Carella asked.
"I've worked for him a long time, sir," Roger said, rising.
"A long time."
"Did you like him?"
"He was a fine man. I liked him very much."
"Did he ever have trouble with any of his sons?"
"Trouble, sir?"
"You know. Arguments. Real quarrels.
Any of them ever threaten him?"
"They argued from time to time, sir, but never violently. And never any threats. No, sir."
"Mmm. How about the daughter-in~ law
Any trouble when David brought her home?"
"No, sir. Mr. Scott liked her very much.
He often said he wished his other sons would do as well when they married."
"I see." Carella paused.
"Well, thanks a lot." He paused again.
"I want to look over the room another time, see if anything else turns up."
"Yes, sir." Roger seemed reluctant to leave. He stood with the dustpan in one hand and the foxtail in the other, seemingly waiting for something.
"Yes?" Carella said.
"Sir, we generally dine at seven. It's past six-thirty now, and I was wondering ... sir, did you plan to stay for dimner?"
Carella looked at his watch. It was 6:37.
"No," he said.
"In fact, I'm supposed to be back at the squad by seven. My wife's meeting me there. No, thanks. No dinner." He paused and then, for no earthly reason, said, "We're going to have a baby. My wife is.
"Yes, sir," Roger said. He smiled.
"Yeah," Carella said, and he smiled, too.
In the dimness of the corridor, the two men stood smiling at each other.
"Well," Carella said, "back to work."
"Yes, sir."
Carella went into the room. Outside, he could hear Roger's footsteps padding down the corridor.
So here we are again, folks, he thought.
This is Steve Carella coming to you from the intimacy of The Den, where gay night lifers are dancing to the strains of the Suicide Scott Trio. Vot's dot tune dey're playing, Ludwig? Ah, yes, the "Hangman's Waltz," an old Vieunese favorite.
Get a grip' Steve-o, he told himself. You are beginning to lose your marbles. Leave us study this room, and then leave us ask a few more questions and wrap this thing up, yes?
Yes.
The room.
No windows. Assuredly no goddamn windows.
No trapdoors or hidden panels.
Jefferson Scott found hanging thereabout ten feet from the entrance doorway, overturned stool at his feet.
Rope thrown over that beam in the ceiling and fastened to the doorknob.
Door opens outward into the corridor.
Scott's weight alone could not have held the door closed.
Hence, door was locked; nor could it be forced open by three heavy men-Christ, these Scotts grow big!
Door could not have been locked from the outside. Required pressure to hold door closed and force to ram bolt across. Hence, no tricky string stuff like they havo in detective magazines all the time.
Crowbar action snapped lock from doorjamb, enabled men to force door open, cut down Scott from where he was hanging.
Those are the facts, ma'm.
Now if Joe Friday were here But he ain't.
There is only me. Steve Carella. And I am good and confused.
Let me see, let me see.
He walked over to the door and studied the bolt hanging loose from one screw. The doorjamb was badly marked; that crowbar had certainly done an excellent job. Old Roger had swept up enough splinters to start a toothpick factory. Carella closed the door. Sure enough, the door was weatherstripped, and, sure enough, you had to slam the damn thing and then pull on it hard in order to close it properly. He opened the door out into the corridor again, stepped outside, and closed it behind him.
Then he stooped down.
There was a half-inch of space between the bottom of the door and the sill of the room. Carella stuck his fingers under the door. He could feel the metal runner of the weatherstripping, starting about a quarter inch back from the corridor side of the door. He opened the door again. The weatherstripping lip was set into the door sill, slightly farther back, to catch the runner securely when the door was closed.
Again, he closed the door. And again he ran his fingers under the bottom edge, between door and sill. The metal seemed to be dented in one spot, but of course he couldn't be certain. Still, there seemed to be-to the touch at least-a sharp narrow valley at one point. He slid his fingers along the metal, smootp, smooth, smooth, and there! There it was. The sudden small dip.
"Lose something?" the voice behind him said.
Carella turned. Mark Scott was a tall man even if you were standing beside him.
When you were crouched on the floor as Carella was, Mark looked enormous. He was as blond as his brother David, broader in the shoulders, with the same huge bone structure. His face, in fact, despite three covering layers of skin, seemed to have been chiseled from raw bone. He -had a flat, hard fore head, and a flat, hard nose. His cheekbones sloped sharply downward to break the otherwise flat regularity of his features. His mouth was full, the lips thick. His eyes were gray, but in the dimness of the corridor, they were almost no-color, almost a colorless opaqueness beneath the bushy blond brows.
Carella got to his feet and dusted off his trouser knees.
"No," he said pleasantly.
"I didn't lose anything. But in a sense, I'm trying to find something."
"And what might that be?" Mark said, smiling.
"Oh, I don't know. A way into this room, I suppose."
"Under the door?" Mark asked, the smile still on his mouth.
"Have to be awfully thin, don't you think?"
"Sure, sure," Carella said. He opened the door again and stepped into the den. Mark followed behind him Carella tapped the hanging slip bolt with his finger setting it swinging.
"I understand this bolt was pretty hard ~ to close," he said.
"That right?"
"Yes. One generally had to pull in on the door and ~ then ram the bolt across with all one's strength. I spoke to Father about changing it, but he said it suited him fine.
Provided the exercise which was lacking in his life." Mark smiled again. His smile was a charming one, a sudden parting of the thick lips over dazzlingly white teeth.
"Just how hard did you have to pull on the door?" Carella asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"When slipping the bolt."
"Oh. Very hard."
"Do you imagine your father's weight pulling against the doorknob whould have provided the pressure necessary to slip the bolt?"