“What—Paquita?” chorused the group, and I could see by the inflection that she was not unknown to several of them. “You don’t say. Well, you must admit he was a good picker.”
“I rather suspect that his acquaintance cost him high, though,” persisted Conigsby. “Paquita has a scale of prices. It costs so much to take dinner with her. She’ll drive out of an afternoon with you—but you must pay. There’s a union scale.”
“It takes dough to make tarts,” frivolously suggested another of the group, forgetful of the tragedy that they were discussing.
Indeed, I was amazed at the nonchalant attitude they took. Yet, on analysis, I concluded that it also might be significant. No doubt the estimate of Maddox by his club members was more accurate than that of the world at large.
“If it had been Shelby,” put in another man, “I wouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Don’t worry,” interposed Conigsby. “Shelby Maddox is clever. Remember, Shelby is young. Underneath his wildness there is ambition. I think you’ll hear more of that boy before we are through. I know him, and he’s likely to prove a chip off the old Maddox block. Nothing that Shelby does would surprise me.”
“How about the other sister, Frances?” inquired another. “Do you know her husband, Walcott?”
“Not very well. You’re more likely to find him on Broad Street than Broadway. You know what I care for Broad Street. I’d never visit it if my bankers were not down there. Walcott has a deuced pretty little sister, though. I hear that Shelby is quite smitten.”
“Well, whatever you may think of him, I have seen Shelby Maddox with Paquita, too. I’ll lay you a little bet that that little baggage knows something about the case. Remember, the murder was on Shelby’s yacht.”
Conigsby shrugged. “Quite possible—another case of notoriety for The White Light.”