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

morsels. She had not, certainly, expected to lunch at Sardi’s and not only at Sardi’s, but with Alice Draycroft. She had, on the telephone, said, “Well, I don’t know whether—” and Alice had said, “Darling! It’s been years and years. Seeing you yesterday made me realize .”
    It was not entirely clear what, with such impact, Alice Draycroft had realized. Certainly not that, since school—umpteen years ago, Pam thought, putting the telephone back in its cradle—she and Pam had met only now and then, as an actress, usually with a part, may meet the wife of a publisher. Even in school they had not been close. Alice had been ahead of Pam in school; Alice had been a star in productions of the Dramatic Club and once, once only, Pam had played a maid with a duster. (And a few lines of background comment on the people she dusted for.) It was not an adequate basis for a lifelong friendship. Not that Alice, met now and then, wasn’t fun. I’m a pushover, Pam thought, and changed from the gray-blue dress to another—blue-gray—more suitable for Sardi’s. She decided that Sardi’s justified her mink stole.
    â€œDarling!” Alice said, at only a little after one. (Pam had waited hardly ten minutes.) “So wonderful you could. Henri, darling.”
    Henri darling (Henry Perkins at home) said, “Ah, Miss Draycroft. If you will, please?” They would, please. The table was in a corner. “A stinger, darling?” Alice said.
    â€œMartini,” Pam said. “Please.”
    â€œSo brave of you,” Alice said. “Martinis always—”
    â€œVery cold, very dry, lemon peel,” Pam said, taking no chances, even at Sardi’s.
    â€œAnd a bloody mary,” Alice said. “Wasn’t this a wonderful idea of mine?”
    In fact, it began to seem a very pleasant, if not entirely wonderful, idea. It had to be said—it was gladly thought—of Alice Draycroft that she lifted you up. Sometimes, afterward, you were a little tired, but up you had been. Pam, more the Algonquin type, went seldom to Sardi’s, and change is pleasant.
    â€œWonderful,” Pam said. “Such a nice place to visit.”
    â€œDarling,” Alice said. “You’re wonderful, darling. And how’s Jerry?”
    Pam said Jerry was fine, curbing a slight inclination to say that he was “wonderful.” She knew she should continue; should ask about the condition of Alice’s husband. She was almost sure that Alice had a husband; Alice almost always did have. But, “How’s yours?” seemed hardly a graceful query.
    â€œBetwixt and between, darling,” Alice said. She had always been quick on the uptake, Alice; she never embarrassed without cause. “Such a lovely party you and Jerry gave for everybody.”
    â€œWell,” Pam said.
    â€œUp to a point of course,” Alice said. “Do you still see that wonderful policeman of yours? Such a lamb, I thought he was.”
    Pam checked her memory quickly, seeking the opportunity obviously at some time presented Alice Draycroft to discover lamb-like qualities in Captain William Weigand. It came back—the four of them, she and Jerry, Bill and Dorian, at dinner somewhere. Celebrating something? Because “21” came to mind as the somewhere. And Alice, at first across the room, saying “Pam darling ” and then with a man—a current husband—briefly at their table.
    â€œYes,” Pam said. “You mean Bill Weigand, don’t you? Quite often, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œI suppose,” Alice said, “he’s up to his ears now about poor Mr. Payne.”
    So that, Pam thought, was that. The inside of things was as precious to Alice Draycroft as to John Gunther. This was part of an innocence which was, probably far more than she herself suspected, part of Alice. “I oughtn’t to tell you who told me; but