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Nils Bruner. A year later she got mixed up with a swing trumpet-player known as Riff Sprott, who took veronal when she walked out on him, but he didn’t die.”
    “They stomach-pumped him!” put in Iris helpfully.
    “Nils Bruner and Riff Sprott,” mused Miss Withers. “Something to go on.”
    “You won’t go very far,” Iris said. “When Midge was through with a man she was through. I don’t think she ever saw Bruner after his wife got the divorce—she never mentioned his name when I was rooming with her. And Riff Sprott got tired of calling her up about six months before she died. Somebody said he even made an honest woman out of the canary who sang with his band. So—”
    Miss Withers said, “Now don’t let’s be so quick to eliminate suspects. We must explore a little further. By the way, who was backing Midge in her fling at being Miss Brooklyn?”
    “Just some old stuffy club,” Iris offered.
    “The Bigger Flatbush Business Boosters,” Natalie elaborated.
    “But a club is only a group of men,” the schoolteacher said sharply. “And men are putty in the hands of a beautiful animal like Midge Harrington. Now wasn’t there one who took a special interest in promoting her career?” But Iris only shook her head.
    “I happened to see one of the club checks one day when I was in my husband’s office,” said Natalie. “It was countersigned by a man named Zotos, George Zotos.”
    “Oh, him !” Iris laughed. “Old Georgie-Porgie, Midge always called him. He was harmless as a cocker spaniel. Besides, he was old—over forty at least.”
    Miss Withers pointed out that there is no age limit on the sowing of wild oats. “We must include Mr. Zotos in our list. Bruner, Sprott, and Zotos. Too bad we can’t get the spook of Midge Harrington to point an ectoplasmic finger at the right one.”
    “I’m afraid Marika can’t guarantee any such results …” Natalie began.
    “I was entirely serious, though perhaps Marika will be helpful to us at some stage of the investigation, if only to throw a scare into the suspects. The murderer, of course, thinks he’s got away with it, and that when Rowan pays the penalty it will be a perfect murder. But he still must be jittery. I wonder if this might not be the time to try psychological methods? Suppose someone were to call on each of our suspects on some pretext or other and then suddenly mention the dead girl’s name? The killer might give himself away by his reaction.”
    Natalie choked over another brandy. “What? Oh, I could never get by with anything like that, I’m no actress.”
    “ I’m an actress,” Iris admitted. “At least I’m a member of Equity. But don’t forget I saw Midge in the morgue. Not for all the tea in China would I risk my lily-white neck by snuggling up to her killer.” She shuddered elegantly.
    Miss Withers arose, then stood bracing herself against the pull of Talleyrand, who was as usual eager to be off. “That rather leaves it up to me, does it not?”
    Mrs. Rowan breathlessly announced that she would gladly pay a reward of ten, no twenty thousand dollars to anyone who would get to the truth of the matter!
    “I’ll do my best,” promised the schoolteacher. “Not for the money—I still have my amateur standing. But I have an inbred weakness for longshots and lost causes. And justice, even in these worsening times, is justice.” She marched out of the room, dog and all, to what seemed the distant roll of drums and fanfare of trumpets. The outer door slammed.
    The two women sat a little dazed in their chairs. “Golly!” exploded Iris. “I saw it but I don’t believe it! That incredible dog with a hair-ribbon in its bangs—and her hat, like a kid’s kite caught on a telephone pole!”
    “It’s what’s under the hat that counts,” said Natalie Rowan thoughtfully. “She may seem to you a preposterous character, but I’ve heard that she can wind that Inspector at Centre Street around her little finger. And somehow