The Judge Is Reversed by Frances Lockridge Page B

Pierre? The St. Regis? Come to that, the Waldorf? Or the Barclay? The Barclay’s nice.”
    â€œVery,” Jerry said. But now there was, in his voice, a note of consideration.
    â€œPrecisely,” Pam said. “The kind of hotel she’d want to stay at would cost money. If daddy’s got it in piles, it’s one thing. If he hasn’t, it’s another. Riverside Drive. Free night’s lodging, except for taxi fares. And there are buses.”
    â€œYou’ve heard,” Jerry said. “But—it is a point, Pam. Meanwhile, back on the farm—”
    â€œThe corn’s as high as,” Pam said. “Go on.”
    â€œThe farm in Southampton,” Jerry said. “Genteel poverty in a mansion. Beautiful daughter into the breach. Marry an older, but rich, man and restore the family fortunes. Lips a little stiff, of course. Particularly the upper. Smile a little forced. Indicating broken heart. Duty before love. I must put you out of my life forever. It is the only way.”
    â€œThe things you must read,” Pam North said.
    â€œIn line of duty,” Jerry said. “And, don’t think I don’t, my dear. Oh, change a word here and there. Stream the consciousness a little. All the same—”
    â€œHe’s holding hands, now,” Pam said. “The left, I think.”
    â€œEaves-peeper,” Jerry said. And looked into the mirror. “The right, I think,” he said.
    â€œMirror image,” Pam said. “The left. And she’s nodding her head.” She paused for a moment and said, “Oh,” in a disappointed voice. “They’re going,” Pam said. “And we haven’t even started to eat.”
    Robert Sandys was a tall, thin man with heavy iron-gray hair; he was apparently in his early sixties. He wore a suit of so dark a gray that it was almost black; he wore a white shirt with a starched collar and a black knitted tie. He and his wife, he told Captain William Weigand, had been driving in the country. His wife, who was rather short and rather plump, who had one of the friendliest pink faces Bill Weigand could remember having seen, wore a black silk dress, with white at the throat. The white, Bill guessed, made it a costume suitable for a drive into the country.
    Her pink face crinkled when she heard; she cried and dabbed her eyes with a tiny white handkerchief and said, “I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t help it. He was so—” She cried harder, then, and said, “Excuse me, sir. Please excuse me,” and went from the apartment foyer down the corridor to her quarters.
    Sandys had a long face. When he heard, his face seemed to grow older.
    â€œWe have been with Mr. Blanchard for a very long time,” he said. “You must forgive my wife, captain. She was attached to Mr. Blanchard.”
    There was a kind of rustiness in the man’s low voice; it was as if something had rusted in his throat.
    They had had the weekend off, been given the weekend off. Mr. Blanchard had, very generously, allowed them the use of one of the cars. They had left Saturday morning and driven up into New Hampshire and through the mountains, and stayed overnight in Burlington, Vermont. They had returned at a little after six, although Mr. Blanchard had said that Monday would be quite soon enough. They had not wanted to inconvenience him, in the event he might have changed his plans.
    â€œIf we had been here,” Robert Sandys said, and his voice was, momentarily, more than rusty.
    He could not conceive that Mr. Blanchard could have had any enemies. Surely, he thought, the assailant must have been somebody who had broken in—broken in to steal. If he had been there—He and Mr. Blanchard together—
    Bill suggested that Mr. Sandys sit down. “Thank you, sir,” Mr. Sandys said, and continued to stand—to stand stiffly, as if at attention.
    There was nothing, Bill told him, to indicate