Would the writer come forward? She doubted it, but she thought it was likely that, since one anonymous letter had been written to her, another would be written — but this time to the police.
And Peggy also realized that by falling in with Don Kimberly’s highly abridged account of the evening’s activities, she had nominated herself as Suspect Number Two if the police ever should learn exactly what had happened.
Peggy knew enough of E. B. Halsey’s temperament to know that her future at WEFI depended on not letting the police find out all that had happened — at least for now.
E. B. Halsey, at 56, prided himself on his erect carriage, his keen eyes that needed spectacles only for reading, and his golf.
There were whispered stories about extracurricular activities. At times when he was with cronies whom he had known for years and whom he knew he could trust, it was understood Old E. B. could really let loose. There were rumors of certain wolfish tendencies he was supposed to have exhibited on rare occasion.
These last tendencies were the most delectable from the standpoint of powder-room discussion at WEFI, and the hardest to verify. Old E. B. was too shrewd ever to get caught off base. He took no chances on a rebuff, and any amatory affairs he may have indulged in were so carefully masked, so skillfully camouflaged, that the office rumors, although persistent, remained only rumors.
It was 9:30 when E. B. bustled into the office, jerked his head in a quick sparrowlike gesture, and said, “Good morning, Miss Castle,” and then popped into his private office.
Ten seconds later he pressed the button that summoned Miss Castle.
That was typical of the man. He had undoubtedly arrived an hour early so he could ask what had happened the night before, but it would have been completely out of character for him to have said, “Good morning, Miss Castle. Would you mind stepping into my office?” He would instead enter his office, carefully place his hat on the shelf in the coat closet, stand for a few seconds in front of the mirror smoothing his hair, straightening his tie, and then, only then, would he settle himself in the big swivel chair at the polished-walnut desk and press the mother-of-pearl button that sounded Peggy’s buzzer.
Peggy picked up her notebook, entered the office, and seated herself in a chair.
E. B. waved the notebook aside. “Never mind the notebook. I want to ask you a few questions.”
She glanced up at him as though she hadn’t been anticipating this interview for the past ten hours.
“You were with Kimberly last night?”
She nodded.
“That was a nasty piece in the paper. I don’t like to have the company’s name brought into prominence in connection with things of this sort. A company employee dead. Body found by two other employees who are out together. Possibility of murder. It gives the company a lot of bad publicity.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “You’ve done newspaper work?”
“A little, on a small paper.”
“You have sense. I’m going to get another secretary. From now on you’re going to be public relations counselor for this company. Your first job is to see that there’s no more bad publicity of the sort that’s in the papers this morning.
“Your new position carries with it a substantial increase in salary. You will, of course, keep on with your column in the house organ. I like the chatty humorous way you make the office gossip interesting, make employees sound important.
“No, no, don’t thank me. This appointment is in the nature of a trial. I’ll have to see what you can do to kill the sort of talk that we’re sure to get about Stella Lynn’s death. Now tell me about what happened last night. Tell it all, every detail.”
He paused, peering at her over the top of his glasses as though she were in some way personally responsible for Stella Lynn’s death.
Peggy Castle told him about the anonymous letter, about going to the Royal Pheasant, and her conversation with Don Kimberly.
“Then you weren’t with Don Kimberly?” E. B. asked.
“Not in the sense of having a date with him.”
“The papers say you had a dinner date. The police told me the same thing.”
“That was a mistake.”
E. B. pursed his lips. “Since they think you and Don Kimberly were on a date and merely dropped in on Stella on a friendly call, I think it would be better to let it stay that way.”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s better not to change a story that has appeared in the press. It puts you in a bad position.”
“The mistake was made by the police in assuming we were out together.”
E. B. beamed at her. “So that leaves us with a clear conscience, eh? All right, we’ll leave it that you and Don had a dinner date.”
“But that story won’t hold up. The headwaiter knows we didn’t come in together; so do the table waiters.”
E. B. frowned, then yielded the point reluctantly. “Very well, then, I suppose you’ll have to tell them the truth.”
Peggy waited. She had said nothing of the jeweled butterfly she had taken from Stella’s stocking.
E. B. put the tips of his fingers together. “The pieces of the letter?” he asked.
“I have them in my desk.”
“I think we’d better take a look,” he said.
She brought them in to him.
“You’re sure these pieces are from the envelope?”
“Yes. You can see the handwriting is the same, and this was the only handwritten letter addressed to me in the afternoon mail.”
E. B. thoughtfully poked at the pieces of paper.
“How does Kimberly explain this letter?” he asked abruptly.
“He doesn’t. He can’t.”
The telephone on E. B.’s desk rang sharply three times.
E. B. picked up the receiver and said, “Yes. E. B. Halsey.”
He frowned for a moment, then said, “This call should have gone to Miss Castle’s desk in the ordinary way. However — yes, I understand... Very well, I’ll see him. Yes, bring him down here.”
Halsey hung up the telephone and once more looked at Peggy over his glasses. “A Detective Nelson is out there. Know anything about him?”
“No.”
“He wants to talk with me. The receptionist became flustered and rang me personally. The call should have gone through your office. However, the damage is done now. I don’t want to antagonize the police in any way. You might step out to receive him.”
She nodded and went to the reception room just as the receptionist held the door open for E. B.’s visitor.
He wasn’t the type she had expected. He might have been a successful accountant or a bond salesman. He was slender, quietly dressed, and when he spoke his voice was melodious.
“I’m Fred Nelson,” he said, “from headquarters.”
He was holding a card case in his hand as though expecting to be called on to produce credentials. He exhibited a gold shield and gave Peggy a card, a neatly embossed card with a police shield in gold in the upper left-hand corner.
“Mr. Halsey is expecting you.”
“You’re his secretary, Miss Castle?”
“That’s right.”
“I think I want to see you both,” he said. “I believe you and your escort discovered the body.”
“I was with Mr. Kimberly.”
He nodded.
“Do you wish to see Mr. Kimberly at the same time?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Just you and Mr. Halsey.”
“Will you step this way, please.”
She ushered him into Halsey’s office. Nelson shook hands with E. B. and said, “I took the liberty of asking your secretary to remain during the interview, Mr. Halsey.”
E. B. beamed at him. “That’s fine. Quite all right. Sit right down. Anything we can do for you we’ll be glad to do. A most unfortunate occurrence. Always hate to have these tragedies. We’re something like a big family here and these things cut pretty close to home.”