“You’re friendly with Thelma Grebe?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Not very long. I got acquainted with her in rather a peculiar manner. Thelma, I think, has clung to me. She wanted to get away from this life. I guess I’m the only friend that she has who isn’t connected in some way with crooks or gangsters.”
“And she suggested that you come here?” Brokay asked.
“Yes. Just as soon as she saw the body, she knew that there was going to be trouble. You see, I wasn’t supposed to be at the house at all.”
“Were there any men in the party?” asked Brokay.
“No,” she said, “just Thelma and myself.”
“What I can’t understand,” Brokay said, “is why you didn’t stay and explain the situation to the police.”
“I couldn’t very well,” she said.
“Why?”
She met his gaze squarely. “Because of Thelma,” she said. “Don’t you understand? Thelma was there with me. Thelma was a known moll. She was the companion of crooks. I was supposed to be out, yet the police would have found that I was in the house; would have found that I had this woman with me. You can see what would have happened.”
Brokay nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said, “I can see complications. But it would still seem to me that
“Thelma told me,” she said, “that the case was bound to be cleared up within a short time; that if I would go with her, she could promise me sanctuary until everything had been explained.”
“It sounds to me,” Brokay said bluntly, “like damn poor advice.”
She stared steadily at him and smiled slightly. “Well,” she said, “now I’ll hear your story.”
Chapter Five
Time for Murder
Brokay told her his story; told it without embellishment, without any elaborate explanations, giving her merely an outline of what happened. She stood staring at him steadily.
“What’s the matter?” asked Brokay.
“I think,” she said, “that you at least owe me a certain amount of frankness. I have been frank with you; you should be frank with me.”
“But I have been frank with you.”
“The story that you have told me,” she said, “is probably the most improbable yam I have ever heard.”
Brokay realized, then, the utter hopelessness of expecting the police to believe his story. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, “if you don’t believe me. It’s the only story I can offer.”
She stood staring at him for several seconds. Finally she said: “I’m going to believe you, Mr. Brokay. My reason tells me I shouldn’t, but there’s something about you that makes me believe you in spite of myself.”
“Thank you,” he said, still with that stiff formality.
“But,” she went on, “you could never tell that to the police.”
“I know it,” he said.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Brokay turned to the monkey. “That,” he said, “is the only clue. Apparently the monkey didn’t belong to Glady’s Ordway.”
“No,” she said, “the monkey didn’t belong to Gladys Ordway, I know that, because I was in the house with her. I saw her just a few hours before she was killed. She didn’t have any such pet as this.”
“Then,” said Brokay, “it stands to reason that the monkey was introduced into the house by the murderer.”
“But why on earth would a murderer bring a monkey to the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“And why would the monkey remain after the murder had been committed?”
“I think,” Brokay said, “I can give you some explanation of that. Monkeys are really sensitive animals, although many times people don’t realize it. When I entered the room, the monkey was sitting on the head of the bed, chattering in blind terror. What’s more, the murder had been committed but a few minutes before I entered the room. That means that the murderer must have been in the room when we entered the house; perhaps heard us on the stairs, or saw the beam of our flashlight as we came toward the room. He had to make his escape.”
“And you mean he was trying to catch the monkey?”
“Yes, the monkey had become terrified when he committed the crime. It had run from him. He had tried to recapture the animal, and then he heard us. He had to escape and leave the monkey there.”
“That,” she said, “sounds reasonable. But I still can’t understand why the murderer should have taken the monkey with him, or who the murderer was, or what the motive for the murder was.”
Brokay’s eyes glinted. “Well,” he said, “I’m going to do some detective work of my own. There’s one thing that’s a cinch, I’m in this thing up to my necktie and I’ve got to get out. The only way I can do it is by finding out what actually did happen.”
He crossed to the telephone which set on the table by the window.
“Take the classified index, Miss Koline,” he said, “and read down through the pet stores. I’m going to call them up one at a time. You give me the numbers.”
“What’s the idea?” she asked.
“The idea is,” he said, “that this monkey must originally have come from a pet store. I don’t think that the murderer had owned the monkey very long; certainly not long enough to have won the confidence of the little animal; not long enough to have learned very much about him. I’m acting on the theory that the monkey was sold recently.”
“I can’t understand just how you can figure that,” she said. “I see that there’s something to be said in favor of it, but—”
“Nevertheless,” he interrupted, “that’s the only theory we’ve got to work on, and we’re going to work on it.”
She opened the telephone book, ran her finger down the classified directory, and said: “All right, here’s the first one— Drexel Four-o-six-two.”
He dialed the number, and, when a voice answered, said: “I am trying to get some information about a monkey that was sold from your store within the last week. Have you a record of such sales?”
“We haven’t sold any monkey during the past week,” the man said. “It’s been a month since we made a sale of a monkey. You understand that at this particular season of the year the demand isn’t brisk, and we very seldom sell monkeys. Usually we handle them on order.”
“Thank you,” said Brokay, and hung up.
Rhoda Koline gave him the next number. Brokay call it. The result was the same. The third store had sold a monkey within the last week. Brokay got a description of the monkey and of the person who had bought it, together with the address. The fourth store yielded a blank. The fifth store had sold a monkey. The clerk couldn’t tell the name or address of the people who had purchased it
“There was a man,” he said, “who had a slight scar on the left side of his forehead, a little star-shaped scar. He was carrying a cane. He wore a tuxedo — a man about forty-four or forty-five, I should judge. He was broad across the shoulders, but not fat. He was accompanied by a girl in a leopard-skin coat. The girl was ten or fifteen years younger than he was. They had been looking at this monkey that we kept in the window, and decided they wanted to purchase it. They had both been drinking. We gave them some instructions on the care of the monkey and delivered the monkey to them.”
“Can you describe the woman?” asked Brokay.
“Not much more than that she wore the leopard-skin coat, and, as I remember it, had black hair and black eyes. It was the man I was interested in mostly. He was rather a remarkable individual, although I couldn’t tell just how he gave the impression of being remarkable. It was something in his manner; something in his character.”
“Tell me something more about the monkey,” Brokay said. “Give me a description of it.”