It wanted a few minutes of three o'clock when Ashton-Kirk, still accompanied by the curious Pendleton, walked into the outer room of the coroner's suite.
"Mr. Stillman will be here at any moment now," said Curran. Then lowering his voice and making a short little gesture from the elbow, he added: "These people are the ones he wanted to see."
As he and Pendleton sat down, Ashton-Kirk looked at the persons referred to. The first was a thin, wiry little woman, unmistakably Irish, cleanly dressed and with sharp, inquisitive eyes. Engaged in a low-pitched conversation with her was a thick-necked German, heavy of paunch and with a fat, red face. The third was a spectacled young Jew, poring over a huge volume which he seemed to have brought with him. He had a tremendous head of curling black hair; his clothing was shabby. There was a rapt expression upon his face; plainly nothing existed for him at that moment outside the pages of his book.
After a brief space, the coroner came in,
"Ah, how do you do, gentlemen," greeted he. He was good-natured and strove to be easy; but his natural nervousness clung to him. "I am glad to see you."
He looked at Curran and nodded at the three inquiringly.
"Yes, sir," replied the clerk; "these are the parties."
"Then we will get down to business." He opened a door and entered an inner room. "Will you come in?" he asked of Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton.
They followed him at once; and Curran, addressing the little Irishwoman, said:
"Now, Mrs. Dwyer, this way, please."
She arose briskly and also entered the inner room. Stillman seated himself at a desk and carefully perched his glasses upon his nose.
"I perhaps take more trouble than is customary in these cases," he said to Ashton-Kirk. "It is usual to hear statements, I believe, only when they are proffered as testimony at the inquest. But it seems to me that the office should be carried on in a more thorough way. Preparation, I think, is necessary to get at the facts."
Then he faced the woman who had taken a chair beside the desk.
"Your full name, please," said he.
"Honora Dwyer. I'm a widow with four children; I live at 71 Cormant Street, an' me husban' has been dead these three years," declared she, in a breath.
Stillman smiled.
"You don't believe in keeping anything back, Mrs. Dwyer, I can see that," said he. "And a very good trait it is." He leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at her through the glasses. "You are the person who discovered the body of Mr. Hume, are you not?"
"Yes, sir, I were," replied Mrs. Dwyer; "and God spare me such another sight."
"Tell us about it," said the coroner.
"I work as scrub woman for a good many in Christie Place an' the immejeat neighborhood," said Mrs. Dwyer, genteelly. "But I always gets to Mr. Hume's first."
"You are quite sure you found the street door locked?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you noticed nothing unusual about the place?"
"Only the open door to the store room, sir. Mr. Hume was always particular about closing up, sir. For a man who was in the habit of taking a sup of drink, sir, I'll say he wasveryparticular."
"When you noticed the door being open you went in at once, I suppose?"
"No, sir; I did not. After I got me water, I set down on the top step to get me breath. When I saw the door stan'nin' open, thinks I to meself, thinks I; 'Mr. Hume is up early this mornin'.' But everything was quiet as the grave," in a hushed dramatic tone. "Sorra the sound did I hear. So I gets up and goes in. And in the front room I sees him lyin'. Mr. Hume was never a handsome man, sir; and he'd gained nothing in looks by the end he'd met with. God save us, how I ever got out into the street, I'll never know."
She rocked to and fro and fanned herself with her apron.
"It must have been a very severe shock, Mrs. Dwyer," agreed the coroner. "Now," after a pause, "do you know anything—however slight, mind you—that would seem to point to who did this thing?"
Mrs. Dwyer shook her head.
"Me acquaintance with Mr. Hume was a business one only, sir," she said. "I never set foot into his place further than the hall except on the days when I went to get me pay—and this morning, save us from harm!"
"You know nothing of his friends then—of his habits?"
"There is the Jew boy, outside there, that worked for him. He's a nice, good mannered little felly, and is the only person I ever see in the office when I went there, barrin' the boss himself. As for Mr. Hume's habits, I can say only what everybody knows. He were drunk when he engaged me, and he were drunk the last time I seen him alive."
"That will be all, Mrs. Dwyer," said Stillman. "Thank you. Curran, I'll see the young man next."
As Curran and Mrs. Dwyer went out the young coroner turned to his two visitors.
"I am still assured that we have the motive for the crime in the attempt to steal the painting," he said. "But it will do no harm to get all the light we can upon every side of the matter. The smallest clue," importantly, "may prove of the utmost value at the inquest."
Ashton-Kirk smilingly nodded his entire assent to this. Then Curran showed in the clerk.
The young man still carried the thick volume and, when he sat down, laid it upon a corner of Stillman's desk. Its back was turned toward Ashton-Kirk and he noted that it was a work on anatomy such as first-year medical students use.
"What is your name, please?" asked the coroner.
"Isidore Brolatsky," replied the young man.
"You are, or were, employed by Mr. Hume?"
"As a clerk, yes, sir. I've been with him for some years." Brolatsky spoke with scarcely a trace of accent. "He didn't pay much, but then there wasn't much to do, and I had plenty of time to study."
"Ah," said Stillman, encouragingly. "To study, eh?"
"Yes. I've taken up medicine. There's a college up town that has night classes. I have been attending the lectures there and reading during the day. There's a big chance for physicians who can speak Yiddish. Not only to make money, but to do good."
"I see." The coroner regarded him reflectively for a moment. "Now, Mr. Brolatsky, having worked for Hume for some years, you must have picked up some details as to his business and himself. Suppose you tell us all you know about both."
The dark face of Brolatsky became thoughtful.
"Mr. Hume was a hard man to get along with," he said. "He seemed ready to quarrel at any time with anybody. I don't recall a customer ever coming into the store that he didn't have some kind of trouble with before they went out. But he had a great knowledge of the things he dealt in. People came from far and near to get his opinion on items in their collections. His fees," with appreciation, "were large.
"But there is one thing that I noticed about him. While he knew all about objects of art, he did not seem to care for them. He had no love for his trade, no sympathy, I may say, for the collectors who came to him. I wouldn't be going far from the truth if I said that he thought them all fools for paying their money for such things. And Iknowthat he mocked them."
"Humph!" Stillman looked at Ashton-Kirk, with surprise upon his face. "That seems odd. Men usually go into Hume's business through love of it." He turned once more to Brolatsky. "And he had no hobby of his own, no collection that he fancied more than another?"
Brolatsky nodded amusedly.
"Yes," he replied. "I was just coming to that. Hedidhave a collection that he called his own. And he never sold an item from it as long as I was with him. Indeed, I think if anybody had offered to buy, he would have come to blows with him."
Ashton-Kirk bent forward. For the first time since entering the room, he spoke.
"And what was the nature of that collection?" he inquired eagerly.
"Portraits," answered Isidore Brolatsky. "Prints, lithographs, mezzo-tints, engravings, paintings, it made no difference. And all of the same person. He had hundreds, I guess, and every one of them was of General Wayne."
Ashton-Kirk leaned back in his chair with a faint breath of triumph.
"When a portrait of General Wayne was offered him," continued Brolatsky, "he never haggled over it. He paid the price asked and seemed quite delighted to get it. It was a standing joke in the trade that if you wanted to get even with Mr. Hume for driving a hard bargain with you, all you had to do was to offer him a portrait of General Wayne. I never saw him refuse one. Even if he had dozens of duplicates, which often happened; still he'd buy."
A look of great acuteness had settled upon the face of the young coroner.
"There is a painting at one side of the show room," said he. "It is under a large green curtain. Is that of General Wayne?"
"It is," replied the clerk. "And I believe that he valued it more than anything else that he owned."
Stillman laughed with pleasure.
"Now," said he to his visitors, "we are getting at it, indeed. Someone probably knew of the value he attached to this painting and planned to steal it, perhaps for a ransom. Hume has been suspected of doing this sort of thing himself before now. He was supposed to have engaged someone to do the actual work, I believe, as in the case of the Whistler portrait of the Duchess of Winterton. Suppose this someone," and Stillman rapped his knuckles upon the edge of the desk excitedly, "took the notion to go into the picture stealing business of his own account. Hume himself with his much prized portrait of General Wayne was ready at hand—and so," with a sweeping gesture, "what has happened, has happened."
Pendleton, much impressed, looked at Ashton-Kirk. But the latter's thoughts seemed far away; his eyes were fixed upon the wall; his expression was of delighted anticipation.
Stillman also noticed this non-attention to his reasoning, and a little wrinkle of discontent appeared between his brows. So he turned his gaze upon Brolatsky and spoke rather sharply.
"Now, as to Mr. Hume's intimates? What do you know of them?"
Isidore Brolatsky shifted in his chair; his long fingers began to drum upon his knees.
"I have known of the matter of the Whistler portrait," said he, "but I never knew anything more about it than what I read in the newspapers. It happened before my time."
"I'm not accusing you," said Stillman. "I'm asking you about Hume's friends."
The clerk considered.
"There was no one that I ever saw or heard of that you could call his friend, exactly," said he at length. "He made game of people too much to have any I guess."
"Had he no associates—no one with whom he spent his time?"
Brolatsky shook his head.
"Perhaps so; but then I was only in Christie Place during business hours. I have heard that he frequently went out at night; but where I do not know."
"Was there no one who came to visit him while you were there during the day. No one whom he spoke of in an intimate way?"
Again the clerk shook his head. Stillman began to appear nonplussed. He looked at the other, pondering and frowning through his glasses.
"Who came most frequently to the store?" he inquired finally.
"Why, I think Antonio Spatola," said Brolatsky.
"Was he a customer?"
The clerk smiled.
"Oh, no. He's a street musician. You may have seen him often about the city. He plays the violin and carries some trained cockatoos upon a perch."
"What was the nature of his business at Hume's?"
"If there was anything that Mr. Hume liked better than strong drink," said the clerk, "it was music. Antonio Spatola would come and play to him for hours at a time."
"A lover of music who could stand the playing of a street musician for hours!" cried Stillman. "That's astonishing."
"But," protested Brolatsky, "Spatola is a splendid musician. He's studied his instrument under the greatest masters in Paris, Rome and other European cities. He has played in the finest orchestras. But he never could keep a position because of his temper. He's told me himself that when aroused he doesn't know what he is doing."
"I understand," said the coroner. "What sort of relations existed between Hume and Spatola outside the music? Were they friendly?"
"No, sir. I might say just the reverse. For hours, sometimes, Mr. Hume would lie back in his chair with his eyes closed listening to the violin. Then, perhaps, he'd get up suddenly, throw Antonio a dollar or so and tell him to get out. Or maybe he'd begin to jeer at him. Antonio had an ambition to become a concert violinist. Ole Bull and Kubelik had made great successes, he said; and so, why not he?
"This was usually the point Mr. Hume would take up in mocking him. He'd call him a curbstone fiddler, and say that he ought to be playing at barn dances and Italian christenings instead of aspiring to the platform. Spatola would get frantic with rage, and fairly scream his resentment at these times.
"Often Mr. Hume would have him bring his trained cockatoos. And while he was making them go through their tricks, Mr. Hume would call him a mountebank, a side show fakir and other things, and tell him that he ought to stick to that as a business, for he could make a living at it, where he would starve as a violinist. I've often seen Antonio go out trembling and white at the lips with rage. Several times he's tried to injure Mr. Hume—once he took out a knife."
"Hah!" said the coroner.
"That was the time Mr. Hume called him 'Mad Anthony.' I also remember that Mr. Hume pulled aside the curtain and showed him the large painting of General Wayne, laughing and telling him that that was another Mad Anthony. He was so successful that day in arousing Spatola, that always after that, when he was drunk, he'd call the Italian 'Mad Anthony' and it never failed to infuriate him.
"Do you know where this man Spatola lives?"
"In Christie Place, sir; just about half a dozen doors from the store. I believe he rents a garret there, or something."
Stillman seemed struck by this.
"In view of the fact that the building was entered by way of the scuttle," said he to Ashton-Kirk, "I consider that a most interesting piece of information."
"It may indeed prove so," was the non-committal reply.
Once more the discontented crease showed itself upon the coroner's forehead; and again as he turned to Brolatsky, his voice rose sharply.
"Next to Antonio Spatola, who came most to Hume's place while you were there?"
"The next most frequent caller," returned the clerk, "was Mr. Allan Morris."
Ashton-Kirk, glancing at Pendleton, saw him start.
"And who," queried the coroner, "is Mr. Allan Morris?"
"At first I took him to be a customer," replied Brolatsky. "And perhaps he was. He talked a great deal at times about engraved gems and would look at lists and works upon the subject. But somehow I got the notion that that was not just what he came for."
"What caused you to think that?" asked the coroner.
"His manner, partly, and then the fact that there seemed something between Mr. Hume and him—something that I never understood. Mr. Morris was another one that the boss used to make game of. Not so much as he would Spatola, but still a good bit. Mr. Morris always took it with a show of good temper; but underneath I could see that he too was sometimes furious."
"About what did Hume deridehim?"
"That's what I never could quite make out. It always seemed as though it was something that Mr. Morris wanted. At first I got the notion that it was something that he wanted to buy and which Mr. Hume refused to sell; but later I changed my mind. There seemed to be more to it than appeared on the top. Both were very secretive about it."
"I understand." Stillman's face wore a puzzled expression; it was as though this latter development worried him. But in a few moments he went on: "Do you know where this man Morris is to be found?"
"Oh, yes. He's quite well known. Has an office in the Blake Building, and is employed just now, so I've heard, by the Navy Department."
"You have visited Christie Place to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did the police have you look about?"
"Yes, sir. And so far as I can see, nothing has been taken."
"The weapon that Hume was killed with, now. Do you know anything about it—did it belong to the store?"
"The bayonet? No, sir."
"Are you sure of that?" earnestly.
"Positive. It was my duty to keep a complete list of everything we had in stock. We had other sorts of arms, but no such thing as a bayonet."
There were a few more questions, but as they drew out nothing of interest, Stillman signified to Brolatsky that the interview was at an end.
"Now, you will go with Mr. Curran to police headquarters on the next floor," said he, "and tell them what you have told me about this Antonio Spatola."
Then he opened the door and stepped out.
"Curran," they heard him say, importantly.
"I want you to—" then the door closed, cutting the sentence short.
Pendleton gazed fixedly at Ashton-Kirk.
"I say," said he, "I'm not up in this sort of thing at all. I've been putting two and two together, and it's led me into a deuce of a state."
Ashton-Kirk looked at him inquiringly; there was expectancy in the investigator's eyes, but he said nothing.
"Perhaps you'll think that I'm all kinds of a fool," continued Pendleton, "and maybe I am. But here are the things that I'm trying to marshall in order. I'll take them just as they happened." He held up one hand and with the other began to check off the counts upon his fingers. "Yesterday you have a visit—a visit of a professional nature—from Edyth Vale. Last night she strangely disappears for a time. At a most unconventional hour this morning I find you at her door. Then I learn that you are on your way to look into the details of a murder that you had just heard of—somehow. Now I hear that Allan Morris, Edyth's fiancé, has been, in rather an odd way, upon familiar terms with the murdered man."
He paused as he checked this last count, still regarding his friend fixedly.
"I don't claim," he went on, after a moment, "that these things have anything to do with each other. But, somehow, they've got together in my mind, and I can't—"
Here the door re-opened and Stillman entered, followed by the big German.
"Just take a chair, Mr. Berg," said the coroner, seating himself at the desk and affixing his eyeglasses.
The German lowered his form into the chair indicated and folded his fat hands across his monstrous paunch.
"Your name in full—is what?" asked Stillman with formality.
"Franz Berg. I sell me delicatessen at 478 Christie Place. I haf been there for fifteen years."
"You were acquainted with the murdered man?"
The delicatessen dealer unfolded his hands and waved them significantly.
"I was aguainted with him—yes. But I was not friendly with him—no. He is dead, ain't it? Und it's not right to say someding about the dead. But he was no friend of mine."
"I understand. But tell me, Mr. Berg, how late do you keep your place open?"
"In the summertime—seven o'clock. But after dose theaters open, I stays me on the chob till twelve, or later somedimes. There is one—two—three what you call burlesque places, right by me; and no sooner do they close up, than right away those actor peoples come to buy. I do a goot business, so I keep open."
"Then you were there until midnight last night?"
"More later than that yet."
"Was there any movement of any sort about Hume's place? Did you see or hear anything?"
The great red face of Berg took on a solemn look.
"It is maybe not ride that I should say somedings," complained he. "But if the law will not excuse me, I will say it, if it makes some more trouble or not."
"It is vitally necessary," stated the young coroner, firmly, "that you tell me everything you know about this matter."
"Well," said the delicatessen dealer, reluctantly, "last night as I stood by my window looking oudside on the street, I see me that Italian feller go by und turn in at the side door; a second lader I hear him go up the steps to Hume's place."
"What Italian fellow do you refer to?"
"He lifs close by me, a few doors away. His name is Spatola, und he plays the violin the gurb-stones beside."
"What time was it that you saw him?"
"Maybe elefen o'clock. I am not sure. But it was just a little while before I got me the rush of customers from the theaters."
"Did you notice his manner? Was there anything unusual in his looks?"
"I had me only a glimbs of him. He looked about the same as effer. He was in a hurry, for it rained a liddle; und under his coat yet he carried his fiddle."
"If it was under his coat, how do you know it was his fiddle?"
The German scratched his head in a reflective way.
"I don't know it," said he at last. "But he somedimes takes his instrument inside there, und I just get the notion that it was so. Yes?"
"When did he come out?"
The man shook his head.
"I don'd know," he said.
"Do you mean that you saw no one come out?"
"No; Ididsee someone come out. But first I see me someone else go in."
"Ah! And who was that?"
"I don't know his name; but I had seen him often before. He is a kind of svell feller. He had a cane und plendy of style."
"And later you saw someone come out. Now, your use of the word 'someone' leads me to think that you do not know whether it was Spatola or the stranger."
"I don'd," said Berg. "I was busy then. I just heard me someone rush down the stairs, making plendy noise, und I heard that drunken Hume lift up a window, stick out his head and call some names after him. My customers laugh und think it's a joke; but I am ashamed such a disgracefulness to have around my business yet."
"If Hume called after the person who left," said Stillman, acutely, to Ashton-Kirk, "that eliminates one of the callers. It proves that Hume was still alive after the man had gone."
"That is undoubtedly a fact," replied the investigator.
Stillman turned upon Berg with dignity.
"Surely you must have noticed the man if all that uproar attended his exit. You must have detected enough to mark a difference between an exceptionally well-dressed man and an Italian street musician."
Berg shook his big head.
"It was aboud twelve o'clock in the night-dime, und my customers besides I had to pay some attention to," stated he.
The coroner was baffled by the man's positiveness.
"Well," said he, resignedly. "What else did you see?"
Berg shook his head once more.
"Nothing else. Putty soon I closed up and went home." Then a flash of recollection came into his dull face. "As I went down the street I saw some lights in Hume's windows. One of them windows was open—maybe the one he sticked his head out of to call the man names—und I could hear him laughing like he used to do when he was trying to make a jackass of some peoples."
The coroner pondered. At length he said:
"This object that Spatola carried under his coat, now. Could it have been a bayonet?"
"No, no," said Berg with conviction. "It vos too big. It vos bigger as a half dozen bayonets already."
This seemed the limit of Berg's knowledge of the night's happenings; a few more questions and then Stillman dismissed him. The door had hardly closed when the telephone rang. After a few words, the coroner hung up the receiver and turned to his visitors.
"I think," said he, with a smile of satisfaction, "that I've made the police department sit up a little. They talked to all three of these people before I had them, and didn't seem to get enough to make a beginning. But just now," and the smile grew wider, "I've heard that Osborne is on his way to arrest Antonio Spatola."
Berg was standing in the corridor waiting for the elevator when Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton came out. The big German mopped his face with a handkerchief, and said apologetically:
"A man can only tell what he knows, ain't it?"
Ashton-Kirk looked at him questioningly, but said nothing.
"To begin dot guess-work business when you are talking to the law already, it is dangerous," stated Berg in an explanatory tone.
"Well," said Ashton-Kirk, "sometimes a good, pointed guess is of great service, Mr. Berg. And," with a laugh, "as I am not the law and not the least dangerous, suppose you make the one that I can see you turning over in your mind."
"Oh," said Berg, "you are not the coroner's office in?"
"No; merely interested in this case, that's all."
The delicatessen dealer looked relieved.
"I don't want to get people in trouble," said he, guardedly. "But this is what I guess. Late every night, about the time I shut up my place, there is a cab comes und by the curbstone stands across the street. I will not say what is der place it stands in front of; that is not my business."
"McCausland's gambling house, perhaps," suggested Ashton-Kirk.
The big German looked more relieved than ever.
"Ach, so you know about dot place, eh? All ride. Now I can speak out and not be afraid to do some harm to nobody." He lowered his voice still further. "Dot cab came last night as I was locking my door up, und stands the curbstone by in front of McCausland's, waiting for a chob. Maybe when I goes away home der driver he sees what happened at Hume's afterwards, eh?"
"Excellent!" said Ashton-Kirk, his eyes alight. "Thanks for the hint, Mr. Berg."
The delicatessen dealer lumbered into the elevator which had stopped; Pendleton was about to follow, but his friend detained him, and the car dropped downward without them.
"That cab," said Ashton-Kirk, "is sure to be a night-hawk; and more than likely it is put up at Partridge's. Pardon me a moment."
There was a telephone booth at one side of the corridor; the speaker went in and closed the door. After a few moments he came out.
"Just as I thought," he said, well pleased. "Partridge knew the cab in a moment. The driver's name is Sams, and he lives at the place they call the Beehive." He looked at his watch. "It wants but a few minutes of four," he added, "and a night-hawk cabby will be just about stirring. The Beehive is only three blocks away; suppose we go around and look him up."
Pendleton agreed instantly; and after a brisk walk and a breathless climb, they found themselves on the fourth floor of a huge brick building where they had been directed by a meek-looking woman in a dust-cap. A long hall with a great many doors upon each side, all looking alike, stretched away before them.
"It's very plain that the only way to find Mr. Sams is to make a noise," said Ashton-Kirk. And with that he stalked down the hall, his heels clattering on the bare boards. "Hello," he cried loudly. "Sams is wanted! Hello, Sams!"
A door opened, and a face covered with thick soap suds and surmounted by a tangle of sandy hair looked out.
"Hello," growled this person, huskily. "Who wants him?"
"Very glad to see you, Mr. Sams," said Ashton-Kirk. "We have a small matter of business with you that will require a few moments of your time. May we come in?"
"Sure," said Sams.
They entered the room, which contained a bed, a trunk, a wash-stand, and a chair.
"One of you can take the chair; the other can sit on the trunk," said the hack driver, nodding toward these articles. Then he proceeded to strop a razor at one of the windows. "Excuse me if I go on with this reaping. I must go out and feed the horse, and then get breakfast."
"You breakfast rather late," commented Ashton-Kirk.
"I'm lucky to get it at any time, in this business," grumbled Sams. "Out all night, sleep all day, and get blamed little for it, at that."
He posed before a small mirror stuck up beside the window and gave the blade an experimental sweep across his face. Then he turned and asked inquiringly:
"Did youse gents want anything particular?"
"We'd like to ask a question or two regarding what happened last night in Christie Place."
The cab driver's forehead corrugated; he closed his razor, laid it down and shoved his' soapy face toward the speaker.
"Say," spoke he, roughly. "I drives people wherever they wants to go; but I don't ask no questions."
"It's all right, Mr. Sams," said Ashton-Kirk. "The affair that I'm looking up happened across the street—at Hume's—second floor of 478."
"Oh!" Sams stared for a moment, then he took up his razor, turned his back and went on with his shaving. But there was expectancy in his attitude; and Ashton-Kirk smiled confidently.
"While you were drawn up in Christie Place, waiting for a fare," he asked, "did you hear or see anything at 478?"
"I saw a light on the second floor—something I never saw before at that hour. And I saw the Dutchman that keeps the store underneath shutting up. And I heard somebody laughing upstairs," as a second thought. "I think that's what made me notice the light."
"Nothing else?"
Sams shaved and considered. He wiped his razor at last, poured some water in a bowl and doused his face. Then he took up a towel and began applying it briskly.
The investigator, watching him closely, saw that he was not trying to recall anything. It was plain that the man was merely calculating the possibilities of harm to himself and patrons if he told what he knew.
"There has been a murder," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly, thinking to jog him along.
Sams threw the towel from him and sat down upon the bed.
"A murder!" said he, his eyes and mouth wide open. "Well, what do you know about that." He sat looking from one to the other of them, dazedly, for a space; then he resumed: "Say, I thought there was something queer about that stunt of hers!"
"Tell us about it," suggested Ashton-Kirk, crossing his legs and clasping one knee with his hands.
The cabby considered once more.
"There's lots of things that a guy like me sees that look off color," he said, at length; "but we can't always pass any remarks about them. It would be bad for business, you see. But this murder thing's a different proposition, and here's where I tell it all. Last night while I was waiting in front of McCausland's, I hears an automobile turn into the street. It was some time after I got there. I wouldn't have paid much attention to it, but you see there's a fellow been trying to get my work with a taxicab, and I thought it was him."
"And it wasn't?"
"No, it was a private car—a Maillard, and there was a woman driving it."
The chair upon which Pendleton sat was an infirm one; it creaked sharply as he made a sudden movement.
"She was going at a low speed," proceeded Sams, "and as she passed Hume's I noticed her look up at the windows. After she disappeared there wasn't a sound for a while. You see, nobody hardly ever passes through Christie Place after one o'clock. Then I hears her coming back. This time she stopped the car, got out and went to the door that leads into Hume's place. There she stopped a little, as though she didn't know whether to go in or not. But at last she went in."
Pendleton coughed huskily at this point; and his friend glancing at him saw that his face was white.
"And up to that time," said Ashton-Kirk, "are you sure that there was no movement—no sound—in the front room at Hume's?"
"As far as I noticed, there wasn't. But a few minutes after I heard the woman go in, Ididhear some sounds."
The man stroked his shaven jaws in the deliberate manner of a person about to precipitate a crisis. Pendleton leaned toward him, anxiously.
"What sort of sounds?" he asked.
"There were two," replied the cab driver. "The first was a revolver shot; the second came right after, and was a kind of a scream—like that of a parrot."
"And what then?" asked Ashton-Kirk, easily.
"There wasn't anything for a few minutes, anyway. But the revolver shot had kind of got my attention, so I was taking notice of the windows. Then suddenly I caught sight of the woman. You see, the gas-light was near the window and she kind of leaned over and turned it out. It was only for a time as long as that," and the man snapped his fingers. "But I saw her plain. Then I heard her coming down the stairs to the street—almost at a run. She banged the street door shut after her, jumped into her car and went tearing away as if she was crazy. I stayed fifteen minutes before I got a fare; but nothing else happened."
Pendleton's hand closed hard on the edge of the chair he sat in. There was a moment's silence; then Ashton-Kirk asked:
"Just where was your cab standing at this time?"
"Right in front of McCausland's door."
"And you were on the box?"
"Yes."
The investigator put a piece of money in the man's hand as he and Pendleton arose and prepared to go.
"Say," said Sam curiously, "I've been in bed all day and ain't heard a word of anything. Who's been done up?"
"Hume. Stabbed in the chest."
"Shot, you mean."
"No, I mean stabbed. With a bayonet."
The man stared wonderingly.
"G'way," he said.
They bid him good-day and tramped down the three long flights to the street. Pendleton was silent, and walked with his head held down.
"We have more than an hour of good daylight left," said his friend, as they reached the street. "And as I must have a good unrestricted look at Hume's apartments before everything is hopelessly changed about, suppose we go there now. We can get a taxi in the next street."
"Just a moment," said Pendleton. "Before we take another step in the matter, Kirk, I must ask a question."
Ashton-Kirk put his hand upon his friend's shoulder.
"Don't," said he. "I know just what the question would be, and at the present time I can't answer it. At this moment, except for some few theories that I have yet to verify, I am as much puzzled as yourself."
"But," and there was a tremble in the speaker's voice, "you must answer me, old chap—and you must answer now."
The catch in his voice, the expression upon the young man's face caused Ashton-Kirk to grasp an astonishing fact. The hand that he had laid upon Pendleton's shoulder tightened as he answered:
"Yes, Edyth Vale is concerned. As a rule I do not speak of my clients to others, but in view of what you have already heard and seen, it would be a waste of words to deny it. But, see here, there are lots of things we don't know yet about this business. It may look very different in a few hours. Come."
Pendleton gazed with sober eyes into the speaker's face for a moment. Then he said:
"Let us get the cab; if you are to go over Hume's rooms before dark, you haven't any too much time."
At the next corner they signaled a taxicab, and in a short time they were set down in Christie Place. Paulson, the policeman, was standing guard.
"How are you?" he greeted them affably.
"Been here all day?" asked Ashton-Kirk.
"Oh, no. Just come on. I'm the third shift since I saw you last."
"Nobody has been permitted to go upstairs, I presume?"
"Only the coroner's man, who came for the body. And they touched nothing but the body. Our orders were strong on that."
"Has anything been heard as the result of the post-mortem?"
"It showed that Hume was in bad shape from too much drink. Then he had a hard knock on the head, and the wound in his chest."
"But there was no sign of a bullet wound?"
"No," said Paulson, surprised. "Nothing like that."
"Just a moment," said the investigator to Pendleton. He crossed the street, walked along for a few paces, then paused at the curb and looked back toward Hume's doorway. Then he returned with quick steps and an alert look in his eyes.
"Now we'll go upstairs," he said.
But before doing so he stopped and examined the lock of the street door closely; then he mounted the stairs slowly, his glances seeming to take in everything. At the top he paused, his head bent, apparently in deep thought. Then he lifted it suddenly, and laughed exultantly.
"That's it," he said, "I'm quite sure that is it."
"I wouldn't doubt your word for an instant," said Pendleton, in something like his old voice. "Whatever it is, I'm quite sure it is if you say so."
The policeman on guard in the hall examined them carefully.
"All right," said he, after they had explained and he had verified it by calling to his mate at the street door. "Go right to work, gents. I'm here to see that nobody gets in from above by way of the scuttle, and I guess I won't be in the way."
There were three gas branches at intervals along the length of the dim hall, each with a cluster of four jets. Ashton-Kirk lighted all three of these and began making a careful examination of the passage. Along toward the rear was a stairway leading to the floor above. Next this was a small room in which there was a water tap. At the extreme end of the hall was a window with a green shade drawn to the bottom.
Ashton-Kirk regarded this for a moment intently. Then he reached up and turned off the gas at the branch nearest the window. Daylight could now be seen through the blind; the investigator pointed and said:
"This shows us something. About six inches of the bottom of the blind is of a decidedly lighter color than the remainder. This is caused by exposure to the light and indicates that this blind has seldom been drawn in daylight as it is now."
He drew back the blind and looked at the side nearest the window. At the top of the faded space was a heavy dark line.
"I'll modify that last statement," said he, with satisfaction. "I'll go as far as to say, now, that the blind has never been drawn since it was put up. This thick line marks the part that lay across the top of the roller, and the dust seems never to have been disturbed."
The gas was lighted once more.
"Hume did not draw that curtain," said Ashton-Kirk, decidedly. "He was too careless a man, apparently, to think of such a thing. The intruders, whoever they were, did it; they had a light, perhaps, and did not want to be—"
He paused abruptly here, and Pendleton heard him draw his breath sharply between his teeth; his eyes were fixed upon the lowermost step of the flight that led to the floor above.
One of the gas branches hung here; its full glare was thrown downward. Following the fixed gaze of his friend, Pendleton saw two partly burned matches, the stump of a candle, and some traces of tallow which had fallen from the latter upon the step. To Pendleton's amazement, his friend dropped to his knees before these as a heathen would before an idol. With the utmost attention he examined them and the step upon which they lay. Then he arose, enthusiasm upon his face.
"Beautiful!" he cried. "I do not recall ever having seen anything just like it!" He slapped Pendleton upon the back with a heavy, hand. "Pen, that stump of candle sheds more light than the finest arc lamp ever manufactured."
"I'm watching and I'm listening," spoke Pendleton. "Also I'm agitating my small portion of gray matter. But inspiration, it seems, is not for me. So I'll have to ask you what these things tell you."
"Well, they give me a fairly good view of the man who, while he may not actually have murdered Hume, had much to do with his taking off." He bent over the lower step once more, then looked up with a smile upon his face. "What would you say," asked he, "if I told you that I draw from these things that the gentleman was short, well-dressed, near-sighted and knew something of the modern German dramatists."
"I should say," replied Pendleton, firmly, "that you ought to have your brain looked at. It sounds wrong to me."
Ashton-Kirk laughed, and started up the stairs toward the third floor.
"I'll return in a moment," he said. "Don't trouble to come up."
He was gone but a very little while, and when he returned his face wore a satisfied look.
"The bolt of the scuttle is broken, just as Osborne said," he reported. "And anyone who could gain the roof would have little difficulty in effecting an entrance." He led the way down the hall, saying as he went: "Now we'll browse around in the rooms for a while; then we'll be off to dinner."
The storage room was entered first as upon the earlier visit, but Ashton-Kirk wasted but little time upon it. In the front room, however, he examined things with a minuteness that amazed Pendleton. And yet everything was done quickly; like a keen-nosed hound, the investigator went from one object to another; nothing seemed to escape him, nothing was too small for his attention. One of the first things that he did was to get a chair and plant it against the lettered door that led directly into the hall. At the top was a gong with a spring-hammer, one of the sort that rings its warning whenever the door is opened; and this the investigator examined with care.
He then passed into the railed space where the body had lain and where the darkened trail of blood still bore ghastly testimony to what had occurred. The man's singular eyes scanned the floor, the walls, the flat-topped desk. On this last his attention again became riveted; and once more Pendleton heard his breath drawn sharply between his teeth.
"When Hume was struck upon the head," said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment, "he was standing at this desk. He had just sprung up, probably upon hearing a sound of some kind. See where the chair is pushed back against the wall, just as he would have pushed it had he arisen hastily. When he struck he fell across the desk." He pointed to a dark trickle of blood down the back of the piece of furniture in question. "That is the result of the blow upon the head, and probably flowed from the mouth or nostrils. After the first senseless lurch the body settled back and slid to the position in which it was found. Here is a blotting pad, a small pair of shears, a box of clips and a letter scale upon the floor where the sliding body dragged them. The top of the desk is of polished wood; it is perfectly smooth; there are no crevices or anything of the sort to catch hold of anything. When the body slipped from it, it must have swept everything with it, cleanly. And yet," bending forward over the desk and picking up a minute red particle, "here, directly in the center, we find this."
"What is it?" asked Pendleton, eagerly.
Ashton-Kirk placed the red particle on his palm and held it out. It was shaped like a keystone, and had apparently been cut from something that had been printed upon.
"It is that portion of a railroad ticket which a conductor's punch bites out, and which litters the floor and the seats in trains. Have you never had one fall from your clothes after a railroad journey?"
Pendleton looked at the tiny red fragment, and then at the desk.
"If Hume fell across the desk, as you've just said," he remarked, slowly, "and pulled all these other things to the floor with him—why, Kirk, this bit of card, in the very center of the polished top,—it must have dropped there afterwards."
"Exactly," said Ashton-Kirk. "And now, if you don't mind, just step out into the hall and ask Paulson to come up."
Pendleton did so; and while he was gone, Ashton-Kirk placed the red fragment carefully in his card-case. When the other re-entered with Paulson at his heels, he asked:
"Have any of the policemen detailed here been out of town recently?"
"No," replied Paulson. "There have been five besides myself, and they have been on duty every day."
"Thank you," said the investigator. And as the policeman went out, he made his way into the kitchen. Here, however, his examination was brief, as was that of the bedroom also. At length he paused, his hands in his pockets, his head thrown back, satisfaction lighting his dark, keen face.
"That is all, I think," said he. "There have only been a few pages, but the print has been exceedingly good and the matter of much interest." He looked at a clock that ticked solemnly upon a shelf. "We have half an hour to reach my place and dress," he said. "I'm afraid that we'll be late, and that Edouard will be annoyed. His cookery is so exquisitely timed that it is scarcely the better for delay."
"Wait a minute," said Pendleton, grasping his friend's arm. "What part did Edyth—Miss Vale—play in all this? I can see you have formed in your mind some sort of completed action. Where does she come into it?"
"Completed!" Ashton-Kirk smiled into the pale, set face of his friend. "You give me too much credit, old chap. I have some undoubted scenes from the drama; but most of the remainder are merely detached lines and bits of stage business. As to Miss Vale," here the smile vanished, "I have been unable to make up my mind just how far she is concerned, if at all. However, perhaps twenty-four hours will make it all clear enough. In the meantime I will say this to you: Don't jump to harsh conclusions, Pen. You know this young lady well. How far do you suppose she would go to the perpetrating of a downright crime?"
"Not a step!" answered Pendleton, promptly.
"Then," said Ashton-Kirk, "until we know positively that she has done so, stick to that."