“Why did you call me instead of the police?” he asked again.
“I went to call them,” she said with a slow smile. “But I got so frightened at the thought of publicity and everything and—well, after last night, you were the first person to pop into my mind.”
“Her private trouble-shooter,” Leona said. She leaned against the table smoking quite casually and apparently undisturbed by the horror that gripped Idell spasmodically and made her shudder and go white.
“Were you here when Idell found him?” Mark asked her.
“Yes. I helped drag him out. He was beastly heavy and unmanageable,” she said.
“I gave him respiration,” Idell put in. “I thought there might be a chance—not really, but I had to make sure. There was no water in his lungs. I smelled the cyanide then.”
“He’s been dead some time,” Mark said. “You had just got up when Idell did?” he asked Leona.
“Yes,” she laughed. “Are you going to play detective, Mr. Warren?”
He flushed beneath his reddish tan. Force of habit cropping up after a two year lay-off, he knew. “Sorry,” he said, “but these things are sure to be asked by the police. You might as well get them straight.”
“You are helpful,” Leona murmured. “I’ll call, if you wish.”
“They’ll probably be sore because you put it off for so long,” Mark said. “Call the sheriff sub-station. They’ll handle it up here. It’s out of the city limits.”
Leona moved slowly across the patio. He watched her, entranced with the slow gliding motion that spoke of rhythm in every muscle.
“She’s inhumanly beautiful,” Idell said.
“She draws one,” he admitted. “Just who is she?”
“A friend of Link’s and Grant’s,” she said. “I don’t really know much about her. I think she is—or was—a showgirl.” She smiled thinly. “An exclusive strip teaser, or some such thing.”
He closed his eyes and decided he had left New York too soon. He would have liked to see Leona Taylor do a strip-tease.
“I wonder how he got the cyanide,” he said. “Or I should say how it got him.”
Idell shook her head. “I’m not sure. After I called you I played detective, though, and I have an idea.” She straightened in her chair and finished her drink. He took the glass and set it down. “I went to my room and showered—I had to get that water off me—and then went into his room. The door was unlocked, and the key was on the inside. There was a whiskey glass and an ashtray on his nightstand. That was all I saw; I just took a quick look. I locked the door behind me.” She took a plain key from the pocket of her shirt and handed it to him.
“You keep it,” he said. “Did you remember about fingerprints?” He smiled as he said it. Speaking of fingerprints always sounded so melodramatic, so like a skulking policeman with a magnifying glass.
“Of course,” she said. Her voice grew lighter and gayer as she seemed to draw relief from his nearness. “I was very careful, Mister Detective. I used the bottom of my shirt and turned the very outer end of the knob on the door.”
He laughed. “All right, Miss Sherlock, what else do you remember? Was there anything in the wastebasket? In the ashtray? Was the room torn up? Signs of a scuffle?”
“One at a time,” she said. “I didn’t look in the wastebasket,” she added ruefully. “But I did in the ashtray. It held some cigaret stubs and date pits. No lipstick on the stubs. The room was quite dark. The shades were down, so I really saw nothing more. I’m sorry—but I did peek in just for a moment.”
Mark nodded. “You said you had an idea about the way he was poisoned.”
“Those date pits,” she said. “Link loved dates. He ate a pound package a day. The Queen put one in his room every evening. There were only a few pits in the ashtray and no dates at all on the nightstand. He always kept them there and nibbled on them when he was in bed.”
“Well, then, he ate the
“I went to call them,” she said with a slow smile. “But I got so frightened at the thought of publicity and everything and—well, after last night, you were the first person to pop into my mind.”
“Her private trouble-shooter,” Leona said. She leaned against the table smoking quite casually and apparently undisturbed by the horror that gripped Idell spasmodically and made her shudder and go white.
“Were you here when Idell found him?” Mark asked her.
“Yes. I helped drag him out. He was beastly heavy and unmanageable,” she said.
“I gave him respiration,” Idell put in. “I thought there might be a chance—not really, but I had to make sure. There was no water in his lungs. I smelled the cyanide then.”
“He’s been dead some time,” Mark said. “You had just got up when Idell did?” he asked Leona.
“Yes,” she laughed. “Are you going to play detective, Mr. Warren?”
He flushed beneath his reddish tan. Force of habit cropping up after a two year lay-off, he knew. “Sorry,” he said, “but these things are sure to be asked by the police. You might as well get them straight.”
“You are helpful,” Leona murmured. “I’ll call, if you wish.”
“They’ll probably be sore because you put it off for so long,” Mark said. “Call the sheriff sub-station. They’ll handle it up here. It’s out of the city limits.”
Leona moved slowly across the patio. He watched her, entranced with the slow gliding motion that spoke of rhythm in every muscle.
“She’s inhumanly beautiful,” Idell said.
“She draws one,” he admitted. “Just who is she?”
“A friend of Link’s and Grant’s,” she said. “I don’t really know much about her. I think she is—or was—a showgirl.” She smiled thinly. “An exclusive strip teaser, or some such thing.”
He closed his eyes and decided he had left New York too soon. He would have liked to see Leona Taylor do a strip-tease.
“I wonder how he got the cyanide,” he said. “Or I should say how it got him.”
Idell shook her head. “I’m not sure. After I called you I played detective, though, and I have an idea.” She straightened in her chair and finished her drink. He took the glass and set it down. “I went to my room and showered—I had to get that water off me—and then went into his room. The door was unlocked, and the key was on the inside. There was a whiskey glass and an ashtray on his nightstand. That was all I saw; I just took a quick look. I locked the door behind me.” She took a plain key from the pocket of her shirt and handed it to him.
“You keep it,” he said. “Did you remember about fingerprints?” He smiled as he said it. Speaking of fingerprints always sounded so melodramatic, so like a skulking policeman with a magnifying glass.
“Of course,” she said. Her voice grew lighter and gayer as she seemed to draw relief from his nearness. “I was very careful, Mister Detective. I used the bottom of my shirt and turned the very outer end of the knob on the door.”
He laughed. “All right, Miss Sherlock, what else do you remember? Was there anything in the wastebasket? In the ashtray? Was the room torn up? Signs of a scuffle?”
“One at a time,” she said. “I didn’t look in the wastebasket,” she added ruefully. “But I did in the ashtray. It held some cigaret stubs and date pits. No lipstick on the stubs. The room was quite dark. The shades were down, so I really saw nothing more. I’m sorry—but I did peek in just for a moment.”
Mark nodded. “You said you had an idea about the way he was poisoned.”
“Those date pits,” she said. “Link loved dates. He ate a pound package a day. The Queen put one in his room every evening. There were only a few pits in the ashtray and no dates at all on the nightstand. He always kept them there and nibbled on them when he was in bed.”
“Well, then, he ate the
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