‘He had a big party last night,’ said Graves, the valet.
‘Certainly looks like it,’ retorted Professor Fordney, as he surveyed the crazily balanced glasses, overflowing ash-trays, and liquor rings on the small, fragile antique table at which Carlton Dawes sat.
‘It was awful, sir. Just as I turned to say “good night” to him, he lifted his revolver, fired and toppled over.’
‘Funny,’ mused Fordney. ‘He had everything to live for.’
‘Everything but the thing he wanted,’ replied the valet. ‘Madeline, his former wife, was here last night. He is always despondent after seeing her.’
‘Well, Graves, pretty nice for you, eh? How much did he leave you?’
‘Ten thousand dollars, sir.’
Fordney leaned over to examine the wound in Dawes’s left temple. His head rested on the edge of the table, his right hand on his knee and his left hung lifelessly at his side.
‘Anything been touched since the tragedy?’
‘No, sir.’
Fordney picked up Dawes’s revolver where it had apparently fallen from his hand. After examining it and finding only the dead man’s finger-prints, he laid it on the table. As he did so, Madeline entered the room. She stopped, horrified.
‘What—what—has happened?’
‘Where did you come from?’ demanded Fordney.
‘I’ve been upstairs. I didn’t leave with the guests.’
‘Humph—you should have,’ as he shot her a quizzical look. ‘Your presence may prove embarrassing. Your ex-husband was murdered.’
Madeline slipped to the floor in a dead faint.
What convinced Fordney it was murder?
On a battered desk in the small, dark room lay a penciled note in handwriting resembling that of the dead man:
Dear John:You know the trouble I’m in. There’s only one way out and I’m taking it. You’re my pal and will understand. Good luck.(Signed)Paul
Dear John:
You know the trouble I’m in. There’s only one way out and I’m taking it. You’re my pal and will understand. Good luck.
(Signed)Paul
The only other furniture consisted of the chair in which Paul Morrow had been found with his throat cut, a bed, and a highly ornate and apparently brand-new waste-basket. It had been definitely established that the dead man had not left the room during the twenty-four hours before he was discovered.
Finishing his examination of the contents of the man’s pockets—two twenty-dollar bills, a cheap watch, and an expensive wallet in which there was a picture of a beautiful woman—Fordney turned his attention to the meager inventory of the room.
‘That’s all we can find,’ said Inspector Kelley, indicating a dictionary, scraps of a letter in a feminine handwriting found in the ornate waste-basket, a pen, some cheap stationery, a few clothes, pipe and tobacco, and a bloody, razor-sharp knife. ‘Certainly has all the appearances of suicide,’ he continued. ‘This door was locked and no one could have left by that window. What do you make of it, Fordney?’
The Professor didn’t reply at once. He picked up the photograph, studied it a moment, and then, with a slow, searching look around the small room, said:
‘Better try to piece those bits of letter together. This isn’t suicide; it’s murder.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ exclaimed Kelley, with dawning comprehension.
What brought Fordney to this conclusion?
‘Who are you, and what’s this all about?’ demanded Inspector Kelley, as he and Professor Fordney arrived at the apartment in answer to a call.
‘I’m Jack Day. I share this apartment with Al Quale. I returned from the theater, shortly after midnight, went into his room, and found him lying there on the bed. When I saw he was dead, I called Headquarters at once. God, this is terrible!’
‘Those your things on the bed?’ asked Kelley, indicating a blood-stained muffler, a hat, gloves, and cane.
‘Yes, I tossed them there before I rushed to the telephone. Got that blood on the muffler when I bent over him.’
‘What time did you leave here this evening?’
‘Shortly before seven,’ replied Day.
‘Can you prove you were at the theater all evening?’ demanded Kelley.
‘Why, yes, I went with a friend.’
‘He’s been dead about six hours, Inspector,’ said the police surgeon, finishing his examinationat this point. ‘A deep knife wound, below the heart.’
As Fordney picked up an earring from the floor, Day exclaimed: ‘Why, that belongs to his fiancée.’
‘Well, there’ll be no wedding bells for him,’ remarked Kelley, with a start as he discovered that Day’s cane was a sword-stick with a long, thin, shining blade.
‘Any blood, Inspector?’ asked Fordney.
‘None. Clean as a whistle.’
‘Well, Day, looks mighty bad for you,’ stated the Professor. ‘I don’t know yet whether you killed him with that cane, or whether you killed him at all, but I do know you were here a few minutes after he was stabbed.’
How did the Professor know?
‘I had counted the cash, and as I was working the combination to open the wall safe I heard this guy in back of me say, “Get ’em up, Bo. This is a stick-up.” I reached for the ceiling as he says, “Make a move and I’ll drill you!” He didn’t sound like he was foolin’, so I kept quiet.
‘Well, he comes over, gives me a prod with his gun, pockets the dough, and asks me where the best liquor is, saying he don’t want no bar whiskey either. I told him and he poured himself a drink.
‘Then he got real sociable-like, but wouldn’t let me take my hands down. He kept on talkin’ and makin’ wise-cracks, but finally got tired, I guess.
‘With a warnin’ that, if I moved before I could count twenty, my wife would be a widow, he beat it,’ concluded Sullivan.
‘How much did he take?’ inquired Professor Fordney, who had entered the speakeasy after hearing the bartender’s call for help.
‘About five hundred dollars,’ Sullivan replied. ‘We had a good day.’
‘Haven’t you a gun here?’
‘Sure, but I didn’t have a chance. I ain’t exactly no boy scout, but this mug was too big and tough-lookin’ for me to tackle.’
‘How did you get that cut on your hand?’ inquired the Professor. ‘And that bruise on your finger?’
‘Opening a case of lemons,’ answered Sullivan.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘if your whiskey isn’t any better than your attempt at a fake hold-up, I’ll have ginger ale.’
You’re right. The bruise had nothing to do with it, but:
How did Fordney know the stick-up was a fake?
Professor Fordney, on his way to investigate a case of blackmail, was musing on the perversity of human nature when a jar threw him into the aisle as the train came to a sudden stop. Jumping off, he rushed ahead of the engine, where he found a small crowd gathered about the mutilated body of a man hit by the train. He was identified by a card in his pocket as John Nelson, an important figure in railroad labor circles.
‘How did it happen?’ inquired Fordney.
‘Well,’ replied Morton, the engineer, ‘I was running twelve minutes late when I hit him. There are several miles of straight-away along here and I was beating it along at sixty miles trying to make up time. Didn’t see him until we were about ten yards away, right on top of him. I jammed on the brakes, of course, but it was too late.’
‘Did you leave New York on time?’
‘Yes, sir. One-thirty exactly.’
‘Why were you running late?’
‘We were held in a block for about fifteen minutes outside of New Haven.’
‘What was your fireman doing when you hit this man?’
‘Stoking the boiler.’
‘You say it was just a few seconds after four-ten when you hit him?’ demanded the Professor.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Morton.
‘Did you know this man by any chance?’
‘Yes, slightly—he was an officer in my union,’ replied the engineer, with a worried look.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘I don’t know your object in telling such a story, or how you hoped to get away with it—you won’t.’
What justified Fordney in recommending Morton’s arrest?
‘Peculiar,’ murmured Fordney, as he examined the desk on which lay seven letters ready for mailing, three gray, one lavender, two pink, and one lemon-colored.
As he idly shaped the wax of the candle standing on the desk, he continued to ponder this unusual choice of color in stationery.
One of the letters was addressed to Dot Dalton, who had been murdered between eleven-forty and eleven-fifty. She was one of the guests at this house party in the Adirondacks.
All the letters were closed with black sealing wax stamped with the letter ‘F.’
At midnight, Fordney began his questioning.
‘What time did you retire?’ he asked Molly Fleming, in whose bedroom he was seated.
‘About ten,’ she replied.
‘Was your door locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hear any disturbance?’
‘No; I was tired, fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t awaken until youknocked on my door a few minutes ago and told me of the tragedy.’
‘Why did you write to Dot?’
‘I didn’t see her last night and knew she intended leaving early this morning. Jack Fahey broke our engagement yesterday and told me he was going to marry Dot. My letter was to tell her just how despicable I thought she was in luring him away from me. He didn’t love her. Of course, I’m sorry she’s dead, but a lot of wives will feel safer.’
‘Why the various colors of stationery?’ inquired the Professor.
‘Oh, I always write in a color that seems to reflect the personality of my correspondent.’
‘I see,’ said Fordney; ‘but unless you have a better alibi you’ll be held under serious suspicion.’
Why was the Professor practically certain Molly was involved in this horrible murder?
‘What a night!’ sighed Professor Fordney as he hung up the telephone receiver. Half an hour later, still grumbling, he splashed his way through the mud and rain to the door of 27 Holden Road. Removing his rubbers in the spotless vestibule, he stepped into a large, well-furnished living-room running the entire width of the house. Introducing himself and explaining he would question everyone later, he asked to be left alone.
In the far corner of the room he found a man lying on the floor, his throat cut. As he bent over, his attention was attracted to a dime lying about five feet from the head of the dead man. He picked it up, regarded it curiously, and, with a thoughtful look, put it in his pocket.
The Professor began his questioning with the butler.
‘You found the dead man?’
‘Yes, sir, I was returning from posting a letter about thirty minutes ago and, just as I was coming up the path of the front door, I heard ascream, dashed in, and found Mr. White here gasping his last breath.’
‘Lose a dime?’ inquired Fordney mildly.
‘Why, I don’t think so, sir,’ replied the butler nervously.
‘I heard the scream from upstairs,’ volunteered Cannon, owner of the house, ‘and ran in here right behind Wilkins.’
‘Did either of you leave this room before I arrived?’
‘No,’ replied Cannon; ‘we stayed here until you came.’
‘Did you, Mr. Cannon, lose a dime? No? Well,’ remarked Fordney, ‘it looks like collusion to me and I can tell you Inspector Kelley won’t swallow this story.’
What was wrong with the story?
‘Having these stones in my possession, Professor Fordney, isn’t proof that I had any part in the Morris robbery.’
‘I know all about your story, Holmes. Found the jewels yesterday at three o’clock in the lake, tied up in a chamois bag, didn’t you? But what were you doing out in an open boat in the cloudburst that lasted all yesterday afternoon?’
‘It was because of that cloudburst that I sallied forth,’ explained Holmes confidently. ‘Perfect fishing weather, so I jumped into my boat and went across the lake for some minnows. I had rowed back to within a few yards of shore when I just happened to notice the bag lying on the bottom of the lake, so I landed, tipped my boat over to keep the rain out, and waded in. Curious, you know. The water at that point was over my waist and cold, but when I opened the bag—my courage and curiosity were rewarded.’
‘On which side of the dock did you find it?’ asked Fordney.
Holmes pointed to a spot on the sandy bottom at the left.
‘Think I’ll talk with the minnow man,’ declared the Professor as he got into Holmes’s boat. He rowed furiously for about fifty yards, suddenly dropped the oars and, after glancing from the crystal-clear water to the bottom of the boat, emitted a victorious chuckle.
‘Stupid of me not to have thought of that before,’ he mused. ‘Wonder if Holmes is a better fisherman than he is a liar?’
Clever fellow, Holmes. Did his story fool you?
‘Dead! Bullet-hole in right temple,’ said Sergeant Reynolds, as he knelt by a man lying face down, a revolver clutched in his right hand.
‘All right,’ replied Inspector Kelley. ‘Let’s have a look round. Dressed for the street, eh?’ While speaking, Kelley picked up from the floor several fragments of glass and a right-hand glove, turned inside-out.
‘Look at this glove, Reynolds. What do you make of it? And I wonder if that soiled handkerchief on the table belongs to him?’
‘Gee, Chief,’ said Reynolds, as he turned the body over and unbuttoned the topcoat, ‘this is young Holman, the millionaire.’
The body was immaculately clothed in the finest custom tailoring.
‘Broke his watch, too. Stopped at eight-ten,’ continued the Sergeant, as he removed the timepiece from the vest pocket. ‘Let’s see if those pieces you’ve got are part of the crystal. Yep! And look at this jade elephant at the end of the chain.
‘Bumped himself off, all right, Inspector, but I don’t get that glove business, or that dirty handkerchief either.’
‘We’d better look round and find that other glove,’ said Kelley.
A thorough search failed to disclose it, and while the Inspector was confident it was suicide, he decided to get Professor Fordney’s opinion, because of the prominence of young Holman.
After explaining the situation to the Professor over the telephone, he was puzzled at his reply:
‘I’ll be right around, Inspector. From what you’ve told me, it looks like murder.’
What justified the Professor’s belief that it was probably murder?
‘Why the rush to get back to New York?’ inquired Fordney, a few minutes after Delavin stepped from the plane. ‘Thought you intended spending the summer in Cuba.’
‘Well, if you must know, my bank failed, and I came back to straighten out my affairs.’
‘That’s too bad, Delavin. How did you hear about it?’
He handed Fordney a clipping from theJacksonville Herald:
New York, July 5. (AP)—Foundation Bank & Trust Co., one of New York’s oldest banking establishments, closed its doors today...
New York, July 5. (AP)—Foundation Bank & Trust Co., one of New York’s oldest banking establishments, closed its doors today...
‘Sure you didn’t come back to help your pal Ryan?’ asked the Professor. ‘He’s been in jail for two days. Ever since the Fourth-of-July bombing. Had a letter on him signed by you asking him to get in touch with a C. J. Wallace.
‘We traced Wallace and discovered he iswith an ammunition company. When the District Attorney heard you were on your way here, he asked me to meet you. He thinks you know something about the bombing.’
‘In jail, huh? I didn’t know there had been a bombing. Wallace is a cousin of mine.’
‘Where did you catch your plane?’
‘Why—er—Jacksonville, Florida. You see, I was staying at a rather remote place and no planes serve that part of Cuba. Really had no thought of leaving until I read of the bank failure.’
‘Well, you had better think of a more convincing alibi, before the District Attorney questions you.’
‘Oh, I suppose somebody wired him that “Spider” McCoy met the plane when we landed in Norfolk. He’s got nothing on me!’ exclaimed Delavin.
What do you think of Delavin’s actions? Suspicious? Why?
Professor Fordney glanced at his desk clock as he picked up the receiver—ten-fifteen.
‘Hello!’ came the agitated voice at the other end. ‘This is Waters. Could you come over right away? Something’s just happened that I’d like to discuss with you. I’d appreciate it.’
‘Well,’ returned the Professor, again glancing dubiously at the clock, ‘if it’s important, I’ll be round. Good-bye.’
Twenty minutes later, he was met at the door by Waters’s secretary who was almost incoherent in his excitement.
‘He’s dead, Professor. Dead—there in the library!’
Fordney hurried to the room and found Waters slumped over his desk with his throat cut.
‘Well, tell me what happened,’ he said to the secretary, as he noted the position of the body, the open window, and the cigar-ash on the rug about six feet from Waters’s chair.
‘I came in about an hour ago, Professor, and went right upstairs to do some work.Twenty-five minutes ago I came down and heard him talking to you as I passed the library on my way to the pantry for a sandwich. I was there about twenty minutes, I imagine, and, as I came back through the hall, I happened to look in here, and there he was. I can’t imagine who did it or how it happened,’ he concluded.
‘Have a cigar,’ offered Fordney.
‘Thanks, I will, Professor. It’ll kind of steady the nerves.’
‘And now,’ said Fordney, ‘suppose you tell me the real truth of this affair.’
Why did he doubt Waters?
‘I was beatin’ along the Boston Post Road, about fifty miles an hour, when I looks around and sees this bird standing on the tail-gate fumbling with the lock on the doors. I stopped as fast as I could, jumped out, and ran round to the back. This mug had hopped off with an armful of furs and climbed into a car that was following. His partner even took a shot at me,’ said Sullivan, whom Professor Fordney was questioning.
‘He must have been a very good judge. He took only the best you carried,’ commented Fordney.
‘Yeah. Guess he was. Fur-stealin’ is a big racket these days.’
‘Why didn’t you report it at the next town instead of waiting until you got back to the office?’
‘Well, I thought the boss wouldn’t want it to get out that the furs of his wealthy customers had been pinched. He’s awful particular about us usin’ our heads.’
‘Where was your helper?’
‘Just after I started out, he said he was feelin’ sick, so I told him to go on home.’
‘Fifty miles an hour is excessive speed for that truck, isn’t it?’ asked Fordney, examining the all-steel doors of the massive, dust-proof moving-van.
‘She’s big, but she’ll do even better than that!’
‘Always wear those gloves when you’re working?’
‘Always,’ laughed the driver. ‘Have to keep me hands dainty, you know.’
‘I thought so,’ retorted Fordney, continuing his close examination of the doors.
‘Come on, Sullivan, take me for a ride in that truck. I know you’re lying.’
How did the Professor know?
‘What’ll I do, Professor,’ implored Vi Cargo, as Fordney examined the ground beneath her bedroom window.
SevenA.M.A fine time to start looking for a thief! Why couldn’t women be more careful of their jewelry!
‘I was restless all night,’ said Vi, as Fordney knelt beside a deep impression of a man’s right shoe.
‘By Jove, I thought we’d found one of your stones,’ he said, pointing to a leaf in the footprint. ‘Look at the sunlight glistening on those raindrops!’
‘It was the shower that awakened me around six,’ chattered Vi. ‘It only lasted about fifteen minutes. I dozed off again and awakened with a start just as a man jumped to the ground, from my bedroom window.’
‘Was that just before you came for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are are you alone, Vi?’
‘Yes. The servants are in the country.’
‘Then why did you have all your jewels in the house?’
‘I had worn them to Mrs. De Forest’s party.’
‘Do you know anyone who smokes this brand?’ asked Fordney, picking up from the ground an unsmoked cigarette of English manufacture.
‘Yes. Mr. Nelson, who brought me home last night. However, I threw that one there.’
‘The thief chiseled open this window directly under your bedroom.’
‘I wondered how he got in! The doors were all locked.’
‘Come, my dear! Don’t you think you’ve treated the old Professor rather shabbily? You women! I know your jewels are heavily insured and I also know of your bridge debts. Who helped you fake this robbery? Nelson?’
Where is the clue?
A clock softly chimed eight-forty-five as Professor Fordney and Halloway, dramatic critic of theTimes, finished their after-dinner coffee. They strolled leisurely to the corner and reached the Belmont just in time for the curtain.
As the first act ended, Fordney remarked enthusiastically: ‘Halloway, it’s magnificent! Boswell is certainly our finest dramatic actor. How he held that audience, for forty-five minutes, from the moment the curtain arose! That’s genius!’
The final curtain found him even more enthusiastic in his praise of Boswell’s acting.
Learning next morning of the actor’s murder, he became personally interested.
Sibyl Mortimer had been questioned by the police and quickly dismissed. Her alibi appeared sound. She had an engagement with Boswell last evening, but said he telephoned her shortly after nine breaking it, so the police concerned themselves with his reason for doing so.
A taxi-driver, who drove Boswell and another man from the theater, dropped them at Fifth Avenue and Sixty-Fifth Street at midnight. His description of the man checked with that of Jenks, Boswell’s manager, who was missing. It was learned that his reason for breaking the engagement with Sibyl was to discuss a new contract with Jenks, about which there had been considerable disagreement.
A charred piece of the contract was found in the actor’s fireplace, in front of which he lay. Jenks’s cane and a vanity-case monogrammed ‘S. M.’ were also found in the room.
Acquainted with the facts by Sergeant Reynolds, Fordney replied,
‘I’m afraid you’ve overlooked a valuable clue.’
What was it?
‘Here’s all we’ve been able to learn, Professor. I wish you’d see what you can make of it,’ said Sheriff Darrow.
‘Garden’s cottage fronts the lake at a point about halfway between the head and foot of its mile length.
‘A strong east wind off the lake that morning caused him and his two guests to abandon their proposed fishing trip. Garden remained behind while Rice and Johnson set off hiking in opposite directions.
‘Rice said that fifteen minutes later, as he was retrieving his hat which had blown into the lake, he heard a shot and hurried to the cottage. There he found Johnson with blood on his hands bending over Garden, who had been shot through the heart.
‘Johnson said he had gone only about two hundred yards when he heard the shot and rushed back. He claims he got the blood on his hands when ascertaining if Garden were alive. He also admits moving some furniture, although cautioned against it by Rice.
‘Fortunately for Rice, we found his hat still wet, but discovered he had changed his shirt before the arrival of the police. He had also gone through Garden’s desk, but said he removed nothing.
‘Both men entered through the back door, though the front entrance was more convenient.
‘We haven’t found a gun or any other weapon and we haven’t been able to establish a motive yet,’ concluded Darrow. ‘What do you make of it?’
‘It’s a bit muddled, Sheriff,’ replied Fordney, ‘but I would question ________ further.’
Of whom was he definitely suspicious—and why?
‘They covered us with a gun, and when the cashier tried to give an alarm, they shot him. Then they handcuffed me, grabbed five stacks of bills, and beat it.’
‘Calm yourself,’ ordered Fordney, ‘and tell me who “they” are.’
‘Two fellows who robbed the bank just now,’ explained the excited narrator, who had rushed into Fordney’s cottage at Lakeview. ‘I knew you were vacationing in the village, so, as soon as they escaped in their car, I ran over here.’
‘Didn’t you call a doctor for the cashier?’
‘Too late. He must have died instantly.’
‘How do you know the bandits escaped in a car?’
‘I saw them from the window.’
‘Were you and the cashier alone at the time of the shooting?’
‘Yes. I had just made a deposit. I guess they got my money, too.’
Fordney walked over and picked up theovercoat his visitor had removed upon entering the living-room.
‘You seem to have had a little accident. How did you get this?’ he asked, examining a long tear in the front of the coat.
‘Why—I guess I tore it on the door when I rushed out of the bank. I broke a button, too, you’ll notice.’
‘Let’s see your hat!’ demanded Fordney, eyeing his visitor sharply.
‘Why—where is it? I—must have left it in the bank!’
‘Well—let’s go. The police will be interested in your story—and bring that coat with you!’
Why did Fordney suspect this man of complicity in the hold-up?
‘Perhaps you’d better tell me exactly what happened,’ said Professor Fordney kindly to the agitated man.
‘Well,’ continued Palmer, ‘Frank has been despondent and talked of suicide for some time. I thought exercise and the open air would do him good, so I suggested a vacation at my place in the country.
‘We’d been there three days, and he seemed in much better spirits. Then, Thursday morning, after we’d been fishing an hour or so, he said he thought he’d try another stream about a mile away. I was having good luck, so I told him to go ahead and I’d meet him at the cabin later.
‘About eleven o’clock, when I’d caught my limit, I started back. As I neared the cabin, I seemed to have a premonition of trouble, and ran the last few yards. When I opened the door, God! I’ll never forget it! I’d got there not more than five minutes behind him, and yet there he lay—dead! That hideous lookon his face! It haunts me! Why couldn’t I have been just a few minutes earlier?
‘A whiskey bottle on the table and the glass which smelled of cyanide told me the story. He’d done it, after all! I’ll never forgive myself,’ Palmer concluded with a sob.
‘Had you any visitors while at camp?’ asked Fordney.
‘No, we hadn’t seen anyone for two days.’
‘Did your friend smoke?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Was the door open or closed when you arrived?’
‘Why, closed.’
‘And the windows?’
‘Closed, too, Professor.’
‘If you’re innocent, Palmer, why are you lying?’ demanded Fordney.
What was the lie?
‘Inspector Kelley picks out such nice messy jobs for me.’
Professor Fordney smiled as Reynolds made a wry face.
‘We found him lying against a boulder about ten feet from the bottom of a fifty-foot embankment of solid rock. While there were no traces of the path of his fall, the concrete road directly above him was stained with blood. I don’t know why people insist on walking along the highway.
‘That’s such a bad curve right there. I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out who struck him. And then, it’s possible for someone to have hit him without knowing it. And I believe the car that did stopped and the driver seeing how badly he was hurt, in fear, drove on.’
‘What makes you think that, Reynolds?’
‘There are tracks of a car skidding along the shoulder of the road, and footprints in the blood where the fellow dropped on the pavement. I suppose the poor old man regainedconsciousness, staggered to his feet, and rolled down the embankment. That finished him. Ugh—it was a messy affair!’
‘Who is he?’
‘We’re not sure. The only identification was a small scrap of paper in his pocket with the name Tabor. By a queer coincidence there was a large T deeply cut in the blood-stained boulder which stopped his fall.’
‘No doubt, Sergeant, the murderers intended you should take exactly the inference you have, but don’t you see t____ w__ n_ b____ b______ t__ r___ a__ t__ b______?’
What did the Professor tell Reynolds?
‘I went to the office Thursday to do some work,’ Shaeffer related.
‘About noon, I happened to look out the window and notice a black sedan draw up and two tough-looking fellows get out. They looked suspicious to me, and, as I wasn’t armed, I hastily banged the safe door closed and ran into the washroom—not a bit too soon either. In just a few seconds they came in, one carrying a sawed-off shotgun. I could see them plainly.
‘They looked around for a moment and one said, “If anybody comes in here before we’re through, give it to him.”
‘He then went over to the safe and, after working on it for about five minutes, had it open and took the money. They certainly had a lot of nerve. Even stopped to count it! Then they leisurely strolled out the door. I called Headquarters immediately.’
‘How much did they get?’ questioned Inspector Kelley.
‘Over fifteen thousand. We hadn’t bankedthe money from the day before because Thursday was a holiday.’
‘Get the number of the car?’
‘No. When it drove up to the office, I didn’t see a license plate on the front, and I couldn’t see the back. When I finished telephoning for the police, it had gone.’
‘Was there anyone at the office besides you?’
‘I was alone. A man telephoned an hour before, however, and asked if we were open. I told him no, but I’d be there until about two-thirty. He hung up without answering.’
‘Well, fellows,’ asked Professor Fordney, of the members of his class in criminology, to whom he was telling the story, ‘why did Inspector Kelley immediately arrest Shaeffer?’
The sun streamed cheerfully through the window, bringing into lively play the soft tones of the luxurious furnishings, as the two house guests, Professor Fordney and Inspector Kelley, entered the oil magnate’s bedroom.
‘Nothing in here to get excited about,’ said Kelley.
Fordney, opening the window and seeing Smith lying on the ground three stories below it, cried, ‘Run downstairs, Inspector. Quick! There he is!’
Kelley nodded, and was on his way. As he hurried out the door, he came face to face with the butler. Fordney eyed the servant suspiciously as he entered.
‘When did you see Mr. Smith last?’ he asked.
‘About an hour ago. He had a telephone call which seemed to excite him and he came right up here to his room.’
‘Who brought this up?’ Fordney asked, fingering an unopened letter with an illegible postmark.
‘He brought it up himself, sir, saying he was not to be disturbed.’
‘Anyone been here since?’
Kelley’s noisy entrance interrupted the butler’s ‘No, sir.’
‘Smith broke his neck. I found this on him,’ he remarked, handing the Professor a note.
Ill health and financial trouble have made life a burden. I’m leaving my bedroom for the last time. A three-story drop and my misery will be over.Smith
Ill health and financial trouble have made life a burden. I’m leaving my bedroom for the last time. A three-story drop and my misery will be over.
Smith
‘His suicide will be a blow to the oil industry,’ Kelley mused, as Fordney sat down at the desk and began to write with Smith’s fountain pen.
‘Hisdeathwill be, Inspector,’ said Fordney. ‘Better get the servants together. This is murder—not suicide!’
What reason did Fordney have for making such a statement?
‘I was trying to stop the flow with this, Professor,’ said Weeds, the butler, indicating a blood-covered towel he had just removed from the bed, ‘when Jones struck at me and I dropped it.’
‘And I’m sorry I missed!’ angrily exclaimed Jones, the colored chauffeur.
‘Never mind that,’ said Inspector Kelley.
‘Did you find her, Weeds?’ asked Professor Fordney.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She’s a good-looking mulatto,’ remarked Kelley, looking at the maid lying on the floor at the side of the bed. Her right hand outstretched, the wrist deeply cut, rested in a pool of blood on the polished floor. ‘Must have slipped off the bed.’
‘I don’t think so. The spread hasn’t a wrinkle in it,’ said Fordney, noting the immaculate coverlet of pink lace, the edge caught under the girl’s body.
‘She was almost gone when I found her,’offered Weeds, ‘and she died before I could get a doctor.’
‘Is this yours, Jones?’ inquired Fordney, picking up a sharp knife hidden by the girl’s dress.
‘Yes. She wanted it to cut the stems of the flowers I had brought up.’
‘I didn’t see that knife when I tried to help her,’ said Weeds.
‘Course you didn’t! You put it there!’ shouted Jones angrily.
‘How do you know? You weren’t here. And what’s more, I heard you threaten her last night. You don’t see any flowers here, do you, Inspector?’ quietly asked Weeds.
‘You’re right,’ said Kelley. After whispering to Fordney, he continued, ‘Come on,you’reunder arrest. Andyou, we’ll question you later!’
Whom did Kelley arrest—and why?