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Or—” The eyes lit with a brief, wry humor. “Or most of what we’ve got, anyhow.”
    Automatically, the newsmen mumbled in protest, a part of the reporter’s ritual.
    Larsen had slipped a notebook from his pocket. He glanced down at the notebook before beginning in the formal phrases of the policeman’s report: “We have a double homicide, as most of you probably know by now. The victims’ names are Roberta Grinnel, age twenty, and David Pastor, age thirty-seven. Miss Grinnel was a student at Bransten College, and—” He paused, faintly frowning as the exclamations began. It was, on the whole, a pleased, anticipatory buzzing. As Campion had predicted, here was a homicide that would sell a few papers and enhance a few reputations, perhaps even negotiate a few raises in salary or city-room status.
    But the buzzing was part of the ritual, and it soon subsided. Larsen waited calmly. Now he continued.
    “David Pastor was a piano player at a nightclub called The Quiet Place, on Broadway. The red Porsche outside, which you probably noticed, belonged to Miss Grinnel. Mr. Pastor, as far as we know, doesn’t—didn’t—have a car. Those are the main points, at least as of right now. If you have any questions, shoot.” He replaced the notebook in his pocket, tilted back his hat, and propped one foot on the coffee table.
    “When were they discovered, Captain?” someone asked.
    “Eight o’clock this morning.” He glanced at his watch. “About two hours ago.”
    “Who discovered them?”
    “Pastor’s cleaning woman.”
    “Is she around?”
    “No. She was in mild shock. A policeman took her home.”
    “What’s her name?”
    He frowned and turned to Lieutenant Ramsey, who also frowned, and looked at Carruthers, across the room. The Detective First Grade, trying not to look smug, consulted his own notebook. Then, clearing his throat, he announced, “Her name is Alice Herms. Address: 1065 Youmans Avenue.”
    “When were they killed?” Campion asked.
    “I can’t answer that very accurately until we get the medical examiner’s report,” Larsen replied. “It was undoubtedly sometime between midnight and, say, six a.m., and a preliminary check indicates that Pastor was working at The Quiet Place until one-thirty A.M. But that’s uncorroborated, of course.”
    “How were they killed?” I asked.
    “Again, I’d rather not say until we have the medical examiner’s full report, and maybe the autopsy findings.”
    “But you must have an idea,” someone complained.
    “That’s true,” Larsen said blandly. “But I’ll have a lot better idea when I have the reports I mentioned. In the meantime—” He moved his head toward the bedroom. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to view the bodies when we’ve finished. You can probably draw your own conclusions.”
    The reaction to this was less than enthusiastic, but we all knew better than to badger Larsen. He only became more stubborn, and in the long run nothing was gained.
    “Just to verify it,” a TV reporter said, “is it true that this girl was the daughter of Robert Grinnel?”
    Impassively, Larsen nodded. “That’s my understanding, yes. We’ve been in touch with the college authorities. Her father is listed as Robert Grinnel, an industrialist, and her home as Beverly Hills, California.”
    “Has her father been notified?”
    “That’s up to the college authorities. We’ve notified them.”
    “Have you recovered the weapon?”
    “I’ll comment on that later, too.”
    “What about her brother?” Campion asked.
    “Whose brother?”
    “Roberta Grinnel’s brother. He goes to Bransten, too.”
    Larsen stared at him for a long, reflective moment. “I’m glad to know that.” He thought about it another moment, and then looked at Carruthers. Larsen moved his head in a small gesture of command and dismissal. Immediately the detective slipped through the door to the hall.
    Dan Kanter asked the next question, in his bored, gritty voice. “Are