Murder Comes First by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page B

He looked at Sandford, whose face was interested but puzzled. It did not appear that he knew Pamela North. “Mr. and Mrs. North,” Bill said. He did not try to explain them further.
    Paul Logan sat down suddenly and covered his face with his hands.
    â€œWe’re both so sorry,” Pam said. “Such a dreadful thing.”
    She looked at Bill Weigand, and moved her eyes slightly, conveying something. It was not clear what; it was clear only that there was, as she said from the doorway, “something.” Something not about Dorian, therefore about Mrs. Logan’s taking off; something—of course. Something which concerned either Sandford or young Paul Logan. Bill was rather pleased with himself.
    He motioned the Norths out into the hallway and up the stairs to the floor above. On the landing there, there was a telephone on a table.
    â€œI told you there would be,” Pam said to Jerry. “I think it ought to be a rule that everybody is. Democracy.”
    â€œListed in the directory,” Jerry told Bill Weigand. “As it happens, we aren’t ourselves,” he told his wife.
    â€œOnly because of the butler,” Pam said. “And all those other people. The one with a dog to be boarded.” She amplified. “Somebody put want-ads in, with our telephone number,” Pam told Bill. “An awful joke, or something. So we came unlisted. Bill, you weren’t having him followed, were you? Because he was coming here anyway.”
    â€œWho?” Bill asked.
    Pam told him.
    â€œAt first,” she said, “we merely assumed it was one of yours. But after we dropped the aunts, we wondered. Aunt Lucy thinks you’re wonderful, Bill, incidentally. Thelma doesn’t.”
    â€œAfter you dropped the aunts,” Bill said.
    â€œIf it wasn’t the police, who was it?” Pam said. “Someone you ought to know about, anyway. So we telephoned you. I mean, we couldn’t, so we came.”
    The police had not been following Barton Sandford. Bill hesitated, used the telephone briefly. The district attorney’s people were not following Sandford.
    â€œA shamus,” Pam said. Then she looked puzzled. “Only he looked sober enough,” she added. “And not bruised. Of course, we didn’t see him very clearly.”
    Bill Weigand got the details. Not for the first time, as Pam gave them, Bill noticed how clear she could be when dealing with the objective, how sharply see and remember.
    â€œI’m sure he had been following Mr. Sandford,” Pam said, as she finished.
    â€œRight,” Bill said. He was sure too. He was sure, also, that the follower had known his business. If he knew his business, he probably would be waiting across the street for Sandford to reappear.
    â€œOh, Mullins,” Bill Weigand called down the stairs. Mullins came, was instructed, went down the stairs, unhurrying; went out, unhurrying, onto the sidewalk in front. After standing there a moment, he crossed the street. Disarmingly casual, he looked into the shadows. After a little he recrossed the street, went up the stairs to the third floor landing, said, “No soap, Loot. He’s gone.”
    â€œHe was there?” Bill asked.
    â€œSomebody,” Mullins said. “Long enough to smoke a couple of cigarettes. Camels. Looks as if he took his time.” He looked at Pam and Jerry North. “Of course,” he said, “we couldn’t prove it. It’s screwy.” He paused. “Like always,” he added.
    â€œSergeant,” Pam said, “how can we help it? We just saw it.”
    â€œO.K., Mrs. North,” Mullins said. Inadvertently, he beamed at her. He slowly erased the beam. “All the same,” he said, and looked at Weigand.
    It didn’t fit, Bill thought. Or, did it? Perhaps Sally Sandford had done more than leave for a trip. Perhaps she had left watchers behind. It would be doing it the hard way, with Reno