everything.'
'If you can't find him,' said McCauley anxiously, 'ask Mr. Charles Copeland.'
'Copeland, the lawyer? Nan's boss, you mean?'
'Yes. Yes. He knows. He was my sister's lawyer, and he was the go-between. He'll know where Kate is, too. Kate CaUahan—if you wanted to talk to her.'
'Go-between whom?' asked Johrmy.
'Between Edith-Emily and the Bartees. He took care of the money.'
'What money?'
'The money old man Bartee sent every year for the baby,' McCauley said. 'The old man insisted when he and Emily made the agreement. He felt responsible, I suppose.'
'You mean old Bartee supported Emily?'
'No, no,' said McCauley. 'Emily never touched it.'
''Then where is it now?'
''It's a fund,' the prisoner said.
''A fund! For seventeen years!'
'1 think it was five thousand dollars every year,' McCauley said. 'It belongs to my daughter.'
'But ...' Johnny got up. 'Look,' he said with a bursting feehng. 'Emily is gone. What happens about that money? Won't Nan have to know now?'
'Oh, my sister had that all arranged,' McCauley said. 'Nobody will know where it really came from.'
'I went to see Geroge Rush myself, five years ago.' said Father Klein, 'but he wouldn't talk at all. I approached him directly and it didn't work. I'm afraid I have no guile.'
'Too right,' muttered Johnny Sims. 'No guile.' He stared at them.
Then he said abruptly, '111 see what I can do. I'll be in touch. I can call you on the phone. Father Klein?'
Johnny went away.
Five thousand a year for seventeen years, funded, perhaps invested, at least compounded! For heaven's sake, couldn't they see! When Dick Bartee met Nan Padgett and rushed her off her feet tvhUe Emily was out of the way
it might not have been a coincidence at all. It might have been a plan.
Johnny felt very grim and shaken. Lawyer Copeland ought to be shot. Copeland knew. But Copeland had introduced them. Was Copeland in on this?
On what?
CHAPTER 6
JoHisTNY PULLED UP in front of the building where the girls lived, just as another car pulled up ahead of him. Dorothy, then Nan, and finally a big blond man got out. Dorothy saw him first and hurried toward him.
Johnny saw her face and quickly put both arms around her. 'Been to see about the funeral,' she said miserably against his coat-
'Dick,' Nan said, 'this is Johnny Sims.' Her face was solemn and strained.
Johnny did not shake the blond man's hand because he was holding Dorothy. 'Glad to meet you,' Johnny said, 'although not under these circurhstances. Where's 'Ma?'
'Upstairs,' murmured Dorothy. 'She's been wonder . . .''
Nan broke in. 'Jolmny, will you please tell us something?'
Johnny marveled that Nan took the lead. It was usually Dorothy. He braced himself. He knew what was coming.
It crossed his mind that Dick Bartee could have inspired this attacking question. But Bartee was just waiting, just hstening. He was good looking, all right, a man with a stiong animal ptesence. His gray eyes watched, neither warm nor cold.
'The hospital says Aunt Emily called for you last night.' Nan's brown eyes were cold. 'Why haven't you told us?'
Johnny's arms tightened around Dorothy as his heart jumped. 'I was ashamed to tell you,' he said flatly, 'because I'm sorry—I never did make it.'
'DidTi't make iti You mean you didn't go when she asked!' Nan flared.
'I haven't got an excuse, Nan. I am just ashamed,' Johnny said. 'Only that the doctor and the nurse seemed to think she needed a night of quiet and I guessed this morning would do.'
Nan's chin hfted. 'I thought you were so fond of Emily.' She looked away from him. She started towards the door.
Dorothy was also drawing away from him. He looked down. 'I sure wish I had gone,' he murmured. Dorothy gave him a troubled, searching look. Then she followed Nan.
Johnny stood beside Dick Bartee. He was out to discover whether this blond man, now looking at him speculatively with those gray eyes, was or was not a wrong one, phony, murderer. Johnny couldn't handicap himself before he started by announcing what he was up to. (Also, he had promised.)
