“Where were you?”
“In the bedroom.” She pointed through the door. “Ben sat on the foot of the bed in the dark. He knew LeRoy’s plain-clothes man was watching outside. Ben was a fool—a blundering idiot. He saw that man crawling on the porch of the Sunset Saturday night and went back to the club. It was Ben who phoned the police. Wait!”
She went to the head of the backstairs and switched on a light, then walked into the bedroom and looked in both the closets. “I’m jittery,” she said as she sat down again. “Ben didn’t hear the man follow him in, but I did. I couldn’t say anything—but I tried to warn Ben by threatening him with Caprilli if he carried out his plans.”
“Plans?”
“Foolish, insane plans. Ben insisted he was on to something that would put him into the big money. He followed the murderer to the Sunset after you were hurt on the barge. The man took something away from the club—but Ben didn’t say what it was—although he said he knew where the man had it hidden. Then the man turns the tables on him and follows him here. I think you know the answer.”
“That was all Ben told you?”
“Except one thing. I accused Ben of killing Ed. I actually thought he did it for a while. He showed me a note he claimed he took from Ed’s pocket. I don’t remember it word for word—but it warned Ed that it was dangerous for him to leave the club and told him to wait in the poker room in the dark. It was signed with the initials ‘DB.’”
Stan leaned back on the divan and drew a deep breath. “Was it typed or handwritten?”
“Typed.”
“And that part about the dark? You’re certain it told him to wait in the poker room in the dark?”
“Positive. But I don’t think Dave Button wrote it. Do you?”
“Why not?” Stan watched her closely.
“It seemed likely a hasty note of warning to me. I don’t think a man would hunt up a typewriter to write a hasty note of warning—unless he didn’t want his handwriting to show. Dave Button’s smart. He certainly wouldn’t put his own initials on a note sending Ed to his death.”
“You’re pretty smart yourself, Millie, but you might have saved Ben’s life by telling this to Captain LeRoy yesterday morning. Why didn’t you?”
“I guess I was afraid of Ben,” she said wearily. “Or maybe I just hate squealers. Then I knew it would get me into a mess. I’d made up my mind to keep my mouth shut this morning—until you tripped me up. I decided after that it would better to tell you the truth.”
“Why did you decide to tell me instead of LeRoy?” Stan picked up his third cocktail which had stood untouched, and turned away from the girl.
“I wonder?” Her voice held a soft friendly note he had never noticed before. When he turned to look at her she was leaning far back, her golden curls draped against the divan, soft longlashed lids shielding her violet eyes. “I’m a bad girl, Stan Rice. Lots of men can tell you the only way to handle a dame like Millie LaFrance is to question her with a curse in one hand and a rubber hose in the other. In the past ten years I’ve only met two men who weren’t sold on that idea. One of them is dead. I thought I better tell all I knew while there was still a chance of saving the other.”
Stan got up, took her soft hands and helped her rise. For a brief instant they were close together, and Millie’s beauty swept over him with heady intoxication. “Really, Millie, I’ve never thought you were bad,” he told her.
“I knew it,” she said: “That’s the answer. Shall we go and eat? It’s after seven-thirty.”
Both of them were silent for a long time as the Buick headed out toward the Alligator Inn, on the Tamiami Trail. During the afternoon the wind had increased, and vicious wisps of rain splotched against the windshield making mock of the wiper. Stan found he was trying to justify a strong sympathy which had grown in him for the girl beside him. Finally he asked:
“What are your plans, Millie?”
“I don’t know that I’d thought much about them,” she replied, hesitantly. “I’ll probably go north after I’m clear of this mess. I’m sure LeRoy won’t miss me.”
“You can tell me to go to the devil if you want to—but I’d like to know how you’re fixed for money. I have a reason for asking.”
She glanced sideways, keenly weighing the lines of the cleancut face visible from the dash-light, mentally approving the clear blue eyes, strong thin nose, and mobile sensitive lips which could set so firmly upon occasion.
“I have enough to last me until I can get a job,” she told him unreservedly. “My references may not be so good, but I think I can get modeling work in New York. Strange as it may seem, I’m tired of making my home in the muzzle of a machine gun.”
“I can offer you something—doing just that. But it may prove profitable. Sunday you said you’d do anything to help find the man who killed Fowler. He’s added Ben to the list now. Do you still want to help?”
“You don’t have to pay me for that.”
“There’s a big risk. If you take it you’re entitled to your share. Mr. Farraday has offered ten thousand dollars reward. I’ll see that you get at least a thousand of that. There may be much more.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Ben Eckhardt’s story to you that he was on to big money. The pieces are beginning to fit together—but the picture isn’t clear. A clever woman can do a lot to make it so.”
“I’ve thought of doing
