“He intended to. He didn’t get that far. His last words — his last futile struggle against his fate — were an effort to tell me where the red box is. I should inform you: Inspector Cramer has a copy of the will, and at this moment scores of police are searching for the box, so if you or your cousin can give me any hint there is no time to lose. It is desirable for me to get the box first. Not to protect the murderer, but I have my own way of doing things — and the police have no client but the electric chair.”
Llewellyn said, “But you say he left it to you, it’s your property...”
“Murder evidence is no one’s property, once the law touches it. No, if Mr. Cramer finds it, the best we can hope for is the role of privileged spectator. So turn your minds back, both of you. Look back at the days, weeks, months, years. Resurrect, if you can, some remark of Mr. McNair’s, some forgotten gesture, perhaps of irritation or embarrassment at being interrupted, perhaps the hurried closing of a drawer, or the unintentional disclosure of a hiding-place. A remark by someone else who may have had knowledge of it. Some action of Mr. McNair’s, unique or habitual, at the time unexplained...”
Llewellyn was slowly shaking his head. Helen said, “Nothing. I’ll try to think, but I’m sure there’s nothing I can remember like that.”
“That’s too bad. Keep trying. Of course the police are ransacking his apartment and his place of business. Had he preempted any other spot of earth or water? A garage, a boat, a place in the country?”
Llewellyn was looking at his cousin with inquiring brows. She nodded. “Yes. Glennanne. A little cottage with a few acres of land up near Brewster.”
“Glennanne?”
“Yes. His wife’s name was Anne and his daughter’s was Glenna.”
“Did he own it?”
“Yes. He bought it about six years ago.”