"I think you'd better tell us the whole story, Mr. Mannix." His voice held a quality which made the request an imperative.
Mannix, too, settled back in his chair.
"Oh, I'm going to tell it—believe me, I'm going to tell it.—You had the right idea. I spent the evening with Miss Frisbee. No harm in that, though."
"What time did you go there?"
"After office hours—half past five, quarter to six. Came up in the subway, got off at 72d, and walked over."
"And you entered the house through the front door?"
"No. I walked down the alleyway and went in the side door—like I generally do. It's nobody's business who I call on, and what the telephone operator in the front hall don't know don't hurt him."
"That's all right so far," observed Heath. "The janitor didn't bolt the side door until after six."
"And did you stay the entire evening, Mr. Mannix?" asked Markham.
"Sure—till just before midnight. Miss Frisbee cooked the dinner, and I'd brought along a bottle of wine. Social little party—just the two of us. And I didn't go outside the apartment, understand, until five minutes to twelve. You can get the lady down here and ask her. I'll call her up now and tell her to explain the exact situation about Monday night. I'm not asking you to take my word for it—positively not."
Markham made a gesture dismissing the suggestion.
"What took place at five minutes to twelve?"
