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said and took his hand. “I’m sorry, Stanley, but something happened and—” She checked herself suddenly, as if aware of the others, and faced the room. “This is Mr. Furness. I think you know Mr. Gifford, and this is Miss Harding, Mr. Casey, Lieutenant Logan and Sergeant—”
    She groped and Manahan said, “Manahan.”
    â€œI was worried when you didn’t come,” Furness said to the girl. “Is—is something wrong?”
    â€œFurness?” Logan said questioningly before anyone could reply. “You’re a friend of Miss MacKay’s?”
    He said he was. He said he had met her through Miss Taylor. “I was Miss Taylor’s first husband,” he added, as though that explained everything.
    Logan’s brows climbed and he looked at Manahan without speaking. Furness repeated his question to Helen MacKay, and Casey listened to her sketchy account with his ears and kept his mind on the lieutenant.
    Logan’s eyes were never still. He stood quietly, letting Helen MacKay repeat the things he had already heard, watching her, watching Furness and Gifford.
    â€œAnd you two gentlemen,” Furness said to Logan and Manahan, “came to investigate?”
    â€œNot exactly,” Logan said. “We were checking up on Miss Taylor. No one of you saw her tonight—that is except you, Miss MacKay? And you say she left here at twenty-five past nine? To meet you,” he said to Casey. “That right?”
    â€œDo you know where she is?” Helen MacKay cut in. “You do know,” she said quickly, her voice rising.
    â€œWhy yes, Miss MacKay, we do.”
    Casey took a breath. He wasn’t aware that he held it, but he did. And the tightness was in his back and he seemed somehow to know what was coming next because he’d known Logan a long time and he knew the lieutenant’s manner had been just an act. Casey had sensed that something very wrong had happened from the moment he’d seen the two officers, but he had been afraid to go beyond that. Now he waited with the others until Logan went on.
    â€œShe’s in her car—at least we think it’s her car. About two blocks from here. Somebody shot her through the back of the head.”
    For a long moment after that the silence in the room was deadly. Someone’s labored breathing broke it and Casey saw it was Gifford. Then Karen Harding gasped and Helen MacKay’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling her own cry, and now her skin was not smooth and olive but white and stiff. Furness tightened his hands on her arms. Gifford took a half step forward.
    â€œSurely you’re not serious. You mean she’s dead? Why—why, that would be murder.”
    â€œYes,” Logan said. “It is murder.”
    Casey shifted his weight and felt the stiffness go out of him. He swallowed and found his throat dry. He looked at Karen Harding and when he saw how pale she was he went to her and touched her arm.
    â€œTake it easy,” he said. “You want to sit down?”
    â€œOh, but it’s so horrible.”
    â€œSure,” Casey said and slid his hand under her elbow when Logan continued.
    â€œWe came up to see if anyone was here that could identify the car. Some one of you had better come along.” He paused, studying them again. “In fact, I think you’d better all come. It won’t take long and then we can come back here. I’ll have to ask you a few more questions.”
    He looked at Casey. “And leave that camera of yours here, understand? We’re keeping the other papers away from that car and I’m playing no favorites—yet.”

Chapter Four
    L OGAN A SKS Q UESTIONS
    T HE STREET where Rosalind Taylor’s car was parked was little more than a block-long alley leading down toward the river, a one-way affair flanked on one side by a high brick wall and on the other by the side of an apartment house. A fair-sized