“Why don’t you?” I asked as I took the letter.
“Well, he’s really Kelterman
“You say anything to him about it?”
“I didn’t have a chance. I haven’t seen him since you told me.” I looked at the letter in my hand. The envelope was postmarked Boston, Massachusetts, December 27, 1932, and addressed in a slightly childish feminine hand to Mr. Christian Jorgensen, Courtland Apts., New York, N. Y. “How’d you happen to open it?” I asked, taking the letter out of the envelope.
“I don’t believe in intuition,” he said, “but there are probably odors, sounds, maybe something about the handwriting, that you can’t analyze, maybe aren’t even conscious of, that influence you sometimes. I don’t know what it was: I just felt there might be something important in it.”
“You often feel that way about the family’s mail?”
He glanced quickly at me as if to see whether I was spoofing, then said: “Not often, but I have opened their mail before. I told you I was interested in studying people.”
I read the letter:
Dear Sid–
Olga wrote me about you being back in the U. S. married
to another woman and using the name of Christian Jorgensen.
That is not right Sid as you very well know the same as
leaving me without word of any kind all these years. And no
money. I know that you had to go away on account of that
trouble you had with Mr. Wynant but am sure he has long since
forgot all about that and I do think you might have written to
me as you know very well I have always been your friend and am
willing to do anything within my power for you at any time. I
do not want to scold you Sid but I have to see you. I will be
off from the store Sunday and Monday on account of New Years and
will come down to N. Y. Saturday night and must have a talk
with you. Write me where you will meet me and what time as I do
not want to make any trouble for you. Be sure and write me right
away so I will get it in time.
Your true wife,
Georgia
There was a street address.
I said, “Well, well, well,” and put the letter back in its envelope. “And you resisted the temptation to tell your mother about this?”
“Oh, I knew what her reaction would be. You saw how she carried on with just what you told her. What do you think I ought to do about it?”
“You ought to let me tell the police.”
He nodded immediately. “If you think that’s the best thing. You can show it to them if you want.”
I said, “Thanks,” and put the letter in my pocket.
He said: “Now there’s another thing: I had some morphine I was experimenting with and somebody stole it, about twenty grains.”
“Experimenting how?”
“Taking it. I wanted to study the effects.”
“And how’d you like them?” I asked.
“Oh, I didn’t expect to like it. I just wanted to know about it. I don’t like things that dull my mind. That’s why I don’t very often drink, or even smoke. I want to try cocaine, though, because that’s supposed to sharpen the brain, isn’t it?”
“It’s supposed to. Who do you think copped the stuff?”
“I suspect Dorothy, because I have a theory about her. That’s why I’m going over to Aunt Alice’s for dinner: Dorry’s still there and I want to find out. I can make her tell me anything.”
“Well, if she’s been over there,” I asked, “how could she–”
“She was home for a little while last night,” he said, “and, besides, I don’t know exactly when it was taken. Today was the first time I opened the box it was in for three or four days.”
“Did she know you had it?”
“Yes. That’s one of the reasons I suspect her. I don’t think anybody else did. I experimented on her too.”
“How’d she like it?”
“Oh, she liked it all right, but she’d have taken it anyhow. But what I want to ask you is could she have become an addict in a little time like that?”