The Dishonest Murderer Read Online Free Page B

Freddie, the party was running out. But the party was still there; it was still her party. She went on about the party, smiling, being a hostess. Her lips tired, forming the smile. Her voice tired, saying nothing gaily; her mind tired, straining for a familiar voice from the foyer. Not many were coming, now.
    â€œI am sorry,” Mrs. North was saying. “It’s a lovely party, but we do have to—” Mrs. North’s voice stopped. It started again. “You’re worried, Mrs. Haven,” Pam North said. “Aren’t you? Something’s happened?”
    â€œI—” Freddie began, and almost went on, because there was so much reality, so much friendliness, in Mrs. North’s question. But then she only smiled and shook her head.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Pam North said. “Of course it isn’t. Jerry says I—” Then, in turn, she stopped, and smiled and shook her head.
    â€œIt’s a lovely party,” Mrs. North said after that. “We hate to leave, but I’m afraid—” She left the sentence unfinished and smiled again. Mr. North was beside them, and the admiral. The admiral looked at Freddie, quickly, worry on his face. She shook her head at him. She said, to Mr. and Mrs. North, the things a hostess says, and found, suddenly, that she meant them. She did not want this friendly slim woman, who so outdistanced you if you went from word to word, whose interest was so oddly bright and undisguised, to leave the party. But she walked with the Norths to the foyer and watched them go. The old year had less than half an hour left for its running out.

II
    Friday, 11:35 P.M. to Saturday, 2:10 A.M.
    Freddie turned back toward the living room, and Celia was waiting for her. Freddie changed her expression when she saw Celia’s face, wiping the look of worry from her own. Celia was slender and very young, her blond hair hung rather long, almost to her shoulders. She had blue eyes which now sought reassurance.
    â€œYou’re worried about Dad,” Celia said. “Where is he, Freddie?”
    â€œHeld up somewhere,” Freddie said, making her voice light, casual. “Seeing a politician about another politician.”
    â€œSomewhere,” Celia repeated. “You don’t know, then? You haven’t heard anything?”
    â€œHe’s all right, Ce,” Freddie said. “Nothing happens to the chief.”
    â€œHowdie said that to you,” Celia told her. “But I know Dad planned to be here. Early if anything. I’m worried, Freddie. But Curt says—”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” Freddie said, too quickly. “Of course it’s nothing, dear. Whatever Curt said is right. Howdie’s right.”
    â€œHe’d telephone,” Celia Kirkhill said. “Dad always—always remembers. Doesn’t he?”
    â€œNot—” Freddie began, and realized that would be wrong. “Usually,” she said. “But he’s all right, Ce.” She made herself laugh. “After all,” she said, “we’ve got to let him be late now and then, Ce. We can’t—” She raised her square white shoulders, let them fall, let them finish the sentence.
    â€œCurt,” Freddie said then, glad of the chance, to a tall young man who came to stand beside Celia Kirkhill, to whom, as Freddie spoke, Celia turned instinctively, her face lighting. “You haven’t got a drink! I’ll get Watkins.”
    She looked for Watkins, saw a maid with a tray of champagne glasses. It was almost time, then. Her head summoned the maid. “What time is it, Curt?” she said.
    â€œTu-twenty minutes of,” Curtis Grainger said. He was tall and thin, his hair, blond as Celia’s, was short, upstanding on his long head. “Almost t-t-time.”
    It was not exactly a stutter; it was a kind of hesitating, uneasily, on the brink of a word. Once, she supposed, Curtis Grainger must have