It might have been the doctor,” she added doubtfully.
“I just thought I’d better warn you.
Won’t you come in again?”
She was clearly disappointed when we refused.
She must have had many lonely evenings, poor soul, and to entertain Judy would have been a real thrill; Judy Somers, whose pictures were often in the New York evening papers and in the smarter magazines.
“I’ve got some sandwiches,” she said.
“Thanks, no.
I never eat at night.”
She saw us out, rather forlornly.
“If anything turns up, I’ll let you know.”
“Please do.
You’ve been wonderful.”
She brightened at that, and the last we saw of her she was peering around the half-closed front door, loath to go back to her untasted sandwiches, to her loneliness and her wakeful nights.
We found the car around the corner where we had left it, but not until we were in my bedroom with the door locked did Judy produce that scrap of paper.
And then it turned out to be completely unintelligible.
Neatly typed, on thin copy paper was this:
“Clock dial.
Five o’clock right.
Seven o’clock left.
Press on six.”
“Clock dial!” said Judy.
“What clock?
There’s something in a clock somewhere, but that’s as far as I go.
It wasn’t her clock.
She didn’t have one.
As far as I can make out, we’re exactly where we started!”
Which turned out to be very nearly a precise statement of the situation.
Chapter Twelve
JUST WHEN AMOS DISCOVERED that his carpet was missing from the car I do not know.
With Jim in bed the car was not in use, and it may have been a couple of days before he missed it, or even more.
I hardly think he suspected me, although he may have.
But some time before Sunday he saw Wallie and told him.
Just why he should have told him I do not know.
Certainly he believed Jim Blake to be the guiltiest wretch unhung, but we also know that he had a queer affection for him.
Maybe Wallie questioned him; Wallie had his own problem to solve, and he may have gone to Amos.
The result, however, was an extremely unpleasant interview between Wallie and myself a day or two after Judy had found the paper.
I know now that he was frightened, terrified beyond any power of mine to imagine, and with Wallie as with other nervous persons anxiety took the form of anger.
He stalked into the house then late on Sunday afternoon, looking so strange that at first I thought he had been drinking again.
“Do you mind if I close the door?” he demanded.
“I’ve got some things to say that you may not want overheard.”
“Then I’d better leave it open.
I don’t care for any more secrets, or any scenes.”
“Very well,” he said savagely.
“It’s you I’m trying to protect.”
But he slammed the door shut, nevertheless, and then confronted me.
“I’ve got to know something.
Of all the damnable, outrageous messes—! Did you or did you not take the rug out of Jim Blake’s car the other night?”
“Why?
Is it missing?”
“You know damned well it’s missing.”