“Any more?”
There seemed to be an endless stream of things.
He picked up the new wallet from the desk—the one that both Whipple and Charles Gantvoort had said did not belong to the dead man—and slid it over to me.
“That was found in the road, three or four feet from the car.”
It was of a cheap quality, and had neither manufacturer’s name nor owner’s initials on it. In it were two ten-dollar bills, three small newspaper clippings, and a typewritten list of six names and addresses, headed by Gantvoort’s.
The three clippings were apparently from the Personal columns of three different newspapers—the type wasn’t the same—and they read:
George—
Everything is fixed. Don’t wait too long.
R. H. T. —
They do not answer.
Cappy—
Twelve on the dot and look sharp.
The names and addresses on the typewritten list, under Ganvoort’s, were:
Quincy Heathcote, 1223 S. Jason Street, Denver; B. D. Thornton, 96 Hughes Circle, Dallas; Luther G. Randall, 615 Columbia Street, Portsmouth; J. H. Boyd Willis, 4544