“At twelve o’clock, on that bus, with a dime left. That butler said that Miss Winthrop and Miss Chard were out, and would be back for dinner, so I said I’d wait. I hadn’t the capital to set out and track them down.”
Leonidas nodded thoughtfully. Cassie had seen Miss Winthrop shortly before twelve. Leslie Horn arrived at twelve. Sometime between twelve and quarter past two, or thereabouts, Medora Winthrop had been killed in his garage.
Cassie’s question echoed his thoughts.
“And did you just stay there and wait, all afternoon, Leslie?”
“Oh, no. I went out and walked till I got too cold to walk any more, and then I went in and sat till I couldn’t endure being watched any more—”
“Watched? Who watched you?”
“Oh, practically everyone. They took turns. Butler, maids, cook. Just stood and gaped at me. I delicately brought up the topic of food, but nothing came of it, and I was virtually famished when someone named Bledsoe telephoned— What did you say?”
“I choked,” Cassie said. “Go on.”
“Well, while Bledsoe and the butler and the cook had a field day discussing Christmas cards, I slipped into the library to see if there wasn’t an old peppermint or something left to munch on in the box of candy I’d brought Medora yesterday—and what do you think?”
“What?” Leonidas asked obediently.
“On the library desk,” Leslie said, “sat my hundred- dollar bill! And my brush box! And the gun and the handcuffs! I grabbed ‘em, and grabbed the rest of my things from the hall, and I just got the hell out of that house as fast as I could. Just missing a bus, too. It was turning the comer.”
“Which bus?” Leonidas asked. “What time?”
“The four-thirty. Then I walked over here, intending to ask someone to phone for a cab. I had no desire to go back to Medora’s, and I could afford a cab again. I was fascinated by this house, anyway. I walked around here a couple of times during the afternoon, and wished I could see the inside.”
“You are unique,” Leonidas said. “Everyone else has. And that, I gather, was when you saw Cuff, and ran away, and dropped the lipstick. Why on earth did you tell him you were my wife?”
“I never did! I ran then, because I’d just seen you, of all people! You passed by a window. And then I saw all those cars, and those women trooping in, and I heard one call and ask another whose car Medora Winthrop was in. And I decided that it might be fun to confront Medora and Chard, and you, and see what the reactions might be. So I waited on the terrace. And then I simply couldn’t resist being the nurse. I knew you’d welcome one, from what you said, and I was really getting terribly cold.”
“And?” Leonidas prompted.
“And I wondered why you were putting on the sick act. And I wanted to find out what part you played in all this. And I still do. Shakespeare, stop swinging those damned glasses, and looking at me like that! I told you before I began that it was fantastic. Here.” She opened her pocketbook. “Here’s the bill. Here’s the gun and the handcuffs. The brush box is in my briefcase, over in the corner. Now, can you make any sense of any of it?”
“Of course not, dear,” Cassie said. “Except that Medora had a plot, and it backfired. When did you eat last?”
“I’ve forgotten. Look, why was I rushed back here? Why was Chard so anxious for me to come back to Dalton? Why did she swipe those things? What’s behind it all? Last night, Chard had a plane waiting to fly me back to Medora. This afternoon, she and Medora go to a club, having apparently dismissed me from their minds. What was I wanted for? What was I supposed to do? The whole thing appals me. I’m still worried!”
“Well, it’s no more fantastic than our story,” Cassie said consolingly. “I shouldn’t believe a word of yours, if it didn’t tally in parts with Bill’s. You wouldn’t believe ours if you hadn’t seen her all sprawled—”
Cassie stopped short.
“Oh, yes, I would!” Leslie Horn said. “You’ve spoken of Medora in the past tense ever since her name was uttered. D’you think I’d have gone into such detail otherwise? I assumed she was dead. But— look, have I fallen into a plot, after all? Have I?”
“Don’t you worry, dear,” Cassie said. “It’s hideous she had to be killed here, with you wandering around and Bill upstairs, and my brother’s pickax. But just don’t let it worry you. You can’t honestly admit to any deep personal grief, and Bill’s going to settle everything. His mind is a dynamo, you know. Now, come out to the kitchen, and get some food, and then we’ll set right out and find Chard—Leslie, when did you eat last, dear?”
“This morning some time. A bus driver divided his lunch with me at the end of a line— Look, what—”
“Eat first.” Cassie propelled her toward the kitchen. “We all need food. Come, Bill. I’ve been perishing with hunger since Tudbury’s Horse—”
But Leonidas lingered behind in the living room. It was not yet six o’clock, he noticed, although it seemed to him that a month or more had elapsed since six that morning, when he walked out into that train corridor and into all this perplexing, thwarting muddle.
Cassie could lightly refer to his mind as a dynamo, but it was a dynamo in the throes of sabotage. Tire fate which so constantly pursued and buffeted Lieutenant Haseltine was more turbulent, and obstreperous, and sensational, but it was not a whit less exasperating. The dashing young officer had never been thwarted like this.
All day long, Leonidas thought, he had been interfered with, frustrated, thwarted. He entered a commonplace Pullman drawing room, and was promptly
