“I’m not sure about that, but I mean the elevator girls, the telephone girls, the news-stand girls and the pages. I don’t know anything about the upstairs maids, chambermaids, cleaners, and such. But there’s been no suggestion of those.”
“Why should there be?” said Bates, impatiently. “I know myself, no stupid little servant killed my uncle. It was done by some one with brains, with power, with influence. He was not a man to be killed for some petty reason; he was a man of big interests in a business way, and of wide experience socially. His murderers—or murderesses—must be found, but I don’t think we’ve got on the right track yet.”
“And do you think Crippen is a promising way to look?” asked Vail, scrutinizing Bates’ anxious face.
“I don’t know. But he was mixed up in the Bun matter; he hadn’t finished the deal, as you had, and as one or two other companies had, and it seems to me he ought to be looked up, at least, before we go on.”
“I’ve looked him up,” and Wise’s form came into view around the corner of the hall. He joined the group that still stood by the door of the Binney apartment. “I’ve looked into the Crippen connection with the Bun deal, and there’s nothing doing. Binney and Crippen were on the outs but not because of Buns. They were settled some time before the murder. Still, Crippen did want the recipe, and was willing to buy that without the bakery or any paraphernalia of the business.”
“Is that so?” and Vail seemed interested. “Wouldn’t Binney sell that?”
“I’m told not.”
“Who told you?”
“Crippen’s people,—down at his office. I talked with a secretary, and I’ve talked with some of the ‘Crippen’s Cakes’ directors. They want the recipe and nothing else.”
“Queer,” mused Zizi, “that a recipe should be so valuable! Why can’t they buy a bun and analyze it, and so find out how it’s made?”