The real Foster lifted his revolver and snarled: "We can put a stop
to that!" He fired thrice and each shot slammed into Foster's stomach
driving the man back against the wall. He crumpled, finally.
Then Harry Foster took a look around the living room of his apartment,
shrugged, and left, tossing the pistol into a corner.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Miller looked down at the corpse. "Someone sure hated him,"
he said.
The man in the business suit nodded. "They had reason to," he said.
He was Jacobson of the F.B.I. "Too bad. I'd rather he were legally
punished."
"Me, too."
"What about his wife?"
"She's in the next room. Which reminds me--"
Lieutenant Miller went to the door and looked in quietly. "Look,
fellows, just establish her. Don't bother grilling her."
Sergeant Mullaney looked up in surprise. Miller nodded. "This is one
case I'm not going to kill myself solving," he said. "I just want to be
certain that the murderer of Harry Foster isn't as obvious as a stone
pillar on the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Is Mrs. Foster clear?"