Bouchet’s eyes flickered angrily.
“Me! What you mean? Why, I — it was a fine night last night, and I just came out for a little airing. I often do that when it’s a line night, don’t I, Collman?”
“You sure do,” Collman confirmed him.
“No offense meant,” Oakes placated them. “Just wanted to show how easy it is to throw suspicion on any one. You see, Mr. Bouchet, how difficult it might be for even you to produce an alibi?”
“I guess that’s right, too,” agreed Collman.
“And where were you, Mr. Collman, when Lanyon was shot?”
Collman stared at Oakes, his lips parted.
“Why, I... I guess I was down in my cellar about that time, looking over my stock.”
“Can you prove that? Did any one see you?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Oakes. I don’t remember. But I always go down to the cellar about that time of night. Don’t I, Jim?”
“You sure do,” Bouchet supported him.
Oakes grinned amiably.
“There you go!” he chaffed them. “Neither one of you could prove an alibi. But we won’t worry about that. Say, Mr. Bouchet, how about your waiters — the men? Any suspicious characters among ’em?”
Bouchet pondered a little.
“Not that I know of. Of course, you understand, they ain’t saints, none of them. But I don’t know nothing against them.”
“You got a list of your employees, ain’t you? Could I look at it?”
“Why, sure, I got a list — names, addresses and telephone numbers. I guess you could see it. Wait a minute.”
Bouchet hurried into the Broken Lantern and returned soon with a small notebook, which he handed to Oakes.
Oakes looked it through carefully, made a note or two on the back of an envelope, and handed the book back.
“I’m sure obliged to you gents,” he said heartily. “Say, I think I’d like to see the waiter — the one that delivered those messages to Miss Deronda and Lanyon. Where could I find him?”
“You’re lucky,” said Collman. “Usually, this time of day he’s in town, at home. But on account of the murder he’s had to stick around here this morning. You can get him right over in my place there, in the Blue Plume. His name is Hayden, Billy Hayden.”
“I’ll go right over,” said Oakes. “By the way, this bird that was killed was quite a lady’s man, wasn’t he?”
“Sure,” Collman grinned. “Lanyon was stuck on that other dame, wasn’t he, Jim?”
“Yep,” said Bouchet. “He used to come out and chin with the other waitress, the one that left early last night. That was before I hired Myrtle, though. Myrtle took his eye right away, and he ditched Clara.”
“Well, this other girl, Clara, she left the Broken Lantern last night just before the killing, did she?”
“I guess so,” Bouchet said. “Just a few minutes before.”
“Say,” said Oakes abruptly, “what’s the time?”
Collman glanced at his watch.
“Just about ten o’clock.”
“Thanks,” said Oakes.
III
In the center of the Blue Plume was an open space, a dancing floor. Around that were tables. And along the walls were curtained booths. The kitchen was in the rear.
There was no activity in the place when Oakes entered, except for a porter who was scrubbing floors at the back. The only other occupant was a man who was seated at one of the tables.
The solitary man looked up as Oakes came in. He appeared to be about fifty, pale faced, white haired, dark eyed; a typical waiter of the old school. Oakes sat down in a chair opposite him.
“Your name Hayden?”
The man nodded. Oakes introduced himself.
“You’re the man that delivered the messages to Myrtle Deronda and Sydney Lanyon last night?”
“Yes, sir”
“I suppose you realize that the message you delivered to Lanyon resulted in his death?”
The question seemed to startle the man.
“Well, it would seem so, sir.”
The waiter was obviously tired. Under ordinary circumstances, doubtless, he would have been in bed at this time of day. Oakes softened his tone.
“Mr. Bouchet, of the Broken Lantern, tells me that he telephoned the first message, the one to Miss Deronda. And she herself telephoned the message to Lanyon?”
“I believe that’s correct, sir.”
“And you conveyed both messages?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were the messages written?”
“Yes, sir. The cashier at the desk took the messages over the phone, wrote them down on a slip of paper and gave them to me to deliver to the table?”
“Did either Miss Deronda or Lanyon make any comment when they received the messages?”
“Not that I recall, sir. That is, except that they were both put out at Miss Deronda’s having to go back to work.”
“Now, Hayden, when you gave Lanyon the message from the girl, did he go right out — that is, out the front door?”
“Certainly.”
“There’s a back door to the place, isn’t there?”
“Yes, sir. A kitchen door. But nobody uses it except the help.”
“And can you go along the outside of the building from the kitchen door to the highway?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a road comes in from the highway. Trucks with supplies drive right up to the kitchen door, on the south side.”
“Very good, Hayden. I like your straightforward answers. Now, show me the kitchen door, will you?”
Hayden lifted his eyebrows in surprise. But he got up promptly, and led the way back to the kitchen.
Oakes walked out of the kitchen door. He strolled thoughtfully down the narrow road along the building to the highway, then back again. His eyes were searching the ground. Hayden watched him curiously from the kitchen door.
Oakes returned, and reentered the kitchen. Hayden followed him. Just inside Oakes stopped. He was looking at a large sink that was close to the door.
“Dishwasher work there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now, the dishwasher that was working last night from two o’clock on — I suppose he’s home now.”
“No,” said Hayden. “It happens that he’s here. That’s him just inside the dining room, Mr. Oakes. Tom comes to work at one in the morning. He relieves the first dishwasher. Tom washes dishes until the place closes up, then he does the porter work. That’s why he’s here now.”
“Guess I’ll talk to Tom, then,” Oakes said. “By the way, Hayden, what’s the time?”
Hayden took his watch out, opened it.
“Close to ten thirty.”
“Thanks. Say, that picture you got in your watch — she’s some good looker. Daughter, is she?”
“No, sir,” said Hayden, closing the watch. “Just a friend.”
“Well,” said Oakes, “got to hurry. Guess I’ll talk to Tom first though. You can go now, Hayden.”
Hayden went back to the dining room. Oakes called to the man who was busy at the scrubbing.
Tom was a young man, slight of stature, eager of eve, and distinctly greasy of aspect. He clearly belonged to that unfortunate group of human’s who, in spite of a ready grasp of details, never succeed in mastering any but the most menial positions.
“Now, Tom,” Oakes confided. “I’m working on this murder case. I want you to help me.”
Tom’s eves shone like twin stars.
“Me! Gosh!”
“Yeah! Now, where were you between two and three o’clock last night?”
“Me! Why, I was hanging over that tub there, massaging dishes.”
“Think, now, Tom, are you sure you—”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” Tom began to get excited. “I did quit the sink for a while.”