Curtain for a Jester by Frances Lockridge Page A

apartment, along the corridor to the elevator. It seemed that Joe would never come with the car. But he came. He opened the door.
    â€œNo,” Pam said. “We can’t just—do nothing.” She looked at Joe, then. “You saw her face,” she said. “She—people don’t look like that unless—I don’t know what. We’ve got to find out, Joe. Something’s—awfully wrong.”
    â€œNow listen, Mrs. North,” Joe said. “He’s a tenant. We can’t go barging—”
    â€œSo,” Pam North said, “am I. You want me to walk up?”
    Joe hesitated. He shrugged. He closed the door and started the car. At the twelfth floor he stopped the car and opened the door. Pam went out; went toward the stairs to the penthouse. Joe looked after her a moment. “Damn it to hell!” Joe said, and went after her.
    Pam rang and chimes sounded. She waited and rang again.
    â€œLike I said,” Joe told her, relief in his voice. “Like I said, nobody’s home.”
    â€œYou didn’t,” Pam said, and tried the knob. It turned. She opened the door a crack, pressed the bell again, heard the chimes again, and then called through the crack of the door. “Anybody there?” Pam said. “Mr. Wilmot?”
    â€œLook, Mrs. North,” Joe said. “You can’t do that. It’s private.”
    But Pam already had. The door was open. She called again. She went into the foyer. Joe, torn between tenants, stood behind her in the open door. Pam went across the foyer and looked into the living room beyond. She gave a little, shuddering cry, and Joe crossed the foyer and looked over her. “Jeeze!” Joe said. He looked at Mr. Wilmot, on his back in blood. “Whatta you know?” Joe said. “Whatta you know?”
    Pam backed against him, backing away.
    â€œTake it easy, Mrs. North,” Joe said. “Just take it easy. Maybe it’s one of his—”
    â€œ No! ” Pam said. “Can’tyou see?”
    Joe could see; he could see too well.
    â€œI guess,” he said, “we gotta call the cops.” He started to go around Pam, into the room, in search of a telephone. But Pam stopped him. They should not go farther into the penthouse; they should not touch anything in the penthouse. “Come on,” Pam North said, and led the way out. Joe went willingly.
    â€œI’ll call,” Pam said, in the elevator, going down. “I—I know the right ones.”
    â€œJeeze,” Joe said. “Somebody sure—” He stopped speaking. At the fourth floor he stopped the car.
    â€œWant me to—?” he began, but Pam shook her head. She ran back to the apartment, and into it. Three cats stared. She said, quite politely, to the cats, “Don’t bother mamma now,” and went to the telephone. She dialed a number in the Watkins exchange and, when she was answered, said, “Can I speak to Captain Weigand, please?” as politely—as numbly—as she had spoken to the cats.
    She heard a familiar voice. She said, “Bill, this is Pam,” and gave him time only to begin an answer.
    â€œBill,” Pam North said, “I’m terribly sorry but-but I’m afraid I’ve found a body. With—with a knife in it.” She paused; she swallowed. She saw blood spreading from a plump man, spreading on a green floor. “It’s a Mr. Wilmot, Bill,” she said. “There was a great deal of—”
    She broke off. She waited a moment, and things got a little better.
    â€œI think you’d better come, Bill,” Pam said. “It’s right here on top of the building.”
    She called Jerry, then. She felt he would want to know.
    The block in front of the building was already filled with cars, with people, when William Weigand, acting captain, Homicide, Manhattan West, turned his Buick into it. He found a spot near enough the curb. Mullins