She had pulled herself together somewhat, although she was still uneasy.
"I've told you she wanted it that way. I can show you the bank deposit receipts if you like."
She got up and going to a steel file brought out a bulging folder.
"She's made plenty," she said dryly, and shoved it across the desk to him. The receipts were there, made to the account of Jessica Blake, and she watched him as he went over them.
"She left them here," she said. "Afraid her husband would find them. I wish to high heaven he'd never come back from the war."
He smiled, remembering the times he had wished the same thing.
"Well, that's out of our hands," he said. "The thing to do now is a simple matter of identification. I expected her today but she couldn't come. She says the checks were made out by you and deposited to the Blake account, so we'll need you, of course, at the bank."
She nodded dully.
"Does this mean the end of the program?" she asked.
"I don't see why. It's up to her, of course. I gather she's rather tired of it."
Her mind, however, seemed to be far away.
"Why does she want a will?" she asked. "Is she afraid of Fred Collier?"
"Most people with a hundred thousand dollars or more have wills, Miss Simmons."
"I suppose so," she said, her voice bitter. "Isn't it just my luck?"
"I don't see how a will affects you."
"I'm not talking about the will," she said hastily. "She's my best account, what with television and everything else. And it's a success, Mr. Forsythe. It's made money for years and it still goes on. What's the matter with her? Why not just leave Collier, if she's afraid he'll kill her?"
Forsythe managed a thin smile.
"I don't think it will come to that. Has he ever been here, Miss Simmons? Is there any way he could know what she's been doing?"
"Not from me," she said promptly. "Her identity is the best-kept secret in radio. She never goes to a rehearsal, she never comes here. Do you know where I meet her, Mr. Forsythe? In Central Park. Snow or rain, cold or hot, that's where I meet her. When the kid was young she brought the scripts in his pram, and believe me, one or two were wet in those days! She'd pretend to show him to me, and I'd sneak them into my muff, or what have you. Tie that if you can."
"It sounds unusual."
"Unusual! It's crazy. Don't think I just sit here and collect my commission. Know anything about radio? She's good, but who cuts if the script's too long? Who sits at rehearsal day after day? I do, Mr. Forsythe. I do."
He felt rather sorry for her as he left. He thought his call had been a considerable shock to her, although he could not imagine why. The bank deposit receipts were in order. What really startled him, however, was the amount of money at stake, enough incentive for any crime. Even murder.
He went back to his office to work that afternoon, but his feeling of apprehension remained. Suppose he went to the police? They would laugh at him, of course. Unless they had something on Collier. Anne had started to say something about his business of secondhand cars, and then checked herself. She had said, "Sometimes I wonder—" Wonder what? Was she afraid he dealt in stolen automobiles, had them painted and with new license plates shipped them out of town? Collier had done something like that in France and narrowly escaped court-martial for it.
It was unfortunate, when he finally settled down, that he opened the red-bound book at a section entitled Base Period Catastrophe.
THREE
He dined out that evening, a typical Park Avenue dinner party, the hour set for eight and not all the guests arriving until almost an hour later. By that time he had more to drink than he wanted. And, for the first time in his life, much more than he wanted of chattering young women who rose apparently unclothed above the top of the long table. He was frantically bored as the meal went on, and for some reason increasingly apprehensive.
Over coffee and liqueurs and hot political talk with the other men after dinner he tried to think of some way to escape the inevitable bridge or canasta. And he was still debating this when a butler leaned over his shoulder.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but you are wanted on the telephone. Your sister, she says."
Only a real emergency would make Margery call him at such a time, and he never doubted what it was. He was alternately hot and cold as he slid quietly out of the dining room and to the telephone in the library. But Margery's voice was calm.
"It isn't what you think, Wade," she said. "But the doctor said she had a couple of letters in her hand when she fell. One of them was to you. She isn't badly hurt, but he thought you might want to know. Her husband's out and they can't locate him."
"Where did she fall? And how?" He hardly recognized his own voice.
"Apparently down the stairs. She's badly shaken up, but that's all. Nothing's broken."
"Collier's not there?"
"No. She says he left before it happened. She doesn't know where he is." She hesitated. "I had the impression from the doctor that she wants to see you, or I wouldn't have called."
He made a brief apology to his hostess and five minutes later was in a cab. He was puzzled. If Collier was gone when she fell it seemed to let him out of it. His distrust of the man was so great, however, that he did not relax. Collier could have pretended to go and been waiting somewhere in the dark upper hall. It was not like her to fall, he thought. She moved lightly and easily, even gracefully, and he remembered the long straight flight of stairs and shivered.
He found the superintendent on the pavement waiting for him, a stockily built man, wearing an old gray sweater and a truculent expression.
"I'm Hellinger," he said. "The doc thought you'd probably be along. And don't think she's got any grounds for a lawsuit against this building, Mr. Forsythe. She fell because she had a damned good reason to."
"You mean she was pushed?"
"Worse than that," said the superintendent. "Come inside and I'll show you something."
What he had to show was a longish piece of wire, thin but strong. He grinned as Forsythe examined it.
"Stretched across the top of the stairs," he said. "It was sure tight. Fellow on the floor above heard her fall and almost broke his own neck on it when he ran down. Doc's with him now. Soon as I let you in I'm going out to get him some aspirin."
Forsythe handed back the wire.
"I understand her husband was gone when it happened," he said.
Hellinger shrugged.
"Nothing to prevent him leaving a little souvenir behind him, was there? Maybe he knew she was going out soon as he left. She had a couple of letters when she fell, one to her boy, the other to you. Old trick, of course, the wire. Had a kid here once almost killed his mother that way."
He left, presumably to get Mr. Jamison's aspirin, and Forsythe slowly climbed the stairs. Somehow, he thought, he must get her away from the place, to Connecticut, to a hotel, even to his own house and Margery. It was clear, however, as soon as he saw her that she could not be moved very soon.
She was lying prostrate in her bed and she turned her head slowly and painfully when she heard him.
"Sorry, Wade," she said. "I twisted my neck and I ache all over. What a fool thing to do anyhow! I've gone down those stairs for years and never even stumbled."
"That's