The Wit of the Pink Lady

Inspector Fay entered the room at one end a few seconds after Mr. Gluckstein left it at the other.

Mrs. Astley-Rolfe greeted him in a friendly fashion. She showed considerable strain—but, otherwise, was looking her best. And her best was delightful.

"Good morning, inspector," she said languidly.

"Good morning, madam." He glanced back to make certain that the door was closed. "I trust you have recovered from the shock of the crime."

"I still feel it very much," she replied, shuddering. "It was the most horrible experience I have ever had. To think of seeing that poor girl alive and well one minute, and the next—like that. It's too dreadful to think of." "It was certainly a most disgusting crime," the inspector agreed.

"I suppose it was James Layton?"

"I am afraid I cannot make any statement at present," he replied. "Our investigations are proceeding as quickly as possible. I hope we shall clear it up in a few days."

"I hope you will," she declared fervently. "Such a brutal criminal can expect no mercy."

"In the meantime," continued the inspector, "I should be much obliged if you would kindly give me a little information."

"Certainly," she said readily. "Sit down."

He sat down, facing her. She made a charming picture. But Inspector Fay had been taken in by charming women several times during the early part of his career, and at this stage of it was as impervious as an oyster.

"Please understand," he began, "that in asking these questions I am making no insinuations or suggestions of any kind. It is necessary to establish certain facts."

"I quite understand," she assured him. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what you were saying to Mr. Copplestone in the garden, before Mr. Tranter came to tell him that Miss Manderson had gone into the house."

She started.

"I?" she exclaimed. "I was not with Mr. Copplestone."

He remained silent.

"I told you, I was not with any one. I did not feel quite myself, and strolled about alone."

The inspector's face was quite impassive.

"You wish me to accept that answer?" he asked quietly.

She stiffened haughtily.

"What do you mean?" she said sharply.

"I mean that you wish that answer to be accepted as the truth?"

"Of course. Are you suggesting that it is not?"

"I am suggesting nothing," he returned, with unruffled composure. "But I must tell you that if I am to accept that answer, it may have serious consequences."

"Serious consequences?" she echoed, startled.

"Yes." "For whom?"

"Possibly for Mr. Copplestone himself."

Signs of uneasiness began to appear, in spite of her wonderful self-control.

"For Mr. Copplestone...?"

"For Mr. Copplestone," the inspector affirmed steadily.

"I don't understand," she said. "Will you kindly explain?"

"Certainly." His voice dropped slightly. "Mr. Copplestone lied to me."

"Lied to you?"

"Lied to me," he repeated. "In accounting for himself, from the time he came out into the garden after dinner until Mr. Tranter found him to deliver Miss Manderson's message, he lied to me deliberately. I want to know why."

"You had better ask him," she retorted. "I do not know."

"Mr. Bolsover, the theatrical manager, told me that he found James Layton lurking by the house, and called to Mr. Copplestone before following him. Mr. Copplestone stated that the reason he did not hear that call was that he had gone into the house to refill his cigarette-case, and did not come out again until just before Mr. Tranter found him after leaving Miss Manderson. That statement was false."

"How do you know?" she asked quickly.

"He did not go into the house to refill his cigarette-case. He had had no opportunity to smoke afterwards, and when I questioned him his case was almost empty. He may have gone in for another reason——or he may not have gone in at all."

"Is it not very trivial?" she said.

"If you had been dealing with crimes and criminals as long as I have," the inspector returned, "you would know that nothing is trivial. At present, Mr. Copplestone's time while the crime was being committed is unaccounted for—and he is detected in a lie. It is not a pleasant position to be in."

She was silent. Her hands moved nervously.

"What is the use of telling me this?" she asked. "It occurred to me," he replied, "that you might be able to extricate him from that position."

"Why?" she demanded resentfully.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Can you?" he insisted, watching her closely.

For a moment she paused. There was malevolence in her gaze.

"I do not know what he was doing," she said obstinately.

"Madam," said the inspector impressively, "if George Copplestone stood in the dock in front of you, and his life depended on the truth of your answer—would it still be the same answer?"

She turned on him.

"In the dock? What do you mean?"

"Would it still be the same answer?" he repeated sternly.

"Do you suggest that he may have committed the crime?" she exclaimed contemptuously. "Its absurd!"

"I told you," he said, "I suggest nothing. My case must be complete. I want to know the truth." Silence followed. She plucked angrily at the lace edge of her gown. Inspector Fay waited imperturbably.

"He was with me," she said, at last, sullenly.

"Thank you," said the inspector.

There was another pause.

"Please go on," he pressed her.

She did not attempt to conceal her resentment at his insistence. But the inspector's attitude was compelling.

"We had a private conversation," she said viciously. "What passed between us concerned only ourselves."

"I have no wish to pry into that," he told her. "But I should like to know why both you and Mr. Copplestone preferred to tell me a falsehood rather than admit that you were talking together in the garden."

"We had our reasons," she snapped, "for not wishing it to be known that we had been together. We had no time to speak privately after the crime was discovered, and it evidently seemed best to both of us, rather than risk conflicting statements, not to admit that we had spoken to each other at all. I hope you have nothing more to ask me."

The inspector rose.

"I have nothing more to ask you, madam," he said politely. "I trust it will not be necessary for me to trouble you again in this case. But if it should be—you will find that in such serious matters it is always better to speak the truth. Good morning."

He walked quickly out of the room, leaving a lady in pink deshabille quivering with an emotion that was not anger, but a new triumph.