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“So, they both confessed falsely?” Varant blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. Long, tapered fingers rolled the cigarette back and forth. Mesmerizing.
I managed to pull my attention back to the matter at hand. “Yes. Quite. You see, Beau—that’s the saxophonist—and Josette have been having an affair ever since Musgrave brought her over from Paris. Unfortunately, there’s a wrench in the works. Musgrave wants Josette to pay him in kind, if you get my meaning. And he doesn’t want competition.”
Varant made an expression of distaste. “Appalling behavior.”
“Indeed. Not the least bit gentlemanly. Then again, Musgrave was no gentleman. In any case, after she got that mysterious note, Josette was afraid Musgrave would find out about them and kill Beau.”
“She warned him.”
“Naturally.” I took a sip of my highball. A little on the spicy side. Still, I soldiered on. “When she found Musgrave dead backstage, she assumed Beau had done it. And when he confessed, she was sure of it. So she confessed in an attempt to save him.”
“I’m assuming Beau confessed in the first place because he thought she’d done it.”
“Exactly. He was going to confront Musgrave between sets, but apparently couldn’t find him.” I frowned. “Which is baffling, seeing as how Musgrave wasn’t exactly hiding. He was merely in Helena’s office. But whatever. The point is, the two idiots confessed in order to save each other, but it’s clear that neither of them could have shot Musgrave. I heard the shot at twenty minutes past one, and Josette was already back on stage and Beau was out front.” A sudden thought occurred. “You know what’s odd?”
“Aside from what you’ve just told me, I’ve no idea,” Varant said languidly, dangling a martini from one hand. “Do tell.” He gave me that smoldering look of which he was so infamous. I ignored him, although I couldn’t help the heady buzz that zinged through my body.
“Helena. She wouldn’t have been late.”
He blinked slowly. “Sorry. Don’t follow.”
“The note Musgrave wrote. He said he couldn’t wait any longer, but according to his watch—which was smashed at the time of death—she was only late by perhaps five minutes. That’s not that long.”
Varant grew thoughtful. “No. It’s not. I would have certainly waited five minutes. Longer, if it were important.”
“Exactly,” I said, excitement making my heart race. “He was very insistent the night before about their meeting. Why would he have given up so quickly? Besides, she was right there at the club. He could have sent the manager to get her or something. I need to see that note again.”
“The police likely have it.”
“I don’t suppose you could pull a few strings again.” The fact that Varant had so far supported my machinations only bolstered his appeal as far as I was concerned.
He smiled slowly, bedroom eyes darkening. “Perhaps.”
––––––––
“HERE YOU GO.” NORTH dropped the note in front of me.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” Varant said in his perfectly proper accent. “I’ll be sure to mention this to the Commissioner.”
North grimaced, but didn’t say anything. Smart man.
I carefully inspected the note, frowning a little as I compared the date and time to the handwriting in the note. “Detective, did you notice the time?”
“Of course. One nineteen. A minute before death.” He said, clearly considered the smashed pocket watch the last word in time of death.
“But look at this.” I tapped the page. “The date and the note itself... it seems different from the time. See, the numbers are thicker. A different size. And here, the date. The zeros are a bit different. Barely noticeable.”
North squinted at the paper, opened his desk drawer, and drew out a magnifying glass. “By jove. You’re correct.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“I don’t think these were written by the same person.”
“Nor do I,” North admitted, albeit with obvious reluctance.
“It seems unusual, don’t you think, that Mr. Musgrave would leave a note in the first place?” I suggested. “I mean, he and Helena were supposed to meet during the first set so he could go over the books. And clearly, he was already going over the books during the first set. Why would he write a note about being unable to wait? And then add the time, as well?”
“It is dashed strange,” Varant agreed.
North mumbled something unintelligible, but it was clear to me that he was forced to agree, too. “The whole thing is dashed strange,” he added.
“We need to talk to Mabel again,” I said.
“Who the deuce is Mabel?” North demanded.
“Really, Detective Inspector, I would have thought you’d have talked to her right away. Mabel is the dresser at the club. And, in my experience, people like Mabel know everything.”