Chapter 1 of Murder at Bridge Bonnie Dundee stretched out a long and rather fine pair of legs, regarding the pattern of his dark blue socks with distinct satisfaction, then he rested his black head against the rich upholstery of an armed chair not at all intended for his use. His cheerful blue eyes turned at last, but not too long at last, to the small upright figure seated at a typewriter desk in the corner of the office. Good morning, Penny. He called out lazily, and good-humidly waited for the storm to break. Miss Crane, to you! The flying fingers did not stop an instant, but Dundee noticed with glee that the slim-back stiffened even more rigidly, and that there was a decided toss of the brown bobbed head.  Dundee protested, unruffled. And why should I be forced always to think of you as a long-legged bird, when even our mutual boss, District Attorney William S. Sanderson, has the privilege of calling you what you are? A bright and shining new Penny. I've known Bill Sanderson since I was born. The unseen lips informed him truculently, even as the unseen fingers continued their fiercely staccato typing. Ah! That explains a lot. Dundee conceded handsomely. I just wondered, amidst all his bonomy of Bill and Penny, why I only call Mr. Sanderson Bill when I forget. The small creature defended herself sharply. Goodness knows I tried to be an efficient private secretary. And I could be a lot more efficient if lazy strangers didn't plump themselves down in our best visitor's chair and try to flirt with me. I don't flirt. Do you hear? I don't flirt with anybody.  Dundee's voice was a little sad. The voice of a man who finds himself grievously misunderstood. I only want you to like me, if you can, and be a little nice to me, for after all I've—oh, I know! Penny Crane jerked the finished letter from her typewriter and spun about on her narrow-backed swivel chair to face him. I know you are Mr. James F. Dundee, special investigator, attached to the office of the District Attorney, and that you have a right to drive me crazy if you want to. Crazy? Dundee was genuinely amazed, contrite. I beg your pardon, most humbly, Miss Crane. I'll go back to my cell. Your office is almost as big and nice as this one. Penny retorted, but her sharp, bright, brown eyes, really almost the colour of a new Penny, softened until they took on a velvety depth. Dundee did not fail to notice the softening, nor did the little heart-shaped face, with its low widow's peak, its straight, short nose, and its pointed little chin, made almost childish by the deep cleft which cuts through its obvious effort to look mature and determined, failed to please him any more acutely than on the other days of the one short week he had been privileged at intervals to gaze upon it. But the files, and other things, are in this office, he told her, his blue eyes twinkling happily once more. Did you dare touch my files again? Penny cried, springing to her feet and running toward the wall, which was completely concealed by drawers, cabinets and shelves, filled with the records of which she was the proud custodian. That's why I said just now that you were driving me crazy. Thirsty, you took a whole folder of correspondence out of the letter-files and put it back under the wrong initial. I had to hunt for it for two hours with Bill—I mean, Mr. Sanderson—knowing his nails with impatience. He thought I had filed it wrong, and you might have made me lose my job. Unconsciously her slightly husky contralto voice had sunk lower and trembled audibly. I'm awfully sorry. I shan't touch your files again, Miss Crane. Oh!  She conceded impatiently. What do you want now? And you can get anything you need out of the files, if you'll just put the folder in the bottom drawer of my desk, so that I can file it myself—correctly. Thank you, Penny. Bonnie Dundee said gravely. I'd like awfully to have the complete transcript of The State vs. Maginty. Mr. Sanderson is determined to get a conviction where our former district attorney most ingloriously failed. The new trial comes up in two weeks, and he wants me to try to uncover a missing link of evidence. I know, she nodded, and stretched her short slender body to pull down the two heavy volumes he required. Without a buy you leave, Special Investigator Dundee resumed his comfortable seat, and laid the first of the volumes opened upon his knees. But he did not seem to take a great deal of interest in the impaneling of jurors in the case of one Rufus Maginty, who had won the temporary triumph of a hung jury under the handling of the state's case by district attorney Sherwin. I think I would, deposed in November's election. Rather, his eyes followed the small brisk figure of Miss Penelope Crane as it moved about the room, and his ears listened to the somewhat charming, the emphatic tapping of her French heels. French heels? Hadn't she been wearing sensible Cuban-healed oxfords all other days of his first week, of his attachment to the district attorney's office? Cunning little thing, full her thorniness and her sharpness with him, which he now saw that he had deserved. Pretty too, damned pretty. What colour was that dress of hers? Hmm, let's see. Chartres, didn't they call it? Chartres with big brown dots in it. Bet it was sleeveless under that short little jacket of golden-brown chiffon velvet. By Jove. And Dundee lapsed into one of the Englishisms he had picked up during his six months' work in England as a Tyro in the Records Department of Scotland Yard before he had come to Hamilton to make a humble beginning as a cub detective on the homicide squad. Yes, by Jove she was all dressed up, for some reason or other. Of course! Because it's Saturday and you have the afternoon off. Dundee finished his revelry aloud to the astonishment of the small person trying to reach a foul draw just a little too high for her. I mean, he hastened to explain, that I've just noticed how beautifully her costume is and found a reason for it. There was sudden colour in the creamy face. The French heels tapped an angry progress across the big office and Penny sat down abruptly in her swivel chair, reached across the immaculate desk, snatched up a morning paper and tossed it, without a glance, in the general direction of her tormentor. Page three, column two, first item. She informed him ungraciously, and then began to search with a funny sort of desperation for more work to consume her extraordinary energy. Bonnie Dundee grinned indulgently as he opened the Hamilton Morning News and turned to the specified page and column. Ah! My old friend, the society-editress, in her very best style. He commented as he began to read aloud. Mrs. Juanita Selham, new and charming member, is entertaining the foresight alumni bridge club this afternoon, lunching to be served at the exclusive new breakaway inn on Sheridan Road. I've read it, and I'm busy, so shut up, Penny commanded, as she gathered up pencils to sharpen. Quite meekly, Bonnie Dundee subsided into silent perusal of an item he was sure could have no possible interest for himself, in either a personal or professional capacity, unless Penny's name was in it somewhere. After which the jolly party of young matrons and maids will adjourn to Mrs. Selham's delightful home in the Primrose Meadows Edition. He chuckled and dared to interrupt the high importance of pointing up pencils. I say that's funny, isn't it? Primrose Meadows Edition. I don't think it's funny. Penny retorted coldly. It so happens that my mother named it, that my father went into bankruptcy trying to make a go of it, and that Mrs. Selham's delightful home was built to be our home, and in which we were fortunate enough to live only two months before the crash came. Oh! Dundee groaned. Penny, Penny, I'm dreadfully sorry.  Dundee's now thoroughly interested eyes raced down the absurdly written paragraphs. Although not an alumna of that famous and select school for girls, Foresight on the Hudson, graduation from which places any Hamilton girl in the very inner circle of Hamilton society, Mrs. Selham has been closely identified with this school, having for the past two years directed and staged Foresight's annual play, which ushers in the Easter vacation. Indeed, it was Mrs. Selham's remarkable success with this year's play, which caused Mrs. Peter Dunlap, long interested in a little theatre for Hamilton, to induce the beautiful and charming young directoress to come to Hamilton with her. Plans for the little theatre are growing apace, and it is safe to conjecture that not all the conversation flying thick and fast about Nita's bridge-tables this afternoon will be concerned with contract conventions, scores and finesses which failed. Lovely Nita was elected to membership a fortnight ago when a vacancy occurred due to the resignation of Miss Alice Humphrey, who has gone abroad for a year's study in the Sorbonne. The two-table club now includes Madame Hugo Marshall, Tracy A. Miles, Peter Dunlap, John C. Drake, Juanita Selham and Mrs. Polly Beale, Janet Raymond and Penelope Crane. Dundee lowered the paper and stared at the profile of District Attorney Sanderson's private secretary. So she was a society girl, a foresight girl. Was that the reason, perhaps, why she had been so thorny with him, a mere dick?  He was a special investigator, a society girl playing at work. But there was more, and he read on. As is well known, the girls have their hen-fight, bridge-luncheon every Saturday afternoon from the 1st of October to the 1st of June, and a bridge dinner in which mere men are graciously included every other Wednesday evening during the season. Mr. and Mrs. Tracy A. Miles are scheduled as next Wednesday's host and hostess. I'll take off my hat to your society-editress. Dundee commented, with false cheerfulness, when he had laid the paper back upon Penny's desk.  Like Bridge, Miss Crane? Penny snatched up the paper and crushed it into her waist-basket. I do, and I like my old friends, even if I am not able financially to keep up with them, if that's why you've suddenly decided to stop being com-brains. Please forgive me again, Penny. He begged gently. I was born into that crowd, and I still belong to it, because all of them are my real friends, but get this into your sick, scotch-irish head, Mr. Dundee. I am working because I have to, and because I love it, too, and because I want to earn enough before I am many years older to give Mother some of the things she's missing so dreadfully since my father failed and ran away. Ran away? Dundee echoed incredulously. How could any man desert a daughter like this? Yes, ran away. She repeated fiercely. I might as well tell you myself. Plenty of others will be willing to, as soon as they know you are my friend. As I told you, my father—her voice broke—my father went bankrupt, but before the courts knew it he had sent some securities to a woman in New York, and when he left us he went to her because he left Mother a note saying so. His defrauded creditors have tried to catch him, but they haven't yet. Very gently Bonnie Dundee took the small hand that was distractedly rumbling the brown waves which swept back from the widow's peak. It lay fluttering in his bigger palm for a moment, and snatched itself away. I won't have you feeling sorry for me. She cried angrily. Who owns your—the Primrose Meadows house now? Mrs. Selam? he asked. The lovely Neeta? her voice was scornful. No. She rents it from Judge Hugo Marshall, or is supposed to pay him rent? She added with a trace of mellis. Hugo is an old darling, but he is fearfully weak where pretty women are concerned. Neeta Selam had known Hugo in New York—somehow—and as soon as Lois—Mrs. Dunlap, I mean—had got Neeta off the train, the stranger in our midst hide herself to Hugo's office, and he's been tagging after her ever since. Though most of the men in our crowd are as bad as or worse than poor old Hugo, how Karen keeps on looking so blissfully happy? Karen? Dundee interrupted. Mrs. Hugo Marshall? she explained impatiently. Karen Plummer made her debut a year ago, this last winter, a darling of a girl.  And it seems to have worked out marvelously. A baby boy, three months old, she concluded in her laconic style. Then, ashamed, I don't know why I'm gossiping like this.  Dundee laughed. Come on, gossip some more. My Maginti case will wait till afternoon to be mulled over while you're losing your hard-earned salary at Bridge with rich women. We don't play for high stakes, she corrected him. Just a twentieth of a cent a point, though contract can run into money even at that. The winnings all go to the Foresight Scholarship Fund. On Wednesday evenings the crowd plays for higher stakes, a tenth, and winners keepers. Therefore I can't afford to go, unless I sink so low as to let my escort pay my losses, which I sometimes do. She confessed. Her brown head loathe for a moment. Is this Mrs. Peter Dunlap, a deep-busomed club-woman, who starts movements? He asked, more to bring her out of her depression than anything else. Bigger and better babies movements and homes for fallen girls and little theatre movements?  Lois Dunlap is the sweetest, finest, most comfortable woman in Hamilton, and I adore her. Asked us everyone else, Peter Dunlap, hardly more than the rest of us. She is interested in a little theatre for Hamilton, but she won't manage it. That's why she got hold of Neeta Selim. Lois will simply put up barrels of money, without missing them, and give a grander job to a little Broadway gold digger. Funny thing is, she really delights in Neeta, thinks she's sweet, and has never had a real chance. And what do you think? Dunlap asked softly. Oh! I suppose I'm a cat, but I can see through her so clearly. Not that she's bad. She's simply an opportunist. She's awfully sweet and deferential and frank with women, but with men.   Bonnie Dundee grinded her reassuringly. Not for him to explain that practically all women and many men found themselves gossiping when he led them on adroitly, for reasons of his own, which of course helped him to make the excellent detective he was. So all the men in your crowd have fallen for Neeta Selim, have they? Practically all, in varying degrees, except Peter Dunlap, who has never looked at another woman since he was lucky enough to get Lois, and Clive Hammond, who's engaged to Polly Beale. Penny answered reluctantly, her colour high. Including your young man? I haven't a young man in the sense of being engaged. Penny retorted, then added honestly, I have been letting Ralph Hammond, that's Clive's brother, you know, take me about a good deal. Ralph and Clive have plenty of money. She defended herself hastily. They are architects, Clive being the head of the firm, and Ralph, who hasn't been out of college so very long, a junior partner. It was the Hammond firm that drew up the plans for dad's, I mean my father's, Primrose Meadows edition houses. He had our house built as a sort of show place, you know, so that prospective builders out there could see how artistic a home could be put up for a moderate sum of money. But he didn't quite finish even that. Left half the gable top story unfinished, and Neeta has been teasing Hugo to finish it up for her. It looks, she added with a shrug, as if Neeta will get what she wants, as usual. And Ralph has acquired a set of slave chains, Dundee suggested, with just the slightest note of sympathy. And how? Penny assured him grimly, as similarly as out of date as my clothes are going to be if I don't get some new ones soon. Not that the crowd minds what I wear, she added loyally, I could dress up in a window drape, and be just as charming as you are in that grand new party dress you have on now. Dundee finished for her gallantly. New! Penny snorted and turned back to her desk in a futile effort to find something left undone. Dundee ignored the rebuff. How many suckers—I mean, how many gentlemen with moderate incomes—actually built in primrose meadows?  None. Our house, or rather the one Neeta Selim is living in now, is the only house on what used to be a big farm. Why? I was just wondering, Dundee said softly, almost absent-mindedly, why the lovely Neeta chose so isolated a place in which to live, when Hamilton has rather a large number of four red signs out just now. By the way, know what time it is now? Twenty to one. Get your hat on, young woman. I'm going to drive you out to break away in. Sure not. I'm going to take a bus. One runs from the square right past the inn," she told him firmly. And just as firmly Dundee escorted her out of the almost deserted, rather dirty old courthouse to where his brand new sports roadster, bought on time, was awaiting them in the parking space devoted to the motors of those who officially served Hamilton County. I know why you want to drive me out to the inn," Penny told him suddenly, as the proud owner manoeuvred his car through such day-noon traffic. You want to see Neeta Selim? Clank, clank. I can hear the padlocks snapping in the slave chains right now. Meow! Dundee retorted, then grinned down at her with as much comradely affection as if they had been friends for years instead of for a couple of hours. Neeta very small, he added. Little enough to tuck herself under the arm of a man a lot shorter than you. Penny assured him with curious vehemence. And if Penelope Crane is no mean prophet, that's exactly what she'll do within five minutes after she meets you. Just as she is wistfully inviting you to join the other man for the cocktail party, which is scheduled to break up the bridge game at five thirty. Of course you'll be urged to join us all at the dinner-dance at the country club tonight. Will she? Dundee pretended to be vastly intrigued, which caused the remainder of the drive to be a rather silent one due to Penny's unresponsiveness. Breakaway Inn was intensely Spanish in architecture and transplanted shrubbery, but its stucco walls were of a rather more violent raspberry colour than is considered quite aesthetic in Spain or Mexico. There's Lois Dunlap's car just driving up. Penny cried, her face softening with the adoration she had freely professed for her friend. But it clouded again almost instantly. And Neeta Selim. I suppose Neeta was a little ashamed to drive up in her own Fort Coupe. As Dundee helped his new friend to alight, his eyes were upon the two women being assisted by a uniformed chauffeur from Lois Dunlap's limousine.   The tiny, beautiful creature who could only be Mrs. Selim cried out happily. May I meet him? I shouldn't let you, Penny answered frankly, but I will. Mrs. Selim, Mr. Dundee, and Mrs. Dunlap, Mr. Dundee, how are you, Lois, and Peter and the Brats? Oh, well, Penny. It is often a weekend fishing trip, and not one of the Brats's measles, scarlet fever or hay fever, thank God. Dundee heard Mrs. Dunlap say in the comfortable, affectionate voice that went with her comfortable, pleasant face and body. Nice woman. But his eyes were of necessity upon Neeta Selim, for that miniature Venus was, as Penny had predicted, almost tucked under his arm by this time.  You'll come to the cocktail party at my house at five-thirty, won't you, Mr. Dundee? Afraid I can't make it. Dundee smiled down at her. I'm a busy man, Mrs. Selim. You see, I'm a special investigator attached to the district attorney's office. He explained very deliberately. Oh, oh, oh! Neeta Selim breathed. Then, step by step, she withdrew, so that he was no longer submitted to the temptation to put his arm about her two intriguing little body. And as she retreated, Dundee's keen eyes noted a hardening of the black pansy eyes, the sudden throbbing of a pulse in her very white neck. No, don't mind about calling for me, Penny protested a moment later. Rolf has already volunteered. Thanks awfully. As Dundee backed out of the driveway, his last glance was for a very small figure in a brown silk summer coat and palest yellow chiffon frock, slowly rejoining Penelope Crane and Lois Dunlap. What the devil had frightened her so, for she had been almost terrified. Of course, she might be one of those silly women who shudder at the sight of a detective because they've smuggled in a diamond from Paris, or a bottle of Bacardi from Havana. But long before his car made the distance back to the city, Dundee had shrugged off the riddle and was concentrating on all the facts he knew regarding the Maginti case. It was his first real assignment from Sanderson, and he was determined to make good. Four hours later he was interrupted in his careful reading of the trial of Rufus Maginti by the ringing of the telephone bell.  Dundee reflected angrily as he picked up the receiver. But the call was for Dundee himself, and the voice on the other end of the wire was Penny Crane's, although almost unrecognizable. Speak more slowly, Penny. Dundee urged. What's that again? Could a lord? He said that need a seldom. After a minute of listening and a promise of instant obedience, Dundee hung up the receiver. My God! he said slowly, blankly. Of all things, murder at bridge. End of Chapter 1. Recorded by Gesina in September 2007 Chapter 2. Of Murder at Bridge. As Special Investigator Dundee drove through the city of Hamilton at a speed of sixty miles an hour, his way being cleared by traffic policemen, warned by the shrilt official siren which served him as a horn, he had little time to think connectedly of the fact that Nita Salim had been murdered during a bridge game in her rented home in Primrose Meadows. Even after the broad sleekness of Sheridan Road stretched before him, he could do little more than to realise the shock which had numbed him. Lovely Nita, as the society editor of the morning news had called her, was dead. How? Why? he did not know. He had asked no details of Penny Crane. Funny, thorny little Penny. Loyal little Penny.  I wanted our office to be in on this right from the first. Beautiful, seductive, Nita Salim almost cuddling under his arms within three minutes of meeting him, dead. A vision of her black pansy eyes, so wide and luminous and wistful as they had looked sideways and upward to his, pleading for him to join her after bridge, cocktail party. Nearly made him crash into a lumbering furniture van. Those eyes were luminous no longer, could never again snap the padlocks of slave chains upon any man, as Penny had expressed it. Dead. And she had been so warmly alive, even as she had retreated from him at his mention of the fact that he was attached to the office of the district attorney as a special investigator. What had she feared then? Was her death a payment for some recent or long-standing crime? Or had she simply been withdrawing from contamination with a flat foot? No, she had been afraid, horribly afraid of some ulterior purpose behind his innocent courtesy in driving Penelope Crane to break away in. Well, speculation now was idle, he told himself, as he noted that his speedometer had dropped from sixty to thirty in his preoccupation. He speeded again, but was soon forced to stop and ask his way into Primrose Meadows. The vague directions of a farmer's son lost him nearly eight precious minutes during which his friend, Captain Strahan of the Homicide Squad, might be bungling things rather badly. But at last he found the ornate pair of pillars spanned by the painted legend, Primrose Meadows, and drove through them into what soon became a rutted lane. Almost a quarter of a mile from the entrance he found the isolated house, unmistakable because of the lineup of private cars parked before the short stretch of paved sidewalk and the added presence of police cars and motorcycles. Dundee turned his own car into the driveway leading from the street along the right side of the house towards the two-car garage in the rear. Ahead of his roadster were two other cars and a glance toward the open garage showed that a Ford Coupe was housed there. As he was descending Captain Strahan's voice hailed him from an open window of the room nearest the garage. Hello, Bonnie, been expecting you. Damnedest business you ever saw. There's a door from this room onto the porch. Hop up and come in. Dundee obeyed. Driving in he had noted that a wide porch, upheld by round white pillars, stretched across the front of the gabled brick house and extended halfway along its right side past a room which was obviously a solarium with its continuous windows, gay awnings and, visible through the glittering panes, orange and black, wicker furniture. It was easy to swing himself up to the floor of the porch. Strahan flung open the door which led into the back room, remarking with a grin. Don't be afraid I'm gumming up any fingerprints. Care away has already been over the room. This Aleem woman's bedroom, he explained, the room she was killed in. You have been on the job, Dundee complimented his former chief. Sure, Strahan acknowledged proudly, can't be too quick on her stumps when it's one of these high society murders. Dr. Price will be here any minute now, and my men have been all over the premises, basement to attic. Of course it was an outside job, plain as the nose on your face, and we haven't found a trace of the murderer. Although Mrs. Aleem had taken the house furnished, it was obvious that this big bedroom of hers was not exactly as the Crane family had left it. A little too pretty, a little too aggressively feminine, with its shea's lounge heaped with silk and lace pillows, its superfluity of big and little lamps, its bed draped with golden yellow taffeta, its dressing table. But he could not let critical eyes linger on the triple mirrored vanity dresser, for on the bench before it sat a tiny figure. The head bowed so low that some of the black curls had fallen into a large open bowl of powder. She was no longer wearing the brown silk summercoat whose open front had given him a glimpse of pale yellow chiffon. He saw the dress now, a low cut, sleeveless, fluffy affair, but he really had eyes only for the brownish red hole on the left side of the back of the bodice, about half way between shoulder and waist, a waist so small he could have spanned it with his two hands, including its band of fuchsia velvet ribbon. There also had been a bow of fuchsia velvet ribbon on the lace and straw hat she had swung so charmingly less than five hours ago. Shot through the heart I guess, Strawn commented, took a good marksman to find her heart, shooting her through the back. Funny thing, too. Nobody heard the shot, least ways, none of the crowd penned up in the living room will admit they did. They'll all hang together and lie like sixty to keep us from finding out anything that might point to one of their precious bunch. But if a gun with a maxim silencer was used, as it must have been if that whole crew ain't lying, then the gunman must have been good, because you can't sight with a maxim, screwed onto a roginal. Have your men found the gun? Dundee asked. Of course not, or I'd know whether it had been a maxim on it or not. Strawn retorted. My theory is, he added impressively, that somebody with a grudge against this dame hired a gunman to hang around till he got her dead to rights, then plop. And he imitated the soft, thudding sound made by the discharge of a bullet from a gun equipped with a silencer. Doesn't it seem rather strange that a professional gunman should have chosen such a time, with men arriving in cures, and the house full of women who might wander into this room at any minute to bump off his victim? Dundee asked. Well, there ain't no explanation. Captain Strawn contended, outside of the fact that my men have gone over the whole house and grounds without finding the gun. I've got other evidence. It was an outside job. Look. Dundee followed the Chief of Homicide Squad to one of the two windows that looked out upon the driveway. Both were open, since the May Day was exceptionally warm, even for the Middle West. The unscreened window, from which he obediently leaned, was almost directly in line with the vanity dressing table across the room. Look, see how them vines have been torn, Strawn directed, pointing to a rambler rose which hugged the outside frame of the window, and look hard enough at the flower bed down below and you'll see his footprints. Of course we've measured them, and Kane, as you see, is guarding them till my man comes to make plaster casts of them. Yes, sir, he hoisted himself up to the window ledge, aimed as best he could, then slipped down and beat it across the meadow. Then, Dundee began slowly, I wonder why this Mrs. Selam didn't see that figure crouched in the window, since she must have been powdering her face and looking into the middle of the three mirrors, the one which reflects this very window. How do you know she was powdering her face, not looking for something in a drawer? Strawn demanded trusently. For three reasons Dundee answered almost apolitetically. First, her powder puff, as I am sure you notice, is still clutched in her right hand, second there is no drawer open, and no drawer was open unless someone has closed it since the murder, whereas on the other hand her powder box is open. Third, the left side of her face is unevenly coated with the powder, while the other is heavily, but evenly powdered. Therefore I can't see why she didn't scream, or turn round, when she heard your gunman clambering up to her window, or even when he had crouched in it. I don't see how she could help seeing him. Well, what do you think?" Strawn asked sourly, after he had tested the visibility of the window from the dressing-table mirror. I'm afraid, Captain Strawn, that there are only two explanations possible. The first, of course, is that Nita Selam was quite deaf or very near-sighted. I happen to know from having met her today. You met her today? Strawn interrupted incredulously. Dundee explained briefly, then went on. As I was saying, I have good reason to know she was not deaf, but I can't say as to her being near-sighted, except that it is my observation that people who are extremely near-sighted do not have very wide eyes and no creases in the brows. I am fairly sure she did not wear glasses at all, because glasses warn every few hours a day, leave a mark across the nose, or show pinched red spots on each side of the bridge of the nose.  I did, Dundee retorted, while conceding that she was neither deaf nor half-blind, she would necessarily have heard and seen her assailant before he shot her. What's the other explanation? Strawn was becoming impatient. That the person who killed her was so well known to her, and his or her presence in this room, so natural a thing that she paid no attention to his or her movements, and was concentrating on the job of powdering her pretty face. You mean one of that gang of society folks in there? And Strawn jerked a thumb towards the left side of the house. Very probably Dundee agreed. But where's the gun? Strawn argued. I tell you my men. This was a premeditated murder, of course, Dundee interrupted. The Maxim Silencer, unless they are all lying about not hearing a shot, proves that. Silencers are damned hard to get hold of, but people with plenty of money can manage most things, and since murder was premeditated, it is better to count on the fact that the murderer, or murderess, had planned a pretty safe hiding-place for the gun, and the Silencer. Oh, not necessarily in the house, nor even near the house, he hastened to assure Strawn, who was trying to break in. By the way, how long after Mrs. Salim was killed was her death discovered, or do you know? I haven't been able to get much out of that bunch in there, not even out of Penelope Crane, who ought to be willing to help, seeing as how she works for the district attorney. But I guess she's waiting to spill it all to you, if she knows anything, so you and Sanderson will get all the credit. Now look here, Chief, Dundee protested, laying a hand on Strawn's shoulder as he reverted to the name by which he had addressed the head of the Homicide Squad for nearly a year. We're going to be friends, aren't we? Same as always. We know pretty well how to work together, don't we? No use to begin pulling against each other. Guess so, Strawn growled, but he was obviously pleased and relieved. Maybe you'd better have a crack at that crowd yourself. I hear Dark Price's car always has a bum-spark plug. I'll stick around with him until he gets going good on his job, then, if you'll excuse me for budding in, I'll join your party in the living-room, and good luck to you, Bonnie. Dundee took the door he knew must lead into the central hall, but found himself in an enclosed section of it, a small foyer between the main hall and Nita's Selim's bedroom. There was room for a telephone table in its chair, as well as for a small sofa, large enough for two to sit upon comfortably. He paused to open the door across from the telephone table and found that it opened into a closet, whose hangers and hat-forms now held the outdoor clothing belonging to Nita's guests. Nice clothes, the smart but un-ostentatious hats and coats of moneyed people of good taste. He observed a little enviously, before he opened the door, which led into the main hall, which bisected the main floor of the house, until it reached Nita's room. Another door in the section, behind the staircase, leading to the gabled second storey, next claimed his attention. Opening it, he discovered a beautifully fitted guest lavatory. There was even a fully appointed dressing-table for women's use, so that none of her guests had had the slightest excuse to invade the privacy of Mrs. Selim's bedroom and bath, unless specifically invited to do so. A rather well-planned house this, Dundee concluded, as he closed the door upon the green porcelain fixtures, and walked slowly toward the wide archway that led from the hall into the large living-room. He had a curious reluctance to intrude upon that assembled and guarded company of Hamilton's real society. They were all Penny's friends, and Penny was his friend. But his first swift, all-seeing glance about the room reassured him. No hysterics here. These people, brought race and breeding, even into the presence of death. Whatever emotions had torn them, when Nita Selim's body was discovered, were almost unguessable now. A stout short woman of about thirty was tapping a foot nervously, as she talked to the man who was bending over her chair. John C. Drake, that was. Dundee had met him, knew him to be a vice-president of the Hamilton National Bank, in charge of the trust department. Penelope Crane was occupying half of a love-seat, with Lois Dunlap, the hands of the girl and of the woman, clinging together for mutual comfort. That tall, thin, oldish man with the waxed gray mustache must be Judge Hugo Marshall, and the pretty girl leaning trustingly against his shoulder must be his wife, Karen Marshall, who had jumped at her first proposal during her first season. Yes, well-bred people, he concluded, as his eyes swept on, and then stopped, a little bewildered. Who was that man? He didn't belong somehow, and his hands trembled visibly as he tried to lay to cigarette. Leaning, not nonchalantly, but actually for support, against the brocaded, coral silk drapes of a pair of wide, long windows set in the east wall. Suddenly Dundee had it. Broadway! This was no Hamiltonian, no comfortably rich and socially secure Middle-Westerner. Broadway, in every line of his two well-tailored clothes, in the polished smoothness of his dark hair. Why, it's Mr. Dundee at last! Penny cried, turning in the S-shaped seat, before he had time to finish his mental inventory of the room's occupants. She jumped to her feet and threaded a swift way over Oriental rugs and between the two bridge-tables, still occupying the centre of the big room, still cluttered with score-pads, tally-cards, and playing-cards. I've been wondering if you had stopped to have dinner first, she taunted him, then laying a hand on his arm. She faced the living-room eagerly. This is Mr. Dundee, folks, special investigator, attached to the district attorney's office, and a grand detective. He solved the whole garth murder-casino, and the hill-crest murder, and he's my friend, so I watch all to trust him, and tell him things without being afraid of him. Then, rather ceremoniously, but swiftly, she presented her friends. Judge and Mrs. Hugo Marshall, Mr. and Mrs. Tracey Miles, Mr. and Mrs. John C. Drake, Mrs. Dunlap, Janet Raymond, Paulie Beale, Clive Hammond, and— At that point Penny hesitated, then rather stiffly included the Broadway man, as Mr. Duckster Sprague of New York. Thank you, Miss Crane, Dundee said. Now will you please tell me, if you know whether all those invited, to both the bridge-party and the cocktail-party are here? Penny's face flamed. Ralph Hamilton, Clive's brother, hasn't come yet. I—I imagine I've been stood up. She confessed with a faint attempt at gaiety. And Ralph Hammond was the man who had once belonged rather exclusively to Penny, and who, according to her own confession, had succumbed most completely to Nita Salim's charms. Dundee noted, filing the reflection for further reference.  Lois Dunlap asked, as she advanced towards him. Mr. Dunlap is away on a fishing-ship, and I don't like to leave my three youngsters too long. They are really too much of a handful, for the governess over a period of hours. I shall detain all of you no longer than is absolutely necessary, Dundee told her gently, but I am afraid I must warn you that I can't let you go home very soon, unless one or more of you has something of vital importance to tell—something which will clear up or materially help to clear up this bad business. He paused a long half-minute, then asked curtly, I am to conclude that no one has anything at all to volunteer? There is no answer, other than a barely perceptible drawing together in self-defense of the minds and hearts of those who had been friends for so long. Very well, Dundee conceded abruptly. Then I must put all of you through a routine examination, since every one of you is, of course, a possible suspect. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Murder at Bridge by Anne Austin. CHAPTER III Good-bye dinner! grown the plump blonde little man who had been introduced as Tracy Miles as he sorrowfully patted his rather prominent stomach. Don't worry, darling, begged the dark neurotic-looking woman who was Flora Miles' wife. I'm sure Mr. Dundee will ask Lydia, poor Nita's maid, you know, she explained in an aside to Dundee, to prepare a light supper for us if he really needs to detain us long, which I am sure he won't. How can you think of food now? Polly Beale, the tall, sturdy girl with an almost masculine bob and a quite masculine tweed suit, demanded brusquely. Her voice had an unfeminine lack of modulation, but when Dundee saw her glance toward Clive Hammond, he realized that she was wholly feminine where he was concerned at least. Of course we are all dreadfully cut up over poor Nita's death, gassed a rather pretty girl whose most distinguishing feature was her crop of crinkly light red hair. I assume that to be true, Miss Raymond, Dundee answered, but we must lose no more time getting at the facts. Just when was Mrs. Aleem murdered? At the brutal use of the word a shutter rippled over the small crowd. Dexter Sprague, of New York, dropped his lighted cigarette where it would have burned a hole in a fine Persian rug if Sergeant Turner, on guard over the room for Captain Straughn, had not slouched from his corner to plant a big foot upon it. We don't know exactly when it happened, Penny volunteered. We were playing bridge, the last hand of the last rubber, because the men were arriving for cocktails. When Nita became dummy and went up to her bedroom too, to make herself pretty pretty for the men, Mrs. Drake mimicked, then realizing the possible effect of her cattiness on Dundee, she defended herself volumely. Of course I liked Nita, but she did think so terribly about her effect on men, and all that, and was always fixing her makeup, and decides, you can't suspect me, because I was playing against Karen and Nita. Thank you, Mrs. Drake. Dundee cut in. Does anyone know the exact time Mrs. Aleem left the room when she became dummy? I can tell you, because I had just arrived, the first of the men to get here, Tracy Miles volunteered. Obviously glad of the chance to talk. A characteristic of the man Dundee decided. I looked at my watch just after I stepped out of my car, because I liked to be on time to the dot, and Nita, Mrs. Aleem, had said 5.30. Well, it was exactly 5.25, so I had five minutes to spare. Yes, Dundee speeded him up impatiently. Well, I came into the hall and hung my hat in the closet out there, and then came in here. It must have been about 5.27 by that time, he explained, with the meticulousness of a man on the witness stand. I shouted, Hello everybody, how's Trix? That's a joke, you know. How's Trix, meaning Trix and Bridge? Yes, yes, Dundee admitted, frowning, but the rest of the company exchanged indulgence miles, and Flora Miles patted her husband's hand fondly. Well, Nita jumped up from the bridge-table, that one right there. Miles pointed to the table nearer the arched doorway, and she said, Good heavens, is it half-past five already? I've got to run and make myself pretty pretty for just such great big men as you, Tracy. Tracy, darling! Judge Marshall corrected, with a chuckle that sounded odd in the tensely silent room. Tracy Miles flushed a salmon pink, and his wife's fingers clutched at his hand, warningly. Oh, Nita called everybody darling, and didn't meet anything by it, I guess, he explained uneasily. Just one of her cute little ways. Well, anyway, she came up to me and straightened my necktie.  You know, a sort of way she had of coaxing people? Yes, I know, Dundee agreed, with a trace of a grin. Go on as rapidly as you can, please. I thought you wanted to know everything! Miles was a little peevish. He had evidently been enjoying himself. Of course, I said I'd make the cocktails. She said everything was ready on the sideboard. That's the dining room right behind this room, he explained unnecessarily, since the French doors were open. Well, Nita blew me a kiss from her fingertips and ran out of the room. Now, let's see, he ruminated, creasing his sunburned forehead beneath his carefully combed blonde hair. That must have been at exactly 5.30 that she left the room. I went on into the dining room, and Lois, I mean Mrs. Dunlap, came with me, because she said she was simply dying for a caviar sandwich and a nip of, of, of scotch, Tracy, Lois Dunlap cut in grinning. I'm sure Mr. Dundee won't think I'm a confirmed tipler, so you might as well tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Poor Tracy has a deadly fear that we are all going to lose the last shred of our reputations in this deplorable affair, Mr. Dundee, she added, in a rather shaky version of the comfortable rich voice he had heard earlier in the day. I'm not going to pry into sellers, Dundee assured her, in the same spirit. What else, Mr. Miles? Nothing much, Tracy Miles confessed with apparent regret. I was still mixing, no, I'd begun to shake the cocktails when I heard a scream. Who's scream? Dundee demanded, looking about the room and dismissing Miles, thankfully. It was I! Judge Marshall's fair hair blew-eyed little bride volunteered in a voice that threatened to rise to hysteria. Tell me all about it, Dundee urged gently. Yes, sir, she quavered, while her husband's arm encircled her shoulders in courtly fashion. As Tracy told you, Nita was dummy and I was declarer. That is, I got the bid and played the hand. It, it was quite an exciting end for me to the afternoon of bridge, for I am not usually awfully lucky. So when Penny had figured up the score, because I am not good at arithmetic, and I knew Nita and I had rolled up an awfully big score, I jumped up and ran into her room to tell her the good news, because she hadn't come back. And, and there she was, all bowed over her dressing table, and she, she was, was— She was dead when you reached her, Dundee assisted her? Yes, Karen Marshall answered faintly, and turned to hide her face against her elderly husband's breast. Dundee's swift eyes took in the varying degrees of whiteness and sick horror that claimed every face in the room, as surely as if all present had not already heard Karen tell her story to Captain Strahan. Tracy Miles looked as if he would have no immediate craving for his dinner, and Judge Marshall's fine, thin face no longer looked so well-preserved as he prided himself that it did. As for Dexter Sprague, he almost folded up against the coral-brocade draperies. It was the women, oddly enough, who kept the better control over their emotions. Of course you all rushed in when Mrs. Marshall screamed, he asked casually, twelve heads knotted mutely. Did any or all of you touch the body or things in the room? Mr. Sprague touched her hair and lifted one of her hands, Penny contributed quietly, but you know how it must have been. We can't any of us tell exactly every move we made, but there was some rushing about, the men, mostly, looking for, for whoever did it. Mrs. Marshall, did you see any one, any one at all, in or near that room when you entered it? The white-faced young wife lifted her head and looked at him daisily with drowned blue eyes. There wasn't any one in, in that room, I know, she faltered. It felt horrible being in there with, with her, all alone. But near the room, in the main hall or in the little foyer where the telephone is, Dundee persisted. I don't think so. I can't remember seeing any one. Oh, Hugo! And again she crouched against her husband who soothed her with trembling hands that looked incongruously old against her childish fair hair and face. Where were the rest of you? Exactly where, I mean, Dundee demanded, conscious that Captain Straughn had entered the room and was standing slightly behind him. There was such a babble of answers, given and then hastily corrected, that Dundee broke in suddenly. I want a connected story of the events leading up to the tragedy, and I want someone to tell it who hasn't lost his or her head at all. He looked about the company as if speculatively, but his mind was already made up. Miss Crane, will you tell the story, beginning with the moment I left you and Mrs. Dunlap and Mrs. Salim today? Penny nodded miserably and was about to begin. Just a minute before you begin, Miss Crane, Dundee requested. I'd like to make notes on your story, and he drew from a coat pocket a shorthand book hastily filched from Penny's own tidy desk. Yes, he answered the girl's frank stare of amazement. I can write shorthand of a sort, and pretty fast at that, though no other human being, I'm afraid, could read it but myself. As for you folks, he addressed the uneasy, silent group of men and women in dead, neatest living room. I shall ask you not to interrupt Miss Crane, unless you are very sure that her memory is at fault. Penelope Crane was about to begin for the second time, when again Dundee interrupted. Another half-second, please. On the first sheet of the new shorthand notebook, Dundee scribbled. Suggest you try to locate Ralph Hammond immediately, very much in love with Mrs. Salim, invited to cocktail party, did not show up. Tearing the sheet from the notebook, he passed it to Captain Straughn, who read it, frowning, and then nodded. Doc Price has done all he can here, Straughn whispered huskily, wants to know if you'd like to speak to him before he takes the body to the morgue. Certainly, Dundee answered as he grinned apologetically to the girl who was waiting, white-faced, but patiently, to tell the story of the afternoon. Quickly suppressed shutters and low exclamations of horror followed him and the chief of the homicide squad from the room. Well, Bonnie Boy, we meet again for the usual reason. Old Doc Price greeted the district attorney's new special investigator. Another shocking affair that, a nice clean wound, one of the neatest jobs I ever saw, shot entered the back and penetrated the heart. Very nicely calculated. If the bullet had struck a quarter of an inch higher, it might have been deflected by the... But the path of the bullet, Doctor, Dundee broke in. Have you any calculations as to the place and distance at which the shot was fired? Roughly speaking, yes, the coroner answered. The gun was fired at a distance, probably, of ten or fifteen feet, perhaps closer, but I don't think so, he added meticulously. As for the path of the bullet, I have fixed it, judging from the position of the body, which I am assured had not been moved before my arrival, as coming from a point somewhere along a straight line, drawn from the wound, with the body upright, of course, to here. Dundee and Strawn followed the brisk little white-haired old doctor across the bedroom to a window opening upon the drive, the one nearest the door leading out upon the porch. I've marked the end of the line here, Doctor Price went on, pointing to a faint pencil mark made upon the window frame. The pale green strip of woodwork near the chase lounge which was set between the two windows. I told you she was shot from the window? Strawn reminded Dundee triumphantly. You see, Doc, it's my theory that the murderer climbed up to the sill of this window, which was open, as it is now, crouched in it, and shot her while she sat there, powdering her face. Not necessarily, Captain, not necessarily, Doctor Price deprecated. I merely said that this pencil mark indicated the end of the line showing the path of the bullet. Certainly she was not shot through the frame of the window, but she might have been shot by anyone's station just in front of it, or anywhere along the line up to, say, within ten feet of the woman. Now, if that's all, Captain, I'll be getting this corpse into the morgue for an autopsy, and I'll send you both a copy of my findings. Just a minute, Doctor Price. Dundee detained him. How old would you say Mrs. Sillim was? Doctor pursed his wrinkled lips and considered for a moment, eyeing the body stretched upon the chaise lounge, speculatively. Well, between thirty and thirty-four years old, he answered finally. Of course you understand that the estimate is unofficial, and must remain so, until I have completed the autopsy. Dundee stared down at the upturned face of the dead woman with startled incredulity. Between thirty and thirty-four years old? That tiny, lovely? But she was not quite so lovely in death, in spite of the serenity it had brought to those once fervacious features. Peering more closely, he could see, without those luminous, wide eyes to center his attention, numerous fine lines on the waxen face, the slackness of a little pouch of soft flesh beneath her round chin, and occasional white hair among the shoulder-length dark curls. Dundee sighed. How easy it was for a beautiful woman to deceive men with a pair of wide, velvety black eyes. But he'd bet the women had not been quite so thoroughly taken in by her cuddly childishness, her odd mixture of demureness and youthful impudence. Back in the living-room, whose occupants stopped whispering and grew taut with suspense, Dundee seated himself at the little red lacquer table, notebook spread, while Strawn settled himself heavily in the nearest overstuffed armchair.  In a very quiet voice, slightly husky as always, Penny began her story. I think it lacked two or three minutes of one o'clock when you drove away. Nita, Lois, do you mind if I use the names I am most accustomed to? Thank you. And I went immediately into the lounge of Breakaway Inn, where we found Carol Drake and Flora Miles waiting for us. Nita soon left us to see about the arrangement of the table, and while she was away, the rest of the girls arrived. Except a woman's voice broke in. I was going to say all eight of us were ready for lunch except Polly Beale. She hadn't come. Penny went on, her husky voice a little sharp with annoyance. When Nita came to ask us into the private dining-room, one of the inn's employees came and told her there was a call for her, and showed her to the private booth in the lounge. In a minute, Nita returned and told us that Polly wasn't coming to the luncheon, but would join us later for a bridge here. Why don't you tell him how funny Nita acted? Janet Raymond prompted. Penny flushed, but she accepted the prompting. I think any of us might have been a little annoyed, she said steadily, as if striving to be utterly truthful. Nita told us she turned to Dundee, whose pencil was flying. That Polly had made no excuse at all. In fact, she quoted Polly exactly. Sorry, Nita, can't make it for lunch. I'll show up at your place at 2.30 for bridge. Nita couldn't bear the least hint of being slighted, Janet Raymond explained, with a malicious gleam in her pale blue eyes. If it hadn't been for Lois and Hugo, Judge Marshall, I mean, Nita Salim would never have been included in any of our affairs, and she knew it. The Dunlaps can do anything they please because they're— Please, Janet! Lois Dunlap cut in, her usually placid voice becoming quite sharp. You must know by this time that I make friends wherever I please, and that I liked, yes, I was extremely fond of poor little Nita. In fact, I am forced to believe that, of all the women she met in this town, I was her only real friend.  One or two looked a little ashamed, but there was not a single voice to contradict Lois Dunlap's flat assertion. Will you please go on, Pan, Miss Crane, Dundee urged, but he had missed nothing of the little by-play. I wish you would call me Penny, so I'd feel more like a person than a witness," Penny retorted thornily. Where was I? Oh, yes, Nita cooled right off when Lois reminded her that Polly was always abrupt like that, and here Penny paused to grin apologetically at the girl with the masculine-looking haircut. And then we all went into the private dining-room where Nita had ordered a perfectly gorgeous lunch, with a heavenly center-priest of green-striped yellow orchids. Well, I don't suppose you're interested in what we ate and things like that. She hesitated. Was there anything unusual in the conversation? Anything like a quarrel? Dundee prompted. Oh, no! Penny protested. Nothing happened out of the ordinary at all. No, wait! Nita received a letter by messenger, or rather a note, when we were about halfway through luncheon. There was a low, strangled-in-the-throat cry from someone, who had uttered it Dundee could not be sure, since his eyes had been on his notebook, but what had really interrupted Penny Crane was a crash. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Murder at Bridge This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesine Murder at Bridge by Anne Austen Chapter 4 Pardon, awfully sorry. Clive Hammond muttered, as he bent to pick up the fragments of a coloured pottery astray which he and his fiancée, Polly Beale, had been sharing. Don't worry about picking it up. Polly commanded in her brusque voice, but Dundee, listening acutely, was sure of a very slight pause between the two parts of her sentence. He glanced at the couple, the tall, masculine-looking girl, lounging deep in an armchair. Clive Hammond rather unusually good-looking, with his dark red hair, brown eyes, and a face and body as compactly and symmetrically designed, as one of the buildings which had been pointed out to Dundee as the product of the young architect's genius, now resuming his seat upon the arm of the chair. His chief concern seemed to be for another astray, which Sergeant Turner, with a grin, produced from one of the many little tables with which the room was provided. Rather strange that those two should be engaged, Dundee mused. Go on, Miss Crane, the detective urged, as if you were impatient of the delay, about that note or letter. It was, in a blue-gray envelope, with printing or engraving in the upper left-hand corner, Penny went on half-closing her eyes to recapture the scene in its entirety. Like business firms use, she amended. I couldn't help seeing, since I sat so near-neater. She seemed startled, or, well, maybe I'd better say surprised, and a little sore, but she tore it open and read it at a glance almost, which is why I say it must have been only a note. But while she was reading it, she frowned, then smiled as if something had amused, or... She smiled, like any woman reading a love-letter. Caroline Drake interrupted positively. I myself was sure that one of her many admirers had broken an engagement, but had signed himself, with all my love, darling, your own so-and-so. Dundee wondered if even Caroline Drake's husband, the carefully groomed and dignified John C. Drake, bank vice-president, had ever sent her such a note, but he did not let his pencil slow down, for Penny was talking again. I think you're assuming a little too much, Caroline, but let that pass. At any rate, Neeta didn't say a word about the contents of the note, and, naturally, no one asked the question. She simply tucked it into the pocket of her silk-summer coat, which was draped over the back of her chair, and the luncheon went on. Then we all drove over here, and found Polly waiting in her own coupé, in the road in front of the house. She told Neeta she had rung the bell, but the maid Lydia didn't answer, so she had just waited. Neeta didn't seem surprised, said she had a key if Lydia hadn't come back yet. You see, she interrupted herself to explain to Dundee, Neeta had already told us at luncheon that poor darling Lydia, as she called her, had had to go into town, to get an obsessed tooth extracted, and was to wait in the dentist's office until she felt equal to driving herself home again in Neeta's coupé. Yes, Neeta had taken her in herself. She answered the beginning of a question from Dundee. At what time? Dundee queried. I don't know exactly, but Neeta said she'd had to dash away at an ungodly hour, so that Lydia could make her ten o'clock dentist's appointment, and that she herself could get a manicure and a shampoo and have her hair dressed, so I imagine she must have left no later than fifteen or twenty minutes to ten. How did Mrs. Selen get out to break away in, if she left her own car with the maid? You saw her arrive with Lois. Penny reminded him. Neeta had told us all about Lydia's dentist's appointment when she was at my house for dinner Wednesday night. Lois Dunlop contributed. I offered to call for her anywhere she said, and take her out to break away in on my car to-day. I met her at her suggestion in the French hot salon of the shop where she got her shampoo and manicure, Redmond's department store. A large dinner-party, Mrs. Dunlop? Dundee asked. Not large at all, just twelve of us, the crowd here except for Mr. Sprague, Penny and Janet. Who was Mrs. Selen's dinner-partner? Dundee asked. That's right, he isn't here, Lois Dunlop corrected herself. Ralph Hammond brought her and was her dinner-partner. Thank you. No, Penny. You were saying the maid had not returned. Oh, but she had! Penny answered impatiently. If I'm going to be interrupted so much... Well, Neeta rang the bell and Lydia came tying on her apron. Neeta kissed her on the cheek that wasn't swollen and asked her why she hadn't let Polly in, and Lydia said she hadn't heard the bell because she had dropped a sleep in her room in the basement, dopey from the local anesthetic, you know? She explained to Dundee. I see. Dundee acknowledged and underlined heavily another note in his scrawled shorthand. So Lydia took our hats and summer-coats and put them in the hall-closet, and then followed Neeta, who was calling to her, on into Neeta's bedroom. We thought she either wanted to give directions about the makings for the cocktails and the sandwiches, or to console poor Lydia for the awful pain she had had at the dentists, so we didn't intrude. We made a dive for the bridge-tables, found our places, and were ready to play when Neeta joined us. Neeta and Karen—just a minute, Penny. Did any of you, then or later, until Mrs. Marshall discovered the tragedy, go into Mrs. Selam's bedroom? There was no need for us to, Penny told him. There's a lavatory with the dressing-table right behind the staircase. I, for one, didn't go into Neeta's room until after Karen screamed. There was a chorus of similar denials on the part of every woman present. At Dundee's significant pressing of the same question upon the men, he was met with either laconic negatives or sharply indignant ones. All right, Penny, go ahead, please. I was going to tell you how we were seated for a bridge, if that interests you. Penny said, rather tartly. It interests me intensely. Dundee assured her, smiling. Then it was this way. Began Penny, soaring instantly. Karen and Neeta, Carol and I were at this table, and she pointed to the table nearer the hall. Flora, Polly, Janet, and Lois were at the other. We played at those tables all afternoon. We simply pivoted at our own table after the end of each rubber. When Neeta became dummy— Forgive me, Dundee begged, as he interrupted her again. I'd like to ask a question. Mrs. Dunlap, since you were at the other table, perhaps you will tell me what your partner and opponents were doing just before Mrs. Selim became dummy. Lois Dunlap pressed her fingertips into her temples, as if in an effort to remember clearly. It's rather hard to think of bridge now, Mr. Dundee, she said at last, but yes, of course I remember. We had finished a rubber and had decided there would be no time for another, since it was so near 5.30. That last rubber, please, Mrs. Dunlap, Dundee suggested, who were partners, and just when was it finished? Flora, Lois turned toward Mrs. Miles, who had sat with her hands tightly locked, and her great haggard, dark eyes roving tensely from one to another. You and I were partners, weren't we? Of course. Remember you were dummy and I played the hand? You went out to telephone, didn't you? That's right. I remember clearly now. Flora said she had to telephone the house to ask how her two babies, six and four years old they are, Mr. Dundee, and the rosiest dumplings. Well, anyway, Flora went to telephone. In the little foyer between the main hall and Mrs. Selam's room? Yes, of course. Lois Dunlap answered, but Dundee's eyes were upon Flora Miles, and he saw her naturally-sallow face go yellow under its too-thick rouge. I played the hand and made my bid, although Flora and I had gone down four hundred on the hand before. Lois continued with a rueful twinkle in her pleasant grey eyes. When the score was trotted up, I found out one bit after all. Our winnings go to the Foresight Alumni Scholarship Fund," she explained. Yes, I know, Dundee nodded, and then... Polly asked the other table how they stood, and Neeta said, One game to go on this rubber provided we make it. Karen was stealing the cards then, and Neeta was looking very happy. She'd been winning pretty steadily, I think. Pardon, Mrs. Dunlap. How did the players at your table dispose of themselves then? That is, immediately after you had finished playing the last hand, and Mrs. Marshall was dealing at the other table.  Let me think. I know what I did. I went over to watch the game at the other table, and stayed there till Tracy, Mr. Miles, came in for cocktails. I can't tell you exactly what the other three did. There was a strange silence. Dundee saw Polly's scales hand tighten convulsively on Clive Hammons, saw Janet Raymond flush Scarlett watch the muscle jerk in Flora Miles' otherwise rigid face. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. I am going to make what will seem an absurd request," he said tensely. I am going to ask you all—the women, I mean—to take your places at the bridge-tables, and then—he paused for an instant, his blue eyes hard— I want to see the death-hand played exactly as it was played, while Neeta Selam was being murdered. End of Chapter 4 Recorded by Gazenia in September 2007. I don't realize that all of us have stood pretty nearly as much as we can without having to play the hand at bridge, the very hand we played while Neeta Selam was being murdered, then you haven't the decency and human feelings I've credited you with. A murmur of indignant approval accompanied her tirade and buzzed on for a moment after she had finished, but it ceased abruptly as Dundee spoke. Who's conducting this investigation, Penny Cray, you or I? You will kindly let me do it in my own fashion, and try to be content when I tell you that, in my humble opinion, what I propose is absolutely necessary to the solution of this case. Bickering, Dundee grinned to himself, exactly as if they had known each other always, had quarreled and made up with fierce intensity for years. Really, Mr. Dundee, Judge Hugo Marshall began pompously, embracing his young wife protectingly, I must say that I agree with Miss Crane.  Take your places," Dundee ordered curtly. After all, there was a limit to the careful courtesy one must show to Hamilton's inmost circle of society. Penny led the way to the bridge-tables, the very waves of her brown bobs seeming to bristle with futile anger. But she obeyed, Dundee exalted, the way to tame this blessed little shrew had been solved by old Bill Shakespeare centuries ago. As the women took their places at the two tables, arguing a bit among themselves, with semi-hysterical edges to their voices, Dundee watched the men, but all of them, with the exception of Dexter Sprague, that typical son of Broadway, so out of place in this company, had managed at least a fine surface control, their lips tight, their eyes hard, narrowed and watchful. Sprague slumped into a vacated chair and closed his eyes, revealing finely wrinkled, yellowish lids. Where shall we begin? Polly Beale demanded brusquely. Remember, this table had finished playing when Karen began to deal what you call the death-hand. She reminded him scornfully. And Flora wasn't here at all. She had been dummy for our last hand, and had gone out to telephone, Dundee interrupted. Mrs. Miles, will you please leave the room and return exactly when you did return, or as nearly so as you can remember? Dundee was sure that Mrs. Miles's sallow face took on a grayish tinge as she staggered to her feet and wound an uncertain way toward the hall. Tracy Miles sprang to his wife's assistance, but Sergeant Turner took it upon himself to lay a detaining hand on the two anxious husbands' arm. With no more than the lifting of an eyebrow, Dundee made Captain Straughn understand that Flora Miles's movements were to be kept under strict observation. And the chief of the homicide squad, as unobtrusively conveyed the order to a plain clothesman loitering interestingly in the wide doorway. Now, he was answering Polly Beale's question, I should like the remaining three of you to behave exactly as you did when your last hand was finished. Did you keep individual score, as is customary in contract? Or were you playing auction? Contract, Polly Beale answered curtly, and when we're playing among ourselves like this, one at each table is usually elected to keep score. Janet was scorekeeper for us this afternoon, but we all waited after our last hand was played for Janet to give us the result for our tally cards. Dundee drew near the table, picked up the three tally cards, ornamental little affairs and rather expensive, glanced over the points recorded, then asked abruptly. Where is Mrs. Miles's tally? I don't see it here. There was no answer to be had, so he let the matter drop, temporarily, though his shorthand notebook received another deeply underlined series of pothooks. Go on, please, at both tables, Dundee commanded. Your table, he nodded toward Penny, who was already over her flare of temper, will please select the cards each held at the conclusion of Mrs. Marshall's deal. Oh, I'd never remember all my cards in the world, Caroline Drake wailed. I know I had five clubs—Ace, King, Queen— You had the Jack, not the Queen, for I held it myself. Penny contradicted her crisply. Until this matter of who held which cards after Mrs. Marshall's deal is settled, I shall have to ask you all to remain as you are now. Dundee said to the players seated at the other table. At last it was threshed out, largely between Penny Crane and Karen Marshall, the latter proving to have a better memory than Dundee had expected. At last even Caroline Drake's quarrelous fussiness was satisfied or trampled down. Both Judge Marshall and John Drake started forward to inspect the cards, which none of the players was trying to conceal, but Dundee waved them back. Please, I want you men, all of you, to take your places outside and return to this room in the order of your arrival this afternoon. Try to imagine that it is now, if I can trust Mr. Miles's apparently excellent memory, exactly five twenty-five. Pretty hard to do, considering it's now a quarter past seven and there's still no dinner in sight— Tracy Miles grumbled, then brightened— I can come right back in, then, at five twenty-seven, can't I? That point settled, and the men sent away to be watched by several pairs of apparently indolent police eyes. Dundee turned to the bridge-table, neat as leaving of which had provided her murderer with his opportunity. The cards are dealt, Penny reminded him. Now, I want you other three to scatter exactly as you did before, Dundee commanded, hurry and excitement in his voice. Lois Dunlap rose, laid down her tally-card, and strolled over to the remaining table. After a moment's hesitation, Polly Beale strode manishly out of the room, straight into the hall. Dundee, watching as the bridge-players earlier that afternoon certainly had not, was amazed to see Clive Hammond beckoning to her from the open door of the Solarium. So Clive Hammond had arrived ahead of Tracy Miles, had somehow entered the Solarium unnoticed, and had managed to beckon his fiancée to join him there. Prearranged? And why had Clive Hammond failed to enter and greet his hostess first? Moreover, how had he entered the Solarium? But things were happening in the living-room.  Through a window opening on the wide-front porch, Dundee saw the girl take her position against a pillar. Then, a thing she had not done before, very probably, pressed her handkerchief to her trembling lips. But the bidding was going on.   She nodded understandingly. Double, quavered Caroline Drake, next on the left of the dealer, and managed to raise her eyebrows meaningly to Penny, her partner, who had not yet changed places. Penny, throwing herself into the spirit of the thing, scowled warningly. No exchanging of illicit signals for Penny Crane. But the instant she slipped into Nita Salim's chair, her whole face and body took on a different matter. She underwent almost a physical change. She was Nita Salim now. She tucked her head, considered her cards, laughed a little breathless note, then cried triumphantly. And I say, five spades. What do you think of that, partner? Then the girl who was giving an amazing imitation of Nita Salim changed as suddenly into her own character as she had changed chairs. Nita, I don't think it's quite holl to be so jubilant about the strength of your hand, she commented tartly. I pass. Karen Marshall pretended to steady her hand for a frowning instant, then under Penny's spell announced with a pretty air of bravado, six spades, your raise to five makes a little slam obligatory, doesn't it, Nita? Caroline Drake flushed and looked uneasily toward Penny, a bit of bi-play which Dundee could see had not figured in the original game. But she bridled and shifted her plump body in her chair as she must have done before. I double a little slam, she declared, then still acting the role she had played in earnest that afternoon, she explained importantly, I always double a little slam on principle. Penny, in the role of Nita, redoubled with an exultant laugh, and as herself said, pass with a murderous glance at Mrs. Drake.   And it was horrible, even if vitally necessary, for these three to have to go through the farce of playing a bridge hand while one of the original players was lying on a marble slab at the morgue, her cold flesh insensible to the coroner's expert knife. But Dundee said nothing, for Tracey Miles was already hovering in the doorway, ready for his cue to enter. Penny, or rather Nita, was saying, how's this, Karen Darling, as she laid down the ace and deuce of spades, Karen's trumps? I hope you remember your vulnerable, as well as we, Caroline remarked in the sorry imitation of her original cop sureness as she opened the play by leading the ace of clubs. And how's this, partner, a singleton in clubs? Nita's imitator demanded triumphantly as she continued to lay down her dummy hand, slapping the lone nine of clubs down beside trumps. And this little collection of hearts, as she displayed and arranged the king, jack, eight, and four of hearts. And this, as a length of diamonds, ace, jack, ten, eight, seven, and six slithered down the glossy linen cover of the bridge-table toward Karen Marshall. Now, if you don't make your little slam infant, don't dare say I shouldn't have jumped you to five. I figured you for a blank or a singleton in diamonds, and at least the ace of hearts, or you, cautious as you are, wouldn't have made an original three-spade bird without the ace. Hop to it, darling. This is where I enter, Tracey Miles whispered to Dundee, and at an odd from the young detective the pudgy little blond man strode jauntly into the living-room, proud of himself and the role of actor. Hello, everybody. How's Tricks? He called genially, but there was a quiver of horror in his voice under its blitheness. Penny was quite pale when she sprang from her chair, but her voice seemed to be neat as very own, as she sang out. It can't be five-thirty already. Thank heaven I'm dummy, and can run away and make myself pretty pretty for you and all the other great big men, Tracey, darling. Dundee's keen memory registered the slight difference in the wording of the greeting as reported by this pseudo-Nita and the man she was running to meet. But Penny, as Nita was already straightening Tracey Miles' necktie with possessive, coquettish fingers, was coaxing with head tucked alluringly.  The makings are all on the sideboard, or I don't know my precious old Lydia, even if her poor jaw does ache most horribly. Then Penny, as Nita was on her way, pausing in the doorway to blow a kiss from her fingertips to the fatuously grinning but now quite pale Tracey Miles. She was out of sight for only an instant, then reappeared and very quietly retraced her steps to the bridge-table. Unobtrusively, Dundee drew his watch from his pocket, palmed it as he noted the exact minute, then commanded curtly, on with the game. As Tracey Miles passed the first bridge-table, Mrs. Dunlop linked her arm in his, saying in a voice she tried to make gay and natural, I'm trailing along, Tracey, simply dying for a nip of scotch. Nita's is the real stuff, which is more than my fussy old Pete can get half the time, and you know I loathe cocktails. The two passed on into the dining-room, the players scarcely raising their eyes from their cards, which they held as if the game were real. Dundee, his watch still in his hand, was at the bridge-table. Strolling from player to player, he made mental photographs of each hand, then took his stand behind Penny's chair to observe the horribly farcical playing of it. Poor little Penny, he reflected, she hadn't a chance against that dumb-bell across the table from her. Fancy anyone's doubling a little slam-bid on a hand like Carolyn Drake's, or even calling an informatory double in the first place. Why hadn't she bid four clubs to Karen's original three-spade bid if she simply wanted to give her partner information? Not that she really had a bid. Karen's hand trembled as she drew the lone nine of clubs from the dummy to place beside Carolyn's ace. But Penny's fingers were quite steady as she followed with the deuce of clubs, to which Karen added with a trace of characteristic uncertainty the eighth. There's our book, Carolyn Drake Exalted Immediately, but she cast an apologetic glance toward Penny. If we take one more trick, we set them. That chance, Penny obligingly responded, and Dundee, relieved, knew that the farcical game would now be played almost exactly, and with the same comments as it had been played while Nita Salim was being murdered. Thanks to Penny Crane. With a shame-faced glance upward at Dundee, Carolyn Drake then led the deuce of diamonds, committing the gross tactical error of leading from the queen. Karen added the jack from the dummy, and Penny shruggingly contributed her king to find the trick, as she had suspected in the original game, trumped by the five of spades since Karen had no diamonds. So that settles us, Carolyn, Penny commented acidly. Her partner rose to the role she was playing. Well, as I said, I always double a little slam on principle. Besides, how could I know they would have a chance for cross-ruffing in both clubs and diamonds? I thought she would at least hold the ace of diamonds and that Karen would certainly have one, as I only had four. Penny shrugged. Oh, well, let's play bridge, for Karen was staring at her cards helplessly. Sorry, Karen, I realize a postmortem is usually held after the playing of a hand, not before. I—I guess I'd better get my trumps out. Karen, now almost a genuine actress, too, breathed tremulously. I do wish Nita were playing this hand. I know I'll muff it somehow.  The girl threw an upward glance of gratitude through misty eyes, then led the six of spades, Mrs. Drake contributing the four, Dummy taking the trick with the ace, and Penny relinquishing the three. Let's see—that makes five of them since I trumped one trick, as Karen said, as she reached across the table to lead from Dummy. As if the words were a cue, which they probably were, Judge Marshall entered the room at that moment, making a great effort to be as jaunty, debonair, and young for his age as he must have thought he looked when he made his entrance when the real game was being played.  I'm trying to make a little slam, I may have been foolish to bid, but need a jump to me from three to five spades. Let's have a look, sweetheart, the retired judge suggested pompously, and Dundee gave way to make room for him behind Karen's chair. But before Judge Marshall looked at his wife's cards he bent and kissed her on her flushed cheek, and Karen raised a trembling hand to tweak his gray mustache. Dundee, with an uplifted eyebrow, queried Penny, who nodded shortly, conveying the information that this was the way the scene had really been played when there was no question of acting. I'm getting out my trumps, darling," Karen confided sweetly as she reached for the deuce of spades, the only remaining trump in the dummy. What's your hurry, child? Her husband asked indulgently. Lead this! And he pointed toward the six of diamonds. I wish you'd get a puncture, Hugo, so you couldn't have butted in before this hand was played, Carolyn Drake sputtered. Remember, this is a little slam bid, doubled and redoubled. I should think you would like to forget that, Carolyn," Penny commented bitingly. But I agree with Carolyn, Hugo, that Karen is quite capable of making her little slam without your assistance. Please don't mind, Karen begged. Hugo just wanted to help me because I'm such a dub at bridge. The finest little player in town, Judge Marshall encouraged her gallantly, but with a jaunty wink she said belligerent, Penny. Smiling adoringly at him again, Karen took a suggestion and led the six of diamonds from the dummy. Penny covered it with the nine, Karen roughed with the seven of spades from her own hand, and Mrs. Drake lugubriously contributed the four of diamonds. I can get my trumps out now, can't I, Hugo? Karen asked deprecatingly. And, at her husband's smiling permission, she led the king of spades. Carolyn had to give up the jack, which she must have fooled as she thought would take a trick. The dummy contributed the deuce, and Penny followed her with her own last trump, the eight.  Why not simply tell us, Karen, that the rest of the trumps are in your own hand? Penny suggested costically. I—I didn't mean to do anything wrong, Karen pleaded, as she led now with the ten of hearts, drew in Carolyn's queen to cover, Carolyn murmuring religiously, always cover in honor with an honor, or should I have played secondhand low, Penny, topped by the king and the dummy, the trick being completed by Penny's three of hearts. At that point, John C. Drake marched into the room, strode straight to Dundee, and spoke with cold anger. Enough of this nonsense! I, for one, refuse to act like a puppet for your amusement. Chapter 6 Of Murder at Bridge This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Murder at Bridge by Ann Austin. Chapter 6 Before Drake had reached his side, his purpose plain upon his stern, rather ascetic features, Dundee had taken a hasty glance at the watch, cupped in his palm, and noted the exact minute and second of the interruption. Time out! One moment, Mr. Drake, he said calmly, I quite agree with you from your viewpoint. What mine is, you can't be expected to know. But believe me when I say that I consider it of vital importance to the investigation of the murder of Mrs. Celine, that this particular bridge-hand, with all its attending remarks, the usual bickering, and its interruptions of arriving guests for cocktails, be played out exactly as it was this afternoon. I thought I had made myself clear before. If you don't wish me to believe that you have something to conceal by refusing to take part in a rather grisly game, certainly I have nothing to conceal, John C. Drake snorted angrily. Then please bow as gracefully as possible to necessity, Dundee urged without rancor. And may I ask, before we go on, if you made your entrance at this time and the facts of your arrival? Drake considered a moment, gnawing a thin upper lip. Beads of sweat stood on his high, narrow forehead. I walked over from the country club after eighteen holes of golf with your superior, the district attorney. Drake answered with nasty emphasis. I left the clubhouse at five-ten, calculating that it would take me about twenty minutes for the walk-of of about a mile. Dundee made a mental note to find out exactly how far from this lonely house in permerose meadows the country club actually was. But his next question was along another line. You walked, Mr. Drake, after eighteen holes of golf on a warm day? Drake flushed. My wife had the car. I had driven out with Mr. Sanderson, but he was called away by a long-distance message. I lingered at the club for a while, chatting and having a cool drink or two, and then I set out a foot. No one offered you a lift? Dundee inquired, swobbly. No, I presumed my fellow members thought I had my car with me, and for a lift, for I rather fancied the idea of a walk across the meadows. I see," said Dundee thoughtfully. Now, as to your arrival here, I walked in. The door had been left on the latch, as it usually is, when a party is on. Drake explained coolly. And I was just entering the room when I heard my wife make the remark about covering an honour with an honour, and then her question of penny as to whether she should have played it. So you entered this time at the correct moment, said Dundee. Now, Mr. Drake, I am going to ask you to re-enter the room and do exactly as you did upon your arrival at approximately five-thirty-three. I am sure you would not willingly hamper me, or my superior, in this investigation. Drake wheeled ungraciously and returned to the doorway, while Dundee again consulted his watch, mentally subtracting the minutes which had been wasted upon this interruption, from the time he had marked upon his memory as the moment at which Drake had interfered. But an undercurrent of skepticism nagged at his mind. Why had Drake chosen to walk? And why had he taken him from five-ten to approximately five-thirty-three to walk a mile or less? The average walker, and especially one accustomed to playing golf, could have easily covered a mile in fifteen minutes, instead of the twenty-three minutes Drake had admitted to. Because a mile, was it possible that the banker loved wildflowers? With head-up aggressively, Drake was undoubtedly making an effort to throw himself into the role, or perhaps into a role chosen on the spot. Where is everybody, he called from the doorway? Am I early?  Silently Drake took his place behind his wife's chair, laying a hand affectionately upon her shoulder. Dundee, watching closely, saw Penny's eyes widen with something like shocked surprise. So Drake was trying to deceive him, counting on the oneness of this group his closest friends. Karen, obviously flustered, too, reached to the dummy for the ace of diamonds, to which Penny played the three, Karen herself discarding the ten of clubs, and Mrs. Drake the five of diamonds. You asked no questions, Mr. Drake? Dundee interpolated. The banker flushed again. I—yes, I believe I did. Caroline, Mrs. Drake, explained that Karen was playing for a little slam in spades, and that she had doubled on principle, he added acidly, a voice which Mrs. Drake must be very well accustomed to, Dundee surmised. And when I told you that Nita had redoubled it and looked as if she was going to make it, Caroline Drake whimpered and shifted her short, stout body in the little bridged chair, you said, why not tell the truth? You said it was just like me, and I might as well take to tatting at bridge parties. That was said jokingly, my dear, Drake retorted, with a coldness that tried to be affectionate warmth. Play bridge, Dundee commanded, sure that the approximate length of the previous dispute had now been taken up, the short Caroline Drake had made. Then he checked himself, again looking at his watch. And what did you answer to your husband's little joke, Mrs. Drake? I—I—the woman looked helplessly around the table, her slate-coloured eyes reddened with tears, then she plunged recklessly after a fearful glance at Dundee's implacable face. I said that if it was Nita he was talking to, he wouldn't speak in that tone, that she could make all the foolish mistakes of overbidding or revoking or doubling that she wanted to, and he wouldn't say a word except to praise her. Then I might as well confess, Drake said acidly, that I answered substantially as follows. Nita is an intelligent bridge-player as well as a charming woman, my dear. Now make the most of that little family tiff, sir, and be damned to you. Did that end the scene, Mrs. Drake? Dundee asked gently. I—I said something about all the men Nita was perfect, Mrs. Drake confessed, and I cried a little, but we went on with the hand. And Johnny, Mr. Drake went away, walking up and down the room, waiting for Nita to come back, I suppose. Then go on with the game, Dundee ordered. Silently now, as silently as the real game must have been played, because of the embarrassing scene between husband and wife, the sinister game was carried to its conclusion. Karen led the jack of hearts from the dummy.  Again Karen led from the dummy, with the four of hearts, followed by Penny's nine, taking it with her own ace, Mrs. Drake throwing off the five of clubs. Karen then led the six of hearts, Carol and Drake discarded the six of clubs, Dummy took the trick with the eight of hearts, and Penny sloughed the three of clubs. With a faint imitation of the triumph with which she had played the hand the first time, Karen threw down her remaining three trumps. I've made it, a little slam. She tried to sound very triumphant. Doubled and redoubled, how much did I, did Nita and I make, Penny? Plenty. But before putting pencil to score pad, Penny cupped her chin in her hands and stared at Caroline Drake. I'd like to know, Caroline, if it isn't one of your most cherished secrets, what possessed you to double in the first place? Caroline Drake flushed scarlet as she protested feebly. I thought, of course, I could take two club tricks with my ace and king. That's why I doubled the little slam, of course. And my first double simply meant that I had one good suit. I thought, if you could bid all that my two doubletons— Oh, what's the use, Penny groaned. But may I remind you that it is not bridged to lead from a queen? You led the deuce of diamonds when, of course, the play, since you had seen the ace in the dummy, was to leave your queen, forcing the ace and leaving my king guarded to take a trick later. But Karen didn't have any diamonds at all, Caroline defended herself. A secret you weren't in on when you led from your queen, Penny reminded her.  She made a pretense of totting up the score while Karen, who had risen, stood over her like a bird poised for flight. At that instant Dexter Sprague began to advance into the room, Janet Raymond at his side, her face flaming. Behave exactly as you did before, Dundee commanded in a harsh whisper, no time for coddling these people now. Dexter Sprague's face took on a yellower tinge, but he obeyed. Greetings, he called in the jaunty, over-cordial tones of a man who knows himself not too welcome. Where's Nita, and everybody? Hail, shaker, I hear. Having received no answer from anyone present, Sprague strolled through the living room and on into the dining room, Janet following. Judge Marshall had nodded stiffly, and John C. Drake had muttered the semblance of a greeting. Were they all overdoing it a bit, this reacting of their hostility to the sole remaining outsider of their little compact group, Dundee stroked his chin thoughtfully. But Penny was saying in her abrupt husky voice, above the line, twelve hundred and fifty, below the line, seven hundred and twenty, making a total of nineteen hundred and seventy on this hand, Karen. Won't Nita be glad?  But in the hall she collapsed, shuddering, crying in a child's whimper. No, no, I can't go in there again. It was Dundee who reached her first. Dundee and not her outraged and excited old husband. Mrs.  You have been splendid, wonderful. Please believe that I am truly sorry to distress you, and that very soon I hope you may go home and rest. I can't bear any more, Karen whimpered. Ignoring Judge Marshall's blustering, Dundee continued softly. You don't want the wrong person to be accused of this terrible crime, do you, Mrs. Marshall? Of course not, and you do want to help us all you can to discover who really killed Mrs. Saleem. I suppose so, Karen conceded, on a sob. Then I'll help you.  To the others, he spoke sharply. Go back to the exact positions in living room and dining room and solarium that you occupied when Mrs. Marshall ran from the room. I think you're overdoing it, Bonnie, Captain Straughn, protested. But sure I'll see that they mind you. With Karen Marshall clinging to his arm, Dundee walked down the hall, beyond the staircase to an open door on his left, a door guarded by a lounging, plain clothesman. Seated at the dressing table of the guest lavatory was Flora Miles. Her sallow, dark face so ravaged that she looked ten years older than when he had first seen her an hour before. So you were in here when you heard Mrs. Marshall scream, Mrs. Miles? Dundee paused to ask. Yes, yes, she gasped, rising, and that horrible man has made me stay in here. Of course, the door was closed before. I telephoned home to ask about my children, and then I came in here to do my face over. You didn't hear your husband arrive? No, I didn't hear him arrive, Flora Miles faltered, her handkerchief dabbing at her trembling overroaged lips. I see, Dundee said, slowly. He stepped into the little room, leaving Karen to stand weakly against the doorframe. Without a word to Mrs. Miles he looked closely at the top of the dressing table and into the small waste-basket that stood beside it. You can see that I cold-creamed my face before I put on fresh powder and rouged, Flora Miles pointed out, with an obvious effort at offended dignity. After I came back, while you were making those poor girls play the hand over again, I went through the same motions, because you told all of us to behave exactly as we had done before. I see, Dundee agreed. Pretty clever, in spite of being almost frightened to death, Dundee said to himself. But he didn't know what to do with her, because he had been in this room ahead of her, and there had been no balls of greasy face tissue in the waste-basket then. He was passing out of the room, offering his arm to Karen, when one of his underlined notes thrust itself upon his memory. May I see your bridge-tally, please, Mrs. Miles? My bridge-tally, she echoed blankly. Why, it must be on the table where I was playing. My handbag? And he glanced at the rather large Rafia bag that lay on the table. She snatched it up, slightly averting her body as she looked tastefully through its contents. It isn't here. Oh, I don't know where it is. What does it matter? Without replying, Dundee escorted the trembling little discoverer of Nita Saleem's body into the large ornate bedroom, murmuring as he did so. Don't be frightened, Mrs. Marshall. The bod—I mean, Mrs. Saleem—isn't here now, and you shan't have to scream. I'll give the signal myself. I just want you to go through the same motions you did before. On jerky feet, the girl advanced to Nita's now-deserted vanity-dresser. I was calling to her all the time, she whispered. I didn't even wait to knock, and I began to tell her how much we'd made off that hand, when she didn't answer. I didn't touch her, but I saw—I saw—again she gripped her face with her hands and was about to scream. I know, Dundee assured her gently. Then he shouted, Ready! Hurried by Strawn, the small crowd of men and women came running into the room, Judge Marshall leading the way, Penny being second in line. Penny second. Why not Flora Miles who had been nearer to that room than any of the others? But all had crowded into the room, including Polly Beale and Clive Hammond, before Mrs. Miles crept in. Is this the order of your arrival? Dundee asked them all. Penny, who was standing against the wall just inside the doorway, spoke up, staring at Flora with frowning intentness.   I didn't even go near Nita, and I know you remember that Tracy stepped away from the body and called you and you weren't here. And then almost the next minute I saw you coming toward him from over there. And Penny pointed toward that corner of the room which held, on one angle, the door leading to the porch, and on its other angle the window from which, or from near which, Nita Salim had been shot. You're lying, Penny Crane. I did no such pride hysterically. I came running in with the rest of you and I rushed over here just to see if I could see anybody running away across the meadow. My wife is right, sir. Tracy Miles added his word aggressively. I saw what she was doing, the most sensible of all of us, and I ran to join her. We looked out of the windows, both on the side windows and the rear ones, and out onto the porch. But we didn't see anything. And you were the only one to touch her, Sprague? I believed so, Dexter Sprague answered in a strained voice. I laid my hand on her, her hair for an instant, then I picked up her hand to see if there was any pulse left. Yes. She was dead. And her hand, did it feel cold? Neither cold nor warm, just cool, Sprague answered in a voice that was nearly strained to me. She always had cool hands. What did you do, Judge Marshall? Dundee asked abruptly. I took my poor little wife away from this room, laid her on a couch in the living room, and then telephoned the police. Miss Crane stood at my elbow, urging me to hurry, so that she might ring you as she did. Your line was busy, and she lost about five minutes before getting you. I'm afraid, Mr. Dundee, polybeel answered in her brusque deep voice, now edged with scorn. Further questioning elicited little more, beyond the fact that Clive Hammond had dashed out to circle the house and look over the grounds, and that John Drake had been fully occupied with an hysterical wife. Better let this bunch go for the present, hadn't we, boy? Captain Straughn whispered uneasily. Not a thing on any mind, Dundee answered in a low voice. Will you take them back into the living room, and put them under sergeant Turner's charge for a while? Then there are one or two things I'd like to talk over with you. Molified by the younger man's deference and persuasiveness, Straughn obeyed the suggestion to return within five minutes his gray brows drawn into a frown. I hope you'll be willing to take full credit for that full bridge game, Bonnie," he worried. Looks like a chump in the newspapers. I'll take the blame," Dundee assured him, with a grin.  For instance," Straughn growled. For instance," Dundee answered, it told me that it took approximately eight minutes to play out a little slam bid when ordinarily it would have taken the name of everyone in this party who could have killed Nita Salim. And good lord, of course!" And to Captain Straughn's amazement, Dundee threw open the door of Nita's big clothes-closet, jerked on the light, and stooped to the floor.