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

given. He hoped a false impression. They would drive down. After they changed their clothes.…
    Deputy Jefferson was alone in a large, bare office. There were other desks, empty. There did not seem to be a jail attached.
    Jefferson was sorry to have dragged them down. Hated to interrupt people on vacation. Would have gone to the hotel, only—
    He did not, at once, go on with that. He said that one or two things had come up. First, he had been in touch with New York. Talked to this friend of theirs.
    â€œI hope,” Pam said, “he put in a good word for us.”
    Jefferson said, “Now listen, Mrs. North” and then, suddenly, smiled at her.
    â€œVery good word,” he said. “Seems you’ve been—well, helpful several times. Very helpful. Said—let me remember—‘When they’re around, things seem to turn up. Useful things.’ He said …” Jefferson paused. Jerry thought it possible the pause was to select. “‘Get them to help, if you can.’ He had a message for you, Mrs. North. He said, ‘Tell her not to get herself killed.’”
    â€œThe idea,” Pam North said. “Have I ever?”
    â€œYou’ve come too close,” Jerry said. “And Bill Weigand’s got a nerve.” He looked pointedly at Deputy Sheriff Jefferson, who merely waited for him to continue. “We’re not detectives,” Jerry said, uttering familiar words with familiar emphasis. “Not any kind. Also, we’re on vacation. Also—”
    â€œOf course, dear,” Pam said. “The sheriff understands. You said ‘one or two things’ had come up, Mr. Jefferson?”
    â€œâ€”we’ll only be here for—” Jerry said, and had a feeling that neither Pam nor Deputy Sheriff Jefferson was listening to him, that both were merely waiting for him to finish talking.
    Jefferson waited a moment longer, apparently on the chance that Jerry might resume.
    â€œWell,” Jefferson said, when Jerry did not, “for one thing—a small thing I guess—it isn’t Miss Payne. It’s Miz Payne.”
    The distinction was not instantly apparent. Then it was; Pam phrased it. She said, “Oh. Missis Payne.”
    â€œThat’s it,” Jefferson said. “Miz Payne. She and her husband are separated, or something. Hard to find things out on Sunday. By telephone. Going to run Monroe County into charges. People from up North come down here and—” He paused. He shook his head.
    The rest, Pam thought, didn’t really need saying. Come down here and get themselves killed—that would be part of it. Separate life and death by some fourteen hundred miles; the life which alone can explain the death, when the death is murder. Tie a bronzed young man, who like any other would prefer to spend his Sunday on a beach, to the end of a telephone wire.
    â€œI will say,” Jefferson said, “the New York people are cooperating—your friend, Mrs. North. Everybody.”
    Jerry felt that he was floating by, unnoticed.
    â€œSeems Dr. Piersal worked with the police a good deal,” Jefferson said. “It’s almost, I got the idea, as though somebody had killed a cop. Know what I mean?”
    He looked at Jerry North this time. Jerry felt as if he had been, for the moment, salvaged, or, at any rate, taken in tow. He said, “Yes.” He said, “He was deputy medical examiner for a while. Testified as an expert at trials.”
    â€œYes,” Jefferson said. “So they feel he was sort of one of their own. Which helps. Miz Payne turns out to be the daughter of some people named Coleman.” He looked at notes on his desk. “Mr. and Mrs. Peter Coleman,” he said. “Mean anything to either of you?”
    They looked at each other. Jerry said, “No.”
    â€œColeman was a patient of Dr. Piersal’s,” Jefferson said. “Couple of years ago, Coleman