“I did. Russell is supposed to have a reasonable income. His guess was about ten thousand a year. He says Russell lives well beyond it, is known to be entertaining his fiancée lavishly, is supposed to be hard-pressed for cash and is rumored to have raised one fairly large loan at very large interest on the strength of his announced engagement to Isabelle Harrison!”
Landis sat up.
“Damn it, they’ve all got motives!” he groaned. “Maybe the whole household got together and cooked the thing up!”
“Maybe you’re crazy!” grunted Bernard. “What’s your news? What about Cuddy?”
“Did you get any dope on Harrison’s past and where he went on Monday and Saturday?” Landis countered.
“Nothing of much interest. He’s been in a couple of shady deals before he got rich. On Monday he stayed here in town, took two hours for lunch, went back to the office and home at the usual time. Nobody here saw him on Saturday at all.”
“My yarn is longer and more interesting,” said Landis.
“Spin it, then. Every dog barks in his own yard!”
With a laugh, Landis plunged into his story. He had obtained Cuddy’s address and a brief description of him from the post office where he sometimes called for his mail. The station master at Great Neck had sold Cuddy a return trip to New York on Friday morning and seen him depart at once. A porter had seen him come back late that night. No one in town had seen him on Saturday, where he was known in at least one store as a surly and miserly old skinflint.
Landis had taken a taxi in Great Neck and driven inland to the little group of farms of which Hiram Cuddy owned one. Before visiting the man he had learned from local gossip that a woman answering the description of Miss Mount had been looking for Cuddy on Thursday and had been directed to his house. He was known to be at home at the time.