There were two other people in LeRoy’s office, Commander Dawson, and a vision in lilac crepe, whom the Captain introduced to Stan—Mrs. Lydia Staunton. Stan shook hands cordially with the Farradays’ friend, and classed her as expensive and probably worth it. She was seated close to Dawson in front of LeRoy’s desk. The Commander was looking at the Captain. Stan grinned inwardly. He had been in similar positions himself—where it tried one’s patience to play the gentleman and keep wandering eyes away from the proximity of silken-clad legs and sandaled feet.
Stan placed a hand on Dawson’s shoulder, clasped it gently, and said: “Thanks for Sunday night.”
Dawson smiled and said: “I couldn’t very well leave you in, could I?”
“I think it was wonderful of him. Don’t you, Mr. Rice? lie’s a grand swimmer. I heard all about it from Tolly and Eve—”
Stan turned blue eyes, devoid of expression, toward Mrs. Staunton. “I’m sorry they mentioned it. Not that I want to disparage anything Commander Dawson did—but the less publicity I get in this matter, the more I can help—” He was about to add ‘Mr. Farraday” but caught himself in time. “I’m sure Captain LeRoy and I will both appreciate your co-operation if you’ll not mention this to anyone else.”
LeRoy nodded glumly. He was always particularly glum when he had received important information. He motioned Stan to a chair.
“I agree with what Mr. Rice says. We have managed to keep the attack on him out of the papers. I feel sure you both understand—”
“Quite,” agreed Dawson. “I suppose Keefe dislikes publicity, too.”
“I suppose he does.” The Captain glanced sharply at Dawson, sensing a hidden dig at the police department. “Although Keefe’s likes and dislikes make very little difference to me.” He turned to Stan. “Here’s something of interest: Commander Dawson and Mrs. Staunton played at the same table Saturday night with Mr. Farraday and his son. After Fowler left the card room—they distinctly remember his going, due to his argument with Millie LaFrance—the Commander saw a man on his hands and knees on the side porch—”
“From where you were sitting?” Stan asked quickly.
Dawson nodded. “I was facing the window. Mr. Farraday was dealing and I remarked idly to Mrs. Staunton: ‘Someone must have lost something.’ ”
“You saw him, too?”
The widow was removing a cigarette from a slim gold case. She accepted Dawson’s proffered light before replying. “Not exactly. I recall Commander Dawson’s remark—but I was thinking of something else at the moment. However I saw a man come in from the porch a few minutes later—”
“You know him?”
“I know who he is—his name is Dave Button—”
“How long was that after the Commander’s remark?” She thought a moment. “I can’t say—five minutes, maybe ten.”
“Where did Button go?”
“To a table in the corner—where the blonde was sitting.”
“He was playing bridge, then?”
“I presume so.”
Stan’s long fingers beat a quiet tattoo on the Captain’s desk. “Ten minutes is a long time, Mrs. Staunton,” he said finally. “If Dave Button was dummy when he went on the porch—I think the others at his table would have been waiting if he stayed out ten minutes. Don’t you, Commander?”
“Undoubtedly. But Mrs. Staunton said she was not sure of the length of time.”
“And I’m not, Mr. Rice. It may have been much less—or much longer.” Lydia Staunton favored the Commander with an approving smile.
“And you can’t swear that it was Button you saw on the porch?” Stan asked Dawson.
“It might have been anyone—”
“Except Mr. Farraday and his son—who were at your table. Did you take any particular notice of who else was in the room when the man was crawling around on the porch?”
“No. It was a minor incident at the time.”
Stan leaned back in his chair, balancing it precariously against the wall. “I’m curious about one thing. Did either of you happen to see a light in the poker room during the evening?”
“I’m sure I didn’t notice,” Mrs. Staunton said, puzzled.
“There was none on when I went to the washroom.” Dawson waited, then added: “There was no light in the side hall directly in front of the washroom, either. That’s rather interesting, come to think of it. There is usually a light in that hall. Is it important?”
“I don’t know.” Stan brought his chair back to floor level, much to LeRoy’s relief. “I can’t help wondering why Fowler went in the poker room in the dark.”
He stood up. Mrs. Staunton was beginning to fidget. “I’d be glad for all of you to have lunch with me,” he suggested. “J think I’m entitled to celebrate being here.”
“I’d enjoy nothing better,” Mrs. Staunton said with an air of really meaning it, “but unfortunately the Commander and I have another engagement.”
“I’ll reciprocate by inviting you and Captain LeRoy for cocktails, if you can make it. Five o’clock—at my apartment.” Dawson helped Mrs. Staunton to rise, quite unnecessarily, Stan thought.
“I’ll have to refuse.” LeRoy gave his slow smile. “A policeman never has any fun.”
“I’m not a policeman,” Stan said. “I’ll be there.”
He watched them leave, after they had assured LeRoy he could call on them at any time. Then he seated himself on the end of the Captain’s desk, resting one foot on an open drawer. From an inside pocket he took an envelope and removed the few strands of the grass matting he had scuffed from the floor of the Sunset porch.
“If we found any traces of this on the pants’ knee of anyone who was at the Sunset—we might know who was crawling on the porch.”
‘That’s why I sent out an alarm to every dry cleaner in Miami when I heard Dawson’s story. Do you think I’m a dope, Stan?”
“No, I am—for not telling you to do that yesterday. My head
