Going Out in Style Read Free Page A

gills.
    Now he flapped his mouth several times before saying, in a querulous tone, “Sir?”
    “Fish, let’s go over it one more time.”
    Fish nodded and said: “Bella Whitaker was found by her son, Albert Whitaker, when he arrived home last night at approximately twelve-thirty A.M . The deceased was lying, fully dressed in black evening clothes, on the floor of the front hallway near the door. She had been strangled with a narrow cord which lay on the floor nearby. We did a complete search of the house. Nothing was missing except the deceased’s left earring, which could not be found.” Fish paused. He was much too fond of the word “deceased,” thought Janovy in irritation. He would have to mention it to him.
    “What did your men find? Had any of the doors or windows been tampered with?”
    It was a cold night, replied Fish, and the windows were all locked from the inside. So was the back door. Albert Whitaker had stated that the front door was locked, as usual, when he came home. Fish’s men confirmed that the lock had not been tampered with.
    Janovy nodded. So the murderer, whoever it was, had a key to the house. Either that, or was well enough known by Mrs. Whitaker to be allowed in. “What did the medical examiner say?”
    Fish consulted the report. “Death by strangulation,between seven-thirty and nine o’clock P.M . No signs that the deceased put up much of a fight. She must have been taken by surprise.”
    I’ll really have to talk to him about this “deceased” business
, Janovy thought irritably. Aloud he said, “I imagine death by strangulation is nearly always a surprise. All right, Fish. Please tell Albert Whitaker I’d like to see him now.”
    Fish ushered in a big, hulking giant of a man, who crossed to where Janovy was standing, shook hands affably, looked around vaguely as if trying to figure out where he was, sat down on the opposite sofa, and knocked over a small brass table lamp. Albert Whitaker muttered, “ ’Scuse me,” righted the lamp, wiped his hands hastily on his trouser legs, ran a hand agitatedly through his thick fair hair, looked around, dropped his wire-rimmed glasses, and spent a minute or two fumbling for them on the sofa. Finally he put the glasses on with a certain dignity, sat up, and said, “Yes. How can I help you, Detective?”
    Detective Janovy had watched all this with curiosity and interest. Naturally Albert Whitaker was his primary suspect—he had found the body, after all—and the man certainly had the strength necessary to strangle his mother. Not, Janovy reminded himself, that it would have taken much strength to overcome Bella Whitaker, who was, after all, nearly seventy years old. But now, upon first acquaintance, it seemed somewhat unlikely that Albert Whitaker would murder anyone. He didn’t seem coordinated enough, for one thing. And there was a gentleness in his face that seemed at odds with the idea of violent death.
    “Mr. Whitaker, please believe that we’re very sorry to have to trouble you at such a time.”
    “Thank you,” he said, again with that curious dignity.
    “Would you please tell me where you were last night?”
    “Certainly,” said Albert Whitaker, and dropped his glasses again. He retrieved them quickly, muttered
“Damn!”
, wiped them with a corner of his sweater, put them back on, stared in a startled, inquisitive fashion at Janovy as if he had never seen him before, then said matter-of-factly, “I was out for the evening with a good friend of mine.”
    Fish was ready with his notebook open and pen poised. Janovy said, “Your friend’s name?”
    “Gretchen. Gretchen Schneider. She lives at forty-three ninety-five Fungus Grove. No, excuse me, it’s not Fungus, it’s that other word … I always get the two confused.…”
    “That’s all right, Mr. Whitaker. We can look it up.”
    Albert Whitaker was peering worriedly out the window. The winter sunlight, pale and clear, flooded in and lit up his face. He was