Murder Has Its Points (18 page)

Bill said, “Come in, Miss Rhodes.”

When she moved she was not a schoolgirl. No looseness of sweater, bulk of skirt, could wholly blur the slender grace of body, the subtlety of movement. Most schoolgirls move like colts; the lucky ones like kittens.

She moved a few steps toward the desk Bill Weigand stood behind and stopped, and looked up at him with strange, obviously unhappy, intensity. It was as if she had asked a question, waited desperately for an answer. Something's the matter with the kid, Bill thought. What ails the kid?

“You've arrested him,” Jo-An Rhodes said. “Locked him up somewhere. And he hasn't done anything. Not anything.”

Her voice was angry; her voice accused.

“It isn't fair,” she said. “He's—he's not the way you think he is.”

Bill shook his head slowly. He said, “Sit down, won't you?” and indicated the chair at the end of his desk. She paid no attention to that. “I'm afraid,” he said, “I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Rhodes. Arrested whom?”

He saw that, when she was not speaking, the girl's lips trembled. Full lips, softly curved—trembling lips.

“There's no use lying about it,” she said. “I'll get a lawyer. You can't just lock him up. Incommunicado.”

Bill felt himself blink at the word. It sounded, on her lips, like a word she had read somewhere. It occurred to him that her mind—her young mind—was now a restless amalgam of what she had read, what in her few years encountered.

“No,” he said, and smiled at her. “I'm not lying. And we don't hold people incommunicado. Against the law that is, Miss Rhodes.” His tone put quotation marks around the long word.

Her face was very white. She shook her head slowly, but now not with assurance.

“Who do you think we've arrested?” Bill asked her. And then, again, asked her why she didn't sit down. She did sit down, then. She wore short white socks on bare legs. Again she was like a schoolgirl—a schoolgirl very lucky with her legs.

“Who?” Bill said once more.

She looked at him long and carefully before she answered, obviously studying his face.

“Jim,” she said. “Jim Self. Where is he, then? What's happened to him?”

“Has something happened to him?”

She nodded her head.

“He's so sure,” she said, “about everything. Ideas and—and everything. He's brilliant. You could see that this morning. Couldn't you see that?”

She seemed actually to expect an answer.

“Right,” Bill said. “But—the point is—”

“But he orders too many books because they're good and people ought to buy them,” she said. “Things like that. Practical things. He calls me ‘child' and ‘baby.' All right. Only, I know all that. What I am. But, some ways, I'm older than he'll ever be.”

Almost any woman's comment on almost any man, Bill thought. Made with most assurance by a beginning woman, like this pretty girl. Sometimes trues and sometimes not. At the moment, certainly not germane.

“I take it,” Bill said, “Mr. Self has—gone some place? He's not here. You can take my word for that. Not arrested. Why did you think he had been arrested?”

Again she looked at him, studied him. She said, “You don't think he killed Mr. Payne?”

“We don't know who killed Mr. Payne,” he told her, his tone patient. “We haven't arrested anybody. Why would he want to kill Mr. Payne?”

“No reason,” she said. “But—oh, it was clear enough what you thought. You don't have to believe what I told you about Mr. Payne and me. It was true, but that doesn't matter. To Jim I'm just—just a girl who works in the shop. Just anybody. Nobody at all.”

She wanted him to believe that. That was evident. Whether she believed it herself—wanted to believe it—Germane enough, perhaps. Too elusive, obviously, for the moment.

“So he wouldn't have any reason. Can't you see that?”

“All right,” Bill said. “Say I do see that. And—suppose you tell me what this is all about. Mr. Self has—what? Failed to show up somewhere?”

“At the shop. To be there, really. You see—”

This was Wednesday. On Wednesday evenings, the bookshop was kept open until ten o'clock. As a result, there was a routine.

Jo-An opened the shop at ten in the morning. Some time between twelve and one, Self relieved her. As he had today.

“You mentioned an auction,” Bill said.

She made a small gesture. “I thought maybe you'd go,” she said. “It was—all right, it was silly.”

She looked at him.

“Right,” Bill said. “Go ahead. He came. We had our little talk. Then?”

Then, as on any other Wednesday, she had left the shop, and James Self to run it. She was, according to Wednesday routine, due back at around five, to mind the store for two hours. At seven, or thereabouts, Self returned and she went home, or wherever she wanted to go. That was the Wednesday routine. But today, something had happened to the routine.

She had gone as usual. She had returned at around five, perhaps a few minutes after five—“about half an hour ago”—and found the shop closed. Closed and dark. She had let herself in, and found the shop empty. She had looked for a message, and found none.

“I suppose,” she said, “you'll think this is all—all nothing. That something came up—some trivial thing—and he closed up and—” She shook her head.

“It isn't like him,” she said. “Maybe that doesn't sound like anything either. But it isn't like him.”

People do move in patterns. They do what it is “like” them to do. If this pretty child felt it was not “like” Self to close up shop, to go off without explanation, she was quite probably right.

“Right,” Bill said. “It sounds like something. A dozen explanations—a hundred. But I agree some explanation is needed. So?”

She had been worried. “Everything's worrying now,” she said, with a kind of resentment. She had turned on the lights and waited for a few minutes, and then got it into her head that “Jim was sick. Maybe up in his apartment all alone.”

She had locked the shop up again, and gone up to Self's apartment on the third floor in the same building. She had knocked and then called and then gone in.

“His apartment wasn't locked?”

She appeared to be surprised. She said, “Of course it was locked. I don't—oh. The key to the shop unlocks his apartment. He hates to be bothered with a lot of keys. When he rented the shop and the apartment, he had the same locks put on both.”

Again she looked at Bill, and now as if for a signal. He said, “Go ahead.”

“That's all, really,” she said. “He wasn't there and then, all at once, I knew. He'd been arrested. You'd arrested him. I called and they told me where you'd be and—and so I came. But you say he isn't—”

For the first time, her voice faltered. And, suddenly, her dark eyes went under the water of her tears.

“Where is he?” she said, and her young voice shook. “I was so sure. But now—
what's happened to him?
”

Bill was patient. Probably nothing had happened to James Self. Probably something quite trivial had come up, made it necessary for him to leave the shop.

“Without leaving me a note or anything?”

There was, of course, that. But probably he had expected to be back before she came.

“By the way,” Bill said. “When you were in his apartment, did you notice anything? I mean—anything to show he might have taken things with him. Clothes—a suitcase—”

She shook her head. She said, “I didn't—pry. I wouldn't. Anyway—I wouldn't have been able to tell, would I?”

The question was innocent; it implied innocence. Not that Bill had much doubted that Self occupied the apartment alone. “Not with Miss Rhodes.” Still, all things must be somewhat doubted.

“As a matter of fact,” Bill said, “it's quite in the cards he's got back to the shop. Probably wondering right now where you are. Wait a minute—what's the number of the shop?”

She gave him the telephone number of James Self, Books. He gave it to the switchboard and waited. The telephone in the shop rang unanswered. While he waited, she looked up at him, eyes wide, eyes hopeful. The hope faded slowly from the wet eyes.

“Not yet, apparently,” Bill said. “But that's still the most likely thing. Probably by the time you get there, he'll be there waiting.”

“You really think that?”

“Right. Anyway, I think it's the most likely. Of course, if he doesn't show up in an hour or so—well, if he doesn't, call back. If I'm not here, I'll leave word and we'll start things moving. All right?”

He felt somewhat like a doctor, giving an encouraging prognosis. No use scaring a patient, even when you're not so sure.

Moderate hope seemed to return to the girl's dark eyes. She stood up.

“If he doesn't come you'll—help?”

“Of course.”

“I really did think you'd arrested him. Weren't—weren't letting anybody know. Maybe were doing something to make him talk.”

Bill stood up. He shook his head and smiled down at her.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “If—if he doesn't show up and I call here—there'll be somebody who'll know what I'm talking about?”

“Right. If I'm not here.”

She went toward the door; was opening it when Bill thought of something. Had James Self a car? If he had, where did he keep it?

He had; she told him where and turned and said, her voice again a little tremulous, “You think—?”

“Nothing. Just an easy thing to check up on. Probably he's wondering where on earth you've got to. Next thing we know, he'll come rushing in, thinking we've arrested
you
.”

She smiled very faintly. “I don't think he worries about me that much,” she said. “Good night, Captain.”

Perhaps, Bill thought, Self will be at the shop, waiting. It
is
the most likely thing. Of course, as had been true of Faith Constable, sudden and unexplained movement is always interesting.

He rang and garage Jo-An had named. It was some time before the telephone was answered, and the voice was grumpy.

Self kept a car there—a 1956 Chevrolet. He had picked it up an hour or so ago and driven off in it. Bill said, “Thanks.”

Was Self running? It would be very helpful if he were. But nobody was chasing him. Not yet, anyway. And not time to start yet.

Bill Weigand was opening the door between his office and the squad room when the telephone rang behind him. Alexander Graham Bell really loused things up, Bill thought, and went back to stop the insistent bell.

First they had gone over a manuscript, in Jerry's office. It was a long manuscript, and going over it had taken some time. To whom was this pronoun relative? Was this a typo, or something intended? If intended, what was it supposed to mean? Granted that past-participial construction is sometimes desirable, even necessary, couldn't it, on pages 223 to 226 be squirmed out of sooner? The author said, “hmmm-m,” to that and read pages 223 to 226. “Do rather drag hads after me, don't I?” he said. “Clang a bit, don't they?” He made changes. Step by step they reached the end on page 334. The author said, “We've earned a drink.” They went for a drink, Jerry promising to return to the office, saying he might be late, assuring Miss Arby he need not be waited for and that he would sign the letters and drop them down the chute himself.

Miss Arby, who was briskly efficient, rather new on the staff, and had had considerable experience with employers, looked doubtful.

“I'm quite up to it,” Jerry told her, gravely, and she said, “Oh, Mr.
North
,” and flushed. He grinned at her; efficient secretaries are not easy to come by. She realized it was time to laugh, and laughed.

Drinks seldom are singular, particularly when publishers drink with authors, publishers—one immemorial tradition of which all authors approve—paying. This author proved only reasonably thirsty, but was loquacious. Authors who have finally shrugged away a pack shouldered for many months often are.

It was getting on for six when Jerry let himself into his dark office and switched on lights. The staff, as directed, had not waited for him. On his desk, half a dozen letters, one filled-in contract, awaited him, a stamped envelope clipped to each. He read; he signed; he folded and sealed up. The contract was on the bottom, and took a little longer; was signed in triplicate and put in envelope. Enough postage? There appeared to be, and Miss Arby would not make a mistake. She made few. So, that finished and—

It was not finished. Underneath the contract, visible now, was an interoffice memo, for the attention of Mr. North. It was neatly typed—all Miss Arby's typing was neat. It read:

“Mrs. North called 4:53 and dictated following:

“‘Have to go to Ridgefield, Conn., with Mrs. Constable. See Mrs. Payne. Have Martha fix you something. I'll drive carefully. If I'm late, tell Bill there's something the matter with his legs.'”

Jerry read this three times, running fingers anxiously through his hair. He is used to Pam's being up to something, and used to her being cryptic about it, commonly with no such intention. But this time she had him stumped. On the third reading, he began to be uneasily suspicious that stumping was what she had intended. And this was not in the least like Pamela North.

A call for help? A warning? An effort to suggest without revealing? If so, a failure, unless Pam had intended to suggest that she had taken leave of her senses. Wait—listened to while she telephoned, veiling her meaning from alien ears? Suddenly, Jerry North felt the inner tightness of anxiety. “I wish to God,” Jerry North said, speaking aloud in an empty office, “you wouldn't do this sort of thing to me, Pam. Pam girl—I wish—”

He heard his voice in the empty office. He was slightly embarrassed, but no less anxious. He dialed a number he did not need to look up, and waited. He said, “Captain Weigand, please,” and tried to keep anxiety out of his voice. He said, “Bill? Do you know what Pam's up to?”