“My name is Locke,” the caller said. “I’m the brother of the artist who has disappeared.”
“That’s very interesting,” Barham said, non-committally; “what can I do for you?”
“You can do this, Mr. Barham. You can use your influence to get the authorities to turn over to me any belongings or estate my brother had. I’m his only heir—but Tom lived so much to himself, and so quiet-like, I’ve no letters or such, to prove my claim. Now, if an influential man like yourself, sir, would just say a word to the police, they’d give me poor Tom’s clothes and furniture and suchlike. I don’t want anything they’d be likely to need for evidence—but I’m a poor man, sir, and I could do with a bit more. Especially when it belonged to my own brother.”
“So you’re Locke’s brother.” Barham looked at him appraisingly. “Are you older than he?”
“Only a year or so older. We were boys together.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Now, where did you live, as boys?”
“In Kansas City.”
“And your father’s name was?”
“John—John Locke. He was a minister, sir.”
“Oh, he was? Well, Mr. Locke, one more question. What was your mother’s maiden name?”
“Hester—Hester Miller.”
“A Kansas City woman?”
“Yes sir.” The caller began to fidget a little under this direct catechism, and Andrew Barham smiled.
Then he said, “I think there’s some mistake, Mr.—er—Locke. Your brother cannot be the artist we are interested in. You see, the artist, Tommy Locke, was born in Massachusetts. His mother’s maiden name was Jeannette Fessenden, and his father was a fire-insurance agent. So
