“No, no,” said Maxwell. “What must have happened was this. He spotted my wife here. Oh, he’d read the papers — don’t you believe that he hadn’t. He knew she had been married to Joe Carlisle. So, spur of the moment, he tried out his little lie. Might be some profit in it — who knows? Listen to this: when I asked him how much he wanted to keep this story to himself, he asked me how much it was worth.”
Mitch chewed his lip. “You’ve got a bad ear for dialogue,” he said.
“That is not exactly what I said. Nor is it the sense of what I said.”
“Oh, oh,” said Maxwell, smiling.
The lieutenant was pursing noncommittal lips.
Mitch spoke to him. “Who else gives Mrs. Maxwell her alibi?”
“Servants,” said the lieutenant gloomily.
“Servants?” said Mitch brightly.
“It’s only natural,” the lieutenant said, even more gloomily.
“Right,” said Mitch Brown. “You mean it is probable that when a man and his wife are at home together only the servants will see them there. But it isn’t so probable that a stranger will take in a drunken woman, and leave her to heaven…simply because he feels like giving a human being a break. So this is a study in probability, is it?”
The lieutenant’s mouth moved and Mitch said quickly, “But you want the facts, eh? Okay. The only thing for us to do is go and talk to the bartender.”
“That seems to be it,” said the lieutenant promptly. “Right.”
Maxwell said, “Right. Wait for us.”
He rose and went to fetch his wife. Mitch stood beside the lieutenant. “Fingerprints?” he murmured. The Lieutenant shrugged. Under those weary eyelids, Mitch judged, the eyes were human. “She has a car? Was the car out?” The lieutenant shrugged again. “Who else would shoot this Carlisle? Any enemies?”
“Who hasn’t?” the lieutenant said. “We better check with this bartender.”
The four of them went in the lieutenant’s car. The Parakeet Bar and Grill was doing well this evening. It looked brighter and more prosperous. Toby the bartender was there. “Hi, Mr. Brown,” he said.
“Long time no see.”
“I’ve been back East. Tell this man, Toby, what happened around one thirty on the morning of March seventeenth.”
“Huh?” said Toby. The flesh of his cheeks seemed to go flatter.
His eye went duller. Suddenly Mitch knew what was going to happen.
“You see this man or this lady in here between one, two o’clock in the morning last March seventeenth?” said the lieutenant and added, “I’m Lieutenant Prince, LAPD.”
“No, sir,” said Toby. “I know Mr. Brown, of course. He comes in now and again, see? Lives around here. A writer, he is. But I don’t remember I ever seen this lady before.”
“What about Brown? Was he in here that night or that morning?”
“I don’t think so,” said Toby. “That’s the night, now that I think back — yeah, my kid was sick and I shut the place up earlier than usual. Ask my wife,” said Toby the bartender with the fixed righteous gaze of the liar.
Lieutenant Prince turned his long face, his sad eyelids, on Mitch Brown.
Mitch Brown was grinning. “Oh, no!” he said. “Not the old Paris Exposition gag!” He leaned on the bar and emitted silent laughter.
“What are you talking about?” Lieutenant Prince said sourly. “You give me corroboration for this story you’re telling. Who can tell me about it? Who saw you and this lady that night?”
“Nobody. Nobody,” said Mitch genially. “The streets were empty.
Nobody was around. Well! I wouldn’t have believed it! The old Paris Exposition gag!”
The lieutenant made an exasperated sound.
Mitch said gaily, “Don’t you remember that one? There’s this girl and her mother. They go to a Paris hotel. Separate rooms. Girl wakes up in the morning, no mother. Nobody ever saw any mother. No mother’s name on the register. No room’s got the mother’s number.
Wait. No — that wasn’t it. There was a room, but the wallpaper was different.”
Julius Maxwell said, “A writer”—as if that explained everything.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” said Mitch cheerfully, “and tell each other stories?”
His suggestion was accepted. Natalie Maxwell slipped into a booth first; she was blond, expensive, protected…and numb. (Is she doped up with tranquilizers or what? Mitch wondered.) Her husband sat on her right and the policeman sat on her left.
Mitch slid in the other side of the Law and faced his adversary.
Mitch Brown’s mood was by no means as jaunty as his words had implied. He didn’t like the idea of being the victim of the old Paris Exposition gag. But he was not rattled or panicky. On the contrary, his mind began to reconnoiter the enemy. Julius Maxwell, flamboyantly successful — Mitch savored the flavor of the man’s reputation.
The buccaneer type, ruthless and bold. Julius Maxwell — with money like a club in his hand. Going to make a fool out of Mitchel Brown.
Also, there was the little matter of justice. Or mercy.
Mitch felt his wings begin to rustle again.
He said to the woman, gently, “Would you care for something?
A highball?”
“I don’t drink,” said Natalie primly. Her lashes came down. Her tongue touched her lips.
Mitch Brown ran his tongue over his upper lip, very thoughtfully.
Julius Maxwell’s energy was barely contained in this place.
“Never mind the refreshments,” he said. “Get to it. This young man, whoever he is, spotted my wife and knew her from the publicity.
He knows I am a rich man. So he thought he’d try a big lie. For the sake of the nuisance value, he thought I’d pay something. Well, an opportunist,” said Julius with a nasty smile, “I can understand.”
“I doubt if you understand me,” said Mitch quietly. “I’m sure you don’t realize how old hat that Paris Exposition story is.”
“What has any Paris Exposition got to do with it?” snapped Julius.
“Now look here, Lieutenant Prince. Can I prosecute this man?”
“You can’t prove extortion,” said the lieutenant gloomily. “You should have let him take the money, with witnesses.”
“He couldn’t do that,” said Mitch, “because he knows the thought of money never crossed my mind.”
The lieutenant’s eyes closed all the way in great weariness. They opened again and it was apparent that he believed nothing and nobody, yet. “Want to get this straight. Now you say, Mr. Maxwell—”
Julius said, “I say that my wife was at home that evening and all night, as the servants also say, and as the authorities know. So this man is a liar. Who can say why? It is plain that he can’t bring anyone or anything to corroborate this yarn he is telling. The bartender denies it. And, if you ask me, the most ridiculous thing he says is his claim that he hasn’t read the newspapers for six weeks. Shows you the fantastic kind of mind he’s got.”
The lieutenant, without comment, turned to Mitch. “And you say—”
“I say,” said Mitch, “that I have been in New York City since the seventeenth of March, attending rehearsals of my play and its opening night.”
“A playwriter,” said Julius.
“A play wright,” corrected Mitch. “I guess you don’t know what that is. For one thing, it is a person committed to trying to understand human beings. Oddly enough, even you.” Mitch leaned over the table. “You are the bold buccaneer, so I’ve heard. You’ve pirated money out of the world and now you think money can buy whatever you want. Suppose I tell your story?”
Julius Maxwell now had a faint sneering smile, but Mitch noted that Natalie had her eyes open. Perhaps her ears were open too.