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“Since she was Mandra’s wife, and since she admits she went to Mandra’s apartment on the occasion of taking the portrait, and wasn’t seen by the door-keeper, it follows that she must have had a key to that corridor door. She returned to get her purse. That was some time between two forty-five, when Sou Ha left, and a few minutes after three, when the body was discovered. She is the one who killed Mandra. She killed him in a jealous rage because she knew Mandra was contemplating divorce proceedings. She is just the type who would do such a thing. She snatched up the weapon which was on the table, released the dart which entered Mandra’s heart, then rushed from the apartment. She returned the murder weapon to Shield. Shield returned it to Levering, and Levering was caught making a clumsy attempt to return that weapon to my collection.

“At the time of the murder, Cynthia Renton, who was asleep in an adjoining room, was awakened by the noise made by Juanita in leaving the apartment, and, slowly rousing to consciousness, came out, to find the dead body of Mandra.

“Now then, Levering, it’s time for you to tell the truth. And, just to keep from taking an unfair advantage, I’m letting you know I was the one who telephoned you in Howland’s office and trapped you into an admission that Shield had framed you on a hit-and-run charge, and that you’d settled with him.

“When I started figuring out what must have happened, knowing Mandra’s methods, knowing how badly he wanted a sleeve gun, knowing that he had a blackmail system by which he could pick his victims at will, I realized you must have been the one whom he had used in procuring that sleeve gun; and I trapped you into admitting it.”

Terry Clane, ignoring the white, strained faces of the startled witnesses, stared steadily in grim accusation into Levering’s pale eyes.

Levering’s entire conception of the case suddenly executed a topsy-turvy revolution and he was unable to keep what was going on within his mind from showing on his face. District Attorney Dixon, experienced in reading faces under emotional stress, needed but one look at Levering to reach an instantaneous decision.

“Young man,” he said solemnly, “a shorthand reporter is taking down what’s being said here. I’m not making any promises and I’m not making any threats, but within the next two minutes you’re going to decide definitely whether you’re running with the hare or with the hounds. Your part in this matter has been decidedly culpable. It remains for you to say whether it becomes more or less culpable from now on.”

George Levering ran his forefinger about the inside of the neckband of his shirt. He was breathing heavily, as though he had been running.

“Yes, sir,” he said, after a moment, “I’ll tell my story.”

16

Cynthia Renton looked down upon the surface of the King Alphonse she had been sipping. The film of thick cream which covered the dark liqueur was in a state of wild agitation.

“What makes it do that, Owl?” she asked.

“Do what?” Terry asked.

“The cream,” she explained, “on the Crême de Cacao. It looks as though it might be boiling, only there aren’t any bubbles coming up. It’s like storm clouds when they’re whipped by a wind.”

“I don’t know,” he told her.

She ceased to look at the liqueur, raised her eyes to his.

The floor show was over. It was during the lull between dances, with the orchestra silent. Waiters were scurrying about. Well-modulated voices, in animated conversation, filled the night club with a murmur which was punctuated by the sound of silverware against plates and saucers.

“So-o-o-o,” she said, “feet of clay after all, eh?”

Terry raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.

“Like all gods,” she said, “you have feet of clay. I’ve finally found something you don’t know.”

She laughed then, and reaching across the table, squeezed his hand. “Owl, you put it across for me, didn’t you?”

He twisted his hand under hers, to give it an answering squeeze.

“But I feel sorry for Juanita, Terry,” she said. “You can’t blame her. God knows, Mandra needed killing, and she’s a fiery, unconventional creature of emotions. She shouldn’t be subject to the same rules which control other people. I’m like her, myself. I see the thing from her angle.”

“I understand,” Terry said, “that she’s retained your friend, C. Renmore Howland, to defend her.”

“Good old Renny,” Cynthia laughed. “You should have seen the smug way he went about getting me to commit perjury. My story, he said, would get me hanged. There was only one story that would get me off, and I must be very dramatic in the way I told it to the jury — tears at just the right time, and no leg when I was putting on the tears, but, in between times, plenty of leg for the jury. And sobs and leg for the newspaper photographers. Terry, he said jurors paid more attention to legs than alibis. Was he right?”

“He should know,” Terry said, laughing. “I’ve never been on a jury, but, if I were, I know how I’d feel.”

She looked at him with roguish eyes and said demurely, “You’d acquit me, Owl. Renny became so interested during my dress rehearsal, he couldn’t keep his mind on his perjury.”

With a quick motion, she leaned across the table towards him. “Tell me, Terry, what about that little Chinese girl?”

“Sou Ha,” he said, “has given me her friendship, and when the Chinese give you their friendship, they give for keeps. Sou Ha thought you really had killed Mandra and that I was in love with you. She wanted me to be happy. Therefore, she confessed to a murder she had never committed. It was, of course, a crazy thing to do, looking at it from our viewpoint. But she’s Chinese, and to her it seemed perfectly logical.”

Cynthia, suddenly serious, said, “Terry Clane, no matter what happens, you’re never going to betray the friendship of that Chinese girl.”

His frown was puzzled. “Why, of course not, Cynthia. What makes you think I’d even consider such an idea?”

“Because,” she told him, “you’re getting ready to make the plunge... Terry, promise me one thing... No, wait a minute, I know a better way than that. I’ll ask you a question and you’ll promise to answer it in Chinese. How’s that?”

“What’s the question?”

“When you marry Alma,” she said, her eyes wistful, but her voice racing on with that little lilt of whimsical humor which was so characteristic of her, “will you please remember that she has some rather conventional ideas; will you please let her own you, body and soul, so you can’t have any outside friendships; will you please promise never to play around at all, but look at life as a sober, serious business, to drop the little Chinese girl from your list of close friends, to lose as much of your spontaneity as possible, and always treat me as a little, scatterbrained sister... Tell me the answer in Chinese, Owl.”

“Why in Chinese, Cynthia?”

She laughed, and there was a little catch in her laugh, despite the hard smile on her lips. “Because there’s no word for ‘yes’ in Chinese, silly. Oh, Owl, please don’t get serious and lose your ability to take life as an adventure!”