Gilmore, but he made certain suggestions to you—you can play them up as strong as you like; maybe say that he’s been annoying you for months—and when you turned him down he threatened to frame you.
“You refused to have anything to do with him, and he grabbed you, tearing your clothes, and bruising your face when you resisted. I happened to come along then, having an engagement with you, and heard you scream. Your front door was unlocked, so I rushed in, pulled this fellow away, and disarmed him. Then we held him until the police—whom we will phone for—came. Got that?”
“Yes, Stan.”
“Good! Now listen: When the police get here this fellow will spill all he knows, of course, and the chances are that all three of us will be taken in. That’s why I want you to know what’s what right now. I ought to have enough pull to get you and me out on bail tonight, or, if worst comes to worst, to see that my lawyer gets to me tonight—so I can arrange for the witnesses we’ll need. Also I ought to be able to fix it so our little fat friend will be held for a day or two, and not allowed to see anybody until late tomorrow—which will give us a good start on him. I don’t know how much he knows, but between your story and the stories of a couple of other smart ladies I have in mind, I’ll fix him up with a rep that will keep any jury in the world from ever believing him about anything.”
“How do you like that?” he asked me, triumphantly.
“You big clown,” I laughed at him, “I think it’s funny!”
But I didn’t really think so. In spite of what I thought I knew about Gilmore’s murder—in spite of my simple, satisfactory solution—something was crawling up my back, my knees felt jerky, and my hands were wet with sweat. I had had people try to frame me before—no detective stays in the business long without having it happen—but I had