“He’s over here, Inspector.  The boys from the ambulance pulled him out to check he was a goner, but he hasn’t been moved since.”

Touching the body as little as possible, Hanrahan looked it over carefully.  “Send them over, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.  Right away.”  Sergeant Robbins waved to the two medics, who put out their cigarettes and rushed over.

“Did you remove anything from the victim—I mean the deceased?”

“No, sir.  He wasn’t wearing no shoes.  No jacket neither.”

“Sergeant, have the boys look carefully.  If he had shoes or a jacket out here I want them found.”  The sergeant nodded and went off to see to it.  “All right, you two can go.  Thanks, boys.”

Hanrahan went back to studying the body.  “A man drowns.  Socks but no shoes.  Tie but no jacket.  Why was he at the pool?  What was he doing?”

“Those are good questions,” commented the medical examiner.

“Hello, Frank.  I’ll turn him over to you.  The medics pulled him out, but he was dead.”

“We’ll see what we can come up with.  I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.  There’s stuff in the pockets, but everything’s soaked and I don’t want to tear it up.  Can you take care of it?  I’ll send Robbins down when you’re ready.”

“I’ll call your office.”

Sergeant Robbins appeared, a little out of breath and, it seemed, a little nervous.

“Phone call for you, Inspector.  You can take it in the pool house, through those doors.”  He added gravely, “It’s the Commissioner.”

She wasn’t used to having him around.  It had, after all, been four years, and only a few weeks now he was back.  She started a bit when she walked into the kitchen and he was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper as if he belonged there.  But, she reminded herself, he did.

In fact, during his absence, she had bought this brownstone specifically because it had a nice basement apartment with its own little garden that would be perfect for him.  He was seldom there, as he came upstairs for meals and to pass the time, but she felt it was important that he have a place of his own with a bit of greenery and fresh air.

He lowered his paper and smiled at her, and she smiled back.  For while she wasn’t used to it, she had been looking toward this moment every moment for four years, and now that it was here it was nice.  Even nicer, he had made coffee.  This was nice because she made terrible coffee.  She gave him a big kiss, then got the biggest mug she could find from the cabinet.

“I’m glad you made coffee,” she announced.

“So am I.  I remember your coffee.”  He grinned at her.  “Mind the radio?”

Gladiola shook her head and Charlie reached for the dial.  The announcer was in the middle of a special bulletin.

“... found dead in the swimming pool at his home in Riverdale early this morning.  Bellamy, head of Bellamy Industries, appeared to have drowned some time during the night, according to a family spokesman...”

“Bellamy!” Gladiola exclaimed.  “Is that Lincoln Bellamy, do you think?”

“You heard what I heard, but I would guess so.  Why, did you know him?”

“Yeah.  We served on the board of the Opera together.”

“When did you serve on the board of the Opera?” Charlie asked.

“Or maybe it was the Museum.  Anyway, Metropolitan something, I think.  Pretty sure it wasn’t the Ballet.”

She looked at Charlie as though she only just heard his question.  “Seven or eight years ago, I think.”

“Museum and Ballet, too.”

“The Opera was fun.  The Museum was very prestigious, and the Ballet, I really only wanted tickets to The Nutcracker that year and it was the only way.  Some years it’s very difficult, you know.  I don’t know why that is.”

“Sure.  How did you—”

“I urge you to think twice before you finish that question.”

He did think again, and then said, “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“He was a nice man.  It’s sad for him to go like that.  Odd, though.  He wasn’t the type to go swimming after dark.  He was always quite... what’s the word...”  She drifted off in her thoughts.

She would have continued to drift except that the telephone rang, and moments later a slightly uncomfortable man, a butler of sorts, appeared in the doorway.

“A phone call for you, Miss Spring.  A Mrs. Bellamy.  Says it’s urgent.  I don’t think you two are supposed to hang around in the kitchen.  I think you’re supposed to hang around in one of the other rooms so’s I can answer the phone and stuff in here.”

“Thank you, Stinky.  I mean Bolger.  We’ll try to stay out of your way.  We’ll start tomorrow.” She reached for the phone and picked it up, as Bolger rushed to the front hall to hang up the extension, with Charlie at his heels.  “Good morning, this is Miss Spring.”

The voice was one Gladiola had heard before, as she had met Lorraine Bellamy at several Opera events, unless they were Museum events.  She was certainly surprised that Mrs. Bellamy would call her after all these years, and even more surprised that she would call on the morning her husband’s body was found floating in their swimming pool.  But you would never have known it.

 “I’m so glad to have found you at home, Miss Spring.  There’s been a horrible tragedy.  I don’t know where else to turn.”

“I’ve just heard.  I’m so sorry for your loss.  Mr. Bellamy was a fine gentleman.  What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I know you can help me.  You’re the only one who can.  Can you come up to the house right away?  Please, Miss Spring.  Please say you’ll come.”

Gladiola’s curiosity paired with her desire to find a source of legal gainful employment, and, having recently discovered that she and Charlie might have skills that could be useful in the business of investigation, she thought perhaps this might be what Mrs. Bellamy was getting at.  The Brampton case had, after all, been in all the papers.

“Of course.  I’ll be there in an hour.”  Before hanging up she confirmed the address of the Bellamy mansion in Riverdale.  Charlie trotted into the kitchen, grinning.  To herself she said, “Why did I say an hour? Rats.”
“What do you think?  She must have heard about the Brampton case.  It was in the papers.”

“Does Stinky know you were listening on the extension?”

“I thought we’re calling him ‘Bolger’ now.  He knows; I grabbed the thing out of his hand.  He’s really putting his heart into this butler thing.  He’s dead nuts on going straight.”

 “I have to get dressed.  I told her we’d be there in an hour.  Are you coming?”

“Was I invited?”

“You know you weren’t invited because you were listening.  I’m inviting you.  I’m not used to being on this side of things.  Are you coming or not?”

“When you put it like that, it’s hard to decline.  I just need my jacket and hat.”

“I haven’t even washed my face.  I think I can do this in nine minutes.  I’ll meet you in the hall.  Tell Stinky—I mean Bolger—where we’re going.  It’s Fieldston Road.  In case he needs us.”

“Needs us?  For what could he possibly need us?” Charlie asked, but Gladiola was halfway up the stairs.  He sat in the hall and continued to read his paper, although it seemed obsolete now that the reports of Bellamy’s death had surfaced (so to speak).  He could hear the rumble of Gladiola’s feet as she ran to and fro on the third floor.  Fortunately Gladiola had the kind of hair, kept in a short bob, that benefitted from as little attention as possible, which, except in special circumstances, was exactly what she gave it.  In eight minutes she came scurrying down the stairs, applying lipstick and fastening her purse at the same time.

 “I can barely comb my hair and watch a horse race at the same time.  Can all women do two things at once?”
“In my line of work it’s a good idea to develop as many skills as possible.”

“You’re no longer in your line of work.”

“Solving one case does not make me a detective.  You need a license for that.  As far as Bunco’s concerned, I’m a criminal myself.”

“Well, in his defense—”

“He has nothing on me and never did.  Wait, I forgot.  Bolger!   Bolger!  Oh, here you are. Listen, if a Daisy Holiday calls, that’s my Aunt Magnolia.  She’s in Richmond.  Richmond?  Or Savannah.  Unless it’s Charleston.  Anyway, make sure I get the message right away, as soon as I get back.  Now, if she says anything about birds, anything at all, about birds, that’s an emergency, and you should call me at the Bellamy house.  Got that?”

“Yes, ma’am. Daisy, birds, emergency.”

“Also, I’m supposed to have lunch at Schrafft’s with Peppy Greenberg at one o’clock.  Can you let her know I won’t be able to make it?  You’re the cat’s.”  Gladiola and Charlie by now were running out the door, down the stairs, and hopping into the little yellow roadster parked out front.

“Is Aunt Magnolia on a job down south?”

“You shouldn’t ask me things like that.  It might be a parole violation.”

“What are you taking?  Riverside Drive?”

Clearly having suffered from cabin fever during his sojourn in Ossining, Charlie proceeded to ask questions and offer advice about how to get to Fieldston Road all the way to Riverdale.  Gladiola largely ignored him, but he didn’t notice or didn’t care.  Forty-eight minutes later they pulled into the driveway at 17 Fieldston Road.

The door opened before they even reached the stoop, and a butler—much more starched and proper than Bolger, but not nearly as enthusiastic—stepped out to meet them.

“Would you be Miss Spring?”

“Sure, if you ask nice.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes, I’m Miss Spring, and this is Mr. Delagardie, my associate.  Mrs. Bellamy is expecting us.  I’ll bet you know that.”

“Yes, miss. Right this way.”

Gladiola had to admit that, in spite of her fondness for Bolger, and taking into consideration his lack of practical experience in his new profession, she much preferred being called “miss” to “ma’am,” and she decided she would have to discuss this with Bolger.

The butler took Charlie’s hat and led them into a sunlit room decorated in rose and white.

“I will let Mrs. Bellamy know that you’re here.  Please make yourselves comfortable.”

They sat in matching rose-and-white floral chintz armchairs, both of which faced out onto manicured gardens.  It was only moments later that the door opened and a familiar face marched into the room.
“Mrs. Bellamy?  Oh, sorry; I was looking—hey!  What are you two doing here?”  It was Inspector James Hanrahan, or, as they called him, Bunco.  They had a complicated relationship with Bunco, but his testimony had been key at the parole hearing.  When Charlie had gotten out of prison it was Bunco who had asked for their help in an investigation that had him stumped.  It was that investigation, the Brampton murder, that had led to Mrs. Bellamy’s odd invitation.  They appreciated Bunco’s confidence.  It was almost enough to make them forget that, when he had been in the Fraud Division, he was the one who had sent Charlie up the river in the first place.  Almost.

“Hiya, Bunco.  Mrs. Bellamy called Lola this morning to ask for her help.  Something about Mr. Bellamy’s death, we’re thinking, but we haven’t seen her yet.”

Bunco looked from one to the other.

“Are you kidding me?  She called you?  What for?”

“Charlie told you.  We don’t know.  We think she probably read about the Brampton case, and since she knew me, she figured—”

“She knows you?  Do I want to know?”

“Evidently Lola served on the board of the Opera with the deceased, unless it was the Museum or the Ballet, but it probably wasn’t the Ballet.”

“Not the Ballet.  I’m pretty sure.”

“Anyway, she was on the board with Mr. Bellamy.”

Bunco was frowning, deep in thought.  “I wonder what she’s up to.”

“I’m not up to anything!  She asked me so I said I’d come.”

“Not you.  Mrs. Bellamy.  Look,” Bunco lowered his voice, “there’s something strange here.  It looks like an accident, but there’s something not right.  But I don’t see how I can investigate this case without an autopsy.”
“Then get an autopsy,” Gladiola suggested unhelpfully.

“Nothing doing.  The Commissioner called to tell me it’s no go.  The widow objected on account of she’s a Christian Scientist, and she got the Commissioner and the DA and the mayor to make the medical examiner to lay off.  So nothing doing.”

“She says she’s a Christian Scientist?  Can she prove that?”

“Doesn’t have to.  Didn’t you hear the part about the Commissioner and the DA and the mayor?  Close, personal friends, et cetera.”

“Please.  If she’s a Christian Scientist I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Says you.  Is the mayor going to take the word of a con artist and her ex-con boyfriend over his close-personal-friend-et-cetera’s?  I’m thinking no.”  But Bunco wanted her to be right so much his teeth hurt.  “Look, can you give me anything to go on?”

Gladiola made a mental note to protest being called a “con artist” but this was not the time to pick a fight.  If something were funny with Bellamy’s death, she wanted to get to the bottom of it, too.

“Not yet, but I’ll get you something.”

“I’m willing to go along with you, but I can’t go officially.”  Bunco looked relieved.

“We need to find out what she’s hiding.  Why she doesn’t want that autopsy.”

“I’ll let you two talk to her.  I’ll get back to the pool.”

“We’ll catch up with you after we talk with Mrs. Bellamy,” suggested Charlie.  “I guess you’ll be here for a while.”

“As long as they don’t kick me out.  I’m afraid if I leave I won’t be able to get back in.  This kind of thing gives me a pain.  I’ll see you two later.”  Bunco left, and none too soon, because within a minute Mrs. Bellamy wandered into the room, looking as though she had no idea where she was but hoped no one would notice.

“Miss Spring, thank you so much for coming.  I—didn’t realize you were bringing anyone. ”

“This is Mr. Delagardie, my associate.  I assure you, his discretion is beyond question.”

Mrs. Bellamy looked at Charlie hard.  “Your name was in the paper, too, wasn’t it?  That murder case?  I understand.  I’ve asked for tea; it will be in shortly.  Will you have some?”  She didn’t wait for a reply.  “Miss Spring, Mr. Delagardie, I think something untoward has happened.  Surrounding my husband’s death.  Wait.”  She went over to the door which she had left ajar and closed it tightly, then sat in yet another
rose-and-white chintz armchair.

“You suspect foul play?” Gladiola asked gently.

“I do, Miss Spring.  I’m sorry, there’s not much I can tell you about the reasons for my suspicions.  I just need you to find out what happened.”

Charlie said, truthfully, “Right now I don’t understand what it is you think we can do that the police can’t.”
“That’s just the point.  I don’t want—”

She was interrupted when the door was opened by a thin-faced woman with brown hair in a style that was not unbecoming but not flattering either.  She was probably halfway through her thirties but looked older.  Neither she nor Mrs. Bellamy appeared happy to see the other.

“Mrs. Bellamy, I’m sorry to interrupt.  I heard about the tragedy and I rushed right over to see if there is anything I can do.”

“That’s all right, Frances.  Miss Spring, Mr. Delagardie, this is Miss Frances McGill.  She worked for my husband.”

“How do you do?  Are you friends of the family?” asked Miss McGill.

“I knew Mr. Bellamy.  We worked together, too, you might say,” Gladiola said pleasantly.

“I’m surprised I haven’t heard about you,” Miss McGill said.

“I’m not. It wasn’t that kind of work.”  Gladiola was smiling still more pleasantly.  Miss McGill did not appear satisfied with this answer, but she was stuck with it.

“You must have been shocked to hear about the accident,” Charlie said.

“Accident?” Miss McGill asked.  “The radio didn’t say what happened.”

“Really?” asked Gladiola.

Charlie explained.  “Mr. Bellamy drowned in the pool.”

“I—I didn’t realize.  The radio simply said he had been found dead.  I assumed—well, I don’t know what I assumed.  I didn’t know what to think.  As you say, it was a shock.  Mr. Bellamy was so much more than an employer.”  She looked directly at Mrs. Bellamy and smiled at her.

“Yes.  Thank you for stopping by, Frances.  Now if you’ll excuse us, I expect the police inspector would like to have a word with you.  You will probably find him at the pool.  Stephens will know.  Good day, Frances.”  Mrs. Bellamy’s dismissal was so effective Charlie almost left, too.  Miss McGill departed, politely if not warmly, and Mrs. Bellamy picked up exactly where she had left off.

“As I was saying, I don’t want a big, public investigation.  I don’t even care if anyone is brought to justice.  I just want to make sure that no one profits from Lincoln’s death.  That’s all he would have cared about.”
Gladiola decided to tighten some strings.

“The results of the autopsy will be enlightening.”

Mrs. Bellamy breathed deeply.  “There will be no autopsy.”

“Really?  That’s surprising.  Usually they would do that.  I wonder why—”

“They’re not doing one because I have asked some highly placed friends,” Mrs. Bellamy squirmed a bit at this admission, “to see that they don’t.  I explained that I am a Christian Scientist and I object on religious grounds.”  She looked at the floor.

“Oh!  I didn’t realize you were Christian Sci—”

She was interrupted once again by the door opening and a maid in a neat uniform bearing a tea tray.  They waited silently while she placed the tray on the table in front of Mrs. Bellamy and left the room briskly, pulling the door closed behind her.

“I didn’t realize you were Christian Scientist,” Gladiola remarked innocently.

“Let’s just say that there’s not going to be an autopsy.  You understand, I just want to be sure that things are not looked at too closely.”

“But if your husband was murdered, would you truly want that person to get away with it?  I know what you said, but I just think—well, it’s just hard to believe.  I know you and Mr. Bellamy were so close.”

“I thought so, too, but the last few months—I’m no longer so sure.”

Gladiola opened her purse, removed a handkerchief, and dabbed at her right eye.  Charlie drained the contents of his little pink bone china teacup and stood up.

“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Bellamy.  I think I’ll go see what the cops are up to.  I mean the police.”  He looked down at Gladiola, who smiled at him.

“Oh.  All right.  Thank you, Mr. Delagardie,” said Mrs. Bellamy as Charlie removed himself from the room.  Gladiola buttered a scone and turned to Mrs. Bellamy, still smiling gently.

“Hiya, Bunco.  Find anything?”

“I thought you were talking with Mrs. Bellamy.”

“Lola got the idea she might be more comfortable with me out of the room, so she shot me the signal.  Give her fifteen minutes and you’ll have your autopsy.”

“That would be a miracle.”

“She has skills of persuasion.”

“Come on, I’ll show you around.  He was found floating around here, near the shallow end, but far enough in the boys had to go in after him.”

“They went in?”

“They were trying not to disturb anything on the body so they didn’t want to use anything to grab him.  They were sure he was already dead, but their rules are that they have to make sure, so they pulled him out.  Just as well, before he was pickled.”

“You’re a little bit gruesome, Bunco.  Were you this gruesome in Fraud?”

“Probably.”

“You should tone it down a little, now you’re in Homicide.  People get funny.”

Charlie went to the spot Bunco showed him nearest where the body was found.  He bent down.  From this position he looked around the wall of the pool, and mumbled something to himself.  He stood up and began to walk around the pool, still examining the wall.

“No scuff marks,” he announced.

“No shoes,” Bunco explained.  “Socks, even, but no shoes.”

“Socks but no shoes?  Who goes out to their pool at night wearing socks but no shoes?  Lola says he wasn’t the sort of guy to go out to the pool at night anyway.  Not exactly a live wire.”

“Also he was wearing a collar and tie but no jacket.  Not even a cardigan, or one of those—what do you call them?—smoking jacket things.  I suppose a man might do that, but I don’t know, it seemed funny.  Probably if he’d been wearing shoes it would make sense.  It seems he was in the middle of getting dressed, or undressed, or something, and so why go out to the pool?  I’ve had the guys looking for shoes and a jacket all around here, but nothing so far.”

“Is that the pool house?” Charlie asked, pointing to the far end of the pool at a small cottage that looked like it went with the mansion.

“Yeah.  I’m told it’s not very big, as pool houses go, but what do I know?  The boys are still going over it.”  They walked toward the cottage, Charlie taking in as much as he could.  Robbins was there with another officer.

“Don’t stop, boys.  Mr. Delagardie is going to have a look around.  I’ll be with him.”

“Don’t worry,” Charlie grinned.  “I won’t touch anything.”

“That’s fine, Mr. D.,” Robbins said cheerfully, then added casually, “Miss Spring with you?”

“She’s inside with the grieving widow.”  Robbins nodded and continued checking the contents of a hamper.
It was about fifteen minutes later that the starched and proper butler entered the pool house.  Charlie thought that the butler looked ridiculous in the pool house, but figured if you needed a butler you’d need him at the pool.

“Inspector Hanrahan, a phone call for you.  A Dr. Weissman.”

Bunco picked up the extension and the butler left for more appropriate surroundings.  After a few “hmphs” and expressions of agreement he told the caller that he would check in with him in a few hours, then hung up the phone.

“That was the medical examiner.  Just got a call to go ahead with the autopsy.  Widow has changed her mind.  About the autopsy, anyway.  I’m sure she’s as much a Christian Scientist as ever.”

An hour later they were sitting next to a lunch wagon on Tibbett Avenue as a waitress delivered three cups of coffee to their table.

“So I have to ask.  How did you get her to back off on the autopsy?”

“The only reason I am telling you this is that I think it might involve a person who could be a suspect.  Otherwise I would keep Mrs. Bellamy’s confidence.  Not that she told me anything confidential, exactly.”
“Okay, I get it,” Bunco said, a little impatiently.  “What did she tell you?”

“I think she believed that her husband had been having an affair.  She’s afraid that an investigation would make that public.  Since she can’t bring him back, she can at least protect his reputation.  Or perhaps it’s that, feeling he had betrayed her, she’ll put her reputation ahead of justice for her husband’s killer.  If, that is, he had a killer.  I’m certain he didn’t have a lover.”

“Are you saying she didn’t want the investigation because there was a possibility that he had something on the side?”

Charlie added, “And you somehow know that he didn’t?”

“He adored Mrs. Bellamy.  He thought she was the cat’s.  For a dull guy he was not bad-looking, he was sweet as can be, and, need I even say, he was extremely rich.  I saw girls throw themselves at him, but he wasn’t catching.  That sort of girl knows a waste of time when she sees one.  He loved introducing his wife around, he talked about her all the time.  This was a guy who was in love with the same woman for his entire adult life.”

“So why did she think he was catching and all that?”

“I have my suspicions, but she wasn’t forthcoming.”

“You think it’s that McGill woman, don’t you?  You think Mrs. Bellamy thinks she had her claws into the Captain of Industry?”  Charlie asked, cheerfully.

Gladiola nodded.  “There’s friction between Mrs. Bellamy and the McGill.  Bunco, can you tell us something about the players?”

“It’s a full boat.  The widow you know about.  No offspring.  A nephew, Hollis Bellamy, son of deceased’s brother.  His parents are missionaries, somewhere in Africa; haven’t been in the country for years.  Hollis is Acting Chairman of the Board until the board decides who they want in charge, but Bellamy was grooming him to take over the business.  There’s a niece, Angela Billings.  She moved into the house while she was attending Barnard and never left.”  He consulted his notebook.  “She’s twenty-six.  Has a boyfriend who hangs around a lot, name of Christopher Kirk.  For some reason he likes to be called ‘Kip’.”

“Kip Kirk?”

“Don’t look at me.  I didn’t name him.  Confidential secretary, Clive Reardon, is relatively new.  About six months.  Replaced a guy Bellamy had around for years, and from what I heard it wasn’t pretty.  Kenneth Farragut.  And some woman Bellamy called his ‘office administrator’, whatever that is.  Her name’s Frances McGill.  Sounds like you two met her.  She keeps the trains running on time.”

He closed his notebook and looked at the others, his eyes hopeful.

“Bunco, you’re not expecting us to say, ‘This is the one who did it and this is how you can prove it,’ are you?”  Gladiola asked gently.

“I wish you would, but no.  Thanks anyway.”

“Well, the only candidate for Apocryphal Homewrecker would be this McGill woman,” Charlie observed.
“That doesn’t make her a murderer.”

Charlie gestured to the others to keep their voices down as the waitress was approaching with their meals.  He smiled at her and thanked her for his hamburgers while Bunco shuffled his notes and put them on the bench beside him.

“You had the club, Mister?”  Bunco nodded in answer.  “Grilled cheese and tamayta soup, miss.  More joe?”
“Not yet, thanks,” Charlie said, still smiling, but mostly at his hamburgers.  “With dessert.”  The waitress walked off.

Bunco looked at Gladiola.  “He’s still eating like that, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Charlie looked up from his first hamburger.  “Did you say something?”

“Nothing at all.  Enjoy your meal.”  Gladiola smiled.  “Where were we?  Oh, the McGill.  Interesting that she said the radio report didn’t say he had drowned.  The report we heard said it, very plainly, and even if the report she heard didn’t say it, which doesn’t make sense, word would get around.  No, I wouldn’t mind having a chat with her.”

“It looks like one of her responsibilities included handling the office accounts, and I’d like to know if she was up to anything in that area.  Ditto the nephew, who had access.”

Charlie swallowed heartily.  “Access to what?”

“Just access.  To lots of things.  Office bankbook, company funds, business associates, so forth.”

“Who lives at the house?” Gladiola asked.

“Apart from the servants, just the wife, the niece, and the secretary.  The nephew was there a lot, and so were McGill and the niece’s boyfriend, Kirk.  I spoke with the niece this morning, but she was beside herself so I figure I’ll tackle her and the boyfriend this afternoon.  I’m guessing you two will want in on that.”

A little before two o’clock Bunco drove into the driveway, followed some minutes later by Gladiola’s yellow roadster.  There was no need to keep Gladiola and Charlie’s involvement in the investigation a secret, as they had been brought in by Mrs. Bellamy herself, but it was a good idea to make it clear that the actual police detective was in charge.  It seemed, then, a good idea to let Bunco get a little bit of a head start.

When Gladiola and Charlie arrived, the starched and proper butler showed them into the same rose and white room, a little less sunny in the afternoon.  Hanrahan was there, along with Sergeant Robbins, who sat with a pad and pencil at a writing desk in the corner, in a wooden desk chair that was turned to face the others.  In the rose and white chintz chairs sat two men; two women, one of whom was Frances McGill, occupied a flowery chintz loveseat; and two more men sat in chairs that had apparently been brought in from other rooms.

Hanrahan handled the introductions.

“I want to thank you all for your time.  This is Miss Gladiola Spring and Mr. Charles Delagardie.  They have worked as special consultants to the Homicide department on a previous case, and they are here—”
It was Hollis, the nephew and heir apparent, who interrupted.  “What are they doing here now for?  I don’t see why you need special consultants, whatever that is.  I don’t even see what Homicide is doing here.”
Gladiola decided it was fortunate for Hollis that he was the nephew to the Chairman of the Board, as he was clearly not the pointiest knitting needle in the sock.  Bunco picked up right where he had been cut off.

“And they are here at the request of Mrs. Bellamy.  Given their past record with the Department we have no objection.”

Charlie snickered to himself, thinking it would be funny if anyone in the room knew about his other record with the Department.  Gladiola wondered when one case had become a record.

As if on cue, Mrs. Bellamy entered the room.  The men stood, and the younger of the two women on the loveseat—Gladiola guessed, correctly, that this was Angela Billings—reached out her hand.  Frances McGill was examining some papers and didn’t look up when Mrs. Bellamy entered.  One of the men stood and gestured to Mrs. Bellamy to take his rose and white chintz armchair.

“Thank you, Kenneth.”  The Kenneth person smiled and took a chair against the wall that had evidently been brought in earlier for this gathering, as the cushion was green.  Hollis decided to talk some more.

“Aunt Lorraine, why did you call these people?  What are they consultants for?  What does that even mean?  I don’t know why these Homicide people are here anyway.  What do you think—”

“Please, Hollis.  You don’t make sense.  Be quiet and let the inspector ask his questions.”  Gladiola liked Mrs. Bellamy more all the time, and she wondered if “you don’t make sense” referred to this conversation or was a general statement.  She suspected it was the latter, as even his cousin had a tendency to stare vaguely at him when he spoke as though he were not a native speaker of English.

The cousin, a slender woman with light brown hair, added, “I, for one, am glad to see a thorough investigation.  I mean, obviously Uncle Lincoln’s death was an accident, but it’s better to be sure.  Isn’t it?”  She looked at the youngest of the men in the room as if her question was not a rhetorical one.

“Frances, are we keeping you from something?” Mrs. Bellamy asked in a pointed tone.  Frances McGill looked up from her papers for the first time.  She smiled but didn’t mean it.

“Not at all, Mrs. Bellamy,” she said, with an emphasis on Mrs. Bellamy’s name that made it clear to the room that only one of them was permitted to call the other by her given name.  “But there is a lot to be done to make sure the office continues to run smoothly, and I thought I should make use of the time before the inspector begins his interview.”  Gladiola wondered if Frances really thought that Bunco had not yet begun.  She herself knew better than to underestimate him.

“That’s very industrious of you, under the circumstances.  Certainly now there will be no office in this house for you to... administer.”  At this last word Gladiola was reminded of the time Charlie’s cat bit her.  She looked over to see Charlie’s reaction and wondered where he had found a cookie.
Bunco decided show time was over.

“Thank you, ladies.  Before you joined us, Mrs. Bellamy, I was introducing Miss Spring and Mr. Delagardie.”

“Yes.  May I say one thing before you go on?” Mrs. Bellamy turned in her chair to face her nephew.  “Hollis, Miss Spring and Mr. Delagardie are here at my invitation.  Inspector Hanrahan and his men are here with my blessing.  Any further questions?”

Hollis turned a bit red around the tops of the ears and shook his head.

Mrs. Bellamy turned back to Hanrahan and smiled.  It was hard for him to resist smiling back.  There was more to Lorraine Bellamy than met the eye, and he was starting to think Gladiola was right about Mr. Bellamy’s feelings for his bride.

“Miss Spring, Mr. Delagardie, this is obviously Hollis Bellamy, Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy’s nephew.”
“I was Mr. Bellamy’s nephew.  I’m his brother’s son.”  Mrs. Bellamy did not seem to mind his making this distinction.

“Thank you for clarifying, Mr. Bellamy.  This is Miss Angela Billings, Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy’s niece.  Or perhaps I should say Mrs. Bellamy’s niece.”

“I’m both their niece.  But I guess I’m on Aunt Lorraine’s side, if you need that.  Thank you for coming.”  Angela apparently wanted everyone to like her.

“This is Clive Reardon, Mr. Bellamy’s confidential secretary.”

“How do you do?” Reardon asked buoyantly.  He was one of those big, cheerful personalities, not to mention just big and cheerful.  He was over six feet tall, and could stand to lose a pound or twenty.  He had a big smile and a strong baritone voice.  Gladiola felt he would be fun to have around for about forty-five minutes.  “Six months I’ve been with Mr. Bellamy, and may I say it’s been a pleasure!”  He grinned, then seemed to remember where he was.  “I mean, until today.  This is just horrible.”

“Mr. Christopher Kirk, Miss Billings’s friend.”

“Call me Kip!”

“No, thanks,” Gladiola said, smiling.

“I’m Angela’s beau.”  Another cheerful one, but with a smaller voice.  He looked at Angela, who smiled at him as if waiting for him to tell her she had done a good job.

“Miss Frances McGill, Mr. Bellamy’s ‘office administrator’.”

Charlie, who had decided that he didn’t like Frances McGill, looked at her with the same expression with which he had looked at his hamburger.

“ ‘Office administrator’.  I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with that term.  Could you tell me what it is you do—or rather, did—for Mr. Bellamy?”  Gladiola flashed him her sharp teeth, and he toned down his smile so he looked less like something that had just eaten someone’s grandmother.

Frances McGill turned to face him directly.  She was the sort who liked to face people directly and then speak to them rather slowly, as if they were slightly stupid.  No, Charlie did not like Frances McGill.

“I made sure everything in his office ran smoothly.  I managed his calendar, ensured that he and his staff had everything they needed to do their jobs, supervised staff such as his receptionist and cleaning crew, paid the office bills.  That sort of thing.”

Hanrahan introduced the final member of the party: Kenneth Farragut, the former confidential secretary who had offered his seat to Mrs. Bellamy.  Farragut was the opposite in personality of his successor, and was slender bordering on skinny but about the same height.

“This is Kenneth Farragut, Mr. Bellamy’s confidential secretary prior to Mr. Reardon.”  Farragut nodded but said nothing.  Hollis took over.

“Why don’t you start with him, Hanrahan?  You can ask him why Uncle Linc fired him.  He knew you were up to no good.”

It sounded like Hollis said he, Hanrahan, was up to no good, but seemingly he meant Farragut.  “We can start there as well as anywhere.  If we may, Mr. Farragut.  Would you mind telling us why you left your position?  Were you indeed fired?”

Farragut, who fervently wished Hanrahan had started anywhere else, spoke, his voice cracking slightly as he began.

“Yes, Mr. Bellamy fired me.  I should say that I was unfairly dismissed.  Mr. Bellamy for some reason thought I had been stealing from the company, but I hadn’t.  I hadn’t!”  Farragut’s face became a little redder, but he was gaining in confidence as he went on.  “He called me last night and asked me to come over, said he had something important to discuss with me.  I told him no, that I had said everything I had to say to him before I left and he hadn’t listened to me, so why should I listen to him now, and he said to please come anyway, that he knew he was wrong and he was sorry and he would make it up to me, he was going to find a new position for me at the company, a better position he said, so would I please come.”  He stopped and took in air.  “So that’s why I was here last night.”

Hanrahan was great; you never would have known this was the first he had heard of the disgruntled ex-employee’s presence at the scene of the crime.  He pretended to consult his notes.

“Let me see... you arrived at what time?”

“About half past ten.  He let me in himself.  We went directly to his office.”

“And what did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything he hadn’t said on the phone.  He just said again, he had had some facts wrong.  Said he had been misled.  He felt terrible about what had happened to me, and he knew it was hard for me to get another job what with times being so hard and not having a reference from Bellamy Industries, and he felt just terrible.  He said he was going to pay me for the six months I had been gone, and he gave me a check right on the spot.  Then he said that I could consider myself an employee of Bellamy Industries, and that he would find a position for me, and that he promised it would not be a step down.”  Farragut must have said everything he knew, because he relaxed all at once.

Frances McGill snorted.

“He didn’t say anything to me about rehiring Mr. Farragut.  Nor, for that matter, about having made a mistake in firing him.  He expressed nothing of the kind.”

“That’s right!” Hollis agreed enthusiastically.  “He hadn’t even mentioned Farragut in weeks.  Months, maybe.  A very long time.  I’m sure Farragut is making this up.”

Farragut seemed to have regained his composure.  “I’m sick and tired of being called a liar in this house.  I am not a liar, and I am certainly not a thief, and I will not put up with being called either.”
Gladiola, who had been called much worse, chimed in, in her most gracious and ladylike purr.  “We appreciate your being so candid, Mr. Farragut, and I think I can assure you that no one will call you anything like that again.”

“Certainly not, Kenneth,” added Mrs. Bellamy.  “Inspector, I can verify that my husband had come to doubt his information about Mr. Farragut.”

“Can you tell us anything more?”

“Unfortunately not.  Lincoln generally kept business matters out of our private life.  But the other night we were having dinner and he seemed distracted.  I asked him what was wrong, and he said, ‘I may have been wrong about Farragut,’ but he said it like he was in another world, and when I asked him to explain he snapped out of it and told me not to worry about it, that he was going to fix it.  I was glad because I always liked Kenneth.  No offense, Clive.”

“None taken!” exclaimed Reardon.

“Which night was this?” asked Bunco.

“Night before last. Monday night.”

Miss McGill sniffed.  “Well, as I said, he said nothing to me, and I write all the checks for the office.  So if he had wanted to give him a check he would have spoken to me about it.”

“That’s right,” said Hollis.  “We have only his word for any of this.”

“Maybe not,” Bunco suggested.  “Mr. Farragut, do you have the check?”

Farragut’s face brightened.

“Yes! I have it right here.”  He pulled a small leather book from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“He just happens to have it right here,” said Hollis snidely.

“I was going to go to the bank and deposit it this morning, but then the news came over the radio, and I didn’t even think about it.  I called the house and spoke with Stephens, the butler, and he told me what was going on.  Then later I spoke with you, Inspector, and you told me to come at this time.  That’s all.”  He shot a sideways glance at Hollis, who was still trying to find a way to turn this into something.  Hanrahan wasn’t buying anything Hollis wanted to sell.

He studied the check.  “Looks jake to me.  Mrs. Bellamy, is this your husband’s handwriting?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Miss McGill, does this look like one of the office checks?  And does that appear to be Mr. Bellamy’s handwriting?”

“I think so,” she replied.  “I knew nothing about this.”

“So you’ve said,” agreed Bunco.  “Mr. Bellamy, would you say this is your uncle’s handwriting?”

“It could be, but he could forge it.  That is to say, he could have forged it.  He worked closely with my uncle, in his office, with a lot of writing and so forth, and he could have learned his handwriting and forged it.”
Hanrahan turned to Farragut.  “What time did you leave here last night?”

“I was here almost half an hour.  Must have been nearly eleven.”

“Did anyone else see you come or go?”

“Mr. Bellamy let me in himself.  I don’t know where Stephens was.  I didn’t see anyone except Mr. Bellamy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Farragut.”  To the room at large he asked, “Who else was here last night?  Mrs. Bellamy, of course.  Miss Billings?”

“Kip and I went to a show, then we stopped for hot dogs and Cokes at a truck.  Good fun!  We took my car but Kip drove.  We got home about half past twelve.”

“Quarter past twelve.  Then we had some cake that was in the Frigidaire.  I guess I left about an hour later.”
“When the cake was finished,” Charlie suggested.

“That’s silly.  We didn’t finish the cake,” Angela laughed.  Charlie’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.  Gladiola blinked at him, slowly.  “I went up to my room, read for a while, then I went to bed around two.”
“Mr. Bellamy, were you here last night?”

“I’m here almost every night.  My uncle was training me.  I’m going to run Bellamy Industries.  So yes, I was here.  I had dinner with Uncle Linc and Aunt Lorraine, and then I read some paperwork in Uncle Linc’s office.  I left a little after nine, I think.  Do you remember, Aunt Lorraine?”

“I think it was about that time.  I didn’t notice exactly, but about that.”

“Miss McGill?”

“Mr. Bellamy had an office at company headquarters as well as an office here in his home.  I worked most of the time out of the main office, at headquarters, but it was not uncommon for me to work here if Mr. Bellamy was working at home on a given day.  Since he worked at home yesterday, I was here.  I arrived at two o’clock and left at six o’clock.”

“Thank you.  Mr. Reardon, care to tell me where you were?” Bunco wasn’t soft-shoeing around Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky.

Clive Reardon laughed heartily, then remembered himself and turned it into a sort of a cough.  “It’s like with Frances, I worked where he worked!  I would go down to the office with him if he was going there, but yesterday he didn’t.  I was with him most of the morning.  At ten o’clock he told me he had some work to do in private and he wanted me to go out and have a long lunch.  Said I could come back at two, when Frances was coming in.  He didn’t care what I did as long as I left him alone, although of course I’m paraphrasing.  So I grabbed a couple of sandwiches at the drugstore and went to the RKO at 231st Street.  I got back to the house about a quarter to two, met up with Frances, worked until six.  I had dinner here with Mr. and Mrs., and Hollis, and that was that.  I went upstairs and wrote a couple letters and read a book and hit the sack about ten-thirty.  And that was that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reardon.”

The door opened and Starched And Proper appeared in the doorway.

“A call for you, Inspector,” he announced.

Hanrahan excused himself and followed Stephens into the hall, closing the door behind him.

In the inspector’s absence, the others didn’t know how to take Gladiola and Charlie, and chose to remain silent.  Reardon and Kip Kirk found the cookies on the table with the drinks, and each took a cookie.  Kirk took a drink, as well.  Mrs. Bellamy went to the fireplace and pulled a gigantic ribbon.  Gladiola made a mental note to get one of those for the brownstone.  She thought Bolger would get a kick out of it.
A few minutes later Hanrahan returned.  Gladiola handed him a cookie.

“That was—oh, thank you—that was the medical examiner.  I’m sorry to tell you that Mr. Bellamy was indeed murdered.”

Angela gasped.  Kip Kirk nearly spilled his drink.  Frances McGill’s face was expressionless.

Hollis jumped out of his chair and pointed at Farragut.  “That’s him, Inspector!  That’s your murderer!  Take him downtown!  He’s your man!”

Charlie was stunned; he had never heard so many clichés in quick succession in real life.  Clive Reardon laughed, unintentionally but genuinely, and was immediately embarrassed.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just that that’s what the guy said in the movie I saw yesterday.”  Everyone stared at him blankly.  “You know.  At the RKO.”  Everyone continued to stare.  “I’m really, really sorry,” he finished lamely.

Hanrahan, to his credit, pretended no one had said anything.

“There will be more questions, but I think we’ve got enough for now.  Sergeant Robbins will get everyone’s information.  Mrs. Bellamy, if you could come with us,” he nodded toward Gladiola and Charlie, “I’d like to have a quick word.  Thank you all.”  He led the other three out into the hallway, then Mrs. Bellamy took over and led them to a smaller room down a little hallway which must have led to the kitchen because they passed a maid pushing a tea cart, apparently in answer to Mrs. Bellamy’s gigantic ribbon.

“We can talk in here,” she explained.  “Now, Inspector, can you tell me how the medical examiner knows he was murdered?”

“I would rather not, Mrs. Bellamy, if you don’t mind.”

“Surely you don’t think I murdered my husband.”

“No, I don’t.  But for the time being I don’t want the others to know, and you might let something slip.  Also,” he added with a little smile, “I’d like to see what these two come up with on their own.”
Mrs. Bellamy didn’t quite understand, but she nodded.

“I would like to take a look at your husband’s office, if I might.”

“I’ll have to get the key.  Stephens has one.”

Gladiola had other ideas.  “I’d like to see his bedroom.  Is there someone who can take me?”

“I could send Stephens with the Inspector, and I could take you.  Would that be all right, Inspector?”

Hanrahan said it would be, and they left to find Stephens, which was never difficult.
Robbins, who had taken notes throughout the interview, already had everyone’s addresses, and phone numbers for those who had one, but he lingered a little after Hanrahan left the room in case anyone said anything interesting; he had a talent for blending into the background and occasionally a suspect, having focused his or her attention on Hanrahan, would simply forget Robbins was there.
Alas, this was not going to happen today.  As soon as the inspector and the others had left, Angela Billings turned immediately to Robbins to offer him a cookie and to assure him that tea would be brought in momentarily.

And so, knowing that he was not going to pick up any morsels of information this afternoon, he thanked her and left.  When Hanrahan and the others emerged from their little room and returned to the front hall they found Robbins waiting for them with a few crumbs on his jacket.

“Oh, good,” said Gladiola, taking out her handkerchief and brushing the crumbs from Robbins’s jacket.  “Sergeant Robbins can come with us.  That way, if I find anything, there will be no question about the legitimacy of the evidence.  You know, seeing as I’m not a police officer.”

Bunco chuckled.  “Yeah, seeing as that.  Good idea.  Robbins, you go with Miss Spring to Mr. Bellamy’s room.  Mrs. Bellamy, please remember you mustn’t touch anything.”  Mrs. Bellamy nodded, and the three of them ascended the stairs.

Some time later Hanrahan and Charlie joined Gladiola in Mr. Bellamy’s room.  Mrs. Bellamy had excused herself and told Gladiola that if she needed her she would be on the balcony.  Gladiola had donned a pair of ladylike white gloves and was just replacing a drinking glass on the nightstand when the others entered.
“Hello, boys.  How’d it go in the office?  Find anything?”

Hanrahan grunted.  “You two have any luck?”

“I think maybe.  First, tell me something.  What makes Weissman think it was murder?  Was it a cosh to the head?”

“How did you know?”

“Come see this.”  Gladiola led them over to a bookcase and lifted a carved wooden duck on a rough-hewn marble stand.  “Now, my personal opinion, I don’t know why marble with a duck.  But look here.”  She pointed to a tiny reddish-brown speck on the bottom edge of the marble, and a single dark hair stuck to the green felt on the bottom.

“Robbins, you were with her the whole time?” Bunco asked the sergeant.

“Yes, sir.”

“Nothing personal, Lola.  Just for evidence, we need to keep track.  For obvious reasons.”

“Of course.  I don’t want to get in the middle of a chain-of-evidence ruckus any more than you want me to.  For reasons less obvious.”

“Because this is probably the murder weapon.”

“So I surmise.”

“Then why is it up here?” asked Charlie.  “I wonder if this is where his shoes are.”

Robbins wanted to be helpful.  “His dressing room is here.  He has lots of shoes.  Had.  Wanna see?”

Charlie followed Robbins to the dressing room.  A chair was placed at an angle facing the door.  A cabinet that held shelves top to bottom sat open; there were easily twenty or thirty pairs of shoes.  The bottom shelf held four pairs of slippers, all of them black.

“Nice slippers,” Charlie said, possibly sarcastically.  “Who buys all those slippers just alike?  You’re right about this guy, Lola.”

Gladiola and Hanrahan had come up behind them.

“Slippers,” Gladiola said softly.  “Why didn’t I think of slippers?”

“There were no slippers anywhere near the pool.  The boys would have found them,” observed Bunco.  “That’s right, isn’t it, Robbins?”

“Yes, sir.  No slippers anywhere near the pool.  Not even in the pool house.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.  No slippers anywhere but here, where they belong when they’re not on Bellamy’s feet.  And the position of the chair.”  Gladiola, deep in thought, sat on the chair.  She looked up toward the door at Robbins, and smiled.  Robbins smiled back.

“Bunco, may I see the pool?”

“Sure.  Robbins, wrap up that duck, and put someone on the door.  I don’t want anyone in this room.”
Gladiola stopped to see Mrs. Bellamy for a moment on the way downstairs, then joined Bunco and Charlie in the front hall.  She didn’t speak as they walked to the pool, and continued in silence as, once there, she wandered about the side of the pool looking downward in all directions.
“Do you want to tell us what you’re onto?” asked Charlie.  She shook her head.

Still wearing her neat, white gloves, she walked over to a stone wall that separated the sunbathing area from the barbecue area, about twelve feet from the edge of the pool.  She stood a few feet back from it and examined it closely.  Presently she approached the wall and began poking at a stone here and there, until finally she exclaimed, “Ah!”  One of the stones was loose.

From her purse she took a pocketknife and wiggled it in around the stone, which she was eventually able to pry loose.  Behind the stone were two pieces of paper.

And so it was mere hours after their first meeting with the suspects in the Bellamy parlor that Hanrahan called the group together again.  After dinner that very evening, Stephens was pouring drinks for the assembly, who sat pretty much in the same places as they had sat earlier.  This time, however, Robbins sat closer to the others, and two other uniformed officers had joined the party.

Gladiola, Charlie, and Hanrahan elected to skip dinner at the Bellamy house, although Mrs. Bellamy had invited them, and stopped at a drugstore on Broadway and 231st for sandwiches.
When the three entered the parlor with the officers, it was no surprise that the first to speak was Hollis Bellamy.

“Well, Inspector, that didn’t take too long!  I suppose you’re ready to tell us who did what!  And when!  And with whom!  And all that.”

Bunco looked at him, then blinked and pretended Hollis hadn’t said anything.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said.

“Can you tell us what happened?  How did my uncle die?  And who killed him?” Angela was an inquisitive little thing when you got her going.

“I’ll start by telling you all how we knew this was a murder.  The medical examiner discovered that Bellamy had been hit over the head.  He drowned because he was unconscious and face down in the water.”
Angela gasped.  Frances McGill glared at her but didn’t say anything.  Kenneth Farragut coughed.

“That’s absurd,” announced Hollis.  “That wouldn’t mean he was murdered.  He might have just hit his head and fallen into the pool.  Couldn’t that have happened?”

“It could have, but it didn’t.  There is no evidence that he hit his head near the pool.  Besides, he was found fully dressed, with socks and tie, but with no shoes or jacket.”

Clive Reardon laughed uncomfortably.  “Well, he, after all, he lived here.  He might be without a jacket.”
Mrs. Bellamy shook her head.  “But not without shoes.  He would have worn something on his feet.  It wasn’t like he was going for a swim.  He wasn’t in his swim trunks, and anyway he wouldn’t have gone swimming after dinner.”

Hanrahan turned his back to the others and his attention to a paper bag on the desk.  From the bag he removed the duck.  He turned back to his audience.

“Mr. Bellamy was hit over the back of the head with this.”  Again Angela gasped.  “I’m going to let Miss Spring handle the explanations from here, as she was the one who put the pieces of the puzzle together.”  With that he sat beside Robbins, where he could see everyone in the room except for Charlie, who was sitting near a plate of crackers and cheese.

Over sandwiches they had agreed that Gladiola would take it from this point: first of all, she was good at putting on a show; second, she appeared harmless; and third, this would allow Hanrahan to observe the group without them paying attention to him.

“As the inspector said, we were all very interested in the fact that Mr. Bellamy was wearing no shoes.  I knew Mr. Bellamy, not as well as most of you but I did know him—”
“They served on the board of the Opera together.”

“Thank you,” she said, shooting Charlie a look that she hoped would stave off any further interruption.  Hollis was enough to deal with.

“I thought it was the Museum,” said Mrs. Bellamy.

“My impression of Mr. Bellamy was that he was not a man to walk about in his stocking feet, not even in his own home.  Such a man would not own four pairs of slippers.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, so what?” demanded Hollis.  Gladiola ignored him.

“Moreover, he was not a man to go for a late-night swim.  Mrs. Bellamy has confirmed my opinion.  So the question that we found most interesting was, why was he wearing socks but no shoes?”  She was going to pause for effect but was sure Hollis would not understand that this was a rhetorical question.  “He was changing his clothes.  He was getting ready for bed when he was interrupted by the murderer, before he was able to put on his slippers.”

“But that’s ridic—”

Gladiola ignored Hollis and carried on.

“What got me thinking was that the chair in his dressing room, where he undoubtedly sat to remove his shoes and, so he planned, put on his slippers, was facing toward the door, not away from it.  He would have seen anyone entering the room and if it were someone who didn’t belong there, or someone he didn’t want to see, he would have gotten up, moved, something.  He wouldn’t have sat there and waited for someone who shouldn’t be there to walk behind him carrying a chunk of marble.  Granted, the killer may have hidden the duck behind his or her back.  Even so.

“So who could have entered Mr. Bellamy’s dressing room without inciting him to stand up?  Certainly a family member could have had reason to go in to speak to him.  Even Angela, who I’m sure didn’t make a habit of visiting her uncle while he was dressing, could have come up with some excuse.  Niece’s boyfriend?  Not likely, but possible, particularly if he was often at the house.  ‘Office administrator’?  Possibly.  Confidential secretary?  As the name would imply he was likely all over this house, and would have been very likely to speak with Mr. Bellamy in all sorts of situations, so it’s possible.  It seems to me the person most unlikely to be accepted in that room last night would be the former confidential secretary.  Who invites a person they’ve fired into their personal rooms?  Even if Bellamy’s interview with Mr. Farragut went exactly as Mr. Farragut described that would be odd.  We can rule out Mr. Farragut.”

Hollis was irritated. “Really, on what authority—”

“Hollis, be quiet.  You’re getting on everyone’s nerves.”  Mrs. Bellamy spoke patiently.  Hollis looked at everyone in the room, and they looked back at him in silent agreement.

Gladiola continued.  “Which brings us to Clive Reardon.”

Clive Reardon wasn’t laughing, not even uncomfortably.  He was petrified.  “But I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t kill him!  I couldn’t have!”

 “I’m inclined to think you could have, but I’m sure you didn’t,” announced Gladiola.  “Farragut said Bellamy was going to find another position for him.  He didn’t say Farragut could have his old job back.  That’s according to Farragut, but if he were lying why not say Bellamy had promised him his old job?  Why another job?  Why would he even think of that?  I think he’s telling the truth, and if that’s the case then you, Mr. Reardon, would have no motive.  Your job wasn’t in danger.”

Reardon laughed again, and exclaimed, “She’s right, by gum! I have no motive!”

Gladiola looked at Frances McGill.

“Why did you tell Mrs. Bellamy you were having an affair with her husband?”

Miss McGill was, possibly for the first time in her life, stunned.  Angela gasped.

“I—I said nothing of the kind.  I never told Mrs. Bellamy anything of the kind.”

“You led her to believe it.”

“I...” her voice trailed off.

“I should make perfectly clear that Mr. Bellamy was not having an affair with Miss McGill nor with anyone else.  But I suspect that you wanted Mrs. Bellamy to keep her distance from the office.  As opportunities arose I believe you dropped little hints, probably over the course of many months.

“I asked myself why you would do this.  I realized also that Mr. Farragut’s dismissal, and the fact that you did not know about the check Mr. Bellamy wrote to him last evening, were the key to everything.”  Gladiola took a chair opposite Frances McGill and looked her in the eye.  “Were you aware that two pages of Mr. Bellamy’s office ledger were missing?”

“Of course I was.  I handle the books.  Mr. Bellamy—we had discussed it.  Mr. Farragut had been dismissed because Mr. Bellamy suspected he had been stealing.  I assumed Mr. Bellamy had taken the pages to reconcile some figures.”

She was quick on her feet.  Not as quick as Gladiola, but perhaps her breeding lacked.  At any rate she was backing into a corner and didn’t know it.  Charlie helped himself to another cracker.

“We found the pages.”  Miss McGill’s jaw dropped.  Charlie thought this was the best cracker and cheese he had ever had.  Gladiola waited for Angela to gasp but she didn’t.

“Well, that’s excellent!  If you give them to me I will return them to the ledger.  With Mr. Bellamy gone the books will have to be reconciled...” her voice trailed off.

“It was you.  You’re the one who was stealing from the office accounts.  Of course it had to be.  It was easy for you.  It was a little tricky once Farragut was fired, because what was Bellamy going to think, that another confidential secretary was a crook?  But you gave it a shot.  You thought you could stay a step ahead of him, but it didn’t work out that way.

“Yesterday afternoon you discovered he had taken the pages from the ledger.  You looked for them, but couldn’t find them.  But you couldn’t let Mr. Bellamy know you knew he was onto you.  You either hid somewhere here, where the servants wouldn’t see you, or else you came back.  You have a key to the house, don’t you, Miss McGill?”  Gladiola didn’t wait for her to answer.

“You probably scoured the office, but you found nothing.  Could it be in his bedroom?  Of course!  That was the only place.  So you went up there where, contrary to Mrs. Bellamy’s understanding, you had little knowledge of the layout or of Mr. Bellamy’s habits.  You probably looked everywhere: drawers, under the bed, inside the books on the bookcase.  I’ll bet that’s where you were when he came back upstairs to change for bed.  It was getting late, and he had just met with Mr. Farragut.  There was no way for you to get out of the room.  Your only hope was that he hadn’t already told someone.

“He went into his dressing room, he took off his jacket, he sat on the chair.  He saw you and said, I don’t know, something like, ‘Good evening, Frances, I thought you had gone home,’ but he wasn’t afraid of you.  Maybe he had no intention of turning you in but was just going to let you go discreetly, who knows... but you walked toward him, and when he bent over to take off his shoes you hit him with the duck.”

Miss McGill laughed.  “Then I threw his unconscious body over my shoulder and carried him down the stairs to the pool without anyone seeing or hearing me.  Really, look at me!  Do you think I could have done that?”
“You didn’t carry him down the stairs,” Gladiola said.  “You left him right where he was.  You thought he was already dead.   But he wasn’t; he was only unconscious.  Some time later he came to, and—it probably took him a little while—he pieced together what had happened.  He wasn’t thinking clearly.  He went downstairs on his own power, and went out to the pool yard.  He had a nice little spot out there where he could hide things, and that was where he had hidden the ledger pages.  Mrs. Bellamy confirmed that just a few weeks ago he had a mason in to do something out by the pool, but Mr. Bellamy was cagey as to what was being done, and she was unaware of any need for repairs.  It occurred to me that perhaps he wasn’t having something fixed, but in fact was having something… broken.  We found a loose stone in the wall near the pool, and that’s where he had hidden the papers.  If he had called the police as soon as he regained consciousness he might still be alive.  But he didn’t, and at some point on his way to get the pages he fell into the pool, where he drowned.  Perhaps, being loopy, he slipped, or he lost consciousness again, or he suffered a stroke induced by his injury.  The final post mortem results may tell us exactly what happened, but from the law’s point of view it doesn’t matter.  From the law’s point of view, you murdered him.”

“This is slanderous.  You—”

“Why did you say the radio didn’t say he had drowned?  We heard the radio reports.  You didn’t hear anything on the radio.  You came here to see what you could find out.  The driveway was full of police cars, and the servants told you that there was an investigation, but no one mentioned that he had drowned.  So you didn’t know he had drowned.  You thought he had died up in his room.”

“This is all absurd.  You can’t prove any of this.  You can’t prove it because it’s not true.”

“I think that once Inspector Hanrahan’s boys who specialize in bookkeeping get their hands on the rest of this ledger, and your personal accounts, they will be able to turn up some proof.  You’re an amateur.”

“Amateur!  How dare you!”  She sprang out of her chair and tried to grab Gladiola by the throat, but Gladiola did a fancy weaving move with her arms with the end result of holding Miss McGill’s arms neatly folded behind her back.

“Amateur.  Don’t protest; you’ll need that for your defense.”

At eleven o’clock they were back in the kitchen at Gladiola’s brownstone, with Bunco and Sergeant Robbins, having tea and cake.  Bolger had greeted them at the door with the news that Daisy Holiday had indeed called but said nothing about birds, only that the weather was fine, which was good news for Gladiola; that he had brought in a cake, which was good news for Charlie; and that Peppy Greenberg would meet Gladiola any day that was convenient as long as Gladiola told her the entire story in explicit detail and also picked up the tab.

“Well,” sighed Bunco, in a satisfied tone, leaning back in his chair after his second slice of cake, “I wish I could say that I’m looking forward to working with you both again—”

“You’re not looking forward to working with us?” Gladiola asked innocently.

“No, that’s not what I mean,” Bunco said uncomfortably.  “I don’t know if we’ll be able... you know... the department.  I’m not sure that the higher-ups will want to have, you know, you two involved in investigations.  On a regular basis.  So to speak.”

“We’ll see what the future holds,” Gladiola said.  “By the way, did I mention I’m having lunch with Mrs. Bellamy tomorrow?  I wonder how her friend the mayor is.”