“You certainly have, but she’s not your wife yet. When is the wedding?”
“Right away. We got the license today. Next week.”
“Congratulations. You’re a lucky man, Mr. Lesser. How long have you known her?”
“About a year. A little over. Now are you going to tell me what I asked?”
“I have no objection.” I crossed my legs and leaned back. “This may ease your mind a little, the fact that the magazine wouldn’t dream of printing anything Miss Brandt disapproved of, or anything her husband disapproved of. Invasion of privacy. And you’ve given me an idea. The article would be a lot better with some real love interest. You know what the slant is, the last ten months of a murder victim as seen by his secretary. Well, all the time she is working for him, and letting him take her out to dinner because she feels sorry for him, her heart is already in bond to another. She is deeply in love with a young man she intends to marry. That would make it a masterpiece-the contrast between the tragedy of the man who is going to die but doesn’t know it, and the blush and promise of young love. Huh?”
“I guess so. What did she tell you?”
“Don’t worry about that.” I waved it away. “When it’s written you and she can change anything you don’t like, or take it out. When were you engaged?”
“Well-it was understood quite a while ago.”
“Before the murder?”
“Formally engaged, no. Does that matter?”
“Maybe not. While she’s being sorry for Molloy she can either be promised to another or just hoping she soon will be. It would be swell if we could work in some reference, a sort of minor key, to the murderer. We could call him that, since he’s been convicted. Only I don’t suppose you knew Peter Hays.”
“No.”
“Did you know about him? Did you know he was in love with Mrs. Molloy?”
“No. I never heard of him until he was arrested.”
“It doesn’t really matter. I thought perhaps Miss Brandt had mentioned him to you. Of course Molloy told her about him.”
“How do you know he did? Did she say so?”
“I don’t remember.” I considered. “I’d have to look at my notes, and they’re not here. Did she tell you about Molloy asking her to go to South America with him?”
“No, she didn’t.” Lesser was looking aggressive again. “I didn’t come to tell you what she told me, I came to ask you what she told you.”
“I know you did.” I was sympathetic. “But you have my word that nothing will be printed that you don’t like, and that’s what you were concerned about. I can’t tell you about my talk with Miss Brandt because I was working for a client and my report of that talk is his property. But I think-”
“Then you’re not going to tell me.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t. But I think-”
He got up and walked out. From the back he looked even thinner than from the front. I went to the hall to be polite, but he already had his coat off the rack and was reaching for the doorknob. He banged the door shut behind him, and I returned to the office. The wall clock said twenty-five to six. Delia Brandt might have got home from work, or, since she had gone with Lesser to get their marriage license, she might have taken the day off. I got at the phone and dialed the number of her apartment. No answer.
I thought him over. There was one nice thing about him, he had had the makings of a motive, which was more than I could say for anyone else on the list. And he might easily have known enough about Peter Hays to get the idea of framing him for it. But how could he have arranged for Fanny Irwin to have a headache and stay home, and for Rita Arkoff to invite Selma Molloy to use the ticket? Even if that wasn’t essential, if he was merely waiting for an opportunity to knock, how did he know it was knocking? How did he know Mrs. Molloy was away from the apartment and would stay away? It was worth looking for answers to those questions, because there was another nice thing about him: a wife cannot be summoned to testify against her husband.
I dialed Delia Brandt’s number again, and got her.
“I’ve just heard a piece of news,” I told her. “That you’re going to be married. I’m calling you to wish you luck, and happiness, and everything that goes with it.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you very much. Is Bill there with you?”
“No, he left a few minutes ago. A fine young man. It was a pleasure to meet him. Apparently he was a little worried about the magazine article, but I promised him he would have a chance to veto anything he didn’t like. So you knew he was coming to see me?”
“Oh, sure. He said he wanted to, and I thought since he was going to be my husband it was only natural. Did you tell him everything-what did you tell him?”
It didn’t look like paradise to me, him wanting to know what she had told me, and her wanting to know what I had told him, and they weren’t even married yet. “Nothing much,” I assured her. “Really nothing. After the promise I gave him it wasn’t necessary. Oh, by the way, now that I have you on the phone, I missed one bit entirely last night. At the end of the article, a sort of a climax, you ought to tell where you were and what you were doing the evening of January third. At the very minute Molloy was murdered, just after nine o’clock, if you remember. Do you?”
“Certainly I do. I was with Bill. We were dining and dancing at the Dixie Bower. We didn’t leave until after midnight.”
“That’s wonderful. That will fit right in with an idea I had and told Bill about, how all the time you were trying to be nice to Molloy because you were sorry for him you were deeply in love with a young man who-”
