Madame Velasquez’s laugh was an art; unfortunately not a lost one. “The millionaire marriage,” she gasped. “My dear”—her hand found a resting place on one of Lieutenant Valcour’s knees—“he didn’t have a cent.”
“She felt disappointed, I suppose?”
“Disappointed!” Madame Velasquez fairly screamed the word at him, like an angry parrot. Her manner changed and became darkly mysterious. “I know my little know,” she said. “You can believe me, Lieutenant, little Miramar’s not the boob some parties I could mention, but won’t, think she is.” Her voice grew harsh with the gritty quality of a file. “I’ll learn her to leave me in the ditch like this.”
“Then you think Marge purposely isn’t here to greet you?”
It was a sweet little bunch of filth, taken all in all, thought Lieutenant Valcour. It was perfectly plain: Madame Velasquez either held definite knowledge that Marge had killed Harry Myles, or else had convinced Marge that she knew. And then Madame Velasquez had simply bled Marge of all the money she could get.
“Is Marge frightened easily, Madame Velasquez?”
“About some things.”
The reddish, dusty-looking curls nodded vigorously. Lieutenant Valcour looked at his watch. It was one-thirty. He stood up.
“Thank you for receiving me, Madame Velasquez. If I leave you a telephone number would you care to call me up when Marge comes in? Or will you be in bed?”
“Leave your number, Lieutenant.” The seamy enamelled face became more nutlike than ever. “I got a thing or two to talk over with that female Brigham Young.” She raised a beringed hand and held it unescapably close to Lieutenant Valcour’s lips.