wasn’t here last night—even the mail planes take twenty-six or twenty-eight hours for the trip.”
“We’ll do that,” I agreed. “It looks like this Creda Dexter wasn’t any too sure that her brother wasn’t in on the killing. And there’s nothing to show that Bonfils didn’t have help. I can’t figure Creda being in on the murder, though. She knew the new will hadn’t been signed. There’d be no sense in her working herself out of that three-quarters of a million berries.”
We sent a lengthy telegram to the Continental’s New York branch, and then dropped in at the agency to see if any replies had come to the wires I had got off the night before.
They had.
None of the people whose names appeared on the typewritten list with Gantvoort’s had been found; not the least trace had been found of any of them. Two of the addresses given were altogether wrong. There were no houses with those numbers on those streets—and there never had been.