PROPERTY OF University of Michigan Libraries, 1817 ARTES SCIENTIA VERITAS s " .. زیک,ز A MR. AND MRS. NORTH MYSTERY THE DISHONEST MURDERER Frances and Richard Lockridge J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PHILADELPHIA AND NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1949, BY FRANCES AND RICHARD LOCKRIDGE FIRST EDITION PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA THE DISHONEST MURDERER 1 I Friday, December 37 9:05 P.M. to 11:35 P-M- There is nothing to worrry about, Freddie Haven told her- self. There is nothing to think about twice. You are not a young girl, she told herself; not a child, full of imaginings, making much of little because it concerns this man. You are a grown woman, contained and poised; you were married, in those other days, to a man whose eyes laughed and whose voice had confi- dent laughter in it, and this is not, cannot be, the same thing. This is a grown-up thing, made of warm affection, of shared understandings; this is more loving than being in love. In this there cannot be the quick excitement, the unreasoning fear and unaccountable delights. This time you cannot be frightened about nothing. Freddie Haven looked at herself in the dressing table mirror. After a second she began to comb her hair. It was deep red I hair; in some lights it was almost too dark to be called red. Satterbee hair. Freddie was used to knowing that it was beau- |tiful, and unexpected. It clung to the brush, fell from the brush soft waves; it lay sleek round her head, the ends curling under at the back, as her fingers twisted them. "You look fine, Freddie," she told herself. "You're a fine looking young ivoman. You're a credit to Bruce." Even if it had been Bruce, she told herself, there would still nothing beyond explanation. He had changed his plans, hat was all. For some reason he had taken an earlier train £pm Washington. A hundred things could have brought him; had interests in so many things. There was no reason he puld tell her of a change in plan which did not affect her. 7 P r THE DISHONEST MURDERER At ten o'clock—“tennish”—he would come to the party, as he had said he would. Nothing had changed that mattered to them, or he would have let her know. Even if it had been Bruce-but, of course, it had not been. Was she going to be that way again? Was she going to see Bruce in every big man, with shoulders set a certain way, seeing him where he could not be? She remembered, her hands idle again, looking into the dressing table mirror, seeing nothing in it, how often, how cruelly often, she had seen Jack-in a room, on the street—long after she knew she would never see him again. She was not going to get once more into that sort of turmoil. This had been—what did one say?-a "fancied resemblance.” She took the incident out of her memory and looked at it. She had been coming home in Aunt Flo's car from having tea in Aunt Flo's big, square, irretrievably institutional house in the Navy Yard. They had come across Brooklyn Bridge and, leaving it, gone through Foley Square, then up Lafayette Street. They had gone along fast, with almost no traffic; she had been warm and furred in the back of the big car, looking without attention at almost deserted sidewalks, hardly noticing where they were. And then she had seen this big man who, for an instant, had looked like Bruce Kirkhill. She had seen him only momentarily while the car stopped for a lighte Almost as soon as she had seen him, the light changed and the car started. Now, thinking back, she tried to decide what it was that had made her think the man was Bruce. She tried to make what she had seen vivid again in her mind. A big man-yes, big as Bruce Kirkhill was big. He had been walking south, on the east side of the street. He had been alone; she was almost sure he had been alone. He had been walking with his over- coat unbuttoned, whipped by the wind. She remembered, now. It was that which had made her notice him, become conscious of him as she had not been conscious of other men she must THE DISHONEST MURDERER II "Fits very well," he said. "Don't catch cold. Where's Marta?" "Resting," Freddie said. "She's helping with the coats and things. I told her to rest. Why?" "Not on station," the admiral said. "You coddle her, Freddie." Freddie only laughed at that. The admiral accepted the subject as dismissed. "Tie all right?" he said. He held his chin up a little higher; it was a chin which lived high. The tie was perfect. Watkins was an artist with a bow. As Dad knows perfecdy well, Freddie thought, as she always thought. But she went to the tall, erect man and reached up and pretended, but only pretended, so as not to mar perfection, to adjust the bow a little. She stepped back and smiled up at the admiral, and he patted her arm lightly, gently. "You're a good child, Winifred," he said. "You coddle everyone." It was a special moment; because it was a special moment, he called her Winifred, which had been her mother's name. She did not say anything, but she put both her hands for a moment on his arms. Almost at once, before the touch became caress, she dropped her hands. "By the way," he said. "Invited a young couple to drop in." e paused. "This publisher fellow," he said. "Going to bring t this book you know. North." "reddie said, "Of course, Dad." Still think the other plan might have been better," the iral said. He looked down at his daughter. "Ought to feed le," he said. ad," Freddie said. "It's always awkward. It sounds fine, t's always awkward. And I know I wouldn't like to be one late ones. You wouldn't either." admiral seemed to entertain momentarily, and to dis- t once, a preposterous thought. Freddie watched her expression, and her smile did not show. The darling has 12 THE DISHONEST MURDERER never considered that, she thought; if some were to come to dinner, others to drop in later, the category of Vice Admiral Jonathan Satterbee was preordained. His was a confidence be- yond conceit. "Better this way, darling," she said. "Really better." The admiral made a sound which was, as much as anything, "wumph." Probably, Freddie Haven thought, he knows perfectly well , that it isn't only the awkwardness. Aunt Flo and Uncle William, not yet "ret."; the commodore; Captain and Mrs. Hammond; Aunt (by courtesy) Angela; Mrs. Burton, the "Dowager Admiral," whose for some time lamented husband had, in the year before his retirement, achieved Cominch. All very culti- vated and delightful, all very Navy, all very—well, call it famil- iar. Those would have made up the dinner party before the party to which the others, the lesser, the non-Navy, might be invited. And there, of course, Bruce Kirkhill would have pre- sented a hostess's problem, as well as a fiancee's. Had there been a dinner, he could hardly not have been invited. (By her; the admiral's position would have been equivocal.) But Senator Kirkhill and the "Dowager Admiral" would, undoubtedly, have presented a problem. Mrs. Burton had little use for poli- ticians. "Better this way, Dad," Freddie repeated, and the admiral said "Wumph" again, but with moderated emphasis. He is a darling really, Freddie thought, and patted one of the arms which should have been to the elbow in gold braid. "Suppose you've heard from Kirkhill?" the admiral said, changing the subject with authority. "No," Freddie said. "He's coming on the Congressional; going to the Waldorf to change, coming on. It's all arranged." The admiral said "Wumph" again and seemed about to con- tinue. The hesitancy was untypical. Freddie said, "Yes, Dad?" "Nothing," the admiral said. "I'm—I'm fond of you, Freddie. Know that, don't you? You know what you're doing?" THE DISHONEST MURDERER 13 "Of course," Freddie said. "We've been over it, Dad." "Well," the admiral said, "he's a politician, you know." "Darling," Freddie said. "Please, Dad. We have been over it. Bruce is a senator—a United States senator." The admiral said "Wumph," doubtfully. "And," Freddie said, "you like him. You know you do." The admiral briefly raised square shoulders. "Nothing against him," he said. "As a man. Seems all right. Good war record." He smiled, with his lips only. "Set in my ways, Freddie," he said. "Probably there's nothing to it." She was puzzled by that. She looked an enquiry. She thought, surprised, that her father had not meant to say the last—not out loud, not to her. "Nothing to what?" she said. "What is it, Dad?" The admiral said "eruh," as one word, which he did on those few occasions when he was uncertain. He resumed command at once. "Prejudice against politicians," he said, with finality. "What do you people say? An allergy." She said, "Oh." "And I'm fond of you," he said. "Don't want you to make a mistake. Damn those monkeys." She knew what he meant by that. Damn the "monkey," the '•hideously courageous, horribly skillful "monkey" who had xrashed his plane against the bridge of a destroyer off Okinawa; against the bridge of Commander John Haven's destroyer. "That was another day," Freddie said. "A fine day. It won't rme back, Dad. There's no use." She looked up at him. ^ "This isn't a mistake, Dad," she said. ™ The admiral said "Wumph" once more. He patted her bare oulder. She thought, for a moment, that he was about to say lething further; she had a feeling, not easy to explain, that had more to say about Bruce, was hesitating to say it. But re was nothing tangible to indicate this, and when the admi- THE DISHONEST MURDERER ral spoke again it was merely to ask her if she were coming down. She shook her head, said there were finishing touches. "Can't see where," her father said, looking at her with ap- proval. "I'll go down, then." He patted her shoulder once more. He was more demonstrative than usual, she thought; more anxious that she should know his fondness for her. It was as if he were, secretly, uneasy about her. She watched him turn, go out the door, and felt her own previous uneasiness returning. She tried to shake it off, to persuade herself to accept the ob- vious. Fancied resemblance; fancied implication in a sentence; imagined note of concern in her father's voice. One led to the other; one heightened the other. If she had not imagined Bruce in a big man walking somewhere on the lower east side, glimpsed briefly, with a shabby overcoat open on a cold night, she would not have gone on imagining. "Probably there's nothing to it," her father had said, and seemed to hesitate when she asked an explanation, but then had given her an explanation entirely reasonable. There was nothing to any of it. She returned to her dressing table and the finishing touches. For several minutes she was able to occupy her mind with them. But then the slight feeling of uneasiness, the ridiculous feeling of anxiety, came creeping back. She could not keep it from creeping back. Well, she thought, if I'm going to be this way, I may as well call Bruce and—and know he's all right. He would, she thought, be at the Waldorf by now; he would not yet have left to come to the apartment. She went across the room to her desk near the bed and took up the telephone of her extension. Then she heard her father's voice, speaking on one of the other extensions, and instinctively started to replace the receiver. "—as of tonight," she heard her father say. "Circumstances have changed. Send me your bill and—" She had replaced the receiver by then. But she stood looking THE DISHONEST MURDERER at it. "As of tonight." For no reason, no explicable reason, the words entered into, became part of, her anxiety. She lifted the receiver again. A man's voice she did not think she had ever heard before was speaking. "—to you," she heard the voice say. "What we've got begins to make it look like there was something to it. But it's up to you, Admiral. He's going to be your son—" "That's all," her father cut in. "That's enough. I've told you what I want. I'll expect your bill." "Sure," the other voice said. "Sure, Admiral. Whatever you say." "Goodbye," the admiral said. She heard the click of his re- placed receiver. She put the telephone back in its cradle and stood for a moment without moving. She stood erect, as her father had taught her, her square shoulders high, her slim body motionless in the moulding golden dress. She looked at nothing; saw nothing. She could feel a kind of tightening in her mind. Her mind seemed to be tightening, almost quivering, under re- peated, inexplicable, tiny blows. It was as if something were flicking at her mind, something invisible were stinging it. "Going to be your son—" Son-in-law, the man must have been going to say when her father, his voice firm with authority, I sharp with impatience, cut him off. Bruce—it was, again, some- thing about Bruce. "Probably there's nothing to it," her father had said. That had been something about Bruce. The sham- Dling man seen from the car window—but that could not have en Bruce Kirkhill. , Something was happening to the day, the last day of the •ear; something was happening to her, to the order of things, tranquility. It had been a day like any other day, with the Itfference that it, more than most, had slanted upward toward evening, toward the party and the drinking in of a New i6 THE DISHONEST MURDERER Year; toward the party which was, tacitly only, for her and Bruce. It was to be the first party for both of them, for them as a unit. There had been the not arduous responsibilities of a hostess with an adequate staff, in an apartment more than adequate to any probable party. There had been lunch at the Colony with Celia, and Celia's young, happy excitement about almost every- thing, and Celia's admiring eyes. Remembering the way Celia looked at her, Freddie smiled faintly, her shapeless anxiety momentarily lessened. Anyway, it was going to be fine with Celia; Celia's admiration of this not too much older woman who was to be her step-mother was evident and undisguised. Celia might have been eight, instead of eighteen, when she looked at Freddie Haven. Sometimes it was almost embarrass- ing. No one, Freddie thought, and least of all I, can be what Celia thinks I am. There had been the luncheon, which was pleasant, and the tea at Aunt Flo's, which was not unpleasant. Tea had meant sherry, with an alternative of scotch, and The Benefit had been rather thoroughly discussed, according to democratic proce- dures. (This meant that Aunt Flo, and the Dowager Admiral, had been duly authorized to do what they would have done anyway: take matters into their firm and capable hands. The meeting had, as was inevitable, been less that of a committee than of a staff. That it even so much as authorized was a pleasant, gently absurd, fiction.) And then this slow disintegration of the day had set in; this uneasiness had begun. It was, Freddie thought, like one of those morning moments when you awakened, lay contentedly for a little time and then became conscious of a vague dissatisfaction, as if you were already in the shadow of some impending dis- appointment. Such things meant nothing. The feeling vanished when you remembered some tiny thing—you were committed to an engagement which promised badly; you had undertaken to do something which, now, you did not want to do. This THE DISHONEST MURDERER 17 anxiety was hardly sharper than that passing premonition of disappointment, but this, for all its shapelessness, had a center -Bruce. Bruce whom she could not have seen shabby on the lower East Side; Bruce about whom her father's half formed hint, half finished sentences, could mean nothing. Freddie Haven took the telephone up, found the telephone number of the Waldorf-Astoria in her memory, and dialed. She asked for Senator Bruce Kirkhill and waited. “Senator Kirkhill is not registered, modom," a young woman's voice said. · That was wrong; that was merely inefficiency. Freddie said as much, courteously, without emphasis. There was a mistake; Senator Kirkhill was unquestionably registered. She was passed along. A man's voice was less detached. The man recognized the possibility of error. He went and, after a minute or two, returned. He was sorry; Senator Kirkhill was not registered. A suite was reserved for him, however. He was expected. A message for him would be happily accepted. “No,” Freddie said. “Thank you. Is there a Mr. Phipps? Howard Phipps?" The assistant manager checked again. A Mr. Phipps there was. She was asked to wait. A young woman's voice said, “I'm ringing Mr. Phipps.” There was the sound of ringing, contin- ued over-long. "I'm sorry, modom,” the girl said. “Mr. Phipps's room does not answer. Would you wish—" "Thanks,” Freddie said. “Don't bother.” She hung up. What it all amounts to is that he took a later train, she assured herself. There's nothing strange about it. There can't be anything strange. Her desk clock told her it was almost ten. “Tennish” would not mean ten o'clock to anyone, except possibly Aunt Flo. Still— She looked at herself in a long mirror, nodded, and went out of the room and down the stairs to the lower floor of the duplex. Marta and the new maid were in the foyer, sitting side s - i8 THE DISHONEST MURDERER by side on straight chairs. They stood up as Freddie came down and she grinned at them. "Carry on," she said. "As you were." Marta giggled without making a sound, her shoulders shak- ing slightly. The new maid looked politely puzzled. "Yes'm," Marta said, and sat down. She pulled at the sleeve of the other maid. "Carry on," she said. She giggled again, soundlessly. "You're in the Navy now." Freddie went on into the living room. Marta, she suspected, would tell the new maid that it was all right to joke with Mrs. Haven; that Admiral Satterbee was another matter. "The admiral don't notice lessen it's wrong," Freddie once had over- heard Marta tell another new maid. It was true enough, Freddie had thought; it applied to the lower ranks, as well as to those who might be identified with the enlisted personnel. She said good evening to Watkins, who was supervising a waitress, who was polishing already polished glasses. She went on into the kitchen and told cook that everything looked won- derful, and filched a shrimp from an iced plate of shrimps. "Now Miss Freddie," cook said. "Leaves an empty space." Freddie shuffled shrimps, filling in the space. Cook had been around a long time; she had been known to be stern, within reason, with the admiral himself. A buzzer sounded faintly. "There's people, Miss Freddie," the cook said, and Freddie went out to meet people. She went rather quickly, and only when she heard Aunt Flo's voice did she realize that she had hoped the voice would be Bruce's. She greeted Aunt Flo and Uncle William, not showing that she had wanted them to be Bruce Kirkhill. Tactfully, after the greeting, she enquired about the driver. Uncle William sometimes forgot. "The boy's all right," Uncle William assured her. "Told him he could take in a movie." He beamed at his niece by marriage. "You look fine, Freddie," he said. "How's Johnny Jump-up?" It was always odd to hear her father called that. The theory was that they had called him that in the Pacific: "Old Johnn'' THE DISHONEST MURDERER 19 Jump-up.” There had been a time when Admiral Satterbee's task force had jumped apparently out of nowhere, disconcerting the Japanese. Freddie, with the best will in the world, had never been able to believe that her father was, widely, known by, so irreverent a nickname. As Uncle William used it, she noticed that the term was invisibly bracketed by marks of quotation. Admiral Satterbee came out of the library, greeted his wife's sister and Admiral William Fensley and, firmly, led everybody to Watkins and the scotch. With glasses filled, Admiral Satterbee drew Admiral Fensley out of the feminine and into the professional circle. "This new flat-top, Bill,” Freddie heard him say. “What d'y think?” "Hell of a big target,” Bill, a battleship man to the end, as- Sared him. “Wait till—” " Of course," Aunt Flo said, "there's always the question of the reviews. You remember, dear, when the League took over that play that looked so good before it opened, and then all those critics said—” It was ten minutes before the buzzer sounded again and Freddie, still being invited to worry about the reviews of the play the League was planning to use as a benefit, brought back her wandering mind and—found she was listening again for, but again not hearing, the voice of Bruce Kirkhill. They came with some rapidity, thereafter, since Navy people are habitually purctual and these were, for the most part, Navy people. They came they took drinks; the Navy men tended to coagulate and were, bự her as hostess, gently, not too obviously, redistributed. There was enough to do as the big living room filled slowly; there were enough small things to think about, details to keep anye omr But now, as time passed, as tennish became elevenish, it ras increasingly difficult to keep her mind on pleasant chat, to shape ber lips into a welcoming smile, keep interest in her voice. Because, still, Bruce did not come. 20 THE DISHONEST MURDERER It was a few minutes after eleven when a couple she did not know appeared at the door of the living room and paused there, with the slightly bewildered, rather anxiously amiable expressions of people who know no one present and wait to be, as it were, adopted. That was, at any rate, the expression on the face of the man, who wore glasses and who, as he stood there, absently ran the fingers of his right hand through short hair already faintly pawed. The expression on the face of the slight, trim woman beside him was more difficult to analyze. She appeared to be, above everything else, interested in the room—in the people, in all of the scene—and to have a bright intensity in her interest, as if it were all new, freshly seen and to be taken in gulps. There was nothing appraising about the slight young woman's expression. She merely seemed pleased to see so many things, so many of them alive. Half smiling, Freddie Haven turned from the group she was hostessing and began to move toward the couple which was waiting to be adopted. Then she realized her father, who was tall enough to see over most people, had seen over a good many, noticed the couple at the door, and was moving toward them. He moved with purpose, as he always moved; he caught his daughter's eyes and, with a movement of his head, asked her to join him. They converged on the couple at the door and the man of the couple began a smile of greeting. "'Evening, North," Admiral Satterbee said, in what was inevitably a voice of command, while he was still a stride or two away. He held out his hand. "Glad y'could make it." The man with the slightly ruffled hair took the admiral's hand, and Freddie, approaching, hoped he v.'Mild have no cause to wince. The admiral's hand-shake was frequently firm; it was apt to be particularly so with people he did not know well. It was one of the small things which Freddie Haven knew, tenderly, about her father. He was firm with people he knew only a little. Because, Freddie thought, he had once—oh, long ago—been shy. You would never know it now. THE DISHONEST MURDERER 21 Mr. North did not wince. He released his hand, made polite sounds, and said, just as Freddie reached them, "Pam, this is Admiral Satterbee. My wife, Admiral." "How do you do?" Pam North said, in a clear, light voice, and almost as if she were really asking. "Sideboys." The tallish man beside her grasped at his hair. He said, "Pam." "All I could think of at first was sideboards," Pam North said. "But that didn't sound right. To pipe you aboard." "Oh," Admiral Satterbee said. "Oh—yes. Yes, of course." It did not seem entirely clear to her father, Freddie thought. She had joined them, by then. "Mrs. North," the admiral said. "Present my daughter. Freddie, Mrs. North. Mr. North. Told you about them. North's going to bring out this book of mine." "Miss Satterbee," Mr. North said and Mrs. North smiled and Freddie had an odd, vagrant sense of pleasure which was dis- proportionate to anything in the expression of this slight young woman with the attractively mobile face. But Freddie felt, with- out being able to explain why she felt so, that she had been approved of, frankly and with pleasure. Freddie felt that she must be looking even better than she had hoped. She also felt that, intangibly, she had been outdistanced. She shook her head and said that Dad always forgot, never made little things clear. "Mrs. Haven," she said. She also said she was so glad the Norths could come, and asked if the Norths knew everybody. Mrs. North's eyes widened a little momentarily. "Oh no," Mrs. North said. "Nobody, really." She paused, as if she had just heard herself. "Here, I mean," she said. "But it's all right, because we do have to go on almost at once." Freddie said she hoped not; Admiral Satterbee said, "Non- sense, come and have a drink, North." Mr. North went, obediently. Mrs. North looked up at the taller, somewhat younger woman. 22 THE DISHONEST MURDERER "You mustn't bother with us, you know," Pam North said. "We do have to go on. We're meeting some people. But Jerry said-" Pam North stopped, then. Freddie Haven waited, suddenly grinned. "Go on," she said, feeling that she had known this Mrs. North for much longer than minutes. "Oh," Pam said, "that I ought to see a real admiral. That it probably would be educational." She spoke unhesitatingly, without any indication of embarrassment. "So few authors are admirals," she added, paused, and said: "Or so few used to be, now it's hard to tell. Like all the people who knew Roosevelt." Again, for an instant, Freddie Haven felt outdistanced. It was, she thought, like trying to read a sentence in its entirety, not word by word. But even as she thought this, she realized she had caught up. "Is it?" she said. "Educational?" "Probably," Pam North said. "Was his hair once like yours?" "Yes," Freddie said. "Satterbee hair." "Look," Mrs. North said. "You must just park me some- where, you know. It doesn't have to be another admiral or anything. Because you've got to hostess, of course." It was undeniable; Freddie Haven admitted it with a smile, without words. She decided that this Mrs. North probably would enjoy, would really enjoy, the Dowager Admiral. She thought, indeed, that Mrs. North probably would enjoy most things. She took Mrs. North to the Dowager Admiral's group, was pleased to see the slight widening of Mrs. North's eyes and, as she slipped out of the group after a polite moment, realized that she had not, for some minutes, worried about anything. She realized this when the shadow of disappointment returned, for a fraction of a second merely as that, then as more tangible anxiety. It was well after eleven and Bruce Kirkhill had not come. THE DISHONEST MURDERER 23 Now her mind sought little explanations to cling to—he had taken a later train, and the train was late; he had come earlier for a meeting of some sort, and could not get out of it. Not good enough, her mind answered. Not nearly good enough. He would have telephoned. Tonight he would have telephoned, of all nights, because this was their party, because— She heard a voice she recognized in the foyer, went from the group she was in almost without apology and crossed the room. "Howdie!" she said. "Howdie! Has something happened?" The man she spoke to was no taller than she. He was square faced; he had wide-spaced eyes and an expression of candor. Now he looked at Freddie Haven, smiled at her, shook his head and raised trim eyebrows. "Happened?" he said. "What do you mean, Freddie?" His voice was low and musical; it seemed, perhaps almost too large for the man. But Freddie Haven, used to it, and to him, did not remember she once had thought that. "Bruce isn't here," she said. "He isn't at the hotel." The open face opposite her own was momentarily shadowed, as if by perplexity. The shadow vanished quickly. "A slip-up," he told her. "Of course he's at the hotel. I—" He broke off. "Did you see him there?" Freddie said. The man shook his head, slowly. "Actually," he said, "I didn't see him. I got in this morning, you know. I checked on the reservations and checked in myself. I didn't get back to the Waldorf until after ten and just changed and came on, figuring he'd be here already." "I'm worried," Freddie said. "It isn't like him. He hasn't called." "My dear," the man said. "Nothing happens to the chief. He could have been tied up in Washington, so far as that goes." "And not have wired? Or telephoned?" r *4 THE DISHONEST MURDERER "Well—" he said. "Anyway, nothing's happened to him." He smiled, widely. "The chief can take care of himself," he said. "You ought to know thai, Freddie." She said, "Of course," but the worry was still in her voice. It was still in her mind. "I'll check the hotel," he said. He smiled again, making little of it. "Maybe he dozed off," he said. Freddie Haven took him to the telephone in the library; stood beside him as he dialed the hotel, asked to speak to Senator Bruce Kirkhill. He listened and said, "Nonsense." "Of course he's registered," he said. "Let me talk to the manager. This is the senator's secretary, Howard Phipps. It's important." Phipps turned to smile at Freddie Haven. "Pull rank on 'em," he said. "If—yes? Oh—" He talked quickly, with authority, then with an increasing puzzlement in his voice. Finally he said: "Ask him to call me at" and looked at the number on the telephone and repeated it. "Vice Admiral Satterbee's apartment," he added. He hung up. For a moment his face was shadowed again; then he became, in an instant, very cheerful. "Not there," he said. "Hasn't checked in. But don't worry. Nothing happens to the chief. Hell—probably he's out there now, looking for you." Howard Phipps jerked his head toward the living room. "Come on," he said. "Probably he thinks you've stood him up." But Bruce Kirkhill was not in the living room. It was almost eleven-thirty, the year was running out; for Freddie, the party was running out. But the party was still there; it was still her party. She went on about the party, smiling, being a hostess. Her lips tired, forming the smile. Her voice tired, saying nothing gaily; her mind tired, straining for a familiar voice from the foyer. Not many were coming, now. "I am sorry," Mrs. North was saying. "It's a lovely party, THE DISHONEST MURDERER 25 but we do have to—" Mrs. North's voice stopped. It started again. "You're worried, Mrs. Haven," Pam North said. "Aren't you? Something's happened?" "I—" Freddie began, and almost went on, because there was so much reality, so much friendliness, in Mrs. North's question. But then she only smiled and shook her head. "I'm sorry," Pam North said. "Of course it isn't. Jerry says I—" Then, in turn, she stopped, and smiled and shook her head. "It's a lovely party," Mrs. North said after that. "We hate to leave, but I'm afraid—" She left the sentence unfinished and smiled again. Mr. North was beside them, and the admiral. The admiral looked at Freddie, quickly, worry on his face. She shook her head at him. She said, to Mr. and Mrs. North, the things a hostess says, and found, suddenly, that she meant them. She did not want this friendly slim woman, who so outdistanced you if you went from word to word, whose interest was so oddly bright and undisguised, to leave the party. But she walked with the Norths to the foyer and watched them go. The old year had less than half an hour left for its running out. II Friday, 11:35 P-M. to Saturday, 2:10 A.M. Freddie turned back toward the living room, and Celia was waiting for her. Freddie changed her expression when she saw Celia's face, wiping the look of worry from her own. Celia was slender and very young, her blond hair hung rather long, almost to her shoulders. She had blue eyes which now sought reassurance. "You're worried about Dad," Celia said. "Where is he, Freddie?" "Held up somewhere," Freddie said, making her voice light, casual. "Seeing a politician about another politician." "Somewhere," Celia repeated. "You don't know, then? You haven't heard anything?" "He's all right, Ce," Freddie said. "Nothing happens to the chief." "Howdie said that to you," Celia told her. "But I know Dad planned to be here. Early if anything. I'm worried, Freddie. But Curt says—" "It's nothing," Freddie said, too quickly. "Of course it's nothing, dear. Whatever Curt said is right. Howdie's right." "He'd telephone," Celia Kirkhill said. "Dad always—always remembers. Doesn't he?" "Not—" Freddie began, and realized that would be wrong. "Usually," she said. "But he's all right, Ce." She made herself laugh. "After all," she said, "we've got to let him be late now and then, Ce. We can't—" She raised her square white shoul- ders, let them fall, let them finish the sentence. "Curt," Freddie said then, glad of the chance, to a tall young 26 THE DISHONEST MURDERER man who came to stand beside Celia Kirkhill, to whom, as Freddie spoke, Celia turned instinctively, her face lighting. "You haven't got a drink! I'll get Watkins." She looked for Watkins, saw a maid with a tray of cham- pagne glasses. It was almost time, then. Her head summoned the maid. "What time is it, Curt?" she said. "Tu-twenty minutes of," Curtis Grainger said. He was tall and thin, his hair, blond as Celia's, was short, upstanding on his long head. "Almost t-t-time." It was not exactly a stutter; it was a kind of hesitating, uneasily, on the brink of a word. Once, she supposed, Curtis Grainger must have stammered rather badly. He had grown stern with himself. The sternness was evident on his young face when the face was quiet. It vanished when he looked at Celia. "Y-your father's going to miss the year," he said, and his smile was the youngest thing about him as he looked down at Celia Kirkhill, reached out to put an arm around her shoulders. He looked over her head at Freddie Haven. "The baby's worried," he told her. (He said, "The bu-baby's wh-worried." After he had hesitated on the brink of a word he said it rapidly, clipping it.) Freddie said she knew. She said it wasn't anything. "Of course not," Curtis Grainger said. "I've been telling Ce. As my father says, the senator's indestructible." He grinned, disarmingly. "My father ornaments it," he said. "I'll bet," Freddie said. The buzzer had sounded in the foyer. She was conscious she was listening; that she had frozen in listening. She heard one of the maids move to the door, heard the door open, her ears straining. "Good evening, miss," Freddie heard Marta say, and heard a voice she knew, speaking quickly, accenting the words. "So late," the voice said. "Has