Free Murder Comes First by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

an author and was probably in the Little Bar at the Ritz. “Engulfing,” Pam thought, had her customary struggle at the apartment door with three cats, all of whom wanted to go too, reopened the door to tell Martha to be sure not to let them out when she went, herself lost Martini in the process, cornered her at the far end of the corridor, put her back in—almost losing Gin—and finally went down and found herself a cab.
    â€œWe certainly seem to have lots of cats,” Pam said, absently, and the hacker said, “Huh, lady? Whatcha say?”
    â€œNothing,” Pam said, and gave him the address.
    â€œI said,” Pam said, feeling she had been rude, “that we have lots of cats.”
    â€œYeah?” the hacker said. “Well, s’long as you like ’em.” It appeared he did not.
    â€œProbably,” Pam said, “you like dogs.”
    â€œNope,” the hacker said. “Can’t stand dogs.” He said nothing further until they had stopped at the restaurant in the East Fifties and Pam had paid and tipped him. “Don’t like horses, either,” he said then, and turned contentedly out in front of a truck, which swore at him. He swore back.
    Barton Sandford was standing just inside the door, by the hat-checking counter on the left. He was even taller than Pam expected; he was hatless and in tweeds. It was not easy to think of him bent, in a laboratory, over—whatever was bent over in a laboratory. Pam was told that this was good of her, and said “Not at all.” She was asked if she would like a drink, and said “By all means” in a tone unintentionally surprised.
    â€œA martini, please,” Pam North said. “Very dry, if they can, and with lemon peel. But just squeezed, not in.”
    There was a miniature cocktail lounge, a dining room beyond it and, from the dining room, stairs leading upward to a second floor. A maître d’, who seemed to know Sandford, pulled chairs for them at a corner table in the cocktail lounge, delivered their drinks there. The drinks were not too dry and the lemon peel was in them. Pam was resigned and thirsty, thought that one can only dream of perfection, and drank. Sandford drank. He repeated that this was damn good of her. Pam repeated that she was afraid she could be of no help.
    â€œJust a man,” she said. “A—oh, a kind of medium man, very quick. On the other side of the street, where you wouldn’t have noticed him, probably. I wouldn’t have, except that when you went into the house, he first stopped and then—well, disappeared. Into an areaway, apparently.”
    Barton Sandford listened very carefully, as if he were hearing this for the first time; as if, from these bare details, he could make a picture, and an explanation. He nodded, as Pam finished, and said it was the damnedest thing. His pleasant face was troubled.
    He shook his head, his eyes earnestly meeting Pam North’s. He said that was the hell of it.
    â€œI’m trying to find some sort of explanation,” he said. “Any sort. Grasping at—anything. Bothering people. You, for example.”
    Pam avoided saying “Not at all.”
    â€œYou see,” he said, “after I left last night, I remembered about you and Mr. North. You—work with the police sometimes? I’ve read in the papers—”
    Pam had given up trying to explain their status, which seemed to her at all times anomalous. “Working with the police” sounded as if they were informers of some sort. Yet, they did work—at least, they did much associate—with a policeman. It was—
    â€œI suppose we do,” Pam said. “In a way.”
    They sipped, while Sandford apparently considered.
    â€œYou see,” he said then, “things like this don’t surprise you, don’t seem—well, so damned impossible. You probably have gotten so you expect strange things to