The Wrong Way Down by Elizabeth Daly Page A

down and open the front door. The murderer wouldn’t risk having her come out on that balcony where she might be seen if there was anybody around to see.”
    â€œShe’d never have made an appointment for nine o’clock at night unless she thought she knew all about the caller. And the appointment was made after I telephoned her about the burglar alarm; otherwise she’d have mentioned the call to me. I’m pretty sure of that.”
    Nordhall glanced at his watch. “It’s twenty-seven to one; the shank of the evening in San Francisco. I guess it’s about time for a little talk with Ashbury.” He pulled the telephone towards him, and motioned Gamadge to bring his chair around the desk. “Just a little talk,” he said. “I haven’t had official permission to scare him. Here’s the number, they wrote it down in Miss Paxton’s little red book.”
    â€œLet’s see the address.” Gamadge had moved up to Nordhall’s side. Nordhall shoved the book to him and got through to the switchboard. He asked for Ashbury’s San Francisco number.
    After a wait a voice came from far away; it sounded like the voice of an elderly Chinese servant.
    â€œMrs. Ashbury? I think she retired. Mrs. Ashbury is not very well.”
    An operator set him right.
    â€œMr. Ashbury? I will call him.”
    Another voice spoke, a loudish, strong, self-confident voice:
    â€œThis is James Ashbury speaking.”
    â€œNew York calling. Go ahead, New York.”
    Nordhall muttered out of the side of his mouth: “I’m betting on you, Buddy; don’t you let me down.” He spoke into the telephone: “Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Ashbury; this is Detective-Lieutenant Nordhall, Police Department, New York City.”
    â€œOh—yes, Lieutenant?”
    â€œAbout Miss Paxton. You’ve been very helpful, thought I ought to keep you posted.”
    â€œThanks. Very good of you. Anything more I can do?”
    â€œI wish we’d known your son and daughter were in town; we might not have had to trouble you at all.”
    There was a long pause. Then Ashbury said: “Oh yes. They’re on a trip. May I ask how you got in touch with them? I wasn’t sure I wanted to let them know anything about the accident—they didn’t know Miss Paxton. Nothing they could do.”
    â€œWe made the connection through their cousin Miss Iris Vance.”
    â€œ Who? ”
    â€œMiss Iris Vance.”
    â€œThere’s some mistake. They don’t know her.”
    â€œThey’re intimate, Mr. Ashbury. Have a flat in the same apartment building.”
    â€œNews to me,” said the voice angrily. “I suppose the children met her somewhere. My daughter told me she was lucky enough to get a sub-lease. These young people. Never know half their plans…”
    Gamadge sat forward, listening in. Nordhall cast a glance at his intent profile, and went on:
    â€œI’ve had some more information on that accident, Mr. Ashbury. It might be better if you came East after all.”
    â€œCame East? Why?”
    â€œI don’t want to say much over the telephone, but there’s some doubt now about the circumstances of Miss Paxton’s death.”
    â€œDoubt? What do you mean? I thought—”
    â€œFrom information I received, I’m not so sure now that it was an accident.”
    â€œNot an accident! You mean it was a—was a robbery? I thought she fell.” There was a rasp in Ashbury’s voice now.
    â€œWe’re not so sure just what did happen. There’ll be an adjournment of the inquest, anyhow. We might need you. Now about a plane reservation; we might help you there.”
    â€œI could manage it in a day or so, I think. I know a man in a bureau. I suppose this is really important? I’m a busy man, and my wife’s not well.”
    â€œIt’s important, Mr. Ashbury. We’ll find somewhere for