“Get yourself outa my apartment, or I’ll call the house detective.” She turned to the telephone on the wall at her side.
Vance waited until she had lifted the receiver.
“If you do that, Miss La Fosse, I’ll order you taken to the District Attorney’s office for questioning,” he told her indifferently, lighting his cigarette and leaning back in his chair.
Slowly she replaced the receiver and turned.
“What’s your game, anyway? . . . Suppose I did know Margy—then what? And where do you fit into the picture?”
“Alas! I don’t fit in at all.” Vance smiled pleasantly. “But, for that matter, nobody seems to fit in. The truth is, they’re about to arrest a poor blighter for killing your friend, who wasn’t in the tableau, either. I happen to be a friend of the District Attorney’s; and I know exactly what’s being done. The police are scouting round in a perfect frenzy of activity, and it’s hard to say what trail they’ll strike next. I thought, don’t y’ know, I might save you a lot of unpleasantness by a friendly little chat. . . . Of course,” he added, “if you prefer to have me give your name to the police, I’ll do so, and let them hold the audition in their own inimitable but crude fashion. I might say, however, that, as yet, they are blissfully unaware of your relationship with Miss Odell, and that, if you are reasonable, I see no reason why they should be informed of it.”
The girl had stood, one hand on the telephone, studying Vance intently. He had spoken carelessly and with a genial inflection; and she at length resumed her seat.
“Now, won’t you have one of my cigarettes?” he asked, in a tone of gracious reconciliation.
Mechanically she accepted his offer, keeping her eyes on him all the time, as if attempting to determine how far he was to be trusted.
“Who are they thinking of arresting?” She asked the question with scarcely a movement of her features.