Duryea smiled. “In other words, you’re going to engage in a lawsuit with these men. You’d like very much to have me blaze a trail for you to follow — and perhaps pull a chestnut or two out of the fire.”
Hazlit said with dignity, “I am not trying to lead you to believe that I might not derive some advantage from the investigation, but I am approaching you simply as a district attorney.”
Old Gramps Wiggins, who had advanced on tiptoe to peer over the district attorney’s shoulder, suddenly reached out and tapped the letter. “Lookut here,” he said. “Down in that lefthand corner those initials, ‘A.S. — A.R.’ Betcha ‘A.R.’ is the stenographer who took the letters. Betcha she’s the girl Tucker saw leavin’ the yacht Saturday afternoon with the envelopes she placed in a mailbox. Betcha, by gum, she’s some stenographer livin’ right here in Santa Delbarra.”
Hazlit said sternly, “The notation in Mr. Stearne’s handwriting is that he mailed the letter himself from the United States post office.”
“Don’t care what it says,” Gramps Wiggins shrilled. “That’s what happened. We got a witness that saw the girl leavin’ the boat. She mailed the copy. Stearne mailed the original.”
He looked eagerly at Duryea.
Duryea smiled encouragingly. “That’s a very logical deduction.”
Hazlit said, “Well, Counselor, I have called this matter to your attention because I felt it was my duty to co-operate with you in every way.”
“An excellent attitude,” Duryea said, “and perhaps you’ll be able to impress it upon your client.”
Gramps Wiggins started for the door. “You take Milred to that there movie,” he shrilled. “I don’t want to see that romantic tripe, anyway. I got some things to do.”
Chapter 15
Duryea found Milred dressed and ready for the movie. “Where,” she asked, “is Gramps?”
Duryea said, “He started out to do some detective work, and I didn’t have the heart to stop him. It’s the sort of wild-goose chase that will keep him out of mischief.”
“What’s the goose?”
“He’s looking for a public stenographer whose initials are ‘A.R.’ He’s inclined to favor Alice, Alberta, or Ailene.”
“Where do the initials ‘A.R.’ enter into the case?”
“Addison Stearne sent a letter to his office on Saturday — or rather the carbon copy of a letter. Down in the lower left-hand corner were the initials of a stenographer, ‘A.R.’ There’ some evidence that a young woman was aboard the yacht Saturday. Gramps thinks she may have typed the letter.”
“Well,” Milred Duryea asked, “what’s the joke? Am I dumb, or is it that I just don’t see things?”
“Want to go to that movie?” he asked.
She said, “I’m all dressed up. My nose is powdered, my lipstick applied carefully, and I’m wearing a hat that looks like a cross between a last year’s bird nest and a flower pot that’s been stepped on by an elephant. If you think I’m going to stay home, Frank Duryea...”
“Okay, let’s go places and do things.”
“Okay, but what’s the joke about the stenographer’s initials?”
Duryea said, “It seems not to have occurred to Gramps yet that ‘A.R.’ are the initials of Arthur Right, and Right was formerly Stearne’s secretary, and frequently did typing for him when they were on yachting trips.”
She thought that over for a few seconds, then said, “Well, I hope you don’t have to get Gramps out of jail.”
“Why?”
“You forget he’s a Wiggins.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Turn him loose in this city,” she said, “looking for public stenographers whose first names are Alice, Alberta, Ailene and Aphrodite — well, of course, he’s slowed down a good bit, but still — Did you notice the way he was all slicked up?”
“Did If He’s a mighty spry-looking gent when he gets that blue serge suit out of moth balls.”
“Why’d you let him go on a wild-goose chase like that, Frank?”
“Oh, just to give him his fling. It’s a thrill to him. At that, he made a couple of deductions from the evidence that were pretty good. Come on, let’s go.”
They got as far as the front door. As Duryea switched on the porch light, an automobile came to a stop at the curb. A man and a woman got out, came toward them.
“Mr. Duryea?” the woman asked,
Duryea raised his hat, bowed.
Emotion constricted the woman’s vocal cords so that her voice sounded harsh and high-pitched. “We simply must see you for a moment,” she said. “We’ll try not to detain you.”
Duryea hesitated. “I have an appointment. I...”
“I’m Mrs. Right,” she interrupted, “the widow of C. Arthur Right.”
That simple statement carried enough weight to insure a granting of the woman’s request. Duryea’s glance at his wife was an implicit shrug of the shoulders. He opened the front door. Milred went in, switching on lights. Duryea followed his visitors into the living room.
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Right said, “that we interfered with your plans, but I’ve driven up from Los Angeles. I simply had to see you. I...”
The man said, quietly, competently, “If you’ll just go ahead and tell him, Pearl.”
Duryea looked inquiringly across at her escort. The man introduced himself. “Hilbers,” he said.
“The first name?”
“Warren. I’m Mrs. Right’s brother.”
Duryea said to Mrs. Right, “I can appreciate what a shock this has been to you, Mrs. Right. However, I presume you didn’t come here to listen to condolences.”
“I did not. I came here to give you some evidence I think you should have.”
“What is it?”
“I... well, you see...” She glanced at Milred. “I’m going to have to tell you something of the setup. Addison Stearne dominated my husband. Arthur thought that Addison Stearne was sort of a god.”
Warren Hilbers said quietly, “Pearl, why don’t you give him the information you want him to have, then let Mr. Duryea ask the questions? If you’ll be brief, it is quite possible he can still make his appointment.”
“You tell him, Warren.”
Hilbers took a cigarette from his pocket. He lit a match, moved it back and forth until he had lit the cigarette. His eyes met those of the district attorney steadily. He said simply, “She thinks her husband killed Addison Stearne, and then committed suicide.”
Duryea frowned. “But I understood Mrs. Right to say that he worshiped...”
Hilbers interrupted without seeming to do so. His voice had a certain timbre which made it cut across the thread of conversation as effectively as though he had shouted down the district attorney’s comments. Yet he had not raised his voice from the ordinary conversational level. “There was another factor about which my sister dislikes to speak. She thinks that, in a way, she’s responsible. I’ve tried to tell her one person is never responsible for the acts of another, but she’s nervous and upset about it. She thinks the whole thing may have happened because of something she said... Go ahead, Pearl, tell him the whole story.”
“In order to say that which I have to tell you,” Mrs. Right said, “it’s necessary for me to try and be very fair to a woman whom I hate.”
Duryea bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of her statement, giving her a silent invitation to proceed.