Free The Dishonest Murderer by Frances Lockridge

what you think you know. You realize that, Mrs. Haven.” He looked at her, and she made herself meet his eyes. “We have to know,” he said. He said nothing more, took her out of the apartment house to a car parked in front of it. He spoke to the man behind the wheel.
    â€œTake Mrs. Haven home, Blake,” he said. “Then come back.”
    â€œRight,” Blake said. Weigand opened the rear door and Freddie Haven got into the car. “Good night,” Bill Weigand said. He watched the car start up, for a moment regarded it. Then he went back into the apartment house. His thin face was thoughtful.
    He knocked briefly on the door of the Norths’ apartment and then pushed it open. Pam and Jerry were much as he had left them. “Well,” Pam said, “the coffee’s hot, now.”
    Bill Weigand took off his coat and, abstractedly, said, “Good.” He took a cup of coffee, poured a little cognac into it. He sipped and said, “Good,” again, in a different tone, and then sat down.
    â€œYou’re not in a spot,” he said, then. “I’m not going to ask you anything.”
    The Norths looked at him.
    â€œYeah?” Jerry said.
    â€œOfficially,” Bill Weigand said, “I didn’t stop in. Why should I? Officially, I have no idea that Mrs. Haven came here to—get you to help her? Get your advice?” He shook his head when Pam started to speak. “Advise her. Help her.” He looked at them; tired as he appeared to be, he also appeared to be amused.
    â€œBill!” Pam said. “You—Bill!”
    He merely smiled at her.
    â€œNot on a spot!” Pam said. “What would you call a spot? Run with the hare, hunt with the hounds!”
    â€œIs she the hare?” Bill wanted to know.
    â€œAnd,” Pam said, with some bitterness, “I made you fresh coffee! No, I don’t think she is.”
    â€œThen there’s no harm done,” Bill told her. “If she’s not the—hare—she’s not being hunted. What you find out may help. It won’t hurt.”
    â€œIt is a spot,” Jerry North said. He was sober. “We didn’t ask for confidences but—we got them.” He looked at Bill. “Well?” he said.
    Bill said he appreciated that. His tone, now, was serious. He realized he could get them to tell; that he would only have to ask. He also realized that they would not be happy, telling. That, he told them, was part of it.
    â€œAlso,” he said, “you’re in it again. Both of you. Officially, you’re not, of course. But—officially I’m not here, not here to tell you that, or anything. If you can help her, help her. If, along the way, you find the man who killed Kirkhill, you’ll let me know.” He paused. “Where’s the spot?” he said.
    â€œThe whole thing’s a spot,” Pam North told him. “You’re throwing us into it; tying us up and throwing us in. Aren’t you?” She looked at him. “Suppose I squeal to O’Malley? Tell the great man you invited us in? Threw us in?”
    Bill Weigand laughed. Then he became serious.
    â€œForget it all if you’d rather,” he said. “If—if you really think Mrs. Haven’s involved, skip it. Forget she was here; forget I was here.”
    â€œYou think she could have been?” Jerry asked.
    Weigand shook his head.
    â€œDirectly, no,” he said, “At least, I don’t think so. At a guess, a man killed Kirkhill. I don’t even know Mrs. Haven or any of the rest—I mean Kirkhill’s daughter, his secretary, the people he would have met at the party tonight—had anything to do with it. I’d be inclined to think they didn’t, on the whole. Actually, I stopped by to see whether you’d noticed anything at the party that might help. Any—strain? Uneasiness? Somebody not worried at Kirkhill’s failure to show