“That’s about it. We couldn’t trap Wayland in any important lie. We couldn’t trace any of the phony theatrical junk in the murder room, but traveling like he did, he could have picked it up here and there. He had motive and opportunity, so we piled up what evidence we had and then the district attorney refused to take it to the Grand Jury. His objection was that George Wayland, from everything we could find out about him, is such a simple, ordinary, unimaginative guy. He is Mister Average American—likes baseball, smokes popular cigarettes, reads the front page of the newspaper and then turns back to the comics. He goes to the movies to see Betty Grable and Ann Sheridan, he bets on Joe Louis and the Yankees, orders ham and eggs or steak in a restaurant, drinks beer or bourbon, and goes to church once a year on Easter. . . .”

“I don’t follow,” the schoolteacher interrupted. “Many murderers were average citizens. Look at Judd Gray, and Crippen—”

“Wait. According to the D.A., and I’m inclined to agree, the average citizen commits the average murder. He uses a gun or a knife if he’s a man, a sash-weight or poison if he’s a woman. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Something more has gone into the composition of Janet Wayland’s murder than two blockheads to kill and be killed, to paraphrase De Quincey. Something unlike Wayland—you admit he might commit a murder, but it wouldn’t be the kind of murder this is, even though you’re sure that somehow he did it anyway!”

Piper nodded. “The murder was out of character. Any good defense attorney could point out Wayland as the average man and then ask a jury if they believed he’d think of strangling anybody with the tail of an East-Indian monkey-god. That, plus the locked-room thing, would get him off, probably. See what I mean?”

“I do indeed. But where did Wayland get the idea?”

“Must have read it somewhere. But where? Yet he did it. I’ve been a cop long enough to smell a real wrongo, and he’s one.”

Miss Withers sipped the last of her wine, which she had liberally diluted with seltzer. “You seem to be upon the horns of a dilemma, Oscar. I’m not vain enough to think that I can perform any miracles at this late date, but I’d like to pay a call on the lady in the case, if you happen to have her address.”

The Inspector picked up the check. “Go ahead,” he told her. “But you’ll find that angle was very thoroughly covered.”