Almost immediately Special Investigator Dundee rose from his crouching
position on the floor of Nita Selim's closet, and faced the chief of the
Homicide Squad of Hamilton's police force.
"I think," he said quietly, for all the excitement that burned in his
blue eyes, "that we'd better have Mrs. Miles in for a few questions."
"What have you got there--a dance program?" Strawn asked curiously, but
as Dundee continued to stare silently at the thing he held, the older
man strode to the door and relayed the order to a plainclothes
detective.
"I sent for _Mrs._ Miles," Dundee said coldly, when husband and wife
appeared together, Flora's thin, tense shoulders encircled by Tracey's
plump arm.
"If you're going to badger my wife further, I intend to be present,
sir!" Miles retorted, thrusting out his chest.
"Very well!" Dundee conceded curtly. "Mrs. Miles, why didn't you tell me
in the first place that you were _in this room_ when Nita Selim was
shot?"
"Because I wasn't--in--in the room," Flora protested, clinging with both
thin, big-veined hands to her husband's arm.
"Sir, you have no proof of this absurd accusation, and I shall
personally take this matter up--"
"I have the best of proof," Dundee said quietly, and took his hand from
his pocket. "You recognize this, Mrs. Miles?... You admit that it is the
tally card you used while playing bridge this afternoon?"
"No, no! It isn't mine!" Flora cried hysterically, cringing against her
husband, who began to protest in a voice falsetto with rage.
Dundee ignored his splutterings. "May I point out that it is identical
with the other tally cards used at Mrs. Selim's party today, and that on
its face it bears your name, 'Flora'?" and he politely extended the card
for her inspection.
"I--yes, it _must_ be mine, but I was _not_ in this room when Nita
was--was shot!"
"But you will admit that you _were_ in her clothes closet at some time
during the twenty or more minutes that elapsed between your leaving the
bridge game, when you became dummy, and the moment when Karen Marshall
screamed?"
As Flora Miles said nothing, staring at him with great, terrified black
eyes, Dundee went on relentlessly: "Mrs. Miles, when you left the bridge
game, you did not intend to telephone your house. You came _here_--into
this room!--and you lay in wait, hiding in her closet until Nita Selim
appeared, as you knew she would, sooner or later--"
"No, no! That's a lie--a lie, I tell you!" the woman shrilled at him. "I
_did_ telephone my house, and I talked to Junior, when the maid put him
up to the phone.... You can ask her yourself, if you don't believe me!"
"But _after_ you telephoned, you stole into this room--"
"No, no! I--I made up my face all fresh, just as I told you--"
Dundee did not bother to tell her how well he knew she was lying, for
suddenly something knocked on the door of his mind. He strode to the
closet, searched for a moment among the multitude of garments hanging
there, then emerged with the brown silk summer coat which Nita Selim had
worn to Breakaway Inn that noon. Before the terrified woman's eyes he
thrust a hand first into one deep pocket and then another, finding
nothing except a handkerchief of fine embroidered linen and a pair of
brown suede gauntlet gloves.
"Will you let me have the note, please, Mrs. Miles? The note Nita
received during her luncheon party, and which she thrust, before your
eyes, into a pocket of this coat?... It is in your handbag, I am sure,
since you have had no opportunity, unobserved, to destroy it."
"What ghastly nonsense is this, Dundee?" Tracey Miles demanded
furiously.
But Dundee again ignored him. His implacable eyes held Flora Miles'
until the woman broke suddenly, piteously. She fumbled in the raffia bag
which had been hanging from her arm.
"Good God, Flora! What does it all mean?" Tracey Miles collapsed like a
pricked pink balloon. "That's _my_ stationery--one of my business
envelopes--"
Flora Miles dropped the bag which she need no longer watch and clutch
with terror, as she dug her thin fingers into her husband's shoulders
and looked down at his puzzled face, for she was a little taller than
he.
"Forgive me, darling! Oh, I knew God would punish me for being jealous!
I thought _you_ were writing love letters to--to that woman--"
Dundee did not miss the slightest significance of that scene as he
retrieved the blue-grey envelope she had dropped. It was inscribed, in a
curious handwriting: "Mrs. Selim, Private Dining Room, Breakaway Inn."
"Let's see, boy," Strawn said, with respect in his harsh voice.
Dundee withdrew the single sheet of business stationery, and obligingly
held it so that the chief of detectives could read it also.
"Nita, my sweet," the note began, without date-line, "Forgive your bad
boy for last night's row, but I _must_ warn you again to watch your
step. You've already gone too far. Of course I love you and understand,
_but_--Be good, Baby, and you won't be sorry."