The Weekend Was Murder by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

did all my savings.”
    I spoke without thinking. “I thought the money in accounts was insured.”
    What I’d said seemed to make Mr. Walters even more upset. “Devane had asked me to do him a favor. He had a bank customer—a developer who was overextended and unable to borrow any more from the bank—so, the way Devane explained it, I would borrow money from the bank, putting up my store as collateral, and lend it to the developer at a high interest rate through Devane. Then, after the first of the year, the developer would pay me back and I’d make a good-sized profit. Only, Devane’s S and L went under, and the federal government took over the collateral—my store. I’m bankrupt. I’ve lost everything, and it’s all Devane’s fault!”
    “So you came up here to get even?” Jarvis asked.
    “No! Just to talk to him. I hoped we could work something out. I was headed for his room when I noticed the doorway to this … this room was standing open.”
    “The doors close automatically,” I said.
    “No. This was propped open with a wedge of cardboard.” He reached into the side pocket of his slacks and pulled out a small rectangle of dark cardboard, which had been folded in thirds.
    “Just out of curiosity, I looked inside the room and saw someone on the floor. I ran inside to see if I could help, but I saw that it was Devane, and he was dead, so I quickly shut the door.”
    “Why?” Detective Jarvis asked.
    “I don’t know. It was instinctive. I had to think. But I couldn’t. I didn’t know what else to do, so I got out of there and went downstairs.”
    “Do you think whoever killed Mr. Devane left the door open so the body would be found?” I asked. “The maid wouldn’t come by for a bed turn-down, because the room was unoccupied and because of the—”
    Jarvis interrupted. “There are some questions I want to ask you, Mr. Walters,” he said. “We can talk in here.”
    Mr. Walters’s shoulders slumped, and he looked totally defeated. “Forget this ‘Mr. Walters’ stuff. My name’s Steven Burns.”
    Detective Jarvis pulled a key from his pocket, opened the door, and waited for Mr. Burns to enter.
    I stepped forward, but Jarvis said, “You’re excused, Liz. This is going to be a private conversation.”
    The door closed behind the two men, and I ambled down to Mrs. Duffy’s room, feeling somewhat left out. I was the one who’d told Jarvis about Mr. Walters, wasn’t I?
    Fran let me in and pointed to the outline of his body on the floor. “Creepy, huh?” he said.
    “I’ve called a bellman,” Mrs. Duffy said. “Eileen’s things and mine are packed, so he can move us now.” She stopped and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh. I forgot to check the bathroom. I’m sure I packed all of Eileen’s things. That is, I think I’m sure.”
    “I’ll check it for you,” I told her, and trotted down the hallway to the bathroom.
    I threw open the door and gasped as I looked into Randolph Hamilton’s mournful eyes. He was seated onthe floor against the mirrored wall. His back was hunched over his knees, his arms wrapped around his legs.
    “What are you doing in here?” I asked him.
    “I wish I knew,” he answered.
    “Are you hiding from someone?” I persisted.
    “That man who was murdered.… He looked like me—me in this wig and mustache, that is.” Randolph let out a groan and said, “I know what happened. They got the wrong man.”
    “What do you mean by that?” I asked.
    “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” he said. “The murder victim was supposed to be me.”

“Mrs. Duffy’s ready to move out of this suite,” I told Randolph. “It’s the new scene of the crime.”
    He looked up at me, surprised, and I held out a hand. “Hiding isn’t going to help, but talking with Detective Jarvis is,” I said. “Come on. I’ll take you to him.”
    “Do you really think he can help me?”
    “If you tell him what you told me—and why—I’m sure he’ll help you.”
    I felt