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“Last week—Monday, I think — a week before he was killed.”

“Was that the time when you broke off with him?”

“Yes.”

“Have a row, or part friends?”

“Not exactly either. I just told him that I was through with him.”

“How did he take it?”

“It didn’t break his heart. I guess he’d heard the same thing before.”

“Where were you the night he was killed?”

“At the Coffee Cup, eating and dancing with friends until about one o’clock. Then I came home and went to bed.”

“Why did you split with Gilmore?”

“Couldn’t stand his wife.”

“Huh?”

“She was a nuisance.” This without the faintest glint of either annoyance or humour. “She came here one night and raised a racket; so I told Bernie that if he couldn’t keep her away from me he’d have to find another playmate.”

“Have you any idea who might have killed him?” I asked.

“Not unless it was his wife — these excitable women always do silly things.”

“If you had given her husband up, what reason would she have for killing him, do you think?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied with complete indifference. “But I’m not the only girl that Bernie ever looked at.”

“Think there were others, do you? Know anything, or are you just guessing?”

“I don’t know any names,” she said, “but I’m not just guessing.”

I let that go at that and switched back to Mrs. Gilmore, wondering if this girl could be full of dope.

“What happened the night his wife came here?”

“Nothing but that. She followed Bernie here, rang the bell, rushed past me when I opened the door, and began to cry and call Bernie names. Then she started on me, and I told him that if he didn’t take her away I’d hurt her, so he took her home.”

Admitting I was licked for the time, I got up and moved to the door. I couldn’t do anything with this baby just now. I didn’t think she was telling the whole truth, but on the other hand it wasn’t reasonable to believe that anybody would lie so woodenly — with so little effort to be plausible.

“I may be back later,” I said as she let me out.

“All right.”

Her manner didn’t even suggest that she hoped I wouldn’t.

From this unsatisfactory interview I went to the scene of the killing, only a few blocks away, to get a look at the neighbourhood. I found the block just as I had remembered it and as O’Gar had described it: lined on both sides by apartment buildings, with two blind alleys — one of which was dignified with a name, Touchard Street — running from the south side.

The murder was four days old; I didn’t waste any time snooping around the vicinity; but, after strolling the length of the block, boarded a Hyde Street car, transferred at California Street, and went up to see Mrs. Gilmore again. I was curious to know why she hadn’t told me about her call on Cara Kenbrook.

The same plump maid who had admitted me earlier in the afternoon opened the door.

“Mrs. Gilmore is not at home,” she said. “But I think she’ll be back in half an hour or so.”

“I’ll wait,” I decided.

The maid took me into the library, an immense room on the second floor, with barely enough books in it to give it that name. She switched on a light — the windows were too heavily curtained to let in much daylight — crossed to the door, stopped, moved over to straighten some books on a shelf, and looked at me with a half-questioning, half-inviting look in her green eyes, started for the door again, and halted.

By that time I knew she wanted to say something, and needed encouragement. I leaned back in my chair and grinned at her, and decided I had made a mistake—the smile into which her slack lips curved held more coquetry than anything else. She came over to me, walking with an exaggerated swing of the hips, and stood close in front of me.