Free Date for Murder by Louis Trimble Page B

draped the corpse’s middle and dropped it quickly. “She could have gone upstairs for a sheet; much more fitting to cover the face.”
    The Chief snickered. “I’ll tell her, Doc. Now, what’s the verdict?”
    Dr. Nesbit shrugged and turned toward a splash of shade closer to the house. He stopped there, the others beside him, and lit a cigaret. “I know little more than you, Chief. It was cyanide, of course. Any infant can tell that As to the time of his death—” he waved his cigaret at the Chief’s rotund face—”I can only guess now. Say between five and eight. Close to seven. Merely a guess, though. I’ll know more after an autopsy, naturally.”
    “Okay,” the Chief said. “They can haul him away any time.”
    Mark grinned half-heartedly at the Chief. “Now what?”
    “Now I got to ask all these people a lot of fool questions,” the Chief said, “and get a lot of fool answers. If I can guess who’s lying and who ain’t, then I win.”
    “What’s the prize?” Mark grinned.
    “There ain’t no first prize. Booby prize goes to the loser—the gas chamber, I hope.”
    The Chief chose the library for his questioning. It was a small room bulging off the east side of the living room, and was fitted quite comfortably with leather easy chairs grouped around a fireplace. The fire had lain dead in it for some time, and would remain that way.
    The Chief swung one chair around so it faced two others. He sat down, Mark beside him. After a moment Bayless ambled into the room and blinked expectantly at the Chief.
    “You want the Farman kid?” Bayless asked him.
    Mark was surprised when the Chief shook his head. “Not for a while. Anybody else.” He spit into the fireplace, turning slightly to face it.
    Bayless brought in Clinton Jeffers. He was in a lightweight dressing gown with light tan silk pajamas showing underneath. Both were tailored to set off his broad shoulders and slim hips. He was still very much the athlete, moving quietly and surely across the floor to the chair indicated by the Chief. His yellow hair had been quickly brushed and stood out from his temples in short tufts, and sleep still clung to his heavy-lidded blue eyes. He stifled a yawn and grinned apologetically.
    “Hell of a thing to wake up to.”
    “You heard, huh?”
    “I heard. But that’s all.”
    “You went to bed around four o’clock. Go right to sleep?”
    Jeffers found a cigaret in the pocket of his dressing gown. He located a match in the other pocket and lit the cigaret. He tossed the match in the general direction of the fireplace. It landed on the hearth. Mark got up and set an ashtray at Jeffers’ side.
    “I went right to sleep,” he said finally.
    “And didn’t wake up until Bayless called you, huh?”
    Jeffers seemed to hesitate. He said slowly, “No. I woke up before that. I don’t know what time it was. But it was already daylight.”
    The Chief waited, but Jeffers seemed to have nothing more to say. The Chief was patient about it. “What woke you?”
    “Shouts in the hall.” Jeffers was frank but not very glib.
    The Chief half turned and spit into the fireplace. He sighed ponderously. “Look,” he said, “tell me about it. How you woke up; what happened; what you did; what everybody else did and said; everything until you went back to sleep, huh?”
    Jeffers sucked on his cigaret for some time before answering. Mark sensed he was cool and composed and fully awake now. He seemed to be debating just how little he could tell and still get away with it.
    The Chief said, “It ain’t a good idea to hold back like this, Mr. Jeffers. You ain’t helping anybody. If you woke, others did too. Somebody’s bound to tell it all sooner or later. Huh?” he added persuasively.
    Jeffers grinned faintly. He said, “I was awakened by shouts in the hall. They were more like noises in a dream at first, and I listened for a time, half awake. Finally I heard someone curse at someone else, and I got up and went into