Free Murder Is Served by Frances Lockridge

place?”
    Bill shrugged again.
    â€œNothing, so far as I see,” he said. “Mott’s heirs inherit his stock, Maillaux keeps his, the place goes on. Of course, Mott doesn’t greet his friends any more.”
    â€œMaillaux doesn’t get it?” That was the Post .
    â€œI haven’t seen the will,” Weigand said. “We’re checking. Maillaux doesn’t expect it, he says. No insurance in favor of the corporation, or anything like that.”
    â€œWell, who?” The Post was insistent.
    â€œWe haven’t seen the will,” Weigand told him. “I believe Mott was still married to the last one. You can always look her up, and ask.”
    â€œI did,” the Times said. “He was.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “Then she gets part of everything, of course. Including this place.”
    â€œAnd about thirty millions more,” the Sun said.
    Weigand said he wouldn’t know.
    â€œI would,” the Sun said. “About thirty millions.”
    â€œThat’s a nice piece of change,” the Associated Press reporter said, thoughtfully. “A very nice piece of change.”
    Nobody challenged this.
    â€œThat’s the way I play it,” the Journal-American said. “Who profits?”
    â€œNot from us you don’t,” Bill told him. “Not from the police.”
    â€œThis babe,” the Journal-American said morosely. “This latest Mrs. Mott. This last Mrs. Mott. What does she have to say?”
    â€œShe hasn’t been questioned,” Bill said. “She wasn’t at Mott’s apartment.”
    â€œLook,” the Times said. “I’m not going along with Smitty here. But they were separated. Why would she be at Mott’s apartment?”
    They all looked at Bill Weigand and waited. Bill said merely, “Were they?”
    â€œAt least,” the Journal-American said, “you’ve got a pick-up order out for her? Or hadn’t you thought of it?” His tone indicated that he did not suppose Weigand had thought of it.
    Bill was patient. He shook his head, and smiled.
    â€œWe expect to talk to her,” he said. “Obviously. We’re not worried about finding her.”
    â€œNo?” the Journal-American said. “No?”
    Bill Weigand let it go.
    â€œThat’s all we’ve got at the moment,” he said. “All clear?”
    â€œAll you’ve got for us,” the Herald Tribune said, without animosity.
    Bill smiled again and said, “Right, if you prefer.” He smiled a little more widely. “Of course,” he said, “if you aren’t satisfied, you can always talk to Inspector O’Malley. He’s in charge, you know.”
    The Times said, “Ha.” Nobody else said anything. The Times , as became his confidence—and the fact that he could pick up anything he needed from the afternoons anyway—said, “Be seeing you,” generally, and left. The News, Mirror and Herald Tribune left after him. The afternoons eyed one another with some suspicion and went in a body. They would hang around, after telephoning; the services would hang around. The mornings would return. It was, Bill realized, going to be a major circus.
    Bill sat alone in the office, drumming gently on the desk top with the fingers of his right hand. He wished they would pick up Mrs. Mott, Mrs. Peggy Simmons Mott. He wished it very much. She was not at her apartment, which was a long way, in blocks and other things which counted more, from Mott’s apartment. She was not, so far as they could determine, at Dyckman University. There was nothing to indicate that either fact had significance; there was nothing to indicate that she was in flight. It was also technically true that there was no pick-up order out for her. But she would find it difficult to get out of the city by train or plane or bus—difficult but not impossible. Bill Weigand had no illusions