“Not positive,” Phyllis said, looking at Barry, kindly. “It isn’t sure that Mr Barry killed Mr Gleason, just because he wrote this note—is it, Mr Prescott?”
“Looks mighty like it,” the detective returned. “But we’ll listen to what he has to say. You wrote this?”
“I did not!” and Barry’s eyes flashed ominously. “I tell you I never saw it before.”
“That is your signature?”
“It looks like it, I admit, but it can’t be, for I never wrote that letter. Where’d you get it?”
“In Mr Gleason’s desk. At his apartment. As you see, it’s dated the day before the murder took place, it’s—to say the least—a bit incriminating. What’s your explanation?”
“I haven’t any—I——”
“Wait a minute, Mr Barry.” Prescott spoke seriously. “Here’s a threatening note, signed by yourself, written on your Club paper to Mr Gleason. Unless you can prove that signature forged, I think your denial of any knowledge of this document cannot be believed.”
“Believe it or not,” Barry stormed, “I tell you I never wrote that. I never saw it! I don’t know anything about it! I’ve been out investigating the case, getting evidence and all that, and I came back here with it and you thrust that thing at me! I tell you it’s a forgery! Somebody’s trying to get me into this thing—but the game can’t be worked!”
“Will you sign your name, Mr Barry?” Prescott asked quietly.