do you mind telling me why—”
Her eyes, however, were now resting on the names.
And she changed her interrogative. “That is, what it contains?”
He looked up at her curiously.
“No, not at all. It contains, in their own handwritings—and with their own private addresses—the names of 11 possible anarchistic connections of Hugo Schletmar and Andrew Brosnatch—if or ever the Post Office gets bombed! Or the Federal Attorney-General gets assassinated. Or anything like that. All the said names having been obtained last night between the witching hour of 10 p.m. and the equally witching hour of 11 p.m.—at, to be precise, Miss Jason, 10:40 p.m.!—whilst the owners of the names were stoking the fires of mortal man with red wine and spaghetti. The dinner being the highspot of a party which ran—with all in attendance at it—from about 7:30 in the evening till 5 this morning. And the said names being, moreover, obtained in duplicate since Koncil will be barging in here later on with another such napkin. And which you can put in Brosnatch’s file.”
She had taken it gingerly, and was apparently riveting her eyes on one signature in particular.
“One, I note,” she commented, “has most freakish handwriting. The one in green ink.”
“Oh, yes, The one with tiny triangles as dots for the ‘i’s. Yes, he was the hungriest.”
“The—the hungriest? What do you mean, Mr. Vann!”
“Why—the first to arrive—and the last to go!”
Miss Jason essayed one of her smileless smiles. And asked a further question.
“Did they—did they talk anarchy? Or communism?”
“Nary a word, so I understood. But—we’ll hold the roster of signatures anyway, as they might eventually become suspicious parties, on this or that matter.”
She folded the fragile napkin gently. “Suspicious, maybe,” she admitted, “but at least—” and stopped.
“At least—what?” asked Vann curiously.
“Well, at least they can’t any of them be accused of helping murder poor Mr. Reibach in your old office across the street, since—”
“—since that took place,” Vann filled in for her, smilingly, “at 10:43 p.m. last night—proven four ways running! Yes,” he nodded, “you’re 100 per cent right on that. But, fortunately for this office, the man who did do that job is fast and tight and incommunicado—in our own special lockup. Just where he belongs! And where—but here, here, Miss Jason, we’re wasting precious minutes!—for don’t forget I’m to try the gentleman tonight. So be off with you. And no more visitors from now on—unless they have a bearing, and a most important one, on the Case of the Man with the Crimson Box!”
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