“-pastimes?”

He waited.

Padua asked, “You had another fellow with you when you picked up this girl?”

“Who was it?” Horn demanded.

He couldn’t back out of it now. “Artie Straus.”

Once more, the sigh of relaxation spread through the room. Judd hated baseball, but from way back in his Twain School days, when they had tried to get him into things by making him the baseball manager, he recognized the feeling among the men: the second out.

“Straus was with you when you picked up this girl?”

“Well, we picked up a couple. The fact is, we had some drinks, in the afternoon while we were watching for the birds.” Somehow that always tickled them. “And we thought we had a little too much on our breath to go home – it would show – so we went to the Coconut Grove for dinner, and then we drove around and picked up these girls.”

“Straus,” Horn repeated as he wrote down the name. “That the Straus Corporation?”

Judd nodded.

A low, appreciative whistle came from Czewicki.

“Can you give us his address?”

McNamara was already coming forward to take the slip of paper. “Say, that’s right across from the Kessler house,” he said. “Say, I know this Artie Straus – he gave us all that dope on the school teachers.”

“He’s been extremely interested in the crime,” Judd said. “His little brother was in Paulie’s class at Twain. And Artie is a kind of amateur detective.”

As McNamara left, Horn stood up, smiling. “How about some dinner?” he suggested, in the tone of a man who has done a good day’s work. “I’m starved.”

“I could eat,” Padua agreed.

To Judd’s surprise, Horn suggested they all go down to the dining room.

It was an amiable meal. Not once during that hour did they touch on the crime. Various law schools were discussed, and, as Judd had suspected, it turned out that Padua was a product of evening courses at a downtown school.

The University of Chicago’s law school was outstanding, Padua said – it would certainly have been good enough for him, without going off to Harvard.

“My father insists on Harvard because Harvard is the best,” Judd remarked. “That has always been his attitude. Buy the best.”

He said it inadvertently. He would not have wanted to antagonize them. And indeed, none of them seemed to take it as a bragging remark.

During that dinner, the feeling began to grow in Padua that he would soon understand this case. No such feeling had come to him with any of the other suspects. Now, with Judd Steiner, Padua had that unmistakable glimmering, the feeling that, even aside from the material facts of the case, the crime would become comprehensible.

Had the glint in his mind come from Judd’s remark about buying the best, always having the best? A pampered kid, a prodigy, a young man who had always had everything he wanted. How did that lead to the murder? And the ransom? To prove he could get something on his own?

Padua remained quiet while the conversation flowed into other channels. Judd was discoursing on ornithology now, explaining about the stuffed birds McNamara had seen in his room, throwing in Latin names of species, and mentioning some rare specimen he had discovered.

One of the squad, a sergeant named Fleury, said bird shooting was his favourite sport; he knew a fine lake in Wisconsin.

It wasn’t the shooting part, Judd broke in. He didn’t particularly enjoy killing birds, but when there was a scientific reason, the killing became incidental. He went on elaborating his point, his voice becoming somewhat clacky as his self-assurance mounted.

But once more, a word, a phrase, had glimmered for Padua. “… the killing became incidental.”

Toward the end of the meal, Judd wanted to go to the men’s room. He had been drinking a great deal of water – was his thirst a sign? As he arose, Fleury made an involuntary movement to follow the suspect, but Horn shook his head.

The moment Judd was away from the table, the discussion began.

“That was a pretty fishy story about those broads,” Sergeant Fleury offered, to make an impression on Horn.

Czewicki pursed his lips. “He’s a smart cooky. He had a whole week to fix up a better story, if he had anything to do with it.”

“I think he did it,” Padua said.

They all looked to Horn. “We’ll damn well find out,” he said, his voice rather shrill.

When the detectives picked up Judd, Artie felt excited to the point of elation. Of course Judd would get out of it, the bastard. Or were they swatting him? Judd couldn’t stand a scratch. He’d bawl. He’d confess.

Maybe the best idea would be to scram, right now. But if he beat it, the game would be up. What did the cops have so far? If they knew anything much, they’d have arrested him, too. Then, if it was only Judd, it could be the glasses. Or it might be only some more questioning about birding. That was it. The police were baffled. They were going over the same old ground. Judd had got through it once; he’d do it again.

Artie decided to go home and wait for Judd to call.

Suppose he beat it up to Charlevoix? That could be natural – merely running up there ahead of the Memorial Day crowd. And then, if he heard anything bad about Judd, he could jump into a boat, hide out among the islands. Go across to Canada, up to Alaska…

At home, Artie retreated to his room. Two hours had passed. Surely Judd was back from downtown. The little bastard was teasing him.

Artie phoned the Steiners. The maid answered. She told him in an anxious puzzled voice, Mr. Judd had come back with those men, but he had gone again.

“What?”

Yes, they had all come back, to look for Mr. Judd’s eyeglasses. Mr. Max had been home at the time.

“Did Max go with Judd and those detectives?”

No, Mr. Max had gone out to a social engagement, she believed.

Artie hung up. Still, it couldn’t be too bad, or Max would have gone along with Judd.

His mother was talking about the weekend at Charlevoix. Did he want to invite anyone special? Artie held back the news about Judd. He made all kinds of funny suggestions about Charlevoix. How about Fatty Arbuckle? There was a good man for a party!

“Arthur! Fun is fun, but do you have to be so vulgar?”

Putting on a record, Artie snapped his fingers to the music. He seized her and danced her around for a moment. Then, all through dinner, he was subdued. Mumsie even remarked on it. He was thinking of his future, Artie said, and everyone laughed. His father remarked, “Well, in fact it’s about time.” But Mumsie said he was still only a baby.

After dinner he watched from an upstairs window. And he saw the Marmon drive up. That goddam little bastard, could he have confessed! Artie rushed into his room, seized his automatic. Should he shoot it out?

His mother approached, calling from the stairs in a puzzled voice that there were some gentlemen to see him. Artie threw the pistol into the drawer. Carrying a gun might spoil things. Coming down with Mumsie, he recognized McNamara and the other guy. “Hi!” he said. And to his mother: “It’s some friends of mine from the detective force. I’ve been helping them on the Kessler case. There’s an important new clue.”

“Oh God, I hope they’ve found the culprit,” she said.

As he went out of the door with them, Artie said, “I’ve always wanted a ride in one of your Marmons.”

“You’ve got it,” said McNamara.

With a dozen other reporters, I was on watch in the State’s Attorney’s office. We had been there for hours. Somewhere, we knew, Horn was questioning the possible owners of the glasses.

All we could do was wait. A couple of squad men were on duty, and whenever one of them left the room, several reporters jumped up and followed, hoping to be led to Horn. Most often, it would be to the toilet, and we’d all guffaw. Whenever the phone rang, to be answered by Olin Swasey, an assistant on duty, we pleaded to talk to his chief, if that was Horn on the wire. But he only smiled, shaking his head.