The Norths Meet Murder by Frances Lockridge Read Free Book Online Page B

difficult to detect an undercurrent of uneasiness and uncertainty in the voice of the secretary whose employer had not arrived—the secretary of Mr. Stanley Brent, of 34 Fifth Avenue, with offices in East Forty-second Street, who lived within such comfortable walking distance of the United Cigar Store on Sixth Avenue near Tenth.
    Weigand came out of the booth, thought a moment and went back in, calling Headquarters and the squad room where the check of electric shaver purchases wearily continued. He told the detective who answered that they could lay off a while, and to find out if the name of Stanley Brent, 34 Fifth Avenue, was on the list. It was, and Weigand was pleased with himself. It was on the list of those whose telephones had not answered, but that had been almost two hours earlier. Weigand went around, with Stein.

5
    W EDNESDAY
    N OON TO 2 P.M.
    There was nothing homely and nothing old about the apartment house at 34 Fifth Avenue; it belonged to a different era than the comfortable, spacious one which had given rise to the Buano house and its multiple replicas. The apartment house at No. 34 rose sharply in dispassionate façade and kept on rising for a long way. It was sleek and indifferent—the very model of what lower Fifth Avenue had become. A doorman gave the door a starting push for Weigand and Stein, making the action a haughty ritual. A uniformed attendant permitted them to ask that he announce them to Mrs. Brent, but his dignity slipped a little when Weigand gave his name and rank—Detective Lieutenant Weigand, from Headquarters. Curiosity and surmise passed hurriedly across the attendant’s features and left troubled ripples behind them.
    Mrs. Brent would see them; Mrs. Brent, after a slim, dark maid in a pale green uniform had momentarily intervened, saw them. Mrs. Brent was tall for a woman. Summer tan was still on her face and arms; smooth tan, well acquired. She moved with compact grace as, greeting them at the door of a long living-room, she led them a little way in and then turned, her eyebrows lifting politely. She said:
    â€œLieutenant Weigand? Yes?”
    She said it, Weigand was gratified and a little surprised to observe, to him. Stein’s recognition was condensed to an inclination of the head. Her eyes, Weigand noticed, were gray and steady and seemed to be ready for something. Weigand thought how to begin; began by suggesting that she sit down. It told her something, apparently.
    â€œStan?” she said. “Mr. Brent—?”
    â€œIt may be,” Weigand said. “We’re not certain, yet. But a man who may be Mr. Brent has—has had an accident.”
    She moved a foot or two and sat down.
    â€œDead?” she said. The voice had lost resonance. It was as if it were going on by itself. “He’s dead?”
    â€œIt may not be Mr. Brent,” Weigand said. “We don’t know—there were circumstances. Was he home—” Weigand hesitated. “Was he home last night, say? Or yesterday?”
    Mrs. Brent shook her head, and said she didn’t know.
    â€œI just got back,” she said. “I was in the country. I’ve been in the country since Saturday, until just now—closing the house. But I thought Stan would be here this morning, and his office—”
    Her voice still seemed to be going on of itself.
    â€œI was going to call you,” she said. “Somebody, I mean—the police. He hasn’t been at his office since Monday morning.” Her hands clenched and unclenched on the arm of the chair. “Tell me—” she said.
    Weigand told her part of it. But it might not be her husband. It was merely a possibility. Her husband was about forty? His hair and eyes were brown? He—? Mrs. Brent nodded with each question, and her eyes grew wider and seemed to grow shallow. It was horrible to tell people things like this, Weigand thought, and now she knew; there was no doubt, really. Her