“You called up—if it was you he told to come to his house—at about two o’clock. After that Mr. Donald dictated some letters, one to a paper mill, one to Senator Keefer about some changes in post office regulations, and—Oh, yes! He went out for about twenty minutes, a little before three. And before he went he wrote out a check.”
“Who for?”
“I don’t know, but I saw him writing it.”
“Where’s his check book? Carry it with him?”
“It’s here.” She jumped up, went around to the front of his desk, and tried the top drawer. “Locked.”
I joined her, straightened out a wire clip, and with that and a blade of my knife fiddled the drawer open.
The girl took out a thin, flat First National Bank check book. The last used stub was marked $5,000. Nothing else. No name. No explanation.
“He went out with this check,” I said, “and was gone twenty minutes? Long enough to get to the bank and back?”
“It wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to get there.”
“Didn’t anything else happen before he wrote out the check? Think. Any messages? Letters? Phone calls?”
“Lets see.” She shut her eyes again. “He was dictating some mail and—Oh, how stupid of me! He did have a phone call. He said: ‘Yes, I can be there at ten, but I shall have to hurry away.’ Then again he said: ‘Very well, at ten.’ That was all he said except, ‘Yes, yes,’ several times.”
“Talking to a man or a woman?”
“I didn’t know.”