Free Death Has a Small Voice by Frances Lockridge Page A

yesterday. Abstractedly, Jerry North tore Tuesday off. He examined drawers, not knowing what he sought in them, and found nothing that spoke of Pam. He pulled out the upper drawer of the filing cabinet and looked at it, but did not begin to search it. He could spend hours doing that, with no certainty of gain. He pushed it closed again.
    â€œShe didn’t say why she came?” he asked Helder. “You’re sure she didn’t?”
    â€œWhy would she tell me?” Helder asked. “No, she didn’t say.”
    â€œWas she carrying anything?” Jerry asked. “A package?”
    â€œJust one of these bags they carry,” Helder said. He used the word “they” in reference to strange creatures, inexplicable creatures. It was in his tone. “She wasn’t wearing any hat, though,” he added.
    â€œShe doesn’t, much,” Jerry said. “She—” He stopped.
    (She bought hats; she often bought hats. She wore each hat once or twice, and not again. “Maybe I’ve sort of outgrown hats,” Pam North said. Her voice filled the room. “They always begin to look silly,” Pam North said.)
    â€œWhat?” Jerry said, to the other voice—the heavy, real voice—in the room. “What did you say?”
    â€œWhen she put them down to sign in,” Helder said.
    â€œPut what down?”
    â€œWith her purse,” Helder said. “I remember now. She put it down to sign in and there was something under it. An envelope, like. A square envelope.”
    Jerry was back, by then. His questions were quick, but the answers were slower. Just a square envelope, under the purse. That was all he could remember. Pam had brought a square envelope with her to the office; whether she had taken it with her when she left, there was no way of knowing. It was something to look for. Jerry looked. He found square envelopes—large envelopes, for unfolded manuscript sheets (not square, but near enough); square envelopes for Voice-Scriber records. (There was a box of these; they were almost never used. They were empty.)
    â€œThat looks about right,” Helder said, of the Voice-Scriber envelope. “A little bigger, maybe. But I don’t know.”
    Jerry North needed help—professional help. He lifted the telephone on his desk and listened for a second to its deadness before he remembered. He went then to the switchboard at the receptionist’s desk. He dialed, holding one earpiece of the headset to his ear. The answer was not so quick, this time. It came in a weary voice. But it was the right answer—“Weigand speaking.” Then Jerry North talked fast.
    â€œShe had an envelope?” Bill said. “About the size and shape of a record envelope? Wait, then. I’ll be up.”
    He was, in a surprisingly short time; Mullins with him. Bill looked at Jerry North. He said, “She’ll be all right. We’ll find her.”
    â€œSure,” Jerry said. “Sure she’ll be all right.”
    To Bill’s quick questions, Helder could give them little more than he had already given. One thing, yes. The offices had been cleaned since Mrs. North was there. They were cleaned every night, between six and eight. Bill Weigand swore at that “Let’s hope they gave it a lick and a promise,” he said. “Come on, Mullins.”
    The policemen worked together, dusting gray powder, blowing it away. They dusted the office; the washroom adjoining it; even the sill of the window which opened on a fire escape. As they worked, Bill Weigand talked. He told Jerry of little Harry Eaton; of Hilda Godwin. He asked questions.
    Hilda Godwin, Jerry knew of; had met once or twice. He had heard she was writing a novel. He had not been much interested, since it would, naturally, go to her usual publishers—the Hudson Press. Eaton he did not remember. Then he remembered Eaton’s book.
    â€œGod awful,” he said.