Free Death on the Aisle by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

and beyond her, and beyond Jerry, Weigand heard the gasp of a snatched breath from Dorian.
    Kirk spoke from the rear of the theatre. He spoke quietly, now.
    â€œAnd that, children,” said Humphrey Kirk, “was where I found the body.”

V
    T UESDAY—5:10 P.M. TO 5:35 P.M.
    Humphrey Kirk had pointed out a door opening off the mezzanine and marked “Private” and then, at Weigand’s direction, gone back to wait with the others on the stage. Uniformed men stood stolidly at the exits and in the aisles to see that they stayed there; squad men presented leathery red faces to the suspects and gathered by twos in conference. The people on the stage watched them and wondered uneasily, uncertainly suspecting that things affecting them went forward. Now and then one of the detectives looked hard at one of the people on the stage and then turned back to his companion and spoke seriously.
    â€œWatch Notre Dame,” one said after such a stare. “That’s all I’m telling you, Flaherty. Watch Notre Dame.”
    It would have consoled F. Lawrence Tilford, who had withstood the full, cold weight of Detective King’s regard, to know the burden of Detective King’s communication to Detective Flaherty; to know that Detective Flaherty’s portentous nod meant only that Detective Flaherty also thought Notre Dame was hot this year. Mr. Tilford unhappily construed the conversation otherwise: he put it instinctively into dialogue:
    Detective King: There’s our man, Flaherty.
    Detective Flaherty: (Nods in agreement) Yeh.
    Mr. Tilford, who had been standing easily near the fireplace, found a chair and sat down and took out a handkerchief which matched his greenish socks and wiped a brow which also, he suspected, now matched the socks.
    Weigand had opened the door marked “Private” and led Sergeant Mullins into the office of the West Forty-fifth Street Theatre—an office which, in the old days, had been David Dortman’s own, part of David Dortman’s own theatre, part of David Dortman’s own tradition. Weigand, remembering, looked for the casting couch which had once enjoyed equal fame. It was gone; the office was now comfortable and impersonal, as if it belonged to a bank which did not know quite what to do with it.
    â€œNow, Mullins—” Weigand began, and somebody knocked at the door. Weigand made a remark and opened the door and glared at Detective Stein, on guard and messenger duty outside.
    â€œI thought I said—” Weigand began coldly, and then said, “Oh!” He looked at Pam North, who led the delegation, with Dorian just behind her and Mr. North, looking worried, bringing up the rear.
    â€œI told them we’d better—” Mr. North began. Pam said, “Sh-h-h.”
    â€œWe’re going, Bill,” she said. “Tell them to let us. We’re taking Dorian down to our place to tell Martha five and see about the gin. And then you come down.”
    â€œWell—” Weigand said.
    â€œWhen you can,” Pam told him. “After all, you’re going to have to eat some time. You’re going to have to let all these people eat. And—listen!” She waited for them to listen. “ We’ve got Noilly Prat! ”
    â€œNo!” Weigand said.
    â€œGenuine,” Pam told him. “Jerry found it at a little place on Eighth Street. Wasn’t that clever of him?”
    â€œVery,” said Weigand, meaning it. He paused. It wasn’t often anybody could offer martinis with real Noilly Prat these days. And he would have to eat. And it often paid to talk things over with the Norths.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “I’ll try—around seven-thirty, though.” He hesitated and looked at Mullins. “You want this?” he asked.
    â€œListen, Loot,” Mullins said. His voice held appeal. Mrs. North looked shocked.
    â€œAloysius Clarence?” Mrs. North said, in evident