Page 72 of The Other Lady Vanishes

She crouched beside the suitcase and got it open. There was a jumble of clothes inside and some toiletries but no envelope containing a blackmailer’s secrets and no journal with a list of potential victims.

She got up and went to the front door.

“Looks like Leggett packed in a hurry,” she said. “But I didn’t see anything that looked like a clue. No tickets. No money. No papers. Definitely no blackmail secrets. How do you transport extortion secrets, anyway?”

“Depends on the secrets.” Jake closed the trunk of the Ford and came back up the steps. “If I’m right about Madam Zolanda having collected blackmail materials for some time, she must have had a sizable stash. She probably also had a journal with names, dates, addresses, phone numbers, and incriminating details. There might have been photos and documents, as well. I’d say we’re looking for something the size of a small suitcase.”

“Looks like whoever murdered Thelma now has that suitcase,” Adelaide said. “I’ll check her handbag.”

She was about to head for the leather bag when she saw two oblong slips of paper in the shadows under the cot.

“Who would leave money behind?” she asked.

She went down on one knee and retrieved the two slips of paper.

“Just cut-up newspapers,” she announced. “So much for finding a couple of dollar bills lying around at the scene of the crime.”

“Let me see those,” Jake said.

She got to her feet and gave him the papers. He examined them with a thoughtful expression.

“This is very, very interesting,” he said.

“Why?”

“These papers were cut to precisely the same size and shape as dollar bills.”

“I can tell that you don’t think that is a coincidence,” Adelaide said.

“No. Got a hunch our blackmailer got conned.”

“With just two pieces of paper? That doesn’t sound likely.”

“There were probably a lot more of these,” Jake said. He surveyed the room. “I think the killer cleaned up the scene. A pile of fake dollar bills might have forced the cops to pay too much attention to what was supposed to pass as a suicide.”

Adelaide went to the end table, opened the brown leather handbag, and surveyed the interior.

“Just the usual things a woman keeps in a purse,” she reported. “A wallet, a compact, a lipstick, a comb, and a hankie.”

She paused when she saw the folded paper at the bottom of the handbag. A little rush of excitement splashed through her. She took out the paper and unfolded it.

A split second later her excitement metamorphosed into shock.

“What is it?” Jake asked.

“A phone number,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

“Los Angeles? Burning Cove?”

“No. I think it might be a San Francisco number. Douglas 4981.”

“Sounds like you recognize it.”

“It’s been a while since I had a reason to call this particular number, so I may be wrong. But I’m almost positive it’s Conrad Massey’s home number.”

“Write down the number. We’ll call it later, after we deal with the police.”

“Why are we going to call it?”