Murder By The Book

23

ONE DAY last week I made a station-to-station call to a number in Glendale, California. When I got it I began, "Peggy? This is Archie. Calling from New York."

"Hello, Archie. I was thinking you might call." I made a face. I had been familiar deliberately, with a specific purpose, to find a flaw. There was just a chance she might fake indignation, or she might be coy, or she might even pretend not to know who it was. Nothing doing. She was still Her - too short, too plump, and too old, but the one and only Mrs. Potter.

"It's all over," I told her. "I knew you'd want to know. The jury was out nine hours, but they finally came through with it, first degree murder. As you know, he was tried for Rachel Abrams, not your brother, but that doesn't make any difference. Convicting him for one was convicting him for all four."

"Yes, of course. I'm glad it's over. Thank you for calling. You sound so close, as if you were right here."

"Yeah, so do you. What's it doing out there, raining?"

"Oh, no, bright sunshine, warm and bright. Why, is it raining in New York?"

"It sure is. I guess I bring it on. Do you remember how I looked that day through the peephole?"

"I certainly do! I'll never forget it!"

"Neither will I. Good-by, Peggy."

"Good-by, Archie."

I hung up and made another face. What the hell, I thought, in another twenty years Bubblehead may be dead, and age and contours won't matter much, and I'll grab her.