The Girl Who Knew Too Much(38)

“Prostitutes?”

“As I was saying, my boys tell me Tremayne was at the Carousel before he showed up here.”

“All right.” Irene made a few quick notes. “Please go on.”

“Tremayne had obviously been drinking when he arrived. My bartenders tell me he drank steadily throughout the evening, danced with every attractive woman in the room, and seemed to enjoy the entertainment.”

Irene looked up quickly. “Are you saying that he was in sight of one of your people at all times?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?” Irene demanded.

“As far as I can determine, none of my people actually saw Tremayne between approximately eleven forty-five and twelve thirty.”

Irene tensed. “He disappeared?”

“That’s a matter of interpretation.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“When he returned to the bar to order another drink, there was a woman with him. Both were somewhat . . . disheveled.”

Irene got a blank expression. “Disheveled? As if they had been involved in some sort of violence? I never considered the possibility that there might have been two people in the spa last night.”

Oliver stifled a small sigh. Irene was so obsessed with proving that murder had been done that she had missed Luther’s attempt to be diplomatic.

Luther caught his eye, one brow cocked inquiringly. Oliver shook his head and gave him a don’t-expect-any-help-from-me, I’m-just-a-bystander look.

Amused, Luther turned back to Irene.

“The lady’s hair was mussed and her lipstick was smeared. The back of her dress was partially unfastened. Tremayne had a smudge of lipstick on the side of his face. His hair was tousled. His tie was undone. Allowances should be made, however. It isn’t easy to tie a bow tie without a mirror.”

Irene flushed. “I see. In other words, Nick Tremayne and the lady were out in the garden during the time frame when no one saw them inside the club.”

“Yes,” Luther said.

Irene tapped her pencil against the notebook and looked grim. “I was so sure.”

“I’m sorry,” Luther said.

He said it almost gently, as though he genuinely regretted not being of more assistance.

Oliver set his unfinished drink aside, tightened his grip on his cane, and moved to stand at the window. He looked down into the walled garden. Although there were lights scattered around the enclosed space, the thick foliage created deep pockets of shadow.

It would be so easy to disappear into the darkness, he thought. It was emerging back into the light that was the hard part.

“Mr. Ward?” Irene said rather sharply. “Oliver? Is something wrong?”

He refocused on the problem of how to pull off the illusion.

“It wouldn’t be all that difficult to get out of this garden by going over the wall or even through the delivery gate at the rear,” he said.

Irene moved quickly to stand beside him. Luther approached from the opposite side. Together the three of them looked down into the shadows.

“It’s really quite dark in several places along the wall, isn’t it?” Irene said. There was a thread of excitement in her voice. “Tremayne appears to be a physically fit man. I’ll bet he could climb over it.”

“Probably not without the aid of a rope or ladder, but it wouldn’t be hard to get hold of one or the other,” Oliver said. “I imagine there are any number of handy items available in the gardening shed.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true,” Luther said. For the first time he sounded troubled. “But the delivery gate is always locked when not in use.”

Oliver glanced at him. “Keys are easy enough to snag and replace, as I discovered last night at the spa.”

Luther grimaced. “There is also the faint but very real possibility that Tremayne managed to persuade someone on my staff to assist him.”

“So there are ways he could have escaped this club without being seen,” Irene said.

Oliver looked at Luther and then turned back to Irene. “As a rule, Luther and I have a problem keeping would-be trespassers such as the press and party crashers out of our establishments. Our guests certainly aren’t prisoners. Our security is designed to protect them, not keep them from escaping.”

“Regardless of how he got out, it would only take a few minutes for Tremayne to drive to the hotel and back, right?” Irene said.

Luther looked at Oliver and then shrugged. “It would be tight but I suppose it could be done. It would take some advance planning, though.”

Irene confronted them, her notebook tightly clutched in one hand. Her eyes were brilliant with a feverish excitement. A whisper of dread ignited Oliver’s senses. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get herself killed.