5:01 a.m. —Lunatic Vistas
The report from Central Office which Lieutenant Valcour received over the telephone contained one definitely useful piece of information: the person who had used the comb and brushes belonging to Endicott had been a blonde and was either a man or a woman with bobbed hair.
And Mrs. Endicott, Lieutenant Valcour reflected as he hung up the receiver, had blonde shingled hair. And so, except for the shingling, did Hollander.
Roberts, on the other hand, had not.
And where, he wanted to know, was his inspiring confidence in the innocence of Mrs. Endicott now? Precisely where it had been before. His mind began to gibber. What was that curious scent, that trace of an aroma? What about Hollander’s roommate: the young Southerner who preyed upon wealthy women in night clubs? Had Endicott evidence that Hollander was mixed up in similar jobs, and had Hollander come to steal it, or silence Endicott? Rats! And what were Marge Myles’s address and telephone number doing in Mrs. Endicott’s personal directory? And why had Mrs. Endicott been such a stupid liar as to say she had seen no one on the balcony at the time when the shots were fired, when the only apparent place from which the shot that had killed Endicott could have been fired was the balcony? … A knock-knock.
“Come in,” he said.
Cassidy opened the door.