Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 18, No. 5, May 1973

To Hide a Tree by Margaret E. Brown

Unfortunately one cannot measure the degree of understanding he may hope to receive.

The temperature hit 82 degrees hat day — unseasonably warm for early April; but, as had become more usual all over the country these past few years, spring’s first warmth brought out more marchers and demonstrators than daffodils, even in small cities like this one. Here and now, soft vernal air was split by the shrieks of fire engines, ambulances and patrol cars.

It was almost 7:30, well dark, and only a few cars scurried through the streets. Most of the city’s inhabitants were complying with the mayor’s request for a self-imposed curfew; and on South Winston Street, the fire which raged through an abandoned tenement had been brought under control. There was nothing to do now but watch it bum and hope that no one else felt like exterminating rats with flames.

Three blocks south, an even grimmer situation unfolded as the driver of a late-model Chevy slammed on his brakes, causing the beat-up Volkswagen behind to crash into him. The accident itself wasn’t serious; and the VW’s owner, Ken Sperry, was more angry than hurt when he jumped out of his car to tongue-lash the idiot in the Chevrolet. His anger died, however, when he saw the man’s white face, heard him yell in a ragged voice, “My wife! Somebody’s shot my wife! Get down! There’s a sniper up there somewhere!”

Ducking down by the closed door, Sperry glanced inside the car and saw a woman, her body held erect by the safety harness while her head slumped forward.

Her husband clutched Sperry’s arm as he strained to listen for another shot from the vacant windows of a condemned tenement opposite them. Only sirens in the near distance could be heard. An elderly couple in a sedan pulled up and the man joined them, quickly comprehending what had happened.

“Stay here,” Sperry told them. “There should be a cop up at that fire.”

Ordinarily, there would have been several at such a major conflagration, but these were not ordinary times, and the city’s police force was spread thinly that night. In the confusion of hoses, falling sparks and sullen onlookers, Sperry finally spotted a young, inexperienced patrolman, told his story, and waited while he radioed for help.

A small crowd had gathered around the Chevy, but they fell back obediently as the young policeman took out his notebook and began jotting down preliminary facts. Through the windshield, the dead woman’s eyes glistened dully. Street lights made her skin a greenish white and her lipstick appeared a lurid purple. Dark hair helped hide the darker hole in the right side of her head.

“She wouldn’t listen,” Philip Watson kept repeating. “She wouldn’t listen. To die for a lousy bridge game!” Just under six feet, Watson was a thin man in his late forties. He wore lightweight gray slacks and his sport shirt was drenched with perspiration and clung to his body, revealing a slight bulge at his waist. Except for that sign of middle age, Watson carried himself with military precision; but the control implied by his posture was betrayed by the way he repeated, “If only she’d listened to me!”

At last another patrol car appeared and experienced officers took over. They moved back the curiosity-seekers, began a cautious search of the vacant building from which the shot must have come, and sifted the crowd for witnesses. No one seemed to have heard the fatal shot. The block was one of many which had suffered by the exodus of business from city to suburb, and consisted of small warehouses, boarded-up shops and run-down tenements. Except for an elderly deaf widow, everyone seemed to have been up at the fire. Sperry had been closest, of course, but because of the fire engines he had not heard the shot.

Silently, Watson watched police procedure unroll, blinking as the flashgun of a police photographer illuminated the car’s interior. He saw ballistics experts work out the angle of trajectory from the shattered car window; he watched the medical examiner touch his wife’s still-warm body, then saw it lifted into a police ambulance. He heard the young patrolman report that they had flushed no one in the deserted building.

Finally, as a city tow truck pulled Watson’s car away, Lt. Albindi came over to him and said with gruff consideration, “We’d like you and the other main witnesses to come down to headquarters with us for complete statements.” Albindi carried his jacket over one arm and his shirt was damp with sweat, for the evening was still quite balmy.

He had collected Sperry, whose VW was now out of commission, and given an escort to the elderly couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Grayley. As they walked toward a waiting squad car, Watson asked, “This isn’t going to be on a newscast, is it? My daughter — she’s just fifteen — is spending the night with a friend. I’d hate to have her learn about her mother like that.”

“I don’t think so,” Albindi said. “With so much happening, I doubt they’ve picked this up yet. What a night!” He pitied Watson, one of many who would suffer tonight.

“Mildred never listened,” Watson said, as they drove downtown. “She always had to have her way. I told her it wasn’t safe to go out tonight, but it was our regular bridge night at her sister’s and nothing was going to stand in the way of it. And I don’t even like bridge. Or her sister,” he added glumly. “If just this once she’d listened to me, she’d still be alive. All this rioting and demonstrating, and my daughter saying we have to understand! She gets that at school, but what can I do? I can’t afford private schools on my salary.”

Watson lapsed into a bitter silence, and suddenly Albindi pitied him less.

Headquarters was an organized maelstrom. Phones rang constantly and tired officers, working sixteen-hour stretches as the overload of emergency calls poured in, strode through the halls. Albindi found a deserted office and motioned the Grayleys in first. Their statement was not very informative and Sperry’s offered little more. “I was thinking about the riot,” he said, “and deciding that I’d better turn off at the next block to get around the fire. Sure, my windows were down — it’s like June outside — but I didn’t hear the shot. First thing I knew, Watson slammed on his brakes and I piled into him.”

Watson had his emotions under tight control and answered Albindi’s questions almost coldly. Reading between the lines, Albindi got the impression that Watson’s marriage had been a failure. Only when he spoke of his daughter did his tone thaw. Despite the riot, Mrs. Watson had insisted on keeping their weekly bridge date. Her sister and brother-in-law lived on the southwest side of town; the Watsons lived on the northeast. To get there, they had to drive through the fringes of the riot area.

They’d left home around seven, as usual. “She said it would be safe, that we weren’t going through the worst part. We weren’t involved — you know how it is, you think these things won’t affect you.” Watson seemed to watch his words. Perhaps he had sensed the subtle change of attitude his outburst in the squad car had produced in Albindi.

“One minute Mildred was talking about the riot and the next minute I heard the window shatter and she was dead. Gone — just like that!” He shook his head as if to deny the suddenness of death. “Do you think you’ll find the killer?”

Albindi leaned back in his chair wearily. “I just don’t know, Mr. Watson. You see, most people are killed by someone who knew the victim well and wanted him dead for a reason — love, hate, jealousy, greed, fear, you name it. Nine out of ten killings are simple. We ask around the victim’s neighborhood, talk to his family or friends, and usually come up with the murderer right away.

“But when it’s impersonal — some crackpot shooting at random...” Albindi threw up his hands. “If we don’t catch him immediately, on the scene, where do we start in a city this large? We’ll go over that tenement again with a microscope tomorrow. Maybe we’ll be lucky. But don’t worry, sir, we won’t write off your wife’s death without trying.”

Watson nodded and stood up. At the door, he paused and asked, “What about my car? When can I pick it up?” He seemed almost apologetic. “I use it to commute, you know.”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we’ve finished going over it. I’ll try to expedite it for you.”

Albindi sat looking at the closed door for a long moment after Watson had gone. To his credit, Watson hadn’t pretended a grief he didn’t feel; but could the man really continue to use the car in which his wife had been killed? Flexing tired shoulder muscles, Albindi swiveled in his chair and began typing reports.

Although it was his Saturday off, Albindi came in at noon the next day, determined to whittle down his stack of paper work. Last night’s violence had petered out with a drop in temperature, but he had gotten far behind.

“Need a good secretary?” gibed his partner, Jake Whittaker, riffling through Albindi’s backlog.

“Your figure’s lousy, but you’re hired,” Albindi said as he scanned the top sheet. “Hmmm. Ballistics report on last night’s sniper: M-l rifle; elevation, twenty feet; distance about fifty.”

“Yeah, I saw that. A Mrs. Watson killed, right? Her husband called just now and asked if we’d released the car yet.”

“I forgot. I told him I’d get the lab to hurry it up. Did we get a report on that tenement where the shot was fired from? Oh yes, here it is.” He read aloud, skimming the pages: “Building condemned. Used as a flophouse by area bums. Oh, great! Windows from which shot could have been fired all broken. No positive evidence. Multiple latents on all surfaces.” He groaned. “Want to bet they don’t all belong to winos who saw and heard nothing because they were all passed out in gutters on the other side of town?”

“No takers,” Jake said.

The phone rang and Albindi answered. The conversation was short and he turned to Whittaker as he hung up. “Watson again. He forgot to ask when we would release his wife’s body; and, by the way, could I tell him how much longer we’ll be keeping his car?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me, Jake, what do you think of a man who’s more interested in his car than his wife’s body?”

“That it’s too early in the year to go fishing,” Whittaker warned. “So he’s not all cut up by her death. We see a lot of men like that. What’s it prove? Or did you see something last night that doesn’t show up in the reports?” he asked shrewdly.

“I don’t know. Guess I’m just tired and a little discouraged to think our city’s going the way of Chicago, Detroit and L.A. Sure, we have our share of racial unrest, of kids marching against the war; and someone set fire to some empty buildings, and there was some minor looting on Dexter Avenue last night. But we haven’t had a lot of violence in these demonstrations and we sure as hell never had a sniper before. I just don’t like to think our little city’s getting to be a jungle.”

“And Watson rubs you wrong?”

“That, too,” Albindi admitted. “Plus the fact that more women are murdered by their husbands than by snipers.”

“Well, not in this case. Not unless Watson’s a magician,” Whittaker said as he shuffled through the reports. “The woman was shot from a distance, by a rifle, while her husband was driving. No one can be two places at one time, Al.”

“I know, I know. But he could have set her up for it. He said they drove the same route every week at the same time.”

“You’ve been watching too much television. This isn’t New York or the wild West. Where does a man like Watson hire a killer?”

“You’re right,” Albindi said. “I guess I’m reaching.” He rolled another set of report forms into his typewriter and began pecking at the keys with two fingers.

Whittaker started to do the same, then paused. “You know, Al,” he said slowly, “I don’t see Watson hiring a pro, but what if someone else had it in for her? That regular drive would put her in rifle range every Friday night. It’s worth a look.”

April had become skittish; temperatures plunged and topcoats were a necessity again as Albindi and Whittaker dug into Mildred Watson’s background.

They began by driving out to the Watson home Saturday afternoon through a bone-chilling spring rain. The house was located in an older section of town where property had held its value. The ’30’s construction had mellowed well and mature trees and shrubbery muffled all but the loudest traffic noises from the nearby freeway.

Set on a half-acre lot, the Watson home was typical of the neighborhood. It was a comfortable, two-story brick surrounded by tall, full-branched maples and screened from its neighbors by dense plantings of evergreens and overgrown privet. A blacktop drive along one edge of the yard led to a small garage in the back and flared into a circular turnaround there.

After leaving Whittaker a few doors down to interview the neighbors, Albindi parked in the Watson driveway. The garage was too small for a modem car and, judging from the clutter of cartons and tools inside, Watson probably used it as a storage shed and kept his car parked in the turnaround.

The rain had slacked off to a misty drizzle and Philip Watson looked like an ordinary do-it-your-selfer on his day off as he rounded the corner of the house with an extension ladder of lightweight aluminum on his shoulder. He broke step momentarily at the sight of Albindi, who called, “Need a hand with that?”

“Thanks,” Watson replied, “but it’s not heavy, just cumbersome.” He slid it into the garage, closed the doors and turned to Albindi. “Yesterday was so warm, I thought I’d do a little yard work. Clean out the gutters, lop off a few dead limbs. Now, though...”

They looked across the deep yard to the back where a tall thick hedge of forsythia sported an occasional bright yellow blossom. “Mildred said they meant that spring was really here, but I guess it’ll be another couple of weeks yet.” He shivered slightly as he led the way out of the chill into a warm, neat kitchen.

The young girl who stood with her back against the refrigerator held herself as erect as Watson and had his slim frame. Her light-brown hair was as long as any teenager’s; but her clothes were an abnormally dark-hued assortment, as if her pathetic attempt to show mourning had been frustrated by the gaudy wardrobe of youth. A navy bodystocking clashed with her purple and black jumper, but she crossed the room with dignity when her father introduced Albindi, and offered her thin hand firmly.

“Have you found out who did it yet, Lieutenant?”

Briefly, Albindi explained the lack of clues offered by the tenement. “I was hoping you or your father would know if your mother had any enemies who knew about that standing bridge date.”

Ellen Watson looked blank, but her father stiffened. “Are you suggesting that anyone we know could do a thing like that? You think we socialize with arsonists, rioters, snipers? You know where to look for that element, Lieutenant, and it’s not among our friends!”

“Daddy, please!” the girl cried.

He glared at her. “It’s your own mother they’ve killed! Are you going to preach to me now about understanding murder?”

She flinched, but stood her ground. “Rage and frustration aren’t limited to any one class, Daddy. You don’t know why Mother was killed and you shouldn’t judge until you do.”

Watson’s anger changed to bafflement as he looked at her. “Okay, Ellie, that’s enough. Why don’t you finish getting ready? Nora said she’d be here soon.”

To Albindi, he said, “Ellen’s going to stay with my wife’s sister till after the funeral.” He sighed when the door had closed behind her. “I just don’t know any longer. You have kids, Lieutenant? Do they listen when you try to tell them how things really are?”

Albindi shook his head. “I try to let them find out for themselves. Besides, my truths may not be theirs.”

“You sound like Mildred. Truth is truth, isn’t it? And everyone knows—”

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d rather discuss your wife’s enemies.”

There were none, Watson repeated. People might have gotten a little angry at some of Mildred’s radical ideas, but nobody took her seriously and he’d put his foot down on her joining any of those “commie” groups or taking part in any demonstrations.

“Except that it was getting harder to keep her under control,” Whittaker said when they met and compared notes afterwards. “The neighborhood consensus is that they were on the verge of divorce.”

“Over politics?” Albindi asked dubiously.

“Well, except for that bridge date with her sister, they pretty much went their separate ways. Watson moves in rather conservative circles and she was becoming an embarrassment. For instance, at a company party last month, she started sounding off about tax deductions to businesses and how they were nothing more than welfare for the rich. Watson’s boss was livid. Mrs. Watson thought it was funny, but Watson told someone it cost him a promotion.”

“So what was holding up the divorce?”

“The kid,” said Whittaker. “They both wanted her and she’s old enough now to choose which parent she’d live with. Friends say the daughter was always a daddy’s girl and Mrs. Watson wouldn’t take the chance; but recently they’ve heard the girl call him a narrow-minded bigot, so Mrs. Watson was putting on pressure.”

“Even so...” Albindi mused.

“Right,” Whittaker agreed. “We still come back to the fact that he was driving while she was shot. Did you tell him about the rifle? I wondered what he’d say.”

“Yeah. He didn’t turn a hair. Just said he used an M-1 in Korea twenty years ago and was surprised any were still around.”

“He didn’t happen to bring one home as a souvenir, did he?”

“He says not. I talked to Mrs. Watson’s sister alone when she came to pick up Ellen and she doesn’t seem to be a member of Watson’s fan club. I asked if she’d ever heard of his having a rifle and you could see the wheels turning in her head. I got the feeling she’d have loved to say yes.”

“But?”

“But nothing. She and her sister were very close. Restricting firearms was another of Mrs. Watson’s hobbyhorses and she’s sure she’d have heard about it if Watson had a rifle in the house.”

“So there we are,” Whittaker said. “Might as well face it, Al, our little city’s in step with the bigger ones. Riots and now snipers. Unless you can nail Watson carrying an M-1 and put him in two places at the same time, it can’t be a private kill. Nobody else seems to have been that bugged by Mrs. Watson. They just put her down as a misguided nut, and sympathized with Watson for having to five with her.”

“I guess you’re right,” Albindi said regretfully, shaking his head.

They spent the next morning in the unheated tenement on South Winston, hoping for a clue to their anonymous sniper which the lab crew might have overlooked. As they worked, they were joined by one of the building’s squatters, a seedy old man with rheumy eyes, shaky fingers and an obvious hangover.

“Ain’t you guys ever gonna finish with your scraping and measuring?” he complained. “Yesterday and again today — this is the second Sunday in a row you guys been stomping around up here with your tapes and things. A person’s got a right to sleep, ain’t he? Ain’t I got a right to sleep Sunday mornings?”

Whittaker, who was examining the baseboard under the broken windows, ignored the wino, but Albindi asked, “The second Sunday? We weren’t here last Sunday.”

“Same difference,” the little man said belligerently. “You’re all on the city payroll, ain’t you? Fat lot any of you care about a person’s rights. Where’s a person gonna find another flop this good? You think the city cares?”

“What’s the city got to do with it?” asked Whittaker.

“Nothing!” the bum cried triumphantly, and sat down on the floor beside Whittaker. “That’s exactly what I told him. I said, ‘What right’s the city got wrecking a person’s life?’ ”

It took them twenty patient minutes to get a coherent picture. The aggrieved bum (“Call me Charlie”), had been awakened early last Sunday by someone kicking debris around in the room overhead. Worse, whoever it was hadn’t closed the door properly and it banged every time the wind gusted. As the condemned building’s steadiest tenant, Charlie had staggered upstairs to lay down some house rules and found a building inspector taking notes on the condition of the place. He’d told Charlie that the whole block was to be tom down as part of the city’s urban renewal program.

Before Charlie could start grumbling about his rights again, they asked him how he knew the man was a building inspector.

“ ’Cause he said so. And he was measuring things and writing ’em down like all you guys do.”

Whittaker lifted his eyebrows, Albindi nodded, and they invited Charlie to headquarters. His objections dwindled abruptly when they hinted that the city often rewarded helpful citizens.

Downtown, Whittaker settled Charlie in front of a selection of mug shots while Albindi went off to make a few phone calls. When he returned, his face wore a look of satisfaction. “Good news, Charlie! That firetrap of yours won’t be bulldozed any time soon.” To Whittaker, he added, “No building inspector’s been in the place since it was condemned three years ago. It has to be our sniper getting the layout. Any luck with those pictures?”

“Just what you’d expect,” Whittaker said sourly. “He narrowed the first fifty I showed him down to twenty-five. No two alike.”

“What about this one, Charlie?” Albindi asked, shoving a newspaper photograph under the old man’s rheumy eyes.

“That’s him! That’s the guy!” Charlie exclaimed, using both shaky hands to hold the picture steady. “Those others sorta mixed me up, but this is him, I promise you!”

Abruptly, Whittaker stood up, fished a bill from his wallet and hustled Charlie from the room with the city’s thanks for his commendable citizenship.

“Forget it,” Whittaker said when Albindi started to protest. “So he just identified Watson as his phony inspector. Terrific! You weren’t here when he was almost as positive about two dozen others. Can’t you just see our Charlie on a witness stand? A first-year law student could laugh him out of court.

“Granted, he might be cleaned up and dried out and made into a half-credible witness, but so what? Even if the jury believed him, what difference would it make, since Mrs. Watson wasn’t killed last Sunday? In case you’ve forgotten, Al, she was shot Friday night while riding with her husband, and three much more reliable witnesses than Charlie will swear to it. You’re acting like a green rookie who can’t see the woods for the trees.”

“But what if Charlie’s right and Watson was up there last Sunday?” Albindi argued. “Somebody was. Charlie’s not bright enough to make up a story like that for no reason. That means the murder was planned in advance, and who’s the only one in sight with a motive?”

“Mr. Watson,” Whittaker said patiently. “But you’re the one who said politics made a poor reason for divorce. What makes it a better reason for murder?”

“Losing his daughter,” Albindi said, remembering the way Watson had looked at her.

“Yeah, well...” said Whittaker, who had no children, as he picked up his overcoat. “You’ve still got to show me how he managed it without leaving any evidence behind. Me, I’m going to spend the rest of my day off at home.”

Albindi reached for his own overcoat and left with Whittaker.

Although he tried to put the case out of his thoughts and spent the rest of the day acting like a husband and father, his mind kept toying with the problem, and he went to sleep that night with fantastic diagrams of electrically-detonated, self-destructing rifles running through his head.

It was still cold and rainy the next day. There were going to be a hell of a lot of May flowers if it didn’t let up soon, Albindi reflected, as he stopped in at the police lab.

Jarrell, the technician on duty, hooted when Albindi asked if Watson could possibly have shot his wife while driving. “See the way the window’s smashed from the outside in?” he asked, leading Albindi out to the Watson car. “Everything lines up with the angle at which the bullet entered her head: twenty feet up, fifty feet away. Sorry, Al, there’s no way he could have done it.”

Discouraged, Albindi took the elevator and entered their office behind Whittaker. His resolve to forget about the Watson case until after he’d caught up on some of his other work was canceled by a knock on their open door. They looked up to see the familiar face of Gerald Hartford, claims investigator for a large insurance company.

“Heard you two had the Watson case,” Hartford said, “and I just wanted to check it out with you — make sure everything’s kosher.”

“Any reason why it shouldn’t be?”

“Not really,” Hartford said cheerfully. “Just that we never lost a policyholder to a sniper before and, of course, double indemnity does bring it up to a nice round figure.”

“How round?” Albindi asked softly, while his partner groaned.

“Sixty thousand,” Hartford said, quirking a brow at Whittaker.

“Ignore him,” Albindi said. “He refuses to believe in the impossible. I know inflation’s hit everything, but isn’t thirty thousand a lot to carry on a housewife?”

“Not really. Not when you consider that there’s a minor child, and what a housekeeper costs these days.”

“But the girl’s fifteen. She wouldn’t need a nursemaid now.”

“Make him happy,” Whittaker said. “Tell him Watson took out the insurance policy last week.”

“No,” Hartford said slowly. “The original policy was issued twelve years ago as part of a family-coverage plan, but for the more usual five thousand. Last month, Watson reviewed his policies and upped them all: an extra five thousand on the daughter, fifteen on himself—”

“And twenty-five on his wife!” Albindi interrupted happily. “The other two were camouflage.”

“It has to be,” he repeated to Whittaker when Hartford had left. “I bet if we check, we’ll find that Watson decided to ‘review his policies’ the day after that party when she insulted his boss and lost him a promotion.”

“Coincidence,” Whittaker said, but without conviction. “Besides, why would he need extra money? We’ve turned up no signs of heavy debts or expensive tastes.”

“Everyone needs money, Jake. What if he were counting on that promotion to put Ellen into a private school away from public school contamination? Sixty thousand pays a lot of tuition.”

“Okay, I’ll grant you motive; I’ll admit he’s familiar with an M-1; hell, I’ll even believe Charlie saw him in the building last Sunday. But you still have to—”

“Show you how he did it,” Albindi finished. “You’re starting to sound like a stuck needle. It’s probably too late, but I’m going to get a search warrant and have a look for that rifle.”

Right away, Albindi ran into a stone wall. Captain Fulner was sympathetic but said, “Unless you give me at least a theory as to how he could have done it, a search warrant’s out, Al. People are touchy about their rights these days and I’m not going to have this department open to charges of high-handedness without good cause.

“I’m glad spring decided to hold off a while longer,” he said, softening his denial. “Crazy weather, but at least no one marches on city hall in the sleet yet.”

Albindi glanced at the window where freezing rain had begun to coat the panes with a thin film of ice. “Well, we knew it was just a matter of time. Everyone’s been saying this was the year our city would feel the effect of protest movements.” A germ of an idea wiggled in his brain. “That’s it!” he said and hurried out.

“Don’t you see?” Albindi asked, back in his office with Whittaker. “Everyone expected riots here this year. Remember that old riddle, where do you hide a tree? In a forest, of course. And where do you hide a private murder? In a night of impending public violence!

“Except for that standing bridge game at her sister’s, the Watsons had quit going out together, right? So why did he make that exception if it weren’t to have an excuse to drive through an area everyone knew was ripe for an explosion?”

“Why?” he repeated an hour later, facing Watson in his own livingroom. Albindi had driven through icy streets to watch Watson’s reaction to that question. “Neighborhood gossip had you two in a divorce court. You say you hate bridge and can’t stand your in-laws. So why, Mr. Watson?”

More than ever, Albindi was aware of the man’s rigid control as Watson eyed him steadily. “I could tell you we kept up appearances for my daughter’s sake, but you probably wouldn’t believe me.” He shrugged.

“We have a witness who saw you in that tenement last Sunday figuring out the angle of fire.”

“A reliable witness?” Watson asked coolly. “I thought that place was a flophouse for drunks and hopheads.”

“But you did hate her, didn’t you?” Albindi needled. “She knocked you out of a promotion and she was taking your daughter away from you. Well, wasn’t she?”

Watson ignored the bait. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to inform me of my rights, Lieutenant? Or do you reserve your kid-glove treatment for the kind of scum who killed my wife?”

His voice became icy as his anger deepened. “Listen, cop, and listen carefully: arrest me or get out! We may have been planning a divorce, but Mildred was still my wife when she died. I want her body released for a decent burial and I want my car, and if I don’t get them you’re going to see what kind of a stink law-abiding citizens can raise. We’re still a majority in this city!”

Stymied, Albindi retreated to headquarters where he spent the rest of the afternoon filling out reports.

Whittaker had gone to recheck the three witnesses and returned just before five, gloomily predicting that he’d probably caught pneumonia in the process. “And unless everyone’s lying his head off, there’s no collusion. None of those three ever met Watson before. He was definitely in the car when Sperry rammed into him and the Grayleys were right by his side till we came, so he couldn’t have disposed of any trick weapon.”

To make matters worse, Captain Fulner was less than pleased when Albindi and Whittaker gave their progress report Tuesday morning. He began with a brief physics lecture (“Nobody may occupy two separate places at the same time, dammit!”), elaborated the more basic points of crime detection, reviewed proper procedures for questioning decent citizens and concluded by phoning Watson to announce the release of Mrs. Watson’s body. “And your car will be returned this afternoon,” he promised.

“It is in good enough condition for you to drive it over, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” Fulner asked pointedly.

“He’ll cool off,” Whittaker consoled as they took the elevator down to the garage in the basement.

“I guess,” Albindi agreed glumly, “but why does Watson feel so right to me? I’ve been less certain on far more evidence than this before. And now I’ve got to take his car back and all but apologize for suspecting him.”

They picked up the keys to Watson’s car, signed the necessary forms and Albindi slid behind the wheel. Whittaker was to follow in a squad car. Except for a small stain on the upholstery, the spider-webbed window and a crumpled rear bumper, there was nothing to show that a woman had died in this car four days ago. The Chevy cranked easily and cornered smoothly as Albindi drove it through the city streets. It was a comfortable car, one of the higher-priced models, and he could almost sympathize with Watson’s desire to get it back.

The April rain had finally stopped and the sun was out, but the mercury remained low. The heater felt good as it warmed the chilly interior, and Albindi could feel it draining away some of his tension. He had just taken one hand off the steering wheel to loosen the buttons of his topcoat when it hit him.

Abruptly, he pulled the Chevy into a bus stop beside a telephone booth, waved a dime at Whittaker, who’d eased in behind him, and called Jarrell at the lab. He asked one question, received a negative reply and shouted to Whittaker, “Back to headquarters. Jarrell just told me how Watson could be in two places at one time!”

In their office, while Whittaker began laying out all the pictures the photographers had taken the night of the murder, Albindi tracked down Dr. Caird, chief medical examiner, by phone. There was a lengthy silence on the other end of the line when Albindi had outlined his theory, then Dr. Caird said cautiously, “I’ll have to recheck all my figures, but technically, there’s no reason to disagree. Damn it! I must be getting old not to have noticed it myself.”

As Albindi hung up, Whittaker laid a photograph in front of him and tapped the significant feature with his finger. “There it is!” Together, they tackled Captain Fulner, and this time there was no hesitation in the issuance of a search warrant.

If Watson were surprised to see them when they arrived with a search party, he was too disciplined to let them see it. He accepted the warrant and opened the door for them as coolly as if it were a social occasion. “May I ask what you expect to find?”

“The warrant states what we’re looking for, Mr. Watson.”

He read the paper he held. “An M-1 rifle? So you’ve decided I was in the building shooting my wife at the same time I was driving with her in the car?”

“Not at the same time and not from that building,” Albindi said. “I rather think it was a half hour earlier and out in your back yard. What reason did you give her for keeping her waiting in the car while you climbed one of those big maples on your extension ladder? Did you tell her you’d left your pruning shears up there and it looked like rain?”

“Am I under arrest?” Watson asked, turning the warrant in his hand.

“Not yet,” Whittaker answered as they listened to the sounds of the searchers moving through the house.

“We know you were in that tenement last Sunday studying the angles so you could duplicate them here,” Albindi said. “We have a witness.”

“A decrepit old drunk! Three people saw me in the car when Mildred was killed.”

“A clever bit of misdirection, but no one heard a shot.”

“The fire engines—” Watson began, but Albindi interrupted.

“Not good enough. We could buy it except for one small point: it was a warm evening. Your shirt was still wet with sweat when I first saw you, but it didn’t register because mine was damp, too. On the other hand, I wasn’t riding around that night with both windows closed and a heater going full blast. You were, Watson. You thought of everything — even to closing the car door when Sperry rammed you and you jumped out to begin your act — but you forgot to turn off the heater. By the time you remembered, it was too late. You couldn’t open the door and turn it off with Sperry and the Grayleys there. I noticed how powerful it was when I started to return your car today. The only thing is, I hadn’t turned it on.”

“One of your people could have done it.”

“Sorry,” Albindi said. “The witnesses all confirm that the windows were up, and photographs taken that night before your wife’s body was moved show the heater on its highest setting. The medical examiner says it would be enough to push the time of death back at least a half hour, maybe more.”

The search party came downstairs. “No luck, Lieutenant,” one of them said.

“There’s a garage out back. Lots of boxes and cartons, so take your time.”

Albindi and Whittaker trailed along as Watson walked slowly through the house to halt at the back kitchen windows. Crisp sunlight filtered through lightly-leaved trees outside and was mirrored in the line of forsythia across the back where, despite the last few days of cold weather, more yellow buds had opened. The room was silent, then Watson pulled a letter from his pocket and crumpled it.

“It came today,” he said, tossing it into a wastebasket. “A letter from Creighton Prep saying they had a vacancy for Ellen.” He had heard the running footsteps across the yard outside.

A young detective stuck his head in the door. “We found it, Lieutenant! Up on one of the back rafters.”

Albindi turned to Watson. “Mr. Watson, I’m arresting you for the murder of your wife. You have the right to remain silent—”

Watson held up his hand to stop him and, for the first time, Albindi saw his shoulders slump.

“All these past months, my daughter — Ellen — she’s been so quick to understand and make excuses for every no-good, lazy malcontent in the country.” He looked at them despairingly. “I wonder if she’ll understand all this — or me?”

Albindi couldn’t answer.