“Jake said that he confided in him hoping that Mr. Parsons could catch Edward Rodgers tripping some day and send him to the ‘pen,’” she replied.
“Did your husband place any faith in Jake’s yarn?” he asked. “A cornered crook, like a cornered cat, will fight—and lie.”
“On his death-bed?” She shook her head. “I think not. What had Jake to gain then?”
“Well, did your husband take any steps in exposing the second will?” asked Mitchell.
“My husband,” her expression altered to one of deep sadness, “was killed in an automobile accident shortly after.”
“Oh,” Mitchell coughed slightly to cover his embarrassment. “Oh.”
“Amos often discussed his cases with me,” she added. “And Gentleman Jake’s statements had aroused him to an unusual degree. He was thunderstruck at the effrontery of the crime and at its cleverness.”
“It was a clever scheme,” acknowledged Mitchell, “and probably succeeded through its very boldness. But, pardon me, Madam, you have brought forward no proof to substantiate your story.”
“I am coming to that.” Mrs. Parsons rose and walking over to a closet, beckoned to the inspector. Opening the door, she knelt down before a small safe used to hold her table silver. From one of its compartments she took out a worn envelope.
“I forgot to tell you,” she stated, shutting the door of the safe, “that the fellow convict who gave the tip to Gentleman Jake was up for burglary. Some time previous to his arrest he had entered Edward Rodgers’ apartment in San Francisco and, among other things, stolen these papers. He sent them to my husband when released from the ‘pen.’ See for yourself,” and she handed the envelope to Mitchell.