“Yet you think he was a suicide.”
“A suicide often cries out for help when it is too late to back out. But of course—I can’t say for sure.”
“You’re mistaken in that, Slatterly.” Van Hope drew himself together with a perceptible effort. “I’ve known this man for years—and in the end, you’ll see it isn’t suicide. He wasn’t the type that commits suicide. He’s young, he’d be getting himself together to meet that Blair gang that ruined him and chase ’em into their holes. The suicide theory is far-fetched, at best.”
“It may be,” the sheriff agreed. “I only wish there could be some light thrown on this affair——”
“There will be, Slatterly.” Marten’s voice dropped almost to a monotone. “This is too big a deal for one man—or two men either. We’ve been talking, and we’ve decided to send for some one to help you out.”
“You have, eh?” Slatterly stiffened. “If I need help I can send through my own channels—get some state or national detectives——”
“That’s all right. Get ’em if you want to. The more the better. But you haven’t got any help yet—even the district attorney has failed to come and won’t come for at least a day or two more. We’ve got a private detective in mind—one of the biggest in America. His name’s Lacone—you’ve heard of him. It won’t be an official matter at all. Van Hope is hiring him—a wholly private enterprise. I know you’ll all be glad to have his co-operation.”
“If it’s a private venture, I have nothing further to say,” Slatterly told him stiffly. “When do you expect him?”
“He’s operating in the Middle West. He can’t possibly make it until day after to-morrow——”
“Twenty-four hours, eh?”