Murder by the Book by Frances and Richard Lockridge Read Free Book Online Page A

Herald.” He gave her more Herald , of which the supply seemed inexhaustible.
    (It was Chicago’s day to have an eight-column blizzard. “While Miami Beach basked in eighty-degree temperatures.”)
    At a little before ten, Jerry suggested tennis. Pam hesitated; Pam didn’t know. It seemed, somehow, a little …
    She was told that that was nonsense. Piersal had been a good guy, a fine guy. But they need not dress in black on his account. Nor, he added, mope. They had come for holiday; for them tennis was part of holiday.
    There was life in the lobby now. A good deal of it, Pam thought, was supplied by the sports shirts the men wore. The shirts were not only alive; they leaped up and down and shouted. Pam looked, with approval, at her husband—in walking shorts, to be sure, but above them covered by a dark polo shirt.
    They walked through the lobby toward the staircase which would lead them to their room. (In the morning, the elevator was to be avoided; waiters held room service trays in it, over their heads and, precariously, over yours.) They passed Paul Grogan—a partially recovered Grogan. He was talking to a man in a sports jacket, who held a light suitcase in one hand and a black bag in the other. But Grogan saw the Norths; Grogan saw all. He lifted a hand to them and smiled, but only at half-voltage. The Norths went on, up the stairs, to their pleasant room.
    They changed. They played a set. As they were finishing, a tall young man and a very pretty girl came and sat by the court, rackets beside them. They sat in adjacent chairs and held hands. As, Pam thought, they had done when they dived together into the pool, when they walked the length of the lobby. Glued, apparently. And very nice, too. Nothing to apologize for; nothing to hide.
    â€œAnd set,” Jerry said, lobbing over Pam’s head. Her drop shots today had a stabbing—no, think of some other word. They were effective today. Guile was the answer; the lob was an answer.
    â€œWonder if you’d care for a spot of …” the tall young man said. The Norths did. The young couple came unglued; they were the Greshams. Bob and Nancy Gresham. They came from Chicago.
    â€œWatched you yesterday,” Gresham said. “With a tall, elderly man. Doesn’t seem to be around today.”
    â€œNo,” Jerry said, “he doesn’t seem to be around today. Want to serve them up?”
    The tall young man served one up. It was an ace past Pam. “Won’t happen again,” he said, and crossed over and served again. It was an ace past Jerry. “Never happened before,” Bob Gresham said. “Not twice in a row.”
    But the Norths carried the spry young Greshams to deuce, and it made them feel spryer themselves, and younger themselves; it made them, for the moment and mildly, fond of the young Greshams. They bought the Greshams a drink. “In ball bearings,” Gresham said. “In books,” Jerry said, and was looked at. “Publishing,” Jerry said.
    The buffet was set up. It was twice yesterday’s buffet, in honor of Sunday. Midway of the long table there was an ice-sculpture—a bird of some sort. Not a pelican. (I’m getting hipped on pelicans, Jerry thought.) Probably a turkey.
    They shared a table with the Greshams, learning about ball bearings. And roller bearings too, for that matter.…
    â€œTraveling is very educational,” Pam said. “But they’re nice young things.”
    They were midway of the lobby, siesta bound, when a bellman called their name. “Mr. North, please. Mr. North.”
    It was a telephone call. It was Deputy Sheriff Ronald Jefferson. He would like to see them at his office. He would send a car if—
    â€œNo,” Jerry said, and spoke quickly. He did not and was sure—almost sure, at any rate—Pam did not want to be carried away on the wings of a siren. A false impression of peremptory arrest would be