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To dissolve a partnership by the most direct means available, as it were. But why this partnership? Why should Murchison kill Speldron?”
    Beale shrugged. “Money,” he suggested. “With all that cash floating around, you can bet Murchison made out handsomely on Speldron’s death. I’ll bet he put a lot more than fifty thousand unrecorded dollars into his pocket.”
    “That’s your only reason for suspecting him?”
    Beale shook his head. “The partnership had a secretary,” he said. “Her name’s Felicia. Young, long dark hair, flashing dark eyes, a body like a magazine centerfold, and a face like a Chanel ad. Both of the partners were sleeping with her.”
    “Perhaps this was not a source of enmity.”
    “But it was. Murchison’s married to her.”
    “Ah.”
    “But there’s an important reason why I know it was Murchison who killed Speldron.” Beale stepped forward, stood over the seated attorney. “The gun was found in the boot of my car,” he said. “Wrapped in a filthy towel and stuffed in the spare tire well. There were no fingerprints on the gun and it wasn’t registered to me but there it was in my car.”
    “The Antonelli Scorpion?”
    “Yes. What of it?”
    “No matter.”
    Beale frowned momentarily, then drew a breath and plunged onward. “It was put there to frame me,” he said.
    “So it would seem.”
    “It had to be put there by somebody who knew I owed Speldron money. Somebody with inside information. The two of them were partners. I met Murchison any number of times when I went to the office to pay the interest, or vigorish as you called it. Why do they call it that?”
    “I’ve no idea.”
    “Murchison knew I owed money. And Murchison and I never liked each other.”
    “Why?”
    “We just didn’t get along. The reason’s not important. And there’s more, I’m not just grasping at straws. It was Murchison who suggested I might have killed Speldron. A lot of men owed Speldron money and there were probably several of them who were in much stickier shape financially than I, but Murchison told the police I’d had a loud and bitter argument with Speldron two days before he was killed!”
    “And had you?”
    “No! Why, I never in my life argued with Speldron.”
    “Interesting.” The little lawyer raised his hand to his mustache, smoothing its tips delicately. His nails were manicured, Grantham Beale noted, and was there colorless nail polish on them? No, he observed, there was not. The little man might be something of a dandy but he was evidently not a fop.
    “Did you indeed meet with Mr. Speldron on the day in question?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact I did. I made the interest payment and we exchanged pleasantries. There was nothing anyone could have mistaken for an argument.”
    “Ah.”
    “And even if there had been, Murchison wouldn’t have known about it. He wasn’t even in the office.”
    “Still more interesting,” Ehrengraf said thoughtfully.
    “It certainly is. But how can you possibly prove that he murdered his partner and framed me for it? You can’t trap him into confessing, can you?”
    “Murderers do confess.”
    “Not Murchison. You could try tracing the gun to him, I suppose, but the police tried to link it to me and found they couldn’t trace it at all. I just don’t see—”
    “Mr. Beale.”
    “Yes?”
    “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Beale. Here, take this chair, I’m sure it’s more comfortable than the edge of the bed. I’ll stand for a moment. Mr. Beale, do you have a dollar?”
    “They don’t let us have money here.”
    “Then take this. It’s a dollar which I’m lending to you.” The lawyer’s dark eyes glinted. “No interest, Mr. Beale. A personal loan, not a business transaction. Now, sir, please give me the dollar which I’ve just lent to you.”
    “Give it to you?”
    “That’s right. Thank you. You have retained me, Mr. Beale, to look after your interests. The day you are released from this prison you will owe