“Well! Since when, Miss Jardin? I must say that’s an unlooked-for development.”
“Since this morning. My father and I need money, and it was the only way I knew of earning a great deal quickly.”
“Fitzgerald,” nodded Ruhig approvingly. “Great character, Fitzgerald. Heart as big as all outdoors. Hasn’t stopped agitating for Mooney’s release in ten years.”
“Now that I’ve got a job, I’ve got to earn my keep. Has anything come up on your end, Mr. Ruhig, that might be construed as news?”
“My end?” smiled the lawyer. “Now that’s putting it professionally, I’ll say that. What would my end be? Oh, you mean the will. Well, of course, I’ve filed it for probate. There are certain unavoidable technicalities to go through before it’s finally probated—”
“I suppose,” said Valerie dryly, “Wicious Winni is simply prostrated with grief over the necessity of taking that fifty million dollars.”
Ruhig clucked. “I should resent that remark, Miss Jardin.”
“Why should you?”
“I mean the — ah — disparaging references to Miss Moon.” He clasped his hands over his little belly and smiled suddenly. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Suppose I start your newspaper career off with a bang, eh? Then you’ll feel a little more charitable towards Anatole Ruhig.”
Mr. King lounged in his chair studying Mr. Ruhig. Beneath that bland exterior he fancied he saw a considerable equipment for sculduggery. No, Mr. Ruhig was not doing anything out of pure kindness of heart.
“I was going,” went on the lawyer paternally, “to call in the press this afternoon and make a general announcement, but since you’re here I’ll give you an exclusive story. That ought to put you in solid with Fitzgerald! You know,” he coughed and paused to take a drink of water from the chipped bronze carafe on his desk, “Miss Moon on the death of Solly Spaeth lost a dear friend — a dear friend. One of the few friends she had in the world. A dear friend.”
“That,” said Val, “is putting it mildly.”
“Now I’ve always admired Miss Moon from afar, as you might say — the dry man of the law worshipping at the feet of unattainable beauty, ha-ha! But with Spaeth’s death attainment, so to speak, becomes possible. I’m afraid I’ve taken advantage of dear Winni’s grief-stricken condition.” He coughed again. “In a word, Miss Moon has consented to be my wife.”
Val, torn between astonishment and nausea, sat silent. Spaeth not even buried, and that horrible creature already accepting the advances of another man!
“If I were you, Val darling,” said Mr. King in an old-college-chummy way, “I’d pick up that telephone and relate this momentous intelligence to your editor.”
“Didn’t I tell you it was news?” beamed Ruhig.
“Yes, yes,” said Val breathlessly. “May I use your ’phone? When are you going to be married? I mean—”
A cloud passed over Mr. Ruhig’s rubicund features. “Obviously there is a certain decorum that must be preserved. We haven’t thought of a — ah — a date. It will not even be a formal engagement. Merely — what shall I say? — an understanding. By all means use the ’phone.”
Mr. King ruminated while Val seized the instrument. Such a public announcement now would hardly endear Mr. Ruhig, already disliked, to a citizenry whose money Mr. Ruhig was proposing to marry. Obviously, then, Mr. Ruhig in making it had an important object in mind. What?
“Oh, damn,” said Val into the telephone. “Fitz isn’t in now. Give me...” She bit her lip. “Give me Walter Spaeth!.. Walter? Val... No... Now, please. I’ve called Fitz but he isn’t in, and you’re the only other one... It’s a story... Yes! Anatole Ruhig has just told me confidentially he and Winni Moon are going to be married, date uncertain... Walter!” She jiggled the telephone, but Walter had hung up.
Mr. Ruhig breathed on his fingernails. “And now—” he said in the tone of a man who would like to prolong a delightful conversation but must regretfully terminate it.
Val sat down again. “There’s something else.”
“Something else?”
“I’m sort of checking up the day of the murder.”
“Monday? Yes?”
“Did you say,” asked Val, leaning forward, “that you got to Sans Souci a little past six Monday?”
Mr. Ruhig looked astonished. “My dear child! Certainly.”
He was going to deny it. He had to deny it. Or perhaps it all wasn’t true. Val inhaled like a diver and took the plunge. “What time did Spaeth set for your appointment with him?”
“Between five and five-thirty,” said Mr. Ruhig instantly.
Ellery, quietly watching, felt a backwash of admiration. No hesitation at all. Between five and five-thirty. Just like that.
“But you just said you — you got there after six!”
“So I did.”
“Then you were late? You didn’t get there between five and five-thirty at all?”
Mr. Ruhig smiled. “But I did get there between five and five-thirty... How did you know?” he asked suddenly.
Val gripped her alligator bag, trying to keep calm. As for Mr. Hilary King, he saw the point. Mr. Ruhig was an old hand at questions and answers. If he was being questioned about the exact time of his arrival, then he knew Val had reason to ask the question. If she had reason, it might be based on evidence. If there was evidence, truth was safer than fiction. Mr. King’s admiration for Mr. Ruhig waxed.
“Let’s get this straight,” said Val. “You got to Sans Souci when?”
“At five-fifteen, to be exact,” replied Mr. Ruhig.
“Then why didn’t you tell Inspector Glücke—”
“He didn’t ask me when the appointment was for. And I merely said I drove up a bit after six, which is true. Except that it was the second time I drove up, not the first.”
“A minor technicality,” commented Mr. King.
“The legal training,” said Mr. Ruhig with a modest downward glance. “Answer the question as asked, and don’t volunteer information.”
“Then you were in the house during the crime,” cried Val, “and Atherton Frank lied about no one coming in but—”
“My dear child, you’ll learn as you grow older never to jump at conclusions. I drove up the first time at a quarter after five, but that doesn’t mean I entered the grounds.”
“Oh,” said Val.
“Ah,” said Mr. King.
“Frank wasn’t around,” continued the lawyer conversationally. “You might question the one-armed gentleman, because he testified he was on duty all afternoon. But when I got there at five-fifteen the gate was locked and he wasn’t in his booth, so I drove off and returned a bit after six, at which time Walewski was on duty. That’s all.”
“Is it?” murmured Val.
“As a matter of fact,” said Ruhig, “I’ve been debating with myself whether to tell the Inspector about Frank’s absence or not. It puts me in rather a spot. I forgot to mention it Monday night, and when I recalled it later it occurred to me that Glücke might become — uh — troublesome over my lapse of memory. However, I think now I’d better tell him.”
You didn’t forget anything, Mr. Ruhig, thought Mr. King. And you don’t want Inspector Glücke to know even now. You’re bluffing.
“No,” said Val quickly. “Please don’t. Just keep it to yourself for a while, Mr. Ruhig.”
“But it’s a criminal offense!” protested Mr. Ruhig.
“I know, but it may come in handy in the defense if — when pop goes to trial. Don’t you see? They couldn’t be so sure, then, that he was the only one—”
“You’d make a persuasive advocate,” beamed Mr. Ruhig. “I’ll think it over... No, I shan’t, either! Friendship is friendship. I won’t talk until you give the word.”