“Only,” von Flanagan said, “how did you know for sure she really hadn’t meant to jump off that ledge?”

The little lawyer sneezed and sighed on the same breath, nearly strangling himself. “Because of the ‘good-bye, good-bye,’ written on the mirrors.”

“I don’t get it,” von Flanagan said.

“You will,” Malone told him, “if you’ll think of Doris Dawn’s coloring—and the color of lipstick that was used to write on the mirrors. No woman in her right mind would wear that shade with a skin like Doris’s.”

Von Flanagan rose and said admiringly, “I wish I knew how you find out such things.”

“Even if I could trust you with the truth,” Malone said, “you wouldn’t believe it.”

For a few minutes after von Flanagan had gone he sat hunched in his blankets, brooding. He’d found a murderer, he’d saved a life, he’d seen what looked like the beginning of a very happy marriage. But he still didn’t have carfare home.

Suddenly Malone had enough of it—a bellyful. He turned and stared at Jack Apt. Apt stared back, uncomfortably. Then Malone said, “If I sit here much longer, I’ll get double pneumonia and have to be shot full of penicillin. Besides, the whiskey’s gone, this cigar stinks—come on, Apt, break down and spill the truth. Or shall I?”

Jack Apt said softly, “How did you know I murdered Robert Spencer?”

Malone sneezed again. “Cut it out, Apt. I may be all wet—but not in the brain. Add it up this way: you were Diana Dawn’s manager. You must have been in love with her. Everyone who ever saw her was. You knew what he was doing to her—so you killed him. What you didn’t know was that she loved him and that she would kill herself from anxiety over his disappearance.”

“I killed him,” Jack Apt said, “and I buried him. Young Bob Spencer wormed the truth about his burial place out of me. I didn’t know the reason why he wanted to find it out. Perhaps you’d better call von Flanagan back here, and tell him.”

Malone yawned and said, “von Flanagan gets on my nerves sometimes.” He sneezed a double one this time. “It must have been hell for you all these years, after she killed herself. So why bring the cops in now?”

“It was hell,” Jack Apt said, pulling on a pair of tan leather gloves. “It will continue to be. May I drive you anywhere, Malone?”

“No, thanks,” Malone said. “I’ll call a cab.” He remembered his lack of cabfare. “Or maybe I’ll walk.”

The door opened and Maggie, his secretary, walked in. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were blazing.