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“The knife, that is. There are a lot of prints in the office, of course. Mott’s. Maillaux’s. A good many unidentified, of course. Mott’s on the telephone—and Maillaux’s because he used it to telephone us. Unfortunate, but he doesn’t seem to have covered anything except Mott’s own. Mott used the telephone a couple of times, taking incoming calls. He didn’t make any calls himself.”
    â€œWhat about the knife?” the Herald Tribune wanted to know. “We got it it was a steak knife.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “Wooden-handled, thin, sharp blade. The name of the restaurant stenciled on it—burned in.”
    â€œThey never gave me a knife like that,” the Sun said. “I ate here a few times. Steak, too. Just an ordinary, pretty sharp knife.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “An improvement. New knives. Mott had ordered them himself, if you want a little irony. They came in yesterday, somebody took one in to Mott to look at, apparently Mott left it on his desk, handy for somebody.”
    â€œIs that particularly ironical?” the Times asked.
    Weigand shrugged. “Up to you boys,” he said. “I’ve seen you go further. However—”
    â€œAnd you’re getting nowhere, I gather?” That was the Journal-American , sounding cross. Bill Weigand was unperturbed.
    â€œDo you?” he said. “I presume we’ll get somewhere. We usually do, you know. We haven’t locked anybody up yet, if that’s what you mean.” He looked at his watch. “It happened about three hours ago,” he told them. “There’s been a lot to do. A lot’s been done.”
    â€œSuspects?” the Journal-American said, still cross. “Who’re your suspects?”
    â€œNo comment,” Weigand told him, and smiled.
    â€œNo suspects,” the Journal-American said. “You admit it.”
    Bill merely shrugged at that.
    â€œThat’s the way I play it,” the Journal-American said, and looked around at the others. “How about you guys?”
    â€œWhat the hell?” the Post said. “What’s biting you, Schmidt? You can’t lay it on the Commies.”
    â€œThe trouble with you pinks is that you don’t—” Schmidt began, and was urged to skip it. Weigand waited, smiling faintly, indicating that it was not his fight.
    â€œHow did Mott fit into this deal?” the Times said, waving around. “The set-up?”
    â€œWhat we know I can tell you,” Weigand said. “Last spring—late last winter, perhaps—Maillaux needed money. You know the kind of place it has always been? Very dignified, very expensive, very good food, a little—well, dingy? Very special place, for people interested in special food. Well, Maillaux indicates there weren’t enough of them, at the prices he had to charge nowadays. So he looked around for money and there’s where Mott came in. Arranged to have Maillaux’s incorporated, took over a lot of the stock, put in a lot of money—”
    â€œHow much stock?” That was the Sun .
    â€œControl,” Weigand said. “Maillaux had the rest—and complete control of the kitchen, according to his story. Mott took over brightening the place up. They closed down last summer—July and August—and did a job. You can see the job.”
    â€œHave,” the Sun said. “Very elegant. Did it work?”
    â€œIn increasing patronage?” Bill said. “Yes, apparently. Got the kind of people Mott wanted—the 21 crowd. Mott got interested and began to stick around, welcoming people. Giving it class. People came to see the place, to be welcomed by Mott, to see if Walter Winchell was around.”
    â€œAnd God, how the money rolled in,” the Herald Tribune suggested.
    Bill Weigand said he supposed so.
    â€œAnd now what?” the Sun said. “What happens to the