She translates and decodes all cables and telegrams.
She went to Muir’s office around a quarter after four, during his absence, with a decoded message, and waited there while Muir’s stenographer went to her own room to type a copy of it.”
“Has she been with you long?”
“Three years.
A little over”
“Did she know the money was there?”
“She probably knew it was in Muir’s office.
Two days previously she had handled a cablegram giving instructions for the payment.”
“But you think she didn’t take it.”
Perry opened his mouth and closed it again.
I put the eye on him.
He didn’t look as if he was really undecided; it seemed rather that he was hunting for the right words. I waited and looked him over.
He had clever, careful, blue-gray eyes, a good jaw but a little too square for comfort, hair no grayer than it should be considering be must have been over sixty, a high forehead with a mole on the right temple, and a well-kept healthy skin.
Not a layout that you would ordinarily regard as hideous, but at that moment I wasn’t observing it with great favor, because it seemed likely that there was something phony about the pie he was inviting me to stick my finger into; and I give low marks to a guy that asks you to help him work a puzzle and then holds out one of the pieces on you.
I don’t mind looking for the fly in a client’s ointment, but why throw in a bunch of hornets?
Perry finally spoke.
“In spite of appearances, I am personally of the opinion that Clara Fox did not take that money.
It would be a great shock to me to know that she did, and the proof would have to be unassailable.”
“What does she say about it?”
“She hasn’t been asked.
Nothing has been said, except to Arbuthnot, Miss Vawter—the executive reception clerk—and Muir’s stenographer.
I may as well tell you, Muir wanted to send for the police this morning, and I restrained him.”
“Maybe Miss Vawter took it.”
“She has been with us eighteen years.
I would sooner suspect myself.
Besides, someone is constantly passing in the corridor.
If she left her desk even for a minute it would be noticed.”
“How old is Clara Fox?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Oh.
A bit junior, huh?
For such a responsible position.
Married?”
“No.
She is a remarkably competent person.”
“Do you know anything of her habits?
Does she collect diamonds or frolic with the geegees?”
Perry stared at me.
I said, “Does she bet on horse races?”
He frowned.
“Not that I know of.
I am not personally intimate with her, and I have not had her spied on.”
“How much does she get and how do you suppose she spends it?”
“Her salary is thirty-six hundred.
So far as I know, she lives sensibly and respectably.
She has a small flat somewhere, I believe, and she has a little car—I have seen her driving it.
She—I understand she enjoys the theater.”
“Uh-huh.”
I flipped back a page of my notebook and ran my eye over it.
“And this Mr. Muir who leaves his drawer unlocked with thirty grand inside—might he have been caught personally with his financial pants down and made use of the money himself?”