Murder Has Its Points by Frances and Richard Lockridge Page A

comes as a surprise to delight the mind.” It appeared that Faith Constable, offstage, had other methods.
    â€œMrs. North,” Faith said, “I know that you and your husband sometimes”—she hesitated momentarily for a word—“help the police. Everybody knows that.”
    She ought to say that to Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley, Pam thought briefly. He’d tell her a thing or two. On the other hand—
    â€œIt’s—just happened,” Pam said. “Only because once a long time ago we found somebody in a bathtub.” She considered the structure of her explanation. “Somebody’s dead body,” Pam said. “So we met Bill Weigand and—” She felt herself drifting. “All right,” Pam North said. “And what, Mrs. Constable?”
    But she was quite certain she knew what. “Occupation: Conduit.” She would put that down next time, instead of “Housewife.” Or, perhaps, “Go-between.”
    â€œIf you want to know what the police think,” Pam said, “shouldn’t you ask the police? If—”
    â€œMrs. North,” Faith said, “please don’t be cross with me.”
    She said this very simply, as one might ask a favor. She looked at Pam steadily, and there was simplicity in the way she looked at Pam. Pam was sure it was—Of course, she was an actess and—
    â€œI’m sorry,” Pam said. “I’m not cross. I don’t really know what the police think. Bill—that’s Captain Weigand—” Faith nodded her head. “Says that probably it was only a sniper. That your—that Mr. Payne—was a target. Not anything more. But—”
    â€œMy former husband,” Faith Constable said, “had an ability to get himself disliked. I know that. I ought to know. I learned, very rapidly, to dislike him heartily. Mrs. North, Willings is a great writer.”
    People of the theater use the word “great” with easy familiarity. But Faith, using it in this connection, used it as if she meant it. It was not, however, entirely clear what she meant by it.
    â€œI don’t know him,” she said. “Oh—I’ve met him. That isn’t it.” She smiled suddenly, and the smile changed her face, brought the shimmer back to her. “Kids want autographs,” she said. “They wriggle and titter and go eek! and they’re rather a nuisance and, sometimes, rather sweet. I’d like to be a kid and wriggle and titter and say, ‘Please, Mr. Willings?’” She paused and the smile changed. “Not really,” she said. “A way of putting it. They’ll suspect him, won’t they? Because of this childish brawl. And—the indignity.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Pam said. “I don’t—”
    â€œHe’s too important to be—damaged,” Faith said. “Even if—” She stopped; very obviously, she stopped herself, abruptly, on check-rein.
    â€œIf you mean,” Pam said, and now she was direct, as simply direct, as Faith Constable had unexpectedly become, “even if he killed Mr. Payne—no, Mrs. Constable. There aren’t that kind of exceptions.”
    Faith Constable was shaking her head seconds before Pam finished. But she let Pam finish.
    â€œI didn’t mean that,” she said, then. “Something quite different. It’s—” She stopped again, but this time, Pam thought, for her mind to choose the words it wanted. “If Willings did kill Tony,” she said, “there’s nothing to be done about it. It’ll be tragic, but there’ll be nothing to be done about it. Tony’s as well dead—oh, nobody’s as well dead, I shouldn’t say that—Tony wasn’t really much of anybody, and Willings may write a dozen books, and everybody’ll gain by them. Every body.”
    It didn’t matter if she overstated, Pam