Murder by the Book

"No gags tonight, I'm too sleepy. We heard the radio on the phone, and I thought I'd check. If you don't mind?"

"Don't touch the door or the knob."

"I won't."

He stepped aside, and I got my ear close to the angle of the door and the jamb. Ten seconds was enough. As I listened there was another sound in the hall, the elevator starting down.

I moved away. "Right. Bill Stern. WNBC."

"It was Bill Stern on the phone?"

"No, but it was WNBC. 'The Life of Riley.' Bill Stern goes on at ten-thirty."

"The Yankees look good, don't they?"

I'm a Giant fan, but I wanted to get inside and had to be tactful. So I said, "They sure do. I hope Mantle comes through."

He did too, but he was skeptical. He thought these wonder boys seldom live up to their billing. He thought various other things, and was telling about them when the elevator returned and its door opened, and we had company. One was his colleague and the other was a little runt with very few teeth and a limp, wearing an old overcoat for a dressing gown. The cop, surprised at sight of me, asked his brother, "Who's this, not precinct?"

"No. Nero Wolfe's Archie Goodwin."

"Oh, him. How come?"

"Save it. Hey, get away from that door! Gimme that key!"

The runt surrendered it and backed off. The cop in command inserted the key and turned it, used his handkerchief to turn the knob, which made me suppress a snicker, pushed the door, and entered, with his colleague at his heels. I was right behind. We were in a narrow hall with a door at either end and one in the middle. The one at the right was open, and the cop headed for that and on through. Two steps inside he stopped, so I just made the sill.

It was a fairly big living room, furnished comfortably by a man for a man. That was merely the verdict of one sweeping glance, for any real survey of the furniture, if required, would have to wait. On a table at the far side, between two windows, was the phone, with the receiver off, lying on the floor. Also on the floor, six inches from the receiver, was the head of James A. Corrigan, with the rest of him stretched out toward

a window. A third item on the floor, a couple of feet from Corrigan's hip, was a gun-from where I stood I would have said a Marley.32. The lights were on. Also on was a radio at the end of the table, with Bill Stern telling what he thought of the basketball stink. There was a big dark spot, nearly black at that distance, on Corrigan's right temple.