Not until Farnsworth reached the new Franklin Building, did he slow his rapid steps. There, after consulting the directory, he took an elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, and followed the marble corridor to a door marked, “Wallace Timmons, Attorney at Law.”
Despite the modern structure in which it was housed, Timmons’s office gave the impression of being a holdover from another day. In one way it resembled Thompson’s office; it consisted of but a single long room with no dividing partitions. But there, the resemblance ended.
Around three sides ran high book shelves crowded with volumes bound — a big store of well-thumbed legal lore. On the walls were steel engravings of jurists — faces that looked as if they had never known a smile.
Near one of the three wide windows stood a big square desk of highly polished golden oak, before it a capacious swivel chair.
At the door was a smaller golden oak desk, at which sat a dumpy little woman well past middle age, with short-sighted, watery blue eyes and gray bangs.
“Mr. Timmons has been delayed by the storm, but I expect him at any moment now,” she told Farnsworth in a voice that had a peculiar bird-tone quality.
“I’ll wait, if I may,” responded the inspector.
“Certainly.” She bounced to her feet, and before he could stop her, picked up one of the heavy oak chairs and placed it near the large desk.
“Sit right down here,” she said. “Mr. Timmons has no appointments this morning so he can attend to you right away.”
“Thank you, Miss—”
“Miss Harkness — Mr. Timmons’s secretary. Excuse me if I seem a little distraught. I don’t like electric storms. Electric storms make me very nervous. I know it’s foolish, but it’s the thunder that affects me. Thunder can’t hurt one, but I want to hide somewhere. I don’t get over the effects for hours.”
She minced over to her desk, opened a drawer, and took out a newspaper.
“Here’s the morning paper,” she said, mincing back to Farnsworth. “Nothing in it except that horrible murder in the Tremont Building. The body of a young girl found in a desk! Terrible! But if the young girls of today would behave themselves as they should, they wouldn’t get in scrapes and they wouldn’t get murdered.”
She stopped, her watery eyes on Farnsworth and her attitude that of one expecting complete accord with her views.
“Thank heavens, I had the right bringing up,” she continued. “My life has been an open book. The paper says that girl was pretty. And her body was found in Mr. Horace G. Thompson’s desk — of all places in Mr. Horace G. Thompson’s desk!”
“You know Mr. Thompson?” asked Farnsworth casually.
“I know — I hear Mr. Timmons’s footsteps!”
She sped back to her desk, dropped into her chair and began sorting blue-bound files.
Timmons entered unhurriedly.
“Good morning, Miss Theodora,” he said in a full, round voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Timmons. This gentleman is waiting for you.”
Timmons peered at Farnsworth. Then the light of recognition came into his eyes.
“I didn’t know you, inspector,” he said. “My eyes have lost their keenness. I read of the homicide in the Tremont Building, but I did not anticipate a visit from you.”
Leaning back in his chair and thrusting forward his high, black shoes, he clasped long, white hands over a stomach that bulged his white vest. His gray hair, though neatly trimmed, was worn so long it curled over his coat collar; a heavy drooping gray mustache very nearly hid his mouth. His gray eyes were bright and there was animation, as well as a certain air of breeding in his strong face.
“I called because you are Horace G. Thompson’s attorney,” answered Farnsworth.
“You are entirely in error,” declared Timmons quickly.
“I have been informed—”
“I was Ezra Thompson’s counselor for many years. I served his son in like capacity several years. But I am no longer retained by him.”
“Who does look after his interests?”
“Cyrus Conroy.”
“I mean his legal interests.”
“So far as I know, he is not represented by any member of the local bar.”
“Are you able to give me any information about Thompson?”
“If you will excuse me, I would rather not discuss Horace Thompson.”
“Mr. Timmons, I am engaged in the investigation of a murder.”
“I am aware of that, inspector, and I have no information of any value whatsoever.”
“I do not mind admitting to you, Mr. Timmons, that I have made very little definite progress.”
“You have been unable to learn anything concerning Thompson?”
“Practically nothing. Cyrus Conroy is in Canada. I have talked with the superintendent of the Tremont—”
“Henry Starr?”
“Pat Dow.”
“I do not know him.”
“Then your visits to the Tremont were only at night?”
“Lately, yes. Starr took me up in the elevator. Why don’t you question him? He has been in the Tremont Building a great many years.”
“His mental condition at the moment is such that he cannot be questioned.”
Timmons’s hands came unclasped suddenly and gripped the arms of the chair.
“I do not believe I caught your answer,” he declared, as if confused. “My hearing—”
“When we discovered that body in Thompson’s desk, Starr gave indications of a complete mental collapse. He was taken to the psychopathic ward of General Hospital.”
“And the body you found was that of a young girl, a beautiful young girl. Please describe it to me — describe it minutely.”
Farnsworth repeated a detailed description.
When he had concluded, Timmons raised his eyes suddenly.
“What is it, Miss. Theodora?” he asked sharply.
“I... I... I,” stammered the secretary, “I’ll wait till Inspector Farnsworth leaves. It really isn’t important. It really isn’t.”
She minced back to her desk quickly, a flush on her sallow face, and immediately became very busily engaged with the pile of blue-bound files.
“You are wasting your time here, inspector,” said Timmons. “I can give you absolutely no information regarding my former client. As a matter of fact, I have not seen him within the last two years. As for the reason I am no longer his counsel, that is a matter — a matter that rests between lawyer and client.”
Farnsworth nodded.
“Furthermore, this is a very busy morning with me. I have some important appointments. I must ask you to excuse me.”
Farnsworth arose and Timmons picked up his mail.
“Mr. Timmons,” said Farnsworth.
The attorney did not lift his head, but slit an envelope deftly with the opener.
“Mr. Timmons,” repeated the inspector. He didn’t raise his voice, but Timmons, looked up.
“Well?”
“Why did you stop at the morgue on your way to your office?”
Timmons’s gray features went white.
“Why I—” Timmons hesitated. “How did you know I stopped at the morgue?”
“I talked with headquarters from the Tremont Building. You were in the morgue when I started for your office.”
Timmons’s smile increased the haggard appearance of his face.
“You and your men are remarkably efficient, sir,” he said. “I did drop into the morgue along with many other visitors. I looked at the corpse. I have never seen that girl before. Of that I am certain. Are you satisfied?”
“Yes,” said Farnsworth, and walked toward the door.
As he passed the dumpy Miss Harkness, she looked up and he nodded.
“Good morning, Inspector Farnsworth,” she said primly.