Murder Has Its Points by Frances and Richard Lockridge Read Free Book Online Page A

his.
    It was, Bill Weigand thought, now more than time to call it a day. But, since he was only a few blocks from the Dumont, since things would still be going on there, he might as well see what had gone on. Not that anything was expected. But still, as Pam North had said.

4
    Captain Jonathan Frank, commanding, Fourth Detective District, was talking to the desk clerk at the Hotel Dumont. Weigand waited. Frank said, “Fifth floor, and you’re sure on the street side? About half an hour after the—occurrence—and was in a hurry?” The clerk said, “Yes, but I told you—”
    â€œSure,” Frank said. “Catching a plane to Frisco and cutting it fine. You told me. What he said. Sure, I know that’s all you’ve got to go on. Nobody blames you. Hi, Bill.”
    Bill Weigand said, “Hi, Johnny.”
    â€œTwelve floors,” Frank said. “ And the roof. Just in this one. Five front rooms to the floor so we come up with sixty rooms, and cross off the permanents—only why?—and you come up with fifty-four. Of which one is an old lady in a wheel chair, sure, but she’s got a companion. And across the street—” He shrugged. He spread his hands.
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “And nobody saw anything or heard anything, and none of the rooms smells of powder and—”
    â€œSnipers,” Frank said, with great weariness. “Crackpots. Some time we’ll wake up. Quit making guns except for cops. Make possession of all guns illegal. Make the manufacture of ammo illegal.”
    â€œAnd,” Bill said, “abolish roofs. Allow no windows facing streets.”
    â€œVery funny, Bill,” Frank said. “Your brain trust interested? In a crackpot sniping?”
    â€œNot if it is,” Bill said, and was told, sure it was, and then looked at.
    â€œThis party,” Jonathan Frank said, “that friend of yours gave it? North?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh,” Frank said. “The ruckus. Be very pat. Only, Willings’s room isn’t on the front. One gets you a hundred it was a loony.”
    â€œNo bet, Johnny. Willings does stay here?”
    â€œDoes now. Checked in three or four days ago. Expects to be here about a week. Didn’t bring a rifle with him, far’s anybody noticed. Of course, nobody brought a rifle with him. They all tell us that. Only, somebody brought a rifle with him. On account, nobody spit a bullet into Payne.” Frank sighed. “I was taking the wife to the movies,” he said. He scrutinized Bill Weigand’s face again, with greater care. “You got something, Bill?”
    â€œBits and pieces. Odds and ends. Several people at the party didn’t like Payne too much, I’m told.”
    â€œBy those friends of yours?”
    â€œBy those friends of mine.”
    â€œHappens Willings is in the bar now,” Frank said. “I—”
    The clerk said, “Telephone call, Captain. In booth one.”
    â€œâ€”was thinking of having a little chat with him,” Frank said. “You want to, Bill? …”
    â€œThe Bottom of the Well,” so named because a writer who frequented it had once said that that was where he always felt he was, in a small, high barroom, with dark green walls. It does not at any time accommodate many, and when Bill Weigand went in it accommodated only three—a couple at a corner table; a large man with a red beard on a stool at the bar. “Only rum worth drinking,” the red-bearded man was telling the barman when Bill sat down beside him. Gardner Willings had a heavy voice, with something of a rumble in it. “Good rum,” Willings said, and sipped from a tall glass. Bill ordered scotch and water. He said, “Mr. Willings?”
    â€œDon’t autograph,” Willings said. “Why should I?”
    â€œNo reason,” Bill said. “I’m a police officer. Name of Weigand.”
    â€œI