'That one is certainly rather well hidden,' Duff said thoughtfully. 'Where does it lead, do you know?'
Fred looked at the scratches. 'Kitchen.'
Duff thrust his hand between two of the enormous pipes.
I'Look out,' said Fred, 'they may be pretty hot.'
'This one was turned, too? You're sure'?'
'I'm sure,' Fred said.
Duff pulled his hand away. 'Filthy,'' he said. 'Can you tell me how a hand and arm could reach in there and not come back smudged?'
'It comes back smudged,' Fred said. 'Greasy dirt. I got it on me.'
'Where?'
'Where? On my arm.'
'Your forearm?'
'Yeah.'
'Did anyone, last night, have any smudges on any forearms?'
'No,' said Fred. 'Lord, I'd have been onto that. They were all in their nightclothes, and I took a look. But I don't know that it matters. They had plenty of time to wash.'
'I believe Miss Isabel Whitlock has only one arm?'
'That's so.'
'Which?'
'Her left one's the good one.'
'Do you want to put your left hand on there, or shall I?'
'What's a little dirt on the hired help?' Fred said, grinning. He hauled up his sleeve, reached in, and touched the damper of the kitchen pipe. When he pulled his arm back there was a greasy smudge on it about six inches above the wrist, on the upper bone.
'Did you try to get dirty? Don't try.'
'You can't help it,' Fred said, 'not if you go in all the way to the damper. Do it yourself. You simply can't help it.'
'I see,' said Duff thoughtfully. 'What's your name?'
'Fred Bitoski. Call me Fred.'
'Fred,' said Duff, 'how does a woman with one working arm and hand wash her only forearm?'
Fred stood still, turning his left hand on the wrist. 'I don't know.'
'Soaks it, does she? Let's water run over it? Rubs it on a soapy rag that's fastened somehow?'
Fred crooked his arm and twisted it. 'She'd have to damn near stand on her head. That kind of dirt takes scrubbing, too. But it doesn't mean so much, Mr. Duff. She wears long sleeves. Even her nightgown. all the time.'
'Sleeves. Damned awkward to make a survey of the sleeves in this house.'
'I've got a lot of respect for detective work,' Fred said earnestly, having quite forgotten he was hired help by this time. 'But honestly, I don't see what you can do. You can't prove anything. You can't make them tell you anything, or let you look around, even. What can you do?'
'As for proof, proof can wait,' Duff murmured, 'But I'd like to know. Wouldn't you?'
'Sure, but how can you know, and what good would it do? All I can see is, keep the boss alive and get him out of here. Heck, all three of them coxild be in on it, one one time and one another.'
'Do you think they are working together? I take it we agree to suspect the Whitlock sisters.'
'Yeah, and it's one of them, or two or three.' Fred shrugged. 'They don't even have to be working together. Just working on the same idea, separately. It's so darned vague.'
'You interest me,' said Duff. 'Why should it occur to you that they're working at the same idea separately?'
'I dunno.'
Duff stood with his tall head lost among the pipes. He seemed to be musing. In a little while he began to muse aloud.
'Yes, it's a disadvantage when the murder hasn't succeeded. One can't be as bossy as one would like. Nevertheless, it's the same problem. Just the same. Somewhere there must be a motive or a wish. There have been methods, even though they haven't worked. Times and opportunities and all that. Here, also, we have three women very peculiarly limited, each in her separate way. I would like very much to know which of them has tried murder, and how many of them—outside of making it a little easier to keep your boss alive, once we know. These three sisters, half-sisters of his, I understand. They aren't in triplicate? They're not all alike?'
'No,' said Fred, 'but there's not much choice.'
'Still, they're different.'
