“Think. There’d be a difference in his voice.”
She thought and said:
“Then it was a woman.”
“Which of you—you or he—left first in the evening?”
“I did. He—I told you my father is Mr. Elihu’s secretary. He and Mr. Donald had an engagement for the early part of the evening—something about the paper’s finances. Father came in a little after five. They were going to dinner together, I think.”
That was all the Lewis girl could give me. She knew nothing that would explain Willsson’s presence in the eleven-hundred block of Hurricane Street, she said. She admitted knowing nothing about Mrs. Willsson.
We frisked the dead man’s desk, and dug up nothing in any way informative. I went up against the girls at the switchboard, and learned nothing. I put in an hour’s work on messengers, city editors, and the like, and my pumping brought up nothing. The dead man, as his secretary said, had been a good hand at keeping his affairs to himself.