Free Murder by the Book by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

trouble—” Grogan said, and shrugged. “She’s got a sad expression. Looks sort of … oh, licked.”
    Jefferson called in, found that Sheriff Reppy was still out, fishing. Which left it still up to Jefferson. Pickup to be sent out for one Rebecca Payne, small, dark young woman; age? “Mid-twenties,” Grogan guessed. “Weighs not much over a hundred,” Grogan guessed. A slight young woman, dark, with a sad expression on a thinnish face. Not much to go on, but what they had.
    Autopsy report in on Dr. Edmund Piersal. There was a good deal of it, and it boiled down to one thing: Piersal had been stabbed with a knife with a rather wide blade, possibly a fisherman’s knife. The knife had punctured the aorta.
    Skin divers had not found a suitable knife in the waters at, or around, the end of the pier. But the water deepened abruptly there; it would take days to search adequately and, even then, there would be no certainty. Piersal might have held the knife himself; falling, released it from a nerveless hand. The knife might have fallen into the deep water. It might equally well have been thrown there, by another hand. And it might, evidently, not be there at all. The murderer might have carried it away.
    Jefferson arranged to have the room checked for fingerprints. If they picked up a slender black-haired young woman—and they might pick up several—it would be helpful to be able to prove who she was. Grogan agreed to see that the room would not be entered by a member of the staff.
    Jefferson understood that Dr. Piersal had treated Mrs. Tucker Upton the day before. He would like to talk to Dr. Upton. Grogan repeated Dr. Upton’s name, rather as if he had never heard it before. He said, “Why on earth?” He said, “What possible reason?”
    â€œFill in the picture,” Jefferson said, as firmly as he could manage. Grogan looked doubtful, but shrugged his shoulders.
    He had, naturally, stood by Dr. Tucker Upton, offering what help and solace he could. He had even offered to go with the doctor to help with the arrangements. Dr. Upton had thanked him; had gone alone. That was about an hour before. He expected Dr. Upton to return. He had no idea when.
    â€œHappen to know where this Mr. and Mrs. North might be?” Jefferson said.
    Paul Grogan shrugged again. He looked at his watch. They might be in their room, changing. It was about the time people went to their rooms to change.
    The telephone in the room of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald North rang unanswered.
    â€œThe lounge,” Grogan said. “I’ve noticed they go there.”
    Grogan kept track of those who went to the Penguin Bar—kept track a little anxiously. He had seldom, in his considerable experience, had a hotel so full of such un-thirsty guests. An almost empty bar is a considerable disappointment to an innkeeper.

6
    The Penguin Bar of The Coral Isles could be reached by going through the dining room or, alternatively, by going around the hotel—past the tennis court, across the patio. Hopefully, the hotel had left, at a corner of the patio, a gap in its fence, so that passersby could enter the bar from Flagler Avenue. Now and then a customer was thus captured.
    The lounge—which for some reason was octagonal—was empty when the Norths went into it. The bartender leaned on his bar, looking sadly at the opposite wall, where penguins strutted through a mural. “Birds,” Jerry said, with distaste. “This place is hipped on birds.”
    They sat at a corner table, from which the penguins were not intrusive. The bartender came around his bar to them. “Quiet,” Jerry said. “Early yet,” the bartender said. It was about five-thirty. At any moment, the bartender implied, hordes would descend. Jerry said, “Extra-dry martinis, lemon peel.” Pam said, “Very cold, please.” The bartender said, “Sir.” He added, “Ma’am.”