“Phyllis just called up,” he said.
“Phyllis?” Bowman asked.
“Yes, Phyllis Proctor. Say, chief, there’s just a chance we may have guessed this thing wrong. Phyllis Proctor may be the one that’s back of this killing.”
Jax Bowman frowned thoughtfully. “That’s hardly likely,” he said, “but I’m surprised that she rang you up. I thought the murderer would be the one to get m touch with you.”
“Perhaps,” Grood said grimly, “the murderer has.”
“What did she say?”
“Said she was Phyllis Proctor; that we had some relatives in common, and she’d like to run in for a chat.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Told her I wasn’t seeing anyone.”
Bowman nodded thoughtfully.
“Think I’d better see her?” Grood asked.
“Did she leave her number?”
“Yes, she left a number where I could call her. I’ve got it written down on the pad by the telephone. I forgot to tear off the sheet to bring it in here.”
Jax Bowman started pacing the floor. “It doesn’t stand to reason,” he said, “that a young woman would be back of these crimes. And it doesn’t seem logical that Phyllis would kill off the others merely in order to increase her share in the estate.”
“Why not? Women do just about as much killing as men,” Grood said with that skepticism which comes to one who has seen life in the raw.
“But,” Jax Bowman protested, “we don’t want to pull this White Ring stuff on a woman.”
“We’re fighting crooks, ain’t we?” Grood countered.
“Yes, we’re fighting crooks, but not making war on women.”
Jim Grood said impatiently, “I tell you, chief, this is one case where the old police methods would work to advantage. Let’s get this jane in and start sweating her. Let’s make a direct accusation and see what she says—”
“No,” Bowman interrupted, “we can’t do that. In the first place, I don’t want to let it get out that I’m interested in crime. In the second place, you’re not on the force any more; you haven’t any official standing, particularly in San Francisco.”
“If we uncovered the murderer,” Grood said, “we could get by with anything. The boys would be tickled to death to have someone solve the case and hand them the solution.”
“No,” Bowman said. “Go back and ring up Phyllis. Tell her that you’ll make an exception in her case, and talk with her. Pretend that you nothing whatever about an estate or any inheritance. See if she brings the subject up. Find out what she has to say, but don’t get rough with her.”
“You don’t suppose she’s seen pictures of the real Sidney Proctor?”
“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. Remember, if she’s mixed up in those murders, she isn’t going to run to the police and brand you as an impostor, even if she knows you to be one. She’ll do that when you come forward to claim a part of the estate.”
Grood turned toward the door.
“And watch your step,” Bowman counseled. “Don’t fall for a pretty face.”
Big Jim Grood gave a hoarse chuckle. “Me!” he exclaimed scornfully “Fall for a pretty face when it’s on a crook? No chance — I’ve seen too many of them.”
He closed the door behind him and Bowman heard the indignant pound of his heels on the carpeted corridor.
A few moments later there was a knock at Bowman’s door. He opened it, to stare into a pair of twinkling brown eyes set in an attractive face, while red lips twisted upward in confirmation of the smile in her eyes.
She was not over twenty-four or five at the most. To her, life was nothing serious; only a game to be played, the unbounded vitality of her youth making any false guesses seem merely minor matters.
“This,” she said, “is going to be a frightful imposition.”
Jax Bowman felt the magnetism of the trim figure, was conscious of her exceptional beauty.
“Come in,” he said, “and let’s see if it is.”
She entered his room with hesitation. There was in her manner the assurance of one who knows her way around, who has sufficient poise and ability to depend upon her own judgment, rather than upon the dictates of convention.
She dropped into a chair, crossed her knees, surveyed the trim ankles which protruded below her skirt with approval and said, “Give me a cigarette and I’ll get the agony over with as quickly as possible.”
Bowman suspected her identity even as he handed her the cigarette case and was turning over in his mind the best method of handling the situation. He dared not let her feel that his association with the spurious Sidney Proctor was too intimate. At any cost, Big Jim Grood must be left isolated — bait for a death trap.
“What is it?” Bowman asked, holding a match to her cigarette.
“I’m Phyllis Proctor,” she told him. “Does that mean anything to you?”
He seated himself in an easy chair, lit his own cigarette, and remarked noncommittally, “An attractive name, and, apparently, an attractive personality.”
She ducked her head in a bow. “Thank you, kind sir.”
He laughed.
“I’m related,” she said, “to Sidney Proctor.”
Bowman kept his face expressionless, as though the statement meant but little to him.
“I simply must see him. We have some matters in common that we should discuss.”
“Why don’t you knock on his door, then? I understand he’s in the hotel.”
She shook her head decisively. “No, there’s too much involved to meet him that way, unless he’s the type who would respond to that sort of informality.”
“What makes you think he isn’t?”
“I’ve talked with him on the telephone.”
“And he doesn’t seem responsive?” Bowman asked.
“Not in the least.”
Bowman made clucking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “If we only had television perfected it would have been a different story, I’m sure.”
Her face lost its smile.
“Quit complimenting me,” he said, and let’s get down to brass tacks. “I know you’re frightfully busy and this is an imposition, but I thought you could help me.”
“How?”
“I want you to introduce me to Mr. Proctor.”
“But I hardly know him myself.”
She stared at the toe of her shoe, which was restlessly moving in little nervous circles. “It certainly is queer,” she said. “You’d think people who had been on the boat with him for days at a time would know him quite well.”
“But I wasn’t on the boat with him.
I only met him when I went down to greet Franklin Stanza, the owner of the yacht.”
“I know,” she said, “but Mr. Stanza avoided the issue when I tried to get an introduction, and finally, when I forced matters, said that I’d have to get your okay.”
Bowman frowned. That wasn’t the sort of information he’d wanted Stanza to give out. On the other hand, he could appreciate Stanza’s predicament. A very pretty girl, most insistent in her demands. Stanza, who was quite susceptible to feminine beauty, had found himself at a loss what to do and had finally referred her to Bowman. Well, in some ways Stanza couldn’t be blamed. In any event, the fat was in the fire.
“You,” Bowman said, “must have been moving fast to do all of this checking up after the newspapers reported Mr. Proctor’s arrival.”
“I’m a fast worker,” she admitted, grinning at him through cigarette smoke, “and I didn’t get it from the newspapers, but over the radio news flashes.”
“Why,” asked Bowman, “did Mr. Stanza say you’d have to get my consent?”
“I’m certain I don’t know.” Her eyes raised disconcertingly to his face. “Do you?” she added.