“Why all the agony over just cashing a check?” Drake asked. “That doesn’t amount to so much.”
“That,” Mason said, “is our most significant clue. It amounted to a hell of a lot in this case.”
Phyllis Leeds and John Milicant were waiting in Mason’s reception room when the lawyer returned to his office.
John Milicant, a baldish, black-haired, stocky man in the fifties, walked with an almost imperceptible limp — a slight favoring of his right foot. He shook hands, sat down, crossed well-creased, gray trousers, consulted his wrist watch and said, “Phyllis said you wanted to find out something about Alden Leeds. I’d appreciate it very much if you could rush things. I have an appointment I’m stalling off.”
Mason said, “You understand there’s going to be a family row?”
Milicant nodded. “Of course, Alden is right as a rivet. He’s a little peculiar at times, just a little eccentric. He’s no more crazy than I am.”
“You’ve had an opportunity to observe him during the last few weeks?” Mason asked.
“During the last month mostly,” Milicant said. “I drop in once in a while.”
Phyllis interposed. “Uncle Alden gets a great kick out of John. John’s about the only one who can give him a good fight over the chess board.”
Milicant said, “I don’t know whether he and Sis are going to hit it off or not. I don’t care. It’s up to them. I hope Sis has enough gumption to have it understood she’ll never touch a cent of his money. She doesn’t need it.”