Free The Norths Meet Murder by Frances Lockridge Page A

furtive enjoyment, of the whole matter. The reporters got up when Weigand entered, and sat down again when he shook his head at them. He went up.
    The face of the Brent maid reflected suitable gravity and her voice was hushed. She would see if Mrs. Brent could see Lieutenant Weigand; Mrs. Brent was feeling very indisposed, but the maid would see. “She’s grieving,” the maid imparted, in a suddenly lowered tone. Then she left and, after a moment, returned. The detectives followed her across the foyer and into the living-room, done in soft grays and reds. Mrs. Brent rose from a chair near the window and said, “Lieutenant Weigand.” Her voice was low-pitched and steady, but there was still shallowness in her eyes. She was very pale, under tan. She moved forward and Weigand noticed that she moved with that balance which becomes instinctive to a dancer, or an athlete.
    She was a little above the usual height of women, and muscularly slender. Standing quietly, and waiting for Weigand to speak, she lifted a cigarette to her lips, and as her arm rose Weigand could see the supple stir of muscles under the pale brown skin of her forearm. Weigand could feel Mullins beside him thinking “She’s a good-looker, all right.”
    She was, Weigand agreed, mentally. Her features were regular and disciplined; her jaw compact and liable, he suspected, to become prominent as she grew older. Youth softened it now, but it was the jaw of a lady who knew her mind. Her hair was blond and—Weigand’s experienced eyes hesitated imperceptibly—yes, naturally so. Her gaze at him was steady, unrevealing and unperturbed.
    He apologized. She would understand that there were certain questions they must ask; certain things they must find out. He would like to give her more time; knew the shock she had experienced. But in such cases it was hazardous to waste time; every hour made their task more difficult, as she would realize.
    She said, “Yes, Lieutenant, of course,” in her low, steady voice, and motioned toward chairs. She sat again herself, in a fluid, balanced movement which Weigand envied. That sense of balance you had to be born with; could never fully acquire if you were not. He had seldom seen it more completely embodied than in Mrs. Brent; never, he decided, in a woman. Watching her move, he wondered why she had not really attained top flight as a tennis player, and decided that it must have been because she had not wanted to, or had lacked something of the peculiar spirit necessary. Or perhaps, and that was always possible, she lacked that supernormal coordination of vision necessary for greatness as an athlete. Certainly what she had not lacked, he realized as she waited composedly for him to continue, was poise.
    There were routine questions, about herself and her husband—questions for the record. She was thirty-two; they had been married a little over seven years. Before her marriage she had been Claire Askew; had been born upstate at Binghamton and been educated in private schools. Her husband had been five years older, a native New Yorker, educated at Yale. He had been a member of the law firm for about five years. Before that he had been, for a short time, an assistant in the District Attorney’s office. Latterly, she thought, his practice had been almost entirely a civil one. The firm represented several corporations.
    She had last seen her husband on Saturday, when she went to the country to close up their house there. Her level voice checked a moment, and went on. She looked straight at Weigand, waiting for each new question, with her hands quiet in her lap.
    â€œThe country house?”
    â€œIt is a little way out of Carmel,” she said. “It is a week-end place, really, although we often spend a month there in the summer—longer if Stan can get—” She stopped suddenly. “It is hard to realize,” she said. “That was what we used to