Free The Four Johns by Ellery Queen

broadcasting malice. Well, he could not stand there all night.… He strode forward, slid the door aside, ready for anything.
    The light shone on his clothes. Below, a rack held his shoes. The shelf above held oddments, a glint of white. Unfamiliar.… Mervyn reached up with a leaden arm.
    A white purse.
    Mary’s purse.
    So.
    He filled his lungs. The pattern was now clear.
    It had been assumed that when the green convertible was picked up, the police would find the body. They would naturally question Mervyn, seek to establish his movements. They would search his apartment, find the purse. Mervyn would be arrested, probably put on trial, possibly convicted, conceivably sentenced to the gas chamber. Mervyn shuddered.
    For a moment he stood looking at the purse. Then he opened it and peered inside. Lipstick, mirror, comb, change purse, wallet with various cards. No money. Mervyn’s lips tightened: suppose his enemy had marked Mary’s money in some fashion and also hidden it on the premises? The idea was ridiculous, oversubtle; still, Mervyn looked around, even went into the kitchen to investigate the coffee can where he tossed small change. Nothing. His imagination was running away with him. He smiled sadly. Rather hard for his imagination to run faster or farther than events themselves.
    One matter at least was straightened out: the fate of his few lingering qualms. Mary Hazelwood was dead and gone. A pity, but his own life was now on the line.
    He opened a kitchen drawer and took out a twist of plastic clothesline, which he put in his pocket. Mary’s purse he tucked into the front of his trousers, then he buttoned his jacket and stepped out into the court.
    He walked quickly past Apartment 1, but not quickly enough. Before he could reach the street, the door opened and people spilled out.
    â€œMervyn!” John Boce bawled. “Hey, Mervyn, hold up a minute!”
    Mervyn managed to resist the almost irresistible desire to punch the accountant in the nose.
    â€œHow about taking Mike and Charlotte home?” Boce asked. “It’s just over on North Side.”
    Mervyn could think of nothing to say. He waited while Boce affably conducted the physicist and his wife to the entrance.
    â€œI hope we’re not putting you out, Mr. Gray,” Mike said.
    â€œOf course not!” Boce declared heartily. “It’s a pleasure for Mervyn.”
    â€œThank you so much, John,” Charlotte said.
    â€œThink nothing of it. Good night!”
    â€œMy car is up the street,” Mervyn said. “Around the corner.”
    â€œThis is very good of you, Mervyn. Our car is out of commission, but John insisted that we come.”
    â€œI don’t mind in the slightest.”
    Mike and Charlotte lived a mile away. Mervyn dropped them at their apartment house and drove back around the campus. He turned east along Ashby Avenue, and presently swung into the Contra Costa Freeway. Something pressed against his stomach, something large and uncomfortable: Mary’s purse. He had forgotten about it. He yanked it out and tossed it to the seat beside him.
    A new thought occurred to him and he stopped the car under an overhead light. He opened the purse and went through it until he found a small black address book. He flicked through the pages.
    Name after name after name, in Mary’s neat, erect handwriting. He hunted for Johns. Under B , John Boce. (Under G he found Mervyn Gray.) The next John was under P : John Pilgrim. John Thompson was not listed. John Viviano was there, with a San Francisco address and telephone number.
    There were no other Johns noted.
    Mervyn replaced the book in the purse, drove on.
    The road led through forested rolling hills and sleeping suburbs, north around the foot of Mount Diablo. The Freeway came to an end, the hills dried out and became mineral in the moonlight. He crossed them and came down into farmland, with a line of small cities spaced along the shores of