room's activity became just a murmur. This room was of medium size, square, with a fine old mahogany table in the middle, and chairs to match all the way around it. At the far side was a stairhead. One of the five people seated in a cluster at the end of the table could have been Hargreaves of the 1768 spinning jenny, or anyhow his son, with his pure white hair and his wrinkled old skin trying to find room enough for itself with the face meat gone. He still had sharp blue-gray eyes, and they drew me in his direction as I displayed my case and said, 'Goodwin. Detective. About the murder of Priscilla Eads. Mr. Brucker?'
Whitey was not Brucker. Brucker was the one across from him, about half Whitey's age and with half as much hair, light brown, and a long pale face and a long thin nose. He spoke. 'I'm Brucker. What do you want?'
None of them was reaching for the case, so I returned it to my pocket, got onto a chair, and took out my notebook and pencil. I was thinking that if I didn't overplay my self-assurance I might get away with it. I opened the notebook and flipped to a fresh page, in no hurry, and ran my eyes over them, ending at Brucker. 'This is only a preliminary,' I told him. 'Full name, please.'
'J. Luther Brucker.'
'What does the J. stand for?'
'It's J-a-y, Jay.'
I was writing. 'You're an officer of the corporation?'
'President. I have been for seven years.'
'When and how did you learn of the murder of Miss Eads?'
'On the radio this morning. The seven-forty-five newscast.'
'That was the first you heard of it?'
'Yes.'
'How did you spend your time last night between ten-thirty and two o'clock? Briefly. As fast as you please. I do shorthand.'
'I was in bed. I was tired after a hard day's work and went to bed early, shortly after ten, and stayed there.'
'Where do you live?'
'I have a suite at the Prince Henry Hotel, Brooklyn.'
I looked at him. I always look again at people who live in Brooklyn. 'Is that where you were last night?'
'Certainly. That's where my bed is, and I was in it.'
'Alone?'
'I'm unmarried.'
'Were you alone in your suite throughout the period from ten-thirty to two o'clock last night?'
'I was.'
'Can you furnish any corroboration? Phone calls? Anything at all?'
His jaw moved spasmodically. He was controlling himself. 'How can I? I was asleep.'
I looked at him without bias but with reserve. 'You understand the situation, Mr. Brucker. A lot of people stand to profit from Miss Eads's death, some of them substantially. These things have to be asked about. How much of this business will you now inherit?'
'That's a matter of public record.'
'Yeah. But you know, don't you?'
'Of course I know.'
'Then, if you don't mind, how much?'
'Under the provisions of the will of the late Nathan Eads, son of the founder of the business, I suppose that nineteen thousand three hundred and sixty-two shares of the common stock of the corporation will come to me. The same amount will go to four other people-Miss Duday, Mr. Quest, Mr. Pitkin, and Mr. Helmar. Smaller amounts go to others.'
Whitey spoke, his sharp blue-gray eyes straight at me. 'I am Bernard Quest.' His voice was firm and strong, with no sign of wrinkles. 'I have been with this business sixty-two years, and have been sales manager for thirty-four years and vice-president for twenty-nine.'
'Right.' I wrote. 'I'll get names down.' I looked at the woman next to Bernard Quest on his left. She was middle-aged, with a scrawny neck and dominating ears, and was unquestionably a rugged individualist, since no lipstick had been allowed anywhere near her. I asked her, 'Yours, please?'
'Viola Duday,' she said in a clear voice so surprisingly pleasant that I raised my brows at my notebook. 'I was Mr. Eads's secretary, and in nineteen thirty-nine he made me assistant to the president. He was, of course, president. During his last illness, the last fourteen months of his life, I ran the business.'
'We helped all we could,' Brucker said pointedly.
She ignored him. 'My present title,' she told me, 'is assistant secretary of the corporation.'
I moved my eyes. 'You, sir?'
That one, on Viola Duday's left, was a neat little squirt, with a suspicious twist to his lips, who had
