“Why should she go on to some night club when she knew her ma was waiting for her here?”
Madame Velasquez’s thin hands, the fingers of which were loaded with cheap rings, played nervously with any substance they chanced to touch.
“Something’s happened to her, Lieutenant,” she went on. “I always told her as how it would. Marge—I told her a hundred times if I ever told her once—there’s a limit to the number of suckers you can play at one and the same time.”
“You think that some man who was jealous perhaps attacked Endicott first and then got after her?”
“Man? Men, Lieutenant, men. That brat kept the opposite of a harem, if you know what I mean.”
“She isn’t your daughter, really, is she, Madame Velasquez?”
“She was Alvarez’s only child by his first wife—some Spanish female hussy from Seville. What made you guess?”
“The way you talked about her. But do keep right on, Madame Velasquez. What a remarkable pendant—it’s a rarity to see so perfect a ruby—may I?”
Madame Velasquez simpered audibly while Lieutenant Valcour leaned forward and stared earnestly at the bit of paste.
“My late husband, Lieutenant, used to say that nothing was too good for pretty Miramar. That’s my name, Lieutenant—Miramar.”