“Then?”
“They sank back in their chairs, everyone but Corinne. She pitched forward to the terrace floor, shot through the heart by a silver bullet. The gun was never found, nor was a motive discovered. That is the official story.”
“Humph!” Jeff leaned back in his chair. “I can imagine how the newspapers kicked that one around. ‘What are the police doing? Is Corinne Bogart a vampire?’ I can just see the headlines. I bet they gave the silver bullet a big play.”
“That’s right. It was pretty grim. None of the papers went so far as to mention the word ‘vampire’, but it was broadly hinted. Remember that Bogart, though he is out of step with the times, is still a very influential person. Very influential! We put the best detectives in the country on the case. The investigation was a blank.”
“Now” – Jeff grinned – “give me the low-down. Was the shot fired when the volume rose? How close was the killer? Who had the opportunity? Who gains?”
“Whoa, Jeff! Whoa!” Chief Gaines held up his hand “We don’t know definitely when the shot was fired. We don’t know how close the killer was. As for opportunity, anyone there could have done it. It could even have been suicide, if the gun was taken from her hand before she fell. It’s possible, but highly improbable. As for who gains, her money was divided equally between Pamela and her uncle.”
“Something’s rotten.” Jeff glared at the chief.
“All right, Jeff, ask questions. I’ll answer those I can.”
“Why wasn’t the shot heard?”
“Because it was fired from one of those clever, powerful little air pistols. A scrape of a chair, anything, would have covered the small pop the gun made. The radio could have done it.”
“You sure it was an air pistol?”
“No question about it. We learned that from the bullet. The mark of the lands, absence of powder, smallness of caliber – All those things confirmed beyond doubt that it was fired from an air pistol.”
“What about the bullet itself, Chief?”
“Ah-h-h! The bullet was a long, pointed silver one, handmade.”
“Why handmade? Why silver?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Probably a bit of sand-in-the-eye technique on the part of the murderer. So far as we know, the supernatural didn’t enter into the case, except to cloud the main issues and cause us to waste a lot of time. We searched everywhere for that gun. We fine-combed the house and grounds. We tried to trace it through dealers.”
“Could an outsider have killed her?”
“No. There’s a ten-foot wall around the back garden. There had been a shower at sunset and there were no footprints inside or outside the wall. The servants are in the clear, too. They were all in the kitchen together. Besides having alibis, they lack motive.”
“Who served the drinks?” Jeff demanded.
“Don’t think we overlooked that bet. We’re not exactly dumb.” The chief grinned. “The first round was served by the butler as soon as the party went out to the terrace. Wendell Bogart served the second, mixing them at a portable bar in the living room. The third round had not been served. Pamela was standing in the doorway with the tray in her hands when her sister slumped forward. Everyone else was on the terrace within ten feet of her.”
“Could” – Jeff fixed his eyes on the chief – “could Pamela have fired that shot before she stepped into the doorway with the tray of drinks?”
“Now, Jeff, you’re getting on dangerous ground. I’m going to tell you one more thing, then this conference ends. And, for cripes sake, keep it under your hat!”
“I promise. Shoot!”
“Pamela could have fired the gun if her sister happened to turn toward the room where she was, and if she was shot at least five seconds before she pitched forward. If Pamela wasn’t a Bogart, we’d have dragged her in and questioned her until we were satisfied she hadn’t done it. The consensus of the experts is that there is not enough evidence to warrant indicting her, much less making her stand trial. Now, beat it, Jeff, and take your grinning watchdog with you.”
“My watchdog?”
Jeff turned and met the blank stare of his assistant. “How did you get here?”
Smitty brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the sleeve of his seersucker suit, and looked dumbfounded at his employer. “Me? How did I get here?”
“You heard me. You didn’t walk back that quick.”
“Hardly. A very charming young lady drove me to town. A very, very charming girl. She was suffering under the misapprehension that you no longer cared for her, Jeff. Of course, I speedily corrected that impression. On the contrary, I assured her that you still cared very much.”
“Smitty” – Jeff grabbed the little man, and his voice grated – “for your sake, I hope that what I’m thinking is true. Who was the charming young lady?”
“Miss Pamela Bogart. What’s the matter, Jeff? She was very happy to learn you still cared for her. So much so that she said to tell you that, under the circumstances, she would not permit her engagement to be announced this evening. You all right, Jeff?”
“Where are we going?” Smitty asked when they were again in the convertible.
“We’re going to call on Pamela Bogart and you’re going to tell her you had some other girl in mind. Understand?”
“Me? Me, a self-confessed liar in the eyes of Pamela Bogart? Oh, no, Jeff!”
“Oh, yes, you are!”
Smitty reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He looked at his watch, noted the time and scribbled it, together with the date, at the top of the page. He handed the folded sheet to Jeff.
“What’s this? Listen, Smitty,” Jeff said, after hurriedly scanning the paper, “you can’t resign! I’ve got your contract. You—”
“There’s nothing in the contract that calls for me to be dumped, out of a moving car.”
“The car wasn’t moving. It had stopped, and you fell out, with more or less urging.”
“Ah-h-h! There is nothing about urging in the contract.”
“OK. You win. I’ll see Pamela myself.”
“She has an apartment in the Normandy.” Smitty grinned at his boss, took back his resignation, erased the date and time, and replaced it in his pocket. “I told her you’d probably come to see her right away. She said she’d be waiting for you. Will you need a bodyguard?”
Jeff didn’t answer. He clamped his jaws, swung his big car into the traffic and pressed down the accelerator. Five minutes later, he parked it before the large apartment hotel.
When a uniformed maid admitted them to Apartment 4C, Smitty was at his heels.
Pamela Bogart laid aside the magazine she was reading, and jumped to her feet, silver bracelets jangling on her arms. Her smile died when she saw the expression on Jeff’s face. A puzzled frown replaced it.
Jeff didn’t speak at first. He studied the diminutive brunette before him. His keen eyes took in her perfect form, the dark curls and wide gray eyes. They lingered on her mouth, beautifully shaped, but with a cruel curve at the corners. “She hasn’t changed a bit,” was his conclusion.
“Hello, Jeff. I was under the impression that you were willing to let bygones be bygones. I understood from Mr Smith—”
“Smitty was sore with me for dumping him out on the road. I’ll never change my opinion of you, Pam. Don’t ever forget it. I only came here to set you straight. You—”
“All right! You’ve had your say. Now, get out.” She walked toward the door.