“I said that I did not retire for the night. Sleep was entirely out of the question, and I didn’t care to go up to our—to my room.”
“Naturally—quite so. I will reframe my question. Will you be good enough to tell us what occurred on the evening of June nineteenth from the conclusion of dinner to, say, eleven o’clock?”
“I will do my best. I’m afraid that I haven’t an especially good memory for details. Mimi had said on the way home from the club that she had told the Conroys that she would join them after dinner at the movies in Rosemont. Quite a party were going, and I asked if they were going to stop by for her. She said no; that she had arranged to meet them at the theatre, as there was no room in their car. I suggested that I drive her over, and she said not to bother, as I’d have to walk back, because she wanted to keep the car; but I told her that I didn’t mind the walk and that I wanted to pick up some tobacco and a paper in the village.
“After dinner we went out to the garage together; the self-starter hadn’t been working very well, and just as I got it started, Mimi called my attention to the fact that one of the rear tires was flat. She asked what time it was, and when I told her that it was five minutes to eight, she said that there wouldn’t be time to change the tire, but that if she hurried she could catch the Conroys and make them give her a lift, even if they were crowded. They lived only about five minutes from us.”
“North of you or south of you, Mr. Bellamy?”
“North of us—away from the village, toward the club. I wanted to go with her, but she said that it would be awkward for me to get away if I turned up there, and it was only a five-minute walk in broad daylight. So then I let her go.”
He sat silent, staring after that light swift figure, slipping farther away from him—farther—farther still.
“You did not accompany her to the gate?”
Stephen Bellamy jerked back those wandering eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“You didn’t accompany her to the gate?”