The blond man lay on his stomach on the lawn near the edge of the lake, a newspaper spread out on the grass in front of him. A large picture of Nancy Bradford and her small daughter, Sybil, stared up at him. Of course the picture showed Nancy Bradford and her child as they had looked before the murder, not after wards.
The blond man’s hair and heavy eyebrows were bleached almost white, probably by the bright August sun shine. Those eyebrows were drawn together in a concentrated frown as he read the newspaper story. It was a Sunday Supplement with many pictures and a long rehash of the Bradford case written by the paper’s leading crime reporter. The article purported to give all the known facts in the particularly brutal and sadistic killing of the lovely actress and her small daughter. They had been beaten to death, almost out of human semblance, with a heavy iron poker. It was the opinion of the medical examiner that the murderous beating had gone on, violently, long after both mother and child were dead. It was called a crime of passion — black, turbulent, sick passion.
The murderer had been described in the usual confusing fashion by the doorman in Nancy Bradford’s apartment — described as a tall, short, fair, dark, ’fat, thin man who wore blue-tinted glasses, a tweed topcoat in July, and a dark-grey snap-brim hat. He had come into the foyer and asked for Nancy Bradford. The doorman had pointed to the house phone, and the tall, short, fair, dark, fat, thin man had called Nancy Bradford’s apartment. The doorman heard him speak. He said: “Hello, darling. It’s me.” He was evidently invited up because he went direct to the automatic elevator and the doorman watched the indicator needle rise to Nancy’s floor.
An hour later a certain Mrs. Carpenter, whose job it was to sit with small Sybil Bradford if Nancy went out for the evening, arrived and went up to the apartment. She reappeared in the foyer presently, screaming hysterically and making no sense whatever. The doorman phoned the police after he was able to distinguish the word “murder” amidst the jumble of Mrs. Carpenter’s ravings. The doorman did not go upstairs. He justified this on the ground of duty. But there was a result from it. The doorman could swear that the tall, short, fair, dark, fat, thin man with the blue glasses and the tweed topcoat had never left the building. He hadn’t come down in the elevator and he hadn’t come down the inside fire stairs which also opened into the lobby, and there wasn’t any other way out. The papers had made a lot of this, but the police were not overly concerned by this mystery angle. Whatever the testimony, the man was gone — perhaps like Chesterton’s postman, perhaps by magic. The puzzle of how was not important. The important thing was that he must be found.
There wasn’t much to go on. There had been money and jewelry in the apartment. The jewelry had been taken but the money — several hundred dollars — had been left. The police were of two minds about it. The jewelry had been stolen as a blind for the real motive — or it had been a gift from the murderer which he now took back. Outside of this one clue? Well, on the floor of the Bradford apartment were two extinguished lives, two dreadfully mutilated bodies, and — two pine needles.
The blond man raised his eyes from the newspapers and turned his head toward the hotel which was set back about a hundred yards from the lake. Back of the hotel was the dark green mystery of a heavy pine forest. He stared for a long time as if he hoped somehow to penetrate the brooding darkness of the wood to some bright point of clarification. Finally he lowered his eyes to the newspaper once more.
The blond man’s concentration was so intense that he was not aware of the approach of the fat man. The fat man came from the direction of the boathouse. He wore faded khaki pants, a corduroy hunting coat with deep, bulging pockets, and a battered grey hat with fishing flies stuck in the band. He was reaming out of the bowl of a short, black pipe with the blade of a pen-knife. The operation completed, he put the stem of the pipe in his mouth and blew hard to clear it. Then he paused, his grey eyes blinking through the lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles at the newspaper reader. He moved quietly across the grass until he stood directly over the blond man.
“Pretty gruesome business — the Bradford case,” he said.
The blond man moved as if someone had jabbed a pin into him. He rolled over onto his side, braced half-upright on his elbow, staring up at the fat man, his eyes dilated, his whole attitude defensive.
“Sorry if I startled you,” the fat man said. His smile was slow and friendly.
“I... I didn’t hear you coming,” the blond man said. He fished for cigarettes in the breast pocket of his blue denim shirt.
“My name is Doyle,” the fat man said. “I noticed you in the hotel dining room last night. You just arrived?”
“Yes. I’m Jerry Hartman — radio writer.”
Doyle grinned. “You mean — ‘Love that soap!’?”
“I write dramatic shows. The agencies handle the commercials.”
Doyle’s mild eyes moved back to the newspaper on the grass. “Maybe you knew Nancy Bradford. I understand she did a lot of radio acting.”
“I never happened to meet her,” Hartman said.
That seemed to end it. Doyle looked out at the shimmering expanse of the lake. “I was going out to try to catch a few bass,” he said. “It’s pretty sunny but there are some shady spots along the shore.”
“I have a license,” Hartman said, “but I don’t know one fish from another.”
“Same here,” Doyle said. “It’s just getting out and relaxing that counts. Seep in a little sun. Want to join me?”
Hartman had difficulty lighting the match for his cigarette. He finally managed and dragged the smoke deep into his lungs. “I... I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t any equipment. I—”
“I’ve got extra stuff,” Doyle said. “We probably won’t catch anything anyway. I just thought a little company — But if you feel like being alone—”
“I... I think I’d like it,” Hartman said. He scrambled up to his feet and then bent down to pick up the paper. He rolled it up and stuck it under his arm.
“I’ve rented one of the rowboats,” Doyle said. “You ready to start now?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m already if you’ve got some extra tackle.”
“Let’s go,” Doyle said.
The rowboat was chained to the platform inside the boathouse. Doyle’s tackle was in the back of the boat along with a small wicker hamper.
“I’ve got some sandwiches and a thermos of ice tea in there,” Doyle said. “If you want some liquor—”
“I don’t drink,” Hartman said.
“And you in the radio business?” Doyle chuckled.
Hartman seemed to force a smile. “Maybe that’s why. I’m on my second ulcer.”
“Get in,” Doyle said. “I’ll row. I know a place where we might have some luck.”
Hartman climbed into the back of the boat, balancing himself unsteadily. Doyle unfastened the chain and then climbed in and sat down in the middle seat. He reached out and pushed off with his hand. The boat moved slowly out of the boathouse shade into the bright sun. Once clear, Doyle fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began rowing. He used short but very powerful strokes that shot the boat forward in the water. He was the first one to speak.