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as I was finding out。
Carl Moss might be willing to protect Merle with the mantle of Aesculapius； up to a point。 Or he might think it would do her more good in the long run to get it all off her chest； whatever it was。
I wandered back to the jacquard chair and set my teeth and grabbed enough of his hair to pull the head away from the chair back。 The bullet had gone in at the temple。 The set…up could be for suicide。 But people like Louis Vannier do not mit suicide。 A blackmailer； even a scared blackmailer； has a sense of power； and loves it。
I let the head go back where it wanted to go and leaned down to scrub my hand on the nap of the rug。 Leaning down I saw the corner of a picture frame under the lower shelf of the table at Vannier's elbow。 I went around and reached for it with a handkerchief。
The glass was cracked across。 It had fallen off the wall。 I could see the small nail。 I could make a guess how it had happened。 Somebody standing at Vannier's right； even leaning over him； somebody he knew and had no fear of； had suddenly pulled a gun and shot him in the right temple。 And then； startled by the blood or the recoil of the shot； the killer had jumped back against the wall and knocked the picture down。 It had landed on a corner and jumped under the table。 And the killer had been too careful to touch it； or too scared。
I looked at it。 It was a small picture； not interesting at all。 A guy in doublet and hose； with lace at his sleeve ends； and one of those round puffy velvet hats with a feather； leaning far out of a window and apparently calling out to somebody downstairs。 Downstairs not being in the picture。 It was a color reproduction of something that had never been needed in the first place。
I looked around the room。 There were other pictures； a couple of rather nice water colors； some engravingsvery old…fashioned this year； engravings； or are they？ Half a dozen in all。 Well； perhaps the guy liked the picture； so what？ A man leaning out of a high window。 A long time ago。
I looked at Vannier。 He wouldn't help me at all。 A man leaning out of a high window； a long time ago。
The touch of the idea at first was so light that I almost missed it and passed on。 A touch of a feather； hardly that。 The touch of a snowflake。 A high window； a man leaning outa long time ago。
It snapped in place。 It was so hot it sizzled。 Out of a high window a long time agoeight years agoa man leaningtoo fara man fallingto his death。 A man named Horace Bright。
〃Mr。 Vannier；〃 I said with a little touch of admiration； 〃you played that rather neatly。〃
I turned the picture over。 On the back dates and amounts of money were written。 Dates over almost eight years； amounts mostly of 500； a few 750's； two for 1000。 There was a running total in small figures。 It was 11；100。 Mr。 Vannier had not received the latest payment。 He had been dead when it arrived。 It was not a lot of money； spread over eight years。 Mr。 Vannier's customer had bargained hard。
The cardboard back was fastened into the frame with steel victrola needles。 Two of them had fallen out。 I worked the cardboard loose and tore it a little getting it loose。 There was a white envelope between the back and the picture。 Sealed； blank。 I tore it open。 It contained two square photographs and a negative。 The photos were just the same。 They showed a man leaning far out of a window with his mouth open yelling。 His hands were on the brick edges of the window frame。 There was a woman's face behind his shoulder。
He was a thinnish dark…haired man。 His face was not very clear； nor the face of the woman behind him。 He was leaning out of a window and yelling or calling out。
There I was holding the photograph and looking at it。 And so far as I could see it didn't mean a thing。 I knew it had to。 I just didn't know why。 But I kept on looking at it。 And in a little while something was wrong。 It was a very small thing； but it was vital。 The position of the man's hands； lined against the corner of the wall where it was cut out to make the window frame。 The hands were not holding anything； they were not touching anything。 It was the inside of his wrists that lined against the angle of the bricks。 The hands were in air。
The man was not leaning。 He was falling。
I put the stuff back in the envelope and folded the cardboard back and stuffed that into my pocket also。 I hid frame； glass and picture in the linen closet under towels。
All this had taken too long。 A car stopped outside the house。 Feet came up the walk。
I dodged behind the curtains in the archway。
30
The front door opened and then quietly closed。
There was a silence； hanging in the air like a man's breath in frosty air； and then a thick scream； ending in a wail of despair。
Then a man's voice； tight with fury； saying： 〃Not bad； not good。 Try again。〃
The woman's voice said： 〃My God； it's Louis！ He's dead！〃
The man's voice said： 〃I may be wrong； but I still think it stinks。〃
〃My God！ He's dead； Alex。 Do somethingfor God's sakedo something！〃
〃Yeah；〃 the hard tight voice of Alex Morny said。 〃I ought to。 I ought to make you look just like him。 With blood and everything。 I ought to make you just as dead； just as cold； just as rotten。 No； I don't have to do that。 You're that already。 Just as rotten。 Eight months married and cheating on me with a piece of merchandise like that。 My God！ What did I ever think of to put in with a chippy like you？〃
He was almost yelling at the end of it。
The woman made another wailing noise。
〃Quit stalling；〃 Morny said bitterly。 〃What do you think I brought you over here for？ You're not kidding anybody。 You've been watched for weeks。 You were here last night。 I've been here already today。 I've seen what there is to see。 Your lipstick on cigarettes； your glass that you drank out of。 I can see you now； sitting on the arm of his chair； rubbing his greasy hair； and then feeding him a slug while he was still purring。 Why？〃
〃Oh； Alexdarlingdon't say such awful things。〃
〃Early Lillian Gish；〃 Morny said。 〃Very early Lillian Cish。 Skip the agony； toots。 I have to know how to handle this。 What the hell you think I'm here for？ I don't give one little flash in hell about you any more。 Not any more； toots； not any more； my precious darling angel blond mankiller。 But I do care about myself and my reputation and my business。 For instance； did you wipe the gun off？〃
Silence。 Then the sound of a blow。 The woman wailed。 She was hurt； terribly hurt。 Hurt in the depths of her soul。 She made it rather good。
〃Look； angel；〃 Morny snarled。 〃Don't feed me the ham。 I've been in pictures。 I'm a connoisseur of ham。 Skip it。 You're going to tell me how this was done if I have to drag you around the room by your hair。 Nowdid you wipe off the gun？〃
Suddenly she laughed。 An unnatural laugh； but clear and with a nice tinkle to it。 Then she stopped laughing； Just as suddenly。
Her voice said： 〃Yes。〃
〃And the glass you were using？〃
〃Yes。〃
Very quiet now； very cool； 〃And you put his prints on the gun？〃
〃Yes。〃
He thought in the silence。 〃Probably won't fool them；〃 he said。 〃It's almost impossible to get a dead man's prints on a gun in a convincing way。 However。 What else did you wipe off。〃
〃N…nothing。 Oh Alex。 Please don't be so brutal。〃
〃Stop it。 Stop it！ Show me how you did it； how you were standing； how you held the gun。〃
She didn't move。
〃Never mind about the prints；〃 Morny said。 〃I'll put better ones on。 Much better ones。〃
She moved slowly across the opening of the curtains and I saw her。 She was wearing pale green gabardine slacks； a fawn…colored leisure jacket with stitching on it； a scarlet turban with a gold snake in it。 Her face was smeared with tears。
〃Pick it up；〃 Morny yelled at her。 〃Show me！〃
She bent beside the chair and came up with the gun in her hand and her teeth bared。 She pointed the gun across the opening in the curtains； towards the space of room where the door was。
Morny didn't move； didn't make a sound。
The blond's hand began to shake and the gun did a queer up and down dance in the air。 Her mouth trembled and her arm fell。
〃I can't do it；〃 she breathed。 〃I ought to shoot you； but I can't。〃
The hand opened and the gun thudded to the floor。
Morny went swiftly past the break in the curtains； pushed her out of the way and with his foot pushed the gun back to about where it had been。
〃You couldn't do it；〃 he said thickly。 〃You couldn't do it。 Now watch。〃
He whipped a handkerchief out and bent to pick the gun up again。 He pressed something and the gate fell open。 He reached his right hand into his pocket and rolled a cartridge in his fingers； moving his fingertips on the metal； pushed the cartridge into a cylinder。 He repeated the performance four times more； snapped the gate shut； then opened it and spun it a little to set it in a certain spot。 He placed the gun down on the floor； withdrew his hand and handkerchief and straightened up。
〃You couldn't shoot me；〃 he sneered； 〃because there was nothing in the gun but one empty shell。 Now its loaded again。 The cylinders are in the right place。 One shot has been fired。 And your fingerprints are on t