“See here, Smith,” he began, halting in front of the “boss,” “I may as well come out flat-footed and tell you I’ve never been satisfied with all these stories and speculations concerning the disappearance of my brother-in-law a year ago.”
“You mean this young feller’s father?”
“Yes. I married his sister. I don’t know as you’ve heard that young Oliver Baxter and his father were not on very good terms. They quarreled a great deal. This nephew of mine has got murderous instincts. He threw rocks at me once. He’s got an ungovernable temper. He—”
“I’ve heard all that bunk about a gypsy or somebody like that prophesying he’d be hung. It’s bunk.”
“I agree with you. I took no stock in that gypsy’s prophecy at the time, and I never have. But, as I say, I’m not satisfied with things. It’s mighty queer that a man like Oliver Baxter could disappear off of the face of the earth and never be heard of again. Most people believe he’s alive—hiding somewhere—but I don’t believe it for a minute. He’s dead. He died that night a year ago when he had his last row with his son. And, what’s more to the point, I am here to say I don’t believe his son has told all he knows about the—er—the matter.”
He waited to see what effect this statement would have on the chairman. Mr. Smith’s eyes narrowed.
“Say, what are you trying to get at, Mr. Gooch? Are you thinking of charging that boy with—with having had a hand in—”
“I’m not charging anything,” snapped Mr. Gooch. “I’m only saying what I believe, and that is that Oliver is holding something back. If my poor brother-in-law is dead, I want to know it. I’m not saying there was foul play, mind you. But I do say it’s possible he might have made way with himself that night, and that Oliver may know when and how he did it.”
“Well,” said Smith slowly, “that comes pretty near to being a charge, doesn’t it, Mr. Gooch?”
“You can call it what you please. All I’ve got to say is that I’m not satisfied, and I’m going to the bottom of this business if it’s possible to do so.” He sat down again.