“ ’Pon my word, old man, I’m not trying to confuse the main issue,” said Vance. “Exert a little of that simple faith with which you are so gen’rously supplied—it’s more desirable than Norman blood, y’ know. I’ll give you the guilty man before the morning’s over. But, d’ ye see, I must make sure that you’ll accept him. These alibis are, I trust, going to prove most prof’table in paving the way for my coup de boutoir. … An alibi—as I recently confided to you—is a tricky and dang’rous thing, and open to grave suspicion. And the absence of an alibi means nothing at all. For instance, I see by these reports that Miss Hoffman has no alibi for the night of the thirteenth. She says she went to a motion-picture theatre and then home. But no one saw her at any time. She was prob’bly at Benson’s visiting mama until late. Looks suspicious—eh, what? And yet, even if she was there, her only crime that night was filial affection. … On the other hand, there are several alibis here which are, as one says, cast-iron—silly metaphor: cast iron’s easily broken—and I happen to know one of ’em is spurious. So be a good fellow and have patience; for it’s most necess’ry that these alibis be minutely inspected.”
Fifteen minutes later Mr. Moriarty arrived. He was a serious, good-looking, well-dressed youth in his late twenties—not at all my idea of an alderman—and he spoke clear and precise English with almost no trace of the Bronx accent.
Markham introduced him, and briefly explained why he had been requested to call.
“One of the men from the Homicide Bureau,” answered Moriarty, “was asking me about the matter, only yesterday.”
“We have the report,” said Vance, “but it’s a bit too general. Will you tell us exactly what you did that night after you met Colonel Ostrander?”
“The Colonel had invited me to dinner and the Follies. I met him at the Marseilles at ten. We had dinner there, and went to the Piccadilly a little before twelve, where we remained until about two-thirty. I walked to the Colonel’s apartment with him, had a drink and a chat, and then took the subway home about three-thirty.”
“You told the detective yesterday you sat in a box at the theatre.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did you and the Colonel remain in the box throughout the performance?”
“No. After the first act a friend of mine came to the box, and the Colonel excused himself and went to the washroom. After the second act, the Colonel and I stepped outside into the alleyway and had a smoke.”
“What time, would you say, was the first act over?”
“Twelve-thirty or thereabouts.”
“And where is this alleyway situated?” asked Vance. “As I recall, it runs along the side of the theatre to the street.”
“You’re right.”
“And isn’t there an ‘exit’ door very near the boxes, which leads into the alleyway?”
“There is. We used it that night.”
“How long was the Colonel gone after the first act?”
“A few minutes—I couldn’t say exactly.”
“Had he returned when the curtain went up on the second act?”
Moriarty reflected.
“I don’t believe he had. I think he came back a few minutes after the act began.”
“Ten minutes?”
“I couldn’t say. Certainly no more.”
“Then, allowing for a ten-minute intermission, the Colonel might have been away twenty minutes?”
“Yes—it’s possible.”
This ended the interview; and when Moriarty had gone, Vance lay back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully.
“Surprisin’ luck!” he commented. “The Piccadilly Theatre, y’ know, is practically round the corner from Benson’s house. You grasp the possibilities of the situation, what? … The Colonel invites an alderman to the Midnight Follies, and gets box seats near an exit giving on an alley. At a little before half past twelve he leaves the box, sneaks out via the alley, goes to Benson’s, taps and is admitted, shoots his man, and hurries back to the theatre. Twenty minutes would have been ample.”
Markham straightened up, but made no comment.
“And now,” continued Vance, “let’s look at the indicat’ry circumst’nces and the confirmat’ry facts. … Miss St. Clair told us the Colonel had lost heavily in a pool of Benson’s manipulation, and had accused him of crookedness. He hadn’t spoken to Benson for a week; so it’s plain there was bad blood between ’em.—He saw Miss St. Clair at the Marseilles with Benson; and, knowing she always went home at midnight, he chose half past twelve as a propitious hour; although originally he may have intended to wait until much later; say, one-thirty or two—before sneaking out of the theatre.—Being an army officer, he would have had a Colt forty-five; and he was probably a good shot.—He was most anxious to have you arrest someone—he didn’t seem to care who; and he even phoned you to inquire about it.—He was one of the very few persons in the world whom Benson would have admitted, attired as he was. He’d known Benson int’mately for fifteen years, and Mrs. Platz once saw Benson take off his toupee and show it to him.—Moreover, he would have known all about the domestic arrangements of the house: he no doubt had slept there many a time when showing his old pal the wonders of New York’s night life. … How does all that appeal to you?”
Markham had risen, and was pacing the floor, his eyes almost closed.
“So that was why you were so interested in the Colonel—asking people if they knew him, and inviting him to lunch? … What gave you the idea, in the first place, that he was guilty?”
“Guilty!” exclaimed Vance. “That priceless old dunderhead guilty! Really, Markham, the notion’s prepost’rous. I’m sure he went to the washroom that night to comb his eyebrows and arrange his tie. Sitting, as he was, in a box, the gels on the stage could see him, y’ know.”
Markham halted abruptly. An ugly color crept into his cheeks, and his eyes blazed. But before he could speak Vance went on, with serene indifference to his anger.
“And I played in the most
