Murder Is Suggested by Frances and Richard Lockridge

And—”
    â€œYes,” Bill said. “We know about her. You mean that, after that, Elwell in a sense adopted Faith Oldham? Emotionally, I mean?”
    They didn’t know. It seemed possible.
    The telephone rang. “Oh dear,” Dorian said, and went across the room to answer it. She said, “All right, sergeant,” and beckoned with the handpiece.
    â€œOnly,” Dorian told her husband, as he took the telephone from her, “remember that even detectives have to sleep sometime.”
    He nodded. He said, “Yes, sergeant?” and then, for some time without saying anything further, listened.
    â€œRight,” he said, finally. “The morning will do. Tell him, around nine-thirty. And I’ll meet him at the club. Have somebody check out the accident Elwell’s daughter got killed in—about six months ago. On the Merritt somewhere. And you might nudge Barney a little about the check out on Elwell’s records.” He paused. “Don’t I know he’d rather we did,” Bill said. “Good night, Mullins.”
    He turned back. Dorian looked at him. “I remembered,” he told her. “Detectives have to sleep.”
    â€œI think,” Pam said, “somebody’s hinting. We’ll—”
    But they loitered with intent.
    â€œJust that Elwell’s brother would rather wait until morning to tell us he knows nothing about this ‘shocking business,’” Bill said. “And—preliminary findings on the autopsy.” He paused, seemed to consider. “Probably won’t get us anywhere,” Bill said. “Except give us another thing to check on. Elwell wouldn’t have lived more than six months or a year. Even, the M.E. thinks, with an operation.”
    Pam said, “Oh,” and there was shock in her voice. “Did—did he know?”
    Bill shrugged. Whether Jameson Elwell had known how much his life drew in was something they, perhaps, would never know. They would try to find a doctor he might have gone to, who might have told him.
    â€œBut,” Bill said, “the M.E. says there needn’t have been any symptoms yet. So, unless he was in the habit of having regular checkups—and pretty thorough ones at that—” He ended with a shrug.
    It was odd, Pam thought, that this somehow should make it worse, since Jamey was dead in any case—dead, it could be assumed, far more quickly, with a sudden flare of pain instead of pain endlessly smoldering. But—it did. Unfairness added to unfairness, in some fashion not altogether clear. Dear Jamey—
    Jerry was closing the door behind him when Pam North said, “Wait a minute,” and turned back.
    â€œBill,” she said. “There was a tape recorder in the laboratory. Was there anything on the tape?”
    â€œNo,” Bill said. “There wasn’t anything on the tape, Pam. As Mullins said—we don’t get the easy ones.”
    * “Organized medicine in the United States has taken more than a century to accept the use of hypnosis. At last, the American Medical Association has reported (in its September 1958 Journal) that hypnosis ‘has a recognized place’ in the medical armory, including surgery.”— Harper’s Magazine, November, 1958.

4
    From the other bed there were small sounds—sounds chiefly of rustling. There were also certain sighing sounds, and a small—obviously smothered—cough. Jerry North lengthened his breathing, approximated a mild snore. There was, from the other bed, the slight sound of someone turning over. This was followed by a somewhat louder sign. Jerry, under the covers, looked at the illuminated dial of his wrist watch. It showed twenty minutes of three.
    â€œOh, dear,” Pam North said, in the soft voice of one who, driven almost beyond endurance, is still considerate of those more fortunate, those who can sleep. There were further sounds. Pam