She admitted me without word or gesture, and led me back into the room where we had talked before.
"Miss Kenbrook," I asked, standing beside the chair, she had offered me, "why did you tell me you were home in bed when Gilmore was killed?"
"Because it's so." Without the flicker of a lash.
"And you wouldn't answer the doorbell?"
I had to twist the facts to make my point. Mrs. Gilmore had phoned, but I couldn't afford to give this girl a chance to shunt the blame for her failure to answer off on central.
She hesitated for a split second.
"No—because I didn't hear it."
One cool article, this baby! I couldn't figure her. I didn't know then, and I don't know now, whether she was the owner of the world's best poker face or was just naturally stupid. But whichever she was, she was thoroughly and completely it!
I stopped trying to guess and got on with my probing.
"And you wouldn't answer the phone either?"
"It didn't ring—or not enough to awaken me."
I chuckled—an artificial chuckle—because central could have been ringing the wrong number. However...
"Miss Kenbrook," I lied, "your phone rang at two-thirty and at two-forty that morning. And your doorbell rang almost continually from about two-fifty until after three."
"Perhaps," she said, "but I wonder who'd be trying to get me at that hour."
"You didn't hear either?"
"No."
"But you were here?"
"Yes—who was it?" carelessly.
"Get your hat," I bluffed, "and I'll show them to you down at headquarters."
She glanced down at the green gown and walked toward an open bedroom door.
"I suppose I'd better get a cloak, too," she said.
"Yes," I advised her, "and bring your toothbrush."
She turned around then and looked at me, and for a moment it seemed that some sort of expression—surprise, maybe—was about to come into her big brown eyes; but none actually came. The eyes stayed dull and empty.
"You mean you're arresting me?"
"Not exactly. But if you stick to your story about being home in bed at three o'clock last Tuesday morning, I can promise you you will be arrested. If I were you I'd think up another story."
She left the doorway slowly and came back into the room, as far as a chair that stood between us, put her hands on its back, and leaned over it to look at me. For perhaps a minute neither of us spoke—just stood there staring at each other, while I tried to keep my face as expressionless as hers.
"Do you really think," she asked at last, "that I wasn't here when Bernie was killed?"
"I'm a busy man, Miss Kenbrook." I put all the certainty I could fake into my voice. "If you want to stick to your funny story, it's all right with me. But please don't expect me to stand here and argue about it. Get your hat and cloak."
She shrugged, and came around the chair on which she had been leaning.
"I suppose you do know something," she said, sitting down. "Well, it's tough on Stan, but women and children first."
My ears twitched at the name Stan, but I didn't interrupt her.
"I was in the Coffee Cup until one o'clock," she was saying, her voice still flat and emotionless. "And I did come home afterward. I'd been drinking vino all evening, and it always makes me blue. So after I came home I got to worrying over things. Since Bernie and I split, finances haven't been so good. I took stock that night—or morning—and found only four dollars in my purse. The rent was due, and the world looked damned blue.
"Half-lit on dago wine as I was, I decided to run over and see Stan, tell him all my troubles, and make a touch. Stan is a good egg and he's always willing to go the limit for me. Sober, I wouldn't have gone to see him at three in the morning; but it seemed a perfectly sensible thing to do at the time.
"It's only a few minutes' walk from here to Stan's. I went down Bush Street to Leavenworth, and up Leavenworth to Pine. I was in the middle of that last block when Bernie was shot—I heard it. And when I turned the corner into Pine Street I saw a copper bending over a man on the pavement right in front of Stan's. I hesitated for a couple of minutes, standing in the shadow of a pole, until three or four men had gathered around the man on the sidewalk. Then I went over.
"It was Bernie. And just as I got there I heard the copper tell one of the men that he had been shot. It was an awful shock to me. You know how things like that will hit you!"
I nodded, though God knows there was nothing in this girl's face, manner, or voice to suggest shock. She might have been talking about the weather.
"Dumbfounded, not knowing what to do," she went on, "I didn't even stop. I went on, passing as close to Bernie as I am to you now, and rang Stan's bell. He let me in. He had been half-undressed when I rang. His rooms are in the rear of the building, and he hadn't heard the shot, he said. He didn't know Bernie had been killed until I told him. It sort of knocked the wind out of him. He said Bernie had been there—in Stan's rooms—since midnight, and had just left.
"Stan asked me what I was doing there, and I told him my tale of woe. That was the first time Stan knew that Bernie and I were so thick. I met Bernie through Stan, but Stan didn't know we had got so chummy.
"Stan was worried for fear it would come out that Bernie had been to see him that night, because it would make a lot of trouble for him—some sort of shady deal they had on, I guess. So he didn't go out to see Bernie. That's about all there is to it. I got some money from Stan, and stayed in his rooms until the police had cleared out of the neighbourhood; because neither of us wanted to get mixed up in anything. Then I came home. That's straight —on the level."
"Why didn't you get this off your chest before?" I demanded, knowing the answer.
It came.
"I was afraid. Suppose I told about Bernie throwing me down, and said I was close to him —a block or so away—when he was killed, and was half-full of vino? The first thing everybody would have said was that I had shot him! I'd lie about it still if I thought you'd believe me."
"So Bernie was the one who broke off, and not you?"
"Oh, yes," she said lightly.
I lit a Fatima and breathed smoke in silence for a while, and the girl sat placidly watching me.
Here I had two women—neither normal. Mrs. Gilmore was hysterical, abnormally nervous. This girl was dull, subnormal. One was the dead man's wife; the other his mistress; and each with reason for believing she had been thrown down for the other. Liars, both; and both finally confessing that they had been near the scene of the crime at the time of the crime, though neither admitted seeing the other. Both, by their own accounts, had been at that time even further from normal than usual—Mrs. Gilmore filled with jealousy; Cara Kenbrook, half-drunk.
What was the answer? Either could have killed Gilmore; but hardly both—unless they had formed some sort of crazy partnership, and in that event—
Suddenly all the facts I had gathered—true and false—clicked together in my head. I had the answer—the one simple, satisfying answer!
I grinned at the girl, and set about filling in the gaps in my solution.
"Who is Stan?" I asked.
"Stanley Tennant—he has something to do with the city."
Stanley Tennant. I knew him by reputation, a—
A key rattled in the hall door.
The hall door opened and closed, and a man's footsteps came toward the open doorway of the room in which we were. A tall, broad-shouldered man in tweeds filled the doorway—a ruddy-faced man of thirty-five or so, whose appearance of athletic blond wholesomeness was marred by close-set eyes of an indistinct blue.
Seeing me, he stopped—a step inside the room.
"Hello, Stan!" the girl said lightly. "This gentleman is from the Continental Detective Agency. I've just emptied myself to him about Bernie. Tried to stall him at first, but it was no good."