Simpson’s air was one of injury. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not lying,” he answered. “I’m telling you, or am ready to tell you, just what I know, and all I know. You’ve got me where you want me. Is it likely that I’d do anything to get in deeper than I am?”
“Then, tell me about it—everything.”
“Well, it isn’t much, and I didn’t actually see anything. I heard things, though—more than I was intended to, I guess. They tied me up here, and then, while Carter was looking at the money in the suit cases which I had already got in the car, Cray dug over there to make sure that there wasn’t any of it still buried. When he got through, Carter called him to come out, saying that he had something to tell him that he didn’t want me to hear.”
“Where was Carter then?”
“He wasn’t in sight. He had stepped to the corner out there, just back of where the car was. You can see that he could not have been many feet from here, so it was easy enough for me to hear things.”
“Well?”
“Well, Cray went out, leaving the door open behind him. The next thing I knew, I heard a queer sort of dull thud, and pricked up my ears. It sounded as if somebody had been hit, perhaps with a fist, or, more likely, with something else.
“Of course, I didn’t know then which man had done it, but I suspected that Carter had, because he had called Cray out. The blow must have given Cray something to think about, for there was a pause before I heard him say ‘Mr. Carter!’—just like that. He said it as if his best friend had turned on him, and he didn’t know what to make of it. I guess Carter must have tried to hit him again right away, for they had a little tussle. It did not amount to much, because, as I figured it out, Cray must have got a pretty nasty blow that first time, and there wasn’t very much fight in him. He must have done something, however, for the other fellow snarled, ‘Curse you; take that, then!’ and rapped him again, as I could tell by the sound. Still Cray was not down and out. They clinched, apparently, and then Cray muttered something, or whispered it in a hoarse sort of whisper. I couldn’t hear all of it, but it was something about ‘green-eyed.’ That seemed to make Carter more furious than ever, so far as I could tell. He cursed Cray some more, and seemed to strike him again and again. That was the end of it. Carter locked me in then, and I think he dragged Cray around the garage before he drove off.”
Lane Griswold had been listening with all his ears throughout this recital, his face the picture of amazement and incredulity. Incidentally, his keen eyes seemed to search Simpson’s very soul.
The man was a thief, and might easily be a liar as well. What possible motive could he have for lying, however? The millionaire could think of only one, and that seemed far-fetched. It was conceivable, of course, that, despite all the probabilities, John Simpson might have had one or more confederates who had struck down Cray, and carried the loot off to some new place of concealment. In that case, the treasurer’s story might be made up out of whole cloth.