The Judge Is Reversed by Frances Lockridge Page A

“since it was nearest for us, it was nearest for them, too. And why should they go off and eat separately—He’s talking a blue streak, isn’t he?”
    Doug Mears, facing the girl with dark red hair at a table for two in the most distant corner of the dim room, did appear to be talking a blue streak. He seemed to be talking earnestly; he leaned forward over the table to talk. They could see only the back of Hilda Latham’s head. She was, also, leaning a little forward, apparently to listen. Once she shook her head; a little later she nodded her head.
    â€œAttentive,” Pam said. “The story of his life, do you suppose? Or—of theirs?”
    Jerry North abandoned the mirror in favor of his wife. He said, “Huh?”
    â€œI thought so when he first came in,” Pam said. “Then I wasn’t sure. But of course you don’t get mad at somebody you don’t like.”
    Jerry thought of saying “Huh?” again, but decided against it. He knew what Pam meant. He guessed. This is a condition with which he is familiar.
    â€œIf he was jealous of Mr. Blanchard,” Pam said, “it would be a very different dish of tea, wouldn’t it? Or possibly of arsenic. Poor young man in love with a rich girl. Proud, of course. Wouldn’t dream of living on his wife’s money.”
    â€œThe more fool he,” Jerry said. “You think if you’d had money, I’d have had qualms?”
    â€œI think,” Pam said, “you’d have brought the subject up weeks before you did.” She considered. “Except then we hadn’t met then, had we? I mean, when I say weeks—”
    â€œI know,” Jerry said. “Go on with the synopsis, Pam. Poor but reasonably honest young tennis player—”
    â€œLoses a match which would have got him a professional offer,” Pam said. “Meanwhile, back on the farm.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œThe corn grows,” Pam said. “All the same—it does, you know. He would have had enough money to propose. But—while he waits, Mr. Blanchard is making hay. On the same farm.”
    â€œTo roll in,” Jerry said, gravely.
    â€œWhat a mind,” Pam said. “So the wounded tennis player—why do I say ‘wounded’?”
    â€œSomebody,” Jerry said, “wrote a book about one. With a title like that, as I recall. Years ago. So Mears?”
    â€œDecides that the foot-fault calls were part of a scheme to keep him from getting a good contract, and so from marrying the girl, so that Blanchard can marry her instead. So, naturally, he kills Blanchard.”
    â€œMost natural,” Jerry said. “Shall I order another rut?”
    Pam thought not. She thought spaghetti, in a small dose, to be followed by scallopini. Mario, reflected in the mirror, held up two fingers and raised eyebrows. Jerry shook his head and Mario’s mobile features reflected shocked surprise. But he came and Jerry ordered.
    â€œOnly,” Pam said, “I wonder if she is, really? Because you’ll have to admit it’s a long way from anywhere.”
    Jerry blinked rapidly. He said he guessed he was a little slow on the uptake, but—?
    â€œRich,” Pam said. “The apartment. Do you want me to spell it out?”
    â€œPlease,” Jerry said. “I’m sorry, but please.”
    â€œThe Blanchard apartment,” Pam said, and spoke slowly, to a backward child. “The Blanchard apartment is what is called to hell and gone. From any place a girl like Hilda would want to go.” She paused. “Except possibly Columbia University,” she said. “We’ll leave that out. All right?”
    â€œEntirely. Leave it out.”
    â€œShe’d come in town,” Pam said, “to shop. Or go to the theater. She wouldn’t get above—oh, say Fifty-seventh. But she does go way up on Riverside Drive to spend the night. Why not a hotel? The