world.”
“What did you do after you made the phone call?”
“I ran to get Mrs. Endicott.”
“Where was she?”
“She was taking her evening walk. Just like clockwork she is. She leaves at eight-thirty, circles the grounds once, and comes back at nine-thirty.”
“Every night?”
“Yes, sir. Even if it rains. Mrs. Endicott is a great believer in walks.”
“And where did you find Mrs. Endicott?”
“Just outside the house, sir. She had heard the shots too. She was running toward me. I wouldn’t let her in the library. I took her upstairs to her room. And I stayed with her until nine-thirty, when Mr. Noble came.”
“According to Lieutenant Coyne’s report,” Paris said, “you saw a boat going by the bluff. You didn’t recognize who was in it?”
“No, sir. It was pitch-dark. I saw the boat. It had its outboard going full blast. It wasn’t Mr. Charles’s boat because that was at the dock. This boat was heading in toward the basin. I couldn’t see who was in it.”
“And where was Mr. Endicott’s fiancée this whole time?”
“Miss Wyman was out,” she said. “She had left at eight o’clock.”
“With whom?”
“Mr. Almieda. He’s the artist friend of Mr. Charles. He called for her.”
“Did Mr. Almieda come in a car?”
“Yes. He has a little convertible.”
“And after Mr. Almieda left with Miss Wyman, the next car you heard was the black sedan of Lieutenant Hallmark. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“There were no other cars until Chief Kay arrived?”
“No, sir.”
“All right,” Paris said. “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. Would you know if Mrs. Endicott is available?”
“She’s in the living room with Mr. Hanft,” she said. “I’ll go and see, sir.”
She left. Mr. Davis shifted his feet, looked at them apologetically, and moved out toward the front entrance. Paris and Kay waited. A man opened a door and came into the foyer. He was a tall man. He had curly gray hair, a high forehead with a tan on it, an ascetic face. He was wearing a beige-colored tropical-worsted suit, a white shirt and a dark tie. His wing-toed cordovan shoes were highly polished.
“My name is George Hanft,” the man said, putting his hand out to Paris. “I’m the Endicott attorney. Mrs. Endicott will see you. She’s quite composed now, but there have been a lot of questions. I wouldn’t talk to her too much, Inspector.”
“I won’t,” Paris said. “I’ll be as brief as possible.”
Paris followed the attorney into the living room, with Chief Kay close behind. There was a huge Regency sideboard along one wall. Over it was a large oil painting of Sunset Point, the big white house, and a wind-whipped sea. The room was long and wide, the ceiling, beamed wood. There were round-seated needlework chairs, bigger chairs in rich tapestry. At the back of the room were large square windows. French doors led to the terrace.
A woman sat on a brocaded oval sofa. She had gray, shingled hair that was swept back on one side and secured with a jeweled clip. She was wearing a dark dress without ornamentation. Her face was long, thin and bloodless, and her mouth was small and tightly drawn.
Mr. Hanft said, “Martha, this is Detective-Inspector Paris. You know the Chief, of course.”
Mrs. Endicott nodded slightly. She motioned them to sit down. They remained standing. Kay scuffed his foot on the thick pile of the rug and twisted his cap in his hands. He said, “Mrs. Endicott, the whole town is awful sorry about what happened to Mr. Charles. Eddie Hansen wants to get up a committee to pay their respects.”
“Thank you, Gus,” Mrs. Endicott said evenly. “That’s very thoughtful. I’m grateful to all of you.” She looked up at Paris standing there. “So you’re the inspector. Why, you’re no older than Charles was. How old are you really?”
“Thirty-four, Mrs. Endicott.”
“A year younger than Charles,” she said. “But you carry yourself well. I like that in a man. I wish Charles had taken better care of his body. He had a tendency to thicken around the waist.”
Paris said, “I know you’ve been under a strain, Mrs. Endicott. So I’m not going to take up too much of your time. I thought possibly you could tell me a few things that would help us.”
She looked down at her hands. “I’ve answered a great many questions. Your commissioner was here. He’s a pompous old fool and nothing more than a political charlatan. With him was a very mediocre officer, a Lieutenant Coyne. I know now how big a price we pay for mediocrity. I’ve lost my son on account of it.”
“No, Mrs. Endicott,” Paris said. “Not because of that.”
“Naturally you wouldn’t say so. Policemen are notorious for defending their own, no matter how bad or incompetent. Now you’re going to ask questions. You’re going to start like they did. By asking me if my son had any enemies.”
“Yes,” Paris said.
“Charles had no enemies,” she said wearily. “I can’t ever conceive of Charles having enemies. He was a quiet, soft-spoken boy and he was engrossed in the museum. He’s the youngest trustee the museum ever had.”
“He left a considerable estate,” Paris said. “Who inherits it?”
“Now wait, Martha,” Hanft said quickly. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“Stop it, George,” Mrs. Endicott said. “Don’t be so damned eager to protect my interests. My son has been murdered and I want his killer brought to justice as swiftly as possible. Nothing is sacrosanct when it comes to that. Tell the boy.”
Hanft looked down at the rug for a moment. His eyes came up and scanned Paris. “When Mr. Charles, Senior, died, he left a large trust fund to Mrs. Endicott. The residue of the estate went to his son, Charles, Junior. Now that Mr. Charles was unmarried and without heirs the entire estate will revert to Mrs. Endicott.”
“In other words nobody benefits financially from his death,” Paris said.
“Hardly,” Hanft said. “Mrs. Endicott already has more than enough for the remainder of her life. There will be some large charitable bequests. But they’re secret, of course.”
Paris, preoccupied, nodded. He walked over near the sideboard and stood under the oil painting. He examined the scrawled signature of Walter Almieda underneath.
“This Walter Almieda,” Paris said. “How friendly was your son with him, Mrs. Endicott?”
“They
