Free The Judge Is Reversed by Frances Lockridge Page B

nothing—”
    â€œYou’re damned right there isn’t,” Mears said. He was, evidently, a man who did not wait for the obvious to be completed. “Johnny Blanchard said to drop around for a drink if I was going to be in town this afternoon and when I get there—”
    â€œDoug,” the girl said. “They do know about yesterday. Not only what was in the papers. Somehow—these people—” She indicated the Norths. “They happened to be having a drink when—”
    â€œSo what?” Mears said. He looked now at Bill Weigand. “You don’t for God’s sake want to try to make anything out of that?” He looked at Hilda Latham. “And you,” he said. “Are a sweetheart. Really and truly a sweetheart.” His tone was bitter.
    â€œMiss Latham,” Bill Weigand said, without emphasis, “also has told us there is nothing to be made out of that. If there isn’t, we won’t make anything. When you went around for a drink, you didn’t know Mr. Blanchard was dead?”
    â€œThat,” Mears said, “is a hell of a damned fool question. If I knew he was dead, how the hell’d I think he could give me a drink?”
    â€œBill,” Pam North said, “he’s really got something there, hasn’t he? What would you like to drink, Mr. Mears? Or are you in training or something?”
    Mears stared at her for a moment.
    â€œBecause,” Pam said, “all the rest of us are.” She looked around at the glasses. “Were,” she corrected. “If you don’t drink we’ve probably got some—”
    â€œTwo hours ago,” Mears said, “Nellie and I lost the silliest damn match you ever—So.” He looked around again. “This is the damnedest setup,” he said. “Scotch, if it’s handy.”
    And he looked around for a chair. It appeared that Mr. Doug Mears had decided to play along. When Jerry had made his rounds, Mears did, to a degree, play along. Now and then, his tone sharpened, his ever-ready temper showed through. But as an exasperated young man, and one who had had a disappointing tournament, he seemed to be doing what he could to play along.
    He did not deny that he had been sore as hell at John Blanchard. But he pointed out that that was yesterday. So, he’d made a fool of himself. It wasn’t the first time. “I needed that match,” he said. “Might have made a hell of a lot of difference. Water under the bridge, now.”
    He’d calmed down after the scene in the garden bar. Toward evening he had run into John Blanchard at the Forest Hills Inn and apologized. They could prove that, if they wanted to. Plenty of people had heard him.
    What had he meant, Blanchard had got “what he wanted”?
    How did he know? He was sore. He’d said the first thing that came into his head. He supposed—got him beaten. It was a damn silly thing to say.
    About what Blanchard had wanted being seated at the table?
    â€œDon’t remember anything like that,” Mears said. And if he looked at Hilda Latham quickly, was not looked at, looked away again, what did that mean? The question was Pam North’s, to herself. He had to look at somebody. Hilda Latham was a rewarding somebody to look at.
    It had been during his meeting at the inn, during his apology, that John Blanchard had invited him to drop by the next afternoon—this afternoon—for a drink? If he happened to be in town?
    â€œYes,” Mears said. “Sure. I said I still didn’t get the foot-fault business, and what was I doing wrong? He said, drop by and he’d try to explain. He was with some other people then and I was meeting a couple of guys myself. So—”
    So, having been eliminated from the mixed doubles early in the afternoon, having watched the finals of the men’s singles—the Australian had won, in straight sets, to nobody’s