Duryea said, “I don’t want her to commit suicide. If she asks to be excused, you’ll have to go with her, Milred, and if she should make any attempt to...”
“Go right ahead, Frank. I’ll back your play by doing whatever’s expected.”
Duryea said, “All right, here we go, boys,” and rang the bell.
A maid answered the bell.
“Mrs. Right,” Duryea said. “This is the district attorney of Santa Delbarra County.”
“I’m sorry. Mrs. Right simply can’t see anyone. She...”
“She’ll have to see me,” Duryea said, pushing his way on through the door.
The maid started to protest, but gave ground as the deter-mined little group pushed past her.
“Where is she?” Duryea asked.
“Upstairs lying down in her bedroom — the one in front.”
“Is she dressed?”
“Yes.”
“You come with us,” Duryea said.
They made noise as they ascended the steps, the boards creaking in protest as heavy bodies, keeping in the closely compact companionship of a group which is called upon to discharge a disagreeable duty, climbed the carpeted treads.
The maid indicated the room.
Mrs. Right looked up as Duryea opened the door. The expression on her face ran through a rapid series of changes from surprise to indignation, indignation to dismay.
Duryea said, “I’m sorry to have to bother you, Mrs. Right, and sorry to take this unconventional method of calling, but there are some questions in connection with your husband’s death which you’ll have to answer in person, and immediately.”
“Why... why, I...”
Duryea whipped out the rubber bathing suit. “For instance, Mrs. Right, I’m going to ask you to make a frank statement concerning the circumstances which caused you to borrow Miss Harpler’s bathing suit.”
“Why, I... I can’t understand...”
Duryea said, “Remember that anything you say may be used against you, that I have means of checking up. Miss Harpler telephoned you, didn’t she?”
“Well, yes, she... I...”
“Miss Harpler walked into a trap,” Duryea said with the assurance of a man who is bluffing and knows that he must make his bluff carry weight, “I’m afraid her attempt to rush out and buy a duplicate bathing suit, in place of putting you in the clear, has put both of you in a very bad light.”
Mrs. Right faced the circle of accusing faces, said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Miss Harpler telephoned me upon an entirely different matter, and, as for that bathing suit, I...”
“Wore it,” Duryea said, “when you jumped overboard from Miss Harpler’s yacht when Warren Hilbers picked you up in his speedboat and took you back to Catalina so you could manufacture an alibi. I’m afraid, Mrs. Right, it’s going to be necessary for me to ask you to accompany me to police headquarters.”
She studied his face for a moment, then made a little gesture of surrender. “All right,” she said wearily, “I was afraid it wouldn’t work. That’s right. I was on Joan’s yacht. She was keeping me concealed. Then Nita Moline wanted to use the yacht. We were afraid that if we withheld permission it might make her suspicious. She was nosing around too much anyway. I guess you know just about what happened.”
Duryea said, with dignity, “Perhaps you’ll tell us exactly why you killed your husband, Mrs. Right.”
“But I didn’t kill him. That’s just the point. I...”
“You want us to believe that you went to all this trouble to manufacture an alibi and yet knew nothing of your husband’s death?”
She said, “I was suspicious of my husband. I thought that he and Addison Stearne were planning to do something that would jeopardize my interests. I felt he was going to fix it so Nita Moline would consent to marry Arthur after he’d secured a divorce. I wanted to follow them and see what happened. Well, I fixed it up with Warren. He has a speedboat. As soon as my husband had sailed, Warren and I followed along. Joan had consented to put her yacht at my disposal. So when we found they were headed for Santa Delbarra, Warren put me aboard the Albatross and we went to Santa Delbarra. I kept out of sight, of course.
“Joan moored her yacht where it was possible to watch the Gypsy Queen. We wanted to see who went aboard.”
“Who did?” Duryea asked.
“That’s exactly the point. No one. Mr. Duryea, that crime couldn’t have been what you think it was. Addison shot my husband, and then committed suicide, and someone who didn’t want it to appear that he had committed suicide, picked up the gun and tossed it overboard.”
“Which accounts for the reason you went to all this trouble to build an alibi?” Duryea asked sarcastically.
“I admit that was a mistake, but Miss Moline must have been suspicious. She kept prowling around the Albatross. And, after all, as Joan pointed out, I could have swum across to the other yacht at almost any time during the night, killed Arthur and Addison Stearne, and returned. Joan said the officers would probably think of that if they knew I was hiding on her yacht. So she got Warren on the telephone, told him to come out with his speedboat and stand by. I guess you know the rest.”
“What time did you first get to Santa Delbarra?” Duryea asked.
“Right around six o’clock Saturday. Saturday morning we tagged along in the speedboat long enough to find out that Stearne was taking his yacht to Santa Delbarra. Then Warren took me over to Catalina so he could pick up Joan. She was waiting there in the Albatross. We couldn’t find her right at first, because she was out fishing. When we finally located her, she had to go in to Catalina to take aboard some gasoline and do some telephoning. It was shortly before six o’clock when we got to Santa Delbarra. And no one went aboard the Gypsy Queen after that.”
“And I suppose your alibi for that is Miss Harpler?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must have killed your husband almost immediately after the yacht was moored,” Duryea said.
“I tell you I didn’t. I...”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Right, but, according to your own admission, you were within a hundred feet of the place where your husband was killed. You had every opportunity to kill him. You had every incentive to kill him. You concocted a fake alibi. According to your own admission, you knew about his death, yet proceeded to deliberately fabricate a lot of evidence to throw the officers off the trail. Under the circumstances, Mrs. Right, I’m going to have to take you into custody. If you’ll get your things together...”
Duryea broke off as the house echoed to the sound of struggle. The impact of jarring thuds shook pictures on the walls. A revolver shot crashed punctuation to the sounds of struggle. For a moment following that shot, the noises ceased, then they started again.
“Watch this woman,” Duryea said to one of the officers. “This may very easily be a trick. Come on, men.”
The rest of them ran across the corridor, down the stairs toward the back of the house from which the sounds were proceeding.
Duryea jerked open a door. A chair, thrown with great force, crashed against the door just as he had it partially opened, jerked the door out of his hand.
Duryea jumped into the room, the officers behind him.
Gramps Wiggins, attired in his rubber bathing suit, a broomstick in his hand, was dancing nimbly around, striking out with quick, sharp blows. Warren Hilbers, his face distorted with rage, one arm dangling at his side, was picking up everything movable which seemed to offer possibilities of a lethal nature with his other hand.
“Hold it!” one of the officers said, raising a revolver. “Hold it or I’ll shoot!”