head of a big fur-importing house. . . . You see”—she became clingingly confidential—“Louey—that is, Mr. Mannix—used to go round with Margy. That’s why he didn’t want me to get mixed up in the affair. He said the police might bother him with questions, and his name might get into the papers. And that would hurt his commercial standing.”
“I quite understand,” murmured Vance. “And do you happen to know where Mr. Mannix was Monday night?”
The girl looked startled.
“Of course I know. He was right here with me from half past ten until two in the morning. We were discussing a new musical show he was interested in; and he wanted me to take the leading rôle.”
“I’m sure it will be a success.” Vance 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 any one else,” Vance interrupted, “who might have felt the same way?—any one 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 squarely 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 on 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 XVII
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 most unbecoming in a lawyer.”
From a booth in a drug-store 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 down-town.
“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 fairy-tale. 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! Some one certainly called her by phone at twenty minutes to twelve. We must look