Calling the late Taylor Newhall’s office on the phone, I was told that if I wanted any information about his affairs I should try his country residence, some miles south of San Francisco. I tried it. A ministerial voice that said it belonged to the butler told me that Newhall’s attorney, Franklin Ellert, was the person I should see. I went over to Ellert’s office.
He was a nervous, irritable old man with a lisp and eyes that stuck out with blood pressure.
“Is there any reason,” I asked point-blank, “for supposing that Newhall’s murder was anything more than a Mexican bandit outburst? Is it likely that he was killed purposely, and not resisting capture?”
Lawyers don’t like to be questioned. This one sputtered and made faces at me and let his eyes stick out still further and, of course, didn’t give me an answer.
“How? How?” he snapped disagreeably. “Exthplain your meaning, thir!”
He glared at me and then at the desk, pushing papers around with excited hands, as if he were hunting for a police whistle. I told my story—told him about Tom-Tom Carey.
Ellert sputtered some more, demanded, “What the devil do you mean?” and made a complete jumble of the papers on his desk.
“I don’t mean anything,” I growled back. “I’m just telling you what was said.”
“Yeth! Yeth! I know!” He stopped glaring at me and his voice was less peevish. “But there ith abtholutely no reathon for thuthpecting anything of the thort. None at all, thir, none at all!”