(Saturday, June 15; 5 p.m.)
When we arrived at Benson's house a patrolman leaning somnolently against the iron paling of the areaway came suddenly to attention and saluted. He eyed Vance and me hopefully, regarding us no doubt as suspects being taken to the scene of the crime for questioning by the District Attorney. We were admitted by one of the men from the Homicide Bureau who had been in the house on the morning of the investigation.
Markham greeted him with a nod.
"Everything going all right?"
"Sure," the man replied good-naturedly. "The old lady's as meek as a cat—and a swell cook."
"We want to be alone for a while, Sniffin," said Markham, as we passed into the living-room.
"The gastronome's name is Snitkin—not Sniffin," Vance corrected him, when the door had closed on us.
"Wonderful memory," muttered Markham churlishly.
"A failing of mine," said Vance. "I suppose you are one of those rare persons who never forget a face but just can't recall names, what?"
