“Look here,” Kimberly protested. “You can’t do that. It may be evidence.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know. I only know you can’t do that.”
“I’ve already done it.”
“But — look here, let’s call a doctor and — we don’t need to wait. Let the doctor do whatever’s necessary.”
Peggy said, “It’s a job for the police. Do you notice that froth on her lips? And there’s ail odor that I have been trying to place. Now I know what it is.”
“What do you mean, an odor?”
“Bitter almonds. That means cyanide. So does the color of the skin.”
He looked at her dubiously. “You seem to know a lot about — suicides.”
“I do,” Peggy said. “I’ve done newspaper work. Now, since we’re already in it this deep, let’s take a look around.”
“What for?”
“To protect ourselves. Let’s make certain there are no more corpses, for one thing.”
She moved swiftly about the apartment, her quick eyes drinking in details.
“If this is suicide, what you’re doing is probably highly illegal,” he said.
“And if it’s murder?”
“Then it’s doubly illegal.”
She said nothing, moving quietly around the rooms. Her gloved hands occasionally touched some object with the greatest care, but for the most part her hands were at her sides.
There was an odor of raw whiskey about the place, perhaps from the spilled drink in the kitchen. However, this odor was stronger in the bathroom.
Peggy dropped to her knees on the tiled floor, picked up a small sliver of glass, then another. She let both slivers drop back to the tiles.
In the bedroom, the dress Stella was to have worn was spread out on the bed. The plunging neckline seemed to go nearly to the waist.
Kimberly, looking at the V-shaped opening in the front of the dress, gave a low whistle. “Peggy,” he said at length, using her first name easily and naturally, “this is going to make a stink. If it should be murder — I don’t see how it could be, and yet that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Suppose it’s suicide?” she asked.
“Then there wouldn’t be too much to it — just a few lines on page two, or perhaps a write-up in the second section. And Old E. B. hates bad publicity.”
“Are you telling me?”
“Well, then,” he said, “do you think we really have to notify the police? Can't we just call a doctor and leave?”
“Do you want to be Suspect Number One in a murder case?” she asked.
“Heavens, no!”
“You’re filing nomination papers right now with that sort of talk. There’s the phone. Call the police.”
He hesitated. “I’d like to keep us out of it altogether. Since she’s dead there’s nothing we can do—”
Peggy walked to the phone, dialed the operator, asked for police headquarters, and almost immediately heard a booming masculine voice answer the phone.
Peggy said, “My name is Castle. I wish to report a death. We just found a body under very odd circumstances and—”
“Where are you?”
Peggy gave the address.
“Wait there,” the voice said. “Don’t touch anything. Be on the lookout for a squad car. I’ll get in touch with the dispatcher.”
The two officers were very considerate. They listened to the sketchy story Kimberly told, the story that very carefully left out all reference to Peggy’s suspicion of poison, and recounted barely the facts that Stella Lynn was a “friend of theirs,” that they had called on her at her apartment, had found the door open, walked in, and discovered her body on the floor; they didn’t know exactly what the proper procedure was under the circumstances, but felt they should notify the police.
The police looked around a bit, nodded sagely, and then one of them called the coroner.
Peggy ventured with some hesitation, “Are you — have you any ideas of what caused death?”
“You thinking of suicide?”
She hesitated. “I can’t help wondering whether it might have been her heart.”
“Had she been despondent or anything?”
“I didn’t know her that well,” Peggy said, “but I gather she had rather a happy disposition. But — well, notice the foam on the lips, the peculiar color of her skin—”
The officer shrugged. “We aren’t thinking, not right now. We’re following rules and taking statements.”
There followed an interval of waiting. Men came and went, and eventually the Homicide Squad arrived with a photographer to take pictures of the body, and a detective to question Peggy and Kimberly in detail.
Kimberly told his story first. Since it did not occur to anyone to examine them separately, Peggy, after hearing Don’s highly generalized version of the evening’s activities, confined herself to the bare essentials. The officer seemed to take it for granted that she had been Don Kimberly’s date, and that following dinner they had dropped in at Stella Lynn’s apartment simply because they were friends and because Stella Lynn worked in the same office.
Don Kimberly drove her home. Peggy hoped he would open up with some additional explanation, but he was completely preoccupied with his thoughts and the problem of driving through the evening traffic, so it became necessary for Peggy to bring up the subject.
“You told your story first,” she said, “so I had to back your play, but I think we’ve carried it far enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police assumed I was your date for the evening.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? We can’t help what they assume.”
“Then I’ll draw you a diagram,” Peggy said impatiently. “/ think Stella Lynn was murdered. I think it was carefully planned, cold-blooded, deliberate murder, cunningly conceived and ruthlessly carried out. I think the police are going to investigate enough to find that out. Then they’re going to ask you to tell your story in greater detail.”
He slowed the car until it was barely crawling. “All right,” he said, “what’s wrong with my story? You and I were at the Royal Pheasant. We got to talking about Stella Lynn. We decided to run and see her. We—”
“Everything is wrong with that story,” she interrupted. “In the first place, someone knew you were going to the Royal Pheasant to meet Stella. That someone sent me an anonymous letter. Moreover, if the police check with the headwaiter, they’ll learn that I came in alone, using my press card, and that you came in later.”
Abruptly he swung the car to the curb and shut off the motor.
"What time did you get that anonymous letter?”
“In the afternoon mail.”
“What became of it?”
“I tore it into small bits and dumped it into the wastebasket.”
He said, “Stella didn’t work today. She rang up and told the personnel manager she wouldn’t be at the office. About ten thirty she rang me up and asked me what, our policy would be on paying out a reward for the recovery of all the gems in the Garrison job.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her it made a great deal of difference with whom we were dealing. You know how those things are. It’s our policy never to reward a thief. If we did, we’d be in the position of fencing property that had first been stolen from our own clients. But if a man gives us a legitimate tip and that tip leads to the recovery of insured property, we are, of course, willing to pay, and pay generously.”
“You told her that?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me she thought she had some information on the Garrison case that would interest me. I told her that on a big job like that hundreds of false leads were floating around. She told me that she could show me evidence that would prove she was dealing with people who knew what they were talking about.”