Murder Comes First Read online

  “Not yet,” Lucinda said. “At least, I don’t think so. I’m downstairs telephoning. They said it would be all right, but there’s—I think there’s one of them out there.”

  “Aunt Lucy!” Pam said. “What—”

  “But they’re so suspicious,” Aunt Lucinda said. “And anyway, I don’t think any of us could eat. It’s all—all so dreadful!” The light, suddenly old, voice broke.

  “Dear,” Pam said. “Tell me. What’s happened to Aunt Thelma.”

  “They—they’re going to——Oh, Pam!”

  Pamela North waited.

  “—arrest her,” Aunt Lucinda said. “It—it just can’t be happening. It can’t be!”

  “Arrest her?” Pam said, her own voice rising. With her head she gestured to Jerry to get on the extension telephone in his study. He nodded, and went. “What on earth for?”

  “Pamela,” Aunt Lucinda said, “I’m afraid—dreadfully afraid—murder.”

  “My God,” Jerry said, on the extension telephone.

  “She loved Grace,” Lucinda said. “We all did. The other—why, it was twenty-five years ago.”

  “Aunt Lucy,” Pam said. “Who has been—you say, murdered?”

  “Cyanide,” Lucinda said. “It smells of peaches. No, of peach pits. Apparently it was in a capsule. It was supposed to be vitamins and—oh, Pam—she said it was ‘concentrated health.’ And—and it killed her. And Thelma had been in the bathroom and then they found out about Paul and there’s a man from the district attorney’s office and—Pam, what shall we do?”

  “We’ll come,” Pam said. “Where are you?”

  She was, they all were, at Grace Logan’s home. It was just west of Fifth Avenue in the Fifties.

  “West?” Pam said, doubtfully. It seemed improbable. But Aunt Lucinda was certain of that. A private house.

  “It’s between enormous buildings,” Lucinda said. “No yard at all. Oh Pam, can you come?” And Gerald too, of course?”

  They could. Pausing only while Jerry gulped what remained in his glass, they did.

  “I’m so glad it’s west,” Pam said, in the taxicab. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be Bill. Because he’s west, you know.”

  Jerry hoped Aunt Lucinda was right.

  “She sounds a little—” he began, and Pam said she knew.

  “But,” Pam said, “I’ve always wondered whether she really is.”

  About the address, at any rate, Aunt Lucinda was right.

  The house was indeed west of Fifth, where few private houses any longer were. It was a four-story house and a narrow one; wedged between much taller and much broader business buildings, Grace Logan’s little house stood with its elbows tight to its sides, a subdued little house which, normally, one might pass a dozen times and never see. But now a good many people were seeing it; they stood on the sidewalk across the street and stared at it, and at the police cars in front of it. Uniformed policemen told them to get along, now, nothing to see here. But they waited all the same.

  The Norths’ cab stopped in front of the house, and was waved on. But by then Pam North had the door on her side open and was getting out. “No, lady,” a patrolman said. He looked at Jerry, “No soap, buddy,” he told Jerry.

  “Lieutenant Weigand,” Pam North said. “It’s my aunt, you see.”

  “Who’s—” the patrolman began, but by then Pam North had advanced, and Jerry paid the cab driver and went after her. At the top of the short flight of stairs running down from the sidewalk to the little entry, Pam stopped and said, “Oh.” She stopped because a large man with a red face filled the front of the entry, and spoke over his shoulder to another man behind him.

  “Like I’ve told you I don’t know how many times,” the big man said. “You try to make it hard for yourself, Lieutenant. What more do you want?”

  “I’ve no doubt—” the other man, who was only a little above medium height, who had a thin face and wore a blue suit and a soft hat canted a little forward, began. But then, looking over the other’s shoulder, he stopped. He said, “Um-m.”

  The big, florid man turned and looked at Pam. After a moment, he grew perceptibly more florid.

  “No!” he said. “No!”

  “Good afternoon, Inspector,” Pam North said, in a polite small voice. “Hello, Bill.”

  “Weigand!” Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley said, in a great voice.

  “Sir?” Lieutenant William Weigand, Acting Captain, Homicide West, said in a much smaller one.

  “The Norths!” O’Malley told him. “Don’t you see them?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bill Weigand said. “Hello, Pam. Jerry. What in the name of—”

  “If you—” Inspector O’Malley said, riding over everyone and now dangerously florid.

  “No sir,” Bill Weigand said. “Surprise to me, Inspector.”

  “My aunt,” Pam said. “She’s my aunt.”

  Both Inspector O’Malley and Lieutenant Weigand looked down at her. So did Jerry North. Jerry ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair.

  “You mean to stand there and tell me—” O’Malley began, and stopped, too full of words for utterance.

  “I’m so sorry, Inspector,” Pam North said. “I’m afraid so. Aunts, really. I—you see it was really Aunt Lucinda who telephoned and we both thought it was probably east until …” She paused for a moment. “It’s so hard to tell with Aunt Lucinda,” she said, and smiled up at the inspector.

  “Stop!” Inspector O’Malley told her. “I—” Again he did not finish. “Weigand.”

  Bill said, “Yes, Inspector?”

  “I won’t have it,” O’Malley said. “I’ve told you a hundred times. You know what happens when you let them in. You know, don’t you?”

  Bill Weigand nodded and looked attentive.

  “Gets all screwy,” O’Malley said. “Doesn’t make any sense. Gets so you can’t understand the damn thing. I’ve told you.”

  “Right,” Bill said.

  “You know what to do?” O’Malley demanded.

  “Right,” Bill said.’

  “Do it!” Inspector O’Malley commanded. He moved forward, blindly. Pam and Jerry drew aside. Inspector O’Malley steamed up the stairs to the sidewalk. He stopped. “The Norths!” he said. “Good God.” He went, blindly, toward his car.

  “He certainly doesn’t like us in things,” Pam North said. “But we can’t just leave Aunt Thelma.”

  “Look,” Bill said. “It’s Thelma Whitsett who’s your aunt? And the other two?”

  “Of course, Bill,” Pamela North said.

  “Not Grace Logan?”

  “Heavens no.”

  Bill Weigand took a rather obviously deep breath.

  “Pam,” he said. “You realize the inspector thought you meant Mrs. Logan was your aunt? That otherwise, Aunt Thelma or no Aunt Thelma, he’d have had you thrown out?”

  “Bill,” Pam said, “I was perfectly clear. I don’t—I didn’t even know Mrs. Logan. But I’ve got to help the aunts.”

  “I—” Bill began, and then, suddenly, he smiled. “Poor Arty,” he said. “One of these days—” He did not say what one of these days was to bring forth. He said, “As a matter of fact, we’d have wanted you in the end, since the aunts are yours.” He opened the door of the house and let the Norths in ahead of him. In the living room a flight above, in the room in which Grace Logan had died with such sudden violence, but where her body no longer was, he amplified. He spoke quickly, succinctly.

  Miss Thelma Whitsett was, in a room on the floor above, being interrogated by an assistant district attorney. The other aunts were waiting their turn. But it was Aunt Thelma in whom the assistant district attorney was most interested, and in whom Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley was most interested.

  “But why?” Pam said. “Why, Bill?”

  He told her. Grace Logan had died as suddenly as anyone dies after ingesting five grains or so of potassium cyanide, which turns to hydrocyanic acid in the stomach; which smells
then of the insides of peach pits; which causes death by a kind of asphyxia and causes it within minutes. A capsule containing potassium cyanide had been placed among capsules in a bottle containing vitamins, which had been kept in a medicine cabinet in the bathroom off Mrs. Logan’s bedroom. And—Thelma Whitsett had been in the bathroom only minutes before a maid brought the bottle down to Mrs. Logan.

  “Opportunity,” Bill told them. “Obviously.”

  “Bill,” Pam said. “The maid. Anybody. It might have been there for days. You mean to say the inspector—? Of all the flimsy—”

  Bill Weigand smiled faintly. He would admit, to them, here, that the inspector liked things simple. He hesitated.

  “In this case,” he said, “very probably too simple. But—it’s not quite that flimsy, Pam. There could be a motive, of sorts. Not particularly good, as it stands. But—how much do you know about your aunts, Pam?”

  She knew, she told him, what people generally know about aunts who live in another city, who are seen, briefly, once or twice a year. They were her father’s sisters; they had lived for many years in Cleveland; they had never married.

  “Aunt Pennina was always going to,” Pam said. “I don’t know why she never did. Lucy, I guess never. And Aunt Thelma—I don’t suppose she—” But then Pam stopped. She said she was trying to remember something.

  “Right,” Bill said. “Your Aunt Lucinda remembered it and—mentioned it. She said, ‘But that’s ridiculous. So long ago.’ Something like that. So we found out what was long ago and ridiculous. You remember?”

  “Aunt Thelma was going to be married,” Pam said. “I remember that. It must have been—oh, twenty-five years ago. She must have been—oh, in her middle forties. But, he married someone else.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “His name was Paul Logan. He married someone else, Pam. A widow named Grace Rolfe. Five years or so younger than your aunt, and very pretty. She wasn’t pretty when we saw her an hour ago.”

  “Bill!” Pam said. “That’s—that’s grabbing a straw. Twenty-five years, Bill!”

  Bill Weigand nodded slowly. He said twenty-five years was a long time, too long a time; that no sane person carried hate for twenty-five years; that there was no present evidence there had ever been hate.

  “No sane person,” he repeated. “The inspector grants that.”

  “You mean,” Pam said, “he thinks Aunt Thelma is—isn’t sane? That she came here to have tea with Mrs. Logan and brought cyanide in capsules? On the chance that Mrs. Logan would be taking capsules and—”

  “No,” Bill said. “She knew about the capsules. Mrs. Logan was taking them last spring when your aunts called on her. After tea, as today. Miss Whitsett agrees to that. All the Misses Whitsett agree to that.”

  “Jerry,” Pam said. “Don’t you see it’s ridiculous?” Now there was a kind of uneasiness in her voice. “Brooding for years, getting more and more bitter until finally—” Then Pam North stopped, hearing herself.

  “It could be argued, Pam,” Jerry said.

  “I know,” Pam North said. “I just did. But I don’t believe it, no matter who says it. I—”

  But she was interrupted by a voice from the door which said first, “Listen, Loot” and then, in a different tone, “My God.” They looked toward the door, and Sergeant Aloysius Mullins looked at them.

  “I guess,” Mullins said. “I should of known, because it’s begun to go screwy, Loot. Hello, Mrs. North. Hello, Mr. North.”

  They said “Hello” to Sergeant Mullins.

  Mullins still looked at the Norths.

  “Right,” Bill Weigand said. “It seems that the Whitsett sisters are Pam’s aunts. So—”

  “Oh,” Mullins said. “Well, I should of known. This son of hers isn’t where he’s supposed to be, Loot. Turns out he never was.”

  Mullins looked again at the Norths.

  “A screwy thing,” he said, vaguely accusing.

  “Sergeant Mullins,” Pamela North said. “We don’t even know who you’re talking about. The son of—” She stopped abruptly. “Whoms scare me,” she said. “Whose son?” She looked puzzled. “About whom are you—” she began.

  “Never mind, Pam,” Jerry told her, soothingly.

  “Mrs. Logan’s,” Bill Weigand told both of them. “Go ahead, Mullins.”

  Mullins went ahead. He had not far to go. According to Hilda, the cook, Mrs. Logan’s son had been spending the past week, and was to spend the next, with friends in Maryland. But he was not, had not been. A telephone call disclosed that.

  “He could,” Mullins added, “be anywhere. Around here, likely as not. Figure we should—?”

  “Not yet,” Bill told him. “Time enough later.”

  “All the same,” Mullins said, “it’s another screwy one. You can see that, Loot.”

  “It—” Bill began, and then again there was a sound at the door. Aunt Thelma Whitsett came through it, followed by Aunt Pennina Whitsett and Aunt Lucinda Whitsett.

  “This,” Aunt Thelma said, without preamble, “is utter nonsense. These men!”

  One of the men was behind her. He was a slight, sharp man, with a briefcase under his arm. He looked at the Norths and then at Lieutenant Weigand.

  “The Misses Whitsett’s niece,” Weigand told him. “Mrs. North. Mr. North. This is Assistant District Attorney Thompkins. Homicide Bureau.”

  He looked at Thompkins and waited.

  “For the moment, Miss Whitsett isn’t needed,” he said. “Not by us.” He looked directly at Aunt Thelma Whitsett. “Although,” he said, “I am not convinced that you have been as helpful as you might be. And I don’t want you to leave town.”

  “Nonsense,” the leading Miss Whitsett said, in her firmest tone. “Tomorrow we are going to Florida.”

  “We’ve got reservations,” Aunt Lucy said, her face not bright but sad, her voice protesting. “We’re booked.”

  Aunt Pennina said nothing. She sat down and looked at the other two, and at the men. She waited, relaxed.

  “If you try to go you will be,” Assistant District Attorney Thompkins said and then, approving his play on words, “Ha!”

  “Lieutenant,” Aunt Thelma said, “tell your man not to be absurd.”

  Bill shook his head.

  “As a material witness,” the assistant district attorney said. “All three of you, if necessary.”

  “Oh Thelma,” Lucy said. “He can! I read somewhere about a poor old man who—”

  “Never mind, Lucinda,” Thelma said. “We shall see about this.” She looked, with disapproval, at Thompkins, as if he were a dog without pedigree and of regrettable habits. “I shall consult an attorney.”

  “By all means,” Thompkins said. “I should.” It appeared that Aunt Thelma did not abash him. “And,” he added, “I’ll have the train checked, just in case. What train, Miss Whitsett? Or plane?”

  “Oh,” Lucinda said, “we never ride planes. We—”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Thelma,” Aunt Pennina said, unexpectedly to everybody. “Tell the man.”

  “Really, Pennina!” Aunt Thelma said. “Stubborn!” But then she told the man.

  “I think now,” Aunt Pennina said, standing up, “that we might go back to the hotel.” She smiled gently at everybody. “I’m afraid,” she said, “it’s quite past our dinner time. And such a trying day.”

  Pam and Jerry went with the aunts; Pam after a moment’s hesitation. As they started for the living room door, Thompkins appeared to brush them from his mind.

  “So Logan’s skipped,” he said. “Hm-m. How about Sandford?”

  “Coming,” Bill Weigand told him, as the Norths started down the stairs. Then he went to the head of the stairs and spoke down to the Norths. “You want to call Dorian and tell her I’ve had it again?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Pam said. “Bill—”

  “Later, Pam,” Bill Weigand said. “When it clears a bit.”

  The police cars, except that which had brought Thompkins and his aides
of the District Attorney’s Homicide Bureau; except for Weigand’s car from the Police Department’s Homicide Squad, had disappeared. The crowd had disappeared. A single uniformed patrolman stood in the entry. He watched the Norths and the Misses Whitsett without surprise, or comment.

  The street was empty, with that peculiar emptiness of a New York side street on Sunday. Jerry looked up it, shrugged, and started them toward Fifth Avenue.

  They had gone perhaps twenty feet when a tall man, carrying a light topcoat, met them and passed. He was walking quickly, as if late for an appointment. Pam North turned to look after him, and was in time to see him go into the Logan house.

  “I wonder who that is?” she said. “One of the family?”

  Jerry shrugged.

  “Probably Sandford,” Pam said. “They were expecting a Sandford. Whoever he is?”

  Again Jerry shrugged.

  They walked on, almost alone in the block. But then, as if he had suddenly come into existence there, there was a man on the other side of the street. He was walking slowly, sauntering, as if going nowhere. Then, when he was across from the Logan house, his slow movement slowed still further. It ceased. Then, in the shadowed street, the man on the other sidewalk ceased to exist as surprisingly as he had come into existence.

  “Jerry!” Pam North said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “He’s following him! Did you see?”

  It looked, Jerry North agreed, uncommonly like it. The cops were thorough tonight. Then a cab came with its top lights on, and Jerry flagged it down.

  3

  Sunday, 7:08 P.M. to 8:50 P.M.

  Weigand, as the downstairs door closed behind the Norths, went back into the living room and said, “Well?” to Assistant District Attorney Thompkins who, after a moment, shook his head. Bill said he didn’t either.

  “All the same, it’s a coincidence,” Thompkins said. “Maybe the old girl had hated for years and finally boiled over. It happens.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “Damned near everything does, Tommy. At the moment, though, I shouldn’t think there was anything to go on.”

  Thompkins said “Nope” to that. He said it would be a help if the old girl turned up to have a reticule full of cyanide around, Weigand agreed that it would, and someone made vocal sounds of being present at the door of the living room. Thompkins and Bill Weigand looked at a tall, blond man, heavyish, with blue eyes spaced wide in an open countenance and a look of worry on the countenance.