“You going to print this thing in your paper?” asked Brady.
“Sure, cap. Twice. Once where it’s paid for, and then again on the front page. I’m writing the story. Got it photographed before I brought it down to you. All I ask you to do is not to tip off the other boys till it’s printed. I played fair and brought it to you, now you’ve got to give us a break on it.”
“How’d you happen to think to write it?” asked Brady, levelly.
Saunderson laughed. “On the level, cap, it’s genuine. Really came into the office. In the old days, maybe, I’d ’a’ tried to fake something like that, but not now. Why, we got a man out now trying to trace the messenger.”
“I’ll bet you have. You newspaper men sure follow all tips fast. Too fast, sometimes. I’ve seen the day when a flock of reporters have gummed a case all up. Much obliged for bringing this thing in, after you’ve photographed it.”
He turned and pushed a button on his desk, and to the responding doorman barked:
“Willis, or Curtis or Halloran — any one of ’em.”
It was Halloran who lumbered in and almost saluted. The big detective never did get his hand much higher than his stomach in his gesture of salute. Captain Brady handed him the typewritten slip.
“Some messenger kid dragged this up to the Chronicle half an hour ago. Find the kid. Find out what kind of a guy gave it to him. If it listens like a reporter, find the reporter. I want to know if that thing is on the level or if it’s a wise-crack. Slide out on it now, Halloran.”
The big sleuth again made a gesture of salute and lurched out of the office.
“You can say in your story,” said Brady, turning to Saunderson, “that Captain of Detectives Brady appreciates—”
“Knew you’d say that, cap, an’ I’ve already written it. Told the world how much you appreciate the aid the Chronicle is giving the police department.”
“I wasn’t going to say that at all, me lad. I know you too well to give you permission to blarney us. You do it whenever you feel like it, anyway. What I was going to say was that you can put a piece in your story that Captain of Detectives Brady, appreciating the gravity of this case, has assigned Detective Sergeant Riordan to take complete charge of the investigation. I guess the public knows Riordan well enough so that they’ll feel confident that we’re working on this thing.”
“You give that to the rest of the boys, cap?”
“Not yet; Riordan just got here.”
“All right — don’t tell the rest of the gang, and I’ll put it in a box-lead at the top of the story. That will be two scoops. Much obliged.”
The reporter breezed out, and Brady laughed.
“He’s a good boy,” he said. “Full of pep. What you think of that ‘personal,’ boy?”
“I think it’s real, chief. If this was a common case, some of these reporters might take a chance on faking one, but Staples is too big a man to monkey with. But I don’t think you’ll get much out of the messenger kid. Well, I’m going out to 90 Glenn Avenue and have a look.”
“Hop to it, boy. And remember you’re in charge of the investigation, and whatever you want you can have. The chief ’ll back you up in anything — he told me so.”
Riordan nodded and departed. Down in the garage he avoided his own mud-stained and travel-marked machine, and motioned to one of the drivers of the two reserve touring cars to climb into one and play chauffeur, and so, in state, rolled out to the Staples residence. His dazzling uniform visibly impressed the servant who opened the door, and he could see that it also had its effect on young Mallory, when he met him in the library.
“Mr. Mallory? Detective Sergeant Riordan is my name. I’ve been specially assigned to this unfortunate affair, and I thought I’d come round and have a little talk with you. I was away on another matter when Mr. Staples disappeared; had I been here, I hope I could have spared you the unpleasant experience you had. Our jail is clean, but that’s about all you can say for it.”
Mallory smiled. “It was all right,” he said. “They treated me very well. I think the captain probably thought he was justified in holding me. One has to suspect everybody in a homicide, I suppose.”
Riordan waved his hands apologetically. “Not everybody, Mr. Mallory. In this case, for instance, not you. Anybody can see that you are a man of refinement, and not a butcher. Tell me, you knew Mr. Staples intimately; did you ever notice any peculiarities in his behavior?”
“No, I don’t think I did.”
“Was he irritable, Mr. Mallory? I mean, sometimes did he seem easily displeased with — with little things you may have done, or may not have done?”
“No, sergeant. He was very even-tempered.”
“Just what was your work, Mr. Mallory?”
“Well, I opened all but his personal mail, and sorted it. A great deal of it I was able to answer without referring it to him. Requests for rare bulbs, you know, or letters asking advice on horticulture. He got a great many of those.
“Then, you know, many people wanted to go through the greenhouses, and I looked after that. Then there were routine matters, such as his dues in the various organizations of which he was a member, the cataloguing of his papers, his accounts — all the things that a private secretary must do. The keeping his engagements listed—”
“Of course, Mr. Mallory. Now, more personal than those things, what did you do? Did Mr. Staples ask your advice, for instance, about his addresses, his public appearances? What to wear, whether or not he was pleased at the attention he received? Things like that?”
“I don’t get just what you’re driving at, sergeant.”
“Well, I’ll tell you. I want to get from you an intimate character study of Mr. Staples. What kind of a man was he? What kind of men were his real friends — not just his acquaintances?”
“Oh, I see!” Mallory leaned back in his chair and considered. “I should say,” he said at length, “that Mr. Staples was rather a lonely man, if you know what I mean. He had very few real friends. I think, perhaps, Bishop Gale was the only real friend he had in the city. The addresses he made he gave rather because of his devotion to botany or horticulture, I think, and not to please any of the individuals to whom he spoke.
“I have never seen him concerned over the way his appearances were greeted. He did not seem to care. But he was very sensitive to what Bishop Gale thought of his actions. He would often ask me: ‘What do you think the bishop thought of that?’ Or: ‘Mallory, do you think I stayed too long at the bishop’s? Do you think I tired him?’ He had a deep regard for the bishop, sergeant.”
“Do you know whether he left a will?”
“I am quite sure he did, sergeant. Keefe, Sanderson and Keefe drew it, and have it.”
“Has it been offered for probate?”
“I think not, sergeant. Last time I spoke to Mr. Keefe about it, he said he was waiting until the body was found, or there was some legal indication of his actual death.”
“Oh, then you think Mr. Keefe doubts that he was murdered?”
“Not at all, sergeant. We are all of us sure of it. But you know the law. A man must be known to be dead—”
The secretary did not finish the sentence, and Sergeant Riordan changed the subject abruptly.
“About women, now?” he asked.
“Absolutely not, sergeant,” emphatically answered Mallory. “Since Mrs. Staples passed on he has positively avoided women. A little ‘balmy’ on that subject, I should say. He actually shuns women: he will not speak before women’s clubs, and only when it is absolutely necessary will he go to a reception where women are.”
“Any women servants?”
“Two, sergeant. A sort of combination housekeeper and maid, Mrs. Adams, and a woman who scrubs and does the simple washing. Mrs. Adams is a widow, and was employed when his wife was living. The charwoman, Margaret, has been with us for six years.”