“Ja—ja. He came down—half an hour later.”
The woman leaned heavily against the drain-board of the sink, and Vance drew up a chair for her.
“Sit down, Mrs. Menzel,” he said kindly. When she had obeyed, he asked: “Why did you tell me this morning that Mr. Drukker rose at nine?”
“I had to—I was told to.” Her resistance was gone, and she breathed heavily like a person exhausted. “When Mrs. Drukker came back from Miss Dillard’s yesterday afternoon she told me that if any one asked me that question about Mr. Drukker I was to say ‘Nine o’clock.’ She made me swear I’d say it. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes took on a glassy stare. “I was afraid to say anything else.”
Vance still seemed puzzled. After several deep inhalations on his cigarette he remarked:
“There’s nothing in what you’ve told us to affect you this way. It’s not unnatural that a morbid woman like Mrs. Drukker should have taken such a fantastic measure to protect her son from possible suspicion, when a murder had been committed in the neighborhood. You’ve surely been with her long enough to realize how she might exaggerate every remote possibility where her son is concerned. In fact, I’m surprised you take it so seriously. . . . Have you any other reason to connect Mr. Drukker with this crime?”
“No—no!” The woman shook her head distractedly.
Vance strolled to the rear window, frowning. Suddenly he swung about. He had become stern and implacable.
“Where were you, Mrs. Menzel, the morning Mr. Robin was killed?”
An astounding change came over the woman. Her face paled; her lips trembled; and she clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture. She tried to take her staring eyes from Vance, but some quality in his gaze held her.