"I'm Lieutenant Joseph Marcus, Mr. Iverson. We've got a body here."
"Yes, yes. I know. The officer told me."
"He was shot."
"It's incredible. I can hardly believe it."
"It looks like someone took advantage of the privacy of your golf course to commit a murder."
Iverson's expression, although indicating shock and a shade of nausea, was primarily one of resentment. Among the activities of the club, he palpably felt, one expected and accepted certain indiscretions and transgressions of the peccadillo type, but murder was neither expected nor acceptable and ought to cause someone to lose his membership.
"Are you certain that it's murder?" he said. "Perhaps he killed himself."
"With his finger, maybe?"
"Oh, I see. There's no gun."
"Right. No gun. Besides, there's no powder marks on his shirt. He was shot from a distance."
"Do you think it could have been an accident of some sort?"
"It could have been, but I don't think so."
"Well, it's a terrible thing. Simply terrible. I can't understand it at all."
"You're luckier than me. You don't have to understand it. All you have to do is see if you recognize the body."
Iverson hesitated, then walked over to the body and looked intently for a moment into blind blue eyes. When he straightened and turned back to Marcus, the shade of nausea in his face had deepened, but there was also a new element of relief, as if the worst, which had been anticipated, had not developed.
"I don't know him," he said. "I can assure you that he was not a member of this club."
"Well, that's all right," Marcus said with an unworthy feeling of spite. "Maybe the murderer is."
"I believe you'll find that he is not. I find it inconceivable that a member of this club should be involved in anything like this. It will create a dreadful fuss, I'm afraid, as it is. We may have some withdrawals."
"Are you positive this man was not a member? His name was Alexander Gray."
"I'm quite positive. Our membership is limited, rather exclusive, and I'm acquainted with all members. That's why I'm convinced that none of them could be involved."
"Even exclusive people can commit murder, Mr. Iverson. Possibly even exclusive people you happen to be acquainted with. Never mind, though. Thanks for coming down."
Marcus turned away abruptly, and there was in his movement an implication of disdain that made Iverson flush and Sergeant Fuller curse softly under his breath. Aware that he had been dismissed, the manager went back across the course toward the Club House, only the roof of which was visible beyond the rise. Marcus went over and picked up the brown worsted jacket from the grass where he had dropped it after exploring the pockets.
"I wonder where the coroner is," he said.
"He'll be along," Fuller said.
"Well, I won't wait for him. You stay here and find out what he's got to say. Nothing much, I suspect. Because he never does."
Sergeant Fuller was curious about Marcus's plans, but he was damned if he would give him the satisfaction of knowing it. He watched Marcus go off toward the Club House, where they'd left their car in the parking lot, and he cursed again under his breath, Marcus for what he was, and the coroner for not coming.
In the car, unaware that he had been cursed, or even that he had given cause for cursing, Marcus checked Alexander Gray's driver's license for an address. The street and number rang a faint bell, and he sat quietly for a minute, concentrating, trying to fit the location properly into a kind of mental map of the city. If his mental cartography was correct, which it was, Gray had lived not more than a mile from the entrance to this club. Probably somewhat less. Marcus looked at his watch and saw that it was two minutes after nine o'clock. Starting the car, he drove down a macadam drive and slipped into the traffic of a busy suburban street. He swung off after a while and was soon parked at the curb in front of a buff brick apartment building which displayed in large chrome numbers above the double front doors the address on the license.
Inside on the ground floor, he found the apartment of the building superintendent, who turned out to be, when he had opened his door in response to Marcus's ring, a wispy little man with wispy gray hair and pince-nez clipped to the bridge of a surprisingly bold nose. Marcus introduced himself and received an introduction. The superintendent's name was Mr. Everett Price.
"Is there an Alexander Gray living in the building?" Marcus asked.
"Yes." Mr. Price removed the pince-nez, which were, of course attached to a black ribbon, and held them by the spring clip in his right hand. "He's in three-o-six. He shares the apartment with Mr. Rufus Fleming."
"Oh? Have Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming shared the apartment long?"
"About two years, I think. Yes, two years this summer. Perfect gentlemen, both of them. Quiet and good-mannered. There is, in fact, something old-fashioned in their manners. Rather courtly, you know. It isn't often, nowadays, that you find that quality in younger men."
"I agree. It's rare. Do you know if Mr. Fleming is in at the moment?"
"No, I don't. It's possible, however, this being Saturday. Mr. Fleming doesn't work on Saturday."
"I wish I didn't. I believe I'll just go up and speak with Mr. Fleming, if you don't mind."
Mr. Price looked confused. He scrubbed the lenses of the pince-nez with a clean white handkerchief and clipped them to his big nose again, peering at Marcus as if he had decided that some revision of his first judgment of him had become necessary.
"Excuse me," he said. "I thought you wanted to see Mr. Gray."
"I didn't say that," Marcus said. "I only asked if Mr. Gray lived here."
"Yes. So you did. I made an assumption, I suppose. In any event, it's quite likely that both gentlemen are in this morning."
"I wonder if you would come up with me. Just in case neither of them is."
Now Mr. Price looked startled. Possibly he had suddenly gathered from Marcus's tone that Marcus was certainly going up in spite of anything, although willing to make a nice pretense of asking permission, and that the superintendent was damn well coming up with him, whether he was agreeable or not.
"What on earth for?" Mr. Price said.
"So that you can let me into the apartment, if that is necessary."
"Oh, I couldn't do that without authorization from the tenants. It's unthinkable."
"Is it? I don't believe so. You can try thinking about it on the way up. You may change your mind."
"I'm reasonably certain that either Mr. Fleming or Mr. Gray will be in on a Saturday morning."
"Mr. Fleming, maybe. Not Mr. Gray. Mr. Gray will never be in again. He's dead. He has, it seems, been murdered."
The pince-nez popped off Mr. Price's nose and jerked and swung at the end of their ribbon. Marcus had a bleak vision of a trap sprung, a body hanging.
"What did you say?"
Marcus didn't bother to repeat himself. He merely waited for the information to soak in and become tenable.
"This is dreadful," Mr. Price said.
"So it is."
"Why would anyone murder Mr. Gray? He was such a pleasant man."
"Pleasant people are sometimes murdered. Usually by unpleasant people."
"When did it happen? Where?"
"Never mind that now. You'll know soon enough. Everyone will. Now I would like to go upstairs and see Mr. Fleming if he's in, or look through the apartment if he's not."
"Yes," said Mr. Price. "Yes, of course."
They went up three floors and rang the bell of three-o-six. Mr. Fleming was either not in or not answering. The former was true, as Marcus learned immediately after Mr. Price had opened the door for him. The apartment consisted of a living room, a large bedroom with two beds, a bath and a small kitchen. No one was there. The beds were made and the kitchen was clean and the living room was orderly. Mr. Gray and Mr. Fleming had been tidy housekeepers. Mr. Fleming, so far as Marcus knew, still was.