LITMIR.BIZ

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when we were inspecting the Canary’s rooms, I was convinced that the murder would never be solved by the usual elephantine police methods. It was a subtle and well-planned crime, despite its obvious appearances. No routine investigation would suffice. Intimate information was needed. Therefore, when I saw this photograph of the xanthous Alys half hidden under the litter of papers on the escritoire, I reflected: ‘Ah! A girl friend of the departed Margaret’s. She may know just the things that are needed.’ So, when the Sergeant’s broad back was turned, I put the picture in my pocket. There was no other photograph about the place, and this one bore the usual sentimental inscription, ‘Ever thine,’ and was signed ‘Alys.’ I concluded, therefore, that Alys had played Anactoria to the Canary’s Sappho. Of course I erased the inscription before presenting the picture to the penetrating sibyl at Browne’s. . . . And here we are at the Belafield, hopin’ for a bit of enlightenment.”

      The Belafield was a small, expensive apartment-hotel in the East Thirties, which, to judge from the guests to be seen in the Americanized Queen Anne lobby, catered to the well-off sporting set. Vance sent his card up to Miss La Fosse, and received the message that she would see him in a few minutes. The few minutes, however, developed into three-quarters of an hour, and it was nearly noon when a resplendent bell-boy came to escort us to the lady’s apartment.

      Nature had endowed Miss La Fosse with many of its arts, and those that Nature had omitted, Miss La Fosse herself had supplied. She was slender and blonde. Her large blue eyes were heavily lashed, but though she looked at one with a wide-eyed stare, she was unable to disguise their sophistication. Her toilet had been made with elaborate care; and as I looked at her, I could not help thinking what an excellent model she would have been for Chéret’s pastel posters.

      “So you are Mr. Vance,” she cooed. “I’ve often seen your name in Town Topics.”

      Vance gave a shudder.

      “And this is Mr. Van Dine,” he said sweetly,—“a mere attorney, who, thus far, has been denied the pages of that fashionable weekly.”

      “Won’t you sit down?” (I am sure Miss La Fosse had spoken the line in a play: she made of the invitation an impressive ceremonial.) “I really don’t know why I should have received you. But I suppose you called on business. Perhaps you wish me to appear at a society bazaar, or something of the kind. But I’m so busy, Mr. Vance. You simply can’t imagine how occupied I am with my work. . . . I just love my work,” she added, with an ecstatic sigh.

      “And I’m sure there are many thousands of others who love it, too,” returned Vance, in his best drawing-room manner. “But unfortunately I have no bazaar to be graced by your charming presence. I have come on a much more serious matter. . . . You were a very close friend of Miss Margaret Odell’s——”

      The mention of the Canary’s name brought Miss La Fosse suddenly to her feet. Her ingratiating air of affected elegance had quickly disappeared. Her eyes flashed, and their lids drooped harshly. A sneer distorted the lines of her cupid’s-bow mouth, and she tossed her head angrily.

      “Say, listen! Who do you think you are? I don’t know nothing, and I got nothing to say. So run along—you and your lawyer.”

      But Vance made no move to obey. He took out his cigarette-case and carefully selected a Régie.

      “Do you mind if I smoke?—And won’t you have one? I import them direct from my agent in Constantinople. They’re exquisitely blended.”

      The girl snorted, and gave him a look of cold disdain. The doll-baby had become a virago.

      “Get yourself outa my apartment, or I’ll call the house detective.” She turned to the telephone on the wall at her side.

      Vance waited until she had lifted the receiver.

      “If you do that, Miss La Fosse, I’ll order you taken to the District Attorney’s office for questioning,” he told her indifferently, lighting his cigarette and leaning back in his chair.

      Slowly she replaced the receiver and turned.

      “What’s your game, anyway? . . . Suppose I did know Margy—then what? And where do you fit into the picture?”

      “Alas! I don’t fit in at all.” Vance smiled pleasantly. “But, for that matter, nobody seems to fit in. The truth is, they’re about to arrest a poor blighter for killing your friend, who wasn’t in the tableau, either. I happen to be a friend of the District Attorney’s; and I know exactly what’s being done. The police are scouting round in a perfect frenzy of activity, and it’s hard to say what trail they’ll strike next. I thought, don’t y’ know, I might save you a lot of unpleasantness by a friendly little chat. . . . Of course,” he added, “if you prefer to have me give your name to the police, I’ll do so, and let them hold the audition in their own inimitable but crude fashion. I might say, however, that, as yet, they are blissfully unaware of your relationship with Miss Odell, and that, if you are reasonable, I see no reason why they should be informed of it.”

      The girl had stood, one hand on the telephone, studying Vance intently. He had spoken carelessly and with a genial inflection; and she at length resumed her seat.

      “Now, won’t you have one of my cigarettes?” he asked, in a tone of gracious reconciliation.

      Mechanically she accepted his offer, keeping her eyes on him all the time, as if attempting to determine how far he was to be trusted.

      “Who are they thinking of arresting?” She asked the question with scarcely a movement of her features.

      “A johnny named Skeel.—Silly idea, isn’t it?”

      “Him!” Her tone was one of mingled contempt and disgust. “That cheap crook? He hasn’t got nerve enough to strangle a cat.”

      “Precisely. But that’s no reason for sending him to the electric chair, what?” Vance leaned forward and smiled engagingly. “Miss La Fosse, if you will talk to me for five minutes, and forget I’m a stranger, I’ll give you my word of honor not to let the police or the District Attorney know anything about you. I’m not connected with the authorities, but somehow I dislike the idea of seeing the wrong man punished. And I’ll promise to forget the source of any information you will be kind enough to give me. If you will trust me, it will be infinitely easier for you in the end.”

      The girl made no answer for several minutes. She was, I could see, trying to estimate Vance; and evidently she decided that, in any case, she had nothing to lose—now that her friendship with the Canary had been discovered—by talking to this man who had promised her immunity from further annoyance.

      “I guess you’re all right,” she said, with a reservation of dubiety; “but I don’t know why I should think so.” She paused. “But, look here: I was told to keep out of this. And if I don’t keep out of it, I’m apt to be back hoofing it in the chorus again. And that’s no life for a sweet young thing like me with extravagant tastes—believe me, my friend!”

      “That calamity will never befall you through any lack of discretion on my part,” Vance assured her, with good-natured earnestness. . . . “Who told you to keep out of it?”

      “My—fiancé.” She spoke somewhat coquettishly. “He’s very well known, and he’s afraid there might be scandal if I got mixed up in the case as a witness, or anything like that.”

      “I can readily understand his feelings.” Vance nodded sympathetically. “And who, by the bye, is this luckiest of men?”

      “Say! You’re good.” She complimented him with a coy moue. “But I’m not announcing my engagement yet.”

      “Don’t be horrid,” begged Vance. “You know perfectly well that I could find out his name by making a few inquiries. And if you drove me to learn the facts elsewhere, then my promise to keep your name a secret would no longer bind me.”

      Miss La Fosse considered this point.

      “I guess you could find out, all right . . . so I might as well tell you—only

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