that this was the perfect opportunity to revenge herself on the man who had wronged her, Ina picked up a nearby vase and finished the job. Then she washed off the weapon, covered the body, sneaked back into the other apartment and made her getaway.” Miss Withers paused, leaning back in triumph. “That would explain why she didn’t call the police. She didn’t want to appear at all, even as a witness. She was afraid that on the witness stand, with Sam Bordin cross-examining her, she might trap herself. Well, Oscar?”
He nodded admiringly. “Nice try, old girl.”
“What do you mean, try? It’s the only hypothesis that fits the facts.”
The Inspector’s smile was pitying. “Now you listen!” he said.
Some years before, during the period when Miss Withers had been devoted to the raising of tropical fish, a friend returning from Army Air Force duty at Karachi had presented her with a tiny replica of the Taj Mahal made of intricate bits of white marble; a delicate, lovely, incredible thing not five inches high. It had occurred to her how striking the little temple would be if placed at the bottom of her largest aquarium, framed by the green of the water plants and reflected in a little mirror set in sand for the foreground.
So she had arranged it, had carefully siphoned back the warmed, cured water and replaced the hundred tiny, jeweled fish, turned on the concealed overhead fluorescent lamp and then had sat herself down in rapt admiration to gaze upon her handiwork. The betta splendens, the neon tetras, the mollies and guppies and hatchet fish and scalares had all swum inquisitively around the new addition to their green wonderland, and a snaky dojo had even writhed its way, like a minuscule boa constrictor, into a doorway …
And then, in front of her eyes, the Taj had begun to shimmer and change, like faery gold. Nightmarishly, the thousand intricately assembled bits of marble drew in upon themselves, assumed strange, ungeometric attitudes contrary to all the rules of architecture, and then slowly, inevitably, collapsed into a pile of rubble.
Now, as Oscar Piper talked, Miss Withers began to feel the same shock of incredulous disappointment. The case she had built up in the last few hours, like the miniature of the Taj Mahal, had lacked waterproof glue.
The inspector, in short, was telling her not to try to teach her grandmother to suck eggs, nor the police to follow obvious lines of investigation. First of all, Tony Fagan’s love life, involved as it might have been and probably was, could not possibly have included an affair with Crystal Joris. Miss Joris was billed in nightclubs as “300 Pounds of Rhythm,” and her weakness was calories, not cuddling. Nor had she ever had a chance to introduce her little country cousin to Tony Fagan. Ina Kell had never been more than fifty miles from Bourdon, Pennsylvania—except perhaps in dreams—nor had any of her infrequent trips away from the drab home she shared with an invalid mother, a stepfather, and three half-brothers ever taken her near a city where Tony Fagan might have been making a personal appearance at some theater or night spot. Her life was an open book, and Tony Fagan—because of the business he was in—came under the same category. It was absolutely impossible that the two had ever met until that moment— la hora de verdad, as the Spanish put it—when her curiosity had led her to push open his door and look upon his bloody ruin.
There were many times when Miss Withers had doubted her old friend the inspector, and with reason. But not about things like this. She subsided slowly, letting her coffee cool.
Moreover, every point in Ina’s story that could be checked had been—and rang true as a bell. There had even been enough prints of her little bare feet recovered from the floor of the hallway to show that she had tiptoed cautiously from her door to Fagan’s and then had gone back considerably faster, almost running. Her fingerprints were
He nodded admiringly. “Nice try, old girl.”
“What do you mean, try? It’s the only hypothesis that fits the facts.”
The Inspector’s smile was pitying. “Now you listen!” he said.
Some years before, during the period when Miss Withers had been devoted to the raising of tropical fish, a friend returning from Army Air Force duty at Karachi had presented her with a tiny replica of the Taj Mahal made of intricate bits of white marble; a delicate, lovely, incredible thing not five inches high. It had occurred to her how striking the little temple would be if placed at the bottom of her largest aquarium, framed by the green of the water plants and reflected in a little mirror set in sand for the foreground.
So she had arranged it, had carefully siphoned back the warmed, cured water and replaced the hundred tiny, jeweled fish, turned on the concealed overhead fluorescent lamp and then had sat herself down in rapt admiration to gaze upon her handiwork. The betta splendens, the neon tetras, the mollies and guppies and hatchet fish and scalares had all swum inquisitively around the new addition to their green wonderland, and a snaky dojo had even writhed its way, like a minuscule boa constrictor, into a doorway …
And then, in front of her eyes, the Taj had begun to shimmer and change, like faery gold. Nightmarishly, the thousand intricately assembled bits of marble drew in upon themselves, assumed strange, ungeometric attitudes contrary to all the rules of architecture, and then slowly, inevitably, collapsed into a pile of rubble.
Now, as Oscar Piper talked, Miss Withers began to feel the same shock of incredulous disappointment. The case she had built up in the last few hours, like the miniature of the Taj Mahal, had lacked waterproof glue.
The inspector, in short, was telling her not to try to teach her grandmother to suck eggs, nor the police to follow obvious lines of investigation. First of all, Tony Fagan’s love life, involved as it might have been and probably was, could not possibly have included an affair with Crystal Joris. Miss Joris was billed in nightclubs as “300 Pounds of Rhythm,” and her weakness was calories, not cuddling. Nor had she ever had a chance to introduce her little country cousin to Tony Fagan. Ina Kell had never been more than fifty miles from Bourdon, Pennsylvania—except perhaps in dreams—nor had any of her infrequent trips away from the drab home she shared with an invalid mother, a stepfather, and three half-brothers ever taken her near a city where Tony Fagan might have been making a personal appearance at some theater or night spot. Her life was an open book, and Tony Fagan—because of the business he was in—came under the same category. It was absolutely impossible that the two had ever met until that moment— la hora de verdad, as the Spanish put it—when her curiosity had led her to push open his door and look upon his bloody ruin.
There were many times when Miss Withers had doubted her old friend the inspector, and with reason. But not about things like this. She subsided slowly, letting her coffee cool.
Moreover, every point in Ina’s story that could be checked had been—and rang true as a bell. There had even been enough prints of her little bare feet recovered from the floor of the hallway to show that she had tiptoed cautiously from her door to Fagan’s and then had gone back considerably faster, almost running. Her fingerprints were
Similar Books
