He listened in silence to Faith’s story, not moving save to make an occasional note. He was attentive and curious, but Faith’s spirits sank as she saw the curiosity in the green eyes deaden to hopelessness. When she was through, he rose, lit a cigarette, and began pacing about the narrow inner office.
“I think better this way,” he apologized. “I hope you don’t mind. But what have I got to think about? The facts you’ve told me are better than a signed confession for any jury.”
“But Simon is innocent,” Faith insisted. “I know him, Mr. O’Breen. It isn’t possible that he could have done a thing like that.”
“I understand how you feel. But what have we got to go on besides your feelings? I’m not saying they’re wrong; I’m trying to show you how the police and the court would look at it.”
“But there wasn’t any reason for Simon to kill Mr. Harrison. He had a good job. He liked it. We were going to get married. Now he hasn’t any job or . . . or anything.”
“I know.” The detective continued to pace. “That’s the one point you’ve got— absence of motive. But they’ve convicted without motive before this. And rightly enough. Anything can be a motive. The most outrageous and fascinating French murder since Landru was committeci because the electric toaster didn’t work right that morning. But let’s look at motives. Mr. Harrison was a wealthy man; where does all that money go?”
“Simon helped draft his will. It all goes to libraries and foundations and things. A little to the servants, of course—”
“A little can turn the trick. But no near relatives?”
“His father’s still alive. He’s terribly old. But he’s so rich himself that it’d be silly to leave him anything.”
Fergus snapped his fingers. “Max Harrison! Of course. The superannuated robber-baron, to put it politely, who’s been due to die any time these past ten years. And leave a mere handful of millions. There’s a motive for you.”
“How so?”
“The murderer could profit from Stanley Harrison’s death, not directly if all his money goes to foundations, but indirectly from his father. Combination of two classic motives—profit and elimination. Who’s next in line for old man Harrison’s fortune?”
“I’m not sure. But I do know two people who are sort of second cousins or something. I think they’re the only living relatives. Agatha and Harrison Partridge.”
Fergus’ eyes were brightening again. “At least it’s a lead. Simon Ash had no motive and one Harrison Partridge had a honey. Which proves nothing, but gives you some place to start.”
“Only—” Faith protested. “Only Mr. Partridge couldn’t possibly have done it either.”
Fergus stopped pacing. “Look, madam. I am willing to grant the unassailable innocence of one suspect on a client’s word. Otherwise I’d never get clients. But if every individual who comes up is going to turn out to be someone in whose pureness of soul you have implicit faith and—”
“It isn’t that. Not just that. The murder was just after five o’clock, the butler says. And Mr. Partridge was with me then, and I live way across town from Mr. Harrison’s.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“We heard the five-o’clock radio signal and he set his watch.” Her voice was troubled and she tried not to remember the awful minutes afterward.
“Did he make a point of it?”
“Well . . . we were talking and he stopped and held up his hand and we listened to the bong.”
“Hm-m-m.” This statement seemed to strike the detective especially. “Well, there’s still the sister. And anyway, the Partridges give me a point of departure, which is what I needed.”
Faith looked at him hopefiilly. “Then you’ll take the case?”
“I’ll take it. God knows why. I don’t want to raise your hopes, because if ever I saw an unpromising set-up it’s this. But I’ll take it. I think it’s because I can’t resist the pleasure of having a detective lieutenant shove a case into my lap.”
“Bracket, was it usual for that door to be locked when Mr. Harrison was in the library?”
The butler’s manner was imperfect; he could not decide whether a hired detective was a gentleman or a servant. “No,” he said, politely enough but without a “sir.”
“No, it was most unusual.”
“Did you notice if it was locked earlier?”
“It was not. I showed a visitor in shortly before the . . . before this dreadful thing happened.”
“A visitor?” Fergus’ eyes glinted. Fie began to have visions of all the elaborate possibilities of locking doors from the outside so that they seem locked on the inside. “And when was this?”
“Just on five o’clock, I thought. But the gentleman called here today to offer his sympathy, and he remarked, when I mentioned the subject, that he believed it to have been earlier.”
“And who was this gentleman?”
“Mr. Harrison Partridge.”
Hell, thought Fergus. There goes another possibility. It must have been much earlier if he was at Faith Preston’s by five. And you can’t tamper with radio time signals as you might with a clock. However— “Notice anything odd about Mr. Partridge? Anything in his manner?”
“Yesterday? No, I did not. He was carrying some curious contraption—I hardly noticed what. I imagine it was some recent invention of his which he wished to show to Mr. Harrison.”
“He’s an inventor, this Partridge? But you said yesterday. Anything odd about him today?”
“I don’t know. It’s difficult to describe. But there was something about him as though he had changed—grown, perhaps.”
“Grown up?”
“No. Just grown.”
“Now, Mr. Ash, this man you claim you saw—”
“Claim! Damn it, O’Breen, don’t you believe me either?”
“Easy does it. The main thing for you is that Miss Preston believes you, and I’d say that’s a lot. Now this man you saw, if that makes you any happier in this jail, did he remind you of anyone?”
“I don’t know. It’s
