that my words, which he
took down using the same Pitman method of shorthand that I used,
might not be believed. His face—I looked at his shield, and it said
his name was Officer Ronald Bloom—was about as expressive as a
block of granite, so I couldn’t tell if he believed my story or
not. At any rate, it didn’t take long to relate it in its entirety
to him.
He closed his notebook, which was just like
the ones I used at work, and nodded his head. “Thank you, Miss
Allcutt. I’ll have this typed up, and then you’ll have to sign it.
Would you prefer to come to the station or have someone bring it to
your home?”
I thought about offering to type it up
myself, but didn’t. If these people weren’t going to believe
anything I said, why should I help them? “I expect you or one of
the other representatives of the law will be visiting Mr.
Templeton’s office tomorrow sometime. Just bring it there, why
don’t you?” I smiled sweetly at him. “I did tell you I was his
secretary, did I not? Don’t you believe that, either?”
Officer Bloom didn’t bat an eye over my
sarcasm. “It’s not my business to believe people, ma’am. I’m just
supposed to get the story.”
Oh, brother. He made his job sound like
that of a newspaper reporter. “Very well. Bring it to Mr.
Templeton’s office tomorrow, and I’ll sign it— if the typewritten version of my report
corresponds to the story I told you.” I gave him a good, hot frown.
“It’s not my business to believe people, either, Officer Bloom, but
I won’t sign any statement that is incorrect in any
way.”
“You’ll have the opportunity to read it over
and make corrections,” he said. I got the feeling he was accustomed
to people being unpleasant to him, which made me wonder why anyone
would want to be a police officer, if all they got was guff from
folks. Ah, well. Mine was not to reason why, as the poet wrote.
That’s always sounded redundant to me, by the way. Not that anyone
cares. But I really don’t think one should put a “why” after the
word “reason.”
Oh, never mind.
When Officer Bloom walked away from me, I
glanced around the room and saw that Ernie was being interviewed by
Phil and another fellow who, I presumed, was also a detective
because he was wearing a suit rather than a uniform. The fellow who
wasn’t Phil had an unpleasant grin on his face, and I wondered if
he was Detective O’Reilly. For Ernie’s sake, I hoped not. O’Reilly
looked as if he’d enjoy locking Ernie up for a number of years, and
I aimed to ask Ernie exactly why he and O’Reilly didn’t like each
other. I’m sure the fault, whatever it was, lay with O’Reilly.
I thought the poor fellow—Ernie, I
mean—needed to go home and lie down, but I suspected he was going
to be detained for some time yet, especially if the police actually
suspected him of murder, or wanted to, as I imagined was the case
with O’Reilly. I shook my head. Ernie might be lots of things, but
I didn’t for a minute believe he’d kill anyone. Anyway, how could
he have killed Mrs. Chalmers if he’d been tied up and drugged at
the time the murder had been committed?
Then I reminded myself that nobody
believed me about that, and Phil had actually suggested I might
have tied Ernie up myself in order to divert suspicion from Ernie,
which was so ridiculous as to be . . . well, ridiculous. What an
absolutely stupid day this
had been.
I noticed Mr. Simon Chalmers sitting
dejectedly on a sofa in a corner of the room and decided it might
be a good time to speak with him and learn what I could about Mr.
and Mrs. Chalmers and how they lived, since there had to be something in their lives that had
led to Mrs. Chalmers’ decease in so disturbing a way. Perhaps the
younger Mr. Chalmers had resented his stepmother’s presence in his
life. Or maybe he feared his father would leave her all his money, and had done her in to
prevent the possibility. That was a good thought. I strolled over
and sat
took down using the same Pitman method of shorthand that I used,
might not be believed. His face—I looked at his shield, and it said
his name was Officer Ronald Bloom—was about as expressive as a
block of granite, so I couldn’t tell if he believed my story or
not. At any rate, it didn’t take long to relate it in its entirety
to him.
He closed his notebook, which was just like
the ones I used at work, and nodded his head. “Thank you, Miss
Allcutt. I’ll have this typed up, and then you’ll have to sign it.
Would you prefer to come to the station or have someone bring it to
your home?”
I thought about offering to type it up
myself, but didn’t. If these people weren’t going to believe
anything I said, why should I help them? “I expect you or one of
the other representatives of the law will be visiting Mr.
Templeton’s office tomorrow sometime. Just bring it there, why
don’t you?” I smiled sweetly at him. “I did tell you I was his
secretary, did I not? Don’t you believe that, either?”
Officer Bloom didn’t bat an eye over my
sarcasm. “It’s not my business to believe people, ma’am. I’m just
supposed to get the story.”
Oh, brother. He made his job sound like
that of a newspaper reporter. “Very well. Bring it to Mr.
Templeton’s office tomorrow, and I’ll sign it— if the typewritten version of my report
corresponds to the story I told you.” I gave him a good, hot frown.
“It’s not my business to believe people, either, Officer Bloom, but
I won’t sign any statement that is incorrect in any
way.”
“You’ll have the opportunity to read it over
and make corrections,” he said. I got the feeling he was accustomed
to people being unpleasant to him, which made me wonder why anyone
would want to be a police officer, if all they got was guff from
folks. Ah, well. Mine was not to reason why, as the poet wrote.
That’s always sounded redundant to me, by the way. Not that anyone
cares. But I really don’t think one should put a “why” after the
word “reason.”
Oh, never mind.
When Officer Bloom walked away from me, I
glanced around the room and saw that Ernie was being interviewed by
Phil and another fellow who, I presumed, was also a detective
because he was wearing a suit rather than a uniform. The fellow who
wasn’t Phil had an unpleasant grin on his face, and I wondered if
he was Detective O’Reilly. For Ernie’s sake, I hoped not. O’Reilly
looked as if he’d enjoy locking Ernie up for a number of years, and
I aimed to ask Ernie exactly why he and O’Reilly didn’t like each
other. I’m sure the fault, whatever it was, lay with O’Reilly.
I thought the poor fellow—Ernie, I
mean—needed to go home and lie down, but I suspected he was going
to be detained for some time yet, especially if the police actually
suspected him of murder, or wanted to, as I imagined was the case
with O’Reilly. I shook my head. Ernie might be lots of things, but
I didn’t for a minute believe he’d kill anyone. Anyway, how could
he have killed Mrs. Chalmers if he’d been tied up and drugged at
the time the murder had been committed?
Then I reminded myself that nobody
believed me about that, and Phil had actually suggested I might
have tied Ernie up myself in order to divert suspicion from Ernie,
which was so ridiculous as to be . . . well, ridiculous. What an
absolutely stupid day this
had been.
I noticed Mr. Simon Chalmers sitting
dejectedly on a sofa in a corner of the room and decided it might
be a good time to speak with him and learn what I could about Mr.
and Mrs. Chalmers and how they lived, since there had to be something in their lives that had
led to Mrs. Chalmers’ decease in so disturbing a way. Perhaps the
younger Mr. Chalmers had resented his stepmother’s presence in his
life. Or maybe he feared his father would leave her all his money, and had done her in to
prevent the possibility. That was a good thought. I strolled over
and sat
Similar Books
