Free Murder Has Its Points by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

hour.
    Bill said, “Right, Johnny,” and hung up.
    Amost at once the telephone rang again. This was, it appeared, the hour. Bill Weigand picked up the telephone and held the receiver at a suitable distance from his ear. He said, “Weigand” and then, “Oh,” and put the earpiece against his ear. He said, “Hello, Pam.”
    â€œYou didn’t sound natural at first,” Pam North said.
    â€œI thought you were the inspector,” Bill Weigand said, and it was Pam’s turn to say, in a most understanding fashion, “Oh.” Then she said that something had happened that she thought he ought to know about.
    â€œPipeline,” Pam said. “Or should it be listening post?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Bill said. “What, Pamela?”
    â€œMe. Being used as. To you, of course. It’s happened before, you know.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “What’s happened before, Pam?”
    â€œPeople come to us to find out what you’re up to,” Pam said. “Are you sure you’re all right, Bill? First you thought I was O’Malley. Do I sound like O’Malley?”
    â€œNo. Who wants to find out through you what I am, as you put it, up to?”
    â€œMrs. Payne. The Widow Payne. Only that wasn’t all of it, I don’t think. I think she’s afraid she’s let some cat out of some bag. Stilts! Quit that! Scratching a sofa. Where was I?”
    â€œCat out of bag,” Bill said.
    â€œOf course. Listen—”
    Bill listened. When Pam had finished he asked questions. She was sure that Lauren Payne had not said, to her, anything that revealed anything? Pam could remember nothing. Sure that she had called Blaine Smythe a friend of her husband’s, not of hers? Yes, and Pam didn’t believe it for a minute. Bill should have seen them—
    â€œRight,” Bill Weigand said. “I don’t doubt you’re right.”
    Nor, knowing Pam, did he doubt. Pamela North has now and again put two and two together and come up with odd sums, but two was each time two, and only the addition wrong.
    The woman who, after the doctor had given sedation, had stayed with Lauren Payne?
    â€œA housekeeper. Or assistant housekeeper. She thought her name was Mason. Something like Mason. Why?”
    â€œIf I,” Bill said, “were afraid I’d let a cat out of a bag, I’d look everywhere the cat might have gone, wouldn’t you? If I was afraid I’d talked out of turn—”
    â€œOf course ,” Pam said. “I should have—” She paused. “Never mind,” she said.
    â€œYou left her with the impression that we still think it’s—what the News this morning called ‘Mad Killer’?”
    â€œI tried to. I don’t know why, exactly. Or whether it worked exactly. Do you?”
    â€œIt’s still probable,” Bill said. “Only, the boys uptown thought they had the man and didn’t. Not the man. Only Brozy.” He told her, briefly, about Brozy.
    â€œThe poor man,” Pam said. “So like Eve, in a way.”
    Bill merely waited.
    â€œYou pick an apple,” Pam said, “and the heavens fall. Ambrose must have felt that. So much commotion about such a little thing. What else, Bill?”
    Lieutenant John Stein opened the door of Bill’s office. He widened his brown eyes. He pointed upward and shook the pointing hand.
    â€œSorry, Pam,” Bill said. “The inspector’s trying to get me.” He hung up. He remembered he had forgotten to tell Pam not to get herself in trouble, as she always did, as Jerry always did. Usually to no avail. He took the telephone up. He said, “Put the chief on, please,” and held the receiver well away from his ear. He listened for a time. He said, “Yes, Inspector, I’m afraid so. Again.”

6
    Pamela had expected to have lunch at home, alone, contesting with cats for