Murder Is Suggested by Frances and Richard Lockridge

“Oh—I get out. Have to keep in practice. Spent all yesterday afternoon trying to get a few more yards into my drives. Up at this club in Connecticut.”
    â€œMust have been nice up there,” Mullins said, although it is not easy for Mullins to believe that the country is ever “nice.” “Weather like this probably brings a lot of golfers out at this club.”
    It was a little clumsy; it didn’t, however, matter too much now.
    â€œNot in midweek,” Finch said. “Not this late in the season. Anyway, you don’t practice driving with a lot of players on the fairway, sergeant. Had it mostly to myself yesterday afternoon. From lunch until pretty near dark.”
    Which covered that—and covered it pretty thinly.
    Mullins left, then. Mr. Finch’s morning newspaper was outside his apartment door, as it had been when Mullins arrived. This time, Sergeant Mullins picked it up. It was folded several times. One fold cut through a headline. What was visible read:
    KMAN
    ESSOR
    SLAIN
    Mullins said, “Oh, here’s your paper,” and handed it in, and Rosco Finch took it and said, “Thanks.”
    So—if Flinch didn’t know already that Jameson Elwell had been shot to death, he would in a few minutes. If he didn’t know already. And he would put two and two together, undoubtedly, since he seemed a bright enough young man.
    Mullins called the office. Weigand wasn’t in; Stein was still anchor man.
    â€œBill wants you to check out on young Hunter, Al,” Stein said. “After that, meet him for lunch. He’s gone up to Dyckman to talk to a professor named Wahmsley. Meet him for lunch at the Algonquin about one. Check?”
    â€œSure,” Mullins said.
    â€œWith Mr. and Mrs. North,” Stein said.
    â€œOh,” Mullins said. “Does Arty know?”
    â€œNot from me,” Stein said. “We can hope and pray, Al.”

6
    Martini, sitting on the window sill, turned her head when Pam came into the bedroom and said, “Ouoowagh,” accenting the last syllable. She also laid back her brown and pointed ears. She had been looking down at the sunny street, too far below, so her blue eyes were almost black.
    â€œNo,” Pam said, “you can’t go out, Teeney. Not until we go back to the country next spring. But I do think you’re speaking much more clearly than you used to. ‘Out,’ Teeney. Say ‘Ouoot.’ Without the ‘wagh.’”
    â€œMroough-a,” Martini said, relapsing into her native Siamese. “Ow- ah .”
    â€œI don’t know, I’m sure,” Pam said. “There’s no use being so gruff about it. You know you can’t go out in New York, and there aren’t any mice here anyway. I mean—there are probably a great many mice, but they aren’t available. Nice Teeney.”
    Teeney closed her eyes, as if in thought, opened them part way—partly opened they slanted sharply upward—and made a remark and waited.
    â€œDuh baby,” Pam North said. “Duh pretty baby.”
    Martini blinked again, slowly, basking in human speech, in affection. She did, however, look back over her shoulder at the window. She spoke briefly.
    â€œI know,” Pam said. “It’s very limiting to be an apartment house cat again.” Martini interrupted. “Cat,” Pam repeated, because Martini likes to be reassured by direct address, and “cat” does as well, or almost as well, as “Teeney.” “Particularly for a cat of your vigor. Duh baby. And who doesn’t have the dissatisfaction of knowing how old she is. Which must be a pleasant way to be.”
    â€œMrow-ow,” Martini said, the last syllable added very quickly. She got off the window sill and came to Pam and rubbed against her legs, revolving around them, dark brown tail carried high.
    â€œGoodness,” Pam said. “I can’t stand around talking to