Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“I thought I’d like to talk to the waiter that delivered the messages to the girl and to Lanyon. Figured maybe somebody arranged to have them messages delivered so that Lanyon would come out where the killer could get him.”

Collman turned to Bouchet with a wide smile.

“Mr. Oakes is way off there, ain’t he, Jim?”

Bouchet scowled.

“He sure is. Nothing to that, Mr. Oakes. Why, I phoned over to the Blue Plume myself, a message for Myrtle. You see, the other waitress I had working for me was supposed to work until four o’clock, but she got sick. So I wanted Myrtle to finish the night out in her place.”

“The other girl? Ain’t you got more than two girls working for you?”

“No. Only two. All the rest are men waiters.”

“Well,” Oakes commented, “that would account for the message to Myrtle, but how about the message the waiter gave to Lanyon a few minutes later — the message that made Lanyon get up and follow Myrtle across this way to the Broken Lantern?”

“Nothing to that, either,” said Bouchet. “Myrtle just agreed to work until four o’clock, then she phoned over to the Blue Plume to ask Lanyon to come back over here to the Broken Lantern.”

Oakes pushed his slouch hat back over his head, and scratched his pate.

“You gents are sure good to me,” he thanked them genially. “Giving me all this information. By the way, Mr. Bouchet, you say you discovered young Deronda standing over the body. Now, how come you were out of your place of business just then?”

Bouchet’s eyes flickered angrily.

“Me! What you mean? Why, I — it was a fine night last night, and I just came out for a little airing. I often do that when it’s a line night, don’t I, Collman?”

“You sure do,” Collman confirmed him.

“No offense meant,” Oakes placated them. “Just wanted to show how easy it is to throw suspicion on any one. You see, Mr. Bouchet, how difficult it might be for even you to produce an alibi?”

“I guess that’s right, too,” agreed Collman.

“And where were you, Mr. Collman, when Lanyon was shot?”

Collman stared at Oakes, his lips parted.

“Why, I... I guess I was down in my cellar about that time, looking over my stock.”

“Can you prove that? Did any one see you?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Oakes. I don’t remember. But I always go down to the cellar about that time of night. Don’t I, Jim?”

“You sure do,” Bouchet supported him.

Oakes grinned amiably.

“There you go!” he chaffed them. “Neither one of you could prove an alibi. But we won’t worry about that. Say, Mr. Bouchet, how about your waiters — the men? Any suspicious characters among ’em?”

Bouchet pondered a little.

“Not that I know of. Of course, you understand, they ain’t saints, none of them. But I don’t know nothing against them.”

“You got a list of your employees, ain’t you? Could I look at it?”

“Why, sure, I got a list — names, addresses and telephone numbers. I guess you could see it. Wait a minute.”

Bouchet hurried into the Broken Lantern and returned soon with a small notebook, which he handed to Oakes.

Oakes looked it through carefully, made a note or two on the back of an envelope, and handed the book back.

“I’m sure obliged to you gents,” he said heartily. “Say, I think I’d like to see the waiter — the one that delivered those messages to Miss Deronda and Lanyon. Where could I find him?”

“You’re lucky,” said Collman. “Usually, this time of day he’s in town, at home. But on account of the murder he’s had to stick around here this morning. You can get him right over in my place there, in the Blue Plume. His name is Hayden, Billy Hayden.”

“I’ll go right over,” said Oakes. “By the way, this bird that was killed was quite a lady’s man, wasn’t he?”

“Sure,” Collman grinned. “Lanyon was stuck on that other dame, wasn’t he, Jim?”

“Yep,” said Bouchet. “He used to come out and chin with the other waitress, the one that left early last night. That was before I hired Myrtle, though. Myrtle took his eye right away, and he ditched Clara.”

“Well, this other girl, Clara, she left the Broken Lantern last night just before the killing, did she?”

“I guess so,” Bouchet said. “Just a few minutes before.”

“Say,” said Oakes abruptly, “what’s the time?”

Collman glanced at his watch.

“Just about ten o’clock.”

“Thanks,” said Oakes.

III

In the center of the Blue Plume was an open space, a dancing floor. Around that were tables. And along the walls were curtained booths. The kitchen was in the rear.

There was no activity in the place when Oakes entered, except for a porter who was scrubbing floors at the back. The only other occupant was a man who was seated at one of the tables.

The solitary man looked up as Oakes came in. He appeared to be about fifty, pale faced, white haired, dark eyed; a typical waiter of the old school. Oakes sat down in a chair opposite him.

“Your name Hayden?”

The man nodded. Oakes introduced himself.

“You’re the man that delivered the messages to Myrtle Deronda and Sydney Lanyon last night?”

“Yes, sir”

“I suppose you realize that the message you delivered to Lanyon resulted in his death?”

The question seemed to startle the man.