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

surprise. “Of course!”
    Mullins winced.
    â€œListen, Mrs. North,” he said. “I know it’s funny. But it’s just a name, see?”
    â€œOf course it is, Al,” Mrs. North said. “Or would Clare be better?”
    â€œYeh,” Mullins said. “Al.” He looked at Mrs. North darkly.
    â€œWhat’s this Noilly stuff?” he inquired. “Do you drink it? Like rye?”
    Mrs. North smiled at him, please. She promised there would be rye. Mullins looked relieved. He watched the Norths and Dorian disappear, with Stein going along to pass them out. A reflective pleasure remained upon his face. Then he saw Weigand looking at him and his face descended. He read the look.
    â€œJeez, Loot,” he said. “All them times?”
    Weigand nodded unrelentingly. Mullins sighed deeply and got out his notebook. He looked at what he had written there, sighed even more deeply, and said, “Jeez” again. Then he squared his shoulders and said: “O.K., Loot.”
    Mullins had timed everything. He started to read and Weigand stopped him.
    â€œIt was twelve minutes after four when they started?” he said, repeating the time Mullins had just given him. Mullins nodded. Weigand said, “Right.”
    â€œTo make it simpler,” he said, “we’ll take these times as duplicating the times earlier in the day. We’ll make 4:12 equal 1:12. Right?”
    Mullins looked at him doubtfully and then even more doubtfully at his notebook. Then he brightened and said, “Yeh!” He looked admiringly at a man who could thus bring order out of chaos. He continued.
    At 1:12, revised time, Sand said, “Curtain,” and Ellen Grady, who was already on stage, began to speak. With her on the stage at that time were Percy Driscoll and Paul Oliver. Sand was sitting at a small table down-stage right; Kirk was in a seat in the third row. Mullins interrupted himself.
    â€œI didn’t try to get Kirk every time he moved,” he said. “He was all over the place. In sight, mostly. And Sand stayed where he was, looking at these papers.”
    â€œHe was following the script,” Weigand said. “I noticed that. Go ahead.”
    â€œWell,” said Mullins, “they cussed each other out for a while—say, that Grady dame is something, ain’t she, Loot.” Mullins’ face lighted with reminiscent fervor. “I could go for that one, Loot.”
    â€œDon’t,” Weigand told him. “You’ll burn your fingers. Go ahead.”
    â€œYeh,” Mullins said. “I guess maybe I would. O.K. They cussed each other out for a while, and said a few lines from the play, and Kirk jumped up and down and then this guy Oliver went off the stage. The Grady dame went over and sat on the windowseat and kept looking out like she expected to see somebody coming. That was at four—no, one-fifteen. Then, couple of minutes later—1:17—this Hubbard guy comes on. They talk a little and then Hubbard comes down and says he saw a cigarette about where the dead guy was sitting. He musta seen it about 1:18.” Mullins broke off.
    â€œYou figure that’s it, Loot?” he said. “Was that when somebody bumped him?”
    The fingers of Weigand’s left hand patted gently against the desk before which he was sitting. They patted in due order, beginning with the little finger and ending with the thumb. After the thumb patted the shining wood, Weigand said it could be.
    â€œOr,” he said, “maybe we’re supposed to think that.” He looked reflectively at Mullins. He said there were alternative theories. Mullins looked doubtful and said, “Yeh,” without conviction.
    â€œSuch as this,” Weigand said, helping him. “Say, for some reason, the murderer wanted us to think that was the time. He could sit back there and move the cigarette as Hubbard saw it moved, hoping it would be