"Oh sure." With some trepidation, although outwardly resolute, Herb Mandell advanced to the lectern in front of the podium. He waited a moment for the buzz of conversation to stop and then began the little speech he had written and carefully memorized. "As chairman of the committee, I want to welcome you in the name of the temple Brotherhood." He hoped that those who were here for the first time would enjoy the service and draw spiritual strength and comfort from it. Further he hoped that they would make a habit of it and come every Friday night. Quite at ease now, he even ventured a mild joke not in his prepared text, saying he hoped they would not think it was male chauvinism of the Brotherhood sponsoring only one service for every three that were sponsored by the Sisterhood. "It isn't that we think we can do the same in one that they do in three. It's just that we're new at it, and we want to learn from them." No one laughed, but he thought he detected a smile or two. Anyway, they wouldn't be likely to laugh right in the sanctuary, would they?

He ended by announcing, "The cantor will now chant the prayer, How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob."

Sitting there on the podium, in full view of the congregation, he felt the responsibility of demonstrating deep interest in the proceedings, so during the chanting he followed the text in the prayerbook, his finger moving along the line as if to make sure that the cantor did not skip a word. From his vantage point he was able to note such interesting phenomena as that Mr. Liston had a facial tic, that Mrs. Eisner whispered almost continuously to the women on either side of her, and that Mrs. Porush was dozing. But he still managed to preserve his air of great attention. Later, when the rabbi got up to give his sermon, Herb made a point of nodding every now and then in agreement or appreciation.

Just as the rabbi was bringing his sermon to a close Henry Maltzman arrived, looked around guiltily, and then, an uneasy smile on his face, slid into a seat in the rear. From the podium Herb Mandell frowned in disapproval. He decided that he agreed with Howard Jonas that it wasn't right for the president of the congregation to come late to the service. And so late! It was quarter past nine and the service would be over in a few minutes. He found himself watching Maltzman and once their eyes locked. It seemed to him that the president nodded slightly and smiled approvingly? derisively? He could not be sure.

Afterward, in the vestry at the collation, he saw Maltzman several times, moving about among the congregation. Although Maltzman waved to him, he made no effort to approach him to congratulate him, as Mandell thought he might. In fact, it almost seemed as though he were trying to avoid him.

Nevertheless, it had been an exhilarating evening for Herb Mandell. When he got home, his first words were, "I wish you could have been there, Molly. Everything went off just right."

"Oh Herb, I'm so glad for you."

"I'm sorry you had to stay home with Mother. Maybe we should have tried to get that woman Mrs. Slotnick recommended."

"That's silly. You'd have to pay her nurse's rates."

"Yeah. Did Mother give you any trouble?"

"She slept like a baby. And I didn't mind staying home. I had that report to do for the bank."

"How'd you make out?"

"Oh, I finished it," she said, motioning toward the desk.

21.

Saturday morning, Gore stopped off at Molly's house before going to Jordon's. When she admitted him, he asked eagerly. "What did he say when you gave it to him?"

"I didn't give it to him," said Molly. "I didn't see him. The house was dark when I got there."

"Why, what time was it?"

"A little after I spoke to you. That was around half past eight."

"He must have gone out. What did you do with the report?"

"I didn't want to leave it in the mail slot. I brought it back with me. That was right, wasn't it?"

"Oh, absolutely. I'll take it up to him now."

She handed him a manila envelope and watched expectantly as he riffled through the typed pages.

"Beautiful," he said. "I really appreciate this, Molly."

"But it doesn't balance."

He ran an expert eye down a column of figures. "Here it is," he announced pointing. "This is an asset, not a liability. You sure I marked it L rather than A?"

She flipped open the file. "This one? You want me to make the correction on my typewriter? I can x it out and-"

"No, don't bother." He made the correction in pencil. "I'll show it to him to explain what held it up."

From Molly's he drove directly to Jordon's house. As he turned in at the gate, he heard an automobile horn, seemingly from the direction of the house. It grew louder as he drove up the driveway, and sure enough, there was a car parked in front of the door. It was Martha, her face contorted with rage as she pushed down on the horn button on the steering wheel.

He got out of his car and approached her. "What's going on? What's the matter? What's the racket for?"

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Gore." Her face relaxed, and she even managed a shamefaced little smile. "There's a month's wages due me. I knocked on the door and rang the bell but there's no answer. The old bugger must have seen it was me and won't answer out of spite. I'd like to put a pin in the bell like we used to do when we were kids on Halloween."

"He's probably gone out."

"No, look at he door. It's not pulled to. He wouldn't leave it like that if he weren't in. You can just push it open."

He walked to the door, as she got out of the car to follow him. He stabbed at the bell button. Sure enough, he could hear it ringing inside.

"See, the bell is all right. You can hear it, can't you?"

He nodded and pushed the button once more. They waited, and she said, "I'll bet he's watching and waiting for me to go away."

He shook his head impatiently and then, with sudden decision, pushed the door open and stepped in. Martha was right behind him. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the bright morning sunlight to the dim light of the room, somber with its curtained and draped windows. It was the buzzing of a large bluebottle fly that drew their eyes to the figure of Ellsworth Jordon lying back in his recliner as though asleep. But there was an ugly wound at the base of the forehead, right between the eyes, from which the blood had trickled down both sides of his nose to the corner of his mouth.

Martha screamed. Gore pressed his lips tightly together and managed to repress the urge to retch.

"He's hurt," she moaned. "The poor man is hurt. Why don't you do something?"

"Shut up," he snapped. Without moving, he looked around the room, noting a broken medicine bottle, the fragments of a shattered light bulb, the torn canvas of the oil painting of Jordon's father on the wall.

"We've got to call the police," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I'll wait here while you get in your car and drive down to the corner. There's a pay station there."

"Can't you call from here?" she asked.

"Fingerprints," he replied tersely. "There may be prints on the phone."

As soon as she had gone, he forced himself to approach the figure in the recliner. He touched the icy forehead with his fingertips and then wiped them on his trouserleg. Suddenly he thought of Billy and called out, "Billy? Are you there, Billy?" He giggled in relief as no answer came.

He backed out of the room and left the house, closing the door behind him, but making sure that the lock did not catch. As he went to his car to await the arrival of the police a wild thought occurred to him: that now there was no way of proving who had won the bet he had made the night before.

22.

While his men worked in the living room, photographing, measuring, dusting for fingerprints, the state detective, Sergeant McLure, and a police stenographer were in the kitchen-because it had a table to write on-questioning Gore. Lanigan and his lieutenant, Eban Jennings, had taken over the dining room as a command post, where they issued orders and received reports from their subordinates.

They had just finished questioning Martha Peterson, subdued and teary-eyed, and had sent her on home.

"You believe her explanation of the door of the boy's room being locked?" asked Jennings. "You believe this Jordon would lock a young man of eighteen in his room like a teacher would send a kid to stand in the corner?"

Lanigan shrugged noncommittally.

"Even though he knew the kid would hop out the window?"

"It's just crazy enough to be true," said Lanigan. "Maybe Gore might know something about it. We'll ask him when McLure gets through with him."

"Everything about this case seems kind of crazy, Hugh."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, this Jordon is supposed to have been a millionaire. Right?"

"That's the reputation he had around town. We'll probably find out more about that, too, from Gore. What about it?"

"Well, doesn't this strike you as a funny layout for a millionaire?"

"How do you mean?"

"This dining room now, it's clean enough, but those drapes are pretty faded and these chairs are kind of worn. Same with the other room."

"I suppose that's the result of having a housekeeper instead of a wife," said Lanigan. "A wife is always after her husband to buy new stuff when it gets worn, but a housekeeper will just keep the place clean."

"Yeah. But it's more than that. Here's this big ark of a house three stories high, and yet everything is on the first floor. It don't look as though the rooms on the other two floors are used at all. What was probably the back parlor, he used as his bedroom, right off the living room, mind you. And that little room next to it, that was made into another bedroom for the boy. That looks to me as though he was trying to cut down on his fuel bills."

"Could be," said Lanigan. "The word was that he was always careful with money. On the other hand, it could be that after he had a heart attack, his doctor might not have wanted him to climb the stairs. And naturally, he'd want the young fellow right near him in case anything should happen to him in the middle of the night. I wonder where he is. The bed wasn't slept in."

"Probably off somewhere for the weekend. Stands to reason he wouldn't want to spend it hanging around with an old codger like Jordon. This Martha, now, didn't she used to clerk in the supermarket?"

Lanigan nodded. "That's right. She was on the check-out counter."

Jennings nodded in decided agreement. "That's where I saw her. Nice-looking woman. Yeah, that's the way I like them, something solid that you can get hold of. I could make something of that girl."

Lanigan's look was derisive. "Yeah, you'd like to make a mother of her. That's what you'd like. I wonder Maude puts up with you."

"Now, look here, Hugh-"

"Did you know Celia Johnson? She used to work for Jordon. She gave up a good job to become his housekeeper. She was a bookkeeper with the Water Commission. Five days a week, nine to five. Paid vacations. Blue Cross and Blue Shield. Pension rights. And she gave it up to go to work for him. Gladys knew her. I remember Gladys explaining to me why Celia did it. She was thirty-eight at the time and not getting any younger. Here was a man all alone-"

"And she thought maybe she could make him? Get him to marry her?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"You think that's why Martha Peterson went to work for him?"

"Well, she's not getting any younger either."

"It could be that she just likes housework better than clerking, is all."

"Could be," Lanigan admitted. "But if it's the way I think, it could be the reason she insisted that Stanley pick her up here was that she wanted to make Jordon a little jealous. Spark him up. Show him there's some competition."

Jennings showed some interest. "And that's why she quit her job? Because she saw it wasn't working and there was no sense staying on?"

"Or maybe there was something more between the two than just a job."

Eban Jenning's pale blue eyes showed interest, and his Adam's apple bobbled with excitement. "She could have come back afterward to have it out with him. Or maybe she didn't even go away, but just kind of hung around outside until she was sure the old man was alone and-"

Dr. Mokely, the medical examiner, put his head in the doorway and said, "I've finished here, Hugh."

"Oh, come in, Fred. What've you got?"

"Death instantaneous, of course. What do you expect from a shot right between the eyes?" He set his bag down on the floor and took the chair that Jennings pushed at him with his foot.

"Powder burns?"

"Suicide?" He shook his head. "Not a chance. No powder burns."

"Er-Doc"-Jennings swallowed his Adam's apple-"this Jordon had a bad heart."

The doctor laughed. "Well, he certainly didn't die of a heart attack."

"How do you know?" Jennings persisted. "Five of the six shots were scattered all over the room, so it must have been the last one that got him."

"Why does it have to have been the last one?" asked the doctor.

"Because it hit him square in the forehead," said Lanigan. "So the person shooting could see he'd hit him, and that hitting him there he must have killed him. So would he continue shooting after that? And if he hadn't had a heart attack, wouldn't Jordon have tried to run or hide if someone started shooting him?"

"How would he get a heart attack?" asked the doctor.

"Say he was asleep," suggested Jennings. "Wouldn't the first shot wake him up?"

"I suppose."

"Well, couldn't that bring on a heart attack, waking up and seeing someone firing away at him?"

"All right," the doctor conceded. "So what?"

"Then he could be dead before that last shot that actually hit him," said Jennings triumphantly.