Cleaver’s jaw sagged slightly, and his labored breathing was quite audible.
“And between half past eleven and twelve o’clock,” pursued Markham’s relentless voice, “Miss Odell was strangled and robbed.—What do you say to that?”
For a long time there was tense silence. Then Cleaver spoke.
“I’ve got to think this thing out.”
Markham waited patiently. After several minutes Cleaver drew himself together and squared his shoulders.
“I’m going to tell you what I did that night, and you can take it or leave it.” Again he was the cold, self-contained gambler. “I don’t care how many witnesses you’ve got; it’s the only story you’ll ever get out of me. I should have told you in the first place, but I didn’t see any sense of stepping into hot water if I wasn’t pushed in. You might have believed me last Tuesday, but now you’ve got something in your head, and you want to make an arrest to shut up the newspapers——”
“Tell your story,” ordered Markham. “If it’s straight, you needn’t worry about the newspapers.”
Cleaver knew in his heart that this was true. No one—not even his bitterest political enemies—had ever accused Markham of buying kudos with any act of injustice, however small.
“There’s not much to tell, as a matter of fact,” the man began. “I went to Miss Odell’s house a little before midnight, but I didn’t enter her apartment; I didn’t even ring her bell.”
“Is that your customary way of paying visits?”