Even after the arrival of District Attorney Cleveland Archer himself, the atmosphere was not one of single-minded devotion to the service of justice. Not that they weren't all for justice, but they had to keep it in perspective, and that's not easy when a prominent wealthy taxpayer like Mrs Barry Rackham has been murdered and your brief list of suspects includes (a) her husband, now a widower, who may himself now be a prominent wealthy taxpayer, (b) an able young politician who has been elected to the state assembly, (c) the dead woman's daughter-in-law, who may possibly be more of a prominent wealthy taxpayer than the widower, and (d) a vice-president of a billion-dollar New York bank. They're all part of the perspective, though you wish to God they weren't so you could concentrate on the other three suspects: (e) the dead woman's cousin, a breeder of dogs which don't make friends, (f) her secretary, a mere employee, and (g) a private dick from New York whose tongue has needed bobbing for some time. With a set-up like that you can't just take them all down to White Plains and tell the boys to start chipping and save the pieces.

Except for fifteen minutes alone with Con Noonan, I spent the first two hours in the big living-room where we had looked at television, having for company the members of the family, the guests, five members of the domestic staff, and two or more officers of the law. It wasn't a bit jolly. Two of the female servants wept intermittently. Barry Rackham walked up and down, sitting occasionally and then starting up again, speaking to no one. Oliver Pierce and Lina Darrow sat on a couch conversing in undertones, spasmodically, with him doing most of the talking. Dana Hammond, the banker, was jumpy. Mostly he sat slumped, with his chin down and his eyes closed, but now and then he would arise slowly as if something hurt and go to say something to one of the others, usually Annabel or