Plot It Yourself

“Thank God.” She turned her head, saw a chair, went to it, and sat. She started to slump, then jerked her shoulders back. “Then you must call the police?”

“Certainly.” I had moved to face her, “It might help if I could give them some information on the phone. Could you answer a few questions?”

“If I choose to.”

“When did you last see your daughter?”

“When she left the house last evening to come here.”

“What time was that?”

“Right after dinner. Half past eight-a little later.”

“Was anyone with her?”

“No.”

“Did she always sleep here?”

“Not always. Frequently. She has her room in the house.”

“Were there guests at dinner?”

“No. Just my husband and I, and her.”

“Was she expecting someone to call?”

“Not that I knew of, but I wouldn’t. I seldom did.”

“You know nothing of any letter or phone call she got yesterday?”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Did anyone come to see her after she left the house last evening, or call her on the phone?”

“No. Not at the house. Someone might have come here.”

“Someone did. How? By the lane in back?”

“Yes. It’s a public road. Dipper Lane. I’ve forgotten your name. What is it?”

“Goodwin. Archie Goodwin. Did you hear a car on the lane last evening, stopping here or starting here?”

“No.” Abruptly she left the chair. “I’m going to phone my husband. He should be here when the police come. How soon will they come?”

“Ten minutes, maybe less. Have you any idea who killed your daughter? Any idea at all?”

“No.” She turned and marched out, still a sergeant.

I went to the phone, used my handkerchief to lift the receiver, and dialed.

Chapter 12

I ate lunch that day, two hamburgers and a glass of milk, at the office of the Bronx District Attorney, in the room of an assistant DA named Halloran whom I had never seen before. I ate dinner, if two corned-beef sandwiches and lukewarm coffee in a paper cup can be called dinner, in the office of the District Attorney of the County of New York, in the room of an assistant DA named Mandelbaum whom I knew quite well from various contacts on other occasions. When I finally got back to the old brownstone on West 35th Street it was going on ten o’clock. Fritz offered to warm up the lamb loaf and said it would be edible, but I told him I was too tired to eat and might nibble a snack later.