naturally. But I want to give you a new slant on this crime.”
“New slant, my eye!” he yelped indignantly. “Didn’t you see the film of that broadcast? Aren’t you satisfied that that’s motive enough?”
“Enough and to spare. The trouble is, Oscar, that too many people knew, hours before the murder, that there was a perfect case against just one person. If Fagan died by violence, Junior Gault alone would be suspected. It was therefore a perfect setup for any other enemy Fagan may have had.”
“Oh, no! ” winced Piper. “Why must you do everything the hard way?”
“The rocky road to truth? Oscar, it never seemed to me quite sensible for a man to go to all the trouble of beating up an enemy before killing him. That would be piling Ossa on Pelion. And there is no proof that Junior Gault …”
“No proof? But I tell you the Kell girl saw Junior leaving!”
Miss Withers nibbled daintily at a doughnut. “Listen. Tony Fagan was a wolf; he could hardly have avoided it in his profession. His wife leaned to the opinion that he never fooled around with members of his cast; I believe she said something about a bird never fouling its own nest. Which proves that she hadn’t ever taken a good look at a bird’s nest close up. Anyway, I am reasonably sure that Fagan trespassed at least once—I refer to the bosomy Miss Thallie Gordon, who otherwise could hardly have obtained or kept her job on the show.”
The inspector shrugged. “So maybe Thallie did have an audition by courtesy of Beautyrest. She had no motive to bump off her—her meal ticket.”
“Perhaps not. Then there’s the girl who played corespondent in the Fagan divorce, being caught with him in a hotel room with nothing on. Suppose she really wasn’t forewarned about the deal, and felt strongly about being compromised?”
“Fiddle. Two out of three girls who hang around the TV studio would be tickled pink to be photographed anywhere with Fagan, in a nightgown or out of one.”
“I’d still like to know who was with him that night, if you can find out. And I also suggest to you, Oscar, that Fagan had a fling with Crystal Joris, the tap-dancing neighbor who appeared on his program a year or more ago.”
“We know all that. She did a one-shot on his show. But as for the rest …”
“Please listen. Isn’t it possible that through Crystal he somehow met her little cousin, either on a visit here or perhaps when he accompanied the Joris girl back to the old home town? A man like Fagan, wearied by the stereotyped glamor girls of show business, might be extremely attracted to a naive little thing like Ina—who must have had unusual charms, or you and Mr. Hardesty wouldn’t speak of her as you do. But of course he was the type to grow tired quickly, a man used to orchids would soon be bored with a simple violet.”
“Go on,” ordered the inspector with grim patience. “Say your say.”
“I suggest to you that the reason Ina wanted to come to New York was to see Tony Fagan again, to be at least in the next apartment to the man she worshiped. Or perhaps she had revenge on her mind when she came. ‘Hell hath no fury …’”
“Your blushing little violet is poison ivy now?”
Miss Withers sniffed again, prodigiously. “Perhaps after the party was over Ina came tapping at his door, begging just for a kind word, and got laughed at—Fagan not even pretending that he wasn’t tired of her, through with her….”
“You ought to write soap operas.”
“So Ina went back to her borrowed apartment, furious. Then she heard the fight, came out into the hall in time to catch a glimpse of Junior Gault hurrying away after having given his tormentor the beating he so richly deserved, and was curious enough to investigate the open door and find Fagan lying there unconscious. He was in her power …”
“Better and better,” conceded the inspector. “Dream on.”
“So, having seen the television program earlier that evening and realizing
“New slant, my eye!” he yelped indignantly. “Didn’t you see the film of that broadcast? Aren’t you satisfied that that’s motive enough?”
“Enough and to spare. The trouble is, Oscar, that too many people knew, hours before the murder, that there was a perfect case against just one person. If Fagan died by violence, Junior Gault alone would be suspected. It was therefore a perfect setup for any other enemy Fagan may have had.”
“Oh, no! ” winced Piper. “Why must you do everything the hard way?”
“The rocky road to truth? Oscar, it never seemed to me quite sensible for a man to go to all the trouble of beating up an enemy before killing him. That would be piling Ossa on Pelion. And there is no proof that Junior Gault …”
“No proof? But I tell you the Kell girl saw Junior leaving!”
Miss Withers nibbled daintily at a doughnut. “Listen. Tony Fagan was a wolf; he could hardly have avoided it in his profession. His wife leaned to the opinion that he never fooled around with members of his cast; I believe she said something about a bird never fouling its own nest. Which proves that she hadn’t ever taken a good look at a bird’s nest close up. Anyway, I am reasonably sure that Fagan trespassed at least once—I refer to the bosomy Miss Thallie Gordon, who otherwise could hardly have obtained or kept her job on the show.”
The inspector shrugged. “So maybe Thallie did have an audition by courtesy of Beautyrest. She had no motive to bump off her—her meal ticket.”
“Perhaps not. Then there’s the girl who played corespondent in the Fagan divorce, being caught with him in a hotel room with nothing on. Suppose she really wasn’t forewarned about the deal, and felt strongly about being compromised?”
“Fiddle. Two out of three girls who hang around the TV studio would be tickled pink to be photographed anywhere with Fagan, in a nightgown or out of one.”
“I’d still like to know who was with him that night, if you can find out. And I also suggest to you, Oscar, that Fagan had a fling with Crystal Joris, the tap-dancing neighbor who appeared on his program a year or more ago.”
“We know all that. She did a one-shot on his show. But as for the rest …”
“Please listen. Isn’t it possible that through Crystal he somehow met her little cousin, either on a visit here or perhaps when he accompanied the Joris girl back to the old home town? A man like Fagan, wearied by the stereotyped glamor girls of show business, might be extremely attracted to a naive little thing like Ina—who must have had unusual charms, or you and Mr. Hardesty wouldn’t speak of her as you do. But of course he was the type to grow tired quickly, a man used to orchids would soon be bored with a simple violet.”
“Go on,” ordered the inspector with grim patience. “Say your say.”
“I suggest to you that the reason Ina wanted to come to New York was to see Tony Fagan again, to be at least in the next apartment to the man she worshiped. Or perhaps she had revenge on her mind when she came. ‘Hell hath no fury …’”
“Your blushing little violet is poison ivy now?”
Miss Withers sniffed again, prodigiously. “Perhaps after the party was over Ina came tapping at his door, begging just for a kind word, and got laughed at—Fagan not even pretending that he wasn’t tired of her, through with her….”
“You ought to write soap operas.”
“So Ina went back to her borrowed apartment, furious. Then she heard the fight, came out into the hall in time to catch a glimpse of Junior Gault hurrying away after having given his tormentor the beating he so richly deserved, and was curious enough to investigate the open door and find Fagan lying there unconscious. He was in her power …”
“Better and better,” conceded the inspector. “Dream on.”
“So, having seen the television program earlier that evening and realizing
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