things which had meant something special to the General. It was like peeping through a keyhole, and with that thought her eyes rested an instant passing over the “Peeping Tom” story to concentrate on the feature of the page as Jasper Tully’s bony finger pointed it out—the plans for the St. Patrick’s Day parade, including the General’s name amongst the very important people to be in the reviewing stand.
The other page, they saw, accounted the pickup order out for Johnny “The Rock” Rocco.
“It seems curious at first, him being interested in that,” Tully said, “but down a ways there’s your name, Jimmie, and that could be it.”
Jimmie nodded and took his father’s wallet from the next box. It was something of a shock to look upon the faded picture of his mother, a woman of whom he had no recollection except as her portrait in the living room revealed her. He showed it to Mrs. Norris who sniffed a little. Then he opened the money compartment. He looked twice and then took the money out, each bill separately, and put it on the table, Mrs. Norris giving a small “Oh” at each one hundred dollar bill. Nine of them there were, as well as a fifty and some singles.
“Did you give him all that, Master Jamie?” Mrs. Norris said with deep reprimand.
“I did not. I gave him fifty dollars, two twenties and a ten.”
Mrs. Norris pursed her lips. “I wonder what’s missing from the house.”
Jasper Tully had been watching them. “Did the old gentleman have no money of his own?”
“His pension,” Jimmie said, “but it’s all tied up in his previous spendings. It will take a better lawyer than I am to straighten out his affairs.”
“Well, one thing would look to be clear from it,” the investigator said, “If he was murdered it was not for his fortune. Plainly the intention of the pair that brought him home was not to roll him.”
“I’d have said that was plain from the beginning,” Mrs. Norris snorted. “Look at her, carrying his medals and calling him Ransom. She knew what was in his pocket and the ways there were of getting it.” Mrs. Norris sat down and folded her hands. “Well, the Lord forgive me for saying it, but with all that money in his pocket, the old gentleman must have died happy.”
“He lived a good deal happier than most of us, too,” Jimmie said. “Let’s get on with this business.”
But there was nothing else of any value except the parking receipt for his car, a garage on Second Avenue and Sixtieth. The garage stamp indicated that the car had not been moved since Thursday night.
“That’s quite a ways from his club,” Tully said, “which makes you wonder awful much what it was close to.”
“Aye,” said Mrs. Norris. “Is that a wealthy neighborhood?”
“Mixed. But no real poverty,” Tully said.
“He’d be shy of that, you may be sure.”
“Can we have the car now?” said Jimmie.
“I think so,” Tully said, picking up the phone. “I’ll check and be sure.”
Jimmie turned to his housekeeper. “There’s someone I’ve wanted you to meet for a long time, Mrs. Norris, a very dear friend of mine, Helene Joyce. Mrs. Joyce will drive you home—if the car’s available.”
“How nice,” Mrs. Norris said, and brushed vigorously at her dress. It had been her opinion that for a long time he’d been wanting her not to meet Mrs. Joyce. If she didn’t watch her Master Jamie it would not be long before the old man’s shoes would need resoling. “When do you want me to leave?”
“As soon as you’re packed,” Jimmie said shortly. He had no patience now with her tantrums.
“Yes, sir,” she snapped, and flounced out of the room.
“My God,” Jimmie said, when she was gone, “almost a thousand dollars. Where did he get it, Jasp? And in crisp hundred dollar bills.”
“There’s two possibilities come to mind,” Tully said, “a bank—or the horses. All things considered, his Brooklyn jaunt and all that mess, this time, Jimmie, my
The other page, they saw, accounted the pickup order out for Johnny “The Rock” Rocco.
“It seems curious at first, him being interested in that,” Tully said, “but down a ways there’s your name, Jimmie, and that could be it.”
Jimmie nodded and took his father’s wallet from the next box. It was something of a shock to look upon the faded picture of his mother, a woman of whom he had no recollection except as her portrait in the living room revealed her. He showed it to Mrs. Norris who sniffed a little. Then he opened the money compartment. He looked twice and then took the money out, each bill separately, and put it on the table, Mrs. Norris giving a small “Oh” at each one hundred dollar bill. Nine of them there were, as well as a fifty and some singles.
“Did you give him all that, Master Jamie?” Mrs. Norris said with deep reprimand.
“I did not. I gave him fifty dollars, two twenties and a ten.”
Mrs. Norris pursed her lips. “I wonder what’s missing from the house.”
Jasper Tully had been watching them. “Did the old gentleman have no money of his own?”
“His pension,” Jimmie said, “but it’s all tied up in his previous spendings. It will take a better lawyer than I am to straighten out his affairs.”
“Well, one thing would look to be clear from it,” the investigator said, “If he was murdered it was not for his fortune. Plainly the intention of the pair that brought him home was not to roll him.”
“I’d have said that was plain from the beginning,” Mrs. Norris snorted. “Look at her, carrying his medals and calling him Ransom. She knew what was in his pocket and the ways there were of getting it.” Mrs. Norris sat down and folded her hands. “Well, the Lord forgive me for saying it, but with all that money in his pocket, the old gentleman must have died happy.”
“He lived a good deal happier than most of us, too,” Jimmie said. “Let’s get on with this business.”
But there was nothing else of any value except the parking receipt for his car, a garage on Second Avenue and Sixtieth. The garage stamp indicated that the car had not been moved since Thursday night.
“That’s quite a ways from his club,” Tully said, “which makes you wonder awful much what it was close to.”
“Aye,” said Mrs. Norris. “Is that a wealthy neighborhood?”
“Mixed. But no real poverty,” Tully said.
“He’d be shy of that, you may be sure.”
“Can we have the car now?” said Jimmie.
“I think so,” Tully said, picking up the phone. “I’ll check and be sure.”
Jimmie turned to his housekeeper. “There’s someone I’ve wanted you to meet for a long time, Mrs. Norris, a very dear friend of mine, Helene Joyce. Mrs. Joyce will drive you home—if the car’s available.”
“How nice,” Mrs. Norris said, and brushed vigorously at her dress. It had been her opinion that for a long time he’d been wanting her not to meet Mrs. Joyce. If she didn’t watch her Master Jamie it would not be long before the old man’s shoes would need resoling. “When do you want me to leave?”
“As soon as you’re packed,” Jimmie said shortly. He had no patience now with her tantrums.
“Yes, sir,” she snapped, and flounced out of the room.
“My God,” Jimmie said, when she was gone, “almost a thousand dollars. Where did he get it, Jasp? And in crisp hundred dollar bills.”
“There’s two possibilities come to mind,” Tully said, “a bank—or the horses. All things considered, his Brooklyn jaunt and all that mess, this time, Jimmie, my
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