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walked to the bed and sat on its edge.Suddenly he exploded bitterly, “I would not work in that factory! Oh, no! I would have a place of peace and quiet where I could work! And now this! In the evening I sit on that terrace where I can hear the brook!”
Hicks nodded. “And now there’s blood on it. But I doubt if it was bloodied up just to irritate you.”
“I don’t say it was. What are you doing here in my room?”
“Waiting for you. There’s a question I want to ask you.”
“I won’t answer it. Down with that man I have answered a thousand foolish questions.”
“Mine isn’t foolish, it’s just a plain question. What was in your brief case the night you left it at the Dundee apartment?”
Brager scowled at him. “My brief case?”
“Yep. About a month ago. Ross drove to town especially to get it the next morning.”
“You ask me what was in it?”
“Yep.”
“Who told you to ask me that?”
“Mrs. Dundee.”
“You are a liar.”
Hicks’s brows went up. “Maybe I am at that,” he conceded. “She told me about it yesterday, and we discussed the matter, but I guess she didn’t tell me in so many words to ask you what was in it. Despite which, I ask. I’m working for Mrs. Dundee.”
“No,” Brager said.
“No what?”
“You are not working for Mrs. Dundee. You are working for Mr. Dundee.”
“So are you. It’s all in the family. I’m just trying to straighten out a little misunderstanding. You know about that.”
“I do not know about it!” Brager jumped up and flapped his arms. “My God,” he blurted, “all I ask is peace to work! All I expect is a little sweetness! A little sweetness from people to people!” His eyes were popping with indignation. “Above all I must work! And what happens in these places where I work? Dark things and perhaps ugly things! Suspicions!” He hissed. “Suspicions! Now that woman dead, dying there where I sit in the evening and can hear the brook! Can I sit there now and hear the brook? And I come to my room and find you here—”
The door opened and a policeman was on threshold, the onewhom Hicks had encountered in the lower hall. He looked at Hicks and said curtly:
“You’re wanted downstairs.”
The lights had been turned on in the living room, though it was only the beginning of twilight outdoors. It was a large and pleasant room, with comfortable chairs and sofas still in gay summer covers. Two men in the uniform of the State Police were there, in addition to the one who accompanied Hicks, and seated around a large table with a reading lamp were three in civilian clothes. One of these, with dark skin and hair pasted down, was armed with a stenographer’s notebook; the other two, Hicks was acquainted with. The one with little gray eyes and a jaw displaying more expanse than his forehead was Manny Beck, chief of the Westchester County detectives, and the one with a pudgy round face and scarcely any mouth at all was Ralph Corbett, the district attorney. Corbett half rose to his feet and extended a hand across the table for a shake.
“Hello there, Hicks! How have you been? This is the first we’ve seen of you around here since you set a fire under us on that Atherton case! How have you been?”
He was beaming with cordiality. Manny Beck nodded and mumbled a greeting.
“I’m hearty, thanks,” Hicks said, and sat down.
“You look it,” Corbett declared enthusiastically. “Driving a taxi seems to agree with you.”
The glint in Hicks’s eyes could have been dislike, or merely their reaction to the glare of the reading lamp. “You keeping tabs on my career?”
“No, no,” Corbett laughed. “Ha ha. But here we’ve got a murder on our hands, and here you are on the spot, so naturally we phoned New York to satisfy our curiosity. Driving a taxi! Ha ha. You’re a character. Out here on your day off?”
“No. I took on a little job.”
“Well, of course, I know you did.” Corbett beamed at him. “I know better than
Hicks nodded. “And now there’s blood on it. But I doubt if it was bloodied up just to irritate you.”
“I don’t say it was. What are you doing here in my room?”
“Waiting for you. There’s a question I want to ask you.”
“I won’t answer it. Down with that man I have answered a thousand foolish questions.”
“Mine isn’t foolish, it’s just a plain question. What was in your brief case the night you left it at the Dundee apartment?”
Brager scowled at him. “My brief case?”
“Yep. About a month ago. Ross drove to town especially to get it the next morning.”
“You ask me what was in it?”
“Yep.”
“Who told you to ask me that?”
“Mrs. Dundee.”
“You are a liar.”
Hicks’s brows went up. “Maybe I am at that,” he conceded. “She told me about it yesterday, and we discussed the matter, but I guess she didn’t tell me in so many words to ask you what was in it. Despite which, I ask. I’m working for Mrs. Dundee.”
“No,” Brager said.
“No what?”
“You are not working for Mrs. Dundee. You are working for Mr. Dundee.”
“So are you. It’s all in the family. I’m just trying to straighten out a little misunderstanding. You know about that.”
“I do not know about it!” Brager jumped up and flapped his arms. “My God,” he blurted, “all I ask is peace to work! All I expect is a little sweetness! A little sweetness from people to people!” His eyes were popping with indignation. “Above all I must work! And what happens in these places where I work? Dark things and perhaps ugly things! Suspicions!” He hissed. “Suspicions! Now that woman dead, dying there where I sit in the evening and can hear the brook! Can I sit there now and hear the brook? And I come to my room and find you here—”
The door opened and a policeman was on threshold, the onewhom Hicks had encountered in the lower hall. He looked at Hicks and said curtly:
“You’re wanted downstairs.”
The lights had been turned on in the living room, though it was only the beginning of twilight outdoors. It was a large and pleasant room, with comfortable chairs and sofas still in gay summer covers. Two men in the uniform of the State Police were there, in addition to the one who accompanied Hicks, and seated around a large table with a reading lamp were three in civilian clothes. One of these, with dark skin and hair pasted down, was armed with a stenographer’s notebook; the other two, Hicks was acquainted with. The one with little gray eyes and a jaw displaying more expanse than his forehead was Manny Beck, chief of the Westchester County detectives, and the one with a pudgy round face and scarcely any mouth at all was Ralph Corbett, the district attorney. Corbett half rose to his feet and extended a hand across the table for a shake.
“Hello there, Hicks! How have you been? This is the first we’ve seen of you around here since you set a fire under us on that Atherton case! How have you been?”
He was beaming with cordiality. Manny Beck nodded and mumbled a greeting.
“I’m hearty, thanks,” Hicks said, and sat down.
“You look it,” Corbett declared enthusiastically. “Driving a taxi seems to agree with you.”
The glint in Hicks’s eyes could have been dislike, or merely their reaction to the glare of the reading lamp. “You keeping tabs on my career?”
“No, no,” Corbett laughed. “Ha ha. But here we’ve got a murder on our hands, and here you are on the spot, so naturally we phoned New York to satisfy our curiosity. Driving a taxi! Ha ha. You’re a character. Out here on your day off?”
“No. I took on a little job.”
“Well, of course, I know you did.” Corbett beamed at him. “I know better than
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