“What did she tell you about Hocksley?”
“Nothing much I didn’t know already. She got all of her work from wax cylinders. Hocksley dictated at night, and spent most of the day in bed.”
“Sleeping all day?”
“No. He’d be in his room. He’d get up along in the afternoon and read the papers, have coffee and toast, and sometimes do a little dictation.”
“To the machine?”
“Yes. Mrs. Perlin, the housekeeper, was the only one to go in and out of Hocksley’s room. She’d wait on him as soon as he wakened, bringing him the work Opal Sunley had typed, bringing out cylinders for Opal to transcribe, taking him his meals — the newspapers — sometimes sitting in there and talking with him. Opal could hear the hum of low-pitched conversation.”
“Any heart throbs between Hocksley and the housekeeper?” Della Street asked.
“Opal says she doesn’t know.”
“She considers it’s a possibility then?” Della Street asked.
“Apparently a very definite possibility.”