“Been out all evening?”
“Since about nine. Did you hear about what happened in New Orleans?”
“What?”
“They’ve virtually cleared her of the embezzlement.”
“How did that happen?”
“I don’t know the details, but something happened that convinced the police the embezzler is still in New Orleans. Apparently he tried to take some advantage of the auditors who were working on the books.”
“So Daphne’s out in the clear?”
“Yes.”
“And about the hotel business?”
She said, “I’m satisfied that will straighten out.”
“You don’t think Daphne Strate had anything at all to do with your cousin’s death?”
“Naturally not. Otherwise I wouldn’t be protecting her.”
“And you don’t think she had anything to do with the death of the Pullman porter?”
“Of course not.”
“What makes you so positive?”
“She couldn’t have done it; she simply couldn’t have done it.”
I offered her a cigarette. She took one, and I struck a match.
“Mind if I get personal?” I asked.
“Now or later?” she asked in a calm, very noncomittal tone of voice.
“Does it make any difference?”
“Some.”
“Why?”
“Nearly all men get personal sooner or later. It’s the rapidity with which they rush the point that makes it more or less objectionable.”
I deliberately misunderstood her. “Meaning that the delay makes it more objectionable?”
She met my eyes, smiled, and said, “Sometimes.”
“But not always?”
“Definitely not always. It depends upon the personal equation and the — well, the approach.”
I said, “All right, I’m going to get personal now, and there won’t be any subtlety about the approach.”
“That wasn’t exactly the way I had you sized up, but go ahead — get it off your chest.”
“When I went out to see Benjamin Colter Ruttling the other night, did you telephone him that I was coming?”
The surprise on her face could hardly have been simulated unless she was a darned good actress. “What on earth made you think I did anything like that?” she asked.
“Someone did.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t.”
“Did Daphne?”
“I don’t think so. She knew you were trying to help her.”
“She didn’t seem too certain of it when I left.”
“She did afterwards.”
“What changed her mind?”
“I talked with her.”
I said, “Daphne went out. She could have telephoned Ruttling.”
“Yes, she could,” Genevieve admitted.
“And you were left alone. You could have telephoned him.”
“Yes, I could have. I didn’t. I don t think Daphne did.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know. The whole thing is new to me.”
“Do you think Daphne went to see him tonight?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but — well, she may have.”
“Who was it telephoned her about the New Orleans matter?”
“I don’t know.”
I said, “The poison that killed your cousin was a chemical worked out by the Crescent City Chemical Manufacturing & Supply Company. It’s something they’re using in connection with a treatment of brush bristles. A tablet dissolved in water has the effect of stiffening the bristles on a brush — toothbrush, hairbrush, nailbrush, etc. It’s particularly advantageous in the treatment of toothbrushes, and when it’s used according to directions, there’s no danger. But taken internally it would produce symptoms similar to those of an overdose of sleeping pills.”
“Daphne didn’t kill my cousin.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I think — I think I know...”
“Go ahead,” I said.
She changed her mind and quit talking altogether.
“You mean that you think you know who did?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your cousin didn’t write to you?”
“She was a poor correspondent.”
“When was the last time you heard from her?”
She said, “Mr. Sabin, I’m going to be frank with you. My cousin telephoned me from New Orleans. She told me she was coming to San Francisco, that she had reservations at the Pelton Hotel. She told me she was on a very dangerous mission and that she thought it would be better for me if she didn’t see me after she arrived in the city. She seemed to think that we might meet on the street or somewhere and that — well, you know, she intimated she was in some danger and she didn’t want to drag me into it. And she said she was bringing someone with her, that if I did meet her on the street, not to use her name, not even her first name.”
“It was from New Orleans that she telephoned?”
“Yes.”
I got up and walked over to the bookcase in the corner of the room, resting my elbows on it, studying Genevieve, trying to frame my next question.
I was still debating which particular lead I wanted to follow, when I heard the sound of a key being fitted into the lock. The bolt clicked back.
Daphne Strate burst into the room. “Hello, Jen! It’s really true! I’m in the clear on that New Orleans business!”
She hadn’t seen me, and she ran over to Genevieve Hotling, throwing her arms out in an embrace.
Genevieve narrowed her eyes and jerked her head in my direction, but Daphne didn’t see the signal.
“And there’s something else, Jen...”
“That’s fine, honey,” Genevieve interrupted firmly, “and I’m sure Mr. Sabin will be as pleased as I am to hear it.”
“Mr. Sabin! He...”
Genevieve’s fingers clasped Daphne’s forearm firmly, exerting a gentle pressure, and turned her in my direction.
Daphne got the idea, swung to face me, said, “Oh, hello, I didn’t see you! The New Orleans business is being cleaned up. I’m exonerated. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“That,” I said, “is very wonderful indeed. I appreciate how you must feel.”
She hesitated a moment, then came over to me, her hand extended. “I think I owe a good deal to you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For going out to see Mr. Ruttling. I think you made quite an impression on him — in my behalf.”
“Indeed,” I said. “You’ve seen him?”
“Well, I... Yes.”
She threw her arms around my neck and pressed warm red, grateful lips to mine. I could feel her body straining against me, could feel the rapid pound, pound, pound of her heart.
Then she had taken her arms away, slipped out of my grasp, and was waltzing across the room to Genevieve.
I took out my handkerchief and wiped lipstick off my mouth. It was flavored with raspberry.
“Oh, I’m so happy!” Daphne said. “I feel like two-million-dollar’s worth of champagne bubbles.”
She swung Genevieve around in a swirling turn, clasped her once more in an embrace, and said, “Jen, you were just wonderful to me!”
Genevieve said, “Why, I didn’t do anything, Daphne.”
“You took me in when... when things looked dark.”
“I knew you hadn’t done anything wrong, honey.”
Daphne said, “How about a drink? Have we got anything to drink in the house, Jen? Let’s celebrate.”
“I’ve got about half a bottle of Scotch in the kitchenette.”
“Let’s bust it, Jen. I’ll get you another one tomorrow. Mr. Sabin wants a drink with us, don’t you?”
I said, “I’m not certain I do.”
They both looked at me in surprise.
I said to Genevieve, “You told me that the New Orleans business had been cleaned up, before Daphne came in.”