“Had Mr. Endicott any alibi for the period between the time he left her at Macy’s and came home?”
“No, Lieutenant. He said he had driven out a ways on Long Island along the Motor Parkway and then had come back.”
“So nothing was done about the matter officially?”
“There was nothing to do.”
“Then the only substantiated fact in the story is that she was seen getting into Mr. Endicott’s car in front of this house. I suppose someone did see her?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“ Mrs. Endicott saw her, Lieutenant.”
There was distinct food for thought in that. No matter how far flung the tangents in the case appeared to be, they touched as a common circumference the enveloping influence of Mrs. Endicott.
“Is this girl still confined at the institution, Mrs. Siddons?”
“I don’t know. There has been nothing said—no communication.”
“What was the colour of her hair, Mrs. Siddons?”
“Black—the deepest, prettiest black I ever saw. They say that opposites are attracted to one another, and it was so in her case.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Her husband was a blond.”