The Greatest Murder Mysteries of S. S. Van Dine - 12 Titles in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). S.S. Van Dine
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.”
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