34

ALIBIS: TRASK

Trask was a half-hour late for his appointment at the Queen apartment. He appeared indolently, indolently greeted the two Queens, indolently sank into the chair, indolently applied a match to his cigaret, which was stuck rakishly in a long jade holder, and indolently awaited the Inspector's questions.

Where was he Monday night? Oh, about town—vaguely, with an idle gesture of his arm. He tweaked the points of his mustache.

Where "about town"? Well, really—can't remember. Some night-club or other at first.

At what time? Must have started about eleven-thirty.

Where was he before eleven-thirty? Oh, he'd been disappointed by some friends, and had dropped into a Broadway theater at the last moment.

What was the name of the night-club? Really, don't recall it.

What did he mean by "not recalling it"? Well—to tell the truth, he had some bootleg liquor and it must have contained dynamite—ha, ha! Put him out like a light. Got awfully drunk. Didn't remember anything except dashing cold water on his face at ten o'clock Tuesday morning in the lavatory of the Pennsylvania Station. All mussed up, too. Must have had an awful night of it. Probably kicked out of the night-club in the morning. And all that. Just had time to dash home and get into some fresh clothes. Then the directors' meeting at the French store.

"Beautiful!" muttered the Inspector, eying Trask as if he were an obnoxious little animal. Trask flicked the ashes from his cigaret in the general direction of a tray.

"Trask!" The whip in Queen's voice brought the tall, dissipated director's body up with a start. "Are you sure you can't remember what night-club you were in?"

"I say now," drawled Trask, sinking back, "you scared me that time, Inspector. I've told you no. Went completely out of my head. Don't recall a thing."

"Well, that's just too bad," grunted the Inspector. "If I'm not disturbing you, Trask—do you know that Bernice Carmody was a habitual drug-user?"

"Not really!" Trask sat up straight. "Then I was right!"

"Oh, you suspected it?"

"A number of times. Bernice was queer quite frequently. Showed all the symptoms. I've seen plenty of 'em." He brushed a speck of ash from his gardenia with languid distaste.

The Inspector smiled. "Which didn't daunt you from going ahead with your contemplated engagement to Miss Carmody?"

Trask looked virtuous. "Oh, no—really! I'd intended to cure her after we were married. Without her family's knowledge, and all that. Too bad—too bad," he sighed. He sighed again.

"What has your relationship been with Cyrus French?" demanded the Inspector impatiently.

"Oh, that!" Trask brightened. "Absolutely of the best, Inspector. You—er—you would rather expect a chap to get along with his future father-in-law. Haw-haw!"

"Get out of here," said the Inspector distinctly.