“My dear, why did you fib to me about the time Mr. Mannix returned to you last Monday night? It wasn’t a bit nice of you.”
“What do you mean!” Miss La Fosse exclaimed in frightened indignation, drawing herself up into an attitude of withering hauteur.
“You see,” explained Vance, “the St. Moritz scene of the ‘Scandals’ doesn’t go on until nearly eleven, and it closes the bill. So you couldn’t possibly have seen it and also received Mr. Mannix here at half past ten.—Come. What time did he arrive here Monday night?”
The girl flushed angrily.
“You’re pretty slick, aren’t you? You shoulda been a cop. . . . Well, what if I didn’t get home till after the show? Any crime in that?”
“None whatever,” answered Vance mildly. “Only a little breach of good faith in telling me you came home early.” He bent forward earnestly. “I’m not here to make you trouble. On the contr’ry, I’d like to protect you from any distress or bother. You see, if the police go nosing round, they may run on to you. But if I’m able to give the District Attorney accurate information about certain things connected with Monday night, there’ll be no danger of the police being sent to look for you.”
Miss La Fosse’s eyes grew suddenly hard and her brow crinkled with determination.
“Listen! I haven’t got anything to hide, and neither has Louey. But if Louey asks me to say he’s somewhere at half past ten, I’m going to say it—see? That’s my idea of friendship. Louey had some good reason to ask it, too, or he wouldn’t have done it. However, since you’re so smart, and have accused me of playing unfair, I’m going to tell you that he didn’t get in till after midnight. But if anybody else asks me about it, I’ll see ’em in hell before I tell ’em anything but the half-past-ten story. Get that?”
Vance bowed.
“I get it; and I like you for it.”