Levering jumped to his feet. “That insinuation,” he said, “is a dirty crack, and you have no right to make it!”
“To make what insinuation?”
“The one you just made.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I’m not going to argue with you... Dammit, Clane, I’m strong for Alma. You know that. I’d lay down my life for her.”
“Yes,” Terry said, “you’re as attached to her as a kid is to Santa Claus at Christmas time. But, tell me, when did you last see her?”
“I had a cocktail with her about five o’clock yesterday evening.”
“And, if you haven’t seen her since, how did you know that it was important to make me believe I’d been with her until three-thirty this morning?”
Levering cleared his throat, started to say something, grabbed for his glass and poured more liquor into it, then said sullenly, “I saw Cynthia.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“And what did Cynthia have to say?”
“Cynthia asked me where Alma was last night. I told her she was with you. Cynthia said she thought you’d probably have driven Alma through Chinatown, since you’d been telling her some stuff about Chinese colors. She thought it’d be a good idea to impress it on your mind that you hadn’t left Alma until some time about three-thirty.”
“Did she,” Terry asked, “say why she thought it would be well to establish this fact?”
“No... Now suppose you answer my questions. Why’s the district attorney interested in what you were doing or what time you left Alma?”
“That,” Terry said, “is something that isn’t entirely clear in my own mind. I think you’d better ask the district attorney.”
“In other words, you don’t trust me enough to confide in me, is that right?”
“In other words, I have nothing to confide.”
“Haven’t you some inkling?”
“Inklings,” Terry said, “are dangerous. Was there anything else you wanted, Levering?”
Levering got to his feet and said savagely. “Oh, hell! I know you don’t like me. You made that very apparent when I was here with Alma the night before last. You think I’m a cross between a gigolo and a sponge. Well, some day you’re going to find out how wrong you are.”
Having drawn himself up with dignity, he delayed starting towards the door long enough to gulp down the last of his drink. Then, with no word of farewell, he crossed the room, opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. A moment later Terry heard the clang of the elevator door.
Stepping to the window, he stared down the street.
He saw nothing which impressed him as unusual, save a paneled delivery van parked near the curb just behind Levering’s flashy sports car.
Terry sighed with relief as he saw Levering emerge from the apartment house and cross the sidewalk to his car, without being accosted by any official-appearing pedestrians.
Levering’s hand was reaching for the ignition switch of his car when a broad-shouldered man jumped from the rear of the paneled delivery van, and walked with swift purpose to Levering’s car. He placed a foot on the running board just as Levering was reaching for the gear lever.
Terry saw Levering’s startled motion of apprehensive surprise, as the man pulled back his coat lapel. He saw the man march with slow deliberation round the front of the car and climb in beside Levering.
The car slid from the curb and turned to the left at the first street intersection.
Terry Clane pressed a buzzer button which summoned Yat T’oy. When he heard the door open and the shuffle of the Chinese servant’s feet, he said over his shoulder, his eyes regarding the delivery van in moody appraisal, “You may remove Levering’s glass, Yat T’oy.”
4
An hour after Levering left, Cynthia Renton brought Terry the noon edition of the newspaper containing the account of Mandra’s murder.
“Hello, Owl,” she called as soon as Yat T’oy had opened the door. “We’re due for a council of war. What’s this about my handkerchief?”
Without waiting for an answer, she came breezing into the room and inquired, “How about a drink?”
Terry nodded to Yat T’oy.
Cynthia swung about to face the Chinese and said with a grin, “You savvy Tom Collins?”
Yat T’oy did her the honor of matching her grin.
“Heap savvy,” he said.
“A little more soda for me,” Terry ordered.
“Drinking plain soda, Owl?”
“Oh, I use enough Scotch to give it flavor. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Liar,” she told him. “You’ve been staying right here in this apartment because you expected me, haven’t you?”
“Well,” he admitted, “I thought it barely possible you might show up.”
“Because of the handkerchief?” she asked.
“That and other things.”
“What other things?”
His eyes met hers steadily. “A portrait,” he said. “A portrait of a dead man.”
Her lips, delicate and expressive, turned up just the right amount to register a casual smile, but there was worry in the depths of her hazel eyes. Abruptly, she ceased smiling, and perched herself on the corner of a table, swinging one foot in little nervous circles.
“Oh, hell,” she said, “I’m not going to keep stalling with you. I’m scared. You’ll find it out sooner or later, so I might as well admit it now.”
“That,” he told her, “is better.”
Her features showed a faint resemblance to her sister’s, but the nose was turned up more than Alma’s and her hair was spun copper. She seemed as full of potential motion as a humming bird.
“Come on,” Terry urged her, “get over in the chair and sit down. Somehow, I always think of you as being on the move. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you when you weren’t in a hurry.”
“You sound just like the speed cop on the Bay Shore Route,” she said. But she moved over into the chair opposite Terry, crossed her knees, glanced down at her stockings, said, “Not too much, I hope... Well, just to be on the safe side...” And she pulled her skirt down another inch. “How’s this?” she asked. “You see, I’ve got to learn to hit the pose just right: innocent maiden — shocked at tragedy — seeking information from one-time lawyer... No, I like you better when I call you Owl. Since you’ve been dabbling about in this Chinese stuff you’re like a tree full of owls.
“Don’t stare at me like that, Terry Clane! Honestly, I’m all cut up over this business, and you make me feel as though you were looking right through my mask of flippancy into what’s going on inside. I don’t like it, and yet, somehow, at a time like this I do like it. I’m depending on it.”
“Why the mask, then?”
“I’m darned if I know. It’s just because there’s a part of me that’s too much me to be dragged out for everyone to see. So I began by throwing up a screen of wisecracks; and now it’s got to be a habit. Go on, Owl, be a nice boy and tell me about the handkerchief.”
“The district attorney,” he told her, “showed me a handkerchief. It was embroidered with an ‘R’. It had a rather distinctive perfume. It was very similar to the perfume you use. If I’d known where I could have reached you, I’d have warned you not to come here, but Alma wouldn’t answer the telephone at Vera Matthews’ place and no one seemed to know where you were. I’ve ditched shadows once to-day and made it seem accidental. Twice in a row would be tempting fate.”
“Fate being the minions of the law?” she asked.
“As represented by a very cold and suspicious district attorney,” he told her. “What do you know of the murder, Cynthia?”