“Main didn’t drive up from Los Angeles with a friend, as he told his wife. He came up on the train Saturday night—so he was in town twelve hours before he showed up at home.”
Bruno Gungen giggled, cocking his delighted face to one side.
“Ah!” he tittered. “We progress! We progress! Is it not so?”
“Maybe. Do you remember if this Rose Rubury was in the house on Sunday night—say from eleven to twelve?”
“I do remember. She was. I know it certainly. My dear wife was not feeling well that night. My darling had gone out early that Sunday morning, saying she was going to drive out into the country with some friends—what friends I do not know. But she came home at eight o’clock that night complaining of a distressing headache. I was quite frightened by her appearance, so that I went often to see how she was, and thus it happens that I know her maid was in the house all of that night, until one o’clock, at least.”
“Did the police show you the handkerchief they found with Main’s wallet?”
“Yes.” He squirmed on the edge of his chair, his face like the face of a kid looking at a Christmas tree.
“You’re sure it’s your wife’s?”
His giggle interfered with his speech, so he said, “Yes,” by shaking his head up and down until the goatee seemed to be a black whiskbroom brushing his tie.
“She could have left it at the Mains’ some time when she was visiting Mrs. Main,” I suggested.