Cleaver, however, made no move to go. He smoked thoughtfully for a minute or two; then he gave a short, hard laugh which did not even disturb the contours of his face.
“Oh, hell!” he grumbled, with forced good nature. “As you said, I’m not on the witness-stand. . . . What do you want to know?”
“I’ve told you the situation.” Markham’s voice betrayed a curious irritation. “You know the sort of thing I want. How did this Odell girl live? Who were her intimates? Who would have been likely to want her out of the way? What enemies had she?—Anything that might lead us to an explanation of her death. . . . And incidentally,” he added with tartness, “anything that’ll eliminate yourself from any suspected participation, direct or indirect, in the affair.”
Cleaver stiffened at these last words, and started to protest indignantly. But immediately he changed his tactics. Smiling contemptuously, he took out a leather pocket-case and, extracting a small folded paper, handed it to Markham.
“I can eliminate myself easily enough,” he proclaimed, with easy confidence. “There’s a speeding summons from Boonton, New Jersey. Note the date and the time: September the 10th—last night—at half past eleven. Was driving down to Hopatcong, and was ticketed by a motorcycle cop just as I had passed Boonton and was heading for Mountain Lakes. Got to appear in court there to-morrow morning. Damn nuisance, these country constables.” He gave Markham a long, calculating look. “You couldn’t square it for me, could you? It’s a rotten ride to Jersey, and I’ve got a lot to do to-morrow.”
Markham, who had inspected the summons casually, put it in his pocket.
“I’ll attend to it for you,” he promised, smiling amiably. “Now tell me what you know.”
Cleaver puffed meditatively on his cigar. Then, leaning back and crossing his knees, he spoke with apparent candor.
“I doubt if I know much that’ll help you. . . . I liked the Canary, as she was called—in fact, was pretty much attached to her at one time. Did a number of foolish things; wrote her a lot of damn-fool letters when I went to Cuba last year. Even had my picture taken with her down at Atlantic City.” He made a self-condemnatory grimace. “Then she began to get cool and distant; broke several appointments with me. I raised the devil with her, but the only answer I got was a demand for money. . . .”
He stopped and looked down at his cigar ash. A venomous hatred gleamed from his narrowed eyes, and the muscles of his jowls hardened.