“Mannix. . . . Curious he should crop up again. And he issued orders to Alys to keep mum. Now, why? Maybe the reason he gave her was the real one. Who knows?—On the other hand, was he with his chère amie from half past ten till early morning? Well, well. Again, who knows? Something queer about that business discussion. . . . Then Cleaver. He called up just ten minutes before midnight—oh, yes, he called up. That wasn’t a fairy-tale. But how could he telephone from a speeding car? He couldn’t. Maybe he really wanted to have a party with his recalcitrant Canary, don’t y’ know. But then, why the brummagem alibi? Funk? Maybe. But why the circuitousness?—why didn’t he call his lost love direct? Ah, perhaps he did! Some one certainly called her by phone at twenty minutes to twelve. We must look into that, Van. . . . Yes, he may have called her, and then when a man answered—who the deuce was that man, anyway?—he may have appealed to Alys. Quite natural, y’ know. Anyway, he wasn’t in Boonton.—Poor Markham! How upset he’ll be when he finds out! . . . But what really worries me is that story of the doctor. Jealous mania: it squares with Ambroise’s character perfectly. He’s the kind that does go off his head. I knew his confession of paternalism was a red herring. My word! So the doctor was making threats and flourishing pistols, eh? Bad, bad. I don’t like it. With those ears of his, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Paranoia—that’s it. Delusions of persecution. Probably thought the girl and Pop—or maybe the girl and Spotswoode—were plotting his misery and laughing at him. You can’t tell about those chaps. They’re deep—and they’re dangerous. The canny Alys had him sized up—warned the Canary against him. . . . Taken by and large, it’s a devilish tangle. Anyway, I feel rather bucked. We’re moving—oh, undoubtedly we’re moving—though in what direction I can’t even guess. It’s beastly annoyin’.”
Markham was waiting for us at the Bankers’ Club. He greeted Vance irritably.
“What have you got to tell me that’s so damned important?”
“Now, don’t get ratty.” Vance was beaming. “How’s your lode-star, Skeel, behaving?”
“So far he’s done everything that’s pure and refined except join the Christian Endeavor Society.”
“Sunday’s coming. Give him time. . . . So you’re not happy, Markham dear?”
“Was I dragged away from another engagement to report on my state of mind?”
“No need. Your state of mind’s execrable. . . . Cheerio! I’ve brought you something to think about.”
“Damn it! I’ve got too much to think about now.”
“Here, have some brioche.” Vance gave the order for lunch without consulting either of us. “And now for my revelations. Imprimis: Pop Cleaver wasn’t in Boonton last Monday night. He was very much in the midst of our modern Gomorrah, trying to arrange a midnight party.”