“Now please, Mr. Mason, don’t put words in my mouth. All I can say is that I was associated with Fred. He asked me to go to his house and get a brief case containing certain papers. He told me exactly where I would find it. Just in case Daphne wasn’t home, he gave me his key to the place. He thought that Daphne might be out shopping or something.”
“What time was this?” Mason asked.
“Right around noon, a little after.”
“Why didn’t Milfield get the papers himself?”
“He had an important luncheon engagement.”
“And you were to meet him after lunch?”
“No. About four o’clock.”
“Do you know where he intended to go then? What he intended to do with the papers?”
“They were papers he wanted to show to Mr. Burbank. Mr. Burbank was expecting him — aboard his yacht.”
“But didn’t Burbank insist upon absolute privacy on his yacht — refuse to let anyone bother him with business matters?”
“As a rule, yes. This was a very exceptional case. Mr. Burbank wanted to see Fred. In fact, he’d told him to come to his yacht.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose it should develop that Roger Burbank wasn’t aboard the yacht Friday afternoon, and had no intention of being there?”
Van Nuys smiled and shook his head. Both the smile and the gesture were confident. “I think you’ll find such is not the case, Mr. Mason.”
Mason started to say something, then changed his mind. He gave Van Nuys’ answer thoughtful consideration for a few moments, then said, “All right, you went to get the papers. What happened?”
“This note was pinned to a pillow on the davenport.”
“What did you do with it — read it and then leave it there?”
“Certainly not. I was afraid Fred might come rushing in. I picked it up and pocketed it.”
“The note was meant for Fred?”
“Yes.”
“You have that note with you?”
“Really, Mr. Mason, this inquiry is drifting rather far afield, don’t you think?”
“No.”
“That note, Mr. Mason, affects the happiness of...”
“That note,” Mason interrupted, “is evidence. At least of an angle of the case that I’m investigating. If you’re at all interested in avoiding publicity, I think you will find the best way to do it is to give me the information I’m after.”
Van Nuys hesitated for a moment, glanced questioningly at Della Street, and Della, nodding at him, said, “It’s the best way. You should be able to see that.”
“Oh, all right,” Van Nuys surrendered. “Perhaps after all it is best to have the true facts in your possession, Mr. Mason.”
He opened a brief case, took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Mason.
It had, Mason observed, been pinned to some cloth. And the double pin hole in the top and the somewhat rumpled appearance of the paper were the natural result of such pinning.
The note was written in pen and ink in a smooth, even handwriting:
Dear Fred:
I know you’ll think I’m no good, particularly in view of everything that has gone in the past, but I can’t help it. As I’ve told you a dozen times, I can’t control my heart. I can only try to control my emotions. But I simply can’t control that peculiar deep-seated something which is perhaps akin to emotion and alive with emotion, yet is far beyond mere emotionalism.
I have debated this step for a long time. I think you will do me the justice to realize that. I think, perhaps, that you have recognized my symptoms, but were afraid to diagnose them, just as I was at first. In short, Fred, I am in love with Doug, and that’s all there is to it. It isn’t anything you have done, or anything you have failed to do. Nor is there anything either of us can do now. You have been wonderful to me, and I shall always admire and respect you. I will admit that I got lonely during the last four or five weeks when it seemed every minute of your time, day and night, was taken up with this oil deal. But I know how those things are, and realize that you’re doing a splendid job and are in a position to make a lot of money. My congratulations to you. Needless to say, Fred, I won’t want a cent. You can go ahead with divorce proceedings and make out a waiver, or property settlement, or whatever it is you have to make out under such circumstances. Your lawyer will tell you. I hope we can always be friends. Good-by, Dear.
Yours,
“A nice note,” Mason said.
“She meant it — meant every word of it,” Van Nuys said.
“I dare say she did. Who’s Doug?”
“The man she was going to meet in San Francisco.”
“How delightfully definite! What’s the rest of his name?”
Van Nuys smiled and shook his head, “Really, Mr. Mason, there is a limit, you know.”
“Limit to what?”
“Limit to how far we can go in dragging others into this thing.”
“Oh bosh! You’re in a murder case now. Who’s Doug?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give you that information.” Van Nuys was formal and dignified now.
Mason abruptly pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “All right, Van Nuys, thanks for what you’ve given me.”
“Can I trust you to keep it confidential?”
“Not in the least.”
“I understood you were going to.”
“Then you misunderstood me.”
“I thought you said that the alternative was that you’d give the information to the police.”
“That’s absolutely correct.”
“You’re not going to give it to them?”
“Certainly I’m going to give it to them. The only thing that would prevent me from doing so would be a very definite feeling that there was some reason why I shouldn’t.”
“I tell you all of this has absolutely nothing to do with Fred’s death. That’s a matter between him and — well, between him and someone else.”
“You say this man’s in San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“Has he ever written her?”
Van Nuys avoided Mason’s eyes.
Mason said, “Phooey! The police will smoke all this out. There’s no mystery about it. They’ll ask her to account for all her motions Friday afternoon. If she lies, she’ll put herself in an awful mess.”
“There are no letters the police will ever find,” Van Nuys said.
“You mean they’ve been destroyed?”
“I mean the police will never find them.”
Abruptly Mason reached over and took possession of the brief case that Van Nuys had placed by the side of his chair. “You mean,” he said, “that you have them?”
“Mr. Mason, please! That’s my brief case.”
Mason said to Della Street, “Call Lieutenant Tragg.”
There was a moment of tense silence. Della got up and moved toward the telephone.
Van Nuys waited until she had picked up the receiver, then he said suddenly, “Hang up the phone, Miss Street. The letters are in the right-hand compartment of the brief case, Mr. Mason.”
Della hung up the telephone. Mason opened the brief case, took out the letters, glanced at them, thrust them in his pocket.
“What are you going to do with those?” Van Nuys asked in alarm.
“I’m going to study them,” Mason said, “and if your contention seems to be correct and they aren’t connected with the case, I’m going to give them back to you.”
“Otherwise?” Van Nuys asked.
“Otherwise,” Mason said, “I’m going to keep them.”
Mason started for the door, paused, said, “So when you found this note you rushed to the airport.”
“Yes.”
“Without keeping your appointment with Milfield?”
“No. I took him the papers he wanted, and then rushed to the airport.”