They had a definite suspect, then. And they proposed to experiment with my memory. Well, I was ready, whenever they were.
Norah and I went into the third room, Hudson making no objection. At another time we would have been deeply interested in the pictures and the furnishings but now we had eyes and thoughts only for one thing.
We looked behind the war map and saw the elevator door, but could not open it.
“The car’s down,” spoke up Hudson, who was watching us sharply. “I dunno will it ever be used again. Though I suppose these rooms will be let to somebody else, some time. Mr. Gately’s things here will be sent to his house, I expect, but his estate is a big one and will take a deal of settling.”
“Who’s his executor?”
“Mr. Pond, his lawyer. But his financial affairs are all right. Nothing crooked about Amos Gately—financially. You can bank on that!”
“How, then?” I asked, for the tone implied a mental reservation.
“I’m not saying. But they do say every man has a secret side to his life, and why should Mr. Gately be a lone exception?”
“A woman?” asked Norah, always harking back to her basic suspicion.
Foxy Jim Hudson favored her with that blank stare which not infrequently was his answer to an unwelcome question, and which, perhaps, had a share in earning him his sobriquet.