The Dishonest Murderer Read Online Free Page A

North’s eyes and, as she slipped out of the group after a polite moment, realized that she had not, for some minutes, worried about anything. She realized this when the shadow of disappointment returned, for a fraction of a second merely as that, then as more tangible anxiety.
    It was well after eleven and Bruce Kirkhill had not come. Now her mind sought little explanations to cling to—he had taken a later train, and the train was late; he had come earlier for a meeting of some sort, and could not get out of it. Not good enough, her mind answered. Not nearly good enough. He would have telephoned. Tonight he would have telephoned, of all nights, because this was their party, because—
    She heard a voice she recognized in the foyer, went from the group she was in almost without apology and crossed the room.
    â€œHowdie!” she said. “Howdie! Has something happened?”
    The man she spoke to was no taller than she. He was square faced; he had wide-spaced eyes and an expression of candor. Now he looked at Freddie Haven, smiled at her, shook his head and raised trim eyebrows.
    â€œHappened?” he said. “What do you mean, Freddie?”
    His voice was low and musical; it seemed, perhaps almost too large for the man. But Freddie Haven, used to it, and to him, did not remember she once had thought that.
    â€œBruce isn’t here,” she said. “He isn’t at the hotel.”
    The open face opposite her own was momentarily shadowed, as if by perplexity. The shadow vanished quickly.
    â€œA slip-up,” he told her. “Of course he’s at the hotel. I—” He broke off.
    â€œDid you see him there?” Freddie said.
    The man shook his head, slowly.
    â€œActually,” he said, “I didn’t see him. I got in this morning, you know. I checked on the reservations and checked in myself. I didn’t get back to the Waldorf until after ten and just changed and came on, figuring he’d be here already.”
    â€œI’m worried,” Freddie said. “It isn’t like him. He hasn’t called.”
    â€œMy dear,” the man said. “Nothing happens to the chief. He could have been tied up in Washington, so far as that goes.”
    â€œAnd not have wired? Or telephoned?”
    â€œWell—” he said. “Anyway, nothing’s happened to him.” He smiled, widely. “The chief can take care of himself,” he said. “You ought to know that, Freddie.”
    She said, “Of course,” but the worry was still in her voice. It was still in her mind.
    â€œI’ll check the hotel,” he said. He smiled again, making little of it. “Maybe he dozed off,” he said.
    Freddie Haven took him to the telephone in the library; stood beside him as he dialed the hotel, asked to speak to Senator Bruce Kirkhill.
    He listened and said, “Nonsense.”
    â€œOf course he’s registered,” he said. “Let me talk to the manager. This is the senator’s secretary, Howard Phipps. It’s important.”
    Phipps turned to smile at Freddie Haven. “Pull rank on ’em,” he said. “If—yes? Oh—”
    He talked quickly, with authority, then with an increasing puzzlement in his voice. Finally he said: “Ask him to call me at” and looked at the number on the telephone and repeated it. “Vice Admiral Satterbee’s apartment,” he added. He hung up. For a moment his face was shadowed again; then he became, in an instant, very cheerful.
    â€œNot there,” he said. “Hasn’t checked in. But don’t worry. Nothing happens to the chief. Hell—probably he’s out there now, looking for you.” Howard Phipps jerked his head toward the living room. “Come on,” he said. “Probably he thinks you’ve stood him up.”
    But Bruce Kirkhill was not in the living room. It was almost eleven-thirty, the year was running out; for