“Why did you kill your sister, Pam?”
Pamela Bogart spun on her heel and looked up at Jeff. Her eyes narrowed to slits, studying him.
“What do you mean?” she snapped, between whitening lips.
“You haven’t answered me.”
“An answer isn’t necessary. I didn’t kill Corinne. She killed herself.”
“How could she? What became of the gun?”
“I don’t know what happened to the gun. But I do know she killed herself. Maybe uncle, or someone else, picked it up and hid it. I know I didn’t.”
“It wasn’t your uncle, because he’s afraid you might be killed.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”
“About that I don’t know. Certainly, there must be a great many people who would like to kill you.”
Jeff turned away from her and picked up an engraved silver cigarette box from the coffee table. Idly, he turned it around in his hand, examining the workmanship.
Pamela Bogart watched him warily. When he set down the box, she spoke again:
“Jeff, I’m going to tell you something. Something I was ashamed to tell even the police.”
“From the things I’ve known you to do, I can’t imagine your being ashamed of anything.”
“Yon didn’t let me finish. I was ashamed to tell the police that Corinne had been running around with a married man. She went with him on business trips, and visited him in a cabin in the hills. When he grew tired of her, she was heartbroken. The engagement to Mike was only a gesture. She couldn’t go through with it. That’s why she killed herself. Don’t you believe me?”
“No. I don’t believe a word of truth ever crossed your lips. Come on, Smitty!” He moved toward the door.
“Jeff! There was one night you believed me, loved me, even, a little. The night Myrna Dalton—”
Jeff slammed the door behind him.
“Jeff,” Smitty said, when they were again in the car, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you hated her.”
“OK, Smitty. I asked for it.”
“Jeff, will you tell me something?”
“What?”
“Why was Corinne shot with a silver bullet?”
“To kill her.”
“I know that, but why silver? Aren’t silver bullets used to kill vampires?”
“She wasn’t a vampire. Now, be quiet. I want to think.”
“Just one more question. Where are we going?”
“To the bank, the National Trust.”
Five minutes after their arrival, they were shown into the office of the president. He greeted them pleasantly, dismissed his secretary, and leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Mr Hunter?”
“Do you know anything about the Bogarts’ financial setup?”
The banker didn’t answer immediately. When he did speak, he talked slowly, as if he were carefully choosing each word.
“Yes. But there are some things I am not at liberty to tell you without a court order or without my clients’ consent. The Bogarts have accounts here, and we have handled the various estates. I think we’d get along better if you asked me questions. I’ll answer those I can.”
“Fair enough. Smitty, tell him what we know. He can confirm it for us.”
“Herbert Bogart” – words rattled from Smitty’s lips – “father of Wendell and Herbert, Jr., left the vast war speculator’s fortune he accumulated in 1914–19, divided equally between his two sons and their heirs. Wendell Bogart received his half, is the administrator of the estate and is trustee for his niece’s share. The two orphan daughters of Herbert, Jr., inherited their father’s share. The principal was tied up until their thirtieth birthdays.”
“That is substantially correct,” the banker agreed. “Miss Corinne Bogart died, leaving her share to be divided between her uncle and her sister. There was also a comparatively small bequest to Professor Collins whom she intended to marry, for earthquake research.”
“Pamela’s trust is still handled by her uncle?” Jeff asked.
“That’s right. She gets the interest. I can’t imagine how she manages to spend it.”
“There is no question about the trust? Wendell Bogart couldn’t tamper with it?”
“Oh, absolutely not.” The banker appeared horrified at the suggestion. “The bonding company and the courts see to that.”
“Can you tell me how Wendell Bogart stands today, financially? I understand he’s shaky.”
“I couldn’t do that, Mr Hunter, without Bogart’s permission. Naturally, he, like the rest of us, was hit hard in ’29, and again during the recent war.”
“I see. Then there is no question in your mind that if Pamela Bogart lives to reach her thirtieth birthday, she will be given every penny of her inheritance?”
“If she lives until her thirthieth birthday, I have no doubt but that Pamela will receive her full inheritance, according to law.”
“That’s good enough for me. Thanks. Now, one other thing. I understand you’re quite a collector of pewter and silver. Could you tell me which silversmith marks his work with a die shaped like a flying bat?”
“Yes” – the banker spoke without hesitation – “a silversmith who calls himself John Stevens, at 72 Water Street. Personally, I’d steer clear of him.”
“Why.”
“He’s a gypsy from one of those Balkan countries. A very clever fellow. Unfortunately, ‘sterling’ has several meanings for him.”
“Thanks. I don’t intend to buy anything from him.”
“Why all the questions about silver?” Smitty demanded, when they were in the car heading for the water front.
“You’ll find out.” Jeff grinned. “Here’s Water Street now. 72 is on the corner. Coming in?”
A small, dark gypsy looked up from the spoon, set in a bowl of pitch, on which he was engraving an elaborate floral design. He set his work aside and stepped to the counter. “What can I do for you?”
“Did you ever make anything like this?” Jeff sketched a long-nosed bullet, keeping his drawing to actual dimensions.
“What is it? What is it supposed to be?” The man’s black eyes were filled with suspicion.
“I don’t know. Maybe the tip of a hatpin, or maybe an ornament. I haven’t any idea. But it looks like a bullet to me Anyway, it was made of silver.”
“I don’t remember ever making anything like that. Say, weren’t the police around asking the same question about a year ago?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they were,” Jeff agreed. “My client is very interested in it now. He’d pay a lot of money to know who ordered it made.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” Stevens’ teeth flashed.
“Sure? It might have been an umbrella ferule or a swagger stick tip. Sure you’ve never made anything like it?”
The gypsy’s eyes narrowed. “Positive.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” Jeff said. “You look back over your old records and see if you can’t find the name of the person for whom you made something similar to this. Not a bullet, of course, but something like it. Then give me a ring.” Jeff slid one of his cards into the outstretched palm. “If your records tell you anything, we’ll talk price later. Right?”
“I’m positive I’ve never made anything like it, but I’ll look through my records to make sure. One’s memory sometimes plays odd tricks.”
“Isn’t it the truth?” Jeff said grimly. “Come on, Smitty.”
Jeff circled the block. A policeman eyed the yellow convertible suspiciously when Jeff slid to a stop beside a fire plug. The car was markedly out of place among the rumbling trucks and horse-drawn drays of the water front.
“Smitty, I want you to hang around a while. Unless I’m badly mistaken, Stevens is the man who made that bullet. I think he’s going to have a caller very soon.”
“Right. There was a bar across the street from 72. I’ll wait there. What do you want me to do?”