III
In the vestibule of the Garford Apartments, I pressed the button tagged Miss Cara Kenbrook several times before the door clicked open. Then I mounted a flight of stairs and walked down a hall to her door. It was opened presently by a tall girl of twenty-three or -four in a black and white crepe dress.
“Miss Cara Kenbrook?”
“Yes.”
I gave her a card—one of those that tell the truth about me.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions; may I come in?”
“Do.”
Languidly she stepped aside for me to enter, closed the door behind me, and led me back into a living-room that was littered with newspapers, cigarettes in all stages of consumption from unlighted freshness to cold ash, and miscellaneous articles of feminine clothing. She made room for me on a chair by dumping off a pair of pink silk stockings and a hat, and herself sat on some magazines that occupied another chair.
“I’m interested in Bernard Gilmore’s death,” I said, watching her face.
It wasn’t a beautiful face, although it should have been. Everything was there—perfect features; smooth, white skin; big, almost enormous, brown eyes—but the eyes were dead-dull, and the face was as empty of expression as a china doorknob, and what I said didn’t change it.
“Bernard Gilmore,” she said without interest. “Oh, yes.”
“You and he were pretty close friends, weren’t you?” I asked, puzzled by her blankness.
“We had been—yes.”
“What do you mean by had been?”
She pushed back a lock of her shortcut brown hair with a lazy hand.
“I gave him the air last week,” she said casually, as if speaking of something that had happened years ago.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last week—Monday, I think—a week before he was killed.”
“Was that the time when you broke off with him?”
“Yes.”
“Have a row, or part friends?”
“Not exactly either. I just told him that I was through with him.”
“How did he take it?”
“It didn’t break his heart. I guess he’d heard the same thing before.”
“Where were you the night he was killed?”
“At the Coffee Cup, eating and dancing with friends until about one o’clock. Then I came home and went to bed.”
“Why did you split with Gilmore?”
“Couldn’t stand his wife.”
“Huh?”
“She was a nuisance.” This without the faintest glint of either annoyance or humor. “She came here one night and raised a racket; so I told Bernie that if he couldn’t keep her away from me he’d have to find another playmate.”
“Have you any idea who might have killed him?” I asked.
“Not unless it was his wife—these excitable women are always doing silly things.”
“If you had given her husband up, what reason would she have for killing him, do you think?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied with complete indifference. “But I’m not the only girl that Bernie ever looked at.”
“Think there were others, do you? Know anything, or are you just guessing.”
“I don’t know any names,” she said, “but I’m not just guessing.”
I let that go at that and switched back to Mrs. Gilmore, wondering if this girl could be full of dope.
“What happened the night his wife came here?”
“Nothing but that. She followed Bernie here, rang the bell, rushed past me when I opened the door, and began to cry and call Bernie names. Then she started on me, and I told him that if he didn’t take her away I’d hurt her, so he took her home.”
Admitting I was licked for the time, I got up and moved to the door. I couldn’t do anything with this baby just now. I didn’t think she was telling the whole truth, but on the other hand it wasn’t reasonable to believe that anybody would lie so woodenly—with so little effort to be plausible.
“I may be back later,” I said as she let me out.
“All right.”
Her manner didn’t even suggest that she hoped I wouldn’t.