Part 5 (2/2)
”Only what?” ”Only I'm not sure it was Fred.”
”Didn't you speak to him?”
”Yes, I did.”
”And he answered, didn't he?”
”In a way, yes,” Joan conceded, ”but I couldn't swear it was Fred's voice.”
”Trying to disguise it, was he?”
”I don't know.” Joan frowned, then brightened suddenly. ”Yes, frankly I think the voice was disguised. In fact I have an idea who might -”
The last words were lost, drowned by the ugly snarl that Ferrand hurled Joan's way. Fred was calling the girl a double-crosser, but he spent a while getting to the term, due to a supply of preliminary adjectives. This time, however, Ferrand was reckoning rightly with Captain Selbert.
Coming around from his desk, Selbert caught Ferrand off guard and by the shoulders, spinning him with a twisty shove that landed Ferrand in a chair that broke and deposited him in its wreckage. Facing Joan, Selbert demanded abruptly: ”All right. Are you sure or aren't you as to the person in that mask?”
Joan's reply was to Selbert, but her eyes were elsewhere. The girl was looking straight at Cranston when she said: ”I am not sure.”
Old Tourville and young Aldion were helping Ferrand to his feet, promising him their moral support as well as physical, but Ferrand wanted none of it.
Delivering a contemptuous snarl in Joan's direction, Ferrand faced Selbert in challenging style.
”Since I need an alibi,” declared Ferrand, ”I'll give you one. Come down to the bayous with me and talk to the people there. We'll find somebody who will remember seeing me some time last night.”
”I'll make the arrangements,” agreed Selbert, tactfully. ”Meanwhile everyone else is free to leave. Only I'd like you all to be on call, particularly you two.”
By ”you two” Selbert meant Tourville and Aldion, as he indicated. A pair of detectives took custody of Ferrand while the rest of the group filed out, Cranston included. There were two persons, however, who paused outside the door of Selbert's office.
Cranston noted them: Joan Marcy and Rolfe Trenhue. But it wouldn't have been good policy to have stayed and eavesdropped on their conversation.
Besides, Cranston had a good idea what it was all about and the accuracy of his surmise was to prove itself quite soon. His whispered laugh, unheard as he departed, was more than vaguely reminiscent of The Shadow's.
CHAPTER XI.
OYSTERS ROCKEFELLER formed a tasty dish that delighted Margo Lane, particularly the kind that were served in a certain French restaurant just within the borders of the Vieux Carre. At present however, Margo was neglecting this specialty to furnish Lamont Cranston a bit of tidy news.
”Don't look now,” undertoned Margo, ”but there's an old friend of mine who doesn't know me when he sees me. He must think he's going to collect some prize money that he didn't get or he wouldn't be so interested in local blondes.”
Cranston looked, by way of a restaurant mirror, and gave Margo a nod.
”I know who you mean,” said Cranston. ”Howard Shorke.”
Margo stared, a bit puzzled. ”You've met Shorke?”
Cranston had, but he didn't say so. Instead, he replied: ”I've met the blonde.”
Such a revelation would have put Margo in a fighting mood, if it hadn't occurred to her who the blonde in question was. Margo recalled her as a girl in Dutch costume that had made her look considerably different.
”But what does Joan Marcy see in Shorke?” queried Margo.
”Nothing,” replied Cranston. ”It's what she wants to hear from him.”
”You mean details about last night's fiasco?”
”The police called it murder, Margo, and they've put the blame on Ferrand.
Joan probably wants to clear him.”
”And why? I understood they weren't clubby any more, and from the way you said Ferrand acted -”
”Ferrand's actions are Joan's main reason,” interposed Cranston. ”She wants to clear the book. Trenhue stayed at headquarters, probably just to tell Ferrand that Joan was doing all she could for him.”
”And is she?”
”I think so.” His tone extremely confidential, Cranston explained why.
”Joan has listed her own candidate for Suspect Number One in the Mephisto murders.”
”Do you know who he is?”
”You're looking right at him, Margo.”
Since she was looking right at Cranston, Margo continued to stare, her eyes wide with disbelief.
”It was rather odd that I should show up at the Borneau Mansion,”
reminded Cranston. ”If Mr. Mephisto had time to get from there to Moubillard's and toss off a murder, I for one had time to get back to the Mansion. Besides, n.o.body has asked me where I was at the time Chardelle was killed.”
”But Lamont! Of all the nerve!”
”That's a mere side issue, Margo. I think I'll go the rounds and maybe run into Tourville or Aldion, to hear their opinions. When you're clear, you might phone young Langdon and tell him that it would be advisable for the missing Mephisto to stay under cover a while longer.”
With that, Cranston pa.s.sed Margo an envelope which had dropped from Ken's pocket during last night's trip across Moubillard's roof. It bore Ken's name and address to which Cranston had thoughtfully added a pencilled phone number.
From the corner of her eye, Margo watched Joan follow Lamont's departure.
If she hadn't learned the truth, Margo would have cla.s.sed the blonde's gaze as a designing one. But then Margo was over-suspicious of blondes, just as she underestimated the intelligence of such milk-toast gentry as Howard Shorke.
While Margo was watching Joan, Shorke was watching Margo. Turned slightly from the table, Margo was resting one knee upon the other and Shorke, who had an eye for mirrors too, was catching the reflection of some very sightly legs that reminded him of the trim limbs of a Columbine.
When Shorke leaned over to say something to Joan, Margo supposed it referred to Lamont instead of herself. She finished the last of the fancy oysters and sauntered from the restaurant, planning to do a little shopping and then to phone Ken.
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