“Score one for you,” said Bernard at this point.
“Wait a bit, there’s more,” said Landis. “The same neighbor told me that she saw a man like Harrison call at Cuddy’s farm about noon, day before yesterday and stay there about half an hour. He came out in a taxi like mine. Afterwards, when I got back to Great Neck, my driver helped me find the other taxi. The other driver verified Harrison’s description, told me that his ‘fare’ seemed to be in a rage on his way to the Cuddy farm and grim enough when he left, though he didn’t haggle over the price of the ride.”
“Good,” nodded Bernard. “But you went to see Cuddy?”
“Of course, sir! He struck me as an ugly, shifty old brute. His wife is as grim and close-mouthed as he is. They’re not Ethel Graham’s type at all. Anyhow, they admitted readily that she was their daughter, adding that she ran away from home three years ago and they’ve washed their hands of her.”
“Get on, man,” chuckled Bernard, as Landis paused. “What about Hiram’s two visitors?”
“He wouldn’t say one word about them, wouldn’t even admit that they’d been there! I passed myself off as a reporter looking for news about the murder and about the guests in the house at the time, so I couldn’t very well press him about Miss Mount and Harrison. But—I did ask him for Ethel Graham’s birth certificate! They told me they’ve lost it. And that’s all they did tell me.”
“But not all you learned?” Bernard demanded.
“Not quite. I went back to my neighbor who’s been there for years. She told me that Ethel, whom she knew and liked, came to the Cuddy farm first as a child about three years old. She’d been there ever since until she ran away. The old girl I talked to was a warm-hearted party and got quite indignant about the way the Cuddys treated Ethel. I didn’t go back to Cuddy. It seemed better not to rouse his suspicions further and much easier to trace Ethel’s real parentage from this end.”
“You mean—Miss Mount?”