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(Thursday, September 13; forenoon)

Greatly to Currie’s astonishment Vance gave instructions to be called at nine o’clock the following morning; and at ten o’clock we were sitting on his little roof-garden having breakfast in the mellow mid-September sunshine.

“Van,” he said to me, when Currie had brought us our second cup of coffee, “however secretive a woman may be, there’s always some one to whom she unburdens her soul. A confidant is an essential to the feminine temperament. It may be a mother, or a lover, or a priest, or a doctor, or, more generally, a girl chum. In the Canary’s case we haven’t a mother or a priest. Her lover—the elegant Skeel—was a potential enemy; and we’re pretty safe in ruling out her doctor—she was too shrewd to confide in such a creature as Lindquist. The girl chum, then, remains. And to-day we seek her.” He lit a cigarette and rose. “But, first, we must visit Mr. Benjamin Browne of Seventh Avenue.”

Benjamin Browne was a well-known photographer of stage celebrities, with galleries in the heart of the city’s theatrical district; and as we entered the reception-room of his luxurious studio later that morning my curiosity as to the object of our visit was at the breaking-point. Vance went straight to the desk, behind which sat a young woman with flaming red hair and mascaro-shaded eyes, and bowed in his most dignified manner. Then, taking a small unmounted photograph from his pocket, he laid it before her.

“I am producing a musical comedy, mademoiselle,” he said, “and I wish to communicate with the young lady who left this picture of herself with me. Unfortunately I’ve misplaced her card; but as her photograph bore the imprint of Browne’s, I thought you might be good enough to look in your files and tell me who she is and where I may find her.”

He slipped a five-dollar bill under the edge of the blotter, and waited with an air of innocent expectancy.

The young woman looked at him quizzically, and I thought I detected the hint of a smile at the corners of her artfully rouged lips. But after a moment she took the photograph without a word and disappeared through a rear door. Ten minutes later she returned and handed Vance the picture. On the back of it she had written a name and address.

“The young lady is Miss Alys La Fosse, and she lives at the Belafield Hotel.” There was now no doubt as to her smile. “You really shouldn’t be so careless with the addresses of your applicants—some poor girl might lose an engagement.” And her smile suddenly turned into soft laughter.

“Mademoiselle,” replied Vance, with mock seriousness, “in the future I shall be guided by your warning.” And with another dignified bow, he went out.

“Good Lord!” he said, as we emerged into Seventh Avenue. “Really, y’ know, I should have disguised myself as an impresario, with a gold-headed cane, a derby, and a purple shirt. That young woman is thoroughly convinced that I’m contemplating an intrigue. . . . A jolly smart tête-rouge, that.”

He turned into a florist’s shop at the corner, and selecting a dozen American Beauties, addressed them to “Benjamin Browne’s Receptionist.”

“And now,” he said, “let us stroll to the Belafield, and seek an audience with Alys.”

As we walked across town Vance explained.

“That first morning, when we were inspecting the Canary’s rooms, I was convinced that the murder would never be solved by the usual elephantine police methods. It was a subtle and well-planned crime, despite its obvious appearances. No routine investigation would suffice. Intimate information was needed. Therefore, when I saw this photograph of the xanthous Alys half hidden under the litter of papers on the escritoire, I reflected: ‘Ah! A girl friend of the departed Margaret’s. She may know just the things that are needed.’ So, when the Sergeant’s broad back was turned, I put the picture in my pocket. There was no other photograph about the place, and this one bore the usual sentimental inscription, ‘Ever thine,’ and was signed ‘Alys.’ I concluded, therefore, that Alys had played Anactoria to the Canary’s Sappho. Of course I erased the inscription before presenting the picture to the penetrating sibyl at Browne’s. . . . And here we are at the Belafield, hopin’ for a bit of enlightenment.”

The Belafield was a small, expensive apartment-hotel in the East Thirties, which, to judge from the guests to be seen in the Americanized Queen Anne lobby, catered to the well-off sporting set. Vance sent his card up to Miss La Fosse, and received the message that she would see him in a few minutes. The few minutes, however, developed into three-quarters of an hour, and it was nearly noon when a resplendent bell-boy came to escort us to the lady’s apartment.

Nature had endowed Miss La Fosse with many of its arts, and those that Nature had omitted, Miss La Fosse herself had supplied. She was slender and blonde. Her large blue eyes were heavily lashed, but though she looked at one with a wide-eyed stare, she was unable to disguise their sophistication. Her toilet had been made with elaborate care; and as I looked at her, I could not help thinking what an excellent model she would have been for Chéret’s pastel posters.

“So you are Mr. Vance,” she cooed. “I’ve often seen your name in Town Topics.”

Vance gave a shudder.

“And this is Mr. Van Dine,” he said sweetly,—“a mere attorney, who, thus far, has been denied the pages of that fashionable weekly.”

“Won’t you sit down?” (I am sure Miss La Fosse had spoken the line in a play: she made of the invitation an impressive ceremonial.) “I really don’t know why I should have received you. But I suppose you called on business. Perhaps you wish me to appear at a society bazaar, or something of the kind. But I’m so busy, Mr. Vance. You simply can’t imagine how occupied I am with my work. . . . I just love my work,” she added, with an ecstatic sigh.

“And I’m sure there are many thousands of others who love it, too,” returned Vance, in his best drawing-room manner. “But unfortunately I have no bazaar to be graced by your charming presence. I have come on a much more serious matter. . . . You were a very close friend of Miss Margaret Odell’s——”

The mention of the Canary’s name brought Miss La Fosse suddenly to her feet. Her ingratiating air of affected elegance had quickly disappeared. Her eyes flashed, and their lids drooped harshly. A sneer distorted the lines of her cupid’s-bow mouth, and she tossed her head angrily.

“Say, listen! Who do you think you are? I don’t know nothing, and I got nothing to say. So run along—you and your lawyer.”

But Vance made no move to obey. He took out his cigarette-case and carefully selected a Régie.

“Do you mind if I smoke?—And won’t you have one? I import them direct from my agent in Constantinople. They’re exquisitely blended.”

The girl snorted, and gave him a look of cold disdain. The doll-baby had become a virago.

“Get yourself outa my apartment, or I’ll call the house detective.” She turned to the telephone on the wall at her side.

Vance waited until she had lifted the receiver.

“If you do that, Miss La Fosse, I’ll order you taken to the District Attorney’s office for questioning,” he told her indifferently, lighting his cigarette and leaning back in his chair.

Slowly she replaced the receiver and turned.

“What’s your game, anyway? . . . Suppose I did know Margy—then what? And where do you fit into the picture?”

“Alas! I don’t fit in at all.” Vance smiled pleasantly. “But, for that matter, nobody seems to fit in. The truth is, they’re about to arrest a poor blighter for killing your friend, who wasn’t in the tableau, either. I happen to be a friend of the District Attorney’s; and I know exactly what’s being done. The police are scouting round in a perfect frenzy of activity, and it’s hard to say what trail they’ll strike next. I thought, don’t y’ know, I might save you a lot of unpleasantness by a friendly little chat. . . . Of course,” he added, “if you prefer to have me give your name to the police, I’ll do so, and let them hold the audition in their own inimitable but crude fashion. I might say, however, that, as yet, they are blissfully unaware of your relationship with Miss Odell, and that, if you are reasonable, I see no reason why they should be informed of it.”

The girl had stood, one hand on the telephone, studying Vance intently. He had spoken carelessly and with a genial inflection; and she at length resumed her seat.

“Now, won’t you have one of my cigarettes?” he asked, in a tone of gracious reconciliation.

Mechanically she accepted his offer, keeping her eyes on him all the time, as if attempting to determine how far he was to be trusted.

“Who are they thinking of arresting?” She asked the question with scarcely a movement of her features.

“A johnny named Skeel.—Silly idea, isn’t it?”

“Him!” Her tone was one of mingled contempt and disgust. “That cheap crook? He hasn’t got nerve enough to strangle a cat.”

“Precisely. But that’s no reason for sending him to the electric chair, what?” Vance leaned forward and smiled engagingly. “Miss La Fosse, if you will talk to me for five minutes, and forget I’m a stranger, I’ll give you my word of honor not to let the police or the District Attorney know anything about you. I’m not connected with the authorities, but somehow I dislike the idea of seeing the wrong man punished. And I’ll promise to forget the source of any information you will be kind enough to give me. If you will trust me, it will be infinitely easier for you in the end.”

The girl made no answer for several minutes. She was, I could see, trying to estimate Vance; and evidently she decided that, in any case, she had nothing to lose—now that her friendship with the Canary had been discovered—by talking to this man who had promised her immunity from further annoyance.

“I guess you’re all right,” she said, with a reservation of dubiety; “but I don’t know why I should think so.” She paused. “But, look here: I was told to keep out of this. And if I don’t keep out of it, I’m apt to be back hoofing it in the chorus again. And that’s no life for a sweet young thing like me with extravagant tastes—believe me, my friend!”

“That calamity will never befall you through any lack of discretion on my part,” Vance assured her, with good-natured earnestness. . . . “Who told you to keep out of it?”

“My—fiancé.” She spoke somewhat coquettishly. “He’s very well known, and he’s afraid there might be scandal if I got mixed up in the case as a witness, or anything like that.”

“I can readily understand his feelings.” Vance nodded sympathetically. “And who, by the bye, is this luckiest of men?”

“Say! You’re good.” She complimented him with a coy moue. “But I’m not announcing my engagement yet.”

“Don’t be horrid,” begged Vance. “You know perfectly well that I could find out his name by making a few inquiries. And if you drove me to learn the facts elsewhere, then my promise to keep your name a secret would no longer bind me.”

Miss La Fosse considered this point.

“I guess you could find out, all right . . . so I might as well tell you—only I’m trusting to your word to protect me.” She opened her eyes wide and gave Vance a melting look. “I know you wouldn’t let me down.”

“My dear Miss La Fosse!” His tone was one of pained surprise.

“Well, my fiancé is Mr. Mannix, and he’s the 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.