“Miss Millett?”
“Yes. She asked for — Dow. She was all on edge when I told her we hadn’t heard from him. Crying, carrying on—”
“Where was she?”
“I asked her, but all she’d say was, ‘Mister Lanerd’ll know where to find me. Ask him to call me the minute he comes in, please.’” The secretary was close to the crack-up point herself.
That was that. She hadn’t thought about stalling while she had the call traced. Hadn’t said anything about the murder, naturally. Hadn’t even told Hacklin & Co., about the call.
I suggested she do that, gave the usual fatuous advice about taking it easy, told her I’d let her know soon’s I learned anything. After hanging up I had a feeling there were times when the telephone could be an instrument of torture.
Waiting — everybody waiting to hear from Mr. Giveaway. Hacklin, Ruth Moore, Marge Lanerd, not to exclude G. Vine.
“Might relieve your mind to know Tildy Millett isn’t planing to points east, Mrs. Lanerd. She just talked to Miss Moore. It wasn’t long-distance or our operator would have mentioned that before completing the call.”
“She’s with him?” MacGregory asked.
“No. I suppose she has a lot of friends who might put her up.”