t think Verndorf can get him off?”

  Weigand shook his head. He said he didn’t think Clarence Darrow could get Clinton Edwards off, if Darrow were alive and willing to try. “As he wouldn’t be,” Weigand added. He sat brooding over his coffee, relaxed. The Norths waited hopefully, and finally Mrs. North spoke.

  “There are still a lot of things I don’t understand,” she said. “Why he did, and how you knew. You did know, didn’t you—before he went after me, that is?”

  Weigand nodded.

  “Only a little while before,” he said. Then he looked at Mrs. North with livening interest.

  “What did you find out?” he asked. “I mean, what suddenly made you dangerous to him, so that he had to try to get you out of the way?”

  “Lobster,” Mrs. North said. “When it didn’t taste right.” She paused. “Or, really, when it did taste right,” she said. “That made me remember.”

  Weigand felt he ought to be expert by now, but he had to shake his head. Mrs. North explained.

  “It was when I tasted our own lobster at the party,” she said. “Tasting it made me think of Edwards’ and then I realized for the first time that something had been troubling me all along about that. His wasn’t right; it wasn’t the same thing at all. Just lobster, warmed up with cream and butter, and probably a little chili-sauce, and all at once I realized it. But he had got the recipe from me specially and he had described to you how he made Spanish lobster by the recipe and how long it took. I realized he had told a lie about that, and so there must be something about it—funny busine
ss. But if there was funny business, then he was trying to hide something, so he had really done it.” She paused. “Of course,” she added, “I said that from the first, you know.”

  Weigand smiled and nodded, and said he remembered.

  “And when I found out,” Mrs. North said, “I was startled and frightened and, I suppose, showed it. And he saw me show it, and guessed what I had found out. Which was shrewd of him, wasn’t it? Only I still don’t get it.”

  “Well,” Weigand said, “it was fairly simple, really. He just used frozen lobster, instead of natural lobster. The kind of lobster they sell now in little compressed, quick-frozen blocks, each block equal to a two-pound lobster. You know?”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. North. “Of course! Of all the stupid things. My not guessing, I mean.”

  Weigand admitted he hadn’t guessed, either, until it was almost over; until, in fact, he had looked in a restaurant window on his way to the North party and seen lobsters lying on beds of ice.

  “They looked cold,” he said. “Cold lobsters. Then I thought of frozen lobsters and then realized how it could be done. Edwards was always a likely one, it seemed to me, if we could break the alibi.”

  “But how—?” Mr. North said, still at a loss. Weigand finished his coffee and ordered another cup. He had better, he said, tell them the whole business from the start. There was, first, the motive.

  “We didn’t get that, really, until after the arrest,” he admitted. “Then we knew Edwards had done it, and it was a question of filling in. So I went to Berex.” He took a sip of the new coffee. Berex, he explained, because Berex was the only established link between Edwards and his victim.

  “Even without the trust fund, which we had had to abandon,” he went on, “Berex was somehow the link between Edwards and Brent. Berex himself didn’t know how, and we had to dig. Then I remembered something which hadn’t seemed to mean anything at the time—that Edwards had sold an invention for Berex. It didn’t connect up, at first, even when I found out that it had been sold to Recording Industries, Inc. But the company’s name was familiar, and I finally remembered that it was on the list of clients of Brent’s firm. So we worked on that line. Then it came out.