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(Friday, September 14; noon)

Vance slept late the following day. I had accompanied him to the “Scandals” the night before, utterly at a loss to understand his strange desire to attend a type of entertainment which I knew he detested. At noon he ordered his car, and instructed the chauffeur to drive to the Belafield Hotel.

“We are about to call again on the allurin’ Alys,” he said. “I’d bring posies to lay at her shrine, but I fear dear Mannix might question her unduly about them.”

Miss La Fosse received us with an air of crestfallen resentment.

“I might’ve known it!” She nodded her head with sneering perception. “I suppose you’ve come to tell me the cops found out about me without the slightest assistance from you.” Her disdain was almost magnificent. “Did you bring ’em with you? . . . A swell guy you are!—But it’s my own fault for being a damn fool.”

Vance waited unmoved until she had finished her contemptuous tirade. Then he bowed pleasantly.

“Really, y’ know, I merely dropped in to pay my respects, and to tell you that the police have turned in their report of Miss Odell’s acquaintances, and that your name was not mentioned in it. You seemed a little worried yesterday on that score, and it occurred to me I could set your mind wholly at ease.”

The vigilance of her attitude relaxed.

“Is that straight? . . . My God! I don’t know what would happen if Louey’d find out I’d been blabbing.”

“I’m sure he won’t find out, unless you choose to tell him. . . . Won’t you be generous and ask me to sit down a moment?”

“Of course—I’m so sorry. I’m just having my coffee. Please join me.” She rang for two extra services.

Vance had drunk two cups of coffee less than half an hour before, and I marvelled at his enthusiasm for this atrocious hotel beverage.

“I was a belated spectator of the ‘Scandals’ last night,” he remarked in a negligent, conversational tone. “I missed the revue earlier in the season.—How is it you yourself were so late in seeing it?”

“I’ve been so busy,” she confided. “I was rehearsing for ‘A Pair of Queens’; but the production’s been postponed. Louey couldn’t get the theatre he wanted.”

“Do you like revues?” asked Vance. “I should think they’d be more difficult for the principals than the ordin’ry musical comedy.”

“They are.” Miss La Fosse adopted a professional air. “And they’re unsatisfactory. The individual is lost in them. There’s no real scope for one’s talent. They’re breathless, if you know what I mean.”

“I should imagine so.” Vance bravely sipped his coffee. “And yet, there were several numbers in the ‘Scandals’ that you could have done charmingly; they seemed particularly designed for you. I thought of you doing them, and—d’ ye know?—the thought rather spoiled my enjoyment of the young lady who appeared in them.”

“You flatter me, Mr. Vance. But, really, I have a good voice. I’ve studied very hard. And I learned dancing with Professor Markoff.”

“Indeed!” (I’m sure Vance had never heard the name before, but his exclamation seemed to imply that he regarded Professor Markoff as one of the world’s most renowned ballet-masters.) “Then you certainly should have been starred in the ‘Scandals.’ The young lady I have in mind sang rather indifferently, and her dancing was most inadequate. Moreover, she was many degrees your inferior in personality and attractiveness. . . . Confess: didn’t you have just a little desire last Monday night to be singing the ‘Chinese Lullaby’ song?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Miss La Fosse carefully considered the suggestion. “They kept the lights awfully low; and I don’t look so well in cerise. But the costumes were adorable, weren’t they?”

“On you they certainly would have been adorable. . . . What color are you partial to?”

“I love the orchid shades,” she told him enthusiastically; “though I don’t look at all bad in turquoise blue. But an artist once told me I should always wear white. He wanted to paint my portrait, but the gentleman I was engaged to then didn’t like him.”

Vance regarded her appraisingly.

“I think your artist friend was right. And, y’ know, the St. Moritz scene in the ‘Scandals’ would have suited you perfectly. The little brunette who sang the snow song, all in white, was delightful; but really, now, she should have had golden hair. Dusky beauties belong to the southern climes. And she impressed me as lacking the sparkle and vitality of a Swiss resort in midwinter. You could have supplied those qualities admirably.”

“Yes; I’d have liked that better than the Chinese number, I think. White fox is my favorite fur, too. But, even so, in a revue you’re on in one number and off in another. When it’s all over, you’re forgotten.” She sighed unhappily.

Vance set down his cup, and looked at her with whimsically reproachful eyes. After a moment he said:

“My dear, why did you fib to me about the time Mr. Mannix returned to you last Monday night? It wasn’t a bit nice of you.”

“What do you mean!” Miss La Fosse exclaimed in frightened indignation, drawing herself up into an attitude of withering hauteur.

“You see,” explained Vance, “the St. Moritz scene of the ‘Scandals’ doesn’t go on until nearly eleven, and it closes the bill. So you couldn’t possibly have seen it and also received Mr. Mannix here at half past ten.—Come. What time did he arrive here Monday night?”

The girl flushed angrily.

“You’re pretty slick, aren’t you? You shoulda been a cop. . . . Well, what if I didn’t get home till after the show? Any crime in that?”

“None whatever,” answered Vance mildly. “Only a little breach of good faith in telling me you came home early.” He bent forward earnestly. “I’m not here to make you trouble. On the contr’ry, I’d like to protect you from any distress or bother. You see, if the police go nosing round, they may run on to you. But if I’m able to give the District Attorney accurate information about certain things connected with Monday night, there’ll be no danger of the police being sent to look for you.”

Miss La Fosse’s eyes grew suddenly hard and her brow crinkled with determination.

“Listen! I haven’t got anything to hide, and neither has Louey. But if Louey asks me to say he’s somewhere at half past ten, I’m going to say it—see? That’s my idea of friendship. Louey had some good reason to ask it, too, or he wouldn’t have done it. However, since you’re so smart, and have accused me of playing unfair, I’m going to tell you that he didn’t get in till after midnight. But if anybody else asks me about it, I’ll see ’em in hell before I tell ’em anything but the half-past-ten story. Get that?”

Vance bowed.

“I get it; and I like you for it.”

“But don’t go away with the wrong idea,” she hurried on, her eyes sparkling with fervor. “Louey may not have got here till after midnight, but if you think he knows anything about Margy’s death, you’re crazy. He was through with Margy a year ago. Why, he hardly knew she was on earth. And if any fool cop gets the notion in his head that Louey was mixed up in the affair, I’ll alibi him—so help me God!—if it’s the last thing I do in this world.”

“I like you more and more,” said Vance; and when she gave him her hand at parting he lifted it to his lips.

As we rode down-town Vance was thoughtful. We were nearly to the Criminal Courts Building before he spoke.

“The primitive Alys rather appeals to me,” he said. “She’s much too good for the oleaginous Mannix. . . . Women are so shrewd—and so gullible. A woman can read a man with almost magical insight; but, on the other hand, she is inexpressibly blind when it comes to her man. Witness sweet Alys’s faith in Mannix. He probably told her he was slaving at the office Monday night. Naturally, she doesn’t believe it; but she knows—knows, mind you—that her Louey just couldn’t have been concerned in the Canary’s death. Ah, well, let us hope she’s right and that Mannix is not apprehended—at least not until her new show is financed. . . . My word! If this being a detective involves many more revues, I shall have to resign. Thank Heaven, though, the lady didn’t attend the cinema Monday night!”

When we arrived at the District Attorney’s office we found Heath and Markham in consultation. Markham had a pad before him, several pages of which were covered with tabulated and annotated entries. A cloud of cigar-smoke enveloped him. Heath sat facing him, his elbows on the table, his chin resting in his hands. He looked pugnacious but disconsolate.

“I’m going over the case with the Sergeant,” Markham explained, with a brief glance in our direction. “We’re trying to get all the salient points down in some kind of order, to see if there are any connecting links we’ve overlooked. I’ve told the Sergeant about the doctor’s infatuation and his threats, and of the failure of Traffic Officer Phipps to identify Cleaver. But the more we learn, the worse, apparently, the jumble grows.”

He picked up the sheets of paper and fastened them together with a clip.

“The truth is, we haven’t any real evidence against anybody. There are suspicious circumstances connected with Skeel and Doctor Lindquist and Cleaver; and our interview with Mannix didn’t precisely allay suspicions in his direction, either. But when we come right down to it, what’s the situation?—We’ve got some finger-prints of Skeel, which might have been made late Monday afternoon.—Doctor Lindquist goes berserk when we ask him where he was Monday night, and then offers us a weak alibi. He admits a fatherly interest in the girl, whereas he’s really in love with her—a perfectly natural bit of mendacity.—Cleaver lent his car to his brother and lied about it, so that I’d think he was in Boonton Monday at midnight.—And Mannix gives us a number of shifty answers to our questions concerning his relations with the girl. . . . Not an embarrassment of riches.”

“I wouldn’t say your information was exactly negligent,” observed Vance, taking a chair beside the Sergeant. “It may all prove devilish valuable if only it could be put together properly. The difficulty, it appears to me, is that certain parts of the puzzle are missing. Find ’em, and I’ll warrant everything will fit beautifully—like a mosaic.”

“Easy enough to say ‘find ’em,’ ” grumbled Markham. “The trouble is to know where to look.”

Heath relighted his dead cigar and made an impatient gesture.

“You can’t get away from Skeel. He’s the boy that did it, and, if it wasn’t for Abe Rubin, I’d sweat the truth outa him.—And by the way, Mr. Vance, he had his own private key to the Odell apartment, all right.” He glanced at Markham hesitantly. “I don’t want to look as if I was criticising, sir, but I got a feeling we’re wasting time chasing after these gentlemen friends of Odell—Cleaver and Mannix and this here doctor.”

“You may be right.” Markham seemed inclined to agree with him. “However, I’d like to know why Lindquist acted the way he did.”

“Well, that might help some,” Heath compromised. “If the doc was so far gone on Odell as to threaten to shoot her, and if he went off his head when you asked him to alibi himself, maybe he could tell us something. Why not throw a little scare into him? His record ain’t any too good, anyway.”

“An excellent idea,” chimed in Vance.

Markham looked up sharply. Then he consulted his appointment book.

“I’m fairly free this afternoon, so suppose you bring him down here, Sergeant. Get a subpœna if you have to—only see that he comes. And make it as soon after lunch as you can.” He tapped on the desk irritably. “If I don’t do anything else, I’m going to eliminate some of this human flotsam that’s cluttering up the case. And Lindquist is as good as any to start with. I’ll either develop these various suspicious circumstances into something workable, or I’ll root them up. Then we’ll see where we stand.”

Heath shook hands pessimistically and went out.

“Poor hapless man!” sighed Vance, looking after him. “He giveth way to all the pangs and fury of despair.”

“And so would you,” snapped Markham, “if the newspapers were butchering you for a political holiday.—By the way, weren’t you to be a harbinger of glad tidings this noon, or something of the sort?”

“I believe I did hold out some such hope.” Vance sat looking meditatively out of the window for several minutes. “Markham, this fellow Mannix lures me like a magnet. He irks and whirrets me. He infests my slumbers. He’s the raven on my bust of Pallas. He plagues me like a banshee.”

“Does this jeremiad come under the head of tidings?”

“I sha’n’t rest peacefully,” pursued Vance, “until I know where Louey the furrier was between eleven o’clock and midnight Monday. He was somewhere he shouldn’t have been. And you, Markham, must find out. Please make Mannix the second offensive in your assault upon the flotsam. He’ll parley, with the right amount of pressure. Be brutal, old dear; let him think you suspect him of the throttling. Ask him about the fur model—what’s her name?—Frisbee——” He stopped short and knit his brows. “My eye—oh, my eye! I wonder. . . . Yes, yes, Markham; you must question him about the fur model. Ask him when he saw her last; and try to look wise and mysterious when you’re doing it.”

“See here, Vance”—Markham was exasperated—“you’ve been harping on Mannix for three days. What’s keeping your nose to that scent?”

“Intuition—sheer intuition. My psychic temperament, don’t y’ know.”

“I’d believe that if I hadn’t known you for fifteen years.” Markham inspected him shrewdly; then shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll have Mannix on the tapis when I’m through with Lindquist.”