Read Online Death of a Tall Man by Frances Lockridge - Free Book Online Page B

rooms.
    â€œThe younger man and the girl wanted to be together,” he said. “I let them. All right?”
    Weigand nodded. After all, if they wanted to plan their evidence, they had already had opportunity. And it was sometimes helpful if witnesses tried to plan their evidence. It so often involved them in contradictions. The human mind was seldom as logical as it tried to make itself.
    The questioning of Grace Spencer moved to the waiting room. She sat at Deborah Brooks’s desk and Pam sat on one of the sofas near by. Mullins put his notebook on a corner of the desk. Grace Spencer went on with her story. She told of checking on the compensation cases, of relieving Miss Brooks—Deborah Brooks, the receptionist—while the doctor proceeded with his examinations.
    â€œThere was nothing unusual about the doctor when he returned from the hospital?” Weigand asked her. “He was much as always when you told him the patients were ready?”
    â€œYes,” she said.
    He told her to go on. She told of Deborah Brooks’s return, of her own resumption of her desk in the corridor.
    â€œI sat at my desk so that I would be available if the doctor needed me,” she said, and Mullins took it down.

3
    M ONDAY , 4:55 P.M. TO 6:05 P.M.
    They gave Grace Spencer time, not hurrying her, not speaking. It would be better for her now that the tension had broken into tears. And it might be better for them. Waiting, Bill Weigand looked across at Pam North, and she tried to tell him something with her eyes, with her lips soundlessly forming the words. He could only guess at what she was trying to tell him, but he took a chance on the guess. He nodded. Then he looked back at the slender nurse and watched her shoulders shake under the white uniform. Then, suddenly, she lifted her head and looked at him. Her eyes were wet and her face contorted. He could see the effort which drew her face back into its accustomed lines.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said. “This is always difficult. I realize that.”
    She tried to smile. She made a bad job of it.
    â€œHave you any ideas about it, Miss Spencer?” he said. “About who might have wanted the doctor dead?”
    She shook her head. He watched her. He did not think she hesitated before she shook her head, but it was a possibility.
    â€œThe back door,” he said. “What you call the ‘back door.’ Is it locked?”
    She nodded. Then she spoke, trying to keep her voice steady.
    â€œIt has—whatever you call them,” she said. “A snap lock. It is locked from outside after you close it. Unless you set it before you go out.”
    Weigand nodded.
    â€œAnd so far as you know,” he said next, “no one had tripped the lock—set the catch so the door could be opened from outside without a key—at any time today?”
    She shook her head. Then she looked doubtful.
    â€œAnyone could have,” she said. “The doctor when he went out to lunch. Anyone. There’s no way of telling unless you look. The key works just the same.”
    â€œYes,” Weigand said. “I realize that, Miss Spencer.” He paused a moment. “Do you know of anything around the office that is like a knob—a smooth knob? Or a small, heavy ball? Of metal, perhaps?”
    She looked puzzled. Then, as she understood, she said, “oh,” in a voice which was only a breath. He watched her eyes. He thought they reflected a thought; rejected it—or kept it hidden.
    â€œNo,” she said, “I don’t know of anything like that. Unless—no, I don’t know of anything.”
    â€œUnless what?” he said.
    â€œNothing,” she said. “How large would it be?”
    Bill Weigand told her it would fit in a hand. Comfortably. So that the fingers could curl most of the way around it. That, he said, was what he thought.
    â€œNo,” she said. “I don’t know anything like