Fellows sized her up with a trained glance that took in the cheap quality of her clothes, the lack of lipstick, the lack of a wedding ring. He said, “Is a Jean Sherman known here, miss?”
“Yes.” She nodded, but was otherwise noncommittal.
“I wonder if I could speak to someone close to her. Her father, perhaps.”
“My father’s at work.”
“Your mother?”
“She’s been dead six years. What do you want?”
“Are you her sister?”
“Jean’s sister?” The girl smiled. “I don’t know what you’re selling, mister, but you’re doing it all wrong.” She observed the police car now, and her eyes darted back to his face. “Something’s happened. What is it?”
Fellows said, “I’m sorry. This is something I can only discuss with the Sherman family.”
Her brow clouded. “Well if it’s about me, I feel I have a right to know.”
For once in his life, the chief was startled. “You?”
“Yes, me. I’m Jean Sherman.”
“Then who—?” He stopped and started again. He introduced himself and asked to come in. He thought she paled a little at the mention of “police” and “Stockford,” but at the moment he was so befuddled he wasn’t sure what was happening.
She brought him into a small and comfortably furnished living room and motioned him to the couch in front of the windows. He took off his cap and waited until she sat in the facing chair before he lowered himself uneasily onto the cushions. “Now please,” Jean said. “Would you tell me what this is all about?”
“Well,” Fellows laughed haltingly. “Maybe you can tell me. What do you know about a man who calls himself John Campbell?”
She paused for a moment and then said, “Nothing at all. Why?”
“You don’t know anyone by that name?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then tell me by what name you know the man who lives at 2 Highland Road in Stockford.”
She shook her head again. “I don’t know anybody in Stockford. I don’t think I even know where it is.”
Fellows was baffled. He found himself coming up against one blank wall after another. “Then I’ll have to ask you where you were and what you were doing last weekend.”
The girl licked her unrouged lips. She was nervous, but whether it was because she was lying or because she was being questioned by a policeman he couldn’t be sure. “I went to New York,” she said. “I spent the weekend with my sister and her husband.”
“When did you go and when did you come back?”
She hesitated and stared beyond Fellows through the window. “I went down Friday night and came back Sunday night.”
“And the week before—the whole week?”
“I was here. I’m always here.” She leaned forward. “What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
“You deny ever having known a man by the name of John Campbell? Tall, medium slender, dark hair, middle thirties?”
“I do.”
“Your name,” the chief said, “and your address, Miss Sherman, were found written on a pad in a house rented to a John Campbell at 2 Highland Road in Stockford, which is twelve miles north of Stamford.”
“I don’t know how it could have got there.”
Fellows leaned forward. “I don’t think Mr. Campbell found it in a crystal ball, Miss Sherman. This is a serious matter. I warn you you’d better be telling the truth.”
She said very evenly, “Why should I lie?”
“There are several reasons why you might. But, assuming you’re telling the truth, please think carefully. Have you recently, say within the last month, met any man, never mind what his name was, who fits the description I just gave you?”
She did think, or she pretended to, but only for a couple of seconds. “I keep house for my father,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “How would I get to meet any man?”
“You haven’t met any men in the past month?”
“I haven’t met any men in the past year.”
Fellows sighed and stood up. “I’m going to have to check with your sister, Miss Sherman. You want to write out her name and address?”
“What do you have to check for? What’s happened?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to talk about it. May I have your sister’s name and address please?”
“Yes, certainly.” She hunted through a table drawer for paper and pencil saying, “You’ll find I was there, don’t worry.” She scribbled rapidly, tore off the sheet, and handed it to him a bit peremptorily. She expected him to thank her and leave, but instead he studied the name and address carefully, then reached for his wallet and produced a faintly blued slip of paper with light blue writing and matched it alongside. He said, “Miss Sherman, this is just a guess, but I’d be glad to back it with a small wager that handwriting experts will be willing to get up in court and swear that these two samples were both written by the same hand.”
Miss Sherman went white. “What two samples?” she whispered. “What’s that other piece of writing?”
“Your name and address. The paper we found in Mr. Campbell’s house.”
The girl staggered slightly and clutched her throat saying, “Oh no,” as she sank back into her chair. She sat motionless staring at nothing, and the chief carefully replaced both papers and put his wallet away. Finally he said, “You want to tell me about it Miss Sherman?”
She stirred. “No. There’s nothing to tell.”
Fellows made a face. He said, “Miss, either you tell me about it now, or I call the Bridgeport police and take you in. It’s as simple as that. Where’d you meet Campbell?”
She started to cry a little. “On the train.”
“When you went to New York?”
She nodded and fumbled for a handkerchief she didn’t have. Fellows gave her his, and said, “Now don’t be upset.
