Gat Heat Read Free Page A

to.”
    â€œYou mustn’t!”
    â€œLook, Mrs. Halstead, first of all I’d tell them anyway. If that seems like betrayal, fire me. But in the second place, the police will find out whether I tell them or not—and it’s better for all concerned if I do tell them.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œWhen the officers get here and find everybody clad in the height of fashion except the … the victim, this will give them pause. They will query the guests—and you—about this unusual circumstance. And they will find out precisely what the score was, believe it or not. Contrary to opinion bruited about in some areas, the police are just as bright as the rest of us—and in some areas, a good deal brighter. You want them to find out their own way and land on your guests—and you—like a ton of bricks?”
    â€œOh. Well …”
    â€œYeah. So, O.K., tell the people the party’s over—just so long as nobody, but nobody, leaves here.”
    She agreed. In fact, even before she passed the word around—caught me a little off guard there, by the way—I had her give me a list of the names and addresses of all the people present.
    It turned out there had been, aside from the host and hostess, five other married couples enjoying the Halsteads’ hospitality. They were the Warrens, Pryers, Smiths, Bersudians, and Sporks.
    I went along with Mrs. Halstead while she rounded up the guests. She made a lot of racket, yelling names and things like “Lookout!” and “Yaah, here we come!” as we walked, which I thought interesting.
    Even so, we found dark-skinned Mr. Bersudian with redheaded Mrs. Warren; they were sitting in a brightly-striped canvas-covered swing, but they weren’t swinging, merely looking about blankly and breathing through their open mouths.
    We found Mr. Warren and Mrs. Pryer lying on their stomachs, side by side on green grass beneath a weeping willow tree, plucking industriously at the grass, as though they were uncontrollably superstitious and each blade was a four-leaf clover.
    Mr. Pryer came out of the house with Mrs. Bersudian, hand in hand, he saying over and over, “Wuzzamatter?”
    And Mr. Spork, the old fuddy-duddy, was in the pool with, curious to relate, Mrs. Spork.
    Perhaps more curious to relate, we found no Smiths. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were not on the premises at all.
    Since I was now working for Mrs. Halstead, I took the opportunity to question Mr. and Mrs. Pryer, once they pulled themselves together, so to speak. Mrs. Halstead was still looking for the Smiths. I stood near a green chaise longue, on which Hugh and Betty Pryer sat.
    He was in his middle forties, a short, solidly built man with thinning brown hair and long sideburns, good teeth and dark brown eyes that would probably have been intelligent and alert if he hadn’t been so stewed. His wife was a few years younger, a slightly plump woman with small blue eyes and the faint beginning of a double chin, but with a rousing good figure nonetheless. She was quite sober.
    So I talked mainly to Hugh Pryer.
    They knew George Halstead was dead—they and everybody else here; Mrs. Halstead had blabbed that at the top of her lungs before I could stop her—and for the first minute or so, the Pryers merely expressed their shock and total ignorance of anything and everything connected with the homicide, Finally I said to Mr. Pryer, “What about the people who aren’t here now? What can you tell me about them?”
    He shook his head, as though trying, unsuccessfully, to clear it, then said thickly, “Well, lessee. The Whists and Rileys dropped out. The Kents and Nelsons weren’t here at all tonight, though. That’s—”
    He chopped it off because little Betty Pryer got him pretty good in the ribs with her elbow. It was neatly done, hardly noticeable at all. But I noticed it.
    She looked up at me, smiling sweetly.