Death of a Tall Man by Frances Lockridge Page B

of course. You want a guess?”
    â€œYes,” Bill said.
    â€œNot later than two,” the doctor said. “Not earlier than—oh, say twelve thirty to be safe. Few minutes one way or the other.”
    Bill Weigand only nodded.
    The doctor lowered the body again so that it lay in its original position on the desk. He bent over it and examined the wound. He pressed it lightly with his fingers. He sniffed his fingers. “Used something to keep his hair down,” he said, casually. He stood looking at the head.
    â€œNo skin broken,” he said. “Something round and smooth. About as big as your fist. Something like—oh, a big knob on a cane. Hell of a big knob for a cane, of course. Almost as big as a baseball, only smoother. Fit anything you can think of?”
    â€œOh yes,” Bill said. “A big knob on an ornamental poker. A knob off an old brass bed. A heavy paperweight, rounded on one side. A round stone, thrown by somebody. I can think of plenty of things.”
    â€œGood,” the doctor said. He looked down at the body again. “Damn shame,” he said quickly. He picked up his bag. “Well,” he said, “you know what to do with it, Bill. You’ll get your report copy.”
    He went, quick and pink—and with the puzzled expression of a hurt child. Weigand looked after him, smiling faintly.
    â€œHates murder,” Bill said, more or less to the precinct lieutenant. “Can’t understand anybody so—unkind. Won’t be able to eat dinner tonight, poor guy. We get ourselves into funny jobs.”
    â€œYeah,” the precinct lieutenant said. “You boys taking over?”
    Bill nodded, abstractedly. Except for the men on the doors, he said, they would take over.
    â€œThe nurse found him,” the precinct lieutenant said. “That’s about as far as we’d got. O.K.?”
    â€œRight,” Bill Weigand said. He crossed the room and stood looking at the body. He looked around the room. He crossed it and opened the door leading into the first of the examining rooms and looked at the room without going in. He went to the other door beside it and out into the corridor and looked down it.
    â€œFunny setup,” he said. “We may need a sketch of it, Barney. O.K.?”
    â€œSure, Loot,” Detective Barney Jones said.
    â€œA rough, for now,” Weigand told him.
    â€œO.K.,” Barney said.
    The precinct lieutenant, two other detectives from the precinct squad and the two photographers went out, in a long file. Weigand waited until they had gone through the waiting room. Then he went to the door. He stood looking into the room, and the people in it looked back at him, worried again, waiting uneasily. He stood for a moment and was about to speak when the door at the end of the room, which had just closed on a police photographer, opened again. Bill Weigand looked down the room at Pam North.
    â€œIs this—” she began, and then she saw Bill.
    â€œThis is the place,” Bill Weigand told her, his voice grave and businesslike. “We’ve been waiting for you, Mrs. North.”
    Pam looked, momentarily, very much surprised. She looked hurriedly at Bill’s face.
    â€œI—” she began.
    â€œYes, Mrs. North,” Bill Weigand said, his voice very official. “You’re late. However, now that you are here.” His official voice had resignation in it. “Now that you are here, we’ll go ahead. In here, Mrs. North.”
    Pam, still looking puzzled, came down the room. All the people in the room looked at her. Bill took her arm as she passed him, in a gesture which seemed one of direction.
    â€œOuch!” Pam said, in a low voice. “Bill!”
    Bill herded Pam North in front of him into the private office of the late Dr. Gordon. He closed the door behind them.
    â€œNow!” he said.
    â€œHello, Mr. Mullins,” Pam said. “Mr. Stein.” She looked