Death of a Tall Man by Frances Lockridge Page A

watching the photographer who, standing on a chair, was shooting down at something which was shielded from Weigand by the photographer’s body. The flash went off, the photographer got down. He went around to the other side. The body was that of a man, rather heavy, of middle height. It was slumped forward, head and shoulders resting on the desk. The precinct lieutenant walked a few steps toward Weigand.
    â€œWell,” he said, “there it is, Bill.”
    Bill said he saw it.
    â€œGordon,” the precinct lieutenant said. “Andrew. An eye doctor. Somebody bashed the back of his head in.”
    â€œWell,” Weigand said. “Well, well.”
    â€œYeah,” the precinct lieutenant said.
    â€œThe M.E.?” Bill said.
    â€œComing.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. He jerked his head toward the waiting room. He said they seemed to have picked up quite a few people. The precinct lieutenant shook his head at that. He said they hadn’t picked them up.
    â€œFound them,” he said. “Here when we came. The babe passed out on the sofa is the guy’s wife. The young fellow is his son. I don’t know exactly who the gray-haired guy is. The other two work here.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. There was movement at the door and he looked around. A small, round man with a black bag came in. He had a pink face and a pink bald head. He waved his free hand at everybody and said, “What’ve we got, boys? What’ve we got?” He did not wait to be answered; it was greeting, not enquiry. He crossed briskly to the desk and looked at the body. He regarded it; bent over it. He straightened up.
    â€œSomebody bashed in his head,” he told them. “Blunt instrument, boys.”
    Bill Weigand smiled at him.
    â€œThanks a lot, Doctor,” he said. “We needed you to tell us.”
    â€œSure you did,” the doctor agreed cheerfully. “Obscure to the lay mind, naturally. You hit somebody with something heavy—hit him on the head—and the skull caves. Always assuming he’s not a policeman. Messes the brain up.”
    â€œAlways assuming he’s not a policeman,” Bill Weigand said.
    â€œSmart boy,” the doctor told him. “Then he dies. Like this one.” He turned and faced Bill Weigand. His face was not as cheerful as his words. There was a hurt expression on his face, like the hurt expression on a child’s face.
    Bill smiled, faintly.
    â€œFunny, aren’t we?” the doctor said. “All right. Who was he?”
    â€œDidn’t you notice when you came in?” Weigand asked. “His name’s on his door. Gordon. Dr. Andrew Gordon.”
    â€œAll right,” the doctor said. “I hoped he wasn’t. Never met Gordon. He was a good man, you know. Very good man.”
    Bill nodded.
    â€œOne of the two or three best,” the assistant medical examiner said. “A damned good eye man. The boss called him in once or twice. Very interesting malignancy, one case was. Question: Contributing cause? Gordon said no.” He turned and looked at Gordon’s body. “Now he’s dead,” he said. “Pity.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “How—”
    â€œLong,” the assistant medical examiner finished. “When was he found?”
    â€œAbout three. Thereabouts.”
    The doctor looked at his watch. He turned back to the body; he touched the forehead; he lifted the head and looked at the eyes. He went behind the body, picked up the dangling hand and held it by the wrist. Then he lifted the body back in the chair, moving quickly, expertly. He opened the unbuttoned suit coat, placed a clinical thermometer under the arm and pressed the arm down against it. Leaving the thermometer there, he went across the room and looked at a thermostat on the wall; he returned, removed the thermometer and looked at it.
    â€œWarm in here,” he said. “Makes a difference,