get no more. We didn’t know what to do! There was nothing to do, except—Ruth and Irma wanted to kill themselves. I thought of that, too. But I persuaded Ruth not to. I said we’d go away. I’d take her away—keep her safe. And then—then—this!”
She stopped talking, went on staring at her feet.
I looked again at the little dead man on the floor, weird in his black cap and clothes. No more blood came from his throat.
It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. This dead Hador, self-ordained priest of something or other, staging orgies under the alias of religious ceremonies. Elwood, his confederate, bringing women of family and wealth to him. A room lighted for photography, with a concealed camera. Contributions from his converts so long as they were faithful to the cult. Blackmail—with the help of the photographs—afterward.
I looked from Hador to Pat Reddy. He was scowling at the dead man. No sound came from outside the room.
“You have the letter your sister wrote Elwood?” I asked the girl.
Her hand flashed to her bosom, and crinkled paper there.
“Yes.”
“It says plainly she meant to kill herself?”
“Yes.”
“That ought to square her with Contra Costa county,” I said to Pat.
He nodded his battered head.
“It ought to,” he agreed. “It’s not likely that they could prove murder on her even without that letter. With it, they’ll not take her into court.