“But if your theory is correct, wouldn’t you have had to find Larry’s air-conditioning on?”
“No. But let’s not worry about the mechanics of it now. The point is, Mrs. Howell, I’m not ready to accept the murder-and-suicide.”
But Nancy shook her head. “It’s too fantastic, Lieutenant. You have absolutely no reason for thinking all this. You’ve simply made it up.”
“At least it would explain the hot house, and the missing key to the Connors’ back door. If, that is, the key is actually missing. Do you happen to know if Larry Connor carried a back-door key?”
“He must have. I’ve seen him let himself in that way when Lila wasn’t home.”
“There you are. You’re an observant young woman, Mrs. Howell. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”
“I only hope that my observations don’t make a lot of trouble for some innocent person.”
“They won’t.”
“I’m not so sure. I’m beginning to think you may be just clever enough to think up something against someone who had nothing to do with anything.”
“I hope not. Shall I go on with my fantastic ideas?”
“I admit they’re interesting. As well as frightening. What’s next?”
“Well, another thing that puzzles me is why Larry Connor would kill his wife and then deliberately go to his office to kill himself. Why not do it at home?”
“He couldn’t have been very rational. Maybe he had some idea of running away, and later realized it was hopeless.”
“I know, suicides often do crazy things. Still, it’s something to be considered. You saw Connor leave. Did he act irrational? Did he act like a man running away from a murder?”
“No.” Nancy stared into her cup, where the coffee was getting cold. “He didn’t, as a matter of fact.”
“There you are again, another little incongruity. All right, let’s suppose that he left Lila alive. Suppose he was going, exactly as he told you, down to his office to spend the night. He could have been followed and killed, and the murderer could then have returned, bringing with him Connor’s key to the back door, from Connor’s key-case, and killed Lila.”
“Wait a minute. This is getting more and more absurd. You are implying that the murderer, if there is one, is someone from right in this neighborhood.”
“Oh, yes. If there is a murderer, as you say, he is surely right here in the neighborhood. Probably attended the party Saturday night.”
“Which one of us, may I ask, do you suspect?”
“It could have been any of you. It depends on how much of the truth has been told. It may depend, too, on who is protecting whom. Think a minute. You say you left Stanley Walters at the fence in the alley after telling him Connor had gone to his office. So Walters is eligible. Dr. Richmond lives just on the other side of the Connors. He could easily have seen Connor leave, overheard the two of you talking in the driveway. Furthermore, the doctor admitted that he went out later on a prolonged call to the hospital. Did he go there directly? Did he stay there all the time? In any event, Dr. Richmond is also eligible. Shall I go on?”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Nancy faintly. “It’s too utterly nauseating. The next thing I know, you’ll be saying that I could have committed murder myself.”
“Certainly. You’re eligible, too.” Nancy was stricken dumb, and Masters said hastily, “If I thought for a minute you were guilty, I wouldn’t be talking to you this way.”
“Well, I have talked with you far too long and said far too much, Lieutenant, and I don’t believe I want to talk with you any more.”
“I’m sorry.”
Masters rose and looked wistfully into his empty cup, which he had hoped Nancy would refill. But she had risen, too, and was standing there, the very picture of womanhood offended. He said, to mollify her, “It’s only speculation, Mrs. Howell.” But when she continued to play Living Statues, Masters reverted to type and added, “So far, that is,” and left with a bitter taste of triumph in his mouth.
10
As a suspect, Lieutenant Masters liked Dr. Jack Richmond best. In the first place, the handsome doctor’s opportunity seemed — well, most opportune. In the second place, he was exactly the matinee-idol type that, psychically speaking, gave off the aroma of motive. In the third place, as a physician, he was in an ideal position to administer a fatal drug. Under the pretext of being concerned about his neighbor’s welfare, he could have gone to Larry Connor’s office, perhaps on his way to the hospital, and administered a “sedative” that Larry, upset by his conflict with Lila, would have taken without hesitation. Of course, a doctor would hardly prescribe chloral hydrate; on the other hand, a doctor bent on murder would use exactly the sort of drug that wouldn’t be expected of a doctor. At any rate, it would be interesting and possibly informative to check into Dr. Richmond’s purported hospital call; and Masters set out to do just that.
It was, of course, the wrong time. No one on duty in the hospital had been there in the early hours of the morning. All Masters could do was to check at the desk in Maternity to see if Dr. Richmond had reported in and out, which he had: in at 1:20 A.M., out at 3:30 A.M. A perfect alibi if it held up. Plenty of free time for a couple of murders if it didn’t. Or, more likely, one murder. He would not have pressed his luck, Masters reasoned. If his theory of the air-conditioners was in order, Richmond would have murdered Larry Connor first. Later, some time after 3:30, he would have got around to Lila. What Masters really wanted was the name and address of the nurse who had been on duty in the ward during the night-to-morning shift. Without committing himself excessively to the truth, he managed to get both from the desk. The nurse’s name was Agnes Morrow. Her address was a small apartment building a few blocks from the hospital.
Masters parked at the curb about fifty feet down the block from the apartment house. By his watch it was after one o’clock — past his lunch time, but Masters was not hungry; besides, he was as usual on a diet. Assuming that Nurse Morrow, off duty at 7:00 A.M., had sacked up by 8:00, she had been sleeping for over five hours. Five hours’ sleep was enough for Masters, who did not sleep well, but it probably wasn’t for Agnes Morrow, who probably did. He decided to take a chance nevertheless, and he got out of the car. In the lobby directory he located Agnes Morrow’s apartment number and went up and rang her bell.
He was in luck. Nurse Morrow was up, though not dressed. That is, she was in pajamas and a terry-cloth robe. Masters, however, was not stimulated by the proximity of this intimate attire. Agnes Morrow had maintained a single estate for over forty years and gave the depressing impression of having maintained her chastity through every day of them. Lean-and-going-gray-and-no-nonsense-about-her. She looked as if she would speak tersely and directly, just shy of barking; he was right.
“Yes?”
“Miss Agnes Morrow?”
“That’s right.”
“My name is Masters. Lieutenant. Police. I’d like to talk to you. Confidential matter.” The terseness and directness of his own speech was an automatic reaction to hers. Masters had the flexibility of a chameleon, or an actor; it was one of his assets in his work.
“Come in.”
Masters sat on the edge of a gray sofa while Miss Morrow claimed an uncomfortable high-backed armchair. She sat with her back parallel to, but not touching, the back of the chair; and she gripped the arms as if prepared to jump to her feet at the first threat to her virginity.
“I was told at the hospital,” Masters said, “that you’ve been working the eleven P.M. to seven A.M. shift.”
“I have.”
“You were on duty as usual on the night of Saturday-Sunday just past?”