“I’m glad I’m here, though. They can stand help.” Duff thought a moment. “Do you believe it’s possible that all the rumpus could come from Ellings’ merely moving that box around?”
“What about seeing the big man in New York?”
“Sure. That. I’ve got to tell the FBI that — and take a razz, probably. But if all the rest of it isn’t coincidence — if it was just Ellings’ platinum hoard — then two extra-tall men could be coincidence.”
“Could be,” Scotty agreed with grim sympathy.
“Only—” Duff shrugged and began again. “Only I had a feeling that there was something about that empty warehouse that meant something. I got one of those spooky impressions. Whatever it was, I can’t bring it up to view in my mind. Tried, off and on, all the way down here.”
Scotty removed his jacket; New York clothes were too warm even for the early sunshine. He sat down on the grass. “You can be certain, if what you suspected had been going on, that it would take a big organization. Brains. Imagination. Planning. Either there is a mob engaged in a very elaborate routine or else nothing was happening. Harry was a hoarder whose, heart failed, and a branch hit you, period. The thing that gets me is, if any such thing is going on, why hasn’t anybody, anywhere, got onto any of it, so the FBI or General Baines — would have some notion?”
“Maybe I’ve wasted a lot of your time, Scotty. And more than a hundred borrowed bucks.”
“Forget it!” Scotty grinned and got up; he stretched and walked down the drive to the place where the sleeping cabdriver had parked in the shade.
At ten, Duff presented himself in the office of the FBI.
Higgins listened, somewhat dazedly, to Duff’s account of the trip to New York. When Duff finished, the first thing he said was, “Haven’t you got any sense at all?”