Free Payoff for the Banker by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

where Commerce Street is? Except the people who live on it.”
    â€œWhat?” Pam said. “I don’t understand. What makes you dislike Commerce Street? Except that you don’t know where it is. Which is your own fault, if anybody’s.”
    â€œListen,” Jerry said. “Listen , Pam. I like Commerce Street. I also like Bank Street, except when it runs into the stables, which it probably doesn’t any more.” He looked at her anxiously. “What on earth,” he wanted to know, “are we supposed to be talking about?”
    That, Pam told him, was just it. That was precisely it. What were they talking about? That was the whole point, and what she was saying. They were talking, as far as he could tell, about something casual—something entirely trivial. Like the whereabouts of Bank Street.
    â€œAnd really,” she said, “it’s murder. We weren’t filling in for bridge. We were—we were attending a murder.”
    She looked at Mary Hunter.
    â€œOn,” she said, “invitation. Your invitation, darling. So now you have to decide.”
    The slender girl looked back at Pam North. She stood motionless, and her face was almost motionless.
    â€œDecide what, Mrs. North?” she said.
    â€œWe can’t talk here,” Pam said. “Not really. We’ll sit down some place.” She looked at Jerry, who nodded. “In the bar,” she said. “Because it’s convenient.”
    She started across the lobby toward the bar. The girl hesitated, and Jerry seemed to hesitate with her. But his hesitation was not uncertain; it suggested. Mary Hunter followed Mrs. North. She sat down with them, but with no air of permanence.
    â€œWhat you have to decide,” Pam said, as if nothing had intervened, “is whether we’re to drop out. As of now. And if we are—why did you call us in? Because it wasn’t what I’d expect—what anyone would expect. Unless you knew us better.”
    The girl seemed withdrawn. She said she was sorry.
    â€œNo,” Pam said. “It isn’t that easy. As if it were a—a case of mistaken identity. You called us in because you were frightened—terribly frightened. And you were frightened because of more than merely finding a body. You were—you were frightened for yourself. Because it all meant something about you.”
    Mary Hunter shook her head. Her voice was low and she seemed to have trouble keeping it steady.
    â€œI didn’t know what I was doing,” she said. “I do, now. It was an imposition. And it was unnecessary.”
    â€œWhy was it unnecessary?” Mrs. North said. “Because now you’re out of it?”
    The girl didn’t say anything, in words. Her eyes said something. Pam looked quickly at Jerry and watched him shake his head slowly. She waited for him to speak. He spoke gently.
    â€œI’m afraid, Mrs. Hunter, that it isn’t going to be that way,” he said. “Pam’s right.” He paused and looked at her. His voice was even more gentle when he went on, but his words were very slow and clear.
    â€œYou see, Mrs. Hunter, you’re not out of it,” he said. “I don’t know how to explain—you shouldn’t have brought us in, perhaps. We’re not detectives and—I hardly know how to say this—we—we aren’t casual about murder. People can’t be. People can’t pick it up, find out things—too many things—and drop it. And walk away. If you hadn’t called Pam—if you hadn’t brought us into it all—that would be different. We wouldn’t have any responsibility.”
    â€œAnd now,” the girl said, “now you feel you have?”
    It was hardly a question. It hardly needed an answer.
    â€œYou see,” Pam said, “you’ve told us too much. By calling us—by things you’ve said—by—by the way you