know where you were at midnight. And it won't be necess'ry to mention any one who saw you at that time. When you tell us the truth, we'll know it." He himself had assumed the air of wisdom and mystery that he had deputed to Markham earlier in the afternoon. Without breaking faith with Alys La Fosse, he had sowed the seeds of doubt in Mannix's mind.
Before the man could frame an answer, Vance stood up and leaned impressively over the District Attorney's desk.
"You know a Miss Frisbee. Lives in 71st Street; accurately speaking—at number 184; to be more exact—in the house where Miss Odell lived; to put it precisely—in Apartment Number 2. Miss Frisbee was a former model of yours. Sociable girl: still charitable to the advances of her erstwhile employer—meanin' yourself.—When did you see her last, Mr. Mannix? . . . Take your time about answering. You may want to think it over."
Mannix took his time. It was a full minute before he spoke, and then it was to put another question.
"Haven't I got a right to call on a lady—haven't I?"
"Certainly. Therefore, why should a question about so obviously correct and irreproachable an episode make you uneasy?"
"Me uneasy?" Mannix, with considerable effort, produced a grin. "I'm just wondering what you got in your mind, asking me about my private affairs."
"I'll tell you. Miss Odell was murdered at about midnight Monday. No one came or went through
