"No, my wench. Not in the way you mean. What they can do is..." H.M. stopped, as though inspiration were beating him like a mallet
"Don't worry, Jean," Crystal said gently. "We know your devotion, because you've been Dad's favourite child. It's even possible to understand, though that's harder, Bob's sudden devotion to him."
"He's my father," Bob explained simply. "And now they're saying he's a crook!"
"We-ell!" Crystal smiled tolerantly. Cy had never noticed how light blue Jean's eyes were compared with the very dark blue eyes of Crystal, who glanced up at him in a way that angrily disturbed him still more.
"Listen to me, dear," Crystal went on to Jean, with genuine sympathy in her voice. "Nobody in his senses could ever believe Dad is an embezzler. But, if he had got away with a hundred thousand I could almost admire him for it"
"You like high play, don't you?" Cy asked.
"All kinds of it," said Crystal, looking straight at him again. She turned back to Jean.
"This woman of his, I believe, is a bubble dancer or a fan dancer. She's young. She's attractive. Now don't clench your fists, Jean. And you, Bob, don't squirm with embarrassment every time the fan dancer is mentioned.
"The fact is," Crystal went on, "that men of a certain age—like Dad—sometimes go completely off the rails and do things that to outsiders seem foolish. They aren't foolish, if you only understand. For heaven's sake let Dad have his fling! This woman..."
The quiet easy voice of Byles spoke from the doorway.
"I think, if you don't mind," he said, "we'd better have this woman's name."
The carpets in this house were too think. Jean hammered her fists on the table. She and Bob regarded each other bleakly.
Byles went over and again sat opposite H.M. The fox and Foxy Grandpa faced each other.
"I wish you wouldn't touch this, Gil," H.M. said in a weary voice. "It won't help you. But if you've got to have the information, you'd better get it from me."
"Yes?" prompted Byle, getting out a very tiny notebook.
"The gal's name is Irene Stanley."
Jean regarded H.M. with loathing, ad though he had turned traitor^ Byles caught that glance, and was satisfied.
"Her address," continued H.M. "is 161 East 161st street,"
"Telephone number?" asked Byles, without looking up.
"It's Motthaven 9-5098."
H.M.'s glare was just in time to stop Jean, who apparently knew this was a flat lie and had almost betrayed it. Cy Norton also suspected a trick, since this was the telephone number in the Bronx to which H.M. had put through a long call last night.
"Her real name," growled H.M., "in case you're interested, ain't Irene Stanley. It's Flossie Peters. But you call her Irene Stanley, or else."
"Occupa— Oh, sorry!" smiled Byles, and put away his notebook. "Believe me," he added to the others, "it is better we know these things."
That was the point at which Howard Betterton, quiet but impatient and annoyed, appeared at the door. Two voices rang out simultaneously.
One was Betterton's. "It's about time I had that little talk with the District Attorney."
The other was Byles's. "Now, H.M.! Bring out those pruning shears, and tell us what the big clue is!"
Again dead silence. Even Betterton, who had opened his mouth for more impatient speech, closed it and hurried towards the table. On everyone there—except H.M.—the mystification about those shears had been frantic sandpaper to the curiosity.
H.M.'s stogy had burnt down, and he dropped it into an ash tray.
"All right," he said, reaching under the table. "Since I've got less than twenty-four hours (oh, burn me!) until I can get off to Washington, I'm going to show you every bit of evidence there is. I'm going to show you everything I see—if you can interpret it. I'm goin' to be straight."
Now in any matter concerning mystery, as Chief Inspector Masters could have testified, H.M. was about as straight as the average corkscrew. But then, for some reason, he seemed to take pleasure in misleading only Chief Inspector Masters. Cy wondered whether he would keep his word to Byles.
"This morning," continued H.M., "Manning was supposed to be trimmin' the south hedge. Stuffy, the houseman, said he was. Manning himself said he was, when he turned up at the pool about a quarter-past nine, and flourished the shears in my face."
"Well?"
H.M. scowled at an ash tray.
"When he turned up with the shears," H.M. went on, "they were just as you saw 'em a little later. Sharp, clean, polished at the edges, and bone dry. Take a look at 'em now."
And he dropped the pruning shears, blades half open, on the table.
The blades of the shears were wet. Tiny green particles of box hedge adhered to the blades and many were stuck at the handle joining. H.M. pointed to them.
"Y'see," he explained, "a thunderstorm began last night before eight o'clock, and it poured with rain for half the night. When I went out with Cy Norton, there were still pools of water on the lawn in the morning. Got it?"
"Then Manning," said Byles, "couldn't possibly have been trimming the hedge at any time this morning!"
"That's right, Gil."
"He told a lie. Is it important?"
"Oh, my son! He told an unnecessary lie. If he's concentrated on his disappearing act, why does he do all that hocus-pocus and flourish a big pair of shears—unless the shears are in some way vital to his trick? Find the answer to that, and you've interpreted our biggest clue so far."
"But what the devil does it mean?"
"I said I was going to show you the evidence, son," H.M. returned woodenly. "I didn't say I was goin' to interpret it"
Howard Betterton, brushing back the thin black skeins of hair across his skull, spoke impatiently.
"Mr. Byles! You promised to give me ten minutes, and I've got to be in my office this afternoon. I think—in the study over there, perhaps?"
"Yes," agreed Byles, consulting his watch. He was furious with H.M., though he did not show it "And our British friend must come with us, though he's inclined to be helpful."
Jean unobtrusively dug Bob in the ribs.
"As head of the family..." Bob began with dignity, and got to his feet
Betterton smiled at him.
"Certainly, my boyl By all means!" agreed the stocky little lawyer, patting the tall Bob on the shoulder.
"Now understand, Mr. Byles!" the stocky little man went on. "I don't defend my client's—er— ethical principles. But, if he's done what he has done, there are reasons which will hold up in court. Are you ready, Sir Henry?"
H.M. got up in his bathing suit, picking up his beach robe and plucking another stogy out of his pocket
"I'm ready," he said to Byles. "But I want something understood too. If I solve your ruddy case, I'm not goin' to yammer to the press until I do solve it. Not a word from me!"
"But I thought you liked talking to the papers!"
"Sure I do. When I've got something to tell 'em. And when I give 'em a story, Gil, the front page sizzles like a fryin' pan in hell." He looked with a kind of evil pleading at Cy. "Will you handle it, son? It's your job."
"But they'll be after you?’ Cy said. "What am I going to tell 'em?"
"Tell 'em I'm drunk," said the great man simply. "Anything you like. Only for the love of Esau keep 'em off me until I've got some kind of clear notion in my onion! Will you do that?"
Cy nodded despondently. The double doors opened, disclosing another book-lined room with brown leather chairs and a chess table. When Byles shut them again, they did not quite close-as double doors seldom will.
Now only Cy, Jean, and Crystal were left at the refectory table. He could feel a storm coming.
"Cy." Jean spoke very softly. "You think Dad's pretty low, don't you?"
He didn't want to hurt her, and he resolved not to hurt her.
"It's not that, Jean. I've known him for years and I always felt like cheering everything he said. He seemed to represent good manners, culture, a decent reserve: everything that's traditional and that I hold in reverence. Even this Browningesque devotion to—never mind.