Chet said.
“I don't mean the old one. I mean the one she had made when we stopped off in New York the other day.'
“You're lying!' John Wagner exclaimed.
“We'll see, won't we? She hauled me along to meet some old lawyer, then she went into his office and came out puttin' this blue folder thing in her purse.'
“And where is this 'blue folder thing'?' Chet asked. His voice was so cold and malevolent that Jane involuntarily shivered. Didn't the stupid boy know when he was up against a formidable enemy? She'd run for the nearest bomb shelter if Chet Wagner ever spoke to her like that.
Apparently it didn't faze Bobby. He shrugged elaborately. 'I got no idea. It's not here. She provably put it in the mail or something. It'll turn up, and believe me, you'll be eating your own shit when it does.'
“Just what's that supposed to mean?' John asked. His face was flushed and blotched with fury. Jane was half afraid he was about to have a stroke.
“Figure it out yourself,' Bobby said. Was it a bluff, or did he know what the will contained? Jane wondered. For that matter, was the whole story a bluff? She suspected it was. Phyllis wasn't the sort to even think about things like wills—unless, of course, a greedy son reminded her.
“Oh, I'll figure it out,' Chet was saying. 'And first thing in the morning, I'll also figure out about this house. You better start your packing, boy, because you're going to be out of it. I curse the day I ever went looking for you. Phyllis would be alive today if I hadn't. I can never absolve myself of that.”
The gentle emotions in his last words broke the spell Jane had been under. Barely able to get her breath, she rose quickly. 'I have to go home. Shelley, help me finish the packing, will you?”
The two of them fled up the stairs. Raised voices followed them. Jane was cursing herself.
They should have gotten out of the house. What misguided, ingrained sense of courtesy and obligation had made them rush to finish this appalling job? As they flung the last of Phyllis's belongings into the suitcases with little care, Shelley said in a trembling voice, 'Dear God, if they're going to kill each other, let us get out of here first.”
As she spoke, there was the sound of the front door slamming. For a moment Jane thought it was a gunshot, and she clung to Shelley's arm But seconds later there was the sound of the Jaguar starting up. 'They must have run him out for the time being. Shelley, I'm so sorry I got us into the middle of this.'
“Don't you be sorry. It was my fault for asking you to do this,' John Wagner said from the doorway. ?
“I was glad to do what little I could,' Jane said, snapping shut the latch on the suitcase. John picked it and the other largest one up. Jane took the smaller ones, and Shelley went to the closet and took out Phyllis's mink jacket and purse.
John looked at the small, flat purse for a second, then set the cases down and took it from Shelley. He opened it and peered in. Jane was quite close and could see as well as he that there was no 'blue folder thing' in it.
Still shaky and frantic to get away, they hauled everything downstairs and left it by the front door where John Wagner could easily take it to his car later. Chet, deflated, was still sitting at the dining room table with his head in his hands. He pulled himself together with a visible effort and insisted once again that Jane take Phyllis's things. And again, she demurred. 'You'll let me know about the funeral, won't you?' she asked him as she edged toward the doorway.
“We'll be making the arrangements in the morning. Give me your address, and I'll come
“I won't be home most of tomorrow. I'll be at the house next door to here—' She gestured toward the Howards' house. 'There's a church bazaar I'm helping set up.”
After a few more awkward parting remarks, Jane and Shelley made their escape. They practically ran to the car and didn't even talk on the way home. There was too much to say but no way to say it.
Though the evening had seemed to last forever, it was only eight when Jane got home. She called Uncle Jim back.
“I didn't find out much, but Janey, if you're this Chet's friend, you're not gonna like this. Just a minute—' She could hear him rattling papers and could picture him fitting his bifocals on the end of his nose.
“Apparently his wife had left him and had come to Chicago to stay with a friend—you. Incidentally, that's the only mention of you I found. VanDyne was pulling your leg about you being a suspect. The husband flew in yesterday afternoon, called his office without mentioning where he was calling from, registered under the name Chester Weber at a hotel downtown. He rented a car, which he took out around midnight. It has enough miles on it to have gone to the house where his wife was staying and back, plus half a dozen miles. The lot is unattended after midnight, so nobody knows when he got back.”
Jane gulped, thinking about the two Chets she'd seen that night; one a broken husband and the other a ruthless businessman. 'Still, none of that is proof, is it?'
“No, that's why he's not in jail. He claims he was distraught over his wife's departure. That he didn't think she'd really leave, but when she did, he followed her here with the intention of patching things up. Once he got to Chicago, he says he had second thoughts, decided to wait a few days and see if she'd come looking for him. That's why he says he used the false name and didn't tell his people where he was—to make her wonder and stew a bit if she did try to get in touch with him.'
“Where did he go when he went out so late?'
“That depends on your viewpoint. The investigators think he went to bump off his wife. He says he couldn't sleep and just went for an aimless drive.'
“That could be true, Uncle Jim.'
“Sure it could.'
“What about the murder weapon?'
“A kitchen knife from a set the victim had delivered with a bunch of other kitchen stuff that afternoon. No prints.'
“Could a killer have counted on a weapon being handy?'
“No, not unless he lived in the house or was visiting when the stuff came. If not, he probably had something of his own along in case there wasn't something sharp handy.'
“What about footprints,' Jane asked. 'There's a little snow on the ground.”
Jane could hear Uncle Jim shuffling some papers. 'Let's see. Prints. A muddle of them going back and forth through the side yard from the house next door—'
“Yes, that was Albert Howard showing her the house.'
“—a set coming to the front door, which were discovered to have gone clear down the block, door to door. Salesman or mail carrier or somebody. Another set of two children cutting across the backyard and peeping in a window. Window undamaged. And one set from the house on the other side that wandered around and got close but not clear up to the house.'
“That's Mr. Finch, snooping.'
“It looks like that's all he did, unless he could spring over a bush ten feet from the house. Your VanDyne had a few critical remarks about him in the report but no suggestions that he was responsible. A regular herd of prints run from the driveway to the front door. Presumably the people who moved all the furniture and whatnot in, plus the woman herself and her son. There's no sorting them out.'
“Did Chet know where Phyllis was staying?'
“I didn't think to ask that. I would think he did or could have known. He called in to his office late in the afternoon, after she'd given orders to buy it.'
“It still wouldn't be proof of his guilt. UncleJim, what's going to happen with all this conjecture?'
“They're either going to solve it, or they won't. It's that simple.'
“You mean they might
“Not quite. See, Janey, knowing who did it and accumulating enough verifiable evidence to bring to trial is a different matter. That would take a confession if nothing else turns up in the way of proof of guilt.'
“But Phyllis can't go unavenged. She didn't deserve to be murdered.'
“Lots of people don't deserve it, but it happens. Listen, Janey, you leave the avenging part to the police. You
