“No. It’s because a person who has killed once, and gotten away with it, is so likely to kill again. It’s to remove a menace from people still living.
“Now, you take Mrs. Garr. We can’t prove she didn’t die a natural death. The simplest explanation, and the one that takes in everything that happened, is that she died naturally. And if she was assisted to die, what’s the likelihood that she was pushed over by some surprised prowler? She had a bad heart. Now, few sneak thieves intend murder. He’s out for small stuff. No gun on him; he didn’t shoot her. No poison administered. The thief’s scared, runs. We catch and punish him if we can, but if we can’t, then what? He isn’t the type to murder again. Come along with me so far?”
“I see your argument.”
“That’s the way things looked up until Monday night. We meant to keep an eye on things here, sure. Officers were ordered to patrol this block.”
“It’s nice to be so well protected.”
“Have your sarcasm. Oh, what a different tale you’ve made out of this!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it’s become attempted murder. Good, solid, tangible attempted murder, with clues. I’m out to get someone now. Oh, yes, indeed. A deliberate attack! Now we know the guy’s dangerous. Now we know he’s the type that kills again. Now we’ve got to pick him off society like a flea off a dog, and see he doesn’t get back. We can’t have him killing off perfectly good, healthy young women”—he smiled slowly down—“damn nice young women, in their own peculiar way.”
“Norwegians shouldn’t kiss the blarney stone,” I said. “It isn’t in character. I’m glad to know I’m so important.”
“You’re going to have all the importance you can stand today. Because I’m going to get every person who was or could have been under this roof for chloroforming purposes that night come in here and repeat the stories they told me yesterday. I’ll catch any discrepancies, and you catch any false note, any surprising emotion, anything you think is significant. Fortunately we’re confined to people who could have known about Mrs. Garr’s keeping things in that closet in your kitchen. By the way, isn’t that another item you forgot to tell me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re suffering for it yourself. Will that teach you to tell the police everything?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Think you can stand having me start on witnesses today?”
“Oh my, yes.” I sat up in bed, had pillows piled behind me, and almost forgot I’d had no food. “But I want to know what happened, first! I haven’t been told one word!”
He laughed. “I can imagine the rapacious state of your mind. Okay, here goes, as testified. You celebrated the inquest with Mr. Kistler, imbibing well and on the whole wisely. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“You come home at three a.m. or thereabouts, handling yourself ably. You say good night to Mr. Kistler at your door, after having turned on your light, looked the apartment over, and reported all okay.”
“Right.”
“Mr. Kistler’s testimony. That is all we know of you for some time. Tuesday morning comes. Six o’clock. The telephone rings. It rings and rings. It finally awakens Miss Sands, upstairs. She comes down, answers. It is for Mr. Kistler. She goes up, knocks at his door until he answers. Mr. Kistler, furious, comes downstairs. It turns out the call is from Mr. Trowbridge, who, it seems, is out celebrating because the Guide has secured a big advertising contract—”
“Oh, and Hodge didn’t tell me! That must be the one he was after Saturday!”
“Yep. Guy came through on Monday. Mr. Trowbridge, it seems, celebrates neither well nor wisely, and has suddenly been stricken with a desire to know how the inquest came out. It is the very shank of the evening, to him. Mr. Kistler hangs up, starts back to bed.
“A thought hits him and he stops on the first step. Why did Miss Sands answer the phone?
“Her room is upstairs, far from the phone. Your bed, on the contrary, is right on the other side of the wall. You are in the habit of rushing out to answer. He decides it is because of the evening before, and turns to the stairs again, when something else hits him.
“A smell.
“He walks over to your doors, sniffs, and then sniffs under the doors. He gets it strong there—ether and naphtha. Why would you be dry-cleaning, coming home at three a.m.? Before six a.m.? He knocks softly, you don’t answer. He calls, you don’t answer. He takes a run and tries to break the doors down, but they’re reinforced by those chairs under the knobs and won’t give an inch.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I said.
“What?”
“The chairs. The chairs were still under the knobs?”
“I’ll say they were.”
I sat up straight and felt the blood draining out of my face.
“Then how did he—it—get in?”
Lieutenant Strom shook his head at me soberly.
“I’ve gone over this damn apartment inch by inch. I can’t find one way anyone could have got in. Or out.”
I stared at him, horror gripping me. What had been there in that room?
17
“LISTEN,” I SAID, “I can’t stand this. Not without something to eat. Can’t I have something to eat?”
“Go call the doc, Van.”
Van phoned, came back.
“Nothing but fruit juice till tomorrow, miss.”
I used to like orange juice, too.
“I want to be shown,” I said when I’d had it. “I want to be shown how no one got out or in.”
“Okay, I’ll fix it up just like it was before the doors were broken down. I was going to go over that anyway. So you can just
