Ричард Деминг - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

“Yeah,” Simms said slowly. He glanced at the window, which was unscreened and wide open from the bottom.

“It’s the seventh floor,” Weygand reminded him. “And you said there’s no fire escape.”

He walked over to look out, then turned and stared at the closed bathroom door from narrowed eyes. Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. The desk clerk gulped.

“You think the killer is still in there?” Simms whispered.

Without answering, Weygand returned to the bed, stooped and picked up the empty bottle lying next to it. Holding it by the neck, he quietly approached the bathroom door and suddenly flung it open. He stepped in with the bottle raised high as a club.

Lowering it again, he came out, his expression puzzled. Simms s gaze strayed to the door of the closet.

Striding over to it, Weygand jerked it open, the bottle again held high. The closet was empty.

With a snort of disgust Weygand set the bottle atop the dresser. Returning to the open window, he peered out a second time.

“There’s a ledge about a foot wide just below the window,” he announced. “Who has the rooms on either side of this one?”

“I’d have to check the register,” Simms said faintly. “We’d better get out of here and let the police handle this.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Weygand said.

He moved toward the door. Lydia stepped back out of the way, swaying on her feet. Grasping her arm to steady her, Weygand gave her a sympathetic smile.

“I’ll be all right,” she said in a low voice.

Setting the spring lock, Simms pulled the door closed behind him and led the way to the elevator. Weygand steered Lydia after the desk clerk, still holding her arm. She moved stiffly, leaning against him for support.

Downstairs the two old men still sat in the lobby. Simms moved behind the desk and lifted the phone. Weygand led Lydia over to a sofa.

“I’ll be all right now,” she said, pulling her arm from his grip. “I don’t want to sit down.”

He gazed down at her speculatively. “You’re sure?”

“I’m not the fainting type,” she said straightening her shoulders. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to go back to Rochester tonight, will we?”

“I hardly think so. The police will want to talk to us. And of course you’ll have to arrange for a local funeral director to ship Jim home.”

“Are you registered here?”

He shook his head. “I’m not registered anywhere. For all I knew, you meant to have me load Jim in my car and drive back to Rochester tonight. I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.”

“We may as well stay here, don’t you think?”

“The place seems clean enough,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll see if I can get us a couple of rooms.” He walked over to the desk just as Simms hung up the phone.

“They’ll be right over,” the desk clerk said. “You and Mrs. Hartman better stick around.”

“We plan to,” Weygand said. “Do you have a couple of rooms on the same floor, or perhaps adjoining?”

As Simms was checking his room chart, Lydia quietly walked to the door and outside. When Weygand finished registering, he turned to find her standing behind him with her overnight bag in her hand.

“You should have let me get that,” he said, taking it from her.

“It isn’t heavy,” she said. “Did you get rooms?”

“Two right across the hall from each other on five. We may as well wait here until the police arrive, though. Mr. Simms says they’ll be right along.”

Lydia walked over to seat herself on the couch she had previously refused. Setting the bag next to the desk, Weygand went over to sit beside her.

A homicide team arrived five minutes later. It consisted of a burly middle-aged man who introduced himself as Sergeant Charles Carter and a lean, younger man named Harry Nicholson. Carter had a puffy, red-veined face and heavy-lidded eyes which gave a first impression of stupidity until you noted the shrewd glint in the eyes behind the drooping lids.

The first thing he asked was if Simms had phoned for a doctor.

“Yes, sir,” the desk clerk said. “Before I called you. We have an arrangement with a man just up the street to be on call. He should be here any minute.”

“Then let’s take a look at the body,” Carter said. “Harry, you stay here with these folks and send the doc up when he comes.”

The sergeant and Simms moved off toward the elevator.

Harry Nicholson seemed to have no intention of asking any questions about the murder, for after making a comment about the pleasant weather Buffalo was having, he lapsed into silence. Five minutes passed before a thin, elderly man carrying a medical bag came in. Nicholson walked over to meet him at the door, and after a moment’s conversation the elderly man proceeded to the elevator.

Lydia glanced at her watch and was surprised to see it was only eight forty-five, just an hour and a quarter since she had gotten off the train.

Silence resumed when Nicholson returned to his seat. Apparently any questioning to be done was to be conducted by Sergeant Carter. Twenty more minutes passed before Simms, the sergeant and the doctor all got off the elevator together. The elderly doctor went out the front door. Simms and Carter came over to where Lydia, Weygand, and the other detective were seated.

“It’s homicide all right,” Carter informed his partner. “Somebody slid a knife between a couple of his ribs into his heart. He died so quick, he didn’t even bleed. Funny thing, though.”

“What’s that?” Nicholson asked.

“Simms here says the door was bolted from inside and the transom open only a slit.” He pushed a thumb toward Lydia. “She unscrewed some gadget to get the transom open and climbed through to unbolt the door.”

Nicholson looked at Lydia. She said, “I was the only one with small enough hands to get a screwdriver through the crack.”

Nicholson looked back at his partner. “The guy left by the fire escape?”

“There isn’t any,” Carter informed him.

“Hmm. Then he must have still been there when they found the body. Maybe hiding in the bathroom. He must have sneaked out when they left the room to call us.”

Carter shook his head. “Simms says they had the same thought, and checked both the bathroom and closet.” He looked at Weygand. “That right, mister?”

Weygand nodded. “I even looked under the bed.”

“You mean we got a locked room mystery?” Nicholson asked in a querulous voice.

“Nope,” Carter said. “It just narrows down to only one possible means of exit. There’s a foot-wide ledge that runs clear around the building just below the window. A guy who didn’t get dizzy could work his way along it to another room.”

“Who’s in the rooms either side of Hartman’s?” Nicholson asked.

Simms said, “They’re both vacant.”

“I looked at them,” Carter said. “The windows of both are closed, but unlocked. The guy could have pushed either up, then closed it again after he was inside. The doors have spring locks, so once he stepped out in the hall and pulled the door closed behind him, there’d be no sign of anybody ever being in the room.”

Nicholson asked, “What’s the doc say?”

“Dead three to five hours, which would make it three-thirty to five-thirty this afternoon. Probably closer to five-thirty.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Simms delivered the guy a pint of bourbon at noon, a second one at two-thirty. If it took him two and a half hours to kill the first, it probably took at least as long to kill the second, which would take him to five o’clock. And both are empty.”

Nicholson nodded. “That’s logical. Where do we go from here?”

“You can call the ice wagon and the fingerprint boys and stand by here to show them around. Have the fingerprint guys catch the windows in the rooms both sides of 714 too. I’ll take these people down to headquarters to get their stories.”