Cleaver carefully considered his answer.
“Seems reasonable,” he said finally. “She was riding for a fall.”
There was a short silence; then Markham asked:
“Do you happen to know of a young man she was interested in—good-looking, small, blond moustache, light blue eyes—named Skeel?”
Cleaver snorted derisively.
“That wasn’t the Canary’s specialty—she let the young ones alone, as far as I know.”
At this moment a page-boy approached Cleaver, and bowed.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a phone call for your brother. Party said it was important and, as your brother isn’t in the club now, the operator thought you might know where he’d gone.”
“How would I know?” fumed Cleaver. “Don’t ever bother me with his calls.”
“Your brother in the city?” asked Markham casually. “I met him years ago. He’s a San Franciscan, isn’t he?”