“Come to my house to-morrow for breakfast, and bring those alibis you asked Heath for; and I’ll tell you who shot Benson.”
Something in his tone impressed Markham. He realized that Vance would not have made so specific a promise unless he was confident of his ability to keep it. He knew Vance too well to ignore, or even minimize, his statement.
“Why not tell me now?” he asked.
“Awf’lly sorry, y’ know,” apologized Vance; “but I’m going to the Philharmonic’s ‘special’ to-night. They’re playing César Franck’s D-minor, and Stransky’s temp’rament is em’nently suited to its diatonic sentimentalities. . . . You’d better come along, old man. Soothin’ to the nerves and all that.”
“Not me!” grumbled Markham. “What I need is a brandy-and-soda.”
He walked down with us to the taxicab.
“Come at nine to-morrow,” said Vance, as we took our seats. “Let the office wait a bit. And don’t forget to ’phone Heath for those alibis.”
Then, just as we started off, he leaned out of the car.
“And I say, Markham: how tall would you say Mrs. Platz is?”