/
/


All about the murder of the porcine Mr.
Swink and the mystifying events that fol-
lowed—and introducing Theocritus Lucius
Westborough, genial and mild-mannered
little history professor, with the instincts
of a ferret and the brain of a Holmes.
Swink's murder, in his room at the
Hotel Equable, involved a varied group
of people: a night clerk, an evil-tongued
gossip, two traveling salesmen, a "hotel
widow," a man who was anything but
what he said he was, a commercial artist
and his wife, and a hotel dick with a pen-
chant for ripping up mattresses.
With the police completely baffled,
Theocritus gets together this cast of char-
acters and stages a play whose main
"props" consist of a hairpin, a cigarette
lighter, a drunk's visit to the wrong room,
a child's chemical set, a moving picture—
Three Men and a Cobra—Detective Lieu-
tenant Mack's aunt Harriet from Niles,
Michigan, and a girl who married at noon
and was killed at three o'clock in an auto-
mobile accident with another man.
Here is a long, full-bodied, and modern
mystery story, cleverly plotted, with ex-
cellent characters and genuine suspense.
The final curtain will come as a surprise
to all.





THE FIFTH TUMBLER
■





CLYDE B. CLASON

Introducing Professor Theocritus
Lucius Westborough, a mild little
man who meddled in murder—with
surprising results.

GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 1936 PUBLISHED FOR
THE CRIME CLUB, INC.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.


printed at the Country Life Press, garden city, n. y., u. 8. a.
COPYRIGHT, I936
BY DOUBLED AY, DOR AN ft COMPANY, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST EDITION


All the characters and events
depicted in this book are wholly
fictitious.
C. B. C.





CONTENTS
Part One: Thursday Evening
1
Part Two: From the Notebook of Theocritus Lucius
Westborough
125
Part Three: Friday Morning
135
Part Four: Saturday Night
165
Part Five: Sunday
176
Part Six: Monday
231
Part Seven: Tuesday Morning
297





THE FIFTH TUMBLER





PART ONE
Thursday Evening
i
Doors! enigmatic doors opening from darkened corri-
dors. Closed doors hiding lust and laughter, sorrow and
death. Adjacent lives isolated by thin partitions as effec-
tively as though separated by miles of bleak desert. Hun-
dreds of people, unaware of each other's existence, clus-
tered under a single big roof. Mysterious and inscrutable
doors! Baffling corridors!
"Dear me!" mused Theocritus Lucius Westborough,
the sole occupant of the large double bedroom designated
as number 312. "A hotel is like a giant beehive!" It
amused him to enlarge upon this simile. Worker bees: out
of the hive by eight in the morning and gone until six.
Queen bees: imposing black-clad dowagers. "Their hus-
bands, ironically enough, have toiled to premature graves
in order that these elderly women might spend the re-
mainder of their lives, bored and miserable, in doing noth-
ing. Poor souls, I am sorry for them. Labor est etiam ipsa
voluptas" quoted Westborough, who was addicted to
bromides in foreign languages.


2
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Workers? Queens? Oh yes, and of course drones. "I am
one—thanks to government bonds and James' kindly
forethought. I should be inclined to place that porcine
Mr. Swink in the same category. Also, sadly against her
will, I fear, that poor child Miss Gant."
Westborough picked up his fountain pen and resumed
the writing of a foreword to a manuscript for which, after
many months, he had found a publisher. The manuscript
was entitled, Trajan: His Life and Times, and West-*
borough had devoted at least ten years to its preparation.
He wrote:
"Although it is singularly unfortunate the works of
Trajan's four biographers—Marius Maximus, Fabius
Marcellinus, Aurelius Verus, and Statius Valens—have
been lost, an imperishable record of the great emperor
remains in the Trajan column, which describes the cam-
paign against the Dacians more eloquently than could
any book account. This tall shaft, as high as a ten-story
building and weathered to the color of bronze, is covered
with a continuous spiral of carvings in which are repre-
sented more than twenty-five hundred human figures. To
counteract the visual effect of distance, the artist, Apollo-
dorus, designed the groups progressively larger as the
spiral ascended the summit. Curiously enough, a statue
of St. Peter now occupies the top of the monument where
once stood in lonely grandeur the colossal figure of the
great emperor."
Westborough's pen paused—he had said "great em-
peror" before, and, as he racked his mind for a synonym,
his thoughts again strayed.
"Gant! That's an odd name. Dear me, I wonder if it
can be traced to John of Gaunt and the Black Prince?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
3
In room 309 Chris Larson's alarm clock measured off
seconds with raucous zeal. It was not one of your new elec-
tric alarms, adjustable to a soft or loud call to suit the
sleeper's whim, but a battered wreck. Chris had bought it
for $1.29 three years ago and had thrown it across the
room at least twice since then. Nevertheless, it continued
to run: loudly if not accurately, and, by dint of frequent
manipulations of the hands, it would even give a reason-
ably true approximation to the correct hour. It now said,
"twenty minutes to eleven," and, since Chris had set it at
five, it was probably not off more than three minutes.
Chris yawned. He was a tall Scandinavian, tawny-
haired and fair-skinned. He smothered a second yawn and
adjusted the shade of the desk lamp. The light, stream-
ing down upon his book, revealed queer-looking symbols
like long slanting "S's." Chris read, "The rate of chemi-
cal reaction with respect to the time is proportional to the
quantity of substance still unchanged in the mixture."
It was a problem regarding the decomposition of
radium, and Larson chewed thoughtfully at the end of his
pencil. At length he turned to a table of natural loga-
rithms and ran the pencil along one of the many columns
of figures.
"Her name is Yvonne," he thought, jotting a number
upon a scratch pad. "Yvonne Gant. Yes, and her hair is
bronze and her eyes are a light purple. Or would you
call them violet?" His pencil commenced a sudden and
furious tattoo against the surface of the desk. "Imagine
that low scum Swink trying to get away with the trick
he pulled. I should've taken a poke at him. Yeah—and
lost my job." The pencil dropped unheeded to the floor.
"Don't be a fool. I couldn't keep a girl like that in stock-


4
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
ings. But her mouth has the cutest little crinkle . . .
purple eyes . . . Yvonne Gant . . ."
In room 311 Yvonne Gant labored with commendable
persistence to mend a run in a silk stocking. She thought,
"It's my last decent pair, too. Oh well, maybe it'll hold.
Maybe nothing! It's got to!"
Miss Gant, a tall girl with finely chiseled features and
the reddish-bronze hair upon which Chris Larson had re-
marked, was wearing a peacock blue negligee which spoke
eloquently of more prosperous times. She finished her
darning and bit off the end of the thread. "There! If that
doesn't stay, I'm out of luck."
She filled the porcelain basin in her bathroom with
warm water and sloshed an oval cake of the hotel's soap
until the surface of the water was covered with a copious
layer of stiff suds. "Wonder if it hurts when they throw
you out?" Miss Gant asked and smiled at the reflection
in the Venetian mirror above the bowl. "It's your own
fault, you know. Nobody forced you to stay here."
"It's not your fault," the reflection said consolingly.
"Who was to know that the Merdock Company would go
ker-phlooey? You had a fairly good job with them, didn't
you? And you couldn't help it about Betty."
Miss Gant immersed the stockings in the washbasin and
swished them vigorously among the soapsuds. "There are
just two kinds of fat men," she generalized. "One kind
is fat and jolly. You always like to have them around.
The other kind is fat and nasty, and Mr. Swink is like
that. Little pig eyes! Ugh!"
She pushed down the white knob which opened the
drain, and the suds gurgled down the pipe. Then she


6
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
was a thing of onyx and gold, shaped to a sharp point at
the end where more plebeian pencils boasted only of an
eraser. He dug viciously at the paper, and the lead
cracked. Hammond turned the gold tip to bring a new
lead into place and renewed his artistic efforts by draw-
ing a circle, which, although a long ways from the famous
freehand circle of Giotto, was yet a reasonably good
approximation to the curve.
"She's been gone a long time. I should have gone with
her and not pulled that headache stall. I wish I had. We
get so few evenings together."
He divided the circle into quarters and commenced the
shading of opposite segments. "Poor Norah! This is a
hell of a life for her. A woman ought to have a home of
her own, but when I'm on the road all the time . . .
We'd have to get one though if we ever have a kid. Won-
der what it would be Like to have a little shaver that was
mine and Norah's. Norah wants a girl . . . that wouldn't
be so bad ... a girl growing up to look like Norah. . . .
I'd rather have a boy. I might be able to make a football
player out of him."
He abandoned the circle as offering no further possi-
bilities and tried his hand at a caricature of his sales
manager, Thompson. "If that guy is a sales manager, I'm
first cousin to the Prince of Wales! I'm sick of his sales
contests. He sets a quota twice as high as it should be and
expects us to take it and like it if he sugar coats it with
enough hooey. We've been baseball players and prospec-
tors and airplane pilots; we've ascended the stratosphere,
and we've gone to the Antarctic with Admiral Byrd. Now
he tells us we're going to dig for treasure in King Solo-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
7
mon's Mines. Banana juice! Does he think we're a bunch
of ten-year-olds?"
Hammond completed the final touches to his sketch and
drew a hand thumbing a nose at Thompson's profile.
"You know what you can do to King Solomon's Mines,
don't you?" he apostrophized the portrait. "Why the hell
don't you tell us to go out and do a good old-fashioned
job of selling? I'll bet you never even thought of that,
you louse!"
Hammond crumpled up the caricature—the likeness
had not been very creditable—and tossed it at the waste-
basket. "Damn those old harpies! They sit in the lobby
like a bunch of vultures, and I'd like a five-spot for every
refutation they've busted." He opened the drawer of the
writing desk and felt absent-mindedly within. "I shouldn't
let their lousy gossip get under my skin. They were lying.
Of course they were lying!" There was a Gideon Bible in
the drawer, and Hammond thumbed through it aimlessly
until he realized what it was and dropped it like a hot
potato. "But I'd give all I've won in poker the last six
months if I hadn't heard them."
He took a second sheet of hotel stationery and began
another cartoon, muttering under his breath as he
sketched.
"Damn that fat hog! There's what he looks like. Dia-
mond stickpin and all. Promoter, is he? Kind of swine
that runs after widows' insurance money, I'd say. And if
Norah . . ."
In room 319 Benny Devon lit a cigarette. He smoked
incessantly, and he usually lit one with the butt from


8
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
the last. Devon was not his real name. He had taken it
from a sign glimpsed on a Chicago streetcar.
"I had the pete all lathered and was ready to slip in
the oil when that rube cop stuck his face through the win-
dow," Devon reminisced. "Jeez! I didn't mean to jimmy
the bull, but could I help it? This town's lousy with dicks,
and if some cop gets wise, I'll get a stretch that 'l1 be no
valentine."
Devon shrugged his narrow shoulders and tilted his
chair to an angle of thirty degrees. He put his feet upon
the bed, his shoes leaving a black stain on the clean
spread. "That fat mug Swink!" he exclaimed. "The rock
he wears is worth half a grand if it's worth a cent. But I
don't dare chance it here. Besides, I'm a box man and
not a flat worker. And a rock like that lying around wait-
ing to be picked up! Jeez!"
Mrs. Sarah Blakely of room 310 was combing her hair.
Mrs. Blakely's hair was faded and lifeless, but such as it
was it was her own. She wove the strands into braids and
fastened the ends with rubber bands.
"If you ask me, that Gant girl is no better than she
should be!" thought Mrs. Blakely, her fingers digging
viciously into the cold cream jar. "There are two sides
to everything, as I said to Esther this morning." She
patted the grease onto her wrinkled face with vigorous
slaps. "The Hammond woman is another chippy—or
she'd like to be! Her husband ought to stay home and
watch the hussy."
Mrs. Blakely raised her head and listened. She had
eyes which saw like a hawk and ears which could hear the
drop of a pin twenty feet away. But the noise she heard


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
9
now did not call for any such delicate perception of the
senses. It was the heavy, disorganized tread of an inebri-
ated man in the corridor. "That must be Mr. Swink,"
thought Mrs. Blakely. "It sounds like him, but I didn't
know he was a drinking man. If I open the door a trifle I
can tell for sure."
She tiptoed to the door and peeked into the corridor.
A fat man was fumbling with a keyhole. "He's drunk as
a lord," Mrs. Blakely reflected. "And to think I let that
man take me to lunch!" She watched his clumsy efforts
to open the door, and then Mrs. Blakely's excellent ears
brought her another sound. A sound which had no busi-
ness in the west corridor of the third floor of the Hotel
Equable. Mrs. Blakely heard the tinkle of broken glass. .
"Bottle on his hip!" she reflected. Then she remem-
bered that Prohibition was a thing of the past, and it was
neither convenient nor fashionable to carry bottles in that
manner. The fat man entered the room. He didn't close
the door, however, and Mrs. Blakely thought that was
funny. Then she heard a second sound, and there was no
mistaking what that was.
Mrs. Blakely crossed the corridor and peeped through
the half-opened door. And Mrs. Blakely screamed.
II
Chris larson shoved aside his book. It was ten minutes
to eleven, and he went on duty at the hour. He rose to
his feet, stretched his long muscular arms, and then
walked over to the bathroom where he lathered his hands
with careful thoroughness.


10
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
From the hall he heard a boisterous racket; heavy
tramping. "Swink's drunk again," Chris speculated.
More tramping and a noisy fumbling. "The dirty hog."
Silence reigned for perhaps a minute, and then someone
screamed.
It was a feminine scream, piercing and shrill, and it
penetrated the corridor. A second scream, only a trifle
subdued in tone, followed the first, and then a third as
Chris raced into the corridor. The screamer was a stout
woman in a gray flannel robe. She was standing at the
entrance to Swink's room, number 315, which should have
been 313 and wasn't.
Other people came into the hall. Mr. Hammond stuck
his head out from 317, and there were Miss Gant of 311
(she was wearing some sort of fluffy blue thing) and Mr.
Devon of 319. Also owlish little Mr. Westborough from
312.
"What's going on?" Chris questioned.
"Mr. Swink!" Mrs. Blakely gasped hysterically. "I
think he's—dead!"
The door stood open about three inches, allowing Chris
to peek within the room. Swink, like an enormous Billi-
ken, was lying doubled up on the floor. Someone had cut
out a section of the carpet and folded it back, leaving a
strip of bare floor about three feet from the doorway.
There was a faint odor in the room which Chris sniffed
inquisitively. "Good God!" he choked and turned at once
to the group clustered about the door. "Please go to your
rooms and open the windows. There's a dangerous gas in
here. It's"
Mrs. Blakely shrieked. There was a frantic scurrying,
followed by the slamming of multitudinous doors. Adjust-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
18
third member of the triumvirate. Mack was from police
headquarters on South State Street. Of medium height
and build, he was dressed with an attention to details
which rendered him almost dapper. Yet his keen blue eyes
were as sharp and piercing as those of a lynx. He sur-
veyed with callous professional interest the motionless
form on the floor.
"That's a queer way to bump off a guy!"
Mack turned his head in the giant's direction.
"You said, Terry, that Larson opened this window?"
Larson nodded before the other could reply.
"Yes. I smelt the characteristic odor of hydrocyanic
acid and realized the air had to be cleared at once."
"Too late to help him, though?"
"Yes."
O'Ryan resumed his narrative. "I posted a couple of
boys at each end of this corridor to keep anyone from
going in or out. Then I sent Phelan and McCarter to
talk to the room clerk and check up on the entrances. I
figured our first step was to make darn sure that this is
an inside job."
Mack nodded approvingly, and O'Ryan's face broke
into a broad grin. It was plain to see, Chris Larson real-
ized, that the big man had the utmost respect for the
ability of his colleague from headquarters. Mack, al-
though inferior in police rank to O'Ryan, was, more or
less unconsciously, Chris believed, taking complete charge
of the investigation. He stooped now to pick up the glass
fragment of test tube which had earlier engaged Larson's
attention. He held it carefully by the string.
"You said he died as soon as he got the door open?"
"He was dead when I found him," Larson replied, "and


14
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
that was hardly more than two or three minutes after-
wards."
"Humph!" Mack ejaculated. "Then either the whole
room had been previously saturated with the gas, or this
thing smashed when he opened the door."
"That's what happened," O'Ryan opined. "See how
the carpet's been cut and folded outa the way. The only
reason for doing that was to make sure the glass would
smash when it hit the floor. It's plain enough to me."
"Then the tube had to be fastened to the door in some
way," Mack reflected. He picked up the wire from the
floor and asked, "What do you make of this hook thing?"
"It's nothing but an ordinary hairpin bent out of
shape," Spanger pronounced.
"I don't see much sense to it," came from O'Ryan.
"The hook could fit into that loop of string, but how would
you get the thing fastened to the door?"
"This way," Mack answered. He closed the door and
placed the long end of the wire between the top edge of
the door and the door frame so that the short end, the one
with the hook, hung vertically downwards. "Here's how
he did it—see? When Swink opened the door, the wire
was released, and the tube had to tumble to the floor.
Swink stooped to see what it was and got a whiff of the
gas."
Jerry Spanger's pudgy hand tugged at his mustache in
thoughtful deliberation. "The only thing I'd like to know
is how he got out again."
Mack returned no immediate answer. His eyes roved
restlessly here and there about the bedroom. There wasn't
a great deal to see. It was just a conventional hotel bed-
room furnished comfortably but simply with a metal bed-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
18
stead, a bureau, a desk, a large lounge chair, and two or
three straight ones. But none of these were the objects
of Mack's scrutiny. His eyes flitted from one to another
of the three doors within the room. Finally he opened
one of these to reveal a moderately large closet. Getting
down upon his knees, Mack made a thorough inspection
of the closet floor.
"He might've hid in here—although there aren't any
signs of it."
"I don't think so," Larson objected. "For one thing it
would be dangerous, and for another he didn't have a
chance to get out without being seen. Mrs. Blakely
watched Swink going into his room and screamed as soon
as she heard him fall."
Mack nodded in confirmation. "I didn't think he did."
He returned to the side of the dead man. "Have you
looked in his pockets, Terry?" O'Ryan shook his head.
Mack pulled out a wallet and hurriedly examined its con-
tents. "Nearly five hundred bucks on him." He glanced
toward the top of the dresser. "The rock in that stick pin
is worth another five hundred or I miss my guess. And it's
right in plain sight where anybody could 've picked it
up."
He rose to his feet and walked toward one of the two
inner doors he had not previously inspected. "Where do
these doors lead to?"
"Rooms on either side," Spanger answered. "Every
room on the corridor is connected that way; for that mat-
ter, nearly every room in the hotel. It makes for flexibility.
You can turn any two adjacent rooms into a suite at a
minute's notice."
Mack's thumb and forefinger closed about the narrow


16
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
ring between the latch and the doorknob, and he turned
the handle without touching the knob. He tugged and
pronounced the door locked, then repeated the experi-
ment on the door at the opposite side of the room.
"Both of 'em are locked."
Spanger nodded confirmatively. "They should be.
They're never opened without orders from the front
office."
"The office keeps the key?"
"Yes."
Mack asked another question. "Do these doors have
special keys of their own or will one of your ordinary
passkeys work on 'em?"
"Passkey will unlock any door in the hotel," Spanger
pronounced with finality. "That is, the ones we keep at
the office will. The maids' floor keys will only work on one
floor."
Mack jerked a large and square thumb toward one
door. "Who has that room!"
"A Miss Gant," Larson answered. "She used to share
a double room with another girl, but her roommate left
the hotel a few days ago, and she moved into this single."
"Anybody in the room on the other side?"
"It's a double room occupied by a Mr. and Mrs. Ham-
mond. He's away most of the time. Salesman, I believe."
"You said that a number of people rooming off this
corridor were in the hall after Mrs. Blakely screamed.
Either Miss Gant or the Hammonds among them?"
"I remember Miss Gant," Chris answered promptly.
He ransacked his memory. "Yes, and Mr. Hammond. I
don't believe I saw Mrs. Hammond."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
19
pany, but it fell through. If you're trying to insinu-
ate"
"Now who said I was?" Mack interrupted quietly. "I've
got a lot of people to see and a whole lot of questions to
ask before I start forming opinions." He continued didac-
tically as though to fix in his memory certain mental
notes. "As far as opportunity is concerned, anybody in
the hotel could've done it. That means any employee or
any guest, do you understand? Not to mention the possi-
bility of someone from outside. As far as motive is con-
cerned, we'll know more when we get a few stories from
people acquainted with Swink. And as far as method
"He shook his head in a puzzled manner. "There 're
several important points to clear up. I want to know"
He broke off abruptly as two blue-coated patrolmen en-
tered the room.
"Phelan and McCarter!" O'Ryan exclaimed. "What'd
you find out, boys?"
Patrolman Phelan was the first to answer. "I talked to
the room clerk as you told me, chief. From the desk he has
a clear view of both entrances to the lobby as well as the
elevators." He handed a paper to O'Ryan, who read it
carefully. "There's a list, as nearly as he can remember,
of everybody asking for their keys since he went on duty
at three-thirty. He's positive no strangers went up alone,
and the elevator men tell the same story."
"Well, McCarter?" O'Ryan asked.
"I went to the back part of the hotel and started ask-
ing questions," the patrolman replied with the air of one
who has performed a duty both thoroughly and conscien-
tiously. "Seems there's a timekeeper—thin-lipped guy
with glasses—who has to stand by the employees' en-


20
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
trance and check everyone going out—see? This is a big
place, and the management's taking no chances on a guy
sneaking out and going home when he's supposed to be
working. Well, this guy is sure that no one left the hotel
who didn't work here—and that no one came in who
wasn't supposed to."
"Did you think about the fire escapes?" O'Ryan cate-
chized.
McCarter's voice soared triumphantly. "You bet I did,
chief. There are two fire escapes leading to the alley. Both
of them stop at the second floor, but the stairs swing
down when a guy gets on 'em, and when he gets off, a
weight pulls 'em back up again."
"Practically every fire escape in town is built that way,"
O'Ryan grumbled. "Did you think to look at the doors?"
"Sure we did. Phelan and I went over every fire-escape
door in the hotel—some job!"
"Well?" O'Ryan interrogated. "Find that somebody
could beat it that way?"
McCarter shook his head. "Every damn one of 'em was
bolted from the inside, chief."
Ill
"It's an inside job." O'Ryan grinned like a pleased
Cheshire cat.
"Fat lot of help that is!" Mack snorted deprecatingly.
"Yeah—an inside job with only four to five hundred
rooms in this hotel and maybe a hundred and fifty people
working here. We'll be up all night, Terry."
"Well, that's what we're paid for, ain't it?" O'Ryan


THE FIFTH TUMBLER 21
turned to the house detective. "When you were on the
force, Jerry, you weren't a bad cop. What's your slant
on this?"
Spanger waved a pudgy hand.
"I didn't like Swink myself—fat, slimy sort of fellow.
Maybe two or three other people felt the same way about
him. But as for what happened tonight—well, I can't tell
you a damn thing. I went to my room early and got off
my shoes. Feet were burning something fierce."
"You used that feet stall a hundred times a week when
you were on the jewelry detail," Mack cut in. "Tell me
what you had against Swink, anyhow."
Spanger's blue eyes opened as wide as those of a baby.
"Just a hunch, but I don't have to tell you what hunches
mean in this racket. I thought the fellow'd bear watch-
ing, and I kept an eye on him whenever I got the chance.
But I didn't learn anything."
"Have any enemies in the hotel?"
"None as far as I know. Nor any friends either. In
fact I've only seen him with one man. Guy by the name
of Chilton."
"Chilton?"
"Yeh. He's in 305 down the hall. Signed the register as
James Chilton of New York when he blew in last Mon-
day. He told Collins, the room clerk, that he was a
broker."
"Well, if he's broker than I am I'd like to meet him!"
O'Ryan exclaimed. No one smiled at this witticism, and
the giant instantly sobered. "Shall we have him in,
Johnny?"
Mack reached in his vest pocket for a cigar and spat
the end into the wastebasket. "First I want to get Lar-


22
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
son's story straightened out. You're the night clerk here,
aren't you, Larson?"
"Yes. I go on duty at eleven."
"Been in your room all evening?"
"Yes."
"Sleeping?"
Chris smiled. "Until nine. I set the alarm clock for that
time, and then I get up and study for a couple of hours."
"Study?" For the minute Mack's face looked uncom-
prehending. "Yeh, I remember you told me about it.
Chemistry tonight, was it?"
"No, I was working a problem in calculus."
"Calculus? Some sort of mathematics, huh?"
"You've said it!" Larson exclaimed with a rueful face.
"Had to do with a logarithmic derivative, and when you
integrate you get an exponential function."
"I get a headache," Mack said with conviction. "Any-
way, you were pretty well wrapped up in the logarithmic
what-you-may-call-it, weren't you?"
"I guess so."
"So you couldn't hear a noise in the hall?"
"What sort of noise?"
"Like somebody trying to get into a room that didn't
belong to him."
"If I had, I'd have investigated," Larson declared.
Mack regarded the night clerk with a thoughtful expres-
sion.
"Work pretty hard, Larson?"
Chris Larson thought of his daily routine—and smiled.
Off duty at seven in the morning. A hastily snatched two
hours' sleep and then a grand rush to the "L" to make a
ten o'clock class in Organic. More classes. Lab. Classes.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
23
Lab. Through at four and back to the hotel. Grab a bite
to eat and sleep till nine. That alarm clock! Damn the
thing anyway! Always interrupting what promised to be
the soundest and most refreshing sleep you've ever known.
Then study—two hours of it. It isn't enough. You know
that. Not half enough. You're falling behind in your
classes. But your crammed schedule just doesn't allow
room for another minute—outside of Sundays and the
few minutes you can put in on the "L." Now you're on
duty again. Night clerk. Supreme boss during the wee
small hours—and very little to boss. Complaints. Some-
body's radio is bothering somebody else. Mrs. Blakely
thinks there's a mouse in her room. You have to get the
night houseman to turn everything inside out and assure
her there isn't the slightest vestige of a rodent. Make out
the room value sheet. If you're lucky, it checks with the
cashier's record. But sometimes the cashier has forgotten
to pull an account after it's been paid. Then you look in
the "departure book." If the name shows there you have
a "sleeper"—room shows occupied in the room rack but
it's really vacant. Sleepers are bad medicine—and a damn
nuisance. Slightly drunk middle-aged fellow comes in
with flashy girl and wants a room for the night. You're
sorry, but the hotel is full. "What 're you trying to tell
me, fellow? This here's my wife." You are still sorry, but
all the rooms are occupied. He goes out muttering ven-
geance, and the girl shrills profanity after you. You turn
back to the room value sheet. The cashier's record is
checked at last, and now you can get the house count and
the house value. Somebody comes in drunk and you have
to see he gets to his room without falling down the ele-
vator shaft. Now you get to work on the bills—stacks and


24
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
stacks of them. You look out and sky is getting lighter.
Presently the sun will stain the clouds a brilliant crimson
—but you never see it. It's seven o'clock, and you're
through at last. Your eyes are sodden and heavy. There's
lead in your veins instead of blood. You never get enough
sleep, never get . . . enough sleep . . . sleep.
Chris Larson yawned and turned to the detective.
"Yes," he said. "I probably do."
Whatever Mack had in mind he did not pursue farther.
Instead:
"Who's the manager?"
"Mr. Swann—Victor Swann."
"Where's he?"
"Out," Chris answered laconically.
"Yep," Spanger confirmed. "Took his wife and went
out on a big party tonight. Collins is keeping the tele-
phone wires hot trying to find out where. Swann 'l1 be
tickled to death to hear about this—I don't think. It sure
won't do the hotel no good."
Mack seemed not to be listening to this interjection. "If
you go on at eleven, Larson, you ought to be at the desk
now."
"Larry Collins is staying on. Larry figured you might
want to talk to him."
"Smart fellow," Mack grunted approvingly. "If every-
one used his head that well, our job would be a whole lot
easier. Well, Larson, you'd probably better stick around
here a while longer, then. I may have to ask a question or
two—about chemistry."
"Glad to do anything I can to help out," Chris smiled.
"What's next on the program?" O'Ryan put in. "Want
Chilton?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
26
"Yeh, get him. If he was with Swink this evening we
ought to get a good check on the time element."
O'Ryan halted before touching the doorknob.
"Having this checked for prints, aren't you?"
"Sure—everything in the room 'l1 be checked. Jimmy
Selzer of the Identification Bureau is downstairs now—
waiting till Doc Hildreth gets through making his re-
port. We won't find any prints, though."
"No?"
"Naw," Mack grunted disgustedly. "A babe in the
cradle would have better sense than to touch that knob
with bare hands." Larson chuckled. "Well, fellow, what's
so funny?" Mack demanded truculently.
"You'll find a full set of my prints on it. I closed the
door to keep the gas out of the corridor."
"Oh, sure!" Mack gibed. "Fixing up an alibi for your-
self already, huh?"
The fair complexion of the big Scandinavian turned an
indignant pink, and he breathed heavily.
"If you mean"
"I don't mean. I never mean anything at this stage of
the game. I thought I told you that before, Larson."
The night clerk's tensed muscles relaxed. "Sorry. Kind
of hard to realize that I'm a legitimate suspect."
"Don't worry about it, Chris," Spanger admonished.
"Johnny Mack 'l1 give you a square deal every time."
"I'll have Chilton brought in," O'Ryan declared. He
threw the door open to reveal an excited controversy. The
patrolman stationed on duty in the corridor was remon-
strating audibly.
"Hey, you, I said you couldn't go in there. When they
want you they'll send for you."


26
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"But I have information of vital importance to con-
vey," the other began, then stopped hastily as he caught
sight of O'Ryan.
"What's the fuss about, Clancy?" the latter asked. The
bluecoat glowered belligerently at the little man in the
corridor.
"This guy started to walk in on you, chief. I stopped
him just as he put his hand on the doorknob."
"Sweet mess of prints there'll be for Jimmy," Mack
grumbled.
From his full height of six feet four inches O'Ryan
looked down at the intruder, who couldn't have been more
than five feet six and was narrow shouldered, flat chested,
and scrawny necked in addition. His thin hands were deli-
cate and small fingered, and his face was triangular: broad
and wide at the forehead, narrowing toward a small,
pointed chin. His sparse hair was silvery and his eyes
peeked owlishly from behind a pair of gold-rimmed bifo-
cals. Chris recognized him at once.
"What's your name?" O'Ryan demanded gruffly.
"Westborough."
"What you want here?"
"My room is across the corridor. I recalled overhearing
a fragment of conversation from this room which may or
may not be important to you."
O'Ryan paused for a few seconds to scrutinize the other
intently. "Go on in," he said at length.
Westborough stepped over the* threshold and surveyed
the little group inside the room. He looked curiously at
the form on the floor, then nodded at Chris Larson.
"Good-evening, Mr. Larson. I don't believe I am ac-
quainted with you other gentlemen."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
27
"We'll skip the introductions," Mack said shortly. "If
you've got anything to say, make it snappy." He brought
out a notebook. "What's your full name?"
"Theocritus Lucius Westborough."
"Good Lord!" O'Ryan commented from the doorway.
"How your folks must have hated you."
The little man smiled cheerfully.
"It does seem a bit too much, doesn't it? To save you
the trouble of asking any more questions, I'll tell you that
my room is number 312 across the corridor and that I
have no particular occupation."
"What's this conversation you heard?" Mack cut in.
"It can hardly be called a conversation since it was en-
tirely one-sided. More in the nature of a monologue—at
least the part I chanced to overhear."
"Who was talking?"
"Mr. Swink."
"Where?"
"In this- room two or three evenings ago. As I opened
the door of my own room and started toward the ele-
vator on my way to dinner I heard him saying, 'I know
enough to put you behind bars. Now I want ten grand
and I'll give you just one week to dig it up.'"
"Is that all you heard?"
"Yes, I caught those few words on my way down the
corridor, but, as the matter did not concern me, I did not
stop to listen to any more."
"You don't know who he was talking to?"
"I really haven't the faintest idea. He may even have
been talking to himself."
"Was his door open?"
"No, closed. Ordinarily I shouldn't have heard any-


28
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
thing, but he was undoubtedly excited, and his voice car-
ried."
"When did you hear this conversation?"
"Let me see. This is Thursday. It must have been either
Monday or Tuesday. Monday I believe."
"At what time?"
"Just before I had dinner."
"Can't you give us a better idea of the time than that?
It might be important."
Westborough flushed with embarrassment.
"Dear me, I am sorry, but I am afraid I am unable to
do so. You see I am not a person of extremely regular
habits, and I am liable to go to dinner almost any time
from five-thirty to eight o'clock."
"Did you eat in the dining room downstairs?"
"Yes."
"Well, we may be able to find the time later on from a
waiter or somebody." Mack peered quizzically at the un-
dersized man. "What do you know about tonight's busi-
ness?"
"I? Nothing at all—Lieutenant Mack, isn't it? I have
been in my room since dinner time—since seven-thirty.
I really did look at my watch tonight. Although I don't
imagine that will be very helpful, will it?"
"Did you hear any noise going on? Anything at all
suspicious?"
"I heard Mr. Swink coming down the corridor. He was
stumbling heavily as though he had been drinking too
much, and he made quite a little noise inserting his key
into the keyhole."
"But you heard nothing before that?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
29
"Nothing at all. I was completely absorbed in my
thoughts."
"Thinking about anybody in the hotel?"
"Oh dear, no! I was thinking about Trajan."
"Who the hell's Trajan?"
"One of the five emperors who ruled Rome from 96 to
180 a.d. I've written a book—Trajan: His Life and Times
—shortly to be printed."
"Out of my line, I'm afraid," Mack declared.
A short globular man carrying a much worn black bag
burst briskly into the room. He glanced downward to the
floor. "What the devil happened to this fellow?"
"That's for you to find out, Doc," Mack grinned amia-
bly. He turned to Westborough. "You can go now."
The little man was watching the doctor with an obvious
interest. "Lieutenant Mack," he said, "I wonder if you re-
member my brother, James Westborough."
"Jim Westborough!" Mack exclaimed. "My God, yes!
He saved my bacon when I was framed in as dirty a deal
as was ever cooked up. I'll say I remember Jim Westbor-
ough! And he's your brother?"
"Was," the other corrected gravely.
Mack said slowly, "I heard about that. Angina pec-
toris, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"There'll be a lot of people miss him—but I haven't
time to talk about it now. Drop in at headquarters some
time, will you? I'd like to have a good chat with Jim West-
borough's brother."
"I shall be glad to. However, I should like first to ask a
favor of you tonight. This is the first murder case in


30
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
which I have been even remotely involved. I find it most in-
teresting. If I won't be too much in the way . . ."
"How about it, Terry?" Mack inquired of his asso-
ciate.
"If Westborough wants to stick around, let him stick.
I knew Jim Westborough myself."
Dr. Basil Hildreth straightened up and faced the
group.
"This is the damnedest way to kill a guy I ever met in
my life. Funny part of it is that the damn scheme worked.
It should have been a complete flop."
"What do you mean by that, Doc?" Mack asked.
"The symptoms all point to prussic acid poisoning:
signs of convulsions, fingers clenched, pupils dilated. But
there's no perceptible odor about the lips. There is on the
contrary an odor about the nostrils. If he didn't swallow
it, he must have breathed it."
"Well, what of it?"
"The prussic acid you buy is the two per cent aqueous
solution of the United States Pharmacopoeia—Acidwm
Hydrocyanicum DUutum. I never heard of anyone dying
from inhaling the fumes. I don't say it can't be done, mind
you, but I never heard of it."
The doctor bent to pick up one of the fragments of the
test tube, and Mack winked at O'Ryan.
"This is a different kind of prussic acid, Doc. This is
the An-something or other kind."
"Anhydrous?"
O'Ryan returned Mack's wink from behind the doctor's
back.
"Don't expect Doc to know what that means. He's
never been to college."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER / 31
"Anhydrous prussic acid would do it all right," the doc-
tor mumbled, plainly chagrined. He inspected the top of
the test tube with an air of detached indifference. "I sup-
pose someone put potassium cyanide with an acid in this
thing?"
"That's the way we've doped it out."
"Yes, the odor of bitter almonds still clings. There is
no doubt but what prussic acid was contained in this
tube.
"The fellow who engineered this job," the doctor con-
tinued, "took considerable of a chance unless he knew he
could count upon our fat friend bending down to see what
fell. The lethal concentration for prussic acid vapor is
rather high—it was probably one of the least efficient
gases used in the World War. There's a record of a fellow
who breathed air containing one part in two thousand for
a full one and a half minutes. Now carbon monoxide"
"Carbon monoxide," Mack declared emphatically, "has
got about as much to do with this as my aunt Harriet up
at Niles, Michigan."
"This is an interesting case in several ways," Dr. Hil-
dreth mused as though to himself. "Once the vapor got
into his lungs it would traverse the membranes by osmo-
sis."
"All right, Doc. But how does a fellow manage to get
hold of this cyanide?"
"Sodium or potassium?"
Mack grinned. "Either, as far as I'm concerned."
"Both of 'em have industrial uses, I believe," the doc-
tor replied, "but industrial chemistry's out of my line."
"What do you know about it, Larson? You seem to be
pretty well up on the subject."


32
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"The biggest use of sodium cyanide is in gold smelting.
However, I don't know of any gold smelters in Chicago,
so that won't help you much. Sodium cyanide is also
used in case-hardening steel. The mild steel is immersed
in a fused cyanide solution"
"Well, that's something," Mack interrupted. "There
are a few steel works. Anything else?"
"Potassium cyanide is used in silver and gold plating."
"Silver plating?" O'Ryan echoed. "There's a building
right in tins district that's lousy with silver platers."
Mack perked his head like a dog scenting the chase.
"That's a lead we can follow up." His cigar bobbed
thoughtfully at the side of his mouth. "Cyanide's also
used in photography, isn't it?"
"Yes, a number of photographers use it as an intensifier
solution. So do photo-engravers. You see, potassium cya-
nide is a very active solvent for all the silver halides . . ."
"You're getting too technical for me," Mack inter-
rupted. "I gather, though, that we can add both photogra-
phers and engravers to the list of places where the cyanide
might have come from?"
"Yes."
"This guy's been dead about an hour, I'd say," Dr.
Hildreth pronounced.
Larson consulted his watch. The hands showed a quar-
ter to twelve.
"That checks with the time he opened the door," Mack
declared. He winked again at O'Ryan. "I suppose, Doc,
you've got a dozen reasons why it was homicide and not
suicide?"
"I can't tell you from the medical evidence," Dr. Hil-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
38
dreth snapped. "Neither can anybody else. All I can say
is that if he did kill himself, he went to a hell of a lot of
trouble!"
"Reminds me of how they used to pull out my first teeth
by tying 'em to a door," O'Ryan commented jocularly.
"Maybe he figured that stunt would make it easier to get
into the next world."
"Want the stiff at the morgue, Doc?" Mack inquired.
"Sure, shoot him down there, and I'll do a post." He
snapped shut the catch of his bag. "There's not a thing
more I can tell you now, not a thing."
"O. K., Doc, and thanks. So long."
"So long," the doctor grunted on his way out of the
door.
Mack turned to O'Ryan.
"Now that Doc Hildreth's through, we can get down to
work. Let's turn this room over to Jimmy Selzer."
He went to the door and bellowed down the corridor; in
a few seconds, a spectacled youth carrying a camera and
its tripod base came into the room.
"Lot of work for you, Jimmy," Mack directed. "I want
some pix showing just where this guy fell and a close-up
showing how he's lying. Also I want you to go over every
likely spot in the room with your brush and mercury
powder. You should find Larson's and Westborough's
prints on the doorknob, so better take their impressions
now. Also get Swink's before we have him carted off to
the morgue."
"O. K., Johnny," Jimmy Selzer called cheerfully.
"We've got to get out of here while Jimmy does his
stuff," Mack told Larson. "Any vacant rooms in this cor-
ridor?"


M
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Why don't you gentlemen make use of my room?"
Westborough suggested.
"Good idea," Mack approved.
He and O'Ryan walked across the corridor followed
by the house detective. Larson and Westborough were
halted on the threshold by Jimmy Selzer.
"If you two are Larson and Westborough," he said, "I
have to take your fingerprints."
In a surprisingly short time both Larson and Westbor-
ough had been fingerprinted. As they walked into the lat-
ter's room across the corridor, the patrolman stationed at
the end of the corridor called.
"Man, two women, and a kid say they want to get to
their rooms. Names are Graham and Hammond. Ask Cap-
tain O'Ryan if it's all right, will you?"
Chris found O'Ryan and Mack conversing with Patrol-
man Phelan. He told O'Ryan what the policeman in the
corridor had said.
"Do they have rooms here?" O'Ryan asked.
"Yes," Chris replied. "The Grahams are next door to
Mr. Westborough and the Hammonds are across the
hall."
"Next door to Swink, huh?"
"Yes."
"Tell Clancy it's O. K. No, I'll take a look at them my-
self. I want to get Chilton up here anyway."
O'Ryan strode out of the door. "Sweet job this is go-
ing to be," Mack complained to Spanger. "We'll proba-
bly have to see everybody in the hotel. Wish we'd get one
of the swell breaks you read about—some way we could
localize the killer to this corridor, for instance."
*


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
80
Spanger crashed a fist against the palm of his other
hand.
"By God, Johnny, I may be able to help you at that.
Just remembered there's a kindergarten teacher living
down the south corridor by the name of Effie Colmar.
Homely kind of dame that will never see thirty-five again."
"Well, what of it?"
"This virgin, it seems, has a brother by the name of
Marcus. I guess she told me his name was Marcus. He
was going to take her out to dinner tonight, and she
wanted a good chin with him."
"I don't see that has"
"Wait a minute, Johnny, and you will. I gathered that
Mark lives out of town and Sister doesn't see him any too
often. She wanted to talk to him in her own room instead
of the lounge, so she comes to your uncle Jerry for per-
mission. It was time wasted, because I never would have
suspected anyone with a mug like hers anyhow."
"Come down to earth, Jerry. What's it all about?"
"Well, I told her sure, she could have her brother in her
room, but I suggested, to make everything aboveboard,
she "Spanger paused portentously, and Mack
snapped:
"She should leave the door open, I suppose!"
Spanger looked crestfallen at the anticipation of his
dramatic climax. "Yep, and that's just what she did. And
she or Mark must have been able to see everyone who
passed along the corridor on their way to the rooms in this
corridor."
"There's another corridor on the north, isn't there?"
Mack asked.
"Yes, but it's not used nearly as much. The elevator


36
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
shaft is off the south corridor, and it's the natural pas-
sageway to this part of the hotel."
"Can't help that. As long as anybody could have
sneaked through the north corridor, we'll still have to
quiz everyone in the hotel."
Chris Larson had a sudden inspiration. "The linen
room "he began, when he was interrupted by the re-
turn of O'Ryan with James Chilton in custody.
IV
Chilton looked the successful broker he purported to be
—if anything a shade too perfectly. He was tall and dig-
nified, his hair splashed with gray about the temples. His
tailored English tweed couldn't have cost less than a hun-
dred, and his heavy rep necktie had probably set him
back a five spot, Chris speculated.
Mack rose from his chair at Westborough's desk. "Sit
down here, Chilton." The chair he indicated directly faced
the desk lamp, and Chilton frowned.
"See here, I don't like third-degree methods. I'm not
legally required to answer any questions."
"He's right about that," Spanger put in. "You're go-
ing to have to be careful about the way you talk to our
guests, Johnny."
"Want me to wrap 'em up in cotton wool?" Mack
sneered. "All of you are going to find it wiser to co-
operate. Where's your home town, Chilton?"
Chilton crossed his legs with a slow and languid assur-
ance. "New York. I don't mind telling you that."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
87
"Oh, don't you? Well, what do you do in New York?"
Chilton stretched a hand toward the desk lamp and
tilted its shade. "I'm a broker. And I don't believe that a
light should glare. Do you?"
O'Ryan furiously rearranged the shade. "Yes," he
roared. "You let that lamp alone."
Chilton shrugged his shoulders. They were rather a
good pair of shoulders too, Chris Larson thought.
"My error."
"What's your firm?" Mack demanded.
"Crabb and Cunningham."
He gave the address, which Mack noted in his little
black book. Then:
"What 're you doing in Chicago, Chilton?"
"Business," Chilton replied sullenly. Mack's next ques-
tion was tinged with suspicion.
"What sort of business?"
"That concerns me and my firm."
"Maybe so." Mack relaxed in the manner of a fisher-
man allowing his victim more line. He went on in a silky
tone. "How long have you been staying here?"
"I registered Monday."
"Morning or afternoon?"
"Morning."
Mack counted on his fingers. "Four full days you've
been here." He shot out with sudden force. "How many
calls have you made in that time?"
Chilton uncrossed his legs and fumbled for a cigarette.
"None."
"None," Mack repeated sarcastically. "Four days and
not one call? Why not?"
"People are out of town," Chilton mumbled evasively.


38
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"And you didn't find that out before you left New
York?" Chilton was silent. "For a so-called big business
man you don't seem very efficient."
Chilton smouldered at the taunt. "It's none of your
business, but this is a combination business and pleasure
trip. I have plenty of time to wait for my customers."
"Why didn't you bring your wife along?" Mack in-
quired.
"He says he's on a pleasure trip," O'Ryan contributed
jovially.
Chilton flushed. "Again it's none of your business, but
I don't happen to be married."
"April's a funny month and Chicago's a funny town for
a vacation. That is, for a fellow from New York."
"I also came on business," Chilton reminded.
"An answer both ways. Convenient, isn't it?"
Chilton made no reply but shifted nervously in his seat.
Lieutenant Mack seemed to be getting under his guard,
Larson reflected. The night clerk couldn't help but ad-
mire the deftness with which the detective was conducting
this interview.
"Why don't you tell the truth, Chilton?" Mack sug-
gested. The broker rose indignantly to his feet.
"See here! I'm not going to be called a liar"
The pressure of O'Ryan's gigantic hand on his shoulder
forced him back to his chair.
"You're going to sit right there! See?"
Mack shifted his line of attack. "You knew Elmo
Swink?" Chilton nodded. "Very well?" Mack asked.
"It depends on what you mean by very well."
"Well, what do you mean?"
"I never saw him before I registered here."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
39
"How'd you get acquainted with him, then?"
"How do such things usually start?" Chilton tilted his
chair backward and recrossed his ankles. "I sat next to
him in the bar a couple of evenings ago. Strangers usually
start talking after they've poured down two or three
Scotch-and-sodas."
"Tried to sell you something, didn't he?"
Chilton glanced at the detective's face with grudging
admiration. "That's not a bad guess."
"No guess at all," Mack disclaimed. "You've been seen
with him a lot around the hotel during the last few days.
Either you were trying to sell him something, or he was
trying to sell you something."
"He was."
"Well, what was it?"
"A mine in Colorado—the Link of Gold."
"Did you bite?"
"I'm no sucker," Chilton declared vehemently. "There's
been considerable of a boom in Western mining lately, and
his proposition seemed like a good buy, but—the motto
of my firm is, 'Before you invest, investigate.'"
"The Link of Gold," Mack repeated, writing down the
name in the ubiquitous notebook. "Did Swink tell you
where it was located?"
"Near Georgetown."
"Swink strike you as being on the level?" Mack ques-
tioned, restoring the notebook to his pocket.
"He did—and I've been up against a lot of con men
too. I'm able to tell them pretty well by now."
"But you didn't commit yourself?"
"Don't be absurd. I wouldn't put in a cent without a
detailed report from my own agent."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
41
"Maybe twenty-five minutes."
"Then you left Swink's room about five minutes to
nine?"
"Yes."
"Who went out first—you or he?"
"I did, naturally."
"Did you see him lock his door?"
"It's a spring lock and doesn't require locking."
"But you heard the door close behind you?"
"Yes."
"Everything all right in Swink's room when you went
in?"
"As far as I could tell."
"Did you see a diamond stick pin lying on his dresser?"
"I think there was one—yes."
Mack had again produced his notebook and was jotting
down an abbreviated summary of the laconic conversa-
tion.
"Where'd you and Swink go after you left his room?"
"To the bar."
"And you stayed there with him the rest of the eve-
ning?"
"Yes. We didn't leave until nearly eleven."
"Then what did you do?"
"Went to our rooms."
"You left him in the west corridor?"
"Yes, my room's down at the other end."
"See anyone around when you said good-night?"
"Nobody."
"You didn't wait in the corridor until Swink had opened
his door?"


42
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"No, I went straight to my room and took off my coat.
Right after that I heard someone scream and rushed out.
There were a lot of people in the hall."
"Yes, I know." Mack dismissed the subject as of no
importance. "Did you leave Swink at any time while you
were in the bar?"
"Yes—a little after ten."
"Why?"
"I suppose I'd better tell you the truth," Chilton be-
gan hesitantly. "One of the rear suspender buttons on my
trousers popped off. So I slipped down into the washroom
in the basement and had the porter sew it on."
"How long were you gone?"
"About fifteen minutes."
"You didn't go back to your own room or up to the
third floor?"
"No."
"Sure of that?"
"Yes."
Mack terminated the interview.
"All right, Chilton. That's all we want to know tonight.
I'd advise you to stay in the hotel for the next few days,
though. Don't try to check out without seeing me first."
"You mean I'm under suspicion?" Chilton demanded
angrily.
"Everyone's under suspicion until we get this thing
cleared up," Mack said quietly, "you no more than any-
one else."
Chilton opened his mouth as though he would like to
say something, closed it again, and strode out of the room
without glancing behind him. Mack turned to O'Ryan.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
43
"How does that story strike you, Terry?"
O'Ryan pulled a paper from his pocket and scanned it
carefully.
"Phelan wants me to get him a transfer to the detec-
tive division, and I think I'm going to do it. I sent him
down to have a talk with the room clerk and see what he
could find out. Here's what he says." He began to read
from the notes.
"About eight-thirty, Swink, accompanied by Chilton,
asked for the key of his room and went to the elevator.
The elevator pilot stopped at the third floor and both men
got off. He picked them up again half an hour later and
both men were observed by the room clerk to go in the
direction of the bar. The bartender remembers that Chil-
ton excused himself from Swink and was gone a quarter
of an hour or so. He isn't quite sure of the time but thinks
it was sometime after ten. Both men left the bar again
shortly before eleven. Elevator men do not remember tak-
ing Chilton up alone at any time."
"That checks with what Chilton told us."
"Almost too well. Of course, there's one thing."
"What's that?"
"There are stairs leading up to the third floor. Chilton
wouldn't have to take the elevator."
"But nobody saw him walking up."
"Phelan didn't find anyone who did." O'Ryan heaved
a colossal sigh. "What do you think of his story, Johnny?"
Mack said slowly:
"The last part sounded better than the first."
"You think there's something fishy about him?"
"Figure it out for yourself. He's been here since Mon-


44
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
day—he came on business and he admits he hasn't done
any. I'm going to wire New York to get in touch with
Crabb and Cunningham."
O'Ryan looked at his watch.
"Any idea of how many people we've got to talk to,
Johnny?" he said somewhat crossly. "If you take as long
with everyone as you did with Chilton, we'll be on the job
till next Christmas."
"Maybe not," Mack said cheerfully, "Jerry Spanger
knows a kindergarten teacher who may save us a peck of
trouble."
He explained about Effie Colmar and the proprieties,
and O'Ryan grinned broadly.
"Thank God for one woman who's afraid of what the
old hens will say." His face grew sober again almost in-
stantly. "There's another corridor, however."
"Pardon me," Chris Larson interrupted, "but I thought
of something just before you brought Chilton in. The
linen room is on the north corridor, and our night house-
keeper, Miss Kriskrowski, spends two or three hours there
every evening making a check of supplies. She usually
leaves the door open too," he added.
O'Ryan's hamlike hand descended across Mack's shoul-
der in a slap that could have been heard at the opposite
end of the corridor.
"That's the ticket! Now we're beginning to get some-
where. Jerry, bring in your kindergarten teacher and
then we'll talk to Miss Criss-cross."
"Kriskrowski," Larson corrected.
"Well, whatever her name is."
Effie Colmar was, as Jerry Spanger had described her,
a spinster of about thirty-five, a trifle near-sighted and


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
47
polated, "and the brunette sounds like Mrs. Hammond."
"Oh, I forgot," Miss Colmar began in a rapid gush of
words. "In—just before the other party went out—two
men. One tall, handsome, with gray temples. He looked
just like a movie actor. The other was a fat, dumpy man,
not very attractive. Out—same two somewhere near nine
o'clock."
"Anyone else?"
"Yes, in—nine-thirty—imposing-looking dowager. I
know her—it's Mrs. Blakely. I can't say I exactly like
her, although she's been lovely to me. In—probably ten
o'clock—a little shriveled-up man with a face like a fox."
"That sounds like Mr. Devon," Chris Larson smiled.
"I forgot again. In—maybe fifteen minutes before Mr.
Devon—tall, lovely girl with striking bronze hair."
"And that's Miss Gant," Larson interrupted again.
Miss Colmar's brow wrinkled.
"Now that must be all. No, it isn't quite. I went to the
elevator with Marcus and said good-night to him there.
While we were waiting, an 'up' car stopped and two men
got off. Same two we'd seen before. The tall handsome
man and the fat dumpy one." She simpered. "I fear they
had both been looking upon the Vine while it is red in
the cup' or do people drink nothing but highballs now?
Anyway, my tall handsome man was helping my unpleas-
ant fat one along the corridor. In—maybe ten minutes to
eleven."
She stopped, finally out of breath, and Mack put in a
word or two.
"You're sure you saw nobody else, Miss Colmar?"
"Not another soul, take oath and hope to die!" She


48
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
raised her right hand kittenishly. "After Marcus left me
I had a hot shower and then went to bed. That's all I
knew until Mr. Spanger woke me up."
"You didn't hear a scream just after you left your
brother?"
"Was there a scream? No, I didn't hear it, but then I
was in the bathroom with the water running." She paused
again, and Mack asked:
"You didn't at any time see your tall handsome man
who looked like a movie actor go up or down the corridor
without his short dumpy friend, did you?"
"No, I'm sure he didn't."
"You sure you would have noticed him?"
"We were facing the door all the time. I didn't want to
be taken by surprise by the manager, even though I had
asked Mr. Spanger's permission."
She giggled again, and Mack made haste to say, "We
don't want to keep you up any longer, Miss Colmar.
You've helped us a lot."
"Have I really helped you? It's just too thrilling to be
a part of a real live murder case."
Jerry Spanger escorted her to the door and Mack gave
a disgusted shrug.
"There may be sillier dames, but I've never met one."
O'Ryan was consulting the list he had received from
Patrolman Phelan. "How does her dope check with yours,
Terry?"
"Tallies pretty close. Graham handed in his key at the
desk around eight-thirty and went out with his wife and
Mrs. Hammond. Westborough asked for his key about
seven-thirty. Mrs. Blakely, between nine and ten; Devon,
between ten and ten-thirty. No dope on Miss Gant." He


THE FIFTH TUMBLER 49
restored the list to his pocket. "Your girl friend didn't
see Chilton come back alone either."
"No." Mack was thoughtful. "If you want any help in
getting Phelan transferred to the detective division, I'm
your man, Terry. And now let's hear from Kriskrowski."
O'Ryan looked at him in admiration.
"I couldn't remember that name, Johnny. Not unless
I'd seen it in black and white."
Miss Kriskrowski was a large woman with flashing black
eyes and straight black hair strained back from the fore-
head. Her Slavic ancestry was apparent in every feature.
Her voice was hard, efficient, and metallic. She gave as
little information in response to a question as was con-
veniently possible, and it was at first difficult to draw her
out.
However, at the end of ten minutes Mack and O'Ryan
had elicited the following facts.
—That she had been working in the linen room from
eight forty-five until after eleven.
—That the door had been open during the entire time.
—That she would have noticed anybody who had passed
down the north corridor.
—That nobody had passed down the north corridor—
either "in" or "out"—with the exception of a chamber-
maid.
—That the chambermaid was in the west corridor about
nine o'clock as she was every evening.
—That she could and would give the chambermaid's
name (Mack's notebook was again requisitioned into serv-
ice), but that it would be of no use trying to talk to her
this evening because she went off duty at eleven o'clock.
—That hotel guests were the most unbelievable in-


50
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
grates on earth, that a great many towels were always
missing, and that nobody could credit the monstrous
things they did to sheets.
—That in spite of the extreme care lavished upon their
rooms, they could still find it in their hearts to complain.
Miss Kriskrowski was dismissed, and O'Ryan was jubi-
lant. With the advice and assistance of Larson and
Spanger, he constructed an improvised floor plan of the
third floor. Westborough was an attentive spectator to
this phase of the investigation, even going so far as to
make a copy of the diagram. "For my own reference,"
the little man explained apologetically.
The sketch completed, O'Ryan's big blunt forefinger
hovered directly between two wavering parallel lines
marked, "west corridor."
"The only people we need bother about, Johnny, are
right here. There are some vacant rooms, Larson says,
and that makes things easier. I'm going to have Phelan
and McCarter go through every room in this corridor.
They might find some of the cyanide or maybe find the
box the stuff was carried in."
"You can't start poking into people's rooms without a
warrant," Spanger protested.
O'Ryan gave him a friendly push into a chair. It was
meant for a friendly push, Larson believed, but Spanger
sat down—hard. "Be your age, Jerry," the police captain
advised.
"Swann won't like it," Spanger remonstrated, fussily
anxious to shield the hotel's guests from annoyance. Mack
left them arguing to go across the corridor and bawl for
Jimmy Selzer. The spectacled youth appeared at once.
"Any prints?" Mack inquired.


Fire
tSCQM
ALLEY
Fii-e
Escape
319
Devon/* H—
3»7
|Hammond
Li nan
Room
North Corridor
3)5
15 wink
Groham
-M-
311
Gant >
—H—
^ 312
oi °
West-
309
Larson/
borough
COURT
-r-t-
VacanV
'3IO
Blakely
i
308
Colmar
South Corridor
I 305
j Chilton
tBdsa
Vacant
FRONT ENTRANCE
Plan drawn from a sketch in the notebook of
Theocritus Lucius Westborough


62
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Selzer shook his head. "Only on the doorknob. I've used
the gray dust over nearly all the likely places, too. The
housekeeping staff here do a slick job of keeping things
clean."
"Whose prints were on the doorknob?"
"Swink's, Larson's, and Westborough's—all messed up
together. It was a tough job to make 'em out."
"Find any prints you couldn't identify?"
"Nope—just found those three."
"Stiff gone to the morgue?"
"Yep. Didn't you tell 'em to give it a ride?"
"Terry O'Ryan did." Mack concluded the conversa-
tion. "When you're through we'll move back in here. But
be sure to get pix of the prints on the doorknob."
"Already got 'em," the efficient Selzer answered.
Mack returned to Westborough's bedroom. O'Ryan had
won the argument with the house detective and assured
the homicide section lieutenant that Phelan and McCar-
ter were now at work.
"Searching their persons, too?" Mack inquired.
"Sure! Job's no good unless it's done thoroughly."
"Swann isn't going to like this at all," the discomfited
Spanger grumbled.
O'Ryan chuckled. "We should take orders from him."
"Just the same, you ought to have a warrant," Spanger
stubbornly maintained.
"What about searching the women?" Mack queried.
"You got to get a matron up here, Terry."
O'Ryan made a wry face and reached for the telephone.
"Now how the devil did that detail slip my mind?"
Mack seated himself at the writing desk, took a sheet
of notepaper from the drawer, and wrote eight names in


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
58
a large, bold chirography. Very slowly he made check
marks opposite the first three names on his list. Then he
folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.
"No guy can do a job like this without leaving back
tracks," he declared, rising to his feet. "People remem-
ber and people talk." He reached for a packet of matches
and relit his cigar. "If we have luck with just one lead,
we've got our man. And we have three leads."
"The cyanide's one," O'Ryan averred.
"Yep," Mack agreed, "that's number one. He had to
get it somewhere. There seem to be a lot of likely places
—steel works, silver-plating plants, engravers, photogra-
phers, photographer's supply houses—but it's just a mat-
ter of routine to run 'em down one by one."
"Then there's the acid," O'Ryan suggested.
"That's harder. Larson says almost any acid might
have been used. He thinks sulphuric, but he won't swear
to it. And even if it was sulphuric, that doesn't help much
because that stuff is used damn near everywhere. How-
ever, it's a lead."
"What's your third?"
"The test tube," Mack proclaimed. "You buy those
things at chemical supply houses, and there aren't so
many of those, are there, Larson?"
"Probably more than you think."
"Anyway," Mack went on, "it shouldn't be an impossi-
ble job to run it down. We might get pix of everyone in
this corridor, and go call on supply houses with 'em. Then
if we got an identification"
"I've got a hunch, Johnny," O'Ryan interrupted. What
his hunch was nobody ever learned, for at that moment
Patrolman Phelan burst excitedly into the room.


64, THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Chief, I've found out where your test tube came
from!"
V
"The hell you say!" O'Ryan shouted. "Where?"
"Remember the family that got in around midnight?
Had a kid about eleven years old."
"Sure I place 'em. Mr. and Mrs. Ronald E. Graham.
Another woman, Mrs. Hammond, was with them."
Phelan nodded.
"That's the party. The Graham kid—he's called Ced-
ric, the poor little devil—is bugs on chemistry, and his
folks bought him a set. It's a big cardboard box with a
lot of tubes and jars and bottles in it."
O'Ryan grinned understandingly.
"I know what you mean. My own youngster wants me
to get him one."
"Well, it seems the kid got into some sort of trouble
with the set," Phelan went on. "Made the damnedest stink-
ing stuff you ever heard of, and his folks took it away
from him and locked it up in a closet, way on the top shelf.
Me and McCarter were going through the room and we
found it—one of the glass tubes that you use for mixing
up the chemicals is gone!"
"Kid might have broken it," O'Ryan speculated.
"He says he didn't. Swears the set was O.K. when his
folks took it away from him."
O'Ryan sprang toward the door.
"Come on, Johnny. We're going to look into this."
Chris had seen Mr. Graham several times before and


THE FIFTH TUMBLER 55
had liked the man from the first. He was nearly as tall as
the big O'Ryan, but was far from being as broad. He had
a lean bronzed face, light hair and a light mustache,
and a lantern jaw. By that curious law which seems
to insure the attraction of opposites, Mrs. Graham wasn't
much over five feet: a little blonde with wide blue eyes.
She didn't look a day over twenty-two, but her son, Cedric,
at least eleven, gave the lie to her appearance. Cedric,
who resembled neither parent, was a thin, somewhat nerv-
ous youngster with an air of bored detachment, obviously
assumed as a mask in the presence of adults.
"Come in," Graham invited cordially. "Captain
O'Ryan, isn't it? I've seen your name often in the papers,
but I never imagined I'd have the honor of meeting you
face to face."
"I could name a lot of folks who don't call it no honor,"
O'Ryan chuckled.
"Won't you sit down?" Mrs. Graham invited, bustling
about hospitably. "Cedric, run into the bedroom and
bring another chair. That's the worst part of living in a
hotel," she apologized. "I do hope we will be able to find
a real home again soon."
"Never mind, ma'am," O'Ryan expostulated. "Where's
that chemistry set of your son's?"
"On the table."
O'Ryan lifted the gaudy lithographed lid of a card-
board box labeled "Magic Marvels of Chemistry." Strips
of elastic held in place various bottles, phials, and short
wooden cylinders. A wooden rack in the center held sev-
eral test tubes, some empty, others containing various
chemicals. There was a conspicuous vacant space in the
middle of the rack.


56
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Mack selected one of the test tubes and held it between
his thumb and forefinger. "Same kind all right," he pro-
nounced. As his eyes ranged over the names printed on
the bottles, he whistled sharply.
O'Ryan peered over his shoulder. "What do you see,
Johnny?" Mack pointed to a label on one of the bottles.
Larson leaned forward to read, "Sulphuric Acid—Very
Dangerous." He compared the other bottles and their
labels, then said slowly, "There's something wrong about
this. I didn't think a manufacturer would put anything
like sulphuric in the hands of kids. And I was right. This
bottle doesn't belong with the set. It's a different kind,
for one thing, and the label is hand lettered and not
printed."
"Neat job of lettering, though," Mack commented. He
turned to Graham. "Seems to me you have some explain-
ing to do."
"Papa bought it," Cedric chimed in. "I asked him to
and he did. Didn't you, Papa?"
"Is that right, Graham?"
"Yes, Cedric wanted to make some experiments that
called for this stuff. I didn't want to let him have it, but
he teased so that we finally compromised. I bought the
bottle and put him on his honor never to open it unless I
was there to supervise the operation."
"I never did either," Cedric piped in a shrill soprano.
"I begged him not to get it," Mrs. Graham lamented.
"It's dangerous, isn't it, Mr. Larson?"
"Yes," Chris said, "particularly so in the concentrated
form. It has a very powerful attraction for water, which
causes it to char organic tissues. A single drop could re-
sult in a severe burn."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
57
Mrs. Graham addressed her husband firmly.
"You'll have to throw that stuff out right away, Ron-
ald. I'm not going to have it around here another min-
ute."
"A fair amount's been used," Mack observed. "What
did you want stuff like this for, sonny?"
"It dissolves iron and frees hydrogen," the boy ex-
plained in an eager torrent of words. "I wanted to make
hydrogen, and Papa helped me."
"Your son has what it takes to be a chemist all right,"
Larson smiled at Mrs. Graham.
"Will it do that, Larson?" Mack inquired.
"Cedric's perfectly correct about that experiment."
Graham chuckled. "Cedric and I had ourselves a big
time one Saturday afternoon while his mother was at a
bridge party. We put some iron filings in the bottom of a
test tube and added just enough of the stuff to cover 'em.
Pretty soon the filings began to melt away and the gas
started bubbling through the acid. Then we touched a
match to it and got a pale blue flame."
"How long ago was all this?" Mack asked.
"About a month ago," Mrs. Graham put in. "I remem-
ber because it was the day of Ethel's party, and that was
on the sixteenth."
"Where'd you buy the acid?" asked Mack abruptly.
Graham told him, and Mack made another entry in the in-
evitable notebook. Then he asked Larson. "How long has
Swink been in this hotel?"
"About two weeks."
"That's right," Jerry Spanger confirmed. "I took par-
ticular note of the day he moved in because he looked
like some sort of bunco-steerer to me."


68
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"How well did you people know Swink?" Mack in-
quired of the Grahams.
"Know him?" Graham echoed. "We've scarcely seen
the fellow."
"Was he that fat man across the hall?" Mrs. Graham
asked. "He nodded good-morning to me once."
"Do you wear hairpins, Mrs. Graham?" Mack inter-
rogated.
Luella Graham started. "Why, of course."
"I'd like to have one of 'em."
With a perplexed expression on her face, Mrs. Graham
stretched a soft, plump hand to her hair. Larson noted
her nails were stained a vivid crimson.
"I can't imagine why on earth you want it, but it's
yours."
Mack scrutinized the hairpin with absorbed attention.
"Graham, a guy was murdered across the hall this eve-
ning," he began curtly. "Someone made some poison gas in
a test tube and hung it over his door. The test tube was
just like these in your son's set and there's one of those
missing. Sulphuric acid might have been used to make the
gas. You've got some here. A wire hairpin was used to
hook the test tube over the door—and your wife wears the
same kind. I want the truth from you, Graham," he de-
manded sternly. "Where were you tonight?"
"I don't like your tone," Graham barked, his jaw set-
ting in a grim line. "I think still less of your methods,
and I refuse to be bullied by either."
"You'll answer my question," Mack blustered, "or
I'll"
Westborough, who had been an eagerly interested spec-
tator ever since he had been granted permission to watch


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
59
the investigation, had up to this minute contributed noth-
ing to the discussion. Now he interrupted to break the
tension.
"I don't think your case can be solved so easily, Lieu-
tenant Mack. You see everyone rooming off this corridor
had been unpleasantly reminded that Cedric owned a
chemical set."
"I'll say they were!" Jerry Spanger chortled. "We had
one sweet time."
"What happened?" asked Mack, his eyes remaining
upon Graham.
"Well, the kid came home from school, his mother was
out, and he got down his chemical set to play with. Pretty
soon he had stirred up the stinkingest mess you've ever
smelt—like ten thousand eggs that had been rotting since
the year one. Then he ran up and down the corridor, pop-
ping in wherever anyone happened to be home to let them
smell it." Spanger chuckled. "Seems like that damn rot-
ten egg stink hung on for hours. You never smelt any-
thing so terrible."
"It was hydrogen sulphide," Cedric told him. "It did
smell, I guess."
"Gracious, I was afraid we were all going to be asked
to leave the hotel," Mrs. Graham broke in. "I locked Ced-
ric's chemical set in the closet, and he hasn't been allowed
to play with it since."
"I don't care," Cedric announced sulkily. "Rotten old
set isn't good for anything but a lot of baby tricks. When
I grow up, I'm going to get me a real laboratory, and I'll
make anything I want to then, you bet."
"How do you make hydrogen sulphide?" Mack in-
quired.


60
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Any sulphide will give it when acted upon by a dilute
acid," Larson replied. "Just add some hydrochloric acid
to ferrous sulphide, for instance, and you'll get your rot-
ten egg smell."
"I didn't have any hydrochloric acid," Cedric in-
formed. "I dissolved sodium thiosulphate in water and
added ferric sulphide. It worked, too."
"It sure did," Spanger confirmed.
"And everybody on the floor knew about this?" Mack
questioned.
"I didn't hear 'em talk about much else for the next
two days. A fellow would have to be blind, deaf, dumb,
and then have his smeller amputated not to know what
the kid had been up to."
Mack's manner toward Graham underwent a visible al-
teration. "I don't mind telling you that if everyone on the
floor knew your son had the chemical set, it does make the
case look a bit different."
Graham said, "You asked me what we did tonight. Mrs.
Graham and I took Cedric to a movie—afterwards we all
stopped for a bite to eat. Mrs. Hammond was with us."
"Where was her husband?" O'Kyan asked.
"He had a headache or something."
"He's away most of the time," Mrs. Graham put in,
"and Mr. Graham and I have sort of made it a habit to
ask Norah to go with us whenever we go to a show. I'd
forgotten that Fred'd be home tonight, or we wouldn't
have asked her. Of course, she didn't have to go with us,
but Fred acted kind of funny—practically insisted that
she should go without him."
"What time'd you leave?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
61
"Rather early," Graham replied. "I didn't look at the
time."
"I did," Mrs. Graham confessed. "It was just eight-
thirty by the clock in the lobby."
"What'd you do with the key to your room?" Mack
wanted to know. "Take it with you?"
"No, Mr. Graham turned it in at the desk. We always
do that when we go out."
"There are three of you," Mack reminded. "Don't you
have more than one key?"
Graham shook his head. "I suppose we could get an-
other, but we don't really need it."
"That means your one and only room key was down at
the desk from eight thirty until—what time'd you get
back?"
"About a quarter to twelve."
"That's a long time to spend at a movie."
"It was a long show. We went down to the Loop—
United Artists, if you want to know where. Then we had
something to eat, and"
"Good show?"
"Mr. Graham certainly thought it was," Mrs. Graham
informed. "He couldn't talk of anything else all the way
home. It was a gangster picture. I don't think so much of
them."
"There was lots of shooting," Cedric volunteered. "The
gangsters had the two G men all tied up and were going
to turn a machine gun on them, but the third G man came
in from the window and"
"Mrs. Hammond like it?" Mack interrupted.
"Norah was rather quiet all evening," Mrs. Graham


62
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
replied thoughtfully. "She seemed worried about some-
thing—Fred, I suppose."
"Humph!" Mack's exclamation might have stood for
nearly anything. "You told me, Mrs. Graham, that you
locked this set in the closet when you took it away from
your boy."
"Was the closet door locked while you were gone?"
"No, we unlocked it to get our hats and coats and
didn't lock it again."
"It's unlocked most of the time," Cedric contributed.
"Mama never can remember to lock it."
Mrs. Graham darted an angry glance at her offspring.
"Cedric, if you've been taking advantage of me"
"Cedric wouldn't do that," Mack cut in. "Are you
pretty good at remembering things, Cedric?"
"Pretty good."
Mack held up the sulphuric acid bottle. "Has any of
this gone since you and your father experimented with
Cedric wrinkled his small forehead in intense concen-
tration. "Gosh, I can't remember! I don't believe Papa
and I left any more than that in the bottle."
"Cedric, did you tell anyone else in the hotel about this
bottle of acid?" Westborough inquired excitedly.
"I don't think so," the boy replied after some delibera-
tion.
"Did you?" Westborough asked of Graham.
"I don't remember talking about it."
"And you, Mrs. Graham?"
"Let me think. Yes, I might've mentioned it to Mrs.
Hammond."
Yes."
it?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
63
"What're you driving at, Mr. Westborough?" Mack
asked.
"Don't you see?" Westborough exclaimed with a nerv-
ous agitation. "The murderer undoubtedly knew that he
could secure this tube from the boy's chemical set. But
there is a strong probability that he didn't know about
the sulphuric acid, since it is not usually included with
sets of this character. Therefore"
"I get it," Mack snapped. "He had to have some acid
of his own before he came in here."
"Well, if that's the case, it's in some room off this cor-
ridor," O'Ryan was prompt to declare. "We know that
he didn't leave the corridor afterwards."
"I think," Westborough pronounced gravely, "that
you have hit the nail squarely on the head."
VI
Back once more in the room which Elmo Swink had
occupied, Mack declaimed, "I want more facts before I
start putting two and two together. Let's talk to Mrs.
Blakely. She was the first to find the body, and we haven't
got her story yet."
"You'll get plenty of facts from her," Spanger snick-
ered. "That hen's the biggest gossip in the hotel—and
that's saying something."
"Well, have her in," Mack directed. O'Ryan bellowed
instructions to his henchmen. "The more she gossips, the
more dope we'll get. An old girl like that has a lot of
uses when it comes to finding out things about her neigh-
bors/


64
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
That inert figure had been removed from the floor at
last, Chris Larson noted. Someone, undoubtedly the dili-
gent Jimmy Selzer, had gathered up the shattered frag-
ments of the test tube and laid them upon the writing
desk. Larson examined them with fresh interest. Unques-
tionably, he decided, the unbroken tube would have been
of the size and shape of those found in the rack of Cedric
Graham's chemical set. He inspected the sludge clinging
to the bottom portion of the tube. Transparent crystals
had formed at the edges.
"Are you going to have this analyzed?"
"I suppose so. Why?"
"If you find out what salt this is, you'll know whether
sodium or potassium cyanide was used and also what
acid."
Mack's mind was plainly intent along another trend
of thought. "You know, Larson, people are a lot Uke your
chemicals. You mix 'em up together in a test tube—that's
this hotel—there's what you call a reaction, and somebody
gets killed. Now I've been thinking—what do you call the
things that make the fireworks start but don't take any
part in it themselves?"
"Catalysts?" Chris volunteered.
"That sounds like it. Well, I've a hunch our old dame
may turn out to be one of those. We'll get her to talking,
and things will start happening. Although I can't see how
she could have had a damn thing to do with putting the
tube over Swink's door herself."
"Hire a hall," O'Ryan advised.
"Jerry says she's a gossip," Mack went on, ignoring
the gibe. "An old dame like that with nothing to do but
watch her neighbors! Why, I'll bet she can tell us every-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
65
thing about everybody in this corridor—even what the
'E' stands for in Graham's middle name."
"I'll take that bet," O'Ryan offered quickly. "Want to
make it half a buck?"
Westborough was looking absent-mindedly out of the
window.
"Dear me, it has started to rain again!"
Dressed in a clinging black gown which enhanced the
opulence of her ample bosom, Sarah Blakely swept in the
room like a magnificent ocean liner. Her little gray eyes,
surveying the world through a large pair of horn-rimmed
spectacles, were inquisitive and prying. Her nose was
built along the architecture of an eagle's beak, and her
lips were thin and uncompromising. Little folds of skin
hung from her thick and flabby neck.
Her voice was harsh and belligerent.
"I've sat up for hours past my bedtime waiting for you
to call me. I'm a law-abiding woman, and I want to tell
the police everything I know."
"That's the right spirit!" Mack exclaimed with pre-
tended heartiness. "Mrs. Blakely, I understand that you
were the first to discover what had happened to Mr.
Swink."
Sarah Blakely swelled visibly at this tribute to her im-
portance. "I certainly did, Officer—I don't know your
name."
"I'm Lieutenant Mack." He completed belated intro-
ductions. "This is Captain O'Ryan. I suppose you know
Mr. Spanger and Mr. Larson and Mr. Westborough?"
"Yes, good-evening," Sarah Blakely acknowledged
shortly, obviously feeling that these gentry were not


66
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
worth her time. She seated herself in a chair, arranging
her skirt with careful deliberation, while her small gray
eyes dissected each separate feature of the room.
"Thank goodness, you've got rid of him! A lot of peo-
ple tell me I'm psychic. I don't know whether that's true
or not, although I think probably I am, but I do know
I'd never be able to sleep again if I had to sit in the same
room with a corpse." Her stout body shivered. "I never
shirked a duty yet, and I don't intend to now. What do
you want to know first, Captain Mack? Or are you Lieu-
tenant O'Ryan?"
"Lieutenant Mack," the detective corrected. "Begin at
the beginning, Mrs. Blakely, and tell us about this eve-
ning any way you want to."
"I went to my own room early," Mrs. Blakely declared
positively. "I had a headache, have them often lately,
must be these glasses. I told the oculist they ought to be
changed the last time he examined my eyes, but he said
it wasn't necessary. If you ask me, he's one of these con-
ceited and opinionated little men who simply won't take
advice. I ought to know how my own eyes feel, shouldn't
I?"
"What time was it when you went to your room?"
Mack interrupted.
"Well, it was some time after nine o'clock, but I don't
think it was as late as ten. It must have been after nine
o'clock, though, because I was talking to Esther Hat-
teras, who lives on the fifth floor—you know Mrs. Hat-
teras, don't you, Mr. Westborough? I said to her, 'Gra-
cious, it's nine o'clock already—I don't know where time
flies to. Seems like a body just can't start to do anything
nowadays but what it's time to do something else.' And


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
67
she said that was true. My poor George always used to
"Can't you make a closer guess than between nine and
ten?" Mack inquired, attempting to switch the conversa-
tion away from "poor George." But it was a futile
attempt.
"George, that's my late husband, you know, he died
three years ago, the poor fellow! Well, George had a say-
ing, 'Time was made for slaves.' He ought to know, I
guess, for if ever a man slaved at his work, George did.
I used to tell him, 'You'll kill yourself if you keep it up,'
and he told me, 'Sarah, when I go, I'd rather die in har-
ness.' He might be alive now if he'd taken my advice. But
George always was a stubborn man. I had a regular bat-
tle every year trying to get him to put on his winter
underwear."
"I bet you did," Mack said conciliatingly, "but, Mrs.
Blakely, we were talking about the time you went to your
room."
"I declare it must have been after nine-thirty," the
lady cogitated, "because Esther and I were in the lobby,
and who should step out of the elevator but Mrs. Whip-
pet. She has a Scotch terrier—one of those black, shaggy
dogs with pointed ears—she takes out every night. It's
always at nine-thirty—I've remarked on it several times."
Mack shuffled impatiently—probably annoyed at his
imprudence in having given Mrs. Blakely a free hand,
Larson decided.
"Then you didn't go to your room until after nine-
thirty?"
"It couldn't have been much after nine-thirty, because
I got on the same elevator that Mrs. Whippet came down


68
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
in. I remember now because just before I had said to
Esther"
"When did you hear Mr. Swink walking down the
hall?" Mack made haste to put in.
"Now let me see. I don't know what time that was.
After I got to my own room, I went to bed right away, or
nearly right away."
"How did you know it was Swink you heard walking
down the corridor?" Mack questioned.
"He walks with a heavier tread than anyone else. He
should have dieted, I think. I put George on an eighteen-
day diet at one time. He grumbled a lot about it, but I
insisted that he stick to it, and he lost twenty pounds in
two weeks. Well, as I was saying, Mr. Swink walks heavier
than anyone else, and he stumbled around so I could tell
he had had too much to drink. I must say I was disap-
pointed in him, because I never thought he was a drinking
man. Poor George liked an occasional glass of wine, but
we never had anything stronger around the house,
wouldn't have for anything—well, anyway, after I heard
Mr. Swink I thought it wouldn't hurt to put my dressing
gown on and take a look out in the hall. He might be in
trouble, and a friendly hand never comes amiss, if I do
say it. 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto
you' is a motto that I've always tried to live up to. 'Sarah,
you're the most perfect practicing Christian I've ever
known,' George used to say to me."
"Did you see Swink in the hall?" Mack asked.
"He was fumbling at the keyhole, and I must say that
he was having a time of it. I stood in my doorway and
watched him. Finally he got the door unlocked, and then,
as he started to open it, I heard something fall. It sounded


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
69
like glass breaking, and I thought, 'Mercy me! Is Mr.
Swink carrying a bottle to bed with him?' He didn't try
to close the door again, and I thought that was funny.
Then I heard a thump, and I thought, 'Oh my goodness,
Mr. Swink has had a stroke, I better go and see what I
can do for him.' So I went across the hall and looked in
through the door. Mr. Swink hadn't got around to turn-
ing on his light, but the light in the corridor was on, and I
could see plainly into his room. He was lying there all
doubled up, and you never saw such a sight in your life.
Someone had deliberately ripped up his carpet and folded
it back away from the door—an act of pure vandalism
I'd call it. There were pieces of broken glass on the floor,
and right then and there I knew something was wrong.
My friends all say I'm psychic; anyway, I knew just as
plainly as I know that you're sitting across from me now,
Captain Mack, that Mr. Swink was dead. There was a
funny smell, too. Then I knew somebody had murdered
Mr. Swink, and I screamed. Mr. Hammond came running
out of his room, and the Gant girl out of hers, and Mr.
Westborough, and Mr. Larson. Yes, and Mr. Devon, too.
Mr. Larson went in right away and opened the window.
Then he said we'd better all go back to our rooms."
"How'd you know Swink had been murdered?" Mack
demanded brusquely.
"I just sensed it, that's all! I can't tell you how I knew
it, but it was as plain as the nose on your face—no offense
intended, Captain Mack."
Mack fingered a rather prominent protuberance while
O'Ryan roared.
"She's right about that beak of yours, Johnny."
The homicide squad lieutenant hastily changed the sub-


70
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
ject. "Did you know the dead man personally, Mrs.
Blakely?"
"Well, I can't say I knew him very well, and, on the
other hand, I certainly can't say that I didn't know him.
He was very nice to me the other day. I had seen Mr.
Swink coming in and out of his room several times, and
I knew who he was when he came up to me in the lobby
and said to me, 'Good-afternoon, madam, lovely weather,
we're having, isn't it?' I said, 'I can't say that it is, be-
cause it's rained every day this month and will probably
rain tomorrow as well.' And he smiled and said, 'That's
what I mean.' Then we laughed, and he said, 'I really
must introduce myself, since I am a new neighbor of
yours. My name is Swink.' I told him who I was, and he
said, 'Not Mrs. George Blakely?' and I said, 'Yes, George
was my husband,' and he answered, 'Why, I used to know
George well. One of the best fellows on earth. Only
imagine meeting his wife under such circumstances.' And
I said, 'Yes, the world is a small place, isn't it?' And he
laughed and said, 'My dear Mrs. Blakely, you really must
do me the honor of allowing me to take you to luncheon.'
So we had lunch in the dining room, and I must say that
Mr. Swink knew how to do things. Even better than
George, who was rather awkward in public sometimes, as
I used to tell him. Only I was quite surprised tonight to
hear Mr. Swink coming in under the influence of alcohol.
Because he told me at lunch that he had no use for it in
any form. Oh well, we never really know the truth about
anyone, I guess."
"Did he talk about a gold mine?" Mack probed. His
informant waved her hands forward in surprise.
"Now how on earth did you know that? It's out in Colo-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
71
rado at a place called Georgetown. Isn't that a coinci-
dence? As I said to Mr. Swink, 'Wouldn't it be a wonder-
ful monument to George to invest his money in a town
that bears his name?' Of course the money wouldn't be
invested in the town; it would be in the mine, and that's
called something else. Bobolink of Gold, I think, or is it
just plain Link? Well, anyway, the principle would be
the same whether it's the mine or the town, as I said to
Mr. Swink."
"Did you sign on the dotted line?" Mack wanted to
know.
"No, I didn't. As I said to Mr. Swink, 'My poor dear
George was always of the opinion that I had to be looked
after when he died, although I must say that when it came
to matters of common sense I always got along better than
he did, if I do say it. So George left his money tied up in
trust, and I get an allowance and nothing else. Of course,
if I want to change the investments I can, but I have to
get the consent of George's lawyer, and he is inclined to
be very unreasonable. Why, one time when I went to him
he listened to me as solemnly as a judge until I got clear
through, and then he said, laughing, 'My dear Mrs.
Blakely. My respect for your husband's good judgment
grows enormously every time you visit me.' Well, that's
what I told Mr. Swink, and he didn't seem to like it very
well. Said he didn't want to say a word against my lawyer
but that a lot of them were conservative old fogies, and
the depression proved that they weren't even able to hang
on to money after they got it. Well, after lunch he told
me how much he'd enjoyed meeting George's wife, and I
told him it was certainly mutual. But I must say that I
didn't see much of him after that."


72
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Do you know if Mr. Swink had any enemies in this
hotel?" Mack cross-questioned.
"I can't say that he had exactly. Of course, Mr. Ham-
mond probably didn't like him, and the Gant girl pre-
tended she didn't either after she got caught with him in
her own room."
"What?"
"That's a lie!" Chris Larson flamed.
"Larson, you are addressing a guest of this hotel,"
Spanger said quietly. The night clerk, his face a vivid,
angry pink, stood motionless for a dramatic second.
Finally:
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Blakely," he apologized.
"I must say, young man, that if you go around calling
many more people liars, you won't have your position
long. I always understood that politeness was one of the
first requirements for a hotel employee. I'm not going to
complain to Mr. Swann this time"
"I appreciate that, Mrs. Blakely." (Fat old sow, I'd
like to choke her. This old harridan can throw her filth
at Yvonne Gant to her heart's content, and I can't stop
her. Yes, there is such a thing as slander, I suppose. If
she goes too far, I'll warn her, job or no job.)
"Now we seem to be getting somewhere," Mack
drawled. "Why didn't Hammond like Swink?"
Larson recalled Mack's prediction that Mrs. Blakely
would serve as the catalyst in this human ferment and
paid tribute to the detective's powers of divination. He
watched the worthy lady vent a loud sniff and righteously
fold her hands across her black gown. "Like a pious vul-
ture," he thought. "Or perhaps a praying mantis. That


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
78
insect," he reflected, "is in the habit of devouring her
marital partner."
Mack repeated, "Why didn't Hammond like Swink?"
and Sarah Blakely sniffed again.
"I don't know that he didn't. Mr. Hammond may be as
blind as a bat for all I know. But I always say that if a
man can't see what's going on right under his nose, he
deserves to be taken in by a woman."
"What was going on?" Mack continued to probe.
"If ever a woman flirted right out in the open with a
man that woman was Norah Hammond! And if ever a
man was flirted with, that man was Mr. Swink! The way
she smiled at him she might just as well have come right
out in the open and said, 'I'd certainly like to get better
acquainted with you, mister. My husband's away most
of the time, and I get so lonely.'"
Mrs. Blakely's sarcastic attempt to mimic the inflec-
tions of the younger woman's voice was ludicrous, Larson
thought, and a trifle disgusting. He put in quickly, "Mrs.
Hammond smiles at nearly everybody she meets. She is
Irish and a very friendly person."
"Irish, is she?" O'Ryan grunted approvingly. "That's
to her credit."
"Humph!" Mrs. Blakely bridled. "I don't like her style
myself. Maybe she does smile at everyone—a woman like
that has no discrimination—but the way she smiled at
Mr. Swink was entirely different from the way she smiles
at everyone else, as I said to Esther Hatteras this after-
noon. No sooner had I got through saying it than I
looked up and who should I see but Mr. Hammond. Well,
you could have knocked me down with a feather! Talk
of your coincidences!"


74
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Did Hammond hear you gossiping?" Mack wanted
to know.
"An exchange of confidences is not gossip," Mrs.
Blakely replied testily. "I don't know whether Mr. Ham-
mond heard us or not. If he did, he didn't say anything.
But then he naturally wouldn't. No man likes to learn
that his wife is making a fool of him behind his back.
'Mr. Hammond ought to stay home more and look after
her,' I said to Esther. 'Satan always finds mischief for idle
hands,' I said."
"If there's anything really wrong, it's my job to do
something about it," Spanger remarked. "Did you actu-
ally see Mr. Swink come out of Mrs. Hammond's room?"
"Not her room," Sarah Blakely emphasized senten-
tiously. Larson hastened to suggest:
"You didn't really see any definite evidence of an affair
between Mrs. Hammond and Mr. Swink, did you?"
"If you mean actual black-and-white evidence that you
can swear by and take to court, no," Mrs. Blakely de-
clared. "But there was a whole lot more going on than
was apparent on the surface. My friends say I'm
psychic"
"Is Hammond a traveling man?" Mack interrupted.
"Yes, he's on the road—I guess that's the way they put
it—for some silk hosiery company. No-Runno or some-
thing like that, they're called. Mr. Hammond is away most
of the time, but he usually gets in on a Friday and stays
here over the week-end. That's why I was so surprised to
see him this afternoon. I don't ever remember that he
came in on a Thursday before. And he always goes out
real early on Monday morning."
Mack continued to prime the pump. "You're pretty


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
78
well acquainted with your neighbors in this corridor,
aren't you, Mrs. Blakely?"
"I think it's my Christian duty to be neighborly. Al-
though I must say there's some of them that don't feel
the same way about it. Now, Mr. Westborough is a nice
quiet, friendly little man, and Mr. Devon is real cheerful,
but that Mrs. Graham is a regular iceberg. I simply won't
speak to her any more. She paints her fingernails red, too,
just like a heathen that doesn't know any better. As I
said to Esther Hatteras, 'If the Lord had wanted us to
have red fingernails, He'd have given 'em to us. It isn't
Christian for us to go against His will.'"
"What does Mr. Graham do for a living?" Mack
catechized.
Sarah Blakely sniffed again. "He's an artist. He has
a studio down in the Loop. He calls it an office and says
he's a commercial artist to make it sound more respect-
able, I suppose. You can't tell me, though, that he doesn't
have models in there just the same. And how Mrs. Graham
can stand for her husband painting a lot of shameless
nude hussies is more than I can see."
"Graham specializes in mechanically accurate pen-and-
ink drawings of machinery," Westborough volunteered
timidly.
"Humph!" Sarah Blakely snorted. "Whoever heard of
an artist that didn't draw nude women? And how he
makes a living at it is more than I can see. It must cost
a lot for the three of them to keep an apartment in this
hotel. Of course it isn't much of an apartment—just two
rooms and a kitchenette—but for the same money they
could get a nice house in the suburbs. And it would be
much better for them, too. It's shameful to keep that boy


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
77
his pocket. "I owe you four bits, Johnny." Mack pocketed
the money carelessly.
"What do you think of Mr. Devon?" he continued.
"I don't know him very well. He always seems pleas-
ant, although he does use rather peculiar language now
and then, I've noticed, and makes mistakes in his gram-
mar. But it's not everybody who can have a college edu-
cation, and thank goodness I'm no snob. 'Live and let live'
is my motto." She pointed the sentiment with an appro-
priate pause and then continued, "I believe he sells
vacuum cleaners."
"He does," Spanger confirmed. "I checked that up the
day after he'd registered. Devon didn't look quite right
to me, but as far as I can make out he's on the level.
Travels light, but he pays his bill in advance, and that's
all the hotel can ask."
Mack wrote again in his notebook. "Mrs. Blakely, we
appreciate your help. Now tell me what you know about
Miss Gant."
"Humph!" Sarah Blakely sniffed again. "I was won-
dering if you were going to ask about her. She used to
have a roommate, but the roommate moved out on her last
Sunday and left her with the whole week's hotel bill to
pay. I don't think she could do it, or if she did she had a
hard time of it. Though why she wants to live beyond her
means is more than I can see. I know it sounds big to be
able to tell everybody, 'I'm staying at the Equable,' but
if I were a stenographer and making a stenographer's
salary, I would certainly hunt myself a more inexpensive
boarding place. One of these clubs for girls would be a
deal more suitable, I believe, only of course they wouldn't
allow her to have men in her room."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
79
Mack put in quietly, "Did you see Miss Gant open her
door and find Swink, or did she tell you about that after-
wards?"
"She told me about it afterwards," Larson was forced
to admit.
Mrs. Blakely leered knowingly. "A man will believe
anything a good-looking girl tells him. My George was a
regular child as far as women were concerned."
Spanger, still nettled, returned to his grounds of com-
plaint. "Send for me the next time you find a fellow in a
girl's room," he ordered peremptorily. "The hotel pays
me to look after these cases, not you. You weren't even
on duty then, were you?"
"No."
"Couldn't have been, or you wouldn't have been right
there when the girl screamed. Come on now, how did she
look? Clothes torn? Hair mussed?"
"Spanger, you have a filthy mind," Larson accused
with insulting slowness. "I suppose it's your rotten pro-
fession."
Spanger clenched his fists and took a step forward.
"Squarehead, another crack like that out of you and
I'll"
"You'll what?" Larson demanded, his temper rising to
meet the other's. "I'm ready any time you say!"
O'Ryan stepped between the two men. "Shut up, you
two," he growled, "or I'll lock up both of you. Yes, I
mean you too, Jerry."
Mack, who had escorted Mrs. Blakely, rather against
her will, from the room, returned to close the door behind
him.


so
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Larson," he began quietly, "it's time for you to talk
turkey with us. What's between you and the Gant girl,
and what'd you do to Swink the other night?"
VII
Larson, his cheeks flushed and his voice quivering with
suppressed resentment, wheeled to face the detective.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Oh yes you do," Mack contradicted in a tone of deadly
calm. "What's going on between you and the Gant girl?"
Larson scowled savagely. "I scarcely know Miss Gant."
"Never saw her before the other night, I suppose?"
"Certainly I have. It's my business to know who the
guests of this hotel are, and Miss Gant is one of them.
That's all."
"So the Gant girl was just another guest to you?"
Mack said sarcastically.
Larson's voice retained its coolness. "You are attach-
ing far too much importance to the incident. Swink was
obviously drunk. Not an ugly drunk, but stupid and
vacuous."
"What'd you do to him after you found him in her
room?" Mack demanded. "Take your time and give us all
the details, Larson."
"I helped him to his feet and out the door."
"Which door?"
"The door to the corridor, of course."
"Not the connecting door between the two rooms?"
"It was locked."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
81
"Try it to see?"
"Didn't even think of it. The connecting doors are al-
ways locked unless the office orders them opened."
"A passkey would open it."
"I don't carry a passkey around with me."
"No?"
"Not when I'm off duty."
"Who does carry 'em?"
"There 're two of them down at the desk. Sometimes a
bellman has to take a package to a room when a guest is
out or something like that. Mr. Swann has a passkey and
so does Spanger. And the maids have floor keys. But I
can't think of any others."
Mack made additional notations in the black book. "All
right, Larson. Get back to your story. Was the door to
Swink's room from the hall open?"
"No. Closed and locked."
"Who opened it?"
"I did—Swink was too far gone. I reached in his pocket
and found his key. Then I helped him over to the bed,
took off his shoes and coat, opened the window, and left
him."
"You didn't undress him?"
"No. I didn't feel that my duty to the hotel involved
playing nursemaid to drunks."
Mack was rummaging through the little heap of articles
which had been taken from the dead man's clothes and
were now lying upon the bed in a neat, orderly pile. A
sterling silver cigarette case. A tooled leather billfold.
A fountain pen of green onyx and pencil to match, both
gold-trimmed. A match box. Two handkerchiefs: one
crumpled and the other an obvious "spare." A leather


82
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
key case. A thick gold watch and a watch chain terminat-
ing in a gold pocketknife. A pile of silver and copper
coins. And a key to which was attached a large tag with
the notation, "If carried away by mistake, please drop in- i
to nearest mail box. No postage is necessary."
Mack snatched the last article at once. "Let's see if this
will open the connecting doors."
He tried it on the door to Yvonne Gant's bedroom,
then, with an equal lack of success, on the door to Ham-
mond's room. Finally, he carried the key out into the hall
and returned, a minute or two later, saying, "It won't
open the Gant girl's front door either. Swink must've had
some other way."
"I told you how he got in," Larson insisted.
"You told me how you thought he got in," Mack cor-
rected. "Did Miss Gant find her door locked or open that
night?"
"I didn't ask her."
"Why hadn't she said something before about the door
sticking?"
"I don't know."
Mack took a threatening step forward. "Seems to me
you're holding out on us, Larson."
The night clerk met his gaze squarely until O'Ryan,
with a good-humored laugh, broke the tension.
"Johnny, there's one thing I can't get through my
skull. Larson's probably telling us the truth about the J
Gant girl's door, or he's just a plain damn fool, because
all we have to do to check his story is to talk to the car-
penter. But what's really important is how the guy who
planted the tube got into the room—and how he got into
Graham's room." I


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
83
"That," Mack admitted, "is bothering me, too."
"Swink's door doesn't stick, does it?"
Mack shook his head. "Nope, I tested it, and it works
perfectly O.K. The spring locks the door every time you
close it."
"He might 've used a passkey," Spanger cogitated,
"but it's beyond me how he got hold of one. As Larson
told you, there aren't many of 'em, and we keep a close
check on where they are. If a passkey was missing I'd
know it immediately, but there's been no such thing re-
ported."
"I have a conjecture which I offer to you for what it is
worth," Westborough interpolated in a timorous voice.
"Would it be possible for someone to borrow surrepti-
tiously an employee's passkey and retain it sufficiently
long to have a duplicate made?"
Spanger shook his head decisively.
"That would take an hour or so. No one could sneak a
passkey away for that long without it being noticed."
"But it would take only a few seconds to secure a wax
impression," Westborough persisted. "It's conceivable
that this might have been done without exciting undue
suspicion. With such an impression, it would be, I believe,
a simple matter to secure a duplicate key."
"The wax mold is a good dodge for fiction writers,"
Mack retorted. "Did you ever see a key made from one,
Westborough?"
"But metal can be cast from wax with no particular
difficulty. In Italy I observed very handsome bronzes pro-
duced by the cire perdue—literally lost wax—process. A
wax model is covered with a prepared mixture of plaster,
silica, and, I believe, other ingredients, which hardens in a


84
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
few minutes and is able to withstand high temperatures.
Then the wax is melted away and the molten bronze
poured into the resulting mold."
"You might do it by electro-deposition, too," Larson
suggested. "First you'd have to make the wax conductive
by coating it with graphite, and then you'd hang it from
the cathode in a plating solution."
"Maybe so," Mack rejoined noncommittally. "I don't
know anything about your seer purdoo or electro-plating.
But all the locksmiths I ever met have to have the original
key to work from. They take a blank of the proper size
and shape and file it."
O'Ryan, who had taken little interest in this discus-
sion, now contributed an idea of his own.
"He might've picked the locks."
Spanger jumped up with the eagerness of a small boy
to recite a well-learned lesson. "I don't say it can't be
done, see? When I was on the force, I learned there's
hardly a lock made that some guy can't pick—if you give
him enough time and the right tools. But I will say this:
the hotel spent a lot of dough putting good cylinder locks
on every door, and picking them is no job for an amateur.
I've opened up several kinds of locks myself: Johnny
knows that. Well, just for my own information, I experi-
mented on my own door when I first came here. I couldn't
get to first base."
"Dear me!" Westborough broke in excitedly. "The
dilemma is really baffling. On the one hand the difficulty,
apparently insurmountable, of securing a passkey; on the
other the extreme improbability that the two doors could
have been opened by other means. Perhaps the solution
lies elsewhere. Mr. Spanger, doesn't the hotel keep a com-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
85
plete set of duplicate keys to every room? I mean, of
course, in addition to those distributed to guests."
"Sure," Spanger confirmed. "Hugh Clark, the carpen-
ter, has them. Clark also does the locksmith work," he ex-
plained. "He has a full set of dups in his workshop and a
lot of blanks. When a key's reported missing—and you'd
be surprised to learn how many are carted off and disap-
pear during a year—he files another in twenty minutes.
The system saves a lot of time because otherwise Hugh'd
have to take off the lock and turn the tumblers till he got
the right combination."
"What about someone getting into Clark's shop?"
O'Ryan wanted to know. Spanger laughed.
"Hugh keeps that set of dups in a steel case padlocked
with two of the meanest-looking padlocks you ever saw.
One padlock isn't enough for Hugh. No sir, he has to
have two of 'em. He takes better care of his dups than
they do the originals in the key rack upstairs."
"What about the key rack?" O'Ryan queried. "Gra-
ham's key was there, you remember. Maybe someone
sneaked up, grabbed both keys, and then managed to put
'em back again without being seen."
"No," Larson objected. "He couldn't do that without
hitting Larry Collins over the head. You're forgetting
that the key rack is a good four feet back of the counter,
and there's no way on earth of reaching it from the out-
side. Even if Collins had happened to leave his post for
some reason, the bellman's bench faces the key rack, and
someone's nearly always on duty there."
"Collins didn't leave the desk any time in the evening,"
O'Ryan declared after consulting again the report he had
received from Phelan.


86
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Besides, you forgot something, Terry," Mack put in
jocosely. "It's a great idea, all right, but Swink's key
wasn't in the rack. Graham's, yes, but not Swink's. Take
another look at Phelan's dope, and you'll see I'm right.
Swink got his key from the desk after dinner, but he never
put it back again."
O'Ryan, referring once more to his list, agreed that
this was correct, and Mack suggested that Hammond be
the next one brought in.
"I want to find out if he heard Mrs. Blakely and her
crony talking about his wife and Swink. We need more
facts and less guess work about these people in the corri-
dor."
Ever since Sarah Blakely had dripped her poison, Lar-
son had been battling with his conscience. Or rather the
battle had been between an innate sense of conduct be-
coming to a gentleman and the loyalty one owes to an im-
personal abstraction called the "law." Should he or should
he not reveal a certain memory? A lonely woman stealing
furtively to her room in the quiet hours of the night. Un-
fair to throw her to the wolves? Yes, he told himself, but
this is a murder case. "Murder most foul," even though
Swink was a pig. "You haven't the right to shield any-
one—even Yvonne Gant." But to throw into the discus-
sion a morsel of gossip whose choiceness would do credit
to Mrs. Blakely? Well, there didn't seem to be any help
for it.
"Something happened last night which I think you
ought to know," he began. "It was probably about two-
thirty or going on three. Mrs. Hammond came into the
lobby in full evening clothes. Alone. She asked for her key
and went on upstairs. About ten minutes later Swink


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
87
came in and asked for his key. And he was in evening
dress, too."
"Great Scott!" Mack ejaculated. "Why didn't you tell
us that before?"
O'Ryan had opened the door to the corridor. "Phelan,
bring in Mrs. Hammond. No, alone. We'll get her hus-
band's story later."
VIII
"Twenty minutes to two," Mack declared, consulting
his watch. "I could use a good strong cup of black coffee.
How about you, Terry?"
"Sounds O.K."
Larson picked up the telephone. "I'll see what can be
done about it." He spoke into the transmitter, then hung
up. "You'll get your coffee in a few minutes, and I told
them to send up some sandwiches."
Mack grinned appreciatively. "That's the ticket!"
A patrolman ushered in Norah Hammond. Her flaming
scarlet negligee clung closely about her slender figure.
Cloudy blue-black hair tumbled in bangs far down on her
forehead, and her eyebrows were two dark and narrow
lines against the creamy white skin. Her mouth, friendly
and unmistakably Irish, was a trifle too large for the
other features.
"Mrs. Hammond?" Mack asked.
"Yes." Her eyes were fixed downward on her small red
slippers. "I was certainly sorry to learn of Mr. Swink's
death, but I doubt if I am able to tell you anything use-
ful. You see I was away from the hotel the entire eve-
ning."


90
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
served me right for going out with him. But I didn't know
he would be that way."
"His kind are," O'Ryan pronounced paternally.
"Tell us about it," Mack ordered.
She appealed to O'Ryan. "Must I?"
"Yes. Where did he take you?"
"To the Club Baroque."
"That joint isn't so bad," O'Ryan declared.
"You met him out of the hotel?" Mack conjectured.
"Of course. I had to. There are always so many gos-
siping old ladies around in the lobby."
Spanger grimaced. "That's putting it mildly."
"Of course, I had no business going with him—I really
do care a lot for my husband. But Fred is away most of
the time, and there have been so many lonesome evenings.
Sometimes I'd get so bored with myself I'd want to
scream."
"You had dinner together?" Mack probed. "A cock-
tail or two first, I suppose?"
"Yes. The dinner was very nice. Mr. Swink knew how
to order, and he was an entertaining talker. We danced
between courses. Even that wasn't so bad. For a fat man
he was comparatively light on his feet. Not such a good
dancer as Fred, of course, but far from being a poor
one."
"How did Swink's liquor affect him?" Mack wanted to
know. Norah Hammond raised her head and laughed.
"Funny you should ask that! We had several highballs
during the course of the evening, and I never saw a man
get so tight on so little."
"Some people can't carry any liquor," Spanger com-


92
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
leave your door open tonight 'cause I'm coming in to see
you.' I slammed the door of the cab and walked into the
lobby. Fortunately, there wasn't anybody there but Mr.
Larson. He's awfully nice, and I knew he'd never tell on
me." Chris, shamefaced, stared down at the carpet as Mrs.
Hammond continued her story. "I got to my own room
and locked the door. I was never so mad in all my life—I
simply trembled with rage. Honestly, I believe that if Mr.
Swink had tried to get into my room that night I would
have shot him. Fred has a revolver, you know, which he
leaves with me when he goes on the road."
"Swink didn't try it, then?" Mack inquired.
"Thank goodness, no! And I sat up for a long time
worrying about it. I was actually afraid to go to bed until
I heard him snoring from the next room. I thought his
snores were disgusting when I heard them at the Club, but
last night they were the sweetest music I ever listened to.
This morning I said to myself before I got out of bed,
'Norah, that's what you get for two-timing the best hus-
band a girl ever had. Never again.'"
Mack scratched thoughtfully at his chin. "So your
husband has a gun?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I suppose I shouldn't have
blurted that out."
"All right so long as he doesn't walk around with the
gat in his pocket," O'Ryan informed.
"Oh no, he never did that."
"A gun," Mack pronounced slowly, "has got about as
much to do with this case as my aunt Harriet up at Niles,
Michigan. And yet I'm thinking, Mrs. Hammond, it's
mighty lucky for you that Swink wasn't shot. Also that
you were away from the hotel all evening." He turned


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
93
on her abruptly. "You were gone all evening, weren't
you?"
She started. "Why, yes, of course."
"Where?"
"To a movie with Mr. and Mrs. Graham."
"They left their little boy alone here, didn't they?"
"Why, no, we took him with us."
"See a good show?"
"Not very."
"What was it about!"
"I don't remember the name. It was about secret service
men, and there was a lot of shooting. I don't care much
for that sort of picture, and neither does Luella. Mr.
Graham and Cedric liked it though."
"What did you do after the show?"
"Had some chop suey at a Chinese restaurant. Ronald
—Mr. Graham—insisted upon taking us."
"You're sorta thick with the Grahams, aren't you?"
"They're a lovely couple," she exclaimed. "Lu's one of
the best friends I've got. I don't know what I'd do with-
out them when Fred goes out on the road."
"Your husband got in today, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"And he goes out on Monday as usual, I suppose?"
"Why, yes. Why?"
"You've only got three more days with him. Seems
rather funny you'd want to chase out tonight with the
Graham pair and leave your husband at home alone."
"He had a headache," Norah Hammond answered
hotly. "I didn't want to go, but he insisted. Said he felt
so rotten he'd be poor company, and he felt he ought to
be left alone. I could see he meant it, and I didn't want


94
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
to stand there arguing with Mr. and Mrs. Graham right
in the room."
Mack asked irrelevantly, "Was Mr. Hammond in bed
when you got back?"
"No, he was up waiting for me." She laughed. "Men
sometimes do such silly things. I counted six separate
cigar butts in the ash tray, and the room was simply reek-
ing with smoke. I scolded him properly about it. The
worst possible thing he could do for his head."
For so large a man O'Ryan moved with surprising
alacrity.
"Clancy," he called to the patrolman in the corridor.
"Bring in Hammond right away, and keep Mrs. Ham-
mond apart from her husband until we've had a chance to
get his story."
IX
A knock reverberated from the door. "That must be
Hammond now," Mack conjectured. Larson awaited the
salesman's entrance with misgivings. He didn't like to
think that he had been instrumental in focusing police
attention upon the genial knight of the road. Yet he was
forced to admit that both Mack and O'Ryan were sharply
distrustful and perhaps you couldn't blame them. Ham-
mond's headache, for example, had sounded decidedly
fishy. Men like Hammond acquired headaches only after
a night of wholesome carousal, not suddenly and oppor-
tunely like a swooning Victorian virgin. Also he could
not believe that Mrs. Hammond had been telling the en-
tire truth. If she had informed her husband about her eve-
ning with Swink


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
90
Larson's Hps pursed in a soundless whistle. Yes, the sit-
uation should prove interesting, he concluded, as he
watched the detective cross to the door.
But it was only a bellboy with a well-loaded tray,
which he set upon a night stand adjacent to the bed.
Mack, who took his coffee strong and black, had gulped
the last of the cup and was thoughtfully munching a
chicken sandwich by the time the patrolman brought in
Hammond.
Hammond's pajamas were partially obscured by a
dressing gown of brocaded purple silk. "What you been
saying to my wife?" he demanded, infuriated and plainly
caring little about hiding it.
Lieutenant Mack, as Larson had already observed,
knew when to bluster and when to be calm. The more
agitated his adversary appeared, the more placid Mack's
demeanor. His eyes were now quietly fixed upon the sales-
man, but he said nothing. Not until he had relighted the
stubby cigar which he had been smoking or chewing most
of the evening. Then:
"I don't like your attitude, Hammond."
Hammond slammed his fist against the night stand so
hard that the dishes on the tray clattered. His hand was
a wide, muscular one, its back covered by short black
hairs, Larson noticed.
"I should give a damn what you like!" The dishes clat-
tered again. "I know a few people down at the City Hall,
and I'm telling you I won't stand for any of your goddam
third degree. Try it, and I'll get your shield."
Mack said without rancor, "If it was a question of
going through a stop sign, your pull might work. But
you're up against a murder rap."


96
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Murder rap?" the salesman echoed, his voice softened
several decibels.
"Not even the Mayor is big enough to pull me off this
job," Mack boasted. "Not till I get the truth out of some-
one. Sit down, Hammond."
Hammond plopped into a chair while Mack coolly
tilted the shade of the floor lamp. The salesman's lower
jaw was sagging. "What you mean murder rap?"
The time was ripe for the detective to bluster, Larson
predicted, and he was right. With disarming suddenness,
Mack snarled:
"You killed Swink because you caught him playing
around with your wife."
"It's a damn lie!" Hammond shouted, springing to his
feet. "My wife wouldn't have looked twice at the swine."
"Sit down!" Mack barked. "We know differently. She
just admitted going out with him last night."
"Christ!" Hammond's hand plowed feverishly through
his sandy hair. "Norah said that?"
Mack continued the inquisition. He was as relentless
and as impersonal as a physician dissecting with his
scalpel.
"Why didn't you go out with your wife tonight?"
"I had a headache."
"And smoked half-a-dozen cigars? Queer sort of head-
ache medicine."
"Had to do something to calm my nerves," Hammond
mumbled.
"Upset about your wife, weren't you?"
"No! Oh, damn it all, I guess I was!"
"And yet you sit there and say you didn't know she'd
been out with Swink!"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
97
Hammond growled, "Think I'd have stayed quietly in
my room if I'd known that?"
"No?" Mack prompted. "What would you have done?"
Hammond leaned back dejectedly against his chair. "I
don't know. I think I'd have beaten him within an inch
of his life."
"Big he-man, aren't you?" Mack sneered. "What you
meant to tell us was that you'd have taken that gun of
yours and shot him."
"Christ, I don't know!"
"You didn't shoot him," Mack continued, his eyes fixed
hypnotically upon Hammond's. "You didn't shoot him
because you thought of a better way." He paused por-
tentously. "Hammond, what made you smoke so many
cigars tonight?"
"I—I told you. I was nervous, and"
"Yes, a cock-and-bull story, and not even very good
cock-and-bull at that," Mack derided. "Why don't you
admit the truth? You smoked all those cigars to cover
up a smell."
"A smell?" Hammond repeated.
"The smell of bitter almonds," Mack flung at him.
"Bitter almonds?" Hammond's bewilderment was ap-
parently genuine—or was it? Larson couldn't tell, and
he wondered if Mack could. The detective went on like a
shipping clerk hammering one nail after another into a
packing case.
"You don't know that hydrocyanic acid smells like
bitter almonds?"
"No."
"You didn't sneak across the corridor to Graham's


98
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
apartment? You didn't steal a test tube and some sul-
phuric acid from his kid's chemical set?"
Beads of sweat stood on Hammond's forehead. "No."
"No?" Mack echoed in a silky voice which all but
purred. "And you didn't put the acid in the test tube?
And didn't add potassium cyanide to it and cork up the
tube? And didn't let yourself into this room through the
connecting door from your own room? And, without
opening the door to the hall, hook the test tube above the
edge of the door?"
"I didn't do one of those things," Hammond shouted.
"You can't railroad me like this."
"Without opening the door," Mack repeated, his voice
rising to a sudden crescendo. "Because you couldn't go
out into the hall and close the door after you without dis-
turbing the test tube. But you could go back to your
own room through the connecting door. And you're the
only man in the hotel who could."
"See here," Hammond protested, completely unnerved.
"I don't know what you mean by a test tube and a con-
necting door. I was in my own room every minute of the
evening. Didn't even go down to the lobby for a cigar."
"Can you prove it?"
"You know damn well I can't. I was there alone."
Mack said sternly, "A short time ago you referred to
Swink as a swine. Why?"
"I—I overheard some gossip," Hammond confessed,
his eyes fixed upon the floor.
"About your wife?"
"Yes."
"Who was talking?"
"The Blakely woman to one of her cronies. In the


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
99
lobby." With a burst of sudden anger he added, "The old
vultures spread scandal the whole day long. Goddam
'em!"
"What were they saying about Mrs. Hammond?"
"That I ought to stay home more because Norah was
having a flirtation with Swink."
"Did you believe that?"
Hammond spoke with entire frankness. "I didn't think
I did. I kept telling myself I knew Norah and could trust
her." He hesitated. "The worst part of gossip like that
is that it gets under your skin. You can't keep from won-
dering if maybe there isn't something to it."
"And that's all you heard them say?"
"Every bit, and I just caught that by accident. The
two women saw me and shut up."
"And that's what worried you so that you wouldn't go
out with your wife!" Mack exclaimed sarcastically. Ham-
mond cupped his chin in the palm of his hand.
"If you don't see it, you won't. But Norah means a lot
to me. Everything, I guess. I'm on the road a lot of the
time. A fellow gets plenty of opportunities for hell-
raising, but I've played square with Norah. Up to today
I didn't know she hadn't been doing the same with me."
His words came thickly, hesitantly. "I used to wonder
how a fellow would feel when he learned his wife had been
playing around. Now I know. And I tell you it hurts like
hell!"
"You can stop worrying about your wife," O'Ryan
interrupted in his bluff fashion. "We've heard her story,
and the worst thing she did was to have dinner with
Swink."


100
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"You mean that?" Hammond's voice betrayed his
eager desperation.
"Straight stuff!" O'Ryan heartily testified. "That
girl's all right, Hammond."
Skepticism warred with relief in the salesman's eyes.
"Officer, it's decent of you to say that. I appreciate it."
O'Ryan, with pretended brusqueness, advised, "Forget
it," but Mack hastened to take full advantage of Ham-
mond's softened mood.
"Are you willing to help us out by giving the straight
answers to a few questions?"
"Sure—if I can."
"Well, then, did you hear Swink moving in his room
tonight?"
"Yes. I could hear him talking to another fellow about
eight-thirty or so."
"What about?"
Hammond shook his head. "I couldn't distinguish
words."
"How long'd they stay in the room?"
"Maybe twenty minutes. But Swink came back later."
"He came back at ten minutes to eleven," Mack pro-
nounced.
Hammond gestured his dissent. "I don't mean then.
Earlier than that."
"What?"
"Sure. I heard him moving about the room."
"My God, when?" Mack ejaculated.
"I'm not quite sure of the time. I'd say it was nine-
thirty or so."
"You're sure Swink was alone?"
"It sounded like it."


102
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
window." He turned to Larson. "You opened the window
when you first got here. Was it locked or unlocked?"
"Locked from the inside," Larson rejoined promptly.
"Just like one of the 'murder in a sealed room' things
that you read about in detective stories," O'Ryan pro-
claimed. "But as the Gant girl wasn't there he simply
walked out through her room."
"I'm not so sure," Mack dissented. "I put it strong
about not being able to open the door, because I was try-
ing to break Hammond down." He picked up the broken
top of the test tube and held it by the wire, which was
still hooked into the string around the rim. "Let's see if a
fellow can plant this dohinkus and close the door from
the outside while he's doing it."
With the door ajar, Mack suspended the fragment
from the top edge. Holding the other end of the wire, he
stepped into the hall and began to pull the door shut. As
it closed, he was forced to slide the wire toward the hinges
to avoid catching his fingers. Finally, he released his
hold; the wire, pinched between the door and its frame,
held the tube firmly. Mack finished closing the door. His
muffled voice penetrated through the barrier.
"Did it stick?"
"Yeh. It's up there O.K."
"I'm coming back in. Catch the thing, somebody, I
don't want it smashed any more than it is."
He opened the door gradually. The wire, released from
the pressure of the door frame, allowed gravity to take
its course. O'Ryan caught the fragment of tube deftly in
midair. "Well, that settles one thing, Johnny," he pro-
nounced as Mack reentered the room. "Anybody in the
corridor could've done that trick."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
103
"Anyone could," Mack agreed. "Let's talk to Devon."
O'Ryan started toward the door when he was inter-
rupted by the appearance of his two subordinates.
"We're through with the rooms, chief," vouchsafed
Patrolman Phelan.
"Find anything?"
"Nothing that looked particularly screwy." Phelan
hesitated. "Say, potassium cyanide's a white powder, isn't
it?"
"Yeh."
"Well, we found white powders in two or three people's
medicine cabinets, but they were all labeled something
else." He paused again. "I didn't taste any of 'em to find
out if the labels were lying."
"Pick 'em all up," O'Ryan directed, "and we'll send
'em down to headquarters."
"I've got 'em here," Phelan replied. "All marked up
to show which belongs to who." He delivered several
packets and pillboxes. "You were looking for a passkey,
too, weren't you?"
"Yeh," O'Ryan admitted. "I forgot to tell you about
it."
"Well, I went down and borrowed one from the room
clerk so I'd know what it looked like. Then I compared
every key I found with it." He sighed regretfully, "It
seemed like a good idea, but it was a dud. There wasn't
another passkey anywhere."
Mack said, "Terry told me you were looking for a
transfer to the detective division, Phelan."
"Yeh. Don't suppose it's any use, though."
"I'll put in a word for you any time you want," Mack
exclaimed heartily.


104
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Gee, thanks!" Phelan shuffled embarrassedly. "That's
sure white of you."
O'Ryan's ham of a hand clapped the patrolman's
shoulder. "And I'll add a good word too! By the way,
you didn't happen to see anything that looked like sul-
phuric acid—or maybe another acid?"
Phelan shook his head. "I took special note of every-
thing liquid. But all the liquids I found were the ink in
the inkwells, mouth washes, and such junk, and a pint
of Old Apple in Hammond's room."
"He can keep that," O'Ryan chuckled. "Have you
gone through any of the vacant rooms?"
"Not yet."
"Well, make that the next job. If the bird we're look-
ing for could get into this room and Graham's apart-
ment, he might get into any of those."
"O. K." The two patrolmen started from the room;
then Phelan turned back. "Gee, Captain O'Ryan, I
almost forgot. A guy by the name of Swann insists on
seeing you. Says he's manager of the hotel."
"Tell him he can come in."
Victor Swann was in full evening dress, complete even
to the shiny silk topper he carried in his hand. A bald
head, singularly flat upon the top, and a jutting aquiline
nose were his most prominent features. He was a middle-
sized man, forty-five to fifty, and he began talking as
soon as he entered the room, omitting all formalities of
introductions.
"This is terrible—worst break I ever got, and I've been
in the hotel business twenty years." Swann's speech was a
crisp and rapid staccato. "One of those things that can't


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
105
be helped—'act of God,' my lawyer will probably say.
Well, the staff will cooperate. Anything you want, say
the word."
O'Ryan ostentatiously referred to a huge gold watch.
"Twenty of three. Out rather late tonight, Swann,
aren't you?"
"Reception. Lyttelyous'. Scads of dough and daughter
homelier than mud fence. Trying to buy a man for her,
but there 're worse things than poverty." He reached into
his pocket for a pack of much advertised cheap cigarettes
and pressed the spring of a hammered silver lighter.
"Had His Highness Prince Abdul of Muckamuck on hand
tonight. Two or three hundred people. Regular three-
ring circus. Too amusing to break away from, and the
hotel runs itself."
"Prince Abdul of Muckamuck?" Mack repeated
skeptically.
"Sounded like that, anyway. Prince 's black as a
nigger, and a lot of damn silly women were kotowing to
him all over the place. They'll get their pictures in the
paper tomorrow. So will we, worse luck." He broke off
abruptly to glance sternly at the room clerk. "Larson,
why aren't you at the desk?"
"I asked him to stick around," Mack replied before the
other could answer.
"Still want him?"
"I don't think so."
"Better run on down," Swann advised. "Collins is sup-
posed to leave at eleven, and it's going on three now."
Chris departed regretfully. It was like having an ex-
citing serial break in the middle with a "To be continued


106
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
in our next" line. He signalled for the elevator and went
down to the office. The lobby was deserted except for the
room clerk.
"What's the dope?" Collins asked as Chris went to his
place behind the counter. Larson shook his tawny head.
"If they know, they're not saying anything about it.
Swann's up there now."
"Yeh, he blew in about ten minutes ago. You should
've seen him hit the roof when I told him the news." Col-
lins opened a penknife and began to clean his nails.
"Funny part is, the boss came back to the hotel around
ten."
"The hell he did!"
"Yep." Collins finished his manicuring and proceeded
to run a comb through already smooth and glossy hair.
"I saw him come in and go upstairs."
"That's damn peculiar! Did he tell you why?"
Collins shook his head. "He never tells me anything."
He started toward the employees' entrance. "Fellow,
the next time you stage a murder call your shots. I had a
date tonight with one of the keenest-looking blondes you
ever saw."
"Gee, Larry, I'm sorry! I'll come down two or three
hours early tomorrow."
"Forget it." Collins stopped and looked back over his
shoulder. "There's one thing about this business that
tickles me. I've got the swellest little alibi you ever saw:
didn't leave the desk from three o'clock on, and somebody
or other to prove practically every minute of it."
Chris said, "I wish I had one like it. Well, so long,
Larry."
Meanwhile, in the room that had been occupied by


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
107
Elmo Swink, Mack was continuing his cross-examination
of the hotel manager.
"So you were gone all evening?"
"Right. Even got away for dinner. Met some friends
in the Loop." He continued his rapid-fire patter. "This is
bad business—smart-aleck reporters snooping around—
smear it all over the front page—what time'd it happen,
anyhow?"
Mack said, "Swink was alive until ten minutes to
eleven."
"Who did it?" was Swann's next question.
Mack shrugged his shoulders. "If I knew, I'd sleep
better tonight."
"Unsolved mystery, huh?"
"It is—yet!"
"Hum!" Swann appeared thoughtful. "Well, I hope
you don't bother the guests any more than you can help.
Some of them are touchy."
Spanger at once told about the search, and Swann was
prompt to protest.
"See here, you can't go poking around private rooms
without a warrant!"
"No?"
"No."
"Are you going to cooperate or aren't you?"
Swann swallowed hard two or three times. "Might as
well make the best of it, I suppose. Especially since you've
already done it." He closed the subject and asked, "Was
Swink the fat, flabby fellow?"
"You've placed him all right," Spanger grinned.
Swann beamed complacently. "Can't know all the
guests of course. Impossible in a place this size. Try to


108 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
remember all I can though. Good memory for names,
fortunately. You have to have in this business."
Mack glanced up quickly. "Go on, Swann, spill it.
What do you know about Swink?"
"I? Name on the room rack. That's all. Saw him in the
bar this evening, though."
Mack's broad thumb rapidly flicked the pages of his
notebook. "What time'd you leave the hotel, Swann?"
"Eight. Maybe five or ten minutes before. Don't re-
member exactly."
"And you saw Swink in the bar?"
"That's what I said."
"Swann, you're lying. We've a complete record of
Swink's movements tonight."
The hotel manager frowned. "See here, I don't like
being called a liar. If Swink was the fat, flabby fellow, I
saw him in the bar."
"He was in the bar—yes. But not until nine. At eight
o'clock he was either in the dining room or in the lobby."
"Well, who said I saw him at eight?"
"You did."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You said you left the hotel at eight."
"Didn't I tell you? I came back at ten."
"You what?"
"Lyttelyous mailed out pretty engraved cards—ticket
of admission. Nobody can go in without 'em. Ex-prize
fighter in knee breeches near the door. Probably would
've thrown out Prince Abdul himself. Had to come back.
Rotten nuisance, but wife wanted to see the prince."
"How long'd you stay?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
109
"Long enough to go up, grab tickets, and come down.
Wife waited in the car."
"Ten minutes?"
"Five's nearer. Took the elevator right to top floor
and kept the pilot waiting while I collected the cards."
He looked quizzically at the broken fragments of glass
on the writing desk. "What's all this stuff?"
Mack told him.
Swann's comment was, "Eight years building up this
place. Give 'em more service for their money than any
hotel in Chicago. Now this happens. Guests will be mov-
ing out in droves." He crushed out his cigarette in the
ash tray and lit another. "If you're through asking ques-
tions, I'm going down and stall off reporters. Get 'em to
play down hotel angle—if it can be done."
Swann plunged abruptly from the room. O'Ryan ob-
served sympathetically to Spanger, "It's a tough break
for him at that."
"One of the worst possible," Spanger agreed solemnly.
"I don't think he's right about the guests leaving in
droves, but new ones will think twice before registering
here."
"What kind of fellow is Swann?" Mack inquired.
"He's O.K. Bit of a slave driver, but a square shooter.
And he drives himself harder than he does anyone else.
I've been here four months now, and this is the second
time I can remember he's ever taken a night off."
"What kind of hotel does he run?"
Spanger grinned. "You've been here two or three
hours. You ought to know."
"The rooms are nicely furnished," Mack commented,


110
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"and things seem to run along pretty smoothly. That's
not what I meant. Who does he cater to? Permanents?
Transients, or what?"
"We do quite a bit of transient business," Spanger re-
joined. "Lots of people like to stay in a hotel that's out-
side the Loop but not too far away. But Swann's big play
is for permanent residents. We treat 'em right here, and
we can give 'em most anything they want. Single and
double rooms—every one with private bath. Two- and
three-room kitchenette apartments like the one the
Grahams have. Or we can give 'em as large a place as they
want up to anything they want to pay." He paused.
"We've got people—the old Blakely dame is one of 'em—
that have been here for five years."
Mack smiled. "You seem to be pretty well sold on the
place, Jerry."
"I'll say I am!" Spanger agreed enthusiastically.
"Swann gives 'em their money's worth—and about fifty
per cent more. That's why it's such a rotten shame that a
thing like this had to happen."
"If we clear it up in a hurry, people 'l1 forget about this
in a month," Mack observed. He took from his pocket
the list he had prepared earlier in the evening and made
several additional check marks. "Two more to see, Terry,
before we get to bed. Let's have Devon in."
Devon, a small, weazened man of uncertain age, pos-
sessed a shock of coarse hair and shifty, lusterless eyes.
He had a crooked nose and small, pointed ears which lay
flat against his head.
"I don't know nothing about it—see?" he began sul-
lenly. "I was in my own room, and I don't know nothing
about it."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
111
"Big hurry to tell us that, aren't you?" Mack sneered.
"Where were you tonight?"
"In my own room, I said."
"When'd you go there?"
"How should I know? Think I keep looking at my
ticker all the time?"
"You got some idea, haven't you?"
"It might've been around ten," Devon admitted grudg-
ingly. "I'm not saying it was—see? But it might 've
been."
"Oh, it might, huh? Well, where were you before ten?"
"That's my business."
"Refuse to talk, huh?"
"I know my rights—see? You can't make me answer
no questions."
Mack said, "Oh, we can't, eh?" and Devon answered, a
shade less defiantly, "No." Mack shot a quick glance at
O'Ryan.
"Guess we'll have to take him down to the station,
Terry."
"Sure," O'Ryan agreed genially. "We've got the right
medicine there. It's just an ordinary garden hose, but
when we jam it down his throat and turn on the water
he'll talk all right. I never knew a guy yet could hold
out more than two minutes. It's kinda rough on the
stomach," he concluded with a chuckle.
Devon's face broke into a profuse perspiration. His
eyes darted to the door, but O'Ryan's broad back
thoroughly blocked that method of exit.
"I'll talk," he conceded sullenly.
"Thought you'd be sensible," O'Ryan said mildly.
"What's your name?"


112
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Ben Devon." He pronounced it Dee-von, with the
stress on the first syllable, and not in the accepted Eng-
lish manner of rhyming with "seven."
"That's a street," O'Ryan objected. "That's no name."
"It's my name."
"Where you from, Devon?"
"San Francisco."
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure. Born and raised in Frisco."
"What you doing in Chicago?"
"Selling vacuum cleaners."
"Not much dough in that, is there?"
"If you're any good there is."
"You're pretty good, I suppose?"
Devon failed to notice the sarcasm. "I'll say I'm
good!"
"What's the name of the outfit you work for?" Mack
questioned.
"Feenix Distributors, Inc."
Mack snatched a sheet of paper from the desk.
"Feenix?"
"Yeh. P-h-o-e-n-i-x."
Mack's countenance was a perfect blank. "Oh, hell, sit
down and write it out for me, will you?"
Devon seated himself at the desk and scrawled the
name in a large irregular handwriting. Mack folded the
paper and placed it in his breast pocket. "Thanks! So
you didn't go up to your room until ten?"
"Yeh, that's right."
"Can you prove it?"
"Sure I can prove it. I was out working my territory
—see? You got to make a lot of call-backs at night on


114 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"He looks like a grifter to me, and I don't make many*
mistakes on them."
"That's what I thought, too," Spanger put in, "so J)
checked up on him. He works for Phoenix Distributor!
on a straight commission basis, and they told me he's
making good at it. Keeps his bill paid, too."
"I'm going to shoot his prints to Washington," Macl
declared. "If he's got a record, we'll know about it in i
couple of days or so."
"Too bad you let Jimmy Selzer get away," O'Ryan re
marked. "Well, I'll sign an order, and you can have hir
taken down to headquarters tomorrow."
"I don't want to put him on his guard," Mack de »
murred. "Besides, it won't be necessary. I think I've go
his prints on this." He tapped the pocket containing th
paper upon which Devon had written.
XI
"The gant girl," Mack observed, "is the only perso
left to talk to tonight. Let's have her in and get it ove
with."
"If it's O.K. with you," said Spanger, "I'm going t
call it a day now. My dogs are killing me."
"They always did," Mack asserted unsympatheticallj
"Well, so long, Jerry."
Westborough peered through his gold-rimmed spec
tacles at the retreating figure of the hotel detectiv(
"There goes a hell of a good guy," Mack remarked t
O'Ryan. The giant nodded assent, and Westboroug
ventured timidly:


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
115
"Evidently you have had prior dealings with Mr.
Spanger."
Mack said, "Huh? Oh, yes, I used to know Jerry on
the force. He was a sergeant in charge of the jewelry
detail, and believe me, that's a job. There 're more crooked
schemes cooked up to get hold of sparklers than I could
tell you about if I talked from now to Christmas. If it
wasn't so late, I'd tell you a real story about Jerry
Spanger."
The diminutive Westborough looked up at the detec-
tive's face with an eager interest. "I should like very
much to hear it."
"Hell, what's another five minutes or so!" Mack ex-
claimed with an amused glance. "Well, a year ago Jerry
was looking for a guy named Jake the Gent. Finally, a
stool tipped him off that Jake was hiding in a rooming
house over on North Clark Street—not more 'n a mile
from where we are now. So Jerry goes up to get him.
"Jake was a smooth bird." Mack paused portentously.
"So far as I know he had only one weakness. He couldn't
keep his head when he was stewed. And he was all liquored
up when Jerry got there.
"Jerry rang the doorbell, and the landlady let him in.
She was on the level and didn't know what kind of cus-
tomer she had upstairs. The place wasn't a regular hang-
out; Jake worked by himself and didn't mess up with any
mob. Well, Jerry hasn't any more than got inside the
door when a gun goes off and a slug just misses his ear.
Jake is on the upper landing, and he has a forty-five in
his hand and a smile that's none too pleasant on his face.
"'Turn around, dick, and march out that door, or I'll
plow your goddam brains out,' he says.


116 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Just to show he means business, he shoots again and
pots Jerry in the shoulder. And a forty-five can leave one
nasty hole! I'll tell the world it can! Jerry flops to the
floor, and Jake probably thinks he's done for him. But he
hasn't—not by a long ways. Jerry picks up his own gat
—he'd dropped it when Jake's shot hit him—and lets
Jake have it. Jake fires again, but this time he misses and
Jerry don't. Jake tumbles all the way downstairs—
deader 'n a mack'rel. Jerry was in the hospital for six
weeks, but he got a hundred-dollar check from the Daily
Trumpet for 'heroism under fire.'"
"A reward that he richly merited," Westborough com-
mented warmly.
O'Ryan chuckled. "You don't often get gabby, Johnny,
but when you do, you can shoot off your mouth worse 'n
that Blakely hen. You've wasted ten minutes rehashing
ancient history."
"Let's talk to the Gant girl," Mack rejoined with a
wry smile.
Bronze highlights glinted from the hair of the tall girl
whom Patrolman Clancy ushered in. "If I had a
daughter," Westborough reflected with a touch of wist-
fulness, "I should wish her to be rather like Miss Gant."
The girl's presence, he fancied, cast a glamour about the
room. He was conscious of the ivory pallor of her skin,
the faint scent of gardenia perfume. Westborough was
no romanticist but a dealer in dry-as-dust facts. Nathe-
less, his mind insisted upon painting her against a
medieval tapestry, her hair streaming, Melisande-like,
from the casement of a darkened tower. . . .
With a shrug of his slight shoulders he dismissed the
vagary. Yet, as he was being whisked again to the


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
117
twentieth century, he noted with approval that her
slender, tapering fingers were devoid of the murderous-
looking red polish so commonly affected nowadays.
"Good-evening." Miss Gant's voice had a vibrant
timbre which made even simple utterances musical. West-
borough hastened to present a chair.
"Won't you sit down, my dear?"
She smiled her thanks and turned to the two police-
men. "I suppose you want to find out what I knew about
Mr. Swink?"
"Not so fast, miss." Mack had again produced the in-
evitable notebook. "We want to find out a few things
about you first. Your full name, please."
"Yvonne Gant."
"French name, ain't it?" O'Ryan remarked jocularly.
"My father was French, yes."
"Well, Miss Gant, where do you work?"
"I don't, unfortunately." Her smile was a trifle wan.
"Until the beginning of this week I had a job with the
Merdock Company as secretary to one of the vice-
presidents."
"The sheriff annexed that outfit," O'Ryan remarked.
"Tough on you, wasn't it?"
"Does it cost a lot to stay here?" Mack wanted to
know.
"Not a great deal, but more than I was justified in
paying even when I had a job. I won't be high hat and
say a position, because it wasn't. It was just a job."
She started quickly at his next question. "It's rather
uncanny the way you find out things."
"That's our job."
"Yes, I did have a roommate, I'm sorry to say."


118
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Why sorry?" Mack inquired.
"Because that young lady left me in the lurch. She
pulled out bag and baggage, and I had to pay her bill
as well as my own."
"A dirty trick!" O'Ryan declared indignantly.
"I thought so too." She laughed. "Oh well, I guess I
can take it."
"You're a game kid. How old are you?"
"Twenty-four."
Mack relit his cigar soberly. "My advice to you is to
go home to your folks. Some people say we're having a
boom, but it looks like the same old depression to me."
The girl shook her head.
"Your advice is sensible, but I've no home to go to.
Dad married again, and I'm persona non grata with
friend stepmother. No, I'll have to take Grant's tip and
fight it out on this line." She laughed: her laughter was
genuine, hearty. "But I hope it won't take all summer."
She shivered and adjusted her flimsy blue negligee more
tightly about her. "Brr! It's cold in here."
Mack went toward the window, which nobody had
thought to close since Larson had first flung it open, and
banged it down. "We sorta let the place air out, I guess,"
he apologized.
"Where is it—I mean he?"
"Morgue," Mack said succinctly.
"Oh!" She lapsed into silence, and Mack launched into
his cross-examination.
"How well'd you know Swink, Miss Gant?"
"I? Scarcely at all."
"You moved into the room next door the first of the
week?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
119
"Yes."
"Did you know Swink before that?"
"I never saw him before then. I was on a different
floor."
"When'd you first speak to him?"
"It would be more correct to say when did he first speak
to me."
"Well, when did he?"
Her forehead puckered. "It must have been on Tuesday
morning. We rode down on the elevator together."
"What'd you talk about?"
"What does one talk about with a person one meets for
the first time? Always and invariably the weather. We
agreed perfectly that it was a fine day, although it wasn't.
It was drizzling."
"When did you see him after that?"
"The same evening."
"Where?"
"In my own room." She paused to scrutinize his ex-
pression. "That doesn't seem to surprise you very much.
I suppose the old Tabby across the hall has been talking."
"Do you mean Mrs. Blakely?"
"Is that what she's called? I never did know, and I've a
beastly memory for names, anyhow."
"What did you do when you found Swink in your
room?"
"To my own surprise I went completely Victorian. It
was such a shock to see him sitting there that I even
shrieked."
"And what happened then?"
"You know, don't you? There really isn't much point
in my telling you."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
121
"Mr. Larson said he would be, but I didn't see him.
However, the door certainly locks all right now."
Mack's eyes were riveted upon the girl's face. "How
well do you know Larson?"
She returned his stare with a cool shrug. "As intimately
as I knew Mr. Swink, or, for that matter, anyone in the
hotel. In short, not very well. However, I must except Mr.
Westborough, to whom I am indebted for an excellent
breakfast and for still more entertaining conversation."
Westborough regarded the floor in an embarrassed
manner. Mack said gruffly:
"We were talking about Larson, not Mr. Westbor-
ough. What's your opinion of Larson?"
This, Westborough conjectured, was another question
of importance to the detective. Miss Gant's answer came
without reservation.
"What I have seen of him I liked very much. He cer-
tainly handled my little difficulty in a tactful and efficient
manner."
Mack abandoned the rapier and took up a bludgeon.
"Ever go out with him?" he demanded abruptly. Her
eyes—violet and expressive—widened in astonishment.
"No."
"Nor have any long talks with him?"
"No."
"Practically a stranger, then?"
"You could caU it that."
"Miss Gant, where were you this evening?"
"In the lounge room on the mezzanine."
"All evening?"
"Until I came to my room, yes."
"What were you doing there?"


122 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Playing the piano."
O'Ryan, plainly nettled, advised, "Don't get funny."
"I'm not trying to. That's really what I was doing."
"What's a piano doing in the lounge?" O'Ryan wanted
to know.
"That's a question to ask the manager. All I know is
that it's there."
"What sort of music do you play?" Mack questioned.
Westborough answered:
"I have heard Miss Gant play Chopin. If I remember,
one selection was the very lovely Nocturne in E Flat, an
old favorite of mine. That same evening she played, I be-
lieve, another Chopin number, the Ballade in A Flat."
Yvonne Gant smiled. "Yes, I do play Chopin, Liszt,
Mozart—a smattering of everything and nothing particu-
larly well."
"I thought your touch quite professional," Westbor-
ough demurred.
Mack returned at once to the question before the house.
"What time'd you leave off playing?"
"I never play after ten, so it must have been around
that time. Perhaps a little earlier."
"And you went upstairs right away?"
"Yes."
"Did you see anyone in the hall?"
"I don't believe so. It seems to me now that it was com-
pletely empty."
"Did you hear anyone moving about in this room—
Swink's?"
"I didn't notice."
Yvonne Gant was allowed to leave, and Mack grinned
at Westborough. "There you are. It's like that problem


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
123
that was going the rounds a while back. Smith, Brown,
and Robinson are the engineer, fireman, and conductor
on a train, and you found out which was which through
a lot of idiotic statements like 'Smith played billiards with
the fireman' and 'Brown's great-aunt lived in a suburb
fifty miles from Evanston while Smith's great-aunt lived
with the engineer.'"
"I never could work that one," O'Ryan admitted.
"The killer's got to be someone in this corridor," Mack
analyzed, sitting down at the writing desk. He took a
sheet of stationery from the drawer. "Anyone else would
've had to pass either the linen room or the Colmar dame's
room, and no one else did. Do you check with that,
Terry?"
"Sure," the giant agreed, "but we know all that al-
ready."
"All right," Mack assented, "now let's make a time-
table of what each party we've talked to did tonight.
Assuming that no one was lying, it ought to tell us who
are Smith, Brown, and Robinson."
He consulted the habitual notebook and began to write
while Westborough and O'Ryan glanced over his shoul-
der.
"Chilton: In lobby with Swink eight to eight-thirty.
Went to Swink's room at eight-thirty, left at eight-fifty-
five. Left bar some time after ten—gone fifteen minutes.
So far as known did not go to west corridor of third floor
at this time. Went up there with Swink at about a quarter
to eleven.
"Larson: In own room all evening. Slept until nine.
"Westborough: Went to own room at seven-thirty.
"Colmar: With sister in her room from seven on. Left


124
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
about a quarter to eleven; met Swink and Chilton in hall.
"Chambermaid: Visited Swink's room at nine.
"Graham, Mrs. Graham, Cedric Graham, Mrs. Ham-
mond: Left hotel at eight-thirty, returned at quarter to
twelve.
"Mrs. Blakely: Went to own room at nine-thirty.
"Hammond: In own room since dinner.
"Swann: Left hotel at eight, returned at ten, and
stayed five or ten minutes. So far as known did not go
into west corridor of third floor. Did not return to hotel
again until two-thirty.
"Devon: Did not go to room until ten.
"Miss Gant: Went to own room at nine forty-five or so.
"Murderer: In Swink's room at nine-thirty."
Mack finished writing and restored his fountain pen to
his pocket. "Well?" he challenged. "What do you think
of it?"
"Dear me!" Westborough ejaculated. "It is a remarka-
bly thorough analysis indeed. In fact, there is only one
person whose movements you have failed to account for."
"Who's that?" Mack demanded, bristling.
"Mr. Spanger."


PART TWO
From the Notebook of Theocritus
Lucius Westborough
XII
My mind, like a machine, mills incessantly over tonight's
events. I turn to the pen as the only possible method of
exorcising these thoughts. Moreover, the written word
will remain—littera scripta manet.
A detective, I have discovered, is not unlike a historian
in his mode of working. A detective garners facts—so
does a historian. A detective endeavors to arrange such
facts into a semblance of logical continuity—likewise a
historian. A detective discards, or should discard, the non-
essentials in order that the residuum may stand in its true
significance with the stark reality of a monolith. And
should not a disciple of Klio follow the same procedure?
Let us, then, begin with the facts. Let us set them down
in irrefutable black and white. Later, perhaps, I shall find
it possible to add, as Browning jmts it in "The Ring and
the Book," "something of mine which, mixed up with the
mass, makes it bear hammer and be firm to file."
The facts which appear of greatest significance are
those whic|j||frove—if I may use such a conclusive word
125


126
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
at such an inconclusive moment—that the murderer can-
not have come from outside the hotel. The causa sine qua
non is that he must be one of the persons rooming off the
west corridor. Furthermore, he must have been in the west
corridor by nine-thirty and not have left it since that time.
Quaerxtur: Can one be sure that the murderer was in
Swink's room at nine-thirty? Only the word of Mr. Ham-
mond establishes this important point. If Hammond bed,
the reason is obvious. But there is also the inevitable
human factor to consider: Hammond may be mistaken.
Some people, and I must include myself among them, can
only make inaccurate guesses with regard to the passage
of time. Others have an innate time sense which functions
with almost watchlike precision. Psychological experi-
ments seem necessary to determine in which category
Hammond belongs.
This brings to mind the same doubt with regard to the
accuracy of other sections of Lieutenant Mack's time-
table—those based upon the opinion of Miss Colmar. Nev-
ertheless, it is best to be logical even in the treatment of
the illogical. Since we must make a starting point of some
kind, let us assume that the entire time-table, including
Hammond's contribution, is approximately correct. Who,
then, was physically able to have been in Swink's room at
the proper hour? Who are the "X's," "Y's," and "Z's"
to this human equation?
Myself
Larson
The Colmars
Miss Kriskrowski
Mrs. Blakely
Hammond


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
127
And no others.
At this point, I shall risk a digression from the strict
realm of fact. Some conjecture is, I believe, fully justi-
fied. "Fancy with fact is just one fact the more," to use
again the words of that profound logician, Robert Brown-
ing.
So now for the fanciful. Is it significant that Chilton
and Devon are able to produce seemingly ironclad alibis
for nine-thirty but no alibis for ten? Both of these gen-
tlemen, as I recall, aroused the suspicions of the police.
Neither seemed to be speaking with entire frankness.
James Chilton! The name strikes a responsive chord
in my memory, yet to my chagrin, I am unable to recall
in what connection I have heard it. I am acquainted with
no Chiltons; nevertheless, the name is oddly familiar.
Let us venture even further upon fancy's unmapped
sea. Was Swann telling the truth about the reason for his
return to the hotel? That return, as I recall, was also at
ten o'clock. "A strange coincidence, to use a phrase by
which such things are settled nowadays," said Lord Byron.
And Miss Gant? Not in her room at nine-thirty, but
there shortly before ten. Again that curious recurrence
of the hour. Can it be altogether pure coincidence?
The motive is a question of even greater perplexity
than the opportunity. No one in this microcosm of sus-
pects had—apparently—more than a cursory acquaint-
ance with the murdered man. Quaeritur: Have any guests
secured their rooms since the advent of Swink two weeks
ago? Yes, Chilton, who registered last Monday, and Miss
Gant, who on Sunday moved to her room from another
part of the hotel. Is it possible that either of them se-
lected rooms in order to be near Swink?


128
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Apparently the motive is well concealed, and yet surely
there do not exist many motives sufficient to induce one
human being to take the life of another. Indeed, I am
unable to think of more than four.
Greed: The smell of money is good whatever its source,
states the proverb, and man is undoubtedly wolf to man.
Yet Swink's diamond stick pin was left intact upon his
bureau. Moreover, logic irresistibly forces the conclusion
that Swink could not have been killed to secure any object
upon his person. The murderer did not have, and proba-
bly could not have had, access to Swink's person after his
death.
Unless it is later shown that one of the suspects has a
financial stake in Swink's property—if indeed he has
property—the broad motive of greed may be safely omit-
ted. My second motive, however, is not so easily elimi-
nated.
Sex: Jealousy is a possible motive for Hammond.
Larson, obviously interested in Miss Gant, must also be
included under this category. I regret that lack of data
compels me to dismiss this important question in so few
words.
Fear: The unknown person whom I heard Swink ad-
dress last Monday? Mrs. Hammond, perhaps?
In strict justice, I must state that such a motive for
Mrs. Hammond would be a weak one. Moreover, she is
definitely known to have been out of the hotel at the time
of the murder—no matter whether it was at nine-thirty
or at ten.
Revenge: My fourth and last motive seems, perhaps,
the most likely. The deceased did not look like a gentle-
man with an altogether unblemished past. Perhaps one of


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
129
his dupes—"suckers," to use the colloquial term—had
emulated the proverbial worm in turning upon his de-
ceiver. N.B.: Swink had attempted to interest two people
of the group in his financial schemes. However, both of
these—Chilton and Mrs. Blakely—denied actual invest-
ment in the enterprise.
To summarize: I am forced to the conclusion that no
adequate motive for Swink's death is as yet known. Un-
doubtedly such a motive existed, but whether its roots
were embedded deeply in Swink's supposedly unsavory
past or shallowly in the two weeks he has spent at this
hotel, I can only conjecture.
Passing now from the questions of opportunity and
motive to that of method, it is fairly obvious that Swink's
murderer must meet three other requirements in addition
to those I have already outlined. He must have at least a
smattering of chemistry, access to a cyanide, and a means
of opening the doors to Swink's room and to the Graham
apartment.
Larson? He possesses the necessary knowledge, yes, but
it would be a non sequitur to assume for this reason that
he is the guilty party. A complete chemical engineering
course is not necessarily needed to learn how to produce
hydrocyanic acid.
The mot de Venigme is undeniably the cyanide. Police
routine indubitably is thorough, and the police should
have no difficulty in tracing its purchase, since such pur-
chase could not have been made prior to the advent of
Swink at the hotel two weeks ago.
Dear me, there is already a fallacy in my reasoning!
I am assuming that the murderer evolved his scheme sub-
sequent to the arrival of Swink and then purchased or


THE FIFTH TUMBLER 181
thought, upon which I embarked so hopefully, has termi-
nated in another blind alley.
Large, however, as the cyanide must bulk in the solu-
tion of the crime, it was not the only ingredient required.
The author of this crime must have had some kind of acid.
Two possibilities arise immediately. Either he knew of the
sulphuric acid contained in the Graham boy's chemical set
or he did not. Could he have known? Well, Mrs. Ham-
mond, at least, was probably informed and she might have
imparted the information to others.
Quaeritur: In the event he provided his own supply of
acid, what means of disposal was used for the excess or
for the container? I cannot believe that the negative re-
sults of the police search may be taken as conclusive. The
bottle may have been hidden in a place where the police
failed to look. But I confess that I am unable to surmise
where such a spot might be.
N.B.: Children and fools tell the truth, according to
the Spanish proverb. In the opinion of Cedric Graham
none of the acid had been used from the bottle contained
among his chemicals.
To consider now the manner of effecting ingress into
the Swink and Graham rooms. Two chambermaids and
Swann, Spanger, and Larson possess the means of open-
ing the two doors. Larson, however, denied that he carries
a passkey while off duty, and no such key was found upon
his person or in his room.
Larson! Strange how inevitably his name occurs in my
every list. He was among those in the west corridor at
nine-thirty. His interest in Miss Gant betrays at least a
suspicion of a motive. He is thoroughly conversant with
the science of chemistry. He possesses the most likely op-


132
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
portunity to secure the cyanide. And, finally, he has ready
access to a passkey. Dear me, the situation is very similar
to the Smith, Brown, Robinson problem which Lieutenant
Mack mentioned. Larson and Larson only meets every
qualification. Ergo, Larson is the only possible solution.
Yes, but why should Larson put his information so
readily at the disposal of the police? Candor deliberately
assumed to disarm suspicion? That would imply a degree
of subtlety which I do not think Larson possesses. Or does
he? In such deep psychological waters I sink over my
head rapidly.
While on the subject of psychology, however, what can
one glean of the murderer's? His plot shows at least one
glaring weakness. Swink, had he not stooped toward the
floor at the moment the test tube shattered, would proba-
bly not have succumbed to the vapor.
Quaeritur: Did the murderer take into consideration the
physiological fact that reason is one of the first faculties
of the mind to be inhibited by alcohol? Did he know of
Swink's habitual intoxication (since it occurred upon
three successive nights, I dare say it may be termed
habitual), and count upon the befuddlement of his vic-
tim's brain?
Also, did he know—or care—that his trap might close
upon an innocent victim? The chambermaid, for instance.
Or did he make sure that she had already left the corri-
dor before he arranged his pitfall?
On the positive side, I find much to commend in the
scheme. "The greatest crimes are perilous in their incep-
tion but well rewarded after their consummation," as
Tacitus aptly observes, yet the slayer of Swink took com-
paratively few hazards.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
133
Point No. 1: The ingredients were easily prepared, the
tube inserted with little difficulty in its position above the
door, once the murderer had secured access to the room.
Far less risk was involved than in an attempt to poison
Swink's food, which would have been difficult and nearly
certain of detection.
Point No. 2: "If it were done when 'tis done, then
'twere well it were done quickly." A slower poison would
have allowed Swink a chance to make an accusation. But
the deadly swiftness of hydrocyanic acid rendered this
danger negligible. (The vapor, introduced through the
lungs, would act with even greater rapidity than if the
poison were swallowed, if I am not mistaken.)
I am unable to resist the temptation to observe paren-
thetically that prussic acid, prepared by an easy process
of distillation from a water in which crushed peach stones
had been soaked, was known and dreaded far toward the
beginnings of civilization. Witness the inscription upon
an Egyptian papyrus which I have seen at the Louvre,
"Pronounce not the name under the penalty of the
peach." "The peach" is, of course, an obvious reference
to the method of manufacture.
Undoubtedly the same baneful drug, or at least one
of the cyanides, was in use among the Romans. Tacitus
mentions several illuminating incidents in the Annals:
Vibulenus Agrippa, after being accused of high trea-
son, snatched a dose of poison from his robes, drank, and
fell dead immediately in the Senate chamber.
The Empress Agrippina, deliberating upon a method
of killing her husband, Claudius, reflected that "the deed
would be betrayed by a poison that was sudden and in-
stantaneous" and employed the skilled poisoner, Locusta,


184
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
to concoct "some rare compound which might derange his
mind and delay death." This drug seems to have been in-
effective, and Claudius was on the verge of recovery when
his physician, Xenophon, under pretense of assisting the
emperor to vomit, inserted in the imperial throat, a
"feather smeared with some rapid poison."
Nero was assured by the same Locusta that the death
of Britannicus "should be as sudden as if it were the hur-
ried work of the dagger." Tacitus' account confirms the
correctness of the prognostication. Britannicus is said to
have lost instantly both "voice and breath."
In each of these three incidents I have underlined the
words which refer to the action of the toxic agent. I can
think of no poison other than the cyanides which would
take effect with the promptitude of the drug swallowed by
Vibulenus Agrippa or that employed in the murder of
Britannicus.
It is growing late, and I have strayed so far from the
mise en scene that I fear I shall never be able to return to-
night. Besides I am so sleepy that further reasoning is
out of the question. But—what appalling secrets the next
few hours may unfold . . .


PART THREE
Friday Morning
XIII
Victor swann closed the door of his office, and the noise
from the lobby diminished to a scarcely audible hum.
Mack regarded appraisingly the oak-paneled wall, the
heavy velvet drapes masking the windows, and the antique
bronze lighting fixture. "Must've cost a pile to fix up this
joint," he mused.
He settled himself in a green-leather upholstered chair
of comfortable proportions as Swann began the conver-
sation.
"Wanted to see you—soon as you came in. Queer things
went on in the night."
Mack's eyes were inquisitive narrow slits. "What
things?"
"Tell him, Jerry," Swann directed.
The house detective cleared his throat with two or three
rumbling coughs and reached in his vest pocket for a
cigar of slender dimensions.
"Stogie, Johnny?"
Mack replied with a disdainful glance at the proffered
1M


136
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
smoke, "I'll stick to my own, thanks. What did go on last
night?"
Spanger decapitated his ladylike cheroot and spat the
end with commendable accuracy into the sand of an urn-
shaped receptacle. "Some one got into Swink's room."
Mack leaped to his feet in one quick motion. "The hell
you say! Who?"
Spanger calmly lit his cigar and flicked the match at
the urn. His aim was poor and it fluttered down to the
heavy carpet. "You tell me. Whoever it was, he wrecked
the furniture."
Swann commenced an indignant inventory of the dam-
age. "Mattress has to be restuffed and two chairs reup-
holstered. God knows what else. Room's a mess."
Mack said, "I hope you didn't try to clean it up."
"Go up and take a look," Spanger retorted. "It's just
the way we found it."
"Who found it?"
"Maid," Spanger replied curtly. "Half an hour or so
ago. The Blakely woman saw something, too," he added,
"but we haven't been able to get anything from her. She's
in her room having hysterics."
"Humph!" Mack's snort might have expressed any
emotion. "Somebody must 've been looking for some-
thing."
"You don't say so!" Spanger drawled sarcastically. "I
thought he was hell-raising out of pure spite."
"I tested that door before we left last night," Mack
recollected. "It was locked then."
"Locks don't mean anything around here now,"
Spanger gibed. "We gotta guy can melt right through
walls."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
137
"Well, get a blotter and blot him up," Mack advised
on his way out. He stopped as his hand was about to close
over the door knob. "Where'll I find the housekeeper?"
"Room 503—Mrs. Simmons." Swann's usual laconic
manner changed suddenly into an earnest pleading. "See
here, Lieutenant Mack, I've got to get this thing cleared
up. Six permanents have already given notice."
Mack answered, "You don't want it cleared up any
more than we do," and left the office without waiting for
Spanger, who was engrossed in conversation with the hotel
manager. He stepped into a waiting elevator, and the
steel doors clanged shut behind him.
"You on duty last night?" he inquired of the pilot.
"No sir. My shift's from seven to three. What floor,
sir?"
"Third." The pilot shifted a lever, and the car shot up-
ward. "When does the next shift go off duty?" Mack
asked.
"Eleven tonight."
Mack left the car. He made another notation in his
notebook as he walked toward the west corridor. The door
to Swink's room stood ajar, and he whistled upon catch-
ing his first glimpse of the interior.
A ruthless hand had torn the covers from the bed,
ripped open the inner spring mattress, and scattered tufts
of black horsehair in several piles. Mack inspected the
damaged mattress and observed that it had been slit in
three distinct places. He turned his attention to the
chairs. Denuded of their upholstery, they stood in naked
shame like a woman caught unawares in the bathtub. One
had been tipped on its side, Mack noted.
The detective's restless eyes flitted to the top of the


138
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
writing desk. "Humph!" he ejaculated. He walked over
to the desk and pulled open the drawer. His face wore a
perplexed expression as he examined the interior. Then
he stepped across the room to the closet. Swink's two extra
suits and a pair of silk pajamas were still hanging there,
and a large tan Gladstone bag was toward the back. Mack
dragged it into the room and jerked it open. He was re-
garding its contents with a thoughtful air when Jerry
Spanger came in.
"You might wait for a fellow," he grumbled and then
asked, "Well, whatta you make of it, Johnny?"
"Something damn queer."
"Whole thing's queer!"
"I don't mean that. Look at this bag."
"What about it? Nothing in it to get excited about."
"Doesn't look like anybody had pawed through it, does
it?"
"Can't say that it does."
Mack gestured toward the dresser.
"I haven't looked inside the bureau yet. But the draw-
ers are closed the way we left 'em last night."
Spanger pulled open a small top drawer while Mack
watched over the house detective's shoulder. "Socks and
hankies," he pronounced. Spanger opened another
drawer. "And here's a pile of shirts. None of this stuff's
been disturbed."
"Well?" Spanger questioned, lifting his bushy eye-
brows.
"Go over and take a look inside the desk drawer,"
Mack directed.
Spanger did so. "Nothing here."


140
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Why?"
"Some houseman might change it to another room. And
that goes for the chairs too. They look just like the chairs
in a lot of other rooms, and once they were out of here it'd
be a devil of a job to trace 'em."
"What makes you think a houseman is suddenly going
to decide to shift furniture?" Spanger questioned.
Mack shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know
whether he would or not? But if I was Swink and wanted
to hide something, I'd think that maybe he might. See? I
wouldn't hide it in anything portable."
Spanger grimaced. "You talk like the country boy who
found the horse because he thought where he'd go if he
was one of 'em. Just where would you hide the papers if
you was a horse?" he demanded with a chuckle.
Mack's eyes shifted absent-mindedly from one wall to
another. "Damned if I know!" he exclaimed. "I think I'd
rent a safety deposit box under a fake name and put 'em
in there. And I'll bet ten bucks that's what our fat friend
did."
"Maybe you're right."
"Well, we've got to get more facts," Mack went on.
"You said the Blakely woman heard something, and the
Gant girl might've too. So might the Hammonds and even
Westborough." He crossed the corridor and knocked on
Sarah Blakely's door.
"Who's there?" a muffled voice asked.
"Police. We want to talk to you."
"You'll have to wait a few minutes. I'm taking a bath."
"Hell," Mack muttered under his breath. He turned to
the house detective. "Keep an eye on this door, Jerry, and
don't let the old dame sneak out on us."


142 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Hammond, clad only in gaudy yellow-striped pajamas,
opened the door.
"Be quiet, can't you? My wife's asleep."
"Come out here, then."
"Be with you in a minute." He slipped a dressing gown
of Tyrian purple over his pajamas, and Mack escorted
him to Swink's room.
"Know anything about this?"
Hammond shook his head. "Someone sure made a mess,
didn't they? Who was it?"
"If I knew I wouldn't be asking you."
"Well, I can't help you."
"How'd you sleep last night?"
"Like hell! How'd you expect anyone to sleep with the
racket you were making in here?"
"So you heard us?" Mack glanced up with quick in-
terest. "How late did we keep it up?"
"How should I know? I kept dozing off for a few min-
utes and then waking up again all night long." His fore-
head puckered. "I did look at my watch once, though,
when I got up to go to the bathroom."
"What time was it?"
"Few minutes past five."
"And the noise was still going on?"
"Worse if anything."
"People talking?"
"No, it didn't sound like that. More like furniture be-
ing moved."
"And you thought it was the police?"
"Who else could it be?"
Mack said slowly, "We were all out of here before three-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
143
thirty. Hammond, that makes the second time you heard
the murderer!"
XIV
Theocritus lucius westborotjgh peeped from his bed-
room. "Good-morning, Lieutenant Mack," he began as he
glimpsed the detective. "I have made an analysis which I
should like to have you read."
Mack waved the proffered papers impatiently away.
"Some other time. What I want to know right now is if
you heard anything fishy going on across the corridor
about five this morning."
Westborough reluctantly restored the sheaf to his breast
pocket. "Dear me, I'm sorry, but I heard nothing. I am
afraid that I was paying profound allegiance to the god-
dess of Sleep at about that hour."
"You can come in now," Mrs. Blakeley's muffled voice
sounded from the door of the next room.
"May I accompany you?" Westborough inquired.
"Sure." Mack stepped into Mrs. Blakeley's room fol-
lowed by Westborough and Jerry Spanger. The irate
dowager glowered at the house detective.
"Mr. Swink's room is haunted, and I don't intend to
spend another night in this place if I can help it. And I
don't like tobacco smoke, so you'll have to put that thing
out."
Spanger laid his cigar at the edge of the writing desk.
"Sorry, Mrs. Blakeley. Now what's it all about?"
"Don't put that thing there," she shrieked. "Do you
want to start a fire?"
Spanger regretfully went to the window and tossed the


144,
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
butt into the court. "What's this about Swink's room be-
ing haunted?"
"An evil spirit has taken possession. A—a—polter-
geist."
"What?"
"I said a poltergeist."
"In the name of the seven ring-tailed fishes, what's
that?"
"Poltergeist," Westborough informed, "is a combina-
tion of two German words: geist, a spirit; polter, to cause
a disturbance. I believe that, in the language of psychical
research it refers to a spirit addicted to practical jokes.
One who causes raps, weird noises, and so on."
"Tripe!" Mack exclaimed contemptuously.
Sarah Blakely, looking at him as though he were a
cockroach upon which she was about to set foot, quoted
in a sepulchral voice, " 'There are more things in heaven
and earth . . . than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
"Just the same," Mack scoffed, "I never heard of a
spook that tore up furniture."
"That shows how little you know about it," Mrs.
Blakely flared indignantly. "There are things in this uni-
verse too deep and too mysterious to be understood by our
poor earthbound minds. Don't you think so, Mr. West-
borough?"
"The phenomena of haunting," Westborough declared,
"cannot be laughed entirely away. The French astrono-
mer, Camille Flammarion, devoted a quarter of a century
in collecting several thousand reports dealing with this
subject. Most of the instances he cites were, I believe, well
authenticated."
"They," Mrs. Blakely proclaimed with an awed empha-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
145
sis upon the pronoun, "have moved a couch and chairs in
a semicircle as though the devil had held a council meet-
ing. They have taken down dishes from shelves, emptied
boxes of linen, pulled books from bookcases, and lifted a
heavy mahogany bed straight up several feet from the
floor while a man was lying on it. They have rung door-
bells, burst open locked doors, turned keys, fired guns,
and caused picture frames to fall to the floor. They bom-
barded a house in Belgium with over 300 stones and, at
a house in Portugal, even stole a baby from its cradle
and stripped off its swaddling clothes. And you say, Lieu-
tenant Mack"
Mack hurriedly interrupted the discourse. "How do
you know there was a poultry-goose in Swink's room?"
She sniffed. "I was not referring to a species of
chicken."
"You score a ten-strike there," Spanger chuckled.
"Now tell us about it."
In a voice hollow and theatrical, she whispered, "I
heard it this morning."
"When?" Mack put in quickly.
"Very early. I believe it was about five o'clock."
"You heard it from here?"
She hesitated guiltily before shaking her head. "No,
from the hall."
"What were you doing in the hall at five o'clock in the
morning?"
Her voice raised in shrill protest. "I don't propose to
be talked to that way. I called my lawyer on the telephone
this morning, and he assures me that I don't have to an-
swer any of your questions."
"Just the same," Mack insisted, "I'd like to know what


146
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
you were doing in the hall at five o'clock in the morning."
"Your lawyer is quite right," Westborough put in
gently, "but, Mrs. Blakely, you want to help the police
to bring a murderer to justice, do you not?"
"Ye—es," she admitted hesitantly. "That's why I was
in the hall this morning."
"To help bring a murderer to justice?" Westborough
asked. She nodded, and Mack broke in, a puzzled expres-
sion on his face:
"How could you help do that by being in the hall?"
"Well, if you must know, I'll tell you about it," Mrs.
Blakely agreed, settling herself in a chair and adjusting
the folds of her flowing black skirt. She turned the full
battery of her spectacled eyes upon Mack. "People who
do not know are always quick to scoff at the things they
do not understand," she pronounced. "Lieutenant Mack,
will you loan me your pocketbook, watch charm, key case,
any little object you have carried and touched?"
With a look of blank incredulity, Mack passed over a
fountain pen. She clutched it tightly in her right hand,
closed her eyes, and sank back in her chair, her face bear-
ing a rapt expression.
"I see a street," Mrs. Blakely declaimed in a deep,
sibylline voice. "It is lined with elm trees. There are rows
of little brick bungalows. It is a street in a western
suburb. The suburb is called Westmay."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Mack exclaimed. "That's where
I live."
"I see a house," Mrs. Blakely's sepulchral tones con-
tinued. "It is number—the numbers do not come clearly.
A little tot is playing in the front yard. She is about five
years old and tow-headed. A woman is sifting flour into


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
147
a big green bowl. She is a tall woman with yellow hair
gathered into a knot at the back of her head. She goes to
the front door and calls, 'Ann.' The child enters the house,
and I do not see more."
"I'm a son of a sea cook!" Mack declared, his fore-
head knit in evident perplexity. "My wife and kid to a
T. Mrs. Blakely, I don't know what hocus-pocus you're
working, but I have to hand it to you."
"Psychometry, isn't it?" Westborough inquired. "I
have seen some very interesting demonstrations."
Mrs. Blakely returned the fountain pen to the detec-
tive and cackled, in the manner of a hen who has just laid
a particularly large and imposing egg, "Do you see now
why I crossed the hall this morning?"
"But you couldn't get into Swink's room," Mack
objected, his shrewd common sense once more in the fore-
ground. "Don't you need something belonging to a per-
son to work this monkey business?"
"He had touched the door knob," Mrs. Blakely
declared impressively, "and so had his murderer. I have
secured astonishing results with less upon which to work."
Mack leaned forward eagerly and asked, "Did you find
out anything?" His informant shivered.
"It was the most harrowing experience of my whole
life. I hadn't any more than touched my hand to the knob
when I heard an awful noise from inside the room. At that
moment I realized the presence of a poltergeist and that
I was in terrible danger. I ran back to my own room and
buried my head under the covers. Not that that would do
any good, though, if I once came within the sphere of his
influence. Fortunately, I don't believe that happened."
"Prune juice!" Spanger ejaculated under his breath.


148
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Mack glared at him and asked Mrs. Blakely to describe
the kind of noise she had heard.
"Raps," that lady replied promptly. "Now here, now
there, now all over the room at once." A shudder ran over
her stout body. "Never in all my life have I know such
awful terror."
"Well, the what-you-call-it's gone now," Mack said
cheerfully. "Wait a minute and I'll bring you one of
Swink's hankies to hold in your hand. Maybe you'll be
able to tell us who killed him."
"Are you crazy?" she shrieked. "Nothing on earth
would induce me to put myself within reach of that evil
spirit. There are times when it is a fate worse than death
to peep behind the Curtain."
"Well, if you won't, you won't," Mack said philosoph-
ically. When the door had closed behind the three men
he remarked to Westborough, "Is that old dame loony?
Or am I? She had me going for a while."
"Once in a blue moon there appear to be genuine
psychic phenomena," Westborough answered. "Whether
or not the present incident is in this category I am, of
course, unable to say."
"How'd she learn about my house?" Mack demanded.
"Even you didn't know that, Jerry."
Spanger's head moved negatively. "You had a flat in
Niles Center the last time I heard. Also I thought your
kid was called Gertrude."
"I should like very much to have your opinion upon
this analysis," Westborough ventured, reaching within
his breast pocket. Mack waved him away again and took
the elevator to the fifth floor. He found the housekeeper
alone in her office glancing over a printed form headed


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
149
"Service Memo" and so absorbed in her work that she
failed to hear his entrance. The report, Mack noted, pro-
vided numerous columns to show the bath towels, face
towels, sheets, pillowcases, blankets, and what not sup-
plied to each bedroom. His glance swerved from it to Mrs.
Simmons, whose sweet, motherly face was surrounded by
a cloud of white hair. Mack took one look and mentally
removed his headpiece. Here was a real lady, and he knew
it.
"Good-morning, ma'am."
The housekeeper said to herself, "She left three bath
towels at 406 and it should only get two," and looked up
from the report with a slightly puzzled expression. As
she saw Mack her face cleared.
"Oh yes, you're from the police force. Mr. Swann
warned me."
"Warned you, ma'am?"
"That's hardly the way to put it," she laughed. "I
should say he informed me you were going to pay a visit."
Mack said, "Are the mattresses in this hotel ever
changed from one room to another?"
"Not unless a guest makes a fuss about his mattress,
and that seldom happens. They're the best inner-spring
mattresses made. I know because I selected them. No, they
are never moved from one room to another, although a
houseman turns each mattress over once a week: one week
from end to end and the next week from side to side."
"Well, that clears up a point," Mack declared.
"What point?"
"Nothing much. Just an argument I had with your
house detective. All the maids carry passkeys, don't
they?"


150
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Floor keys, yes."
"Are they pretty careful with 'em? About opening
doors for guests and letting other people handle 'em and
so on?"
"No maid is allowed to open the door for a guest,"
Mrs. Simmons rejoined firmly. "She must tell him politely
that he will have to apply to the room clerk. And if a girl
loses her passkey it usually means her job, and she knows
it."
"Has anyone lost a passkey recently?"
"No."
"What do they do with the keys while they're going
through a room?" Mack questioned.
"I don't understand."
"Well, my wife comes home from the store, and she
leaves her key in the outside of the lock," Mack explained.
"I've given her the devil for it—I beg your pardon,
ma'am—several times, but she keeps on doing it just the
same. Have you got any girls with that habit?"
"I did reprimand one girl for carelessness of that na-
ture," Mrs. Simmons reflected. "I told her about two
weeks ago that I would have to dismiss her if she per-
sisted in leaving her key in the lock while she cleaned a
room."
"What's her name?"
"Anna Larson."
"Larson, huh? Any relation to your night clerk?"
"No, indeed. Mr. Larson is an entirely different type."
Mack failed to conceal his eagerness. "Does this girl
happen to clean the rooms opening off the west corridor
of the third floor?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
151
The housekeeper replied thoughtfully, "Why yes, she
does!"
XV
Mack looked across the room at the chambermaid, Anna
Larson, whom he had finally run to earth with the aid of
the housekeeper's schedule. She was a plain girl with a
rather unintelligent face. "Just a dumb Swede," Mack
remarked to himself.
"Are you Anna Larson?"
The maid pulled a chair near the bed and deposited her
armful of sheets and pillowcases. It seemed to take several
minutes for her slow mind to grasp that she was being
addressed. "Yes," she said finally, "but I can't talk to
you. We're not allowed to while we're working."
Mack flicked back the lapel of his coat.
"I think you'd better talk to me, sister."
"A policeman!" she gasped. "I haven't done nothing."
"Who said you had? Just want to ask you a few ques-
tions, sister. Go right on working if it makes your con-
science feel easier."
With deft hands the maid spread a sheet over the mat-
tress pad and tucked in the corners. She shook out the
pillows and put fresh pillowcases on them. "What do you
want to know?"
"How long does it take to do a room?" Mack asked.
She completed the bed and began to dust the telephone
mouthpiece. There was silence for so long that Mack won-
dered if she had heard the question.
"I have to do sixteen rooms each day," she informed


152 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
him at length. "That's if they have people in them. For
every room with people that I don't do, I have to do three
rooms without people."
"Say that again," Mack directed. She did so, her dust
cloth flitting across the furniture, and Mack nodded, "All
right, I get it. If you didn't do sixteen occupied rooms in
a day, you'd have to do forty-eight vacant rooms."
"If I did nothing but vacant rooms."
"Skip it," Mack advised. "How many hours do you
work per day?"
"I don't know. I come to work at seven and I go home
at three."
Mack did mental arithmetic.
"Eight-hour day, sixteen rooms. That means you're in
each room half an hour?"
She dusted the closet shelf, the window sill, the ledge
at the top of the sash, the mirror over the dresser, and
each picture frame. "No wonder Jimmy Selzer didn't find
any fingerprints," Mack mused.
The question had finally percolated. "I guess it's about
half an hour," she pronounced.
"You've had some trouble, haven't you?" Mack asked.
"Didn't you get bawled out for leaving your passkey on
the outside of the door?"
Anna Larson's face reddened. "I forgot about that."
"Ever do that trick since?" Mack wanted to know.
"You don't need to worry about me. I won't tell anyone
about it." He was forced to qualify this statement, "That
is, unless I have to, and then I'll see that you keep your
job."
"I keep forgetting," she said sullenly. "I know I
shouldn't, but I can't seem to help it. I forget all about


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
153
that key until I come out and find it sticking in the lock
outside."
"Humph!" Mack ejaculated. "How many times a day
do you leave your key around like that?"
"Maybe once or twice."
"Ever find your key missing when you came out?" She
shook her head. "Come on, tell the truth about it, sister.
I'll see you keep your job."
"I'm telling the truth. I never did."
"Oh, you found it again, of course," Mack went on,
"lying on the floor or something. But it was gone for a
while, wasn't it?"
She shook her head again.
"I'm giving it to you straight, mister. I've never missed
the key."
Mack gave it up. He left the third floor and went down
to the carpenter shop. From within came the strains of
"The Man on the Flying Trapeze," expertly whistled.
Mack flung the door open. Sunlight streamed through
one of the basement windows to illuminate the tall, gangly
figure at the carpenter's bench. He had clamped what
appeared to be the leg of a chair in a vise and was sand-
papering while he whistled.
Mack inquired, "You do the locksmith work around
here?"
The carpenter looked at him suspiciously.
"You'll have to tell it to the room clerk, mister."
Once again Mack jerked back the lapel of his coat.
"I don't know whether you know it or not, but there
was a murder in this dump last night."
"Yeh, I heard about it." The carpenter laid down his
sandpaper and reached in the pocket of his apron for a


154
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
stubby, well-caked briar and a nickel sack of tobacco.
"Where do I come in?"
"What's your name?"
"Hugh Clark."
Mack jotted it down in his notebook. "Did Larson tell
you two or three days ago to fix the door of room 311?"
"Yep, and I did."
"What was the matter with it?"
"It stuck a little against the jamb. Not much, but
enough to stop the door from locking when it was
slammed shut."
Mack thumbed back several pages in his notebook and
made a check mark.
"Do you do the locksmith work?" he again asked.
"Yep. What there is of it."
"You keep a supply of blanks here, I suppose?"
"Yep."
"And a set of duplicates for every room?"
Clark jerked his thumb toward a large steel cabinet.
"In there."
Mack took a close look at it, and saw that Jerry
Spanger had been right about the two padlocks. "You
take care of 'em all right."
Clark smiled. "I'm responsible for those keys, and no-
body's going to get at 'em without my knowing it."
Mack said, "Tell me something about the locks here."
"What do you want to know about 'em?"
"Can you open 'em with skeleton keys?"
"Skeleton keys, hell!" Clark jeered. "What do you
think we have here—warded locks? The key has to push
up a row of five pin tumblers in the cylinder, and a varia-
tion of even a fiftieth of an inch will stop the plug from


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
155
turning. What skeleton key would work on a layout like
that? You couldn't even get one in the keyhole—it takes
a paracentric key."
"What the deuce is a paracentric key?"
"The keyway is corrugated with ridges on both sides,
and your key has to be corrugated to fit or it won't go
in."
Mack said, "I'll take your word for it. But your corru-
gations won't prevent a pick being stuck in to force up
the tumblers."
"They make it damn difficult. The keyway's pretty
small to begin with, and that makes it hard to get a pick
in so it can rake the tumblers. I'm not saying it can't be
done," Clark mused as though thinking aloud. "God
knows any lock with an open keyhole can be picked, given
a guy clever enough and with time enough to do it. But
I will say this much: opening one of these locks with a
pick is no job for an amateur."
"Jerry Spanger said he couldn't do it."
"That flatfoot!" Clark exclaimed contemptuously.
"Two doors were opened last night," Mack said. "This
fellow might've gotten hold of Swink's key and slipped
the catch so he could open the door later on. That would
call for a tricky bit of maneuvering to get it away from
Swink and back to him again, but still it might be done.
But Graham's door was opened too, and he couldn't get
Graham's key because it was down in the key rack all eve-
ning, and he'd have to hit the room clerk over the head
first. Either he picked the locks or he got hold of a pass-
key some way. Which do you think?"
Clark hunched his shoulders, "I'm damned if I know."
"Well, there's one way to find out," Mack went on. "I


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
157
Smiling at the little man's persistence, Mack took the
papers from him and ran through them hastily.
"You've got it all down in black and white. So what?"
"I thought it might prove helpful as a means of ap-
proach," Westborough began hesitantly.
"Listen here," Mack scoffed. "You've got a lot of fine
four-bit words here—I can't even pronounce some of 'em,
let alone tell you what they mean—and it reads swell, but
when it comes down to it, what do you say? Nothing that
we don't already know, do you?"
"I suppose not."
"Crimes aren't solved by a guy sitting around on his
fanny and thinking about 'em," Mack said patronizingly.
"You've got to get the facts, and that calls for leg work.
Leg work, that's what it takes. An ounce of leg work is
worth a pound of theories. Do you know what I'm going
to do today?"
Westborough shook his head.
"I've got the whole squad working on this case. We're
going to comb every silver plater, every photographer,
every steel foundry, and every other place we can think
of where a guy might've got some cyanide. If he bought
it, someone will remember, and if he hooked it—well, we'll
probably be able to get a description of a stranger hang-
ing around the plant that we can tie in with some one in
the hotel. And I've got a lot more work to do right in this
hotel—see? As soon as the afternoon shift comes on, I've
got to have a powwow with the room clerk. I've got to
find the chambermaid who turns down the beds in the west
corridor and talk to all the elevator operators. Hell, I've
even got to see the shine in the washroom who fixed Chil-


158
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
ton's panties. That, Mr. Westborough, is the way crimes
are cleared up, and it's the only way."
This was one of the longest speeches Mack had ever
made, and it was met by the perfect tribute paid to the
Gettysburg address—silence. Mack went on in a some-
what kindlier manner. "That wasn't such a bad point you
made about Larson's laboratory. We'll have to check that
up pretty carefully." He continued to thumb through
Westborough's notes. "Hell, what's all this junk about
Tacitus?"
Westborough flushed. "I didn't mean to include that
sheet. It contains some reflections of my own that are
really not germane to the case."
Mack's eyes traversed the paper with an interest far
from perfunctory.
"You know a lot about poisons, don't you, West-
borough?"
"A little, yes."
Mack loosed a Parthian arrow as he crossed the lobby.
"Well, take care that you don't know too much for your
own good."
XVI
"Regal plating works" read the legend on the building
directory. Mack grinned. "So do I, but I don't have to
put up a sign about it."
It was a dingy five-story red-brick building, and it
stood in the middle of the wholesale and small manufac-
turing district just north of the Loop. Trucks rattled and
rumbled over the ancient stone pavement of the street out-
side while the detective waited for the elevator. It de-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
scended at last—an antediluvian car with twisted grat-
ings. A crusty old operator was wrangling with a smart-
aleck messenger boy as Mack stepped inside the car.
"Them boys are always leaving the doors to the shaft
open," he grumbled. "The inspector gives me the old Ned
for it, but it ain't my fault. I can't be on every floor at
once to watch the kids."
"Tough luck," Mack sympathized. "Four."
"That's the Regal Plating Works. They've got the
entire floor. Peerless Plating is on the second, and there's
still another on the third. You'd think those fellows would
spread out a bit over the rest of the city instead of nest-
ing up with their competitors, wouldn't you?"
He canvassed the Regal Plating Works and the plat-
ing concerns on the third and second floors with fruitless
results. Any worker in a silver-plating establishment, he
concluded, would have no difficulty in contriving the de-
mise of his mother-in-law in case the old lady became un-
bearable. But an outsider—well, that was something else
again! The places were all practically burglar proof, and
a careful check was kept on the stuff. He called on several
photographers and two or three photo-engravers in the
neighborhood and reached the same conclusions with re-
gard to these businesses. Clearly the tracing of the cya-
nide was going to prove troublesome.
He returned to the Hotel Equable and approached the
desk. Collins, the room clerk, was for the moment unoccu-
pied.
"Where do you keep your passkeys?" Mack questioned
him.
Collins jerked open a drawer. "In here. We only have
two of them."


160
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Keep records of when you let a bellhop or somebody
take one?"
"We keep records of just about everything in the hotel
business." Collins referred to some reports. "A bellman
borrowed a key about four o'clock to take a package to
the sixth floor."
"How long'd he have it?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"Humph!" Mack pondered. "Anybody using either of
those keys last night?"
"No, both of them were at the desk all evening."
"Are you just saying that, or did you actually see
them?"
"I saw 'em several times," Collins bridled. "Last time
was somewhere around ten."
"And several times before that, huh?"
"Yes."
"That's that!" Mack exclaimed. He lit a fresh cigar
and took two or three meditative puffs. "Did Graham
leave his key at the desk last night?"
"Yes, about eight-thirty or so. He was with his family
and Mrs. Hammond. If you want to know the time they
got back, I can tell you that too. It was a quarter to
twelve"
"One thing at a time," Mack cut in. "Where was
Swink's key?"
"I don't know, but it wasn't here. He got it early in
the evening, and he never did bring it back again."
"That checks with what you told Phelan—O'Ryan's
Man Friday," Mack admitted. "Speaking of Phelan, how
were you able to remember all the times people asked for
keys and so on? I couldn't do it."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
161
The room clerk appeared to be pleased at the compli-
ment. "We've been trained to keep our eyes open, and you
have to remember names and faces in the hotel business.
I'll admit, however, that some of the times on that list
were guesswork."
"Including any of the people in the west corridor?"
Mack wanted to know.
"No, I'm pretty sure about those. Most of them have
been here for some time."
"How long has Chilton been here?"
"Since Monday, I think." Collins consulted the regis-
ter and nodded confirmatively. "Yes, that's right. Say, I
just happened to think of something about him."
"What?"
"Before he registered he asked if Swink was staying
here."
"The hell he did!"
"When I gave him Swink's room number he asked for
something on the third floor," Collins went on. "I fixed
him up with a room as close to Swink's as I could manage.
Figured they were friends."
"I thought there was something screwy about that
guy!" Mack ejaculated. "He told us he'd never seen
Swink before he came here." He scrutinized attentively
the tiers of pigeonholes in the key rack. "Were you at
the desk all evening, Collins?"
"I was on duty, wasn't I? In fact, I stayed three or
four hours overtime because you kept Larson upstairs."
"If you were away from the desk for even two or three
minutes," Mack persisted, "somebody might've borrowed
one of the passkeys."
Collins said, "You're barking up the wrong tree this


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
163
An array of white porcelain washbowls gleamed from
the lavatory. The nickel-plated fittings were polished to
mirror brightness, and the tiled floor was scrubbed im-
maculately. Mack held his hands under a metal spheroid
containing liquid soap and turned on the hot water. A
gentleman of African ancestry approached to lay a neatly
folded towel beside him.
"Yassuh, boss?"
Mack sloshed his hands about in the bowl and picked
up the towel. "You on duty last night, George?"
"Yassuh."
"Know Mr. Chilton?"
"Ah does now, boss."
The elevator pilot, Mack recalled, had said practically
the same thing. He wondered by what underground chan-
nels of information the account of Chilton's importance
in the Swink case had gotten around to the hotel em-
ployees.
"Was Chilton in here last night?"
"Yassuh, he sure was!" The Negro chuckled throatily.
"His suspenders was in a bad way, and Ah had to sew a
button on his pants."
Chilton's excuse for leaving the bar was just silly
enough to be true, Mack mused, or else he had already
bribed the coon. The detective glowered threateningly.
"I'm on the police force, George."
"Thought you was, suh."
"And if you don't come clean with me I'll put you in
the pen for thirty years," Mack admonished sternly. "Did
Chilton slip you five bucks to tell me he was in the wash-
room?"
The Negro's consternation was apparently genuine.


164
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"No suh! Ah ain't never seen him today. Honest Ah ain't,
boss."
Mack said, "All right, George, have a cigar," and left
the lavatory. The leg work he had bragged about to
Westborough was getting him exactly nowhere, he re-
flected on his way to the carpenter shop.
Hugh Clark looked up from his bench. "I've got your
locks ready for you."
"Which is which?"
"You're looking at Swink's now. Take this magnifying
glass and you can see better."
Mack inspected the pile of parts from the lock in the
best Sherlockian tradition, and then leaned over to sur-
vey those from its mate. He vented a low whistle of aston-
ishment.
"Both of 'em picked, huh?"
"I'd call it that," Clark agreed curtly.


PART FOUR
Saturday Night
XVII
Jerry spanger, the inevitable thin cigar twisted into the
corner of his mouth, looked up from his newspaper as
Lieutenant John Mack entered the lobby. He rose to his
feet and shuffled toward the desk in time to hear Mack
ask Collins:
"Chilton in?"
"I'll have the operator call," Collins replied.
"Wait a minute," Spanger cut in, "Johnny, your
friend Chilton was trying to take French leave tonight."
"What?"
"I told him it'd be healthier to ask you before he pulled
out as long as he was one of the principal witnesses in a
murder case."
"How long ago was this?"
"About fifteen minutes. He had his suitcase packed and
wanted to pay his bill and check out."
Larry Collins volunteered further information: "He
got a wire earlier in the evening."
105


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
167
who carried a suitcase, was fumbling with the fire-escape
door.
"Chilton!" Mack exclaimed and darted after him.
The fugitive had a good start, and, despite his suitcase,
was making excellent time in the descent of the fire escape.
Mack followed down the steel stairs. At the second floor
the stairs swung to the ground under Chilton's weight,
and Mack was so close behind that the counterpoise had
no chance to get into action. He reached the ground just
as Chilton climbed into a cruising Yellow. Gears ground
together in a noisy shriek, and the cab was off like a
golden streak. But Mack's own car was waiting, with
Westborough at the wheel and the engine running. Mack
sprang inside and quickly displaced Westborough from
the driver's seat.
The Yellow turned the corner, a block in advance of its
pursuers, and shot south on Michigan. Mack reached the
boulevard just as a green light changed to red. He turned
into the boulevard in defiance of the signal, barely escap-
ing collision with an ancient Ford, loaded with five fat
Italians, who shrieked anathemas which neither Mack nor
Westborough heard. The little man was leaning tensely
forward in his seat.
"So this is what a man hunt is like. There is a certain
indescribable thrill."
Mack grunted and stepped on the gas. "The fool hasn't
a chance. We'll catch him in half a mile."
From ahead came the clamor of a bell. It was ringing
steadily and monotonously, and to Chicagoans it meant
just one thing. "The bridge!" Mack exclaimed. "Some
damn barge wants through. We're sunk if they beat us
across."


THE FIFTH TUMBLEB
169
"You're going to be," Mack reported severely. "What-
ever'd you want to do a damn fool stunt like this for?
Didn't you know it would be a dead giveaway?"
"I can explain."
"You'll have to—down at headquarters. The New York
police talked to Crabb and Cunningham."
"If you go back to the hotel first," Chilton told him,
"you'll find a letter for you."
"What?"
"I wasn't pulling out without letting you know who
I was. I left it in my room."
"All right, we'll go back to the hotel, but you're going
to have to do some tall talking. No James Chilton ever
worked for Crabb and Cunningham."
Mack, who drove rapidly at all times, reached the Hotel
Equable in a very few minutes. He drew up before the
red-and-white striped canopy at the entrance, parking
expertly before a sign which plainly read, "No Parking."
His hand rested in his coat pocket as Chilton stepped
from the car, his shrewd, watchful eyes never for a min-
ute relaxing their vigil over that man.
The newspapers had been generous in the space allotted
to the "Equable Murder," and a horde of curiosity seekers
had been thronging about the hotel ever since, to the
great disgust of Swann, who saw no way to rid himself
of these unwelcome visitors. A number of them were now
ensconced in the most comfortable chairs in the lobby,
having driven away by their presence the regular occu-
pants, even such seasoned veterans as Sarah Blakely.
Many inquisitive glances were now directed at the detec-
tive and his party, which Mack returned with contemptu-
ous annoyance. He had no patience with busybodies.


170
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Upstairs," he directed shortly. "We'll talk in your
room, Chilton."
Jerry Spanger and other Equable employees, by hercu-
lean efforts and with the firm cooperation of the police
force, had succeeded in convincing the idly curious that
it was healthier not to wander about the upper floors.
Hence the west corridor was left severely alone.
Mack opened the door with Chilton's key and they
stepped over the threshold. Westborough followed. The
detective, who seemed to have a liking for the little man,
made no attempt to order him away.
"Well?" Mack demanded and Chilton pointed at the
writing desk. Mack picked up an envelope with the Hotel
Equable return card in its upper corner. He tore it open
and perused its contents in austere silence.
"A fine story, Chilton," he sneered finally. "Can you
prove it?"
Chilton reached toward his breast pocket, but Mack
stopped him.
"Keep your hands away from there! Frisk him, West-
borough."
"Frisk?" Westborough repeated, then his face cleared.
"Oh, yes, to be sure."
He patted the outside of Chilton's pockets with his
thin white hands. "He doesn't have a revolver."
"Good!" Mack grunted. "Now hand me those papers
he was trying to get."
Westborough reached in Chilton's pocket and handed
the detective an opened letter together with a billfold.
Mack read aloud.
"The Amco Detective Agency—licensed, bonded. Re-
liable male and female operatives of all nationalities,


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
171
trades, professions, or occupations. Personal surveillance
—with or without autos. Dictograph and wire service.
Dependable advice on confidential matters, including
patent infringements, blackmail and threatening letters.
Escorts or watchmen furnished for all occasions. Call on
Amco—days, nights, or Sundays. Not the largest but the
best."
Mack put the letter into his pocket. "I've heard of
Amco—but these things can be forged. I knew a crook
who carried credentials from twenty different agencies.
We stopped his racket, though, and he's doing time. Why
didn't you bring these out before, Chilton?"
"I would have if they were fakes, wouldn't I?" Chilton
demanded belligerently. "But since they're the real thing
I didn't want to tip my hand, at least not until I'd given
the client a chance to have his say. We claim our investi-
gations are confidential, and we mean it."
Mack thought it over. "That doesn't sound so screwy.
Now that you mention it, I remember the crook I was tell-
ing you about always used to flash his fake credentials
right away. But if I pass that stall, you'll have to still
explain why you beat it down the fire escape."
"Same reason."
"You got a wire tonight," Mack reminded him. "That
from the client?"
"No—headquarters."
"What'd you do with it?" Mack demanded.
Chilton took a yellow envelope from his coat pocket.
Mack read the telegram thoughtfully.
"Humph! It's signed Amco, but what the hell? Anyone
can stick a name on a telegram. They tell you to say noth-
ing unless you can't help yourself. You're in that fix now,


172
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Chilton, and I'd advise you to talk. Who's your client?"
"I can't tell you."
"You can't or you won't?"
"Even if I knew," Chilton said emphatically, "I prob-
ably wouldn't tell you. But I don't, and that's straight.
The chief got the dope and gave me instructions."
"You didn't see your client?"
"Nope."
"Nor hear his name?"
"No. The chief can be close-mouthed as hell."
"He told you to shadow Swink, eh?"
"It wasn't exactly shadowing—we call it personal sur-
veillance."
"You weren't so clever when you asked for a room near
Swink," Mack sneered. Chilton stiffened in the manner of
the beggar reputed to have said, "Gentlemen, you can
give or not give, as you choose—but don't tell me how to
run my business."
"I didn't know Swink from Adam so I had to have his
room number. How was I to know the guy was going to
be murdered? Ordinarily the room clerk would have for-
gotten all about it when he saw me chumming with
Swink."
"What were your instructions?"
"To register at the hotel, strike up an acquaintance
with Swink, and pretend I was a sucker if he tried to sell
me anything."
"What else?"
"To get evidence that would stick on a charge of using
the mails to defraud."
"What?" Mack exploded, and Chilton repeated his an-
swer.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
173
"What was Swink's racket?" Mack asked.
"As near as I could make out he was on the level. I had
the Georgetown mine investigated; we've got a connection
with an agency in Denver. They wired on Thursday after-
noon the mine was bona fide and Swink an accredited
representative."
"Know anything about Swink's past?" Chilton shook
his head at this question. "Wasn't that part of the inves-
tigation?" Mack persisted.
"If it was, another of our men handled it. As I said
before, the chief never tells his operatives any more than
he can help. I don't think Swink had been any mama's
angel child, though."
"What makes you say that?" Mack inquired quickly.
Chilton shrugged his shoulders. "Call it a hunch if you
want to. In this game you get a feeling that tells you
whether a man's on the level or a crook. You ought to
know that."
"I do," Mack declared, his eyes fixed sternly on Chil-
ton. "Sure you're not keeping something back?"
"I've told you all I know. You'll have to get the rest
from the home office."
"Your name isn't Chilton, of course?"
"No, it's Jasper. Robert Jasper. Chilton was one of the
guys who came over on the Mayflower."
"To be sure!" Westborough exclaimed. "No wonder
that the name struck a familiar chord in my memory.
James Chilton was one of the forty-one signatories of the
historic Mayflower Compact. He died the same month as
the landing at Plymouth and left no male heirs but a
daughter Mary, who"
"Anyway," Jasper interrupted, "I figured the name


174
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
would make a good front." He bent down for his suitcase.
"There's just time to make my train."
"Wait!" Mack's voice barked like a pistol shot. "I'm
not through with you, Chilton, or Jasper, or whatever
your name is. Did we search your room the night of the
murder?"
Surprise was written large on Jasper's face. "Why—
yes. All of them were searched, weren't they?"
"Your person too?"
"Oh, sure—your men did a complete and thorough
job."
"Yes," Mack admitted, "Phelan was in charge, and
Phelan is a smart young fellow. He doesn't miss many
bets. Not many."
"Well, what of it? He didn't find anything."
"That's just the point!" Mack ejaculated. "He didn't!
He didn't find those papers you showed me. Why not?"
Jasper stroked his chin but volunteered no answer.
"Don't tell me you hid 'em under the rug or anything like
that," Mack challenged. "Phelan would 've spotted any
ordinary hide-out. But you had 'em ditched in a good safe
place. Where?"
"There's a trick pocket in this," said Jasper, indicat-
ing the suitcase. He edged toward the door, but Mack's
broad shoulders blocked the entrance.
"Open it up," Mack demanded peremptorily.
"Let me see your search warrant," Jasper hedged.
"Oh, you want one of those, do you? I'll get it all right,
but you'll stick in the jug till I do. Now, are you going
to give me the keys or not?"
Jasper sullenly took a key case from his pocket. "It's
this little one."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
175
Mack flung the suitcase upon the bed and threw out
helter-skelter socks, shirts, ties, and pajamas in a way
that reminded Westborough of a terrier digging in sand.
"Where's the trick pocket?" he demanded.
Jasper pressed an almost invisible bump, and a flap,
cunningly concealed within the lid, opened. Mack ex-
plored the recess with his hand and whistled. He drew out
a curious object which looked like a long curved needle
attached to a handle.
"Do you know what this is?"'
Westborough shook his head. "If I might hazard a sur-
mise"
"It's called a pick," Mack interrupted, "and it's used
in opening cylinder locks. Swink's room was entered with
one and so was Graham's."
Westborough caught the glint of steel as Mack's hand
withdrew from his pocket. The next instant there was a
sharp click, and Jasper stood with manacled hands.
"Robert Jasper-Chilton," Mack pronounced sternly,
"you may say you're a private dick, but you're just the
common or garden variety of killer to me."


PART FIVE
Sunday
XVIII
Sunday mornings were surprisingly quiet at the Hotel
Equable. Most of the guests slept until noon.
Westborough, returning to his room from an early
breakfast, noted with approval that the chambermaid had
completed her ministrations while he was enjoying his
toasted English muffins and marmalade. She had left the
windows open, and the morning sun streamed from the
court in a blaze of glory. After a week of deluges and
drizzles, typical of a Chicago April, it was good for the
soul, Westborough reflected, to discover that the sun still
existed.
Seating himself at his writing desk, Westborough took
a fountain pen from his pocket and several sheets of sta-
tionery from the drawer. Despite Mack's scorn of his first
analysis, it amused the little man to make a permanent
record of his conclusions. He unscrewed the top from his
fountain pen and began in a cramped handwriting, which,
by no means a thing of beauty, was entirely legible—to
others as well as to Westborough.
176


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
177
"Chilton admits to picking the lock of Swink's door
and searching his room," he wrote. "This was done, he
claims, on Wednesday night, a matter not impossible,
since from Mrs. Hammond's story we know that Swink
was away the entire evening. Chilton—I must remember
to call him Jasper—denies being in Swink's room at any
time during the night of the murder other than the period
from eight-thirty to eight fifty-five when he was there
with Swink. He could not, under any circumstances, have
placed the tube above the door then, since the chamber-
maid entered the room at nine o'clock.
"Jasper's alibi for the balance of the evening remains
apparently impregnable. He left the bar at ten o'clock
—not at nine-thirty—and stayed in the lavatory long
enough for the porter to sew a button upon his trousers
—dear me, I should like to know just how long that op-
eration takes. I must remember to ask the porter to per-
form that office for me. At any rate, Jasper was not gone
from the bar for longer than fifteen minutes which, de-
ducting the time spent in the washroom, leaves an ex-
tremely scanty margin in which to climb the stairs to the
third floor (no elevator operator remembers taking him
up), pick the lock of Swink's door—I understand that
this undertaking is difficult—cut from the floor and fold
back the carpet, and insert the test tube above the door.
"Jasper, naturally enough, denies picking the lock of
the Grahams' apartment. Yet it was undoubtedly entered
in that manner. Can there be another pick or similar im-
plement belonging to a guest in the west corridor? But
if so, where and how was it concealed during the exhaus-
tive police search.
'^Lieutenant Mack, clear-sighted and shrewd as he is,


178
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
does not seem to realize the full significance of the polter-
geist which so terrified our worthy Mrs. Blakely. Jasper's
employment terminated automatically with Swink's death,
and he could have had no further interest in Swink's pri-
vate papers. Hence, having already searched the room,
as he himself admits, before Swink's death, he would
scarcely search it again after. Ergo, Mrs. Blakely's pol-
tergeist was other than Jasper.
"Jasper, of course, may be lying, but that is a matter
readily susceptible to verification when"
At this point Westborough's fountain pen ran dry, and
he refilled it from the inkwell. But the interruption to the
continuous flow of words had destroyed his trend of
thought. He could not recall exactly just what he had
been going to say next.
Absent-mindedly he fumbled with the drawer of the
desk. A pipe might help to collect his now random and
scattered ideas if anything could. His pipe was amber-
stemmed with a bowl carved to resemble a human skull.
Westborough had found it in a little shop in a side street
in Rome, and, despite its grotesque shape, was singularly
attached to it, as the well-bitten mouthpiece and heavy
caking of the bowl would have told even an amateur dis-
ciple of the gentleman from Baker Street. Westborough's
hand continued to explore the recesses of the drawer until
it encountered the second object of his search—a yellow
oilskin tobacco pouch.
Westborough, to whom smoking was a rite and not a
pastime, unwrapped it with great care. "Dear me!" he
exclaimed in vexation upon seeing that only a few scat-
tered grains of tobacco remained in the bottom of the
pouch. Although Westborough's scholarly pertinacity


180
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
much to see. I'm doing a pen-and-ink sketch over a photo-
stat."
"Is that what you call a photostat?" Westborough
questioned. "But why do you make your drawing upon
it? Your lines are scarcely visible to me."
"Tricks to all trades, Westborough," Graham laughed.
"I order the photostat for any size I want, and the pro-
portions are fixed automatically—no scaling and no pan-
tograph work. The photostat was, of course, ordered from
a photograph of the original object, so my drawing will
be right in every detail. When I'm through I have the
photostat bleached, and there'll be nothing left upon this
paper but my India ink lines."
"Most ingenious," Westborough muttered. "Do you
do much of this sort of work?"
Graham shook his head. "Only occasionally now. I used
to do quite a bit, though."
Turning away from the drawing board, Westborough
remembered his manners. "I certainly am indebted to you
for the tobacco. Is Mrs. Graham out? And I do not see
young Cedric either."
"Lu took the kid down to Elgin for a few days," Gra-
ham explained. "Norah Hammond invited her. Norah's
folks have a big house there and are always glad to have
company. It will do both of the girls good to get away
from here."
Filling the death's-head pipe with grave deliberation,
Westborough agreed with his host. "The atmosphere of
this hotel during the past few days is scarcely the environ-
ment for your young son," he pronounced. "I must go
now, as I do not wish to keep you from your work."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
181
"Don't rush off," Graham protested. "I can go right
on working. You won't bother me any."
Our social amenities, Westborough reflected, can cause
an endless amount of red tape and useless persiflage. He
was quite ready to depart to his own room, and his host
was undoubtedly just as eager to get rid of him. Never-
theless, social usage decreed that Graham should protest
against Westborough's departure and that Westborough
should appear to take his host's protestations as genuine.
Graham settled back to his drawing board upon West-
borough's urging, and the little man touched a match to
the death's head as he watched the artist fill his pen from
a bottle of India ink.
Under Graham's skillful hands simple black lines grew
into live things. It is always a pleasant experience,
thought Westborough, to watch while someone else does
creative work. What was the word so much in vogue to-
day? The word with the peculiar German sound—yes,
kibitz.
"Has Mr. Hammond gone to Elgin also?" West-
borough inquired because he could think of nothing else
to say.
Graham nodded. "He drove them down early this morn-
ing. Fred won't stay any longer than he can help,
though. From two or three things he's dropped I gather
he doesn't get along any too well with his wife's relatives.
Norah's an only child, and her parents think that no man
on earth could be good enough for her, as nearly as I can
make out."
Further conversation languished, and Westborough
announced once more that he must take his departure. He
thanked his host again for the tobacco, said he hoped


182
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
that Mrs. Graham and Cedric would have a pleasant time,
advised Mr. Graham not to work too hard, and, the
amenities being at last entirely satisfied, returned to his
own room.
Back once more at his writing desk, he discovered that
the death's head had failed him. His thoughts refused to
focus upon the death of Elmo Swink and diffused upon
a dozen different topics. Miss Gant, for instance. West-
borough was sure that she didn't have a great deal of
money. The weekly bills were placed last night in the
mail rack. Miss Gant might not be able to pay. She might
even be asked to leave the hotel.
"Dear me!" Westborough voiced his favorite expletive
and reflected upon the contingency. One couldn't—even
if one were an elderly recluse—offer money to a compara-
tive stranger of the opposite sex. One couldn't tell the
office that one would stand responsible for her hotel bill—
not without creating a juicy topic for Mrs. Blakely and
Mrs. Hatteras to discuss. But on the other hand, one
couldn't allow a young lady to suffer—not when one had
money which one would never miss. "The very thing!"
Westborough, beaming like Mr. Jarndyce or the Brothers
Cheeryble, suddenly exclaimed.
He stepped across the corridor but checked his fist as
it was about to descend upon Miss Gant's door. Most of
the Equable guests were in the habit of sleeping until
noon on Sundays, he realized.
Somehow, though, he didn't feel like returning to his
writing desk. It was a glorious and balmy April Sunday
—one of those tidbits which Mother Chicago occasionally
tosses her children to make up for too frequent punish-
ment. Perhaps a stroll through Lincoln Park? Later a


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
183
motion picture or a call upon his sister-in-law? This sim-
ple program appearing attractive, Westborough strolled
down the corridor, nearly bumping into Mr. Larson on
his way out.
Westborough bowed gravely to the night clerk, whom
he liked, and Larson responded with a cordial "Good-
morning!" However, Larson showed no signs of doing
anything but continuing to block traffic in the corridor,
so Westborough marched alone toward the elevators.
His jaw dropped in surprise as Robert Jasper stepped
from an ascending car. Jasper said, "Good-morning," in
a tone purposely modulated to discourage further conver-
sation, but Westborough did not allow himself to be dis-
couraged.
"May I congratulate you upon your fortunate release,
Mr. Jasper?"
His smile was genuine, and even Jasper unbent.
"Thanks." He started toward his own room, but West-
borough interrupted once more.
"At the risk of being thought impertinent, I would like
to ask what happened."
"The agency put up a bond, and I'm out," Jasper said
shortly. "I can't leave town, though, or the bond is for-
feited."
"Ah, is not one so bond a prisoner still?" Westborough
shamelessly misquoted from Yeomen of the Guard. He
added, as casually as he could make it, "Did the police
learn anything concerning Mr. Swink's past?"
The question wasn't casual enough, for Jasper was on
his guard again. He said curtly, "If they did, I didn't
hear about it," and went toward his room. Westborough's
eyes followed him until he had disappeared around the


184
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
corner. Then Westborough signaled an elevator and rode
downstairs, his face very thoughtful.
Fred Hammond's blue streamlined De Soto purred west-
ward on all six. To Hammond, the exhilaration of eating
up the road under his rubber tires was comparable only
to the pleasure derived from a "long tall one" or from
a game of stud with selected cronies. One of his greatest
delights was to pass a car which was doing at least sixty
while another car sped toward him at an equal pace. See-
ing a chance to indulge in this harmless amusement now,
he swerved to the left and pressed down the throttle. For
a breath-taking instant the two cars hung neck and neck
on the road while the automobile from the opposite direc-
tion drew nearer at an ominously fast rate. Then Ham-
mond, forging slightly ahead, jerked his wheel sharply
to the right and made it—with inches to spare.
Seated beside her husband, Norah Hammond begged,
"Fred, please don't do that again."
"We're still here, aren't we?" Hammond asked.
Norah Hammond, laughing happily, laid her small
hand on top of his large and hairy one. Fred Hammond
returned the pressure. Two nights ago it had seemed that
nothing could be the same again between him and Norah.
Then, in a whirlwind of sudden passion, he had swept her
into his arms, and their misunderstanding had dissolved
into the mists from which it had sprung.
Hammond slowed down as they approached a road-
side stand in order to buy ice-cream cones for Cedric and
the two women. He preferred a cigar himself and lit one,
allowing the motor to die while he waited for the girls to
finish their ice cream.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
185
Luella Graham gave the balance of her cone to Cedric,
who had already gobbled his. "I still don't understand,
Fred, how you were able to persuade the police to let you
go out on the road."
"I got to earn a living, don't I?" Hammond demanded
with a chuckle. "Besides," he added mysteriously, "I got
a friend in the City Comptroller's office."
He started the motor once more and was up to seventy
again before they had gone little more than a block. He
knew there was no need to hurry, but he couldn't help
himself. Speed, a matter of dollars and cents when on the
road, had become a confirmed habit when pleasure driv-
ing.
However, he slowed down to conform to local speed laws
as they rolled over the red-brick paved streets of Elgin.
He parked the car before a large frame house, of the bay
window and cupola period of architecture, which was built
on an embankment about twenty feet above the street
level. Hammond was visibly hesitant about leaving the
car.
"Your dad always manages to get my goat," he whis-
pered to his wife.
She patted his hand in the manner of a wife when she
feels that her husband is no more than a spoiled, sulky
boy. "I know, darling, but you will stay for dinner, won't
you? Mother will feel so badly if you don't."
Hammond grinned. "Oh, I'll do that, but, for heaven's
sake, keep him off of politics." He lifted a bag in either
hand and began to climb the long flight of steps. "I'll
have to clear out before long, you know, Norah. I've got
to get back to the hotel and finish packing—you know
I've got a tough day ahead tomorrow."


186
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Norah Hammond smiled in the manner of a wife who
is hearing an excuse for at least the hundredth time.
"Yes, darling, of course."
Chris Larson intercepted Yvonne Gant in the corri-
dor. Their meeting may have seemed like a coincidence,
but it was not. Chris had foregone a whole hour of pre-
cious sleep in order to keep vigil beside her door. There
were many things he had wanted to tell her, but when he
saw her, a piquant vision in blue, he couldn't think of one
of them.
She smiled in a friendly manner and said, "Good-
morning, Mr. Larson."
They walked toward the elevators. Chris Larson's
working life had been too full to allow of much time for
frivolity, and he had never acquired the free-and-easy
manner with girls that he envied in Larry Collins. "Say
something, you dope," he told himself angrily.
"This is a pleasant surprise, Miss Gant," he began
aloud. "Will you—that is, I wonder if you will—I mean
I'd be glad if you will—have breakfast with me."
("There!" he told himself. "I've done it at last.")
Within the dining room, cool and spacious, Larson
ordered a breakfast that would do credit to Gargantua.
It started with strawberries, which were just beginning
to come into season and were correspondingly costly, and
continued through an incredible number of items. Miss
Gant ate as though she were hungry, and Chris liked
that. He could never abide women who toyed daintily
with food.
"How about some more of those rolls and another pot
of coffee?" he suggested.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
187
"Gracious, no! I've eaten enough now for a boa con-
strictor!"
Chris laughed. Laughing was easy with this girl across
the table. "If you're not doing anything special, what
about a walk to Lincoln Park?" he proposed. "Or I can
rent a car?"
"I like to walk," she told him simply.
Jerry Spanger glowered at Chris as they walked
toward the front entrance. "He seems to have a grouch
at the world," Miss Gant remarked.
"Only at me," Chris qualified. "We had a sort of
quarrel the other night, and both of us are too stubborn
to apologize." She didn't ask the cause of the quarrel,
nor did he volunteer the information.
The lake was a rippling grayish green while a cloud-
less sky cupped the horizon like the "inverted bowl" of
Omar Khayyam. Spring roistered like a hoyden, and
Lincoln Park was transformed into a lady in delicate
green. Tree and shrub were tentatively donning seasonal
finery, and every bend in the curved path upon which
they strolled disclosed fresh surprises. Here was an elm,
straight and slim, here a dwarfish locust, then a maple
and the gnarled bark of a cottonwood. It was good to
see these old friends and others: a willow which drooped
low over the lagoon and a row of sentinel-like poplars.
"They always remind me of folded-up umbrellas,"
Yvonne Gant laughed happily.
They reached a concrete bench and sat down. "A
perfect day, isn't it?" Miss Gant observed, still thought-
ful. "Lovely, but with that undertone of tragedy every
perfect day should have."


188
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"You're much too cynical," Larson commented. "And
if you're thinking of the hotel"
"Bother the hotel! This is the first chance I've had to
forget that ghastly business."
"I wish you'd change your room," Chris said gravely.
Her hyacinthine eyes issued a cool challenge. "Why?"
"I don't like to think of you next to the room where
that"
"Oh, don't. You're giving me the jitters."
"But will you move, Miss Gant?" he persisted
doggedly.
"I don't think so."
"I'd feel better if you would."
"Aren't you taking rather a lot on yourself, Mr.
Larson?"
Chris flushed. "Probably I am. I beg your pardon."
"You clumsy oaf!" he said bitterly to himself. "Of
course she resents being ordered around by a stranger."
"I'm sorry," she said in a softened voice, moving a per-
ceptible trifle toward his side of the bench. "Just one of
my silly moods. Pay no attention to it—Chris."
Their eyes met. For years Chris was to remember the
glance which passed between them. It was like—he could
think of no adequate simile. . . .
Hours later he said huskily, "I suppose we'd better
have something to eat and get back."
She stirred lazily. "It couldn't last, of course. Minutes
like these never do. You know that thing of Eugene Lee-
Hamilton's? 'The present is mere grass, quick mown
away; the past is stone and stands forever fast.'"
"I never got beyond Gunga Din in poetry."
"Such a solemn, serious Chris!" The laughter in her


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
189
eyes changed to swift alarm. "Where is our sun? The sky
is a smoky opal, and it terrifies me. I have a feeling some-
thing is due to happen tonight." A drop of rain
splattered on the concrete path. "Something pretty
awful," she continued, unheeding. "Silly, isn't it?"
Larson, his face very grave, shook his head. "That's
why I wish you'd change your room."
"I can't! No, I can't tell you why, either. Maybe some-
time, but not now." The rain spattered with increasing
volume, and she caught his arm, lamenting, "We'll have
to run, or my hat 'l1 be ruined!"
Benny Devon, who had been away from the hotel the
entire Sunday on errands of his own, returned to his
room early in the evening. It was quiet there—quiet and
private—and both of these virtues appealed to Benny
Devon at that minute. He had a problem he wanted to
think out.
He fumbled for a cigarette, but found the pack empty.
He didn't have a cigar, either. Well, let it go. He had
other things to think about. "It's a sweet racket," Devon
said aloud. "I've got to prove it, sure, but that ought to
be a pushover if that mug did what I think he did."
He tiptoed to the door and opened it an inch at a time.
The corridor was deserted. "All downstairs, I guess,"
Devon thought. "Christ, how do I know there isn't a bull
in one of those rooms?"
His forehead broke into a sweat as he slammed the door
hastily shut. Eventually he summoned sufficient courage
to open the door for a second look. He found the corridor
as lonely and deserted as before.
"I don't like it," thought Benny Devon. "Something


190
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
tells me I'm going to get a bad break, but, Christ! if I
don't do it tonight, I may never get another chance. Pull
yourself together, Benny, you've cracked tougher cribs.
It's gravy, kid, just so much gravy!"
His rubber soles were soundless on the carpeted floor
of the corridor. It wasn't necessary to move on tiptoes,
but Devon took that extra precaution. He stopped before
a door to peer once more up and down the corridor.
"Jeez! If there should be a bull"
Tense as a coiled steel spring, Devon flopped to his
knees. The door was locked, but no lock had been known
to stop Benny Devon for long. This one yielded within a
few minutes. Devon sighed in audible relief when he was
able to step within the room and close the door behind
him. For a minute he stood with the stillness of a statue
while he strained his little pointed ears. "Coast's clear
now!" he decided, slinking toward the window. He took a
brief look at the open air. "Still raining! What a lousy
burg!"
Moving carefully, slowly, and methodically, Benny
Devon proceeded to ransack the room. It didn't take him
long. He opened the door of a closet and felt deep within
its recess. Then:
"That's it!" Devon exulted. "That's your meal ticket
out of Chi! To hell with the bulls now! You've got the
gravy, kid! You're sitting pretty"
With the quickness of a puma Devon stiffened into
immobility. He had heard the sharp click which tells of a
key being inserted within a lock. Like a trapped beast's,
his eyes glared helplessly from one side of the room to
another in a frantic endeavor to find a hiding place.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
191
"God!" breathed Benny Devon, and for the first time in
his life the expletive was a prayer.
He flattened himself behind the door, motionless as a
shadow. Only the preternatural stiffness of his back, the
tense straining of neck and throat muscles betrayed his
desperation. His hand clenched with death-like rigor
about the object he had taken from the closet. If his luck
held, thought Benny Devon. If his luck held
"It's me or him now! Me or him. Christ, I've got
to"
The knob turned as the door commenced to swing in-
ward.
XIX
The chair, a tall one of gilt and needlepoint tapestry,
was styled in the manner of a period when wigs were
worn high, and the rigid etiquette of the Sun King's
court permitted no relaxation. Obviously intended as a
decoration for the lobby and not for use, it did not look
particularly comfortable. Nevertheless, as it was the only
chair available, Westborough seated himself gingerly
upon its edge and fell into a study.
"Hi, there. Still solving the crime?" Lieutenant Mack's
voice eventually interrupted Westborough's meditations.
"I have made a few more notes if you care to see
them."
"I might take a look at them," Mack said good-
naturedly. "Have you seen Jerry Spanger around any-
where?"
Upon Westborough's replying negatively, Mack strode


192
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
to the desk to repeat the question to Larry Collins. "He
hasn't been in the lobby for an hour or two," the room
clerk said, "but I can have a bellman hunt him for you."
"Do that," Mack requested, "and when you find him,
tell him I'll be in Westborough's room—or Larson's." He
glanced at the large octagonal electric clock above the
desk and set his watch. "Twenty minutes to nine."
Westborough's room was blue with smoke. "I forgot to
open the window before I left this morning," West-
borough apologized, jerking it up now. Returning to his
guest, he brought out the oilskin pouch and offered it to
the detective.
"Do you smoke a pipe, Lieutenant Mack?"
"Like cigars better," Mack grunted laconically, bring-
ing one from his vest pocket. He lit it reflectively.
"You're a funny little mutt, Westborough, but I think
you've got a head on you. What do you think is the next
thing to do?"
Westborough suggested diffidently, "Have you investi-
gated the guests' telephone calls? I believe the hotel keeps
a record."
"We wouldn't miss a bet like that," Mack declared
emphatically. He chuckled. "The one thing I learned was
how the Blakely woman got all her dope on my family.
Remember the other morning?"
"Oh yes, the experiment in psychometry."
"If that's what you call it. Well, the old girl had called
up her niece and talked to her nearly an hour on Friday
morning. The niece lives in Westmay, and the world
doesn't hold a bigger gossip monger. She knows more
about what her neighbors are doing than they do them-
selves."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
193
"Most psychical experiences turn out like that," was
Westborough's comment. Mack puffed thoughtfully at
his cigar. "The trouble with this mess," he said, "is there
isn't a motive worth a damn. I never heard of a murder
without a motive, but what is it?"
"Swink's past, perhaps?" Westborough volunteered.
Mack shook his head. "No, we've checked that angle.
Swink was a slimy animal, but what the hell? Nothing
we've uncovered ties into anyone here. In fact, as nearly
as we can make out, he hasn't been in Chicago for about
twelve years. There's an interesting story about his
reason for leaving this town, but it's got as much to do
with this case as my aunt Harriet up at Niles, Michigan."
Westborough bent forward avidly. "I should like very
much to hear it."
"Well, Swink—he was using his real name at that
time, and he's never used it since—got hitched on the
fifth of July to a girl named Mary Winters. They were
married at noon and about three o'clock Mary Winters
was killed."
"Killed?" Westborough echoed.
"I know what you're thinking, but you're dead wrong.
The jane or the fellow she was with drove through a
streetcar tunnel—some nut tries that stunt every once in
a while. A streetcar was coming hell bent the other way,
and you can guess what happened. After they'd picked
up the pieces"
"You referred to the fellow she was with," West-
borough expostulated. "Wasn't her husband"
"If he was, he got clear. And if he did, he must 've
evaporated, because there isn't much room for pedestrians
in those tunnels. Funny, isn't it? Jane gets married at


194
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
twelve and at three is killed riding with a man not her
husband. What do you make of it?"
"I suppose," Westborough hazarded, "that there is no
doubt about the girl really being Mary Winters?"
"Her own mother identified her. The fellow who was
killed with the girl was a friend of Swink's, but up to
. that date we could find no connection between him and
Mary Winters. The girl's parents had never heard of
him or Swink either, but that doesn't prove a thing. After
that accident Swink faded from sight, and there's a hi—
hi—what's the word I'm trying to say?"
"Hiatus?" Westborough suggested.
"Yeh. Good word if I could only remember it. Anyway
there's a gap of about a year in his record, and then he
shows up in Seattle under a different name as a fake
check artist. Next we know he turns up in New
York"
"Did you learn the reason for Jasper's errand?" West-
borough queried.
"Got all the dope," Mack informed cheerfully. He
paused to look at his watch. "Funny, they haven't been
able to find Jerry Spanger yet!"
"It is peculiar," Westborough agreed.
"Well, we'll give him a few more minutes. Do you know
what happened this morning? Amco got in touch with
their client, and he sent his secretary out by plane to talk
to us. He gave us an interesting yarn, but, hell! unless I
miss my guess, it's got about as much to do with this case
as my aunt Har"
"Some day I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting
your elderly female relative," Westborough interposed.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
195
"One up for you!" Mack chuckled. "Well, Swink—he
used half-a-dozen other names, but that's as good a
handle as any—worked the good old estate racket on an
old dame and extracted practically every cent she had.
When she learned that the man she'd taken for a nice
friendly lawyer was a fake, the old girl killed herself
with an overdose of digitalis. But she had one mighty
good friend—they were childhood sweethearts in fact—
and his name was Ezra Whittington."
"I've heard of Mr. Whittington."
"Who hasn't? He's got the reputation of being a
fighter and is one tough guy to buck. He put private
detectives on Swink's trail. They collected a lot of dirt
about the fellow all right but failed to get their man.
Swink—he was going by another name then—had faded
clear out of the picture as far as Whittington was con-
cerned until about three weeks ago. Then one of Whit-
tington's friends asks his advice on a letter he'd got
about this Colorado gold mine. The letter was signed
Elmo Swink, a name which didn't mean a thing to
Whittington, but the way some of the sentences were
strung together made him think of the fake lawyer who
had swindled his old girl. He gets handwriting experts to
work on the signatures, and when they tell him Swink is
the guy he's after, he sics Amco on him. However, he's
afraid he might not be able to get a conviction on the old
charge, so he instructs Amco to dig up dope that will
make Swink take the rap for using the mails to defraud."
"Have you seen Whittington?" Westborough in-
quired. Mack shook his head. "Or a picture of him?"
Westborough persisted.


196
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"He won't let them be taken. Smashed two or three
cameras for newspaper men, if I remember."
"Then you don't know what Whittington looks like?"
"Haven't the faintest idea," Mack began, but stopped
abruptly and exclaimed, "Whew!" He thought intently
for some seconds, pacing the floor while he cogitated.
Finally, he shook his head. "I get your drift all right,
and it's a big idea. But it's no go. I just remembered
that Whittington was in Washington Thursday night—
with one of these business men's groups conferring with
the President."
"The President of the United States is certainly an
unimpeachable alibi," Westborough agreed. "I suppose
there is no doubt but what Whittington was there?"
"I don't think so," Mack answered, "but it might be
worth checking up." He seated himself in a chair and
tilted it backwards at a precarious angle. "Funny it
should take 'em so long to find Spanger!" he exclaimed
again.
"Have you been able to trace the source of the
cyanide?" Westborough asked.
"No. We've about finished checking, and so far we
haven't found a soul buying a small quantity of cyanide
recently."
"Perhaps it was stolen."
"Maybe, but there haven't been any strangers hang-
ing around the places we visited, and there's no evidence
that any of them were broken into."
Westborough volunteered another suggestion. "Per-
haps one of the workmen abstracted the cyanide and sold
it without the knowledge of his employer?"
"That possibility's got me screwy," Mack admitted.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
197
"It could happen all right, and if it did, we'll never know
about it. Naturally, the guy that supplied the cyanide
will keep still about it." He paused and added as an
afterthought, "We haven't found any trails yet that lead
from a business using cyanide to the Equable."
"Let us discuss another aspect of the problem," West-
borough invited. "Have you thought of Colmar?"
"What about him?"
"Leaving the hotel before your search, he would have
been able to carry away the objects which are apparently
missing."
"What objects?"
"If you will refer to the notes I have made on the sub-
ject, you will recall that I discussed the relative chances
of the murderer's knowing or not knowing of the exist-
ence of the sulphuric acid in the Graham boy's chemical
set. If he didn't know, another bottle of acid should have
been found somewhere."
"That's an interesting little point," Mack agreed. "I
talked to Mrs. Hammond on Friday. She remembered
Mrs. Graham mentioning the acid, but it didn't make a
very deep impression on her. She is almost sure she didn't
tell anyone else about it. Almost but not quite."
Westborough sighed regretfully. "That information,
I'm afraid, isn't very helpful."
"No," Mack assented, "but you can't get all the breaks.
Say, you said objects and not object. What else would
you say was missing?"
"An instrument similar to the one you found in
Jasper's suitcase."
"A second pick, eh?" Mack grew suddenly thought-
ful. "How do you make that out?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER 199
He rose to his feet. "I've been stalling around here wait-
ing for Jerry Spanger. He phoned me a piece of news
this morning, and I want to get his slant. But I'm not
going to wait any longer."
"Your suspect is, of course, Larson?" Westborough
inquired.
"Why not?" Mack growled.
"I believe that every human being is capable of mur-
der given sufficient provocation," Westborough an-
swered slowly. "But for a big, easy-going man such as
Larson the provocation would have to be extreme."
"He's hot tempered," Mack reminded.
"But not underhanded," Westborough added. "More-
over, Larson is a man of too much intelligence, I believe,
to plot a crime the very nature of which would point
directly at him. At least, not without the arrangement of
some sort of alibi."
"I don't agree with you," Mack said. "Any alibi that
Larson arranged would look phony, and he has sense
enough to know it. He's always in his room up to eleven
o'clock, and he has to be there because it's his only chance
to sleep or study. No alibi at all is a damn sight better
than a screwy one." He paused and added with deliberate
emphasis, "Westborough, in ninety-nine times out of a
hundred, the obvious answer to a case is the right one.
It's only in books that the nice old gentleman who was
supposed to be up at Lake Delavan the day of the crime
turns out to be the murderer. Well, I'm going to put the
screws on Larson now. Do you want to sit in on it?"
Westborough accompanied the detective across the
corridor. Mack rapped, and Chris Larson came to the
door, in his shirtsleeves and smoking a straight briar.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
201
He got no farther. Larson lunged forward in a blaze
of sudden fury. "It's a filthy lie! Get out, or I'll throw
you out!"
Mack's eyes glinted in amusement. "I doubt if you
could manage that job, Larson." The tinkling of the
room telephone broke the tension. Mack picked it up,
saying, "We'll argue this later." Larson's fists un-
clenched. Westborough, with his odd characteristic of
remaining aloofly impersonal, noted this fact and remem-
bered his earlier conversation with the detective. Larson
was hot tempered, yes, but his anger cooled quickly.
In a bored voice Mack said to the telephone, "Yeh,
you're talking to him," and then, with quickening
interest, "Yeh, read it." The voice at the other end of
the wire muttered something, and Mack ejaculated, "The
hell you say! What's the rest of it?" The rest of the con-
versation was a long monologue from the other end of
the wire which Westborough found unintelligible. At
length Mack hung up the receiver with an elation which
he did not try to conceal.
"We've got the dope from Washington! Devon's got a
record as long as your arm. It even includes murder." He
picked up the telephone again and conversed with the
room clerk. "Collins thinks Devon is in his room," he told
Westborough, his hand over the mouthpiece. "He saw him
come in between six and seven, and he hasn't left the
hotel since." He replaced the receiver on the hook and
volunteered additional information. "Jerry Spanger
seems to have dropped clear out of sight for the last two
hours." He stared inquiringly at the night clerk. "What
the devil am I going to do with you while I pick up
Devon?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
203
"Better stand to one side of the door," Mack advised
grimly. Westborough shuffled uneasily as he obeyed the
detective's orders. A trapped criminal, prepared to shoot
it out with his captors, would be human, understandable.
But the austere and awful silence of the room beyond
Anything might happen there, Westborough told him-
self. Anything and everything. Anything except the bald
and simple fact that Devon was out.
Mack, waiting for Larson to return with the passkey,
lounged against the wall, his lynx-like eyes riveted upon
the doorway. His right hand was buried beneath his coat.
Westborough remembered the missing Spanger and shud-
dered. Devon's record included murder. One murder had
already been committed at the Hotel Equable. The chill
terror of death, which at some time or another visits every
man, came to Westborough now. Spanger, so unaccount-
ably absent from his usual haunts, was a shrewd and
capable detective. Suppose that he had conducted an in-
vestigation of his own, had penetrated the killer's secret?
"My God!" Westborough exclaimed aloud. "Mr.
Spanger!"
"I've been thinking the same thing," Mack answered in
a harsh whisper. "If this bird's done for Jerry, I'll"
Muffled footsteps sounded at the end of the corridor.
Westborough twisted his head and saw Larson walking
toward them. The flat and shining pate of the hotel
manager accompanied him.
"What's going on here?" Victor Swann demanded.
Mack motioned him to silence and demanded the passkey
from Larson. He inserted it in the lock without turning
it.


204
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Westborough, Swann," the detective barked authori-
tatively, "get out of the line of fire. Larson, when I give
the word turn that key, push the door open, and jump
out of the way like billy-be-damned. There may be some
shooting here." He jerked his right hand from the holster
beneath his coat as he spoke.
"Must you shoot up my hotel?" Swann asked with
gloomy resignation.
Mack growled, "Shut up!" and gave the signal to Lar-
son. The night clerk opened the door and sprang to one
side as Mack had instructed.
Mack's voice rang out deep and threatening, "Out of
there, Devon." But if Devon was within he made no an-
swer. Holding his revolver in readiness Mack dashed
towards the room. He stopped suddenly upon the thresh-
old, "He's here all right! My God!"
Westborough, deliberately disobeying the detective's
orders, shifted his position to look within the room. He
noticed first a large armchair. It had been drawn to face
the doorway, and in it a man was seated—with a start
Westborough realized that the motionless figure was a
man no longer.
Benny Devon's blackened and bloody tongue lolled
grotesquely from between purplish lips, while eyes wide
and staring greeted his visitors.
XX
Larson's pipe clattered to the floor. Westborough, in the
remote corner of his brain which remained ever aloof, ob-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
205
served the gray smear which the ashes left against the
dark carpet. Mack left the figure in the chair to dart
to the telephone, issuing curt commands with the swift-
ness of decision which characterizes the seasoned execu-
tive.
"Horrible!" Swann gasped and added a naive and
brutal afterthought, "This will about do for my hotel."
The motionless form might have been something from
Madam Tussaud's waxworks. Westborough averted his
eyes. His stomach felt queasy, and he leaned against the
wall. "Dear me!" he gasped. "I hope—I'm not—going to
be sick!" He glanced about the room, making an effort to
comprehend what his eyes were seeing.
First the bed. The covers had been torn off and were
lying in a tousled heap on the floor. "It doesn't make
sense," he could hear Mack saying—in his mind, of
course, since the detective was still busy at the telephone.
Something else appeared to him as odd, but his eyes had
made a second circuit of the room before he recognized
what it was. Stacked against the wall was a vacuum
cleaner, and beside it, flat on the floor, a leather case—
open!
The case, of course, was used for vacuum cleaner acces-
sories, but why was it open? Why was the bedclothing
disarranged? Trifles these, but they concealed a message
—if his brain was able to unravel the enigma. West-
borough inspected the room for a third time, forcing him-
self to see every detail—the thousand and one trivialities
which are ordinarily never noticed.
The blotter, pen, and inkwell upon the writing desk.
They were placed with a neat precision which suggested
they had not been disturbed since the advent of the maid


206 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
that morning, the ash tray beside them. Westborough
almost missed the fact that it was empty. Almost but not
quite. He turned to it again. Not one cigarette butt, not
a burnt match, not even a fleck of ash. Furthermore, the
matches in the pack attached to it were intact. West-
borough ascertained that before directing his attention
once more upon the leather carrying case.
He made a mental inventory of its contents. A hose,
eight feet long, and coiled like a big striped snake.
Duraluminum nozzles of assorted sizes and shapes. A
moderately large and a very small brush. A bottle of moth
spray. A roll of black electrician's tape and a screw-
driver. Several small circulars, all the same, of the kind
which manufacturers, for no reason at all that a sensible
man can fathom, refer to as "literature." Westborough
picked up one of the circulars and noted that it contained
a detailed description of the functions of these various
gadgets. He read it carefully:
"Doc Hildreth 'l1 be up before long, and O'Ryan's on
his way here now," Mack declared, replacing the re-
ceiver of the telephone. "Swann, will you tell everyone
on this floor not to leave their rooms?"
The hotel manager, his face as pallid as though he had
received a death sentence, shuffled out the door. Larson
mumbled something about a drink of water and started
to follow. "Stay here!" Mack's voice cracked like a pistol
shot. "What do you know about this?"
Larson deliberately turned his back upon the detective
and went toward the window. "What should I know about
it?"
"I'm asking you, not answering riddles."
Larson continued to regard the asphalt three stories


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
207
below. "This is as big a surprise to me as it is to you,"
he said. "Maybe bigger."
"What do you mean by that last crack?" Mack de-
manded irately.
Larson failed to answer, and the detective decided not
to press the point. Instead he made a quick scrutiny of
the room and remarked upon the very questions which
Westborough had observed earlier.
"What's the bed doing all messed up? Why is this junk
spread out on the floor?" He supplied his own answer.
"Looks like there'd been a roughhouse."
"I don't think so," Westborough demurred.
"Why not?" Mack snapped, his voice tinged with sus-
picion.
"Nothing else in the room has been disturbed," West-
borough elucidated. "If there had been a fight, you would
expect a chair, a lamp, or some other light object to be
upset."
"Maybe," Mack grunted, "and maybe not. It's easy to
straighten those things."
"Then why not close the case of cleaner tools?"
"Maybe Devon left them that way. He might've been
out making a call."
"On Sunday?"
"Hell, that's right!" Mack exclaimed. "It is Sunday."
He turned belligerently upon Westborough. "All right,
Mr. Wise Guy. You tell me what you make of it."
Westborough pointed to the cleaner case. "An article
belonging in that case is missing."
Larson, who had left the window to join in the inspec-
tion of the tools, rejoined, "Yes, it's the extension pipe."
"I don't know the name of the article, but there is a


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
209
"Trying to yank out my whiskers?" he demanded
weakly.
"Why, you old son of a gun, you're just too tough to
kill!" Mack exclaimed delightedly. "Here, take a nip of
this, fellow, and you'll feel better." Supporting Spanger
with one arm, he helped him to swallow a generous por-
tion of Westborough's brandy. The house detective
smacked his lips and essayed to sit up. "Take it easy,"
Mack advised, propping him with a pillow.
Victor Swann returned from his errand. "Told every-
one on floor," he began, then stopped short in bewilder-
ment. "What the devil happened to Spanger?"
"You tell me," Mack drawled. "Feel like talking,
Jerry?"
Spanger raised a hand to his head. "I guess so. Head
aches like the dickens, though."
Mack examined the house detective's cranium. "Yeh,
you got a nasty crack, all right. Who did it, Jerry?"
"I wish I knew," Spanger ejaculated. "I didn't see the
bastard."
"Didn't see him?"
"No. Last thing I remember is hearing a step behind
me. I started to turn, but I guess I wasn't quick enough.
There were about a million stars . . . Maybe I better
begin at the beginning."
"Feel up to it, old man?"
"Give me another snifter of brandy and I will." Mack
handed over the bottle, and Spanger took a deep gulp.
"Well, I was coming down the corridor"
"Which corridor?" Mack interrupted.
"Let me think—the old head isn't functioning the way
it ought—the south corridor, I guess. Anyway, I saw


210
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
something shiny on the floor. I got down and picked it
up, and it was a cigarette lighter. I took it under a light
where I could get a better look at it, and I'll be hanged
if I didn't recognize the thing. It was Devon's. So I
thought, 'Well, I'll just give that back to you, fellow,
before you start a rumpus over losing it.' I knocked on
the door, but Devon didn't answer, so I waited a while
and I knocked again. Still no answer. Then I thought,
'Well, I'll just open the door and leave it in his room.'"
"You know that's a direct infraction of the house rules,
Spanger," Swann admonished severely. "Any articles
found about the hotel are to be turned in at the desk."
"Sure I know the rule," Spanger admitted. "Ninety
times out of a hundred I'd go by it." He rubbed his head
ruefully. "I wish now I had."
"What happened after you opened the door?" Mack
asked.
"It was dark, and I didn't see a thing for a moment.
Not until I got well inside. Then I saw Devon laid out
cold in that chair." He pointed to the tall armchair, only
the back of which was visible from the bed. "Is he still
there?"
"Yeh," Mack grunted laconically.
"God, what a sight that was! I'm pretty hardboiled,
but this was so damn sudden, staring right out of the
darkness at me, that I was all bowled over in a heap. I
never stopped to think that there might be someone else
in the room—not until I heard that step I told you
about."
"What kind of step?"
"Just a step. I didn't get a chance to tell what sort of
guy was making it. I started to turn around, and then,


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
211
zowie! I always thought the star business in the funny
papers was a gag, but I saw them all right."
"What time was it?" Mack inquired.
"Somewhere around seven. I wouldn't swear any closer
than that."
"Any idea who hit you, Jerry?"
"No more than a babe unborn. I didn't see a soul, I
tell you. I can't even guess what he did it with unless he
had a blackjack."
"I think I can tell that," Mack said, stepping inside
the closet. He came out almost immediately carrying a
duraluminum pipe, about two feet long and an inch and
a half in diameter. Mack held this very delicately by means
of his handkerchief. He laid it on the writing desk.
"What the devil!" Spanger ejaculated as he slid off the
bed. He walked shakily across the floor. "No, don't
bother," he said as Larson made a move to support him.
"I can make it all right. What's that thing, Johnny?"
"One of the dohinkuses Devon carried around for his
cleaner. Here's the way I've got it doped out: stop me if
you don't check. The guy that choked Devon was still in
the room when you knocked. He scurried around and
looked for something to slug you, then he thought of
these cleaner tools. He had plenty of time—see—because
you knocked twice before you got out your passkey. He
crouched behind the door—it opens inward—so you
didn't see him. Then he sloughed you, ripped up a sheet,
and tied you up. The tape he used for the gag was also
among Devon's junk. But I don't know why he stuck the
pipe in the closet instead of putting it back where it be-
longed."
"Possibly," Westborough suggested hesitantly, "he


212
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
wanted to—give Mr. Spanger a break—I believe you
would put it. He reasoned that the absence of the
pipe would induce us to search the closet before Mr.
Spanger would suffocate."
"Maybe. If he thought all that out, he's got a head on
him!"
"The fact that he grasped so quickly the potentialities
of the vacuum cleaner tools as a weapon indicates a mind
that reacts promptly to emergencies."
Psychological analysis was not Mack's long suit.
"Whoever he was, he's a dirty killer, and I hope I can
pin this job on him if it's the last thing I ever do." He
glanced toward the form in the armchair. "What do you
suppose he had against Devon?"
"Wasn't Devon also of the criminal element?"
"Yeh," Mack agreed. "We got plenty on him. But I
never could see him as the guy that did for Swink. That
sort of job takes brains."
"Swink and Devon might have been working together,"
Larson suggested. "Maybe the murderer killed Devon for
the same reason he killed Swink."
"Maybe," Mack agreed without enthusiasm. He turned
to the house detective. "Jerry, what became of Devon's
lighter?"
"Maybe I've still got it." Spanger reached into his
coat pocket. "Yes, here it is." He handed Mack a silver
lighter, and the detective inspected it closely.
"How did you know this was Devon's?"
"I kept a close watch on that bird. I've seen him flash
it several times, and besides, it had his initials on it."
"If Devon wasn't the gentleman's real name"
Westborough interposed.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
213
"How did you know that?" Mack asked quickly.
"I—I guessed it. When you informed us that Devon
had a police record."
"Well, you guessed right. You were about to say you
wondered why this had the initials B. D., weren't you?"
"Yes, that was my thought."
"Well, why shouldn't it have? He might have bought
this after he took his new name and naturally wanted to
keep in character."
Spanger was looking intently at the ash tray. "You
know, here's a funny thing."
"What?"
"This ash tray. Devon was the kind of bird that could
never do without a smoke for more than a couple of
minutes. 1 never saw him but what he didn't have a ciga-
rette in his mouth."
Mack's hands skillfully explored the dead man's
pockets. "No cigarettes here either. That's funny I"
"Could he have just changed his clothes?" West-
borough suggested.
"Now you're talking! Two bits that's just what he did.
I'll take a look and see!"
There was a gray suit on a hanger in the closet, and
Mack rummaged through the pockets. Suddenly he gave
vent to a low whistle.
"Find 'em?" Spanger asked.
"No, but just look what I did find."
The object which he held out for inspection looked to
Westborough like a small, long-necked pair of pliers.
"What on earth are those?" he asked.
"Nippers," Mack replied succinctly.
"Nippers?"


214
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Yeh. They fit right into a keyhole and grab hold of
the point of a key. When the key's in the lock, you can
turn it from the other side of the door."
XXI
"Would this instrument enable," Westborough glanced
nervously toward the corpse, "Mr. Devon to open the
doors of this hotel?"
Spanger shook his head. "Nope. Nippers can't get in-
side a cylinder lock. Besides, these doors lock auto-
matically, so why should anybody leave a key on the in-
side?"
"I see," Westborough pondered. "I wonder-"
Captain Terence O'Ryan, his jaw set at a grim angle,
appeared suddenly from the corridor. Behind the blue-
coated figure of the giant officer were Patrolmen Phelan,
McCarter, and other satellites. To Westborough the room
seemed to pullulate with police, all large in bulk and
vociferous in exclamations. The little man took occasion
of the confusion to study the actions of his fellow
civilians.
Swann, as nervous as a racehorse before the starting
gun, was tapping the point of his shoe against the floor.
Westborough could see the perspiration gleaming from
his bald cranium and would have wagered any reasonable
sum that the palms of his hands were equally moist.
Larson, who came from a more stolid race, had re-
sumed his fixed stare from the window and seemed en-
tirely absorbed in a world of his own.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Peter man," Mack was explaining tersely to O'Ryan,
and Westborough inferred that the detective was speak-
ing of the figure in the chair. "Known to the trade as
Vacuum Benny. Had a habit of selling vacuum cleaners
in between jobs of safe-cracking."
("So that's what a peter man is," Westborough re-
flected.)
"There wasn't any dope at headquarters, of course,"
Mack went on. "He never worked Chi. Stuck to small
burgs, mostly in Ohio, and specialized in groceries, meat
markets, and other dinky businesses. A good plain cracks-
man without frills. Got his soup the usual way by soaking
sawdust in alky"
"Sawdust?" Westborough queried.
Mack smiled in amused condescension. "Dynamite.
Soup's nitroglycerine, if you want to know, and that's
the way the yeggs make it. Devon was soaping a
box"
"Soaping a box?"
"Yeh! Stopping up the crack around the safe door
with laundry soap. The soup's poured in at the top and
works its way all around the edge of the door. Then you
light a fuse, and bingo! Off comes the door from the
hinges as slick as you please."
"Never mind the kindergarten class," O'Ryan inter-
rupted. "What were you going to say about Devon?"
"He was soaping a box in a grocery store when a night
watchman breaks in on him. Devon splits the fellow's
skull with his jimmy and then gets rattled and leaves the
jimmy behind with his fingerprints on it. He'd done a
stretch before, and they had his prints at Washington."
"Why at Washington?" Westborough inquired, con-


216
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
scious that he was making a nuisance of himself yet un-
able to restrain his thirst for information.
"National Division of Identification," Mack explained.
"Several million prints on file and complete records"
He checked himself at a look from O'Ryan. "How does
this tie into Swink?" the latter asked.
Mack shook his head. "Damned if I know. They both
had records, but they weren't in the same racket. Swink
was a con man and a high-class one, while Devon cracked
safes. Swink stuck to the big time, and Devon played the
one-night stands. If you ask me, I'd say they didn't even
know each other."
"They didn't as far as I know," Spanger confirmed.
"Did you give this room a good workout the other
night, Phelan?" Mack wanted to know. The patrolman
nodded emphatically, and Mack pointed to the nippers
which he had laid upon the writing desk. "Know what
those things are for?"
"Sure I know," Phelan declared in a hurt voice. "If
they'd been here the other night we'd have found them.
I tell you we went over the whole place with a"
"What about the trick pocket in Chilton's suitcase?"
Mack reminded.
Phelan's face fell. "We did slip up on that, I guess."
"Hell, anyone would!" Mack consoled. "But I don't
think Vacuum Benny had a grip with trick pockets." He
jerked his thumb toward the case of accessories. "Did you
go through that junk?"
"Took every one of 'em out," Phelan answered con-
fidently. "If there's a thing in the room we missed, I'd
like to know what."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
217
"Well, something's screwy," Mack deliberated. "Un-
less he got this little toy since Thursday. But why"
"Does that thing have to stay here?" Swann inter-
rupted with a grimace at the corpse.
"It does, but you don't." The hotel manager breathed
a sigh of relief and started toward the door. "You can
clear out too, Larson, but stick in your room. We'll be
talking to you later," Mack added, the barest suggestion
of a threat in his inflection.
Larson raised his head, looked scornfully into the de-
tective's face for half a minute, and left without speak-
ing. The genial and rotund Dr. Hildreth appeared in the
doorway.
"My God, another! Swann been killing off his cus-
tomers?" The doctor inspected the corpse with a cheerful
professional interest. "Pupils dilated, lips and tongue
livid—it's not hard to say what happened to this guy."
"I could've told you, and I'm no medico," Mack put
in. "He was strangled."
"Throttled," the doctor corrected.
"Hell, what's the difference?"
"To strangle a guy you apply the constricting force
by a ligature all the way round his neck, and to throttle
him you go direct for his windpipe with your fingers.
This bird was throttled."
"In other words he was choked," O'Ryan grinned.
The doctor pointed at the dead man's throat. "You
can see the marks of the fingers on one side and thumb on
the other. He was grabbed from in front"
"For God's sake, Doc, don't smudge 'em!" Mack broke
in. "Those marks might be prints."


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"The thumb mark is on the stiff's right," the doctor
went on, "and that means the killer used his right hand,
if that's any help to you."
"Sure, that's a big help!" Mack groaned. "So few guys
are right-handed." He glanced inquiringly about the
room and remarked, "Devon doesn't seem to have kicked
up much of a rumpus."
"Why should he?" countered Dr. Hildreth, who was
taking a thermometer from his bag. "Given a grip suffi-
ciently powerful, insensibility follows almost immediately.
It's even more rapid than if a band were twisted around
the throat."
"He died right away, then?" Mack asked thoughtfully.
"I should say that."
"How long ago?"
"Well, there aren't any signs of rigor yet." He jerked
a watch from his vest pocket. "It's a quarter to ten now.
My guess is that he was killed from seven to seven-thirty:
that's based on the drop in body temperature and should
be reasonably accurate."
"Seven to seven-thirty," Mack repeated, writing in his
notebook. "Thanks, Doc."
The doctor resumed his inspection. Presently he called:
"Here's something else funny."
"What?"
"Cut on his face. It hasn't been cleaned up, but it
didn't bleed."
"So what?" O'Ryan asked sarcastically.
"Don't you guys know anything?" Dr. Hildreth de-
manded irately. "Why do you bleed?"
"I'll bite, why?"
"Because the heart is a pump which keeps up the pres-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
219
sure in all parts of the body. But after the heart action
stops there's no more pressure."
"I see what you're driving at," Mack interpolated. "A
guy doesn't bleed after death."
"Not in the upper third of the body. Of course,
gravity"
"Here's an idea!" Mack ejaculated. "Suppose that the
strangler was real close to this guy and that he was wear-
ing a stick pin"
"Not a stick pin," the doctor snapped. "Too sharp.
Something more blunt "His glance fell for the first
time on the hotel detective. "Good Lord, what happened
to your head, Spanger?"
"I got slugged."
"Evidently. Well, come over to the light and I'll take a
look at it."
"Something blunt," Mack repeated. He brought his
hand against his thigh in a vigorous slap. "By God, I've
got it! How's this, Doc. You know those silly little
buttons on coat sleeves? I never could understand why
they put them there."
"A survival of the time when the sleeve was buttoned
back to give the sword arm full play," Westborough ex-
plained.
"Suppose one of those buttons was broken," Mack con-
jectured. "Would the edge leave that kind of mark,
Doc?"
"Possibly," the doctor stated in a noncommittal
manner, his fingers probing the back of Spanger's head.
"I'd have to see the button first."
"You'll see it," Mack promised. "We'll check up on
the coat of every guy in the hotel if we have to. When


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
221
less as a caged tiger, elected to pace the floor, chewing
viciously at a cigar stub.
"If this is tied in with the Swink job," he said, "it
means somebody in this corridor. And one killing is pretty
apt to breed another."
"That's a large order at that," O'Ryan drawled from
his chair at the writing desk. "The last time I was here
it took till after three"
"Not the women," Mack put in. "A woman might've
pulled the other job, but the women are out now. It'd
take a mighty husky baby to choke a man, I'd say." He
tolled off names on his fingers. "Larson, of course; he's
plenty big enough to do it. Hammond's no lily either.
Jasper looks like he could give a good account of himself
in a scrap, and then there's Graham and you." He paused
thoughtfully. "What were you doing with yourself all
day, Westborough?"
"I went to a motion picture," the little man began
slowly. "I left about four-thirty, I believe, and called
upon my sister-in-law, Mrs. James Westborough. She in-
vited me to dinner, and I did not leave her apartment
until after eight. I had been in the hotel only a few min-
utes when I met you."
Mack whipped out his notebook and asked the address
of Westborough's sister-in-law.
"Dear me, am I suspected?"
"Why should you be? Just a matter of routine to check
up on every one. If I were a right smart murderer, I'd
manufacture myself a nice little alibi for seven to seven-
thirty. Wouldn't you? Wouldn't anyone? That's why we
got to be careful about checking up on 'em all."
"You think, then," Westborough summarized in his


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
precise fashion, "that the murderer left the hotel to es-
tablish an alibi?"
"What do you think?" Mack countered.
"I—I really don't know."
Mack said, "Well, from now on I'm going to be sus-
picious of birds with alibis for seven to seven-thirty.
Who's at home now, Jerry?"
The hotel detective sauntered to the door and made a
hasty survey of the corridor. "Looks like everyone is," he
reported, "except Miss Gant and the Blakely hen."
"Women are out," Mack declared again. "Let's begin
with Larson."
The night clerk strode into the room. "What'd you do
today?" Mack demanded.
Larson glowered at the house detective. "I thought you
learned all about it from your stool pigeon."
Spanger growled, "One more crack bke that, square-
head"
"Shut up!" Mack barked. "When I want to see a fight
I'll pay to see Joe Louis. Now, Larson, where were you?"
"Lincoln Park."
"I won't ask what you were doing, because I can damn
well guess. Take your jane to dinner?"
Larson answered coldly, "If you're referring to Miss
Gant, your manner's offensive."
"Well, I'm a monkey's uncle," Mack crowed. "Listen,
you! This isn't a tea party. What time'd you get back to
the hotel?"
Larson took an angry step forward, but fell back as
he met Mack's eyes.
"A quarter to eight," he said shortly.
"And Miss Gant was with you all the time?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
225
Amco before he set up his own agency. I stayed with him
until five or so." -'
"What'd you do then?"
"Came back to the hotel and shot Vacuum Benny, of
course."
"How'd you know he was shot at five?" Mack asked
quickly, and Jasper answered, "Was he? Well, I hate to
disappoint you, but I didn't do the job because I was at
the Oriental theater watching a new super spectacle called
Three Men and a Cobra. It took about three hours to sit
through the show, so I didn't get back to the hotel much
before eight."
"Can you prove that?"
"Probably not. You don't suppose the ushers in the big
Loop movie houses remember all the faces they see, do
you?"
"Well, that's all I want from you, Jasper—now." The
Amco man started toward the door when Mack halted
him. "Wait a minute, you. So Devon was shot?"
"How the hell should I know?" Jasper exclaimed and
disappeared down the corridor. Mack said thoughtfully,
"Larson, Westborough, and now Jasper. Don't tell me
Hammond will have an alibi, too."
Hammond's first words were, "Well, I'm damned. You
fellows are working overtime, aren't you?"
"Yeh, we get around," Mack said. "Hammond, what'd
you do today?"
The salesman grimaced. "Had a hell of a time, if you
want to know. Got into a row with my father-in-law.
Norah took his side, and the old lady took mine, and
there was the devil to pay all around."


226
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Your father-in-law's in Elgin, isn't he?"
"Sure, that's what I told you before."
"Have dinner there?"
"Yeh, they always eat about three o'clock on Sundays.
Then we sat around and chewed the fat. Everything
would've been O.K., but the old man got started on poli-
tics. He's"
"What time'd you leave?" Mack interrupted.
"About five-thirty. I couldn't stick any more of
his"
"Never mind that. What time'd you come in the hotel?"
"Eight fifteen or so."
"Take you over two and a half hours to drive forty
miles?"
"I had tire trouble. Picked up a nail near Blooming-
dale and had to change to the spare."
"How long'd that take?"
"Fifteen minutes or so. But I stopped at a joint farther
down the road and had the tube patched. That killed
more time."
"What joint?" Mack wanted to know.
Hammond shook his head. "You can't prove it by me.
It was just a garage along the road, not so very far from
Oak Park. I could probably find it again, but that's all I
can tell you now."
"Know what time you were there?"
"Yes, at seven-thirty. I remember looking at my watch
while they were working on the tube."
"And then you came straight to the hotel?"
"Yes."
"No more stops along the way?"
Before Hammond could answer, a patrolman came to


228
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Then what? Don't tell me you went to a movie too!"
"That's just what we did do. Three Men and a Cobra
it was called."
Mack said, "Humph! Who was the fellow you came up
to see?"
"His name wouldn't mean anything to you, but he's
private secretary to Ezra Whittington."
"Ezra Whittington?"
"Yes, the utility financier. He owns some gas proper-
ties in Illinois, and I represent his interests at Spring-
field."
"Lobbyist, huh?"
"You could call it that, I suppose. I'm a lawyer by pro-
fession."
"Whittington your only client?"
"No, I have a general practice in Springfield."
"Humph!" Mack exclaimed again. "Know a guy by
the name of Jasper?"
"Never heard of him."
"Maybe you knew him under the name of Chilton?"
"Chilton?" Colmar repeated. "No, I don't know any
Chilton either."
"He's staying in this hotel. Didn't Whittington's sec-
retary tell you about him?"
"Not a word. We spent the entire time discussing a bill
which is up for passage in the Legislature. It would mean
a new and particularly vicious tax on gas companies, and
Whittington wanted to find out what chance it had of
passing."
"Well, what chance has it?"
Colmar smiled ruefully. "Pretty good, I'd say. It's be-
come the fashion to soak the utilities. There's such a thing


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
229
as killing the goose that lays the golden eggs, as some of
these loud-mouthed politicians will be learning some day."
"Were you going back to Springfield tonight?"
"Yes, I was counting on catching the twelve-thirty."
Mack drawled. "Well, I don't know as we need to stop
you. If we want anything else we can always get you at
your Springfield address, can't we?"
"Right! And I'll be glad to do anything I can."
Colmar sauntered from the room. O'Ryan demanded:
"I'm with you in most everything you do, Johnny, but
why let that guy get out? There's something screwy about
this Whittington business."
"Maybe." Mack bit the end off a fresh cigar. "But the
trouble is we can't prove it. Arrest a lawyer with pull and
there'll be wires yanked all over the state to get him out.
We'd just make saps of ourselves for nothing. On the
other hand we can always get hold of Colmar, can't we?
He isn't going to run away?"
"Something in that," O'Ryan concurred. "It'd be a
dead giveaway if he bolted."
Mack had resumed his restless pacing. "Here's a prob-
lem for you," he flung over his shoulder. "Which guy had
a broken button on his sleeve, Terry?"
"I didn't see any."
"Neither did I. Button, button, who's got the button?"
Mack inquired facetiously. He continued in a graver tone,
"Of course he might've changed clothes."
"Phelan and McCarter "O'Ryan began, and then
stopped as those two patrolmen burst into the room.
"Through already, boys?"
"Yes." Phelan was excited. "Just for good measure we


PART SIX
Monday
XXII
Westborough's face was covered with a mask of lather
when his brush paused suddenly in midair. "Of course.
How stupid of me not to think of that before," he said to
the owlish reflection in the mirror and took up his old-
fashioned straight razor.
Having completed his toilet, he opened the door of his
room. Far down the corridor the chambermaid, Anna Lar-
son, was wheeling her rubber-tired linen cart. "Do your
duties include replenishment of articles in the guests'
dresser pincushions?" Westborough asked her.
"Replenishment?" repeated the maid with a puzzled
look.
Westborough simplified. "I mean do you keep account
of the needles, pins, buttons, and what not in the guests'
rooms?"
"Sure, I do that."
"Do you remember the morning after Mr. Swink was
killed?"
"Sure, I remember it. That detective fellow, he talked
to me then."
231


232
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Did you find anything missing from Mr. Devon's
dresser that morning?"
"Devon? Who's he?"
Westborough patiently indicated the room.
"319, oh, that's the room where the other man was
killed! No, I cannot remember."
"Think hard, please," Westborough persisted. "Nee-
dles? Button? Thread?"
This last stirred a chord in the maid's memory.
"Thread. Yes, I had to put in a new piece of thread."
"Black or white?"
"I remember now. It was black thread."
Westborough thanked her and sauntered up the corri-
dor. He knocked on the door of 311,-which Miss Gant
opened at once. She was wearing a tailored suit of russet
brown and a tiny-brimmed hat of the same material,
tipped at an angle across one eye. Westborough was no
style expert, but he felt that the general effect was far
from displeasing.
"I see I didn't disturb your slumbers," he began.
She smiled. "I'm looking for a job, and an early start
helps, they say. So far it hasn't made much difference."
"The Goddess of Luck, then, has not been overly pro-
pitious?"
She shook her head. "I've had lots of luck so far—all
bad. Well, something should turn up, as Micawber would
put it. And the sooner the better say I."
"I am badly in need of stenographic assistance," West-
borough informed hesitantly. "Would you be willing to
be my secretary until a more remunerative position pre-
sents itself?"
"Would you mind saying that again?"


234
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
father, but that doesn't make a nickel's worth of differ-
ence. Sorry, but you'll have to rent an office."
"Dear, dear," Westborough murmured. "I really would
prefer not to leave the hotel this morning. Are you able
to suggest a site where my dictation to Miss Gant would
not be derogatory to public morals?"
"Not trying to kid me, are you?"
"Such was far from my intention."
"Well," Spanger pronounced at length, "if you want
to rent a sample room, I don't see any objection. Sales-
men sometimes have a steno in 'em to get out their letters,
and I guess you can do the same if you'll fix it up with the
room clerk."
The principal difference between a sample room and an
ordinary room, Westborough discovered, was that a sam-
ple room cost about twice as much. He was learning the
lesson the federal government had already discovered: to
wit, that work relief is considerably more expensive than
direct.
The sample room was, however, hired, Westborough's
dilapidated Corona transported to it, and Miss Gant in-
stalled, very business-like, behind an array of freshly
sharpened pencils and a stenographer's notebook.
"Are you familiar with Trajan?" Westborough in-
quired.
Miss Gant, evidently quoting from some half-forgotten
textbook, replied, "The Roman Empire reached its great-
est extent under the Emperor Trajan." Westborough
beamed.
"Exactly. An entire chapter of my manuscript upon
that personage must be rewritten. I don't believe the pub-
lishers will like it—they told me they were setting the


23G
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"There!" he exclaimed. "It isn't what I wanted to say,
of course. It never is, but I daresay I can work it over
when I see the transcription. You won't mind copying
this again, Miss Gant?"
"Not at all," she was about to say when Westborough
asked, a propos de bottes:
"Does anybody in our corridor carry a cane?"
"You do. A gold-headed one."
"Dear me, yes. It was given to me by my brother
James. He's dead now, my dear. I was in Paris at the time,
and the cane arrived exactly on my birthday—James did
so many things for me like that. But that wasn't what I
meant."
She said, "I can't think of anyone else."
Westborough strolled toward the window. "A typical
Chicago spring, isn't it? Mist and drizzles again today."
He wheeled and faced the girl. "Was it raining the night
Mr. Swink met his death?"
"Cats and dogs," she answered cheerfully, "It's rained
every day for a week now."
"Hum!" Westborough pondered and was on the verge
of saying something else when the door to the sample room
opened.
"So this is your hide-out?" Mack called jovially. "Can
you break off long enough for a few minutes' powwow?"
Excusing himself to the girl, Westborough escorted the
detective upstairs to his own room. "Westborough," Mack
began without preamble as soon as the door had closed
behind them, "you had a brainstorm last night about
Devon being killed in somebody else's room?"
"Yes."
"Well, Doc Hildreth had the same hunch. Cagey old


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
237
bird, the Doc! He didn't want to say anything until he
had a chance to prove it. Doc was down at the morgue
bright and early this morning, and I guess he did a good
day's work. He called me up at headquarters to say there
was smoke in Devon's lungs."
"Smoke in Devon's lungs?"
"Yeah, that mean anything to you? It didn't to me
either at first, and then I got to thinking. Was there or
wasn't there smoke in his room when we opened the door?"
Westborough, remembering the empty ash tray, said,
"There couldn't"
"Funny how a thing like that slips your mind," Mack
interrupted. "And it's my business to notice things, too.
Then I recalled he didn't have any cigarettes and
Spanger saying that was funny. No, it's a real break at
last. Somebody gave Devon's neck a squeeze in another
room. And it was a guy who smoked."
"I smoke," Westborough returned promptly.
"Pipe," Mack said laconically. "So does Larson. So
does Graham. Hammond smokes cigars. Jasper uses ciga-
rettes. A big help, isn't it?"
"Are you sure," Westborough inquired, "that the
guilty party is someone in this corridor?"
"Hell, yes! Nobody could cart a corpse any distance
in the hotel without being spotted. But it'd be a cinch to
watch through a crack in the door until the coast was
clear and then pop into another room without anyone
being the wiser."
"The dead man's cigarette lighter offers an insuperable
difficulty to that theory," Westborough pointed out.
"Eh? What do you mean it does?"


238 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Didn't Spanger say that he found it in the south cor-
ridor?"
"By God, he did. Now what do you make of that?"
Westborough replied, "An object like a cigarette lighter
might easily fall from the pocket of a body being trans-
ported from one room to another. But its position in the
south corridor"
"Yeah," Mack cut in, "but if it didn't fall out that
way, how did it get there?" He chewed at his cigar for a
few seconds. "I got it now. The lighter's a plant. Some
guy wanted to turn suspicion away from this corridor.
And why? Because he lives here. That sound reasonable?"
"Unless the murderer actually does live in the south
corridor."
Mack said, "There's not many staying there now, and
I checked up on those that were. None of them were in
last night. Nope, here's how I got it doped out: the guy
that bumped off Devon is the same one who did for Swink.
But Devon knew who he was—see? Devon goes to his
room and wants five or ten grand to keep his mouth shut
so the murderer shuts it for nothing. That make sense?"
"A very logical analysis."
"Hell, it's common sense!"
"I don't say that it isn't the true explanation. Never-
theless, there is a fallacy."
"Oh yeah?"
"Devon, I believe you will agree, was a person of limited
intelligence. I will grant you that he probably possessed
a certain acumen along lines more or less mechanical, but
his powers of abstract reasoning were undeveloped."
"If you're trying to say he was dumb, I'll check."
"From my experience with the Chicago Police Depart-


THE FIFTH TUMBLEH
241
thing important. You mean that Hammond killed Devon,
jumped into his car, and traveled out of town as fast as
he could go to kid the guy at the garage into believing
that he was there at seven-thirty? Say, that isn't such a
dumb idea," Mack went on. "Hammond could've stuck
a nail in his own tire and said he picked it up on the road
and had to change. Who could check that?"
"You are forgetting," Westborough protested, "that
Hammond was back here shortly after eight."
Mack came down to earth with a bang. "Right you are.
That spoils the whole case. He couldn't have left the hotel
at seven, which is the earliest time Doc Hildreth will give
him, go out four miles or so west of Oak Park, have a tire
vulcanized, and get back here by eight-fifteen. Or could
he?" Mack paused to consider this question. "You know,
I'll get one of the boys to try it. With the right break on
lights"
A knocking upon the door interrupted further specula-
tion. Westborough opened it to reveal Victor Swann. In
his hand he held an object which resembled a thin piece
of steel attached to a pistol-grip handle.
"Been hunting all over for you," Swann began in his
usual telegraphic manner. "Houseman found this thingu-
majig while he was baling waste paper."
"A jigger gun!" Mack ejaculated.
"Another implement to pick locks?" Westborough
queried.
The detective nodded. "Where was this found?" he
asked the hotel manager.
"Basement. Houseman baling"
"Yeah, I got that. But where does he get the paper
he took to the baler?"


242
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Maids' closets. One on every floor. Maid empties waste
paper from rooms into big bag hanging on door of
closet."
"Did the houseman tell you which bag this thing came
from?"
"Didn't I tell you? The one on this floor."
"He's sure of that?"
"Seemed to be."
Mack began to wrap the lock-picking instrument in a
sheet of stationery abstracted from Westborough's desk.
"Devon's," he explained laconically, putting it into his
pocket. "He used it last night, I'll bet."
"That settles it," Swann burst out angrily. "Locks
picked like so much cheese in this corridor. Must have new
ones put in tomorrow. Upset master-key system. Can't
help it. Guests have to be protected—I'll let 'em know
about new locks now."
He stamped hurriedly from the room, and Mack
winked at Westborough.
"Clucks like an old hen because one chick's got away
somewhere," he laughed. Slowly the grin faded from his
face. "Do you know what this means? Devon had to leave
traces when he opened that room last night. Scratches
on the key way or on the tumblers. This case is just as
good as closed now. All we do is open up the locks and
we've got our man."
"Suppose," Westborough conjectured, "the murder
took place in Swink's room?"
"Why bring that up? You don't think"
Westborough shook his head. "Not particularly. The
point merely occurred to me."
"Well, if you're right, we're out of luck!" Mack ex-


244
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"Hotel service is founded upon the taking of infinite
pains over apparently trivial details," Westborough be-
gan. "To give an example, I learned the other day from
Mr. Swann that on each guest's pincushion must be
placed one black button, three white buttons of various
sizes, two needles, twenty-four straight pins, one large
safety pin, two small safety pins, twenty-four inches of
white thread, and twenty-four inches of black thread."
"So what?"
"The chambermaid is supposed to take inventory of
these items and to replenish any which are missing. The
morning after Swink's death she found one of the objects
I have named missing from Devon's pincushion. Can you
guess what it was?"
"How old is Ann?" Mack grinned. "You tell me."
"The black thread."
"Probably sewed a button on his pants," Mack
hazarded. Westborough said nothing, and Mack went on,
"I'll bite, then. What did he do with it?"
"I should like to verify my conclusion by experiment,"
Westborough answered. "I suggest that we adjourn to
his room."
Mack found the chambermaid on the point of going
into a room at the end of the corridor and made her open
the door, which she did under protest, vociferously main-
taining that it was against the rules. Westborough went
straight to the bathroom and pointed to an opening in
the wall leading to a ventilating shaft and covered by a
metal grille.
"Now if we remove that plate."
Mack yanked out a substantial-looking pocket knife


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
245
and attacked the screws. "Damn!" he exclaimed as the
blade broke at the first attempt.
"I'll get a screwdriver," Westborough volunteered.
"There was one among the cleaner tools."
"That junk's all down at the station. Anyhow, this
blade's working now."
He removed the grille, and Westborough triumphantly
pointed to a fragment of black thread attached to one
of the bottom screws.
"Neat idea," Mack commented. "All he had to do was
to tie his toys to the thread, wrap the thread around the
screw, and put back the plate. The jigger gun and nip-
pers would be out of sight down the shaft, and the face
of the plate hides the thread. No wonder Phelan and Mc-
Carter didn't tumble to it. I wouldn't myself."
"A houseman vacuums these shafts every so often,"
Westborough remarked, "so it's hardly satisfactory as a
permanent hiding place. But for a day or two it serves
quite well."
"O.K., let's get going," Mack urged, closing the door
behind him.
"Were there any fingerprints on the pipe?" West-
borough asked.
"Pipe? Oh, you mean the thing that slugged Jerry.
No—not even Devon's. If you're such a smart detective,
deduce something from that."
"It was wiped clean?" Westborough hazarded.
"Yeh, go to the head of the class. This mug probably
wore gloves—there weren't any prints on Devon's throat
either—but even so he was taking no chances. Our best
bet now is the locks—Devon had to leave his calling card
—and I'm going to get Clark on 'em right away."


216
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Westborough walked with him to the elevator shaft,
then returned to his temporary office in the sample room.
He could hear the busy clicking of a typewriter from the
corridor.
Miss Gant looked up from her work as he entered the
room. "Well, my dear, and how it everything going?"
Westborough questioned.
"Pretty well. Of course, I have to go rather slowly.
Your typewriter isn't what it once was."
"Like its owner," Westborough smiled. "As a matter of
fact, there is no hurry, my dear. No hurry at all. I find
that urgent business calls me away from the hotel."
He bowed himself out of the room while Yvonne Gant
continued at her typing. There was a great deal about
Apollodorus of Damascus, and Yvonne began to con-
ceive an admiration for this Leonardo da Vinci of the first
century. A mental image began to form in her mind. He
was tall, of course, tall and blond—with a start she real-
ized that she had been picturing Chris Larson. She
pounded furiously at the keys until she heard a knock at
the door. She opened it to admit Jerry Spanger.
"Where'd Westborough go?" the hotel detective de-
manded.
Yvonne Gant struck a few more keys on the machine.
She had no particular love for Jerry Spanger. "He didn't
tell me."
"Did he say when he was coming back?"
"No."
"O.K." Spanger started to close the door, then flung
it wide open again. "If you ask me, Westborough's
screwy."
Yvonne Gant rose from her machine and delivered what


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
253
course, but I could see it in his eyes—the pupils were
contracted to pin points. He stood there for some seconds,
too mad to talk or do anything but glare. Finally he
said:
"'Westborough, I don't like being played for a sucker.'
"Mr. Westborough—he's so mild and apologetic—
didn't turn a hair. He looked up from his manuscript and
said in a tired, patient voice, 'Whatever have I done
now?'
"That was too much for Lieutenant Mack, and he ex-
ploded. It was almost comical, though I confess I didn't
see the funny side of it then. 'Done! You know what
you've done! Devon got into your room, you dirty little
double-crosser!'
"That didn't bother Mr. Westborough in the slightest.
He said, in the same calm, patient voice, 'Then it was my
lock that the scratches were on?'
"Lieutenant Mack smashed his fist so hard against the
writing desk that I thought he'd broken it. 'You know
damn well it was! Don't try playing innocent with me.'
"Mr. Westborough didn't even hear him. He just sat
there looking way off somewhere into space. 'Dear me!
But in that event, why did the'
"I never did learn just what he was going to say be-
cause at that point Lieutenant Mack interrupted. He was
just as mad as ever, but it was a different kind of anger.
'You're as smooth an article as I've ever met, but I can
see a whole lot of things now. Those notes of yours, for
instance, that you pestered me with until I read them.
You tried to throw suspicion on everyone in the corridor.
It was a very clever trick, but that section on poisons
would have been a dead giveaway—if I hadn't known Jim


254
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
Westborough. You know a lot more about that subject
than an ordinary man has any business knowing. And
when I told you we were going to examine the locks—
God, you were slick about that! Cutest trick I ever saw
the way you tried to sell me on the idea that Devon was
killed in Swink's room. But he wasn't. It was your room,
and you're going to headquarters. Tell me now why you
choked him.'
"Mr. Westborough held out his hands—you know what
tiny, frail hands he has for a man—and said, 'With
these?' Lieutenant Mack was flabbergasted. He looked at
Mr. Westborough's hands as if he couldn't believe his
eyes, and then looked at his face. He opened his mouth
twice but couldn't manage to get out more than a sort of
grunt. Then Mr. Westborough asked him, 'Have you
talked to my sister-in-law?' Lieutenant Mack said, 'Yeh,
we sent a man up there!' Mr. Westborough didn't even
wait to hear what the man had found out. 'You know my
sister-in-law personally?' Mack said, 'Yeh,' and Mr.
Westborough told him, 'Then you know that Mrs. James
Westborough is scarcely the woman to serve as accom-
plice to a murderer. Especially if he should be a brother-
in-law for whom she doesn't particularly care.'
"Lieutenant Mack didn't take his eyes off Mr. West-
borough's face, and Mr. Westborough didn't take his eyes
off Lieutenant Mack's face. Neither one would stop star-
ing at the other. Only Mr. Westborough wasn't really
staring. His eyes were actually twinkling behind those
big glasses of his, and finally the other gave up. 'Was
that scratch a plant?' It was plain to me that he thought
a lot of Mr. Westborough's opinion.


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
255
"'Either a surprisingly stupid one,' Mr. Westborough
said, 'or'
"He stopped, and Lieutenant Mack asked, 'Or what?'
"Mr. Westborough slumped back into his chair, and
somehow I got the idea that he was exhausted. He's so
little and frail, I wondered if he might have heart trouble.
Anyway, I left my chair and came over to him. 'Anything
I can do for you, Mr. Westborough?' I asked. 'No, thank
you, my dear, I am quite all right.' Then Lieutenant
Mack said again, 'Or what?' and Mr. Westborough
smiled a wan little smile.
"'Dear me! I really don't know.'"
Chris Larson rose to his feet as the girl concluded her
narrative. "I can't visualize Mr. Westborough as a mur-
derer."
"He's the last person in the world"
"But then," Chris went on, "I can't see anyone else
here as that either. They're all nice, ordinary everyday
people."
"Is a murderer essentially different from other peo-
ple?" Yvonne wanted to know.
"Here, I'll light it for you!" Chris exclaimed, crossing
the room to hold a match to her cigarette. "Yvonne, when
I heat manganese dioxide with potassium chlorate I know
I'll get oxygen every time. But you can't put human
beings into a test tube and be sure of always getting the
same reaction."
Her eyes, blue as larkspur, smiled at him through her
cigarette smoke.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that I can't take people to pieces and see


256
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
what makes 'em tick. Maybe a murderer has got a sort
of warp in his psychological make-up. Maybe he can stay
a kind old gentleman like Mr. Westborough. I don't know.
But I do know that if this particular one comes into the
next room tonight, he's going to be nabbed." Two quick
strides brought him to the connecting door, and he in-
serted his passkey in the lock. Suddenly Yvonne's tall,
graceful form was beside him.
"Chris?"
"Yes, dear."
She laid her hand on his forearm. "You—you'll take
care of yourself?"
Larson turned away from the door. "Does it mean any-
thing to you?"
"Yes," her lips said simply, but her eyes admitted
more.
"Yvonne, when this is all over will you mar"
"Not for years and years," she laughed, evading his
outstretched arms. "You have to finish college."
"I could chuck chemistry"
"You do, Chris Larson, and I'll shoot you."
"Bloodthirsty little wench." This time she failed to
elude his arms. For perhaps half a minute they clung to-
gether, her eyes pleading. Larson answered, as though she
had spoken aloud:
"En avant, toujours, en avant. You didn't know I
knew French too, did you?"
"It's pronounced 'ahn', not to rhyme with 'hen', and
the's' is silent," said the little carping demon which lies
hidden in every feminine soul to Yvonne Gant. But to the
demon she paid little heed. Aloud she answered, "En
avant," as Chris turned the knob. The door opened noise-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
257
lessly on its well-oiled hinges. Then Chris's head bent
down to her face before the door closed between them. She
could hear the click the bolt made as it slid into place.
Chris had locked the door from his side—for her protec-
tion, she knew.
She sank into a chair and toyed with a nail file. Just to
wait. Was there, could there be anything worse than wait-
ing? Waiting while a man—the man you love, she told
herself—was in that room? The room which had taken
at least one man's life! That ghastly, sardonic mocking
room!
"Please don't let anything happen to him," she
breathed, and then she smiled at the absurdity of that.
You stood alone in this world. You were alone outside of
the help which friends could give. Chris had only his own
strength to depend upon. Beyond that—nothing.
She lit another cigarette, took a few puffs, and then
crumpled it out in a quick, nervous fashion. She looked
out of the window. She went to the dressing table and
looked into the mirror. She put a dab of powder on her
nose and a touch of rouge on her cheeks. But she did this
mechanically, scarcely noting the effect produced. Then
she placed her ear against the connecting door. Was it
imagination, or could she actually hear Chris breathing
in the next room?
"It must be imagination," she told herself, and went
back to her chair. There were no more cigarettes in the
cylindrical receptacle beside the ash tray. "There's a
fresh pack in my purse," she remembered. She was about
to tear the pack open when she heard a noise from the
next room. Chris's room. Not Swink's. Chris's phone was
ringing. Loudly and insistently. Clamorously, in the im-


258
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
perative manner in which phones order you to drop every-
thing and come to them at once.
"Chris ought to know that," she thought and went to
the door. Her knuckles rapped softly, and she waited for
his answering call. But there was only silence. Yvonne
knocked louder. "Chris, oh Chris."
Still no answer. This ominous, predatory silence!
"Chris, Chris, Chris darling!" She hugged the door and
clung to it, her ear strained to catch every sound emanat-
ing from the next room. But there were no sounds. No,
that wasn't true, either. She could hear something now.
The din of the telephone in the next room ceased, and she
realized that she could hear very distinctly indeed. It was
the click of another bolt being drawn in a lock. It was the
creak of a door swinging open.
Yvonne Gant ran screaming into the corridor.
XXIV
Chris larson had locked the door which led to Yvonne's
room and restored the key to his pocket. No matter what
happened in here tonight, he told himself, she, at least,
was out of it.
Outside darkness had settled upon the city, and the
room was illuminated only by a faint glimmer from the
transom. He drew up a large wing chair to face the door
and settled to his vigil. But waiting there in the semi-
darkness for something, he didn't know what, turned out
to be not the easiest task in the world. The trouble was
not with his nerves. His nerves were excellent. But Chris
Larson was becoming sleepy.


262
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
from his bathroom. He poured a good stiff drink, and
Mack smacked his lips. "That the same stuff you gave
Jerry Spanger?"
"The identical ichor. I believe there is a saying relative
to the impossibility of a man standing upon one leg?"
Mack waved away temptation. "I could drink that all
night, but I know my limits. I won't be much good if I
start seeing two mirrors."
"Whom are you expecting to come tonight?" West-
borough inquired.
"I could act wise about it, but what's the use? Hell,
I don't know, and that's fiat!" Mack tilted up the glass
and consumed the last few precious drops of the brandy.
"Hammond's alibi checked," he said.
"You found the garage, then?"
"Yeh," Mack declared, the liquor loosening his tongue
into unusual garrulity. "And the guy remembers chang-
ing his tire and says it was about seven-thirty or so."
"My impression was that you were going to be sus-
picious of alibis," Westborough reminded.
"I am, but if they check, there's not much you can do
about it. Yours, Hammond's, and Larson's seem to be
O.K. Jasper's is lousy and so is Colmar's."
"Do you suspect either of those gentlemen?" West-
borough wanted to know.
"I'm not sure," Mack said slowly. "If you want the
truth, I haven't a case yet against anybody, and unless
something happens tonight I probably won't have." He
looked quizzically at his host. "Westborough, you're a
damn queer duck, but I can't help getting the idea that
you know a lot more about this than you're letting on.
What's your slant on this?"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
263
"That's a frank question and calls for a frank answer,"
Westborough replied. "I only wish I could give it to you,
but, since confessions are in order, I have to admit that
I am as completely at sea as you are. Up to this after-
noon"
"This afternoon?" Mack repeated quickly.
Westborough's thin hands played with a pen, pressing
the point against the blue desk blotter. "Let me elucidate
by means of an analogy. The situation is not unlike the
mechanism of a pin-tumbler lock."
"I'll be taking locks to pieces in my sleep," Mack de-
clared with emphasis. "There's five pin tumblers, and the
wedges on the key have to raise 'em all in line before the
plug can turn. That what you mean?"
"Exactly. To carry the parable a step farther, I might
add that four of my tumblers have reached the proper
height, but an obstinate fifth prevents the lock from open-
ing. Could I surmount that obstacle"
"What's your fifth?" Mack demanded.
"Devon's cigarette lighter," Westborough returned
promptly.
"But I thought we'd settled this morning that it'd been
planted in the south corridor?"
Westborough's head moved in a negative gesture.
"That explanation was perfectly valid—this morning.
Since then conflicting evidence"
"I get it," Mack broke in excitedly. "You mean that
this guy we're looking for—the killer—wouldn't plant
the lighter to point to the south corridor and then put the
scratches on your lock to point right back at the west cor-
ridor again?"
"The leaving of two directly contradictory false clues


264 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
is not a logical procedure," Westborough confirmed.
"The next question is, 'Has our murderer a logical
mind?' Judging from the skill with which he plotted the
death of Swink, I cannot help but answer that question
affirmatively. Therefore, one of the contradictory clues
must be genuine. But the marks upon my lock are a false
clue. There is no doubt about that. 'No probable, pos-
sible shadow of doubt,' as the Grand Inquisitor said in
The Gondoliers. Hence, the cigarette lighter must be the
genuine clue. But it follows inevitably that Devon was not
strangled in the west corridor." He shook his white head
in bewilderment. "As I have heard you observe so many
times, 'It doesn't make sense.'"
"Nothing makes sense in this case," Mack declared
gloomily. He stepped toward the telephone. "Keep your
eye on that mirror, will you? I'm going to call Larson
off before he goes in there and gets hurt."
"Are you sure he's still in his room?"
"We'd have seen him if he'd come out, wouldn't we?"
Mack rejoined, taking down the receiver and asking for
Larson. A prolonged buzzing indicated that the operator
was trying vainly to complete the connection. "Funny it
takes so long," Mack began. He was interrupted by West-
borough tugging anxiously at his sleeve.
"Quick! He's just gone in."
"Larson?" Mack asked, replacing the receiver.
"No. The man we're waiting for."
"Did you see him?"
Westborough nodded.
"My God! Who?"
Westborough told him. Mack dashed across the room
and flung open the door in one quick motion. "If Larson


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
269
Popping mysteriously out of nowhere, Theocritus
Lucius Westborough ejaculated, "Dear, dear! So Mr.
Spanger is the key to our riddle?"
"Yeh," Mack answered, "he was in a deal with Swink
and bumped him off because he wanted to cop all the
profits himself."
"Swink didn't know a thing about "Spanger
checked himself too late. Mack seized the opening and
beat down the other's guard with sentences like sledge-
hammer blows.
"You searched his rooms. Don't lie. Do you talk now
or"
"Oh, hell, yes. I'll talk," Spanger said reluctantly. "I'll
come clean. To go back to the beginning"
Westborough interrupted. "I would suggest that Mr.
Spanger relate his story in the comparative privacy of
my room."
"All right," Mack concurred. "Come on, Jerry." They
followed Westborough down the corridor.
"I've got more or less of a personal interest in this
case," Jasper declared. "It got me a night in the hoose-
gow and kept me here, cooling my heels, since Saturday.
I'm going to listen in at the finish."
"Larson," Westborough suggested, "is certainly en-
titled to be present, and Miss Gant is an extremely com-
petent stenographer. Perhaps she would take down Mr.
Spanger's confession in shorthand."
"Swell idea," Mack grunted, "Get her some paper and
pencils, will you?"
Graham had followed the others inside. "If you want
another witness to this, I'm your man. It was my room
he broke into."


276
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
crime—myself, Mr. Larson, Mrs. Blakely, Miss Colmar,
Mr. Colmar, and Miss Kriskrowski, the night house-
keeper. But the time element proved to me puzzling.
Four other people, able to produce witnesses to testify
to their whereabouts at nine-thirty, had uncertain alibis
for ten. Mr. Jasper was gone from the bar for about
fifteen minutes around that time. Mr. Swann returned to
the hotel at ten, ascended to his quarters on the top floor,
and then left again. Mr. Devon entered the lobby at the
same hour. Miss Gant retired to her room between nine-
thirty and ten. If Hammond was mistaken in the time at
which he heard Z, these four could be included with other
suspects. I determined, therefore, that the logical starting
point in my analysis was to test Mr. Hammond's sense of
the passage of time. On Friday evening I conducted some
simple experiments, for which, however, he was not pre-
pared and so would have had no opportunity to delude
me. The results convinced me that Hammond was gifted
with an acute perception of time. Therefore, if he said
that he heard our Mr. Z at nine-thirty, Mr. Z must have
actually been there very close to that hour. Certainly not
as late as ten."
"You're using up a lot of words to tell us what we
already know," Mack objected.
"The laboratory method," Westborough retorted, "is
to construct a hypothesis only upon a base of verified and
indisputable facts. Am I not right, Mr. Larson?"
"It works that way in chemistry," Larson confirmed.
"Now let us review the case of Devon," Westborough
resumed with the air of a university professor lecturing
his class. "His immolation appears pointless unless we
assume that he was killed because he knew the identity of


280
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
even more curious—both are employed by the same in-
dividual, Mr. Ezra Whittington of New York. Coinci-
dences by the hundred occur in daily lif e, and yet the mind
instinctively revolts at them, seeks to establish a relation
of cause and effect between apparently separate events
occurring simultaneously. Does such a relation exist be-
tween Mr. Jasper and Mr. Colmar? Yes, to a certain ex-
tent, since Mr. Colmar would not have been in Chicago
yesterday were it not for Mr. Jasper's incarceration on
Saturday night. The question of a further relationship
between the two men is, to say the least, an interesting
one, and I regret that the stern dictates of logic brand it
as altogether irrelevant. The truth is that none of the
gentlemen I have named executed Devon."
"How do you make that out?" Mack wanted to know.
"Because the death of Devon was not a premeditated
crime. We know this from two facts, the validity of which
may not be questioned. Devon was not killed in his own
room. And an instrument was found—I believe it is
termed a 'jigger gun'—which had been concealed the
night of Devon's death. The inference is extremely simple.
The instrument had belonged to Devon, who had used it
to effect an entrance into the room of another guest. But,
obviously, the other guest could not have known in ad-
vance that Devon would effect such an entrance. There-
fore, Devon's death, at least in the manner in which it
occurred, could not have been premeditated."
"That's A-B-C stuff in fancy language," Mack cut in.
"What you mean by saying that none of the guys could
've killed Devon?"
"Dear me," Westborough murmured, "it appears to
me to be so extremely simple. A large hotel—particu-


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
281
larly the first floor—is a veritable beehive of activity.
There are guests surging in and out of the lobby. There
are sharp-eyed and observing bellmen and elevator pilots.
To say nothing of the room clerk, who is trained by the
nature of his profession to keep a watchful glance on
everything going on about him. Now, to kill Devon and
yet escape detection, any of the people I have mentioned
must have entered and have left the hotel unobserved.
Isn't that right?"
"Yes," Mack agreed, "And so far as I know none of
them were seen. We've checked pretty carefully with the
help too. But what of it?"
"Neither entering nor leaving the hotel unobserved is
an impossibility," Westborough continued, "as I pres-
ently hope to demonstrate. But it is not possible to do
either without taking certain precautions, which Devon's
murderer did not take. Why? Because, up to the minute
he reached his own room, he did not know that he was
going to hill Devon. Therefore, he could make no attempt
to establish an alibi."
"What the hell!" Mack exclaimed, glancing in genuine
bewilderment from the handcuffed Jerry Spanger to
each of Westborough's other four listeners. "But you're
contradicting yourself, Westborough. A little while ago
you said the same guy killed both fellows."
"The second crime," Westborough confirmed gravely,
"is unquestionably the direct, logical outgrowth of the
first."
"But the guy you're driving at couldn't have done for
Swink. He might Devon but not Swink."
"Your second error, Lieutenant Mack, and I trust that
you will forgive me for pointing it out, was to be unneces-


282 THE FIFTH TUMBLER
sarily suspicious of alibis. But your first mistake was not
to be suspicious enough. The murder of Swink was as
obviously premeditated as that of Devon was not."
"I still don't see," Mack floundered.
"Let us return to Devon's journey on Thursday eve-
ning," Westborough suggested. "During the forty-five
minutes between nine-fifteen and ten o'clock Devon un-
covered a secret which led to his death. Where did he
learn that secret? Hardly while riding on the 'L,' nor
does the bus offer more attractive possibilities. There re-
mains only the walk eastward on Randolph Street at a
time known to have been between nine-forty and nine-
fifty. What would he pass on Randolph Street that has
any bearing on this case?"
Mack scratched at his temple, his face blank. "Damned
if I can see anything. There's a beer joint"
"The United Artists Theater," Westborough returned
promptly. "What Devon saw was a guest of this hotel
buying a ticket from the cashier. A guest who, if he had
told the truth to the police, should have been inside the
theater for nearly an hour."
"It's a lie!" Graham shouted and leaped to his feet, his
face purple.
■
XXVII
Mack's revolver flashed from its holster. "Sit down,
you!"
"Prove it!" Graham shrieked. "Prove it! You've called
me a murderer before five witnesses. That lays you wide
open for slander, and I'm going"


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
285
scarcely weaken an excellent alibi by a voluntary admis-
sion of this nature. Particularly since she did not know
that Graham and Swink were acquaintances and had no
reason to suspect that Graham had left the theater.
Graham, of course, had seen the picture before and was
able to discuss every detail of it."
Spanger grinned broadly. "Go to it, kid! You're talk-
ing these bracelets off me with every breath you draw.
Here's a thought to help the good work along: Mrs.
Graham told us her hubby talked of nothing but the pic-
ture all the way home. He did that just for the
Hammond woman's benefit."
"Yes," Westborough confirmed. "Under the circum-
stances it would not be a difficult matter to delude Mrs.
Hammond into the belief that he had actually remained
in the theater the entire period. In fact, it would be odd
if she had thought otherwise. It is strange," he reflected,
"that the most obvious clues—the test tube, the acid, the
hairpin—should be the true ones and yet I should persist
so long in my failure to perceive this simple fact."
"You weren't the only one," Spanger chimed in.
"Graham was pretty foxy in having the nerve to use the
tube from his kid's set and not trying to get another. It
might've been traced, and a tall guy like Graham's fairly
easy to identify."
"I am afraid that I wasted a great deal of thought in
speculating upon the whereabouts of a nonexistent second
bottle of acid," Westborough admitted with chagrin. "My
error was, of course, to accept at face value Cedric's as-
sertion that no acid had been removed from the bottle. I
forgot that he had not been allowed to see the chemical
set for several days, and consequently his estimate of the


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
287
next room at nine-thirty. But Graham wouldn't have been
able to count on Hammond's being there, or on hearing
him even if he was. That's logic, isn't it?"
"It is indeed," Westborough concurred, "but the an-
swer is fairly simple. True, Graham could not have fore-
seen that Hammond would hear him at nine-thirty, and
so establish his alibi. Nevertheless, for that purpose he
could count upon another event, occurring daily with the
regularity of clockwork. I refer, of course, to the
chambermaid who visits each room in this corridor near
the hour of nine."
"I forgot about the chambermaid," Mack admitted.
"Passing to your third objection," Westborough con-
tinued, "I find it easier to believe that Graham was able
to procure a passkey than that he possessed the necessary
technical skill to pick the locks."
"What about the scratches?" Mack cross-examined.
"As we already know, Swink's lock was picked the eve-
ning before by Jasper. Perhaps Graham had conducted
preliminary experiments in lock picking on his own in
order to ascertain the feasibility of that mode of ingress."
"Smart fellow!" Mack grunted. "But you still haven't
answered my toughest ones."
Westborough said slowly, "You refer, of course, to
Graham's unobserved progress to the west corridor?"
"You know damn well I do!"
"That feat, Lieutenant Mack, was easily accomplished.
He used the fire escape."
"The fire escape?" Mack echoed. "It's raised to the
second floor on purpose so nobody can sneak in by it!"
Spanger broke in with, "It hangs too low. I told Swann


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
289
into Graham's face as the artist was in the act of spring-
ing at Westborough's throat.
"I told you I'd have to poke you if you didn't stay
still!" the detective growled.
Clapping a hand to his bleeding mouth, Graham stag-
gered back to his chair. His eyes glowered vindictively at
Westborough, who, seemingly undisturbed by the con-
tretemps, had not moved from his position against the
door.
"Your behavior is both foolish and futile, Mr.
Graham," the historian admonished gently. "Please note
that my deductions up to this point have been entirely
theoretical. I believe it was Einstein who observed that in
a complete theory there should be an element correspond-
ing to each element of reality."
Mack angrily demanded, "You mean you've been wast-
ing my time spouting a lot of hot air?"
"Please have patience," Westborough smiled. "I have
secured the physical confirmation of my hypothetical con-
clusions. The tangible evidence which gives my theory its
one-to-one correspondence with reality. But I am afraid,"
he added hesitantly, "that to obtain it I have been guilty
of a statutory offense."
"The hell you have!" Mack exploded.
Westborough continued. "You will recall that at the
beginning of the encounter between Mr. Spanger and
Mr. Larson I was delegated to procure a passkey from
the room clerk. I secured this article, but upon my return
the need for its use had passed. Seeing, however, that Mr.
Graham was in the corridor and his attention fully oc-
cupied, I seized the opportunity to slip unobserved into
his apartment. Reason had told me that a certain object


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
291
informed. "If you will examine it, you will find a long and
deep scratch across the under part of the crook. A
scratch in such a position is unlikely to have been made
by other means."
Mack relieved Spanger of his handcuffs and trans-
ferred them at once to Graham's wrists. "Will you talk
now or at the station?" he demanded.
"Oh hell, what difference does it make? Now," Graham
replied resignedly. "Yes, I killed Swink. My lawyer will
tell me I'm a damn fool to admit it, but I'm sick of this
mess. Westborough had the right slant on the photostat
bleaching. I got the cyanide over three years ago.
Hydrocyanic acid," he added bitterly, "is also used for
exterminating vermin—and that includes Swink!"
"What'd you have against Swink?"
Graham pressed his lips together firmly. "I'm not say-
ing."
"I wouldn't take that attitude," Mack threatened.
However, as Graham continued obstinately silent, the
detective was forced to shift his tactics. "Was your wife
in on the job, too?" he asked.
"No!" Graham declared emphatically.
"Did she know about it?" Mack persisted.
"Perhaps. I can't say for sure, but it's difficult to con-
ceal a thing like that from a person who knows you as
well as your wife. I've seen the question trembling on her
tongue a dozen times a day, but she was always afraid to
ask it."
Yvonne's flying pencil halted momentarily. "Oh, the
poor thing!"
"One minute she would look as if I were something un-
touchable," Graham said grimly, his mood plainly one of


292
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
self-flagellation. "Then the next instant she'd throw her-
self into my arms and be sobbing her heart out. I tried to
comfort her, but there wasn't much I could say. Some-
thing—I don't know just what to call it—had smashed
between us. But Lu could know I was sixty murderers
and she wouldn't give me away," he concluded proudly.
Mack's mind was obviously elsewhere. "What if Ham-
mond had decided to go to the movie with you?" he con-
jectured.
"That was my original idea," said Graham. "Ham-
mond had the best motive for killing Swink of anyone in
the hotel, as far as anyone would be able to tell. He cer-
tainly wouldn't be likely to weaken an airtight alibi be-
cause I hadn't happened actually to sit with him. In
fact, I nearly threw the whole idea up when Hammond
refused to go. Then I realized that Norah would serve
my purpose as well as her husband—or nearly."
"Did you pick the lock to Swink's room?"
"No. Westborough was right about the experiments on
my own lock, but I couldn't get the hang of it. So I had
to make a passkey. Oh, it was easier than it sounds. I'd
noticed that the chambermaid on this floor was often
careless about leaving her key in the outside of the lock
while she was doing a room. I made a little wood box,
hinged it in the middle and filled both top and bottom
compartments with molding wax. It was a matter of only
a few seconds to get an impression of the key—both sides
at the same time. I went into a locksmith shop on the
south side and talked with the proprietor until I'd got
him to go into a back room to dig up some more pad-
locks. While he was out of the room, I stole a blank of
the proper size and filed it to fit my mold. Of course, I


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
293
threw the thing down the nearest sewer on my way back
to the show."
"Did you kill Devon, too?"
Graham smiled malignantly. "He had the umbrella in
his hand when I found him here last night. I hadn't
thought about the fire-escape steps scratching the handle,
or I'd have got rid of the thing today. I don't know
whether Devon had deduced that or whether he merely
wanted a weapon. Anyway, he tried to sock me. I ducked
and twisted the umbrella out of his hand; then he told
about seeing me outside the theater and demanded hush
money. That's where he made his big mistake, for I
throttled him then and there. It was easy, but the hard
part was to get him back to his own room. Fortunately,
the key was in his pocket."
"Why 'd you lock Spanger in the closet?" Mack
wanted to know.
"I had to get rid of Devon's pick, of course. I wanted
to be sure Spanger'd stay out of the way till I had a
chance to hide it. I figured it would be safe in the waste-
paper bag until morning, but I slipped there. The house-
man had emptied the bag before I could get to it. Even
so I wasn't particularly worried, as I had a second string
to my bow. I thought the marks I'd made on West-
borough's lock would give the ponce plenty to think
about if they found the pick. Westborough had been alto-
gether too nosy—I wasn't sorry to do him a bad turn."
The scholarly face of the historian blushed to a vivid
crimson, and Mack interposed quickly, "He was too much
for you, anyway. I wish to heaven I'd had sense enough
to take some pictures of the tumblers on your lock when
we first had it apart. As it was, there was no way we could


296
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
The woman raised her head, and Westborough recalled
vividly the time he had last seen her—a baby-doll blonde
with wide blue eyes who didn't look a day over twenty-
two. Now the mascara from her eyelashes was coursing
in sooty rivulets down her cheeks while her voice was tight
and choking.
"He was the best man who ever lived! Did he tell you
why he killed that devil Swink?"
Mack, his usual brusque manner perceptibly altered,
jerked out a large white handkerchief and blew his nose—
hard. "That's the one thing he wouldn't talk about," he
admitted.
"Then I will."
"My dear Mrs. Graham, there is hardly the necessity
at the present moment," protested Westborough, offering
his arm to escort her to a chair.
"But I want to tell," her voice shrilled. "I want you to
know everything that Ronny's done for me!"
Westborough placed his arm about the shoulders of
Luella Graham. "Yes, my dear," he said in his grave,
kindly manner, "please, do."


298
THE FIFTH TUMBLER
"It's on the front page of all the newspapers!" Mrs.
Blakely exclaimed aghast. "You don't mean you haven't
heard?"
"You are well aware, Sarah, that I never read morn-
ing papers."
For the next three quarters of an hour Mrs. Blakely's
tongue wagged like a bell clapper. "And so," she con-
cluded, "I got every word of what was going on even
though that Lieutenant Mack wouldn't let me stay in the
room. All I had to do was to put my ear against the door,
and, if I do say it as shouldn't, I've good hearing."
Mrs. Hatteras' mind, trained in the technique of mys-
tery fiction, had already scented a serious flaw in the
Blakely narrative. "But the motive, Sarah? You haven't
told me his motive."
"Well, it's a whole story in itself," Mrs. Blakely re-
plied. "Mrs. Graham told the police everything. She
seemed to feel she ought to justify her husband, although
how a double murder can ever be justified is more than I
can ever see. The Lord says, 'Thou shalt not kill,' and
not, 'Thou shalt not kill except under certain circum-
stances.' That was the law He gave Moses, and that's
been His law ever since."
Mrs. Hatteras, refusing to be drawn into a theological
discussion, inquired once more for the motive.
"It goes back nearly twelve years ago on a Fourth of
July," Mrs. Blakely began, and Esther Hatteras settled
back in her chair with a deep sigh of relief. "Mrs.
Graham, who wasn't married then and had come to
Chicago from a little town in southern Illinois to get a
job, took the train out to one of the tracks to go to the
horse races. She hasn't got much character, as I said the


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
299
first time I ever looked at her, and her story certainly
proves I was right. There are things that become a
woman, and going alone to the horse races is certainly not
one of them. On the train she struck up an acquaintance
with another girl whose name was Mary Winters and who
didn't have one whit more character than she did. Those
two girls actually let themselves be picked up by two
men, and if there's anything that's cheaper than that I
don't know it!"
"Was Mr. Swink one of the men?" asked Mrs.
Hatteras.
"Yes, Mr. Swink was. I don't know the other one's
name, but it doesn't matter. But here's what you should
remember: Both men had been drinking, and they got the
girls' names mixed up. Mr. Swink paired off with Mrs.
Graham and he kept calling her Mary Winters. The girls
thought that was a good joke, and neither of them
bothered to correct the men. The four of them drove back
to the city in the other man's car and spent the night
drinking at his apartment. In the morning, when Mrs.
Graham woke up after they'd caroused all night long,
she found Mr. Swink in bed with her—shameless hussy!
She began to take on, although you can't tell me it was her
first experience, and Mr. Swink woke up and promised to
marry her.
"They left the others and went down and got a mar-
riage license. But you've got to remember he thought she
was Mary Winters, which fact she'd forgotten in the
morning, and when he came back from the clerk with the
license made out in that name she nearly fainted. How-
ever, she wanted to be married in the worst kind of way
after what had happened, and she was afraid Mr. Swink


THE FIFTH TUMBLER
S03
screwed the knob and shook it, but there was no sound.
He probed with a pencil at the hollow interior of the
doorknob and a small piece of tissue protruded. "Stuffed
with paper, of course, to preclude rattling," West-
borough commented. He probed again, and the emerald
lay in his hand—a thing of velvety green beauty.
"Fifty thousand grand!" breathed Spanger in an awed
whisper.
"And under the terms of our agreement, I am to re-
ceive fifty per cent of the proffered reward for this stone.
Right? Excellent!" The little man held the emerald up to
the light. "A pretty bauble. I believe it was Pliny who
said of these stones 'neither dim nor shade, nor yet the
light of a candle, causes them to lose their luster.'"
"That may be what he said. But what I've got to say
about that piece of green ice in your hand is more to the
point." Spanger chuckled. "That hunk of colored glass
is worth just twelve hundred and fifty bucks apiece to
each of us. And boy, can I use it! Once I get my hands on
that cash I don't give a damn if the stone turns white and
makes a liar out of Pliny."
Westborough's eyes were far away, and he didn't seem
to be paying any attention to the excited Spanger.
"Wasn't it the Arab, Ahmed ben Abdalaziz, who men-
tioned the curious tradition that a serpent which fixes
its eyes upon an emerald becomes blind? Oh, Mr. Spanger,
before it slips my mind—I should like my share of the
reward to be turned over to my amanuensis, Miss Gant,
as my wedding present to her."
Spanger shook his head. "It's your dough, and you can
do what you want with it, but if you ask me, you're
screwy."


THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
GRADUATE LIBRARY