“Yes.”
“And Carter didn’t know Ringold was going to sell me that last bunch of letters?”
“No. Ringold did that on his own. Carter was suspicious, that’s all. He didn’t dare fall down on the job of putting those letters in the district attorney’s hands. Your stepmother meant more to him than Crumweather.”
She thought for a minute. “Where are you taking me now?” she asked.
“To the Commons Building. I want to talk with Mr. Fischler’s secretary,” I said, grinning, “and instruct her to hold out for ten thousand dollars before she surrenders certain certificates of stock and options in a mining company.”
Alta said, “Donald, are you going to stick them for that much?”
“All the traffic will bear,” I promised.
We reached the Commons Building and went to the Fischler Sales Office. Elsie Brand hastily slammed a desk drawer shut on a magazine as I opened the door. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”
I introduced Alta Ashbury. I could see that Elsie was impressed.
“When that salesman comes in,” I said, “tell him that Mr. Fischler is in conference out of the office, that he’s going to call in, in about fifteen minutes; that you can talk with him over the telephone, but he absolutely won’t take message from anyone else; and that he doesn’t expect to be in the office for two or three days.”