There was nothing wrong with Marge Lanerd’s statement. Or MacGregory’s topper. No real flaw, except there’d been no explanation of Lanerd’s pose with the automatic, after Tildy’d left for the studio. No mention of the man in the cream-colored suit. No reference to the gay doings Lanerd had arranged with Edie Eberlein and her little et al’s. Only half a dozen other minor discrepancies left unaccounted for.
But I had to believe Marge Lanerd. It had been hard for her to strip her emotions like that. No easier because MacGregory had been there to hear just how she felt about her husband. He didn’t look as if he’d enjoyed the recital.
“If Mister Lanerd’s actually done a skip-out,” I said, “he’d probably get in touch with some member of his firm, let him know.”
MacGregory doubted it. “Kenson’s in London. Frank Fullbright’s on a cruise somewhere. He’d let his secretary know, I suppose.” He glanced moodily at Mrs. Lanerd.
I asked if I might use the phone. The butler brought it, on a forty-foot cord plugged in somewhere off in a corner. I got the hotel, asked for 21CC.
Ruth Moore answered tautly. “Yes?”
“Gil Vine, Miss Moore.”
“Haveyouheardanything?” She hurried the words together.
“I was just about to ask you that.”
“He hasn’t phoned.” Her voice quavered with strain. “But — she called in. About ten minutes ago.”