Alec Rush pushed back the telephone and looked through his clippings again until he found the address of Madeline Boudin, the woman who had visited Falsoner so soon before his death. It was a Madison Avenue number. Thither his coupe carried the detective.
No, Miss Boudin did not live there. Yes, she had lived there, but had moved four months ago. Perhaps Mrs. Blender, on the third floor, would know where she lived now. Mrs. Blender did not know. She knew Miss Boudin had moved to an apartment-house in Garrison Avenue, but did not think she was living there now. At the Garrison Avenue house: Miss Boudin had moved away a month and a half agosomewhere in Mount Royal Avenue, perhaps. The number was not known.
The coupe carried its ugly owner to Mount Royal Avenue, to the apartment building he had seen first Hubert Landow and then Scuttle Zeipp visit the previous day. At the manager's office he made inquiries about a Walter Boyden, who was thought to live there. Walter Boyden was not known to the manager. There was a Miss Boudin in 604, but her name was B-o-u-d-i-n, and she lived alone.
Alec Rush left the building and got in his car again. He screwed up his savage red eyes, nodded his head in a satisfied way, and with one finger described a small circle in the air. Then he returned to his office.
Calling the trust company's number again, he gave Ralph Millar's name, and presently was speaking to the assistant cashier.
This is Rush. Can you come up to the office right away?
What's that? Certainly. But howhow? Yes, I'll be up in a minute.
None of the surprise that had been in Millar's telephone voice was apparent when he reached the detective's office. He asked no questions concerning the detective's knowledge of his identity. In brown today, he was as neatly inconspicuous as he had been yesterday in gray.
Come in, the ugly man welcomed him. Sit down. I've got to have some more facts, Mr. Millar.
Millar's thin mouth tightened and his brows drew together with obstinate reticence.
I thought we settled that point, Rush. I told you
Alec Rush frowned at his client with jovial, though frightful exasperation.
I know what you told me, he interrupted. But that was then and this is now. The thing's coming unwound on rne, and I can see just enough to get myself tangled up if I don't watch Harvey. I found your mysterious man, talked to him. He was following Mrs. Landow, right enough. According to the way he tells it, he's been hired to kill her.
Millar leaped from his chair to lean over the yellow desk, his face close to the detective's.
My God, Rush, what are you saying? To kill her?
Now, now! Take it easy. He's not going to kill her. I don't think he ever meant to. But he claims he was hired to do it.
You've arrested him? You've found the man who hired him?
The detective squinted up his bloodshot eyes and studied the younger man's passionate face.
As a matter of fact, he croaked calmly when he had finished his examination, I haven't done either of those things. She's in no danger just now. Maybe the lad was stringing me, maybe he wasn't, but either way he wouldn't have spilled it to me if he meant to do anything. And when it comes right down to it, Mr. Millar, do you want him arrested?
Yes! That is Millar stepped back from the desk, sagged limply down on the chair again, and put shaking hands over his face. My God, Rush, I don't know! he gasped.
Exactly, said Alec Rush. Now here it is. Mrs. Landow was Jerome Falsoner's niece and heir. She worked for your trust company. She married Landow the morning her uncle was found dead. Yesterday Landow visited the building where Madeline Boudin lives. She was the last person known to have been in Falsoner's rooms before he was killed. But her alibi seems to be as air-tight as the Landows'. The man who claims he was hired to kill Mrs. Landow also visited Madeline Boudin's building yesterday. I saw him go in. I saw him meet another woman. A shoplifter, the second one. In her rooms I found a photograph of Hubert Landow. Your dark man claims he was hired twice to kill Mrs. Landowby two women neither knowing the other had hired him. He won't tell me who they are, but he doesn't have to.
The hoarse voice stopped and Alec Rush waited for Millar to speak. But Millar was for the time without a voice. His eyes were wide and despairingly empty. Alec Rush raised one big hand, folded it into a fist that was almost perfectly spherical, and thumped his desk softly.
There it is, Mr. Millar, he rasped. A pretty tangle. If you'll tell me what you know, we'll get it straightened out, never fear. If you don'tI'm out!
Now Millar found words, however jumbled.
You couldn't, Rush! You can't desert me us her!
It's notYou're not But Alec Rush shook his ugly pear-shaped head with slow emphasis.
There's murder in this and the Lord knows what all. I've got no liking for a blindfolded game. How do I know what you're up to? You can tell me what you knoweverythingor you can find yourself another detective.
That's flat.
Ralph Millar's fingers picked at each other, his teeth pulled at his lips, his harassed eyes pleaded with the detective.
You can't, Rush, he begged. She's still in danger. Even if you are right about that man not attacking her, she's not safe. The women who hired him can hire another. You've got to protect her, Rush.
Yeah? Then you've got to talk.
I've got to ? Yes, I'll talk, Rush. I'll tell you anything you ask. But there's really nothingor almost nothingI know beyond what you've already learned.
She worked for your trust company?
Yes, in my department.
Left there to be married?
Yes. That isNo, Rush, the truth is she was discharged. It was an outrage, but
When was this?
It was the day before thebefore she was married.
Tell me about it.
She hadI'll have to explain her situation to you first, Rush. She is an orphan. Her father, Ben Falsoner, had been wild in his youthand perhaps not only in his youthas I believe all the Falsoners have been. However, he had quarreled with his fatherold Howard Falsonerand the old man had cut him out of the will. But not altogether out. The old man hoped Ben would mend his ways, and he didn't mean to leave him with nothing in that event. Unfortunately he trusted it to his other son, Jerome.
Old Howard Falsoner left a will whereby the income from his estate was to go to Jerome during Jerome's life. Jerome was to provide for his brother Ben as he saw fit. That is, he had an absolutely free hand. He could divide the income equally with his brother, or he could give him a pittance, or he could give him nothing, as Ben's conduct deserved. On Jerome's death the estate was to be divided equally among the old man's grandchildren.
In theory, that was a fairly sensible arrangement, but not in practicenot in Jerome Falsoner's hands. You didn't know him? Well, he was the last man you'd ever trust with a thing of that sort. He exercised his power to the utmost. Ben Falsoner never got a cent from him. Three years ago Ben died, and so the girl, his only daughter, stepped into his position in relation to her grandfather's money. Her mother was already dead. Jerome Falsoner never paid her a cent.
That was her situation when she came to the trust company two years ago. It wasn't a happy one. She had at least a touch of the Falsoner recklessness and extravagance. There she was: heiress to some two million dollarsfor Jerome had never married and she was the only grandchildbut without any present income at all, except her salary, which was by no means a large one.
She got in debt. I suppose she tried to economize at times, but there was always that two million dollars ahead to make scrimping doubly distasteful. Finally, the trust company officials heard of her indebtedness. A collector or two came to the office, in fact. Since she was employed in my department, I had the disagreeable duty of warning her. She promised to pay her debts and contract no more, and I suppose she did try, but she wasn't very successful. Our officials are old-fashioned, ultra-conservative. I did everything I could to save her, but it was no good. They simply would not have an employee who was heels over head in debt.