“How long have you been working for Revel?”
“A year and a half.”
“Before the divorce, that is. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with the divorce, I suppose?”
“Not a thing,” Dennis said virtuously. “Besides, in Quebec women don’t get divorces because someone else has captured their fancy. They’ve got to have a long list of complaints and Dinah had. George can be quite a cutup.”
“And after the divorce you and Dinah were strangely drawn toward each other?”
“That’s right. Dinah’s a nice girl.”
“And a clever girl.”
“I’m afraid so,” Dennis said with a sardonic smile.
“Clever enough to know all about Georges business?”
“I think so.”
“Dinah still friendly with George?”
Dennis hesitated. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them together since the divorce and she doesn’t talk about him.”
“You unlovely liar,” Prye said. “In the short time since I’ve known Dinah she has referred to George variously as a louse, a heel, and a punk.”
“Not to me,” Dennis insisted. “Of course I know she’s a little bitter about the whole thing. But any woman would be.”
“And Dinah more so.”
“Maybe.”
“In fact,” Prye said, “Dinah has a grudge against Revel. She wants to hit back at him. Now suppose you too have a grudge against Revel and you’d like to get back at him too. Such a pleasant partnership. Dinah provides the money—”
There was a rap at the door and Jackson appeared with a message that Dennis was wanted on the telephone. Dennis followed him out of the room.
In five minutes Jackson was back again.
“I thought you’d be wanting to see me, sir,” he said.
Prye looked at him coolly without speaking.
“There is an extension phone in the kitchen,” Jackson said carefully, “which has its uses.”
“Ten dollars,” Prye said.
“I was figuring on twenty, sir. A word-for-word report is worth twenty, I think.”
“O.K. Twenty.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “Well, it was a local call, sir, from a man called George. Mr. Williams gave a gasp when George identified himself, then he said: ‘I can’t talk to any reporters now. The police have forbidden it.’ George then wanted to know if Mr. Williams was crazy. Mr. Williams said: ‘No. I can’t talk to any reporters about the murder.’ Mr. Williams then hung up.”
Prye gave him a twenty.
Jackson pocketed it with a smile. “Easy money. Too bad I didn’t think of this when I was working my way through college.”
“I’m not sure you didn’t,” Prye said.
He followed Jackson into the hall. Mrs. Shane was just coming out of the small sitting room farther down the hall. When she saw Prye she swept toward him with a flutter of silk.
“I have just thought of something, Paul,” she announced. “I didn’t know my eyedrops were poison. How could anyone else have known?”
“There are plenty of books on toxicology,” Prye replied. “Just how much had you used out of that bottle?”
“Very little. It was tiresome.”
“When you used them did you taste anything some time afterward?”
“I didn’t swallow them, Paul,” Mrs. Shane said patiently. “I put them in my eyes.”
“The question still goes.”
Mrs. Shane pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it I recall a distinctly bitter taste. It was more a sensation at the back of my throat than a taste, if you know what I mean. And quite, quite bitter. I wonder if it would do any good for me to ask each person in the house if he or she took the eyedrops from my bathroom.”
“It can’t do any harm,” Prye said dryly.
“Then I shall. There’s Dinah. I shall ask her first.”
Dinah was coming out of the library. She was smiling but there was a thin line of white around her mouth.
“What were you going to ask me, Aunt Jennifer?” she said sharply.
Mrs. Shane looked somewhat uncomfortable. “Well, I’m going to ask everyone, of course.”
“What is it?”
“Did you take the eyedrops from my bathroom?”
Dinah stared at her. “No, I didn’t. And when I go in for poisoning blond bitches I’ll use something stronger than eyedrops.” She went past them up the stairs.
“Such language,” Mrs. Shane said absently.
Inspector Sands appeared in the doorway of the library and beckoned to Prye. Prye excused himself and joined him.
“Shut the door,” Sands said.
Prye shut the door.
“Mrs. Revel is an odd woman.”
“Somewhat neurotic,” Prye agreed. “A lot of intelligent people are. Dinah’s case seems to be a little more pronounced because she has money enough not to care what other people think.”
Sands hesitated a moment. “Well, frankly, I thought she told me a straightforward and convincing story.”
“I thought she would,” Prye commented.
“First she told me she had no motive to do away with Duncan beyond dislike. Second, she admitted going into Duncan’s room before the wedding because she had seen a letter lying on the hall table addressed to Duncan in Revel’s handwriting. She went in to ask Duncan what it was. He was sleeping, she said, and did not wake up. She left immediately. Third, she did not correspond with Duncan.”
“Who said she did?” Prye asked in surprise.
“Jane Stevens. What really happened was this: Revel had been writing to Duncan from Montreal. Duncan simply told his sister the letters were from Mrs. Revel, pretended to quote from them, and trusted to luck that Jane wouldn’t find out. Jane swallowed everything he told her and Duncan apparently did all the social letter-writing for both of them.”
“He would,” Prye said. “There was a pronounced feminine streak in him.”
“More than a streak. Four, Mrs. Revel says she is engaged to marry Dennis Williams. It hasn’t been announced yet, but apparently he is having a ring made for her.”
“His story.”
“Yes. Five, she has no relations with her former husband and has no idea what business he and Duncan had between them. Six, I don’t know what to think about this.”
He paused and added slowly, “She said that when she met Jane going into Duncan’s room Jane was carrying a small green glass bottle, the kind of bottle eyedrops are put in.”
Prye smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry to spoil the fun but Jane has said she was taking some aspirin tablets in to Duncan, and at least one large drug company packs its aspirins in green bottles.”
Sands looked gloomily up at the ceiling and said, “Hell, hell.”
7
The tall, sleek man with the rawhide suitcase stepped out of the elevator, waved aside the bellhop who assailed him, and walked to the desk.
“Rourke,” he told the desk clerk. “I’m checking out.”
While the clerk was looking up the bill Mr. Rourke stood with his back to the lobby fingering the rawhide case nervously. His uneasiness seemed incongruous with his casual brown tweeds and his air of authority.
“Three days. Fifteen dollars. Plus two telephone calls makes it fifteen dollars and twenty cents. Thank you very much, Mr. Rourke. Everything satisfactory?”
“Fine,” Mr. Rourke said. “Call my car, will you?”
He put on his hat and pulled it down over his eyes. While he was waiting for his car a man came to the desk and asked for a single room with bath. His name was Williams, he told the clerk.
Mr. Rourke did not turn his head at this information but his mouth moved: