The Judge Is Reversed by Frances Lockridge Read Free Book Online Page A

freedom. There was a knot of people in front of the old apartment house on Riverside Drive. “Sergeant Mullins wants to see us,” Pam told a patrolman, who looked at them somewhat stonily. Jerry thought that this was the overstatement of the decade, or, at any rate, of the day. But they were sent along to Mullins—to Mullins, and Dr. Oscar Gebhardt, to whom Pam said, “Hello, Gebby.”
    â€œTook you long enough,” Gebhardt said, to her. “Well?” he said to Mullins.
    Mullins guessed so. They could get in touch with Gebhardt if the need arose.
    â€œObviously,” Gebhardt said. “Use the telephone.” He got his black bag; he went out of the room.
    â€œWell,” Mullins said. “Thanks Mrs. North. Mr. North. It was good of you to come up. I’ll tell the loot—that is, the captain—when he gets here. So I don’t know as there’s any reason for you—”
    â€œSergeant Mullins,” Pam North said. “We knew Mr. Blanchard was going to be killed.”
    Mullins looked at her and slowly his mouth opened. Jerry looked at her. He ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair.
    â€œWell,” Pam said, “almost. Because—”
    â€œBecause what, Pam?” Captain William Weigand, of Homicide, Manhattan West, said from the doorway. “And don’t you think you should have mentioned it?”
    â€œAn indignant tennis player, for one thing,” Pam North said. “And—”
    She was interrupted. A Siamese cat came around Bill Weigand at a brisk trot, now and then looking back anxiously over her shoulder. The room they were in had been, evidently, Blanchard’s office. It contained a large desk, and leather chairs, and a leather sofa.
    â€œStop her, somebody!” Dr. Oscar Gebhardt said, testily, with contempt for inefficiency, from outside. He trotted into the room after the Siamese cat, holding a hypodermic syringe in one hand. The cat, after one more quick backward glance, went under the sofa. “Damn,” Gebhardt said. “Four of you, and you couldn’t stop one cat. Here, Amantha. Nice kitty. Pretty kitty.” Oscar Gebhardt spoke words of endearment in a tone of consuming anger.
    â€œMrr—ow-aough,” Amantha said, at some length, from under the couch.
    â€œClose the door, somebody,” Gebhardt said. Bill Weigand kicked the door closed. “And move the damned sofa,” Gebhardt said, to nobody in particular. Mullins looked at him. “You,” Gebhardt said. “Big enough, aren’t you? And this is sterile.” He waved the syringe. “Put it down and I’ll have to boil it again.” Mullins stared at him.
    â€œCome on, Mullins,” Jerry said, and went to the sofa and began to pull at one end of it. Mullins stared briefly at Jerry North. He went to the other end of the sofa and pulled. It was a heavy sofa, but it moved. The trouble was that Amantha moved under it.
    â€œFarther out,” Pam said, and, when it was far enough out, went behind the sofa. She lay down on the floor and reached an arm under the sofa. “Nice Amantha,” Pam North said, in the tone of a coo. “Pretty Amantha.”
    â€œYow-ow-wohr— uh ,” Amantha said. “WOW!”
    â€œSuch a way to talk!” Pam said. “Ouch!”
    â€œBad?” Gebhardt enquired, with more politeness than interest.
    â€œNick,” Pam said. “Sergeant. She’s at your end. I’m pushing and—”
    Amantha came out. Her ears were laid back. She paused briefly to hiss and went across the room and under a chair.
    â€œWhy didn’t you grab her, for God’s sake?” Gebhardt said to Mullins. “Went right through your hands.” He waved the hypodermic at Mullins.
    â€œListen,” Mullins said. “If you think—”
    â€œMove the chair, sergeant,” Bill Weigand said. “I’ll catch her if she comes this way.