Judd snapped, “What is it?”
“A gentleman, sir—” The man was approaching with a salver in his hand.
“I’m busy. I’m not here. For anyone.”
“Yes, sir. But he insists—”
“Who is it? Here — bring it here!”
The salver was there, and Judd took the card and frowned at it. His eyes narrowed, bored holes in the card, and then lifted to Fox as he extended the card in his hand. Fox took it and saw what it said:
Fox met the ominous gleam of suspicion and accusation in the narrowed eyes and spoke to it:
“No.”
“If you’re playing—”
“I said no.” Fox returned the card. “Why don’t we have him in? After all, I only came to inquire about the offer Consolidated Cereals was making to buy out the business. Perhaps.” He smiled.
“I would prefer — you can wait in another room—”
The two pairs of eyes met, clashed, and decided the issue. Judd curtly told the man to bring the caller up, and the man went.
“Probably,” Fox speculated, “they’ve discovered somehow that you were the mysterious Mr. Brown of Tuesday morning. They’re thorough as the devil on that kind of thing. Your handling of that is of course your own business, but if I may offer a little advice, don’t repeat in Damon’s presence your suggestion about my waiting in another room. It might be embarrassing, because I don’t intend to.”
Guthrie Judd, gently and rhythmically rubbing the tips of his fingers against each other, made no reply, and no other movement or sound until he turned his head at the opening of the door, and arose to greet the visitor.
Inspector Damon crossed the room and, when he saw that a hand was going to be offered, shifted a leather bag he was carrying from his right to his left, to be able to accept the courtesy. Fox, also on his feet, was inwardly amused as well as impressed by the complete lack of surprise or curiosity resulting from his own, surely unexpected, presence. When his turn came he extended a hand.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
“Hello, Fox. How are you?” There was not even conventional cordiality in Damon’s voice, and his eyes were not even more morose than usual. He turned back: “I’m sorry to have to break in on you, Mr. Judd.”
“Quite all right,” said Judd crisply. “Sit down. What can I do for you?”
“Why—” Damon shot a glance at Fox. “I’m afraid I have to discuss a very confidential matter with you. If you want to finish your business with Mr. Fox first, I can wait—”
“No no. A confidential matter? Go ahead. I’ve found — that Fox’s discretion can be trusted. Go right ahead.”
“I would much prefer,” Damon insisted, “to discuss it with you privately.”
“But I wouldn’t,” said Judd sharply. He sat down. “Please get it over with, Inspector. You were admitted, at a moment when I am fairly busy, as a courtesy due your position. Please tell me what you want.”
“I assure you, Mr. Judd, you may regret—”
“I never regret anything.”
Damon gave it up, sat down and placed a leather bag on the floor in front of him, and hunched over and released the catches and opened it. He straightened up to look at Judd:
“A parcel post package addressed to me by name was delivered at police headquarters at five o’clock this afternoon. It was mailed at 34th Street this morning. Wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, address handprinted with a lead pencil.” He bent and got an object from the bag and rested it on his knees. “This was in it. May I ask, have you ever seen it before?”
Judd said, “No.”
Damon’s eyes moved. “Since you’re here, Fox. Have you?”
Fox shook his head. “Not guilty.”
“As you see,” said Damon, “It’s a metal box with a lock, the kind sold by stores as a bond box, best quality, heavy, pretty good lock. Here on the top the letters ‘GJ’ have been roughly engraved, probably with the point of a knife. The first thing about it is this: a box of this description, including the ‘GJ’ on its top, was left to you by Arthur Tingley in his will. The police commissioner asked you about it this morning, and you stated you knew nothing of such a box and had no idea what it might contain. You remember that, Mr. Judd?”
“I do,” Judd acknowledged. “Hombert told me the will said the box would be found in the safe in Tingley’s office, and it wasn’t there.”
“That’s right. The second thing is, the lock has been forced. It was like that when the package was opened. The third thing is the contents.” The inspector regarded Judd. “Do you wish to trust them also to Fox’s discretion?”
“How do I know? I... go ahead.”
“Very well.” Damon opened the lid. “Item one, a pair of shoes.” He held them up for inspection, and nothing could have been more incongruous in that room and atmosphere as the focus for those stares. They had been worn by a small child, and well worn, so that their surfaces were scuffed, their toes curled up, their soles thin and frayed.
Damon put them on the rug by a leg of his chair. “Item two, a printed folder of the Metropolitan Trust Company, with a list of its officers and a statement of its condition as of June 30, 1939. A circle has been made, with a pen and ink, around the name of Guthrie Judd, President, and a similar circle around the sum of the total resources, six hundred thirty million dollars and something.”
He returned the folder to the box and produced the next exhibit. “Item three, a large Manila envelope. It was sealed, but the wax has been broken and the flap slit open. On the outside, in Arthur Tingley’s handwriting, is this inscription: ‘Confidential. In case of my decease, to be delivered intact to Guthrie Judd. Arthur Tingley. July 9, 1936.’”
Judd had a hand extended. “Then it’s mine.” His tone was sharp and peremptory. “And you opened it—”
“No, sir, I didn’t.” Damon showed no indication to turn loose the envelope. “It had already been opened. It is unquestionably your property, and eventually it will be handed over to you, but we shall keep it for the present. Under the circumstances. It contains the birth certificate of ‘Baby Philip,’ dated September 18, 1911, four pages from the records of the Ellen James Home regarding the sojourn in that institution of a young woman named Martha Judd, and a written statement, holograph, dated July 9, 1936, signed by Arthur Tingley. Also a certificate of the legal adoption of Philip Tingley by Arthur Tingley, dated May 11, 1915. If you wish to inspect these documents, now, in my presence—”
“No,” Judd snapped. “I demand the immediate surrender of the box and its contents to me.”
Damon regarded him sourly. “For the present, sir—”
“I’ll replevy.”
“I doubt if you can. Evidence in a murder case—”
“That has nothing to do with Tingley’s murder.”
“I hope it hasn’t.” Damon sounded as if he meant it. “You can imagine how much I relished coming here. A man like you and a thing like this. I’m only a cop and you know what you are. I tell you frankly the district attorney should have handled it, and he got from under and wished it onto me. So it’s a job, and that’s that. You have a sister named Martha. Was she at the Ellen James Home in the year 1911?”
Guthrie Judd folded his arms. “It would have been sensible of you,” he said icily, “to follow the district attorney’s example. You’ll hear from a lawyer in the morning.” He aimed a finger at the box. “I advise you to leave that here. It’s mine.”
“Then you decline to answer any questions about it?”
“I decline to answer any questions about anything. I shall telephone Hombert as soon as you’re out of here.”