“No takers, Jeff. You’re too often right.”
Wendell Bogart did not look up when the butler showed them into the library. He was examining six gayly feathered darts spread out on the desk before him. He gathered them into his hands, turned in his chair and smiled at the thin, bespectacled young man standing beside him. Effortlessly, one of the darts flew from his hand and thudded into a target across the room. The other five followed in rapid succession.
Jeff’s eyes widened when the darts came to rest. One, double one, triple one. Two, double two, triple two.
“I wouldn’t want to play you for more than a beer,” Jeff said.
Wendell Bogart didn’t answer. The studious-looking young man beside him smiled, nodded to Jeff and left the room. Bogart spun in his chair, raising his dark-brown eyes to meet Jeff’s level gray ones. For a moment, neither spoke, each studying, measuring the other. It was the older man who broke the silence.
“My only niece, Pamela Bogart, must not die.”
The words, spoken flatly and matter-of-factly, startled the visitors.
Jeff looked narrowly at the man. “Why? What’s the story?”
“Story?” Bogart rose to his feet, shook his shaggy white head and glared at Jeff. “Surely, you must have heard of the tragic death, last June, of Pamela’s sister, Corinne?”
“No, I didn’t. I was in China at the time. I’ve been home less than a week. What happened to Corinne?”
“Corinne was shot through the heart.”
“I’m sorry, Mr Bogart” – Jeff rose to his feet – “this is out of my line. If Miss Bogart were being held for ransom by Mexican bandits, or Argentine insurrectionists, I might be able to do something. Murder, per se, is police business and I leave it to them. Come along, Smitty.”
“Wait!” Bogart slapped the desk top. “Wait until you hear what I have to say.”
“There is nothing—”
“Corinne was shot with a silver bullet, in the close company of seven friends and relatives. The case has never been solved. The only clue is the bullet that killed her.”
Jefferson Hunter sat down again. He nodded to Smitty, who flipped open his notebook on the corner of the desk.
“Mr Bogart,” Jeff spoke slowly, “why are you apprehensive about Pamela? Skip the details about Corinne.”
Bogart sank back in his chair and looked questioningly at the younger man. He opened a mahogany humidor, extracted a cigar and jammed it into his mouth. He glanced annoyedly at Smitty and dropped the cigar back in the humidor. Reaching into the ash tray, he picked up a large butt and clamped it between his teeth.
Jeff rose, flipped his lighter and held its flame to the end of the cigar.
“Pamela” – Bogart drew contentedly – “is about to announce her engagement. It is customary in our family for the oldest member to give the dinner at which an engagement is to be announced. It doesn’t mean much any more. The family is reduced to Pam and me. However, she has set her heart on following the tradition.”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“Because, at a similar dinner I gave for Corinne and Professor Collins last year, Corinne died. I don’t want to risk a repetition of that. Incidentally, that was Professor Michael Collins, the seismologist, who just left.”
“Why should there be a repetition?”
“No reason at all, except that Corinne’s death has never been cleared up.”
“What do you expect me to do? Clear it up?”
“No. I just want you to see that murder doesn’t happen again. Pam is obstinate and insists that I have the dinner. She is very headstrong, very willful. Er . . . I believe, Hunter, that you are acquainted with Pam?”
“I— Yes, I’ve met her. When do you plan to have the dinner, Mr Bogart?”
“Tonight”
“That doesn’t give me much time to take precautionary steps.”
Jeff stooped over and picked up the slip of paper that had fluttered to the floor from Smitty’s notebook. He glanced at the hurriedly scrawled message advising him not to get involved, and handed the sheet back to his assistant.
“Mr Bogart” – Jeff smiled at the older man – “I’m afraid I can’t handle this. It’s entirely out of my line. I suggest the police. I’m sure—”
“Humph! Pamela said you wouldn’t be interested unless there was a whopping big fee in it.”
“Did she say that?” Jeff’s cheeks burned.
“Yes.”
“Then count me in. I’ll be here for dinner tonight.” He rose to his feet.
“Eh? Here for dinner! That will never do, young man. The guests are all my friends. I . . . er . . . couldn’t ask them to mingle socially with an . . . er – employee!”
Chairs scraped backward. Smitty snapped shut his notebook and collided with Jeff in the library doorway.
“Wait! Just a minute!” Wendell Bogart’s voice sounded behind them.
The big house rumbled from the slamming of the heavy front door.
“Why did you lay yourself open, Jeff? I told you to turn it down cold.”
“Shut up!” Jeff snapped, and concentrated on his driving.
Smitty was not so easily squelched. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Jeff’s flaming cheeks and clamped jaw. Smitty grinned and cleared his throat.
“I say, Jeff,” he drawled, “I . . . er . . . can’t have my employer driving me around like this. It just isn’t being done, old man. Suppose some of the boys down at the local saw me. I’d lose face—”
Jeff Hunter’s big foot stamped down on the brake. The sudden stop lifted the light Smitty from his seat. Jeff snapped open the door and rolled the astonished little man into the bushes by the roadside. He slammed the door, dropped the car in gear and headed for town.
A mile farther on, his irritation evaporated, and remorse set in. He grinned, swung the car in a sharp U-turn, and headed back to the spot where he had left Smitty. His assistant was nowhere to be seen.
A worried frown furrowed his forehead. He U-turned again, drove back into town, and parked in the restricted space before police headquarters. Running lightly up the steps, he whirled through the revolving doors and barged into the office of the chief of detectives.
Chief William Gaines was lifting the telephone to put through a call. He recradled the instrument and smiled at the intruder.
“Bill” – Jeff shook his friend’s hand – “I hate to remind pals of past favors, but—”
“OK, Jeff.” The chief grinned wryly. “I expected it when you tipped me off on those missing bonds. What do you want? You’re not usually bashful.”
“What’s the story on the Corinne Bogart killing? I wasn’t around when it happened. I know Pamela, and I’ve just met her uncle, Wendell—”
The chief grimaced in distaste. “The boss has an exaggerated view of his importance in the scheme of things. Did he tell you to use the tradesmen’s entrance?”
“Not this time, but he left no doubt that we were to use it if we called again.” Briefly, Jeff outlined the events of the morning.
“Off the record,” the chief said, “it would be a blessing to the community if Pamela were bumped. She is one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen, but strictly N.G.”
“Didn’t I say I knew her?” Jeff reminded him. “The old man said the police had no idea who had killed Corinne. Is it the other way around? Are there so many suspects—”
“Oh, no. It’s not like that at all. Corinne really was different. She wasn’t a bit like Pamela. The old man was telling the truth there. She was one swell person, so far as we’ve discovered.”
“Then what happened to her?”
“She died at her own engagement party. Her coming marriage to Professor Collins was announced at dinner. The party then retired to the back terrace, just off the living room, for highballs. They were talking idly. Mike, probably dreaming of earthquakes, was twisting the dials of a portable radio. Accidentally, he shot up the volume and a swing band blared out. Everybody sort of jumped at the sudden noise.”