“I know all of them.”
“Come along then.” George Clarendon rose from his chair. Clyde Burke followed, and a few minutes later the two men were riding in a cab to police headquarters.
“The police have two letters from Chatham to Wilkinson,” Burke mentioned as they traveled along Broadway. “Those and the note are being held. I think we can get a look at them.”
CLARENDON nodded, but said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought. He remained silent until they arrived at headquarters.
Burke led the way into the building. He inquired for Detective Steve Lang, and when the man appeared, Burke introduced him to George Clarendon.
“Whatcha doing now, Clyde?” the detective asked Burke.
“Newspaper correspondent,” replied the ex-reporter tersely. “Thought I might be able to send out some dope on this Wilkinson murder. Say! Could you let me see that note and those letters that Chatham wrote—”
“Can’t let you see the originals,” replied Lang, “but we’ve got photostats. All the police reporters have seen them. You’re one of the crowd. You can have a look at them.”
He conducted the two men into the office, and produced the photostats.
He pointed out the fact that Horace Chatham’s note was dated on the twenty-third, indicating that it might have been written after midnight. He also made a brief comparison between the signatures on the letters and that on the note.