Crime is Murder Read Free Page A

spoken in a rather special way.
    “Not today,” the professor answered. “He’d already left for work when I got up this morning. Have you tried the construction office?”
    “He’s not there,” the girl said. The frown was growing deeper with a full-lipped pout for accompaniment. “And it’s raining. They can’t be building things out in the rain.”
    Lisa had leaned forward. The brooding eyes, the pouting lips—Something about that face was stirring up recognition. But before the answer came, the girl swung about and stared hard at her. She seemed to be aware of another presence for the first time.
    “You’re Lisa Bancroft,” she said abruptly.
    It was more of an accusation than an introduction.
    “Yes, I am,” Lisa admitted.
    “I know. I read in the paper that you’d taken over the Mastersons’ house. I guess that makes us neighbors. I’m Marta Cornish.”
    Marta Cornish. Now Lisa understood. And the girl, with her unfaltering stare, read every thought she was thinking.
    “I look like my father,” she said. “At least, that’s what everybody tells me. Did you know him?”
    Lisa hesitated. “I know
of
him,” she said, “and I’ve seen the portrait.”
    “Of course, the portrait.” Marta’s pout gave way to a brief, almost bitter, smile. “Everyone knows
of
my father; but no one I’ve ever met seems to have actually known him. I guess he didn’t have many friends.”
    She looked back toward the gathering at the soda fountain. There may have been no relation between the words and the gesture, but Lisa felt there was. For a moment she sensed an intense loneliness in this girl. It was only natural. The daughter of a legend would have difficulty assimilating in any society, and Bellville, particularly.
    “How’s the concerto coming?” the professor asked.
    Marta had started to turn away. She hesitated a moment longer, her long fingers working nervously at the buttons of her raincoat. “All right, I guess,” she said. “Some days it seems all right and some days it doesn’t. Some days it just doesn’t matter.”
    “Now, Marta—”
    “No, not you, Professor! Leave the scolding to Joel and Mother. I won’t take it from you!”
    This was anger. Lisa had sensed it, too, but not quite so near the surface. Not quite so near to tears. And then Marta Cornish, like a small girl reluctantly remembering her manners, turned back to the table one last time.
    “I’m happy to have met you, Miss Bancroft,” she said, “but if you’re going to do a book on my father, leave me out of it. Please leave me out!”
    This time she left the shop without turning back.
    “Well,” the professor said, “I guess that makes it unanimous. About the rumor, I mean.”
    Lisa heard him. She heard other things, too. The voices at the fountain were busy again. It was as if a tension had eased as soon as Marta Cornish left the shop. She wanted to think about that awhile, but the professor was waiting with an annoying half-smile on his face.
    “Do you want to know the truth?” she said. “Do you want to know why I really came to Bellville?”
    He didn’t answer. He wasn’t supposed to answer.
    “I was bored. I was sitting in my apartment one rainy day, thumbing through a magazine. In it I saw an ad describing this beautiful old home in the bluffs above Bellville. The owners had moved to Europe; the house was for rent or for sale. There was a photgograph—”
    Lisa stopped. The professor was still smiling, quite unconvinced.
    “How much do you know about Martin Cornish?” he asked.
    Lisa hesitated. “I know his music,” she said, “his genius.”
    “You admire his music, then?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    The professor didn’t smile any more. He had become very thoughtful. “Of course, I’m not a musician,” he said, “but it does seem to me that Cornish is erratic, moody. Tormented, perhaps. But then, genius, I suppose, is a form of torment.”
    “Don’t look at me,” Lisa protested. “I wouldn’t