Mr. Bellows greeted each statement with a dignified bow.
“Mr. Willoughby then put the book in his vault?”
“Not at all. He met me at the front of the store and we came here, to the office. There, on the desk, we unwrapped it and looked at it together for a moment, savoring its rich, ah, significance.” Adam could tell how close he had come to calling it “flavor.”
“And then he put it in the display window?”
“Not while I was here. The window was not fully prepared. So I left him with it in his hands, and went my ways.”
“And what were your ways for the rest of the clay, Mr. Bellows?” Mr. Bellows raised his white eyebrows and smiled.
“The alibi, of course,” he said, and laughed silently. “Now I can tell you with some accuracy. In general, of course. I had lunch alone. After lunch I went to the Parke-Bernet Galleries for the Humphry sale, for the afternoon. Then, home to dress, and dinner with the Sellingtons. They’re at the Plaza. And so to bed.”
“That would be about what time?”
“Time? I have a poor sense of time. Living as I do among my books I fear I have a wretched awareness of the passing hour. Sometime between ten and eleven, I should think.”
“Did Mr. Willoughby tell you anything that you think would be of help to us? About the book, perhaps, or his plans for it?”
“Not a thing. Except, of course, that it would be set on velvet, alone, like a precious jewel, a ruby gleaming against the black of the cloth, with a light directing upon it the color of blood.”
“And no one was about at the time who aroused your interest or suspicion?”
And now Mr. Bellows’ mannerisms seemed to fall away, and for a few seconds a perfectly sincere feeling showed on his face, and it was not pleasant.
“Yes,” he said, his voice harsh, “there was someone. Someone who knew Mr. Willoughby rather too well. Someone who had a hand in his affairs, who wanted to ruin him, who hated him. Someone who answered the telephone at this desk late last night when I called Mark from my home.”
Mr. Bellows swung his cane up in a slow are and leveled it at the stiff figure of Miss Clark.
“Ask her your questions, constable,” he said, his voice rising. “Ask her what she knows about the death of Mark Willoughby last night!”
He held the cane in mid-air, and the little group transfixed. Adam did not dare to look, and could not help but look, at Miss Clark. He could not tell what thoughts might be moving in that motionless head, behind her pale and classic features, now like cold marble.
Miss Clark, her back literally against the wall, gave a deep sigh and looked full at the lieutenant.
“I wondered when he would get to that,” she said, in a shaking voice.
Lieutenant Ames, who had been staring at Mr. Bellows with angry astonishment in every feature, now turned to the girl.
“Just a minute,” he said. He turned back to Mr. Bellows. “You phoned here last night? At what time?”
Mr. Bellows lifted his shoulders.
“Time? As I have said, time means so little to me. Nearly eleven, I suppose. Yes, quite late.”
“And why did you phone?”
“I wanted to ask Mark about the window. I must confess that the whole idea intrigued me. I wondered how it looked at night, with the spotlight bringing out the full brilliance of the blood-red ease. A perfect symbol, a perfect setting for the mood of the book.”
“And Miss Clark answered the phone?”
“Yes. I never spoke to Mark at all. Miss Clark said he was — engaged.” Mr. Bellows paused on the word, and his little smile became a sneer.
Lieutenant Ames glanced at the girl.
“Is that correct?”
“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Willoughby was in the window at that moment. I mean, standing right in it, getting the red spotlight so that it was focused exactly on the leather case. He sent me to answer the telephone and to say that he could not be disturbed.”
“And what time was that?”
“About ten, I think. We were working to get everything set up before we left, and we were just finishing.”
“When did you leave?”
“Almost at once. Mr. Willoughby sent me home. He said he had some office work to do.”
“And then?”
“I went home.”
And that, thought Adam, would seem to be that. Yet it was clear that to Mr. Bellows it was only the beginning. He clucked his tongue, and looked hopefully at Lieutenant Ames. But the lieutenant was overtaken again by one of his silences, and when he spoke it was to Mr. Bellows.
“Now what about this matter of Miss Clark’s attitude toward Mr. Willoughby?”
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Bellows coughed slightly, and lowered his voice. “I should hesitate to mention this, but these are after all extraordinary circumstances. It is a rather delicate matter. A young, attractive girl, living by herself, working for a much older man who is, if I may say so, too easily smitten — or was. Yes, dear me, was. Rather impulsive, poor Mark. You can understand what I mean, perhaps? It was evident. Oh, yes, it was evident. And she did not return his interest. Did not reciprocate at all, so far as I know. He was quite a bit older, of course. It was rather difficult for her.”
Adam had an unpleasant vision of the dark store, on a quiet side street, late at night, with a fatherly man making his attentions “evident.”
Lieutenant Ames nodded quietly.
“Thank you. If you have nothing more to tell us we will not keep you any longer.”
Mr. Bellows let his eyes flick briefly to Miss Clark and then back to the lieutenant. He bowed to the lieutenant and to Adam, passed Miss Clark as if she were not there, and walked quickly to the door. The patrolman, opening it for him, stared down frankly at the little figure as it strutted by.
The door was closed, and Lieutenant Ames turned to Miss Clark.
“Now, Miss Clark,” he said, “there are several things I want to know.”
It was as if a final stage in the proceedings had been reached.
“First of all,” continued the lieutenant, in a businesslike way, “how many keys are there to the store?”
“Just two.”
“You carried one, and Mr. Willoughby the other?”
“Yes.”
“Now about this display. How much of the work did you do?”
“Just about all. We talked it over, and I suggested some of the ideas for it. Mr. Willoughby sent me out to get the things. When I had everything ready, Mr. Willoughby brought the book and case out and put them in place, and adjusted the lighting.”
“That was in the evening?”
“Yes, the last thing of all, before I left. He was anxious to have it bathed in a deep red light — like blood.”
Like blood. The words hung in the air, and her eyes widened with a quick fear. The lieutenant waited, and Adam was prompted to interfere.
“Do you know very much about the book itself?” he asked.
She turned to Adam with relief.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “When I heard that Mr. Willoughby had bought it, I got a copy from the library and read it.”
“What’s the story about? I haven’t read it for years, and I can’t remember the plot at all.”
“Well, it’s about revenge,” she began, and stopped. She looked at Adam with an expression of sheer astonishment, of comprehension. Now what has she remembered, what have I suggested, he wondered. But the lieutenant had questions of his own to ask.
“What about this matter of Mr. Willoughby’s attentions toward you. Was Mr. Bellows right?”
She nodded, only half-attending.
“He was always that way,” she admitted. “Not only to me. But Mr. Bellows made it sound worse than it was.”