spoke with disarming friendliness. “Were you home alone all Monday evening?”
“Hardly.” The idea seemed to amuse her. “I went to the Scandals—but I came home early. I knew Louey—Mr. Mannix—was coming.”
“I trust he appreciated your sacrifice.” Vance, I believe, was disappointed by this unexpected alibi of Mannix’s. It was, indeed, so final that further interrogation concerning it seemed futile. After a momentary pause; he changed the subject.
“Tell me; what do you know about a Mr. Charles Cleaver? He was a friend of Miss Odell’s.”
“Oh, Pop’s all right.” The girl was plainly relieved by this turn in the conversation. “A good scout. He was certainly gone on Margy. Even after she threw him over for Mr. Spotswoode, he was faithful, as you might say—always running after her, sending her flowers and presents. Some men are like that. Poor old Pop! He even phoned me Monday night to call up Margy for him and try to arrange a party. Maybe if I’d done it, she wouldn’t be dead now.… It’s a funny world, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no end funny.” Vance smoked calmly for a minute; I could not help admiring his self-control. “What time did Mr. Cleaver phone you Monday night—do you recall?” From his voice one would have thought the question of no importance.
“Let me see.…” She pursed her lips prettily. “It was just ten minutes to twelve. I remember that the little chime clock on the mantel over there was striking midnight, and at first I couldn’t hear Pop very well. You see, I always keep my clock ten minutes fast so I’ll never be late for an appointment.”
Vance compared the clock with his watch.
“Yes, it’s ten minutes fast. And what about the party?”
“Oh, I was too busy talking about the new show, and I had to refuse. Anyway, Mr. Mannix didn’t want to have a party that night.… It wasn’t my fault was it?”
“Not a bit of it,” Vance assured her. “Work comes before pleasure—especially work as important as yours.… And now, there is one other man I want to ask you about, and then I won’t bother you any more.—What was the situation between Miss Odell and Doctor Lindquist?”
Miss La Fosse became genuinely perturbed.
“I was afraid you were going to ask me about him.” There was apprehension in her eyes. “I don’t know just what to say. He was wildly in love with Margy; and she led him on, too. But she was sorry for it afterward, because he got jealous—like a crazy person. He used to pester the life out of her. And once—do you know!—he threatened to shoot her and then shoot himself. I told Margy to look out for him. But she didn’t seem to be afraid. Anyway, I think she was taking awful chances.… Oh! Do you think it could have been—do you really think—?”
“And wasn’t there anyone else,” Vance interrupted, “who might have felt the same way? Anyone Miss Odell had reason to fear?”
“No.” Miss La Fosse shook her head. “Margy didn’t know many men intimately. She didn’t change often, if you know what I mean. There wasn’t anybody else outside of those you’ve mentioned, except, of course, Mr. Spotswoode. He cut Pop out several months ago. She went to dinner with him Monday night, too. I wanted her to go to the Scandals with me—that’s how I know.”
Vance rose and held out his hand.
“You’ve been very kind. And you have nothing whatever to fear. No one shall ever know of our little visit this morning.”
“Who do you think killed Margy?” There was genuine emotion in the girl’s voice. “Louey says it was probably some burglar who wanted her jewels.”
“I’m too wise to sow discord in this happy ménage by even questioning Mr. Mannix’s opinion,” said Vance half banteringly. “No one knows who’s guilty; but the police agree with Mr. Mannix.”
For a moment the girl’s doubts returned, and she gave Vance a searching look. “Why are you so interested? You didn’t know Margy, did you? She never mentioned you.”
Vance laughed. “My dear child! I only wish I knew why I am so deuced concerned in this affair. ’Pon my word, I can’t give you even the sketchiest explanation.… No, I never met Miss Odell. But it would offend my sense of proportion if Mr. Skeel were punished and the real culprit went free. Maybe I’m getting sentimental. A sad fate, what?”
“I guess I’m getting soft, too.” She nodded her head, still looking Vance square in the eyes. “I risked my happy home to tell you what I did, because somehow I believed you.… Say, you weren’t stringing me, by any chance?”
Vance put his hand to his heart, and became serious.
“My dear Miss La Fosse, when I leave here it will be as though I had never entered. Dismiss me and Mr. Van Dine here from your mind.”
Something in his manner banished her misgivings, and she bade us a kittenish farewell.
CHAPTER 17
CHECKING AN ALIBI
(Thursday, September 13; afternoon)
“My sleuthing goes better,” exulted Vance, when we were again in the street. “Fair Alys was a veritable mine of information—eh, what? Only, you should have controlled yourself better when she mentioned her beloved’s name—really, you should, Van old thing. I saw you jump and heard you heave. Such emotion is unbecoming in a lawyer.”
From a booth in a drugstore near the hotel he telephoned Markham: “I am taking you to lunch. I have numerous confidences I would pour into your ear.” A debate ensued, but in the end Vance emerged triumphant; and a moment later a taxicab was driving us downtown.
“Alys is clever—there are brains in that fluffy head,” he ruminated. “She’s much smarter than Heath; she knew at once that Skeel wasn’t guilty. Her characterization of the immaculate Tony was inelegant but how accurate—oh, how accurate! And you noticed, of course, how she trusted me. Touchin’, wasn’t it?… It’s a knotty problem, Van. Something’s amiss somewhere.”
He was silent, smoking, for several blocks.
“Mannix.… Curious he should crop up again. And he issued orders to Alys to keep mum. Now, why? Maybe the reason he gave her was the real one. Who knows? On the other hand, was he with his chère amie from half past ten till early morning? Well, well. Again, who knows? Something queer about that business discussion.… Then Cleaver. He called up just ten minutes before midnight—oh, yes, he called up. That wasn’t a fairytale. But how could he telephone from a speeding car? He couldn’t. Maybe he really wanted to have a party with his recalcitrant Canary, don’t y’ know. But, then, why the brummagem alibi? Funk? Maybe. But why the circuitousness? Why didn’t he call his lost love direct? Ah, perhaps he did! Someone certainly called her by phone at twenty minutes to twelve. We must look into that, Van.… Yes, he may have called her, and then when a man answered—who the deuce was that man, anyway?—he may have appealed to Alys. Quite natural, y’ know. Anyway, he wasn’t in Boonton. Poor Markham! How upset he’ll be when he finds out!… But what really worries me is that story of the doctor. Jealous mania: it squares with Ambroise’s character perfectly. He’s the kind that does go off his head. I knew his confession of paternalism was a red herring. My word! So the doctor was making threats and flourishing pistols, eh? Bad, bad. I don’t like it. With those ears of his, he wouldn’t
