Or hire an ambulance!
He’s coming for the funeral, isn’t he?”
I sat down. My knees were shaking.
Dick looked at his watch.
“What time does the night watchman come on duty?”
“I haven’t an idea.”
“Well, he’s the boy to see.”
I made up my mind then to tell him about Mary and the glass, and I did so.
He listened attentively, but when I told him she had actually found the card, and that I was not certain she had thrown anything from the window, he made rather light of it.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
“Now either we’ve got another crime or we haven’t.
In the first place, who would want to kill a man who had only a few months to live anyhow?
But grant that.
Grant that there was poison in the glass.
Something quick, like cyanide.
First we have to admit that Howard Somers, drinking a highball, is talking to some one he knows, and trusts.
He’s not scared. He’s drinking a highball.
But you’ve got to go further; you’ve got to figure that Mary Martin knew he was going to be murdered, and how.
Yet she warns Judy that he’s not to be left alone at night.
Only did she do that?”
“I haven’t an idea,” I said dismally.
“I suppose there’s no chance of a post-mortem?”
“Not unless we told Mrs. Somers; and not then.
It’s her brother who is involved.”
Naturally we said nothing to Judy of all this, and the day passed quietly enough, people coming and going, more flowers, and Mary keeping her neat entries and moving decorously about. Once I caught her eyes on me, a curious speculative look in them, and I thought she was depressed all of that day.
Late in the afternoon she asked to be allowed to go home for the night, and I told her to go.
She remained to dinner and left at nine o’clock, and at nine-fifteen Dick called me on the telephone.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m at a drug store around the corner. I wanted to tell you; there may be something in what we discussed today.”
“Yes?”
“The lady in question—do you get that?”
“Yes.
All right.”
“She’s been interviewing the night watchman.
Interesting, isn’t it?
Just thought I’d tell you, so you can keep an eye on things.”
He hung up the receiver, and I was left to make of that what I could.
I remember that Alex Davis was there that night. Howard’s attorney.
He was settled comfortably in the library with a glass of old port at his elbow, and what with the port and probably an excellent dinner tucked away, he was unusually talkative.
A fat man, Alex Davis, with small sharp black eyes set in a broad expanse of face.
“I suppose you know,” he said, “that there will be a great deal of money.
More, I fancy, than any one realizes.
Poor Howard was a secretive man.”
“I suppose he left a will?”
“Yes.
A very fair one, I think.
He’s taken care of the servants and certain charities, and there is provision too for Mrs. Somers’ brother.”
“And Wallie?” I asked.
He cleared his throat.
“He has already done a good bit for Wallie.
Certain businesses which failed, and last summer certain notes to be paid.