The girl’s eyebrows went up. “That’s quite correct, sir,” she said in a vibrant musical voice. “Although I don’t quite understand how you know my name.”
She smiled. It was a magnetic smile, full of charm and a certain strong womanliness that was extremely attractive. A full-bodied creature in the bloom of youth, with great brown eyes and a creamy complexion, she radiated a wholesomeness that the Inspector found refreshing.
He beamed down at her. “Well, Miss Ives-Pope,” he chuckled, “I suppose it is mysterious to a layman. And the fact that I am a policeman no doubt heightens the general effect. But it’s quite simple. You are by no means an unphotographed young lady—I saw your picture in the paper today, as a matter of fact, on the society page.”
The girl laughed, a trifle nervously. “So that’s how it was!” she said. “I was beginning to be frightened. Just what is it, sir, that you want of me?”
“Business—always business,” said the Inspector ruefully. “Just when I’m getting interested in someone, I’m brought bang-up against my profession. … Before we conduct our inquisition, may I ask who your friends are?”
An embarrassed coughing arose from the three people on whom Queen bent his eye. Frances said charmingly, “I’m sorry—Inspector, is it? Allow me to introduce Miss Hilda Orange and Miss Eve Ellis, my very dear friends. And this is Mr. Stephen Barry, my fiancé.”
Queen glanced at them in some surprise. “If I’m not mistaken—aren’t you members of the cast of Gunplay?”
There was a unanimous nodding of heads.
Queen turned to Frances. “I don’t want to seem too officious, Miss Ives-Pope, but I want you to explain something. … Why are you accompanied by your friends?” he asked with a disarming smile. “I know it sounds impertinent, but I distinctly recall ordering my man to summon you—alone. …”
The three thespians rose stiffly. Frances turned from her companions to the Inspector with a pleading look.
“I—please forgive me, Inspector,” she said swiftly. “I—I’ve never been questioned by the police before. I was nervous and—and I asked my fiancé and these two ladies, who are my most intimate friends, to be present during the interview. I didn’t realize that I was going against your wishes. …”
“I understand,” returned Queen, smiling. “I understand completely. But you see—” He made a gesture of finality.
Stephen Barry leaned over the girl’s chair. “I’ll stay with you, dear, if you give the word.” He glared at the Inspector belligerently.
“But, Stephen, dear—” Frances cried helplessly. Queen’s face was adamant. “You—you’d better all go. But please wait for me outside. It won’t take long, will it, Inspector?” she asked, her eyes unhappy.
Queen shook his head. “Not so very long.” His entire attitude had changed. He seemed to be growing truculent. His audience sensed the metamorphosis in him and in an intangible manner grew antagonistic.
Hilda Orange, a large buxom woman of forty, with traces of a handsome youth in her face, now brutally shorn of its makeup in the cold light of the room, leaned over Frances and glared at the Inspector.
“We’ll be waiting outside for you, my dear,” she said grimly. “And if you feel faint, or something, just screech a little and you’ll see what action means.” She flounced out of the room. Eve Ellis patted Frances’ hand. “Don’t worry, Frances,” she said in her soft, clear voice. “We’re with you.” And taking Barry’s arm, she followed Hilda Orange. Barry looked back with a mixture of anger and solicitude, shooting a vitriolic glance at Queen as he slammed the door.
Queen was instantly on his feet, his manner brisk and impersonal. He gazed fully into Frances’ eyes, his palms pressed against the top surface of the desk. “Now, Miss Frances Ives-Pope,” he said clearly, “this is all the business I have to transact with you. …” He dipped into his pocket and produced with something of the stage-magician’s celerity the rhinestone bag. “I want to return your bag.”
Frances half-rose to her feet, staring from him to the shimmering purse, the color drained from her face. “Why, that’s—that’s my evening bag!” she stammered.
“Precisely, Miss Ives-Pope,” said Queen. “It was found in the theatre—tonight.”
“Of course!” The girl dropped back into her seat with a little nervous laugh. “How stupid of me! And I didn’t miss it until just now. …”
“But, Miss Ives-Pope,” the little Inspector continued deliberately, “the finding of your purse is not nearly as important as the place in which it was found.” He paused. “You know that there was a man murdered here this evening?”
She stared at him open-mouthed, a wild fear gathering in her eyes. “Yes, I heard so,” she breathed.
“Well, your bag, Miss Ives-Pope,” continued Queen inexorably, “was found in the murdered man’s pocket!”
Terror gleamed in the girl’s eyes. Then, with a choked scream, she toppled forward in the chair, her face white and strained.
Queen sprang forward, concern and sympathy instantly apparent on his face. As he reached the limp form, the door burst open and Stephen Barry, coattails flying, catapulted into the room. Hilda Orange, Eve Ellis and Johnson, the detective, hurried in behind him.
“What in hell have you done to her, you damned snooper!” the actor cried, shouldering Queen out of the way. He gathered Frances’ body tenderly in his arms, pushing aside the wisps of black hair tumbled over her eyes, crooning desperately in her ear. She sighed and looked up in bewilderment as she saw the flushed young face close to hers. “Steve, I—fainted,” she murmured, and dropped back in his arms.
“Get some water, somebody,” the young man growled, chafing her hands. A tumbler was promptly pushed over his shoulder by Johnson. Barry forced a few drops down Frances’ throat and she choked, coming back to consciousness. The two actresses pushed Barry aside and brusquely ordered the men to leave. Queen meekly followed the protesting actor and the detective.
“You’re a fine cop, you are!” said Barry scathingly, to the Inspector. “What did you do to her—hit her over the head with the policeman’s usual finesse?”
“Now, now,
