“Not at all. I merely surmised it. Naturally she is paying him; the man has to live or at least he thinks so. Was he bludgeoned into confessing it?”
“No. They screwed it out of his bank.”
“I see. Detective work. Mr. Cramer needs a mirror to make sure he has a nose on his face.”
“I give in.” I compressed my lips and shook my head. “You’re the pink of the pinks. You’re the without which nothing.” I stood up and shook down my pants legs. “I can think of only one improvement that might be made in this place; we could put an electric chair in the front room and do our own burning. I’m going to tell Fritz that I’ll dine in the kitchen, because I’ll have to be leaving around eight-thirty to represent you at the funeral services.”
“That’s a pity.” He meant it. “Need you actually go?”
“I will go. It’ll look better. Somebody around here ought to do something.”
Chapter 15
At that hour, 8:50 p.m., parking spaces were few and far between on 73rd Street. I finally found one about half a block east of the address of the Belford Memorial Chapel, and backed into it. I thought there was something familiar about the license number of the car just ahead, and sure enough, after I got out and took a look, I saw that it was Perren Gebert’s convertible. It was spic and span, having had a cleaning since its venture into the wilds of Putnam County. I handed it to Gebert for a strong rebound, since he had evidently recovered enough in three hours to put in an appearance at a social function.
I walked to the portal of the chapel and entered, and was in a square anteroom of paneled marble. A middle-aged man in black clothes approached and bowed to me. He appeared to be under the influence of a chronic but aristocratic melancholy. He indicated a door at his right by extending his forearm in that direction with his elbow fastened to his hip, and murmured at me:
“Good evening, sir. The chapel is that way. Or...”