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isn’t well. I’m going away, but before I go I want to get a picture of this thing. All I’ve heard

is that Janet died suddenly. You say it was heart trouble. What happened? Were you there

when she died?”

“Why, no,” he said, and alarm again flickered in the dim eyes. “I arrived about half an hour

after she was dead. She had died in her sleep. The symptoms were unmistakable. Dr. Salzer

told me she had been suffering from the disease for some months. He had been treating her.

There was nothing much one can do with such cases except rest. I can’t understand why

you’re asking so many questions.” He looked hopefully towards the house to see if his wife

wanted him. She didn’t.

“It’s only that I want to satisfy myself,” I said, and smiled again. “You arrived at the house,

and Salzer was there. Is that it?”

He nodded, getting more worried every second.

“Was there anyone else there?”

“Miss Crosby. The younger one. She was there.”

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“Maureen?”

“I believe that’s her name.”

“And Salzer took you to Janet’s room? Did Maureen come, too?”

“Yes. They both came with me into the room. The— the young woman seemed very upset.

She was crying.” He fingered the dahlia. “Perhaps there should have been a postmortem,” he

said suddenly. “But I assure you there was no need. Malignant endocarditis is unmistakable.

One has to consider the feelings of those who are left.”

“And yet, after fourteen months, you are beginning to think there should have been a postmortem?”

I put a slight edge to my voice.

“Strictly speaking, there should have been, because Dr. Salzer had been treating her, and, as

he explained to me, he is a Doctor of Science, not Medicine. But the symptoms …”

“Yeah … are unmistakable. One other thing, doc. Have you ever seen Janet Crosby

before? I mean, before she died?”

He looked wary, wondering if I were springing a trap.

“I’ve seen her in her car, but not to speak to.”

“And not close enough to notice if she showed any symptoms of heart trouble?”

He blinked.

“I didn’t get that.”

“I understand she was suffering from this disease for some months. You say you saw her in

her car. How long ago was this: that you saw her? How long before she died?”

“A month, maybe two. I don’t remember.”

“What I’m trying to get at,” I said patiently, “is that with this disease she would have

shown symptoms you might have recognized if you had seen her before she died.”

“I don’t think I should.”

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“And yet the symptoms are—unmistakable?”

He licked his thin lips.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and began to back away. “I can’t

give you any more of my time. It is valuable. I must ask you to excuse me.”

“That’s all right, doc,” I said. “Well, thanks. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. But you know

how it is. I just wanted to put my mind at rest. I liked that girl.”

He didn’t say anything, but continued to back away towards the rose beds.

“There’s just one other thing, doc,” I said. “How was it that Dr. Salzer signed Macdonald

Crosby’s certificate when he was accidentally shot? Wasn’t that unethical for a non-qualified

quack to do that?”

He looked at me the way you look at a big spider that has fallen into your bath.

“Don’t worry me,” he said in a quavering voice. “Ask him : don’t bother me.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s a good idea. Thank you, doc. I will.”

He turned and moved off down the path towards his roses. From the back he looked even

older than he was. I watched him pick off a dead rose and noticed his hand was very shaky. I

was afraid I had spoilt his afternoon.

The small bird-like woman was standing on the porch of the front door, hopefully, when I

arrived back at the house. She pretended not to see me.

“I’m afraid I’ve taken up a lot of the doctor’s time,” I said, raising my hat. “He tells me it is

valuable. Would five dollars cover it?”

The tired eyes brightened. The thin face lit up.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, and looked furtively down the garden at the old

bent back and the yellow panama hat.

I slipped the bill into her hand. She snapped it up the way a lizard snaps up a fly. I had an

idea the old man at the bottom of the garden wouldn’t ever set eyes on it. At least, I hadn’t

spoilt her afternoon.

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IV

I pushed open my office door and marched in. Jack Kerman was dozing in the armchair by

the window. Paula was sitting at my desk working on one of her hundreds of card indexes:

indexes that kept our fingers on the pulse of Orchid City, that told us who was who, who was

in town and who had left town, who had married who, and so on. Although she had four girls

working continuously on the cards, she insisted on keeping the key-cards up-to-date herself.

She moved out of the desk-chair as I tossed my hat at Kerman, waking him. He gave a

startled grunt, rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“What’s it like—working?” he asked. “Or haven’t you started yet?”

“I’ve started,” I said, and sat down, reached for a cigarette, lit it, shot my cuffs and plunged

into the tale. I gave them all the details with the exception of my session with Nurse Gurney.

I skirted over that, knowing Paula wouldn’t have approved and Kerman would have got too

excited to think straight. “Not much,” I concluded, “but enough to make me think it’s worth

while going on with. Maybe there’s nothing wrong; maybe there is. If there is the less

commotion we make the better. We don’t want to tip anyone off just yet.”

“If this guy in the Dodge was tailing you, it seems to me someone’s tipped off already,”

Kerman pointed out.

“Yeah, but we can’t be sure of that. Maybe my face interested him. Maybe he was

practicing to be a detective.”

I reached for the telephone. “Give me police headquarters,” I told the exchange girl.

“You got his number?” Paula asked, fluttering through the stack of cards in her hands.

“Checking it now,” I said. “Give me Lieutenant Mifflin,” I went on when an unenthusiastic

voice announced Police Headquarters. There was a plop on the line, and Mifflin’s gritty voice

asked, “Hello?”

Tim Mifflin was a good tough cop, and we had worked together off and on for some time.

Whenever I could I helped him, and whenever he could he helped me. He had a great respect

for my hunches when playing the horses, and, by following my tips, he had had the luck to

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make himself a little folding money.

“Malloy here,” I said. “How are you, Tim? “

“What do you care?” he snapped. “You’ve never been interested in my health and you

never will be. What do you want this time?”

“Who owns an olive-green Dodge; licence number, O.R.3345?”