“I would of believed it,” von Flanagan said slowly. “In fact, after those first coupla’ tries—I mean, what looked like tries—if she’d of fell off that window ledge, with ‘Good-bye, good-bye’ wrote all over the mirrors, I’d of said suicide. And then when it looked like she jumped off of the pier, right at the place where her old lady jumped off years ago, after finding her step-pa’s body and figuring out her old lady must of bumped him off and buried him there, and with her leaving a note saying right where he was—” He stopped, ran a handkerchief over his broad red face and said, “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Malone said. “I know what you were supposed to think.”

“But that note,” von Flanagan said. “Why did she write it?”

“She didn’t,” Malone told him.

The police officer scowled. “It was in her handwriting. (Dig, dig, dig. And—under the willow tree in the garden.)”

“It was dictated to her,” Malone said. He signed, and added, “You’re not up on popular songs, von Flanagan. You check this with her and see if I’m not right. The murderer telephoned her and recommended a couple of songs that would be particularly good for her style of singing. He told her to write down the titles and get copies. She did. Then on his next visit he tore the leaf from the telephone pad and stuck it in her diary. Remember, she trusted him, and he probably had the run of the house.”

Von Flanagan shook his head sadly. “The things some people will do!” He scratched the back of his neck.

“Remember, he had to have the body found,” Malone said, “or else he couldn’t inherit. This would have looked like her last suicide note. It would have built up her reason for the suicide—her remorse for her mother’s having committed a murder. That must have been preying on her mind for years. That’s why she was willing to keep all these appointments, because she was told she’d find out the truth.”

“And what was the truth?” von Flanagan asked. “Why did her old lady bump off this guy?”

There was a second or two of silence. “Because,” Malone said at last, “from all I’ve been able to learn, he was a no good son-of-a-bee who was wrecking her life and her career, and who should have been murdered years before.” He wondered if it would do him any serious damage to smoke a cigar, decided he might as well try, reached in his pocket and encountered a repulsive, soggy mass of wet tobacco.

“Have one of mine,” Jack Apt said quietly.

It was a fine Havana cigar. Malone accepted it with thanks, and privately wished it was one of his own favorite two-for-a-quarter brand.