Read Online The Norths Meet Murder by Frances Lockridge - Free Book Online Page A

shape suggested something to Weigand and he almost had it before Mrs. North spoke.
    â€œYou see what it is, don’t you?” she said. “It came out of the little slot by the bell.”
    That was it, Weigand realized. Each bell in the vestibule downstairs had a slot by it, into which a slip bearing the name of the tenant could be inserted. This slip would fit the slot; it had been cut for the slot. It had, he realized, almost certainly been in the slot. But it might—
    â€œDid anybody named Edwards ever live here?” he asked.
    That, Mrs. North told him, was the point. Nobody had; not, at any rate, since they had been there, and that was a long time. It couldn’t have been there all that time.
    â€œDon’t you see?” she said. “It’s the murderer’s name! He put it there so the other man could ring.”
    It could, Weigand realized, be that way. He checked it over, aloud, while Mrs. North nodded.
    â€œThe murderer,” Weigand said, “came about—what did we say?—3:20 or 3:25. He had this slip ready, and put it opposite the bell of the fourth-floor apartment. Right?” Mrs. North nodded. “Then he rang your bell and pretended to be Western Union when you let him in. So—Then he went upstairs and into the apartment. Right?” Mrs. North nodded again.
    â€œThen,” said Weigand, “he must have already made an appointment with the man he was going to kill; made it for, say 3:30 or a little later, and given the man this address and false name.” Mrs. North looked dubious. Why, she said, false? And if false, why did the other man come? Weigand thought false, because nobody would use his own name. It didn’t stand to reason.
    â€œHe, the murderer, talked to his man by telephone, probably,” Weigand explained. “Perhaps around noon Monday. He said he was Edwards, which means that the victim knew somebody named Edwards who might call him up and arrange an appointment. Right, so far?”
    Mrs. North still was a little dubious, but she nodded, and Weigand went on.
    â€œThe murderer—” he began.
    â€œCall him X,” Mrs. North said. “People always do.”
    â€œRight,” Weigand said. “Call the murderer X. So X telephoned the victim, Brent.”
    â€œBrent?” said Mrs. North.
    Weigand said he had assumed she had seen the papers, but she shook her head. “Only the mornings,” she said; “he was still just nobody in the mornings.”
    He was, Weigand explained, Brent in the afternoons and told her, in a few words, something about Brent. But they would let that rest for the moment, and where were they? They were, Mrs. North said, with the murderer being called X, and X calling up the victim, Brent. Weigand said, “Right.
    â€œX called Brent,” he said, “and described himself as Edwards. Brent knew somebody named Edwards, and had some reason for wanting to see him but he didn’t know where Edwards lived—” Weigand studied a moment over that. “Or,” he said, “X, posing as Edwards, said he had moved and gave this address. It’s close enough to October 1 to make that’ plausible—you expect everyone to move then. X told Brent to come around at 3:30 and Brent did. Sure enough, when Brent got in the vestibule, there was Edwards’ name by a bell, and he rang the bell and X let him in. And X killed him.”
    â€œBut would it ring?” Mrs. North said. “The fourth floor bell, I mean, with the electricity off up there?”
    The bells, Weigand told her, would be on the general house circuit, unconnected with the apartment circuits.
    Mrs. North nodded, still a little hesitatingly.
    â€œWhy couldn’t it really have been Edwards?” she said. “Somebody really named Edwards?”
    That, Weigand pointed out, was perfectly clear. If the murderer were really named Edwards, he’d take mighty good care not to leave