There was a bright-yellow flash, a sharp explosion.
Jeff looked toward Pamela. The sudden glare had fuzzed his vision. The others on the terrace were staring stupidly at the bubbling fountain. Jeff blinked his eyes and brought Pamela into focus.
Slowly, yet surely, she was sliding away from her uncle toward the floor.
Wendell Bogart, with one arm laid along the top of the settee behind his niece, was staring fascinatedly toward the fountain. He didn’t appear to realize that Pamela was falling.
Jeff stepped into the living room as the girl’s body thudded to the flagstones. He was picking up the telephone when Mrs Wellington screamed. She was still screaming, joined by Mrs Marston, when Jeff was connected with Chief Gaines.
“It’s happened, Bill,” Jeff barked.
“Who?”
“Pamela herself.”
“Damn! Don’t let them touch anything, Jeff. We’ll be there quicker than you think.”
“She’s dead!” Mike Collins said in a flat, bewildered voice as Jeff stepped back to the terrace.
“She can’t be! It’s impossible!” Wendell Bogart shouted. “Lift her to the couch. No, wait. Carry her upstairs!”
“Don’t move her!” Jeff warned, heading toward the group.
“Get out of my way!” Bogart shoved him aside. “A lot of help you were!”
The rise and fall of a police siren tore the quiet night. It was close by, and racing nearer.
“Don’t be a fool, Bogart. The police are on their way here now. I tell you not to touch her.”
“Get out of my way, you blundering idiot. My niece isn’t going to lie there like a sack of meal.”
Wendell Bogart stooped and picked up the girl. The police cars screamed into the driveway. Carrying her in his arms, Bogart walked slowly toward the living room. A uniformed patrolman stepped through the French door and blocked his passage.
“What’s going on here? What happened?” the officer demanded. “What are you doing with that girl? What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s dead, Officer. I . . . I was taking her up to her bedroom.”
“Put her down, mister. Here!” He indicated the settee opposite the one Pamela had shared with her uncle.
Wendell Bogart lowered his niece and straightened her rumpled clothing. Almost reverently, he pressed the lids down over her now lusterless eyes.
Jeff looked at Pamela. There were no marks of violence other than the swollen lips. To all appearances, she was a young woman dreaming, a surprising dream. Her lips were slightly parted, as if she had just been told something incredible.
More police arrived. A sergeant assumed control.
“Mr Bogart, do you have a clubroom, or some place we can put you people where you’ll be out of the way?”
“There’s a basement game room.”
The sergeant pointed out a red-headed giant. “Murphy! Herd these people into the basement. Don’t let any of them out of your sight.”
Jeff followed the others into a paneled clubroom. Murphy opened the door and snapped on the lights, then followed them in and stood with his back to the door. Outside, the night was filled with screaming sirens.
Wendell Bogart, without a word to his guests, crossed to the portable bar. From beneath it, he drew out a bottle of old Scotch and poured himself half a glass.
“I could do with one of those,” Fred Marston said wistfully.
Bogart ignored him, replaced the bottle and slumped into a lounge chair. He stared quietly into space. Jeff sat alone at the far corner of the room. He pulled out his notebook and began writing rapidly. Once or twice he heard his name spoken in angry tones, but he didn’t raise his head. After filling several pages with neat, small script, he loosened the pages and dropped the book into his left coat pocket.
“Why don’t you say something?” Wendell Bogart demanded, as Jeff’s eyes met his. “Why did you kill her?”
“I didn’t kill her, and you damn well know it.”
“Listen, Hunter,” the older man snapped, “you hated my niece! She told me what happened this afternoon in the Normandy bar. There are plenty of witnesses who heard you threaten her. Her mouth is bruised from the brutal blow you gave her.”
“So what?” Jeff demanded.
“You don’t deny you struck her?” Wendell Bogart lurched to his feet and swung wildly at Jeff.
“Sit down!” The alert Murphy pushed Bogart back into his chair. “Make another move like that, and I’ll put you to sleep.”
The clubroom door swung open. “Jefferson Hunter! Upstairs!”
Jeff rose to his feet and followed the officer to the library on the floor above. Chief Gaines, and three detectives, were seated at one end of the big mahogany table. Sitting alone at the opposite end was Smitty. Jeff pulled up a chair at his assistant’s right.
“Things are a lot different than when we were here this summer.” Smitty grinned.
“Yes, Smitty, they are.” He patted his left coat pocket meaningly. “Bill” – Jeff turned to the chief – “what killed her?”
The chief of detectives paused a moment, considering his reply. He looked sharply at Jeff, then spoke, “The medical examiner doesn’t know yet. He hasn’t found a mark on her body, except the bruised mouth, and that is hours old. It sounds damned silly, but the only explanation he has ventured is the possibility of rare poison.”
“It wasn’t that.’
“He doesn’t think it was, either. I’ll have you make a statement to a stenographer in a few minutes, Jeff. But, first, is there anything you can tell me that will speed things up?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I was looking at Pamela when the flash temporarily blinded me. When my eyes focused again, she was slumping forward. What caused the explosion?”
“Haven’t found out, yet. Whatever it was, it occurred in the top dish of the fountain, according to Smitty.”
“That’s how it was.” Smitty nodded. “It was almost dark. I was watching Pamela through my glasses from the tree, when the flash blinded me. When my eyes cleared, she was falling off the settee. I continued to watch. I saw Jeff’s back as he slipped into the house to phone you. No one concealed anything. I never took my eyes from that terrace until after the first policemen took over. Then I climbed down out of the tree and started toward the house. An officer grabbed me as I came to the end of the wall.”
Jeff nodded and turned to the chief. “How did you get on the job so quickly?”
“I wasn’t taking a chance, Jeff. When Smitty told me about the dinner tonight and that you were coming here, I sent two patrol cars to cruise the neighborhood. They were here in less than a minute after you called.”
An excited young detective burst into the library, glanced around hurriedly, and handed the chief a manila envelope. Chief Gaines lifted the flap. Jeff and the others leaned forward, Smitty bumping awkwardly against Jeff.
Out of the envelope rolled a small, misshapen lead pellet.
The mushroom-shaped bullet had a bit of red coloring on the end of it. Bill Gaines drew a magnifying glass from his pocket and studied it. He passed the glass to the other detectives in turn.
“I’ll be damned. An air pistol pellet. That little thing couldn’t have killed her, but call Doc Marshall and tell him about it. If this hit her, there must be some mark somewhere on her body.”
“Where was the slug found?” Jeff asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
The young detective answered without thinking, “Under the settee at the far end of the terrace where she—”
“Quiet!” Chief Gaines shot an irritated glance at his subordinate, and turned to Jeff. “Keep that to yourself, Hunter. We’ll find the gun this time. Hawkins” – he turned to one of the detectives at the table – “begin with Jeff Hunter. Take him up to one of the bedrooms and search him. Get a stenographer to take down his statement. Keep him there until I send for him.”