The Exorcist

    "So a median," concluded the detective, "would have put him here at six-forty-five."

    "And so what's this all about?" asked Chris, the nebulous tension in her mounting.

    "Well, it raises a question, Mrs. MacNeil," wheezed -Kinderman, turning his head to gaze at her. "To arrive in the house at say quarter to seven and leave only twenty minutes later..."

    "Oh, well, that was Burke," said Chris "Just like him."

    "Was it also like Mr. De

    "No."

    "No, No, I thought not. I made a little check. And was it also not his custom to travel by taxi? He wouldn't call a cab from the house when he left?"

    "Yes, he would."

    "Then one wonders---not so?---how he came to be walking on the platform at the top of the steps. And one wonders why taxicab companies do not show a record of calls from this house on that night," added Kinderman, "except for the one that picked up your Miss Spencer here at precisely six-forty-seven."

    "I don't know," answered Chris, her voice drained of color... and waiting...

    "You knew all along!" gasped Sharon at Kinderman, perplexed.

    "Yes, forgive me," the detective told her. "However, the matter has now grown serious."

    Chris breathed shallowly, fixing the detective with a steady gaze. "In what way?" she asked. Her voice came thin from her throat.

    He leaned over hands still clasped on the table, the page of typescript balled between them. "The report of the pathologist, Mrs. MacNeil, seems to show that the chance that he died accidentally is still very possible. However..."

    "Are you saying he was murdered?" Chris tensed.

    "The position---now I know this is painful---"

    "Go ahead."

    "The position of De

    "Oh, God!" Chris winced.

    "Yes, it's painful. I'm sorry; I'm terribly sorry. But you see, this condition---we can skip the details---but it never could happen, you see, unless Mr. De

    He'd turned now to a frowning Sharon. "When you left, he was where, Mr. De

    "No, down here in the study. He was fixing a drink."

    "Might your daughter remember"---he turned to Chris---"if perhaps Mr. De

    Has she ever been alone with him?

    "Why do you ask?"

    "Might your daughter remember?"

    "No, I told you before, she was heavily sedated and---"

    "Yes, yes, you told me; that's true; I recall it; but perhaps she awakened---not so?---and..."

    "No chance. And---"

    "She was also sedated," he interrupted, "when last we spoke?"

    "Oh, well, yes; as a matter of fact she was," Chris recalled. "So what?"

    "I thought I saw her at her window that day."

    "You're mistaken."

    He shrugged. "It could be, it could be; I'm not sure."

    "Listen, why are you asking all this?" Chris demanded.

    "Well, a clear possibility, as I was saying, is maybe the deceased was so drunk that he stumbled and fell from the window in your daughter's bedroom."

    Chris shook her head. "No way. No chance. In the first place, the window was always closed, and in the second place, Burke was always drunk, but he never got sloppy, never sloppy at all. That right, Shar?"

    "Right."

    "Burke used to direct when he was smashed. Now how could he stumble and fall out a window?"

    "Were you maybe expecting someone else here that night?" he asked her.

    "No."

    "Have you friends who drop by without calling?"

    "Just Burke," Chris answered. Why?"

    The detective lowered his head and shook it, frowning at the crumpled paper in his hands. "Strange... so baffling." He exhaled wearily. "Baffling." Then he lifted his glance to Chris. "The deceased comes to visit, stays only twenty minutes without even seeing you, and leaves all alone here a very sick girl. And speaking plainly, Mrs. MacNeil, as you say, it's not likely he would fall from a window. Besides that, a fall wouldn't do to his neck what we found except maybe a chance in a thousand." He nodded with his head of the book on witchcraft. "You've read in that book about ritual murder?"

      Some prescience chilling her, Chris shook her head. "Maybe not in that book," he said. "However---forgive me; I mention this only so maybe you'll think just a little bit harder---poor Mr. De

    Chris went white.

    "Some lunatic killed Mr. De

    "Judas priest, just a second!" Chris whispered hoarsely, still in shock.