A Right to Die

anyone, would be to betray him.' He looked at the man beside her. 'Who and what are you, Mr. Vaughn? Are you on the staff of the district attorney?'

'No,' Vaughn said, 'nothing like that. Im just a-a friend. I sell automobiles-Herons.' He got a case from a pocket, extracted a card, and got up to hand it to Wolfe.

I gave myself a black mark. I had not only heard of him, I had seen him, casually. His father was Sam Vaughn, owner and operator of Heron Manhattan, Inc., which I visited at least once a year, to trade in Wolfe's sedan for a new one.

Wolfe's head turned. 'And you, Mr. Brooke?'

'Does that matter? I'm Susan's brother. I'm an engineer by profession. Electronics. I assure you, we don't want you to betray anyone-qulte the contrary.'

'We want to know,' his wife said, 'if you know the truth, the truth about Susan.'

Wolfe grunted. 'So do I. I certainly don't know all of it. Perhaps you can help me. What fragment of the truth about her would you like me to know?'

'What she was like,' Mrs. Brooke said.

'Her character, her personality,' Brooke said.

'Her quality,' Vaughn said. 'She couldn't possibly have been… with a black man… that apartment. I was going to marry her.'

'Indeed. She was engaged?'

'Well… it was understood. It had been for nearly two years. I was waiting until she had had enough of her-kink.'

'Kink?'

'Well-caprice. Do-gooding.'

'It wasn't just do-gooding,' Mrs. Brooke declared. 'I flatter myself that I do a little good myself sometimes. But Susan had to go all-out. Giving them money wasn't enough, and even working with them wasn't enough. She had to have that place right in the middle of the Harlem slums and even eat and sleep there sometimes.'

Wolfe asked, 'Were you ever there-that apartment?'

'Yes, I went with Mother Brooke-her mother. She insisted on seeing it. It was terrible-the neighborhood, the dirt and the smell, and the awful people. They don't want to be called niggers, but that's what they are. But the idea that Susan could be… with one of them… could have one of them with her in that apartment, that's absolutely absurd. She was a lady. She had a kink all right, but she was a lady. So you're perfectly right, that Dunbar Whipple didn't kill her. She was killed by some black hoodlum. Heaven knows there's enough of them.'

Wolfe nodded. 'Your logic seems sound. I understand the police have considered that possibility and reject it because valuables were there in plain sight, not taken, and Miss Brooke had not been sexually assaulted.'

'That doesn't prove anything. Something scared him, some noise or something. Or he hadn't intended to kill her and that scared him.'

'Quite possible. As a conjecture, certainly admissible. But it will take more than a conjecture to clear Mr. Whipple; he was in the apartment; he had been there more than half an hour when the police arrived. The hoodlum theory is futile unless he is found and established. I'm not sure I understand your position. If, as you said, the idea that Miss Brooke 'could have one of them with her in that apartment' is absurd, how do you account for Mr. Whipple being there?'

'He went to ask her something or tell her something about her work. He lives only a few blocks away.'

'But I understand that he went there frequently, that he has told the police that he and Miss Brooke were planning to be married.'

'He's a liar,' Vaughn said.

'That's absolutely absurd,' Mrs. Brooke said.

'I don't understand your position,' Brooke said. 'According to the piece in the paper, you have good reason to believe that Dunbar Whipple is innocent, but you don't talk like it. You call the hoodlum theory futile. Will you tell us why you think he's innocent?'

'No, sir. Why do you? If you do.'

'I'm not sure I do.'

'Your wife said that you know I'm right.'

'She should have said that we hope you're right.' Brooke was forward in the chair, leaning forward. 'When she showed me that piece in the paper, I said, 'Thank God.' My sister is dead, nothing can be done about that, but what's being printed and said about her-it's killing her mother. My mother. It's so ugly-that apartment and a Negro. If he didn't kill her and you can prove it, that will be different. Maybe he did go there just to talk about her work, and found her dead. That will be different. It might save my mother's life. I guess you know what I'm saying. I'm admitting that it's not impossible that my sister intended to marry a colored man-'

'Kenneth! Are you crazy?'

'I'm talking, Dolly.' He stayed at Wolfe. 'I wouldn't like it-who would?-but I admit it's possible. But they weren't married. Were they?'

'No.'

'Then if he killed her it was-ugly. Sordid and ugly. But if you can prove he didn't kill her, that will be different. I'm repeating myself, but you know what I'm trying to say. It's the murder that