“Either Middleton refused, or did not arrive as expected,” the man at the desk ignored the interruption. “I incline to the latter opinion.”
“Why?”
“Because I called up Middleton’s town house, and they told me that he was still away, and not expected to return. They said that they didn’t know where he was.”
“Well,” commented Burke, “it looks plain enough. Andrews needed dough. That’s why he killed himself. But, of course” — he hesitated thoughtfully — “there may be some other reason in back of it. A man isn’t too quick to take his own life.”
“What about this case, Clyde?” asked Mann, changing the subject.
HE drew a clipping from the desk drawer. Burke looked at it. The account was a few days old. It told of a small motor boat found adrift in Long Island Sound. The owner, a sportsman named Dale Wharton, was missing. It was assumed that he had fallen overboard and drowned.
“There may be a mystery here,” observed Burke. “They’re expecting the body to turn up any time, now. When they find it, there may be a clew.
“Wharton started out at night, alone, for a run over to Connecticut. Left Long Island; that’s all they know about him.”
Mann nodded.
“A peculiar case,” he said, “and there’s another one that the newspapers know nothing about. A young man, rather prominent socially, has been missing for approximately two months.”