sorts of immoral goings-on. But in the end all it could do was call it an accident.
The Tribune story was even shorter and less sensational. It was printed on an inside page and there were no pictures. It simply noted that a girl had been killed falling down a flight of stairs at a party.
I reached into the pocket of my jacket for a dime for the papers.
My hand came upon an unfamiliar object. I pulled it out. It was a lipstick. It was the lipstick that Jean Dahl had dropped into my pocket the night before.
I held the lipstick in my hand.
After a minute or so I realized I was shaking again.
I was shaking because it was all over and settled. It had all been fixed. Jean Dahl had fallen down a flight of stairs in a tragic accident.
I was shaking because the body hadn’t been at the foot of the stairs at all. I had seen it lying by the front door.
Not “it.” She. Jean Dahl. Twenty-five years old. Alive. Pretty. Mixed up in some kind of racket. In over her head. I didn’t exactly know how. But when you said it, it didn’t sound personal. And it was personal.
A human being with memories and hopes, troubles and fears, a person with a life. A person, not an it.
And someone had struck her down, fracturing her skull. Someone had killed her, deliberately.
That’s not the kind of thing you should be able to fix.
Standing there in the blazing sunlight I suddenly realized a basic fact. I’m against killing people.
I suddenly realized that a human being who consciously and deliberately takes the life of another human being is my enemy.
I was not exactly sure what I wanted to do.
But if I was going to do anything at all, there was only one logical place to start.
I went into the phone booth in the newspaper store and dialed Walter Heinemann’s number.
The butler answered. I told him I wanted to talk to Mr. Heinemann. He asked who was calling. I told him. He said Mr. Heinemann was not at home.
I said thanks, hung up and got into a cab. I gave the driver Walter’s address.
“I want to see Mr. Heinemann,” I said.
The butler’s face was completely expressionless.
“Mr. Heinemann is not at home.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“I’ll just come in and wait, if you don’t mind.”
But he minded.
He was very polite. But very firm. The household was very upset. Mr. Heinemann had left orders that no one was to be admitted. And so on. And so forth. And all the time he stood there, very effectively blocking the door.
“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll try him again later.”
I turned and went back down the marble steps.
I could feel his eyes on my back all the way down. He didn’t close the door until I had turned the corner and headed for Madison.
I walked about twenty yards toward Madison Avenue and without hesitating, turned in at the delivery entrance through which Janis Whitney and I had left last night.
I pushed the button for the elevator and stood there, humming nervously to myself.
The elevator seemed to take hours.
When it finally came, I got in quickly and pushed the button for the top floor.
I had no idea where to find Walter. It was a big house. He could be anywhere. It was even possible that he had gone out.
I didn’t think so, though.
I decided to start at the top and work my way down.
I got off at the fourth floor and began to walk quietly down the corridor. I was not sure now where to start or even why I was there. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Walter when I did find him.
I stopped, and was about to turn back to the elevator when I heard Walter’s silly, high-pitched giggle. A door, a little way up the corridor, was ajar. I moved toward it, listening.
Walter was talking and laughing. There was someone with him in the room.
Then I heard the voice.
The nasty, derisive, unmistakable voice that I had heard twice before.
I swung the door open and stepped dramatically into the room.
Walter was sitting in an armchair balancing a cup of coffee on his knee. He was wearing pajamas and a white silk robe with black and gold Chinese figures. Across from him, on the small sofa, sat a thin, slightly built young man with blond crew-cut hair and hornrimmed glasses.
I stepped into the room, slamming the door loudly behind me. Walter looked up, startled. An expression of surprise and alarm crossed his face, but he had superb control and it was gone almost before it had appeared. In its place came a bland, friendly, half-amused smile.
“Why, Richard!” Walter said. “This is a genuine surprise! Have you had breakfast yet? Jimmie, get Richard a cup of coffee.”
“Listen, Walter, I want to talk to you,” I said.
“To be sure,” Walter said. “Sugar and cream, or would you prefer it black? Sit down, Richard. You know Jimmie, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “The voice is familiar but I can’t recall the face.”
Walter giggled foolishly.
Jimmie turned from the serving table where he was pouring coffee and looked at me inquiringly.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jimmie said. His voice was soft and somewhat high-pitched. By no stretch of the imagination could it be confused with the heavy, guttural voice I had heard through the door a moment before.
I looked around.
“Who else is in here?” I said. “I heard someone else through the door.”
“Richard,” Walter said, “what is the matter with you this morning?”
“I was coming down the hall,” I said, “and I heard a voice. A real ugly, nasty voice. I heard that same voice last night. I’d recognize it anywhere. It belongs to the man who murdered Jean Dahl.”
Walter did not seem to hear me.
“Jimmie,” he said, “I won’t be needing you for anything else at this moment.”
Jimmie rose noiselessly, gathered up some papers on the serving table, nodded, and disappeared.
“Isn’t he charming?” Walter said. “And such a talented boy. He writes, you know, and I try to help him every way I can. Staying here with me as my secretary is such a fabulous experience for him…”
I interrupted with a short, obscene reference to Jimmie.
“Listen, Walter,” I said. “Who else was in here? Where is he? I want to talk to him.”
Walter looked at me. His face was serious but his wide, watery-blue eyes were twinkling.
“Wise guy,” he said. “You know so much. Sherlock Holmes. What makes you think someone else is here?”
It was the voice, all right. Every intonation.
Abruptly, Walter stopped and began to giggle.
“Is that what you mean?” he said. “Is that the voice you heard?”
I nodded. I was too bewildered to speak.
“That,” Walter said, “is one of my more famous imitations. I have an incredible ear. I can reproduce any sound the human throat can make. With a little practice.”
“Who is it supposed to be?” I said. “Who are you imitating?”
“Max Shriber!” Walter said. “Max is really too easy. It’s simply a matter of gargling and grunting at the same time.”
“Max Shriber?” I said. “That’s his voice?”
