“I’ll be along in a minute,” Miss Morrow said, when the elevator stopped at the twentieth floor. Kirk nodded and preceded her to the roof. She followed almost immediately. “I wanted to ask a question or two,” she explained. “You see, I gave Grace Lane very little attention on the night Sir Frederic was killed.”
“What do you think of her—now that you’ve looked again?”
“She’s a lady—if you don’t mind an overworked word. This job she has now is beneath her.”
“Think so?” Kirk took Miss Morrow’s coat. “I should have said that most of the time, it’s over her head.”
The girl shrugged. “That from you, deacon,” she said, reproachfully.
Chan and Captain Flannery were at the door, and Kirk let them in. The Captain was all business.
“Hello,” he said. “Now if you’ll show us that butler’s room, Mr. Kirk, we’ll get busy right away. I’ve brought a few skeleton keys. We’ll go over the place like a vacuum cleaner.” Kirk led them into the corridor.
“How about the cook’s room?” Flannery added. “We might take a look at that.”
“My cook’s a Frenchman,” Kirk explained. “He sleeps out.”
“Humph. He was here the other night at the time of the murder?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, I’d better have a talk with him some time.”
“He speaks very little English,” Kirk smiled. “You’ll enjoy him.” He left the two in the butler’s bedroom, and returned to Miss Morrow.
“I suppose you hate the sight of a kitchen,” he suggested.
“Why should I?”
“Well—a big lawyer like you—”
“But I’ve studied cookbooks, too. You’d be surprised. I can cook the most delicious—”
“Rarebit,” he finished. “I know. And your chocolate fudge was famous at the sorority house. I’ve heard it before.”
“Please let me finish. I was going to say, pot roast. And my lemon pie is not so bad, either.”
He stood solemnly regarding her. “Lady,” he announced, “you improve on acquaintance. And if that isn’t gilding the lily, I don’t know what is. Come with me and we’ll dig up the tea things.”
She followed him to the kitchen. “I’ve got a little apartment,” she said. “And when I’m not too tired, I get my own dinner.”
“How are you on Thursday nights?” he asked. “Pretty tired?”
“That depends. Why?”
“Servants’ night out. Need I say more?”
Miss Morrow laughed. “I’ll remember,” she promised. With deft hands she set the water to boiling, and began to arrange the tea tray. “How neat everything is,” she remarked. “Paradise is a wonder.”
“Tell that to my grandmother,” Kirk suggested. “She believes that a man who lives alone wallows in grime and waste. Every home needs a woman’s touch, according to her story.”
“Absurd,” cried the girl.
“Oh, well—grandmother dates back a few years. In her day women were housekeepers. Now they’re movie fans, club members, lawyers—what have you? Must have been a rather comfortable age at that.”
“For the men, yes.”
“And men don’t count any more.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I guess we’re ready now.”
Kirk carried the tray to the living-room, and placed it on a low table before the fire. Miss Morrow sat down behind it. He threw a couple of logs on to the glowing embers, then, visiting the dining-room, returned with a bottle, a siphon and glasses.
“Mustn’t forget that Captain Flannery doesn’t approve of tea,” he said.
Miss Morrow looked toward the passageway. “They’d better hurry, or they’ll be late for the party,” she remarked.
But Chan and Flannery did not appear. Outside the March dusk was falling; a sharp wind swept through the little garden and rattled insistently at the casements. Kirk drew the curtains. On the hearth the fresh logs flamed, filling the room with a warm, satisfying glow. He took from Miss Morrow’s hand his cup of tea, selected a small cake, and dropped into a chair.
“Cozy—that would be my word for this,” he smiled. “To look at you now, no one would ever suspect that old affair between you and Blackstone.”
“I’m versatile, anyhow,” she said.
“I wonder,” he replied.
“Wonder what?”
“I wonder just how versatile you are. It’s a matter I intend to investigate further. I may add that I am regarded throughout the world as the greatest living judge of a lemon pie.”
“You frighten me,” Miss Morrow said.
“If your testimony has been the truth, so help you,” he answered, “what is there to be frightened about?”
At that moment Chan and Flannery appeared in the doorway. The Captain seemed very pleased with himself.
“What luck?” Kirk inquired.
“The best,” beamed Flannery. He carried a piece of paper in his hand. “Ah—shall I help myself?”
“By all means,” Kirk told him. “A congratulatory potion. Mr. Chan—what’s yours?”
“Tea, if Miss Morrow will be so kind. Three lumps of sugar and the breath of the lemon in passing.”
The girl prepared his cup. Flannery dropped into a chair.
“I see you’ve found something,” Kirk suggested.
“I certainly have,” the Captain replied. “I’ve found the letter from Scotland Yard that Paradise nabbed from the mail.”
“Good enough,” cried Kirk.
“A slick bird, this Paradise,” Flannery went on. “Where do you think he had it? All folded up in a little wad and tucked into the toe of a shoe.”
“How clever of you to look there,” Miss Morrow approved.
Flannery hesitated. “Well—er—come to think of it, I didn’t. It was Sergeant Chan here dug it up. Yes, sir—the Sergeant’s getting to be a real sleuth.”
“Under your brilliant instruction,” smiled Chan.
“Well, we can all learn from each other,” conceded the Captain. “Anyhow, he found it, and turned it right over to me. The letter that came in the Scotland Yard envelope—no question about it. See—at the top—the Metropolitan Police—”
“If it’s not asking too much,” said Kirk, “what’s in the letter?”
Flannery’s face fell. “Not a whole lot. We’ll have to
