"Who?" I asked.
Doyle shrugged.
"We can't find out—at least, we haven't found out."
"Was it a man or a woman?" asked Craig.
"We don't even know that," confessed Doyle, in despair. "That fellow Pete is a dub."
"How about your suspects?" prompted Kennedy. "You must have traces of their movements last night."
"I have. I have been questioning Celeste, the maid, for instance. She swears that Mrs. Wilford was at home in the apartment all the evening of the murder. The worst of it is, I can't prove yet that she wasn't. But just give me time—give me time. I'll get something on that maid yet."
I glanced significantly at Kennedy. He nodded back. His "Aussage test" had effectually disposed of any reliance that might be placed on what Celeste might say. However, Kennedy said nothing of that to Doyle. To have done so would have been to invite a tirade of laughter. The only way with Doyle was to let him go along his sweet way of being wrong—then let him in when we were right. Yet, I must say that I liked Doyle in his way, even if he was only a plugger.
"Another thing," brightened Doyle. "I'm getting a line on that business of Wilford's having his wife watched. You know, he did that. He hired a private detective to watch her. If I can get that fellow I may learn something. But that Celeste is clever. She sticks to it that her mistress wasn't out. We'll see if the detective knows when we find him."
"Where were Shattuck and Lathrop last night?" asked Craig, quickly.