Death Has a Small Voice by Frances Lockridge Page B

the rounds of advisory readers. “Just to get things moving,” Rogers explained. “In the end, I’d have made the recommendation to Mr. Wilmot, and he’d have decided. But with her name—” He shrugged, and looked at Jerry North. Jerry nodded.
    The first advisory reader had recommended publication, although he had qualified his approval. In some respects, it was a characteristic first novel. It was obviously autobiographical. Then it had gone to Professor Bernard Wilson. He had returned the manuscript a few days earlier. “Last Friday,” Rogers said. It had not been seen since.
    Wilson had personally returned the manuscript, leaving it with the receptionist in the outer office. He had also brought along his report, in a separate envelope. The receptionist had given him a receipt for the manuscript and put it on her desk, along with the report. “He’s very enthusiastic about the book,” Rogers added.
    This was in the middle of the afternoon. The receptionist was busy; the afternoon was busy. She had left her desk frequently to announce the more important of the visitors. It was late in the afternoon that she noticed the manuscript was missing, although the envelope containing Wilson’s favorable report was still on the desk.
    â€œAnd, reasonably enough, she supposed, somebody had picked it up,” Rogers said. “One of our people, I mean. She was so sure that she didn’t even mention it until Monday. It took most of Monday to find out that none of us had taken it. So—” He shrugged. “The point is,” he said, “nobody steals a manuscript. What would be the point?”
    Nevertheless, somebody had taken, if “stolen” was too strong a word, the manuscript of Hilda Godwin’s novel.
    â€œI didn’t hear of it until late this afternoon, as I said,” Rogers told them. “And then—then I got worried. I kept trying to reach Hil—Miss Godwin and finally I came down here. She didn’t answer so—well, I found the door was unlocked. I came in and called her a couple of times and then started to look around.” He looked around now, from Bill Weigand to Jerry North to Sergeant Aloysius Mullins. His expression suggested they make something of it.
    â€œFor another copy of the typescript?” Jerry suggested.
    â€œFor that,” Rogers said. “For Hilda herself. For anything I could find. I was worried.”
    â€œAbout the manuscript?” Bill suggested. There was a certain note in his voice. Rogers looked at him.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “About Hilda. It’s nobody’s business but ours, but we’re—” he hesitated momentarily—“planning to get married. That’s really why I know she didn’t go south without telling me. I know she’s all right, of course but—” He let it hang.
    â€œYou’re sure the door was unlocked when you came?” Bill Weigand asked. “That you came here, just on a chance, and just happened to find the door unlocked?”
    He waited; he very obviously waited, very sceptically waited. After a moment the tall, youngish man flushed again.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “I’ve got a key. I didn’t say so because you’d misunderstand. It’s—Hilda and I are going to get married.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “You told us that. Well—did you find anything here? In the basement, say?”
    â€œI just started there,” Rogers said. “I looked down here, then upstairs. For her copy of the manuscript, I mean. She has a filing case down in the basement for old manuscripts and I was looking there. Then I heard you come in and—”
    â€œDecided to wait us out,” Bill told him.
    â€œAll right,” Rogers said. “But I got cramped and moved and hit a box or something.”
    â€œAlthough for all you knew we might have been anybody,” Bill