Tatum again took up the letter, put it down once more, glared, and in his opera voice resumed:
“If I were younger, I would run out there. I hear that Frisco is a delightful place. But I hear also that the food en route is the reverse. Besides, there is the coming back. No, I couldn’t do it. But you might.”
For a moment, Glendenning considered it.
“I would if I thought I could nail that scoundrel.”
“Well,” Tatum affectionately replied, “if you conclude to, you’d best not put up at the Morrow House. It is not, I hear, a place for a gentleman. And that reminds me. What could have induced your cousin to go there? Why did he not go back to the St. Francis? Of course there is no law in the matter. He was free to do as he liked—free to drink, free also to expose himself. When it rains in San Francisco, I hear that it is something to boast about. Your cousin appears to have been subjected to it. He appears, also, to have grown a beard. There is no law against that, either. But perhaps that is the reason why he did not return to the St. Francis. Perhaps he feared that he would not be recognized. Doctor Towers told my correspondents that he looked like a tramp. For the heir to a fortune, that is interesting, but not exceptional. In England, before the war, I saw a man who looked like a poacher and who turned out to be a duke.”
“What do your people say about this Doctor Towers?” Glendenning, biting a finger, moodily got in.
“Old established family practitioner with a thoroughly good reputation. Which also reminds me. This friend of your cousin’s in his last moments has no reputation at all. He has not even a doubtful past, though it’s probably better to have a doubtful past than a past about which there is no doubt whatever. But this deathbed friend has nothing of the kind. Who is he?”
“Revell,” Glendenning sullenly replied.
“Precisely. And who is Revell? In San Francisco no one ever heard of him. Your cousin—yes. Your cousin stopped at hotels; he wrote letters; he visited lawyers. But of Revell there is not a trace, not one. Who is this man who seems to have sprung from nowhere and who owns the earth?”
“My cousin’s murderer.”
Airily Tatum waved it away.
“No, not that. The man in the Morrow House died of a perfectly defined disease, of which the predisposing causes were sufficiently indicated. The man in the Morrow House died a natural death. But your cousin did not. Or, at least, so far as we are yet aware. So far as we are yet aware, your cousin may enjoy the same good health that you do.”
Glendenning started.
“Then who was the man in the Morrow House?”
“It is to find out that that I spoke of going there. But, apart from the mysteries of the dining car, the crematorium tells no tales.”
“Then we’re dished.”
“No, not that, either. On the face of it, a Mike Vulper died at the Morrow House. But before the will is probated, it has got to be shown to my satisfaction that that Mike Vulper was your Mike Vulper. And even should that be proven, it must be proven, also, that it was your Mike Vulper, who, in the offices of the San Francisco attorneys, executed this will.”
Glendenning groped, but he could not get it.
“You think—”
Tatum sat back.
“I don’t know what to think. When you first spoke of Revell, you said that he looked like a mummer. He may be one. In which case, he could certainly make himself up and pass for your cousin to people who would have no suspicions about him and who might at most be expected to vaguely describe him long after.”
“That’s it. That’s it.”
Tatum gestured and scowled.
“It may be. For, as you may remember, when the will was drawn, he copied it. Why did he? Such a proceeding was absolutely unnecessary and becomes all the more curious when you consider that he was in a hurry. Why, then, did he? The answer is obvious. He did it for no other reason than because he felt that his identity might be questioned and, possessing, in addition to other talents, the ability to imitate another’s writing, he wrote it in Mike’s hand, on which he had previously practiced.”
Savorously Glendenning gulped.
“Bravo! We’ve got him! The will is a forgery.”
“Yes,” Tatum purred at him, “that is the way I look at it. But even if we can prove that, as perhaps we may, then, before we can claim the property, we’ve got to prove also that your cousin is dead.”
“If he’s not dead, where is he?”
“Ask Revell.”
“By the Lord Harry, I will!”
“He knows, but he won’t tell you. He knows why the man in the offices of the San Francisco attorneys was in a hurry. He won’t tell that, either. He knows and he won’t tell why the body of the man in the Morrow House was burned. But I can tell. It was to cover his tracks.”
Glendenning’s face darkened.
“Then he’s got us again.”
Tatum laughed fatly.
“I don’t think so. If, as is possible—and probable—we can show that the will is a forgery, we can accept without question the evidence of your cousin’s death. In other words, Mike Vulper died at the Morrow House; he died intestate; and the estate is yours.”
“Tatum, that’s great!”
“Yes, and my bill is going to be greater,” thought the lawyer.
But he said:
“When do you think you will see this impostor?”
Glendenning sprang to his feet.
“Tonight, and—confound him!—I know where.”
Tatum looked up at him.
“Tonight I am going to ‘The Ring Around the Rosy’ show. Afterward, suppose
