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THE author of the very successful THE DEATH ANGEL tells
in this book the amazing story of the murder of Hezekiah
Morse; a murder motivated by the clause in his will which
left to his granddaughter only his purple parrot. As a
result of the will, the murder, and the fact that the parrot
had vanished, Sylvia Morse went to jail. Little Professor
Westborough, as usual meddling in murder, felt that an
in justice had been done and preferred his own unorthodox
methods of investigating to the police's routine conduct of
the case. He first discovered that the purple parrot was in
reality a kakapo and a native of New Zealand, and after
he learned of the stolen bottle of Est, Est, Est, and of the
bookies, Lucius turned to the Law of Sufficient Reason for
further aid. This, he felt, about settled the case, since, as
he afterwards pointed out, the will named the murderer.
But even this would not have sufficed had it not been for
the little professor's acquaintance with Samuel Johnson's
definition of "postern."
Here is a remarkable mystery story with excellent char-
acterization and great suspense. It marks Clyde Clason as
one of the outstanding authors on the Crime Club list and
further establishes the professor as one of the most de-
lightful and lovable sleuths in the field of detective fiction.
A Crime Club Selection.





THE PURPLE PARROT


BOOKS BY
CLYDE B. CLASON
The Purple Parrot
The Death Angel
The Fifth Tumbler


THE
PURPLE PARROT
By
Clyde B. Clason
A THEOCRITUS LUCIUS WESTBOROUGH STORY

GARDEN CITY, N. Y. PUBLISHED FOR
The Crime Club, Inc.
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & Co., INC.
1937


PRINTED AT THE Country Life Press, GARDEN CITY, N. Y., V. S. A.
828
(6118 pu
COPYRIGHT, 1937
BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST EDITION


C.F. BeATCER
4- ror40
ALL the characters and incidents of this
book are wholly fictitious. C. B. C.





CONTENTS
PART ONE
(Wednesday, November 18) 1
PART TWO
(Thursday, November 19) 95
PART THREE
(Friday, November 20) 143
PART FOUR
(Saturday, November 21) 209
PART FIVE
(Monday, November 23) 227
PART SIX
(Tuesday, November 24) 263
PART SEVEN
(Wednesday, November 25) 307





PART ONE
Wednesday, November 18





“AND TO MY GRANDDAUGHTER, Sylvia Elaine Morse, in
the event she marries other than the aforesaid Thomas
Raymond Vail, I give and bequeath only my purple
parrot ..."
The words (I had drafted them myself only a few
days before) were singing in my ears as our cab spun
northward on Lake Shore Drive. I said aloud:
“I shouldn't let you. If I had the courage I wouldn't
let you."
Sylvia only laughed. “Money, Barry? When we
have this!”
I gulped down the lump in my throat. I couldn't say
anything, couldn't acknowledge my indebtedness. Even
though I knew it was the act of a heel to allow her to
go on with it I wasn't able to help myself. As far as I
was concerned Fate had knocked on the door the first
time I'd seen her.
She is a tall girl, dark-haired, and her eyes are of
that deep velvety blue found only in fine sapphires. Her
face is a delicate oval, and—well, sweet isn't much of a
word, but it's the only word I know that comes any-
where near describing Sylvia.
But, when I decided to put down on paper my recol-
lections of what turned out to be one of Chicago's most
dramatic murder sensations, I didn't expect to be rhap-
sodizing this way. Still—Sylvia was the center of all
that happened during those few hectic days, and, if I
keep my own feelings about her entirely out of this ac-
count, it will be as lifeless as a dried out sponge.


THE PURPLE PARROT
Our cab turned left, off Lake Shore Drive, and then
made a U turn in the middle of the block to pull up be-
fore a three-story house, faced with gray stone and set
close to the sidewalk. After I had paid the driver we
stood there for a moment uncertainly and watched the
cab, a blob of bright canary yellow, melt away in the
darkness.
“He must be told tonight,” she declared firmly,
and that was Sylvia. Courage when it was needed-al-
ways.
“I'll take that job myself," I promised. I was un-
able to keep the grimness from my voice.
“No, Barry, you mustn't. Heoh, I'm not just sure
how to explain.”
“Well, we'll settle the argument inside."
We climbed the five or six stone steps which led up
to the covered vestibule, steps flanked by wrought-iron
railings which must have been the last word in elegance
during the nineties. The front door was massive and
inset with panes of mullioned glass. Perched sadly on it
a weather-beaten gargoyle stared at me in stony re-
proach. As I fumbled for the door key I was reminded
of Hezekiah Morse.
The door swung open. “ “Better thou hadst not been
born than not to have pleased me better,” Sylvia
quoted softly. She confessed: "Barry, I do feel some-
thing like poor Cordelia.”
And there was something Lear-like about Hezekiah
Morse. Nothing as superficial as a white beard because
Morse, with the exception of his bristling mustache, was
clean-shaven. No, the resemblance, provided that it
didn't exist solely in my own imagination, lay in Morse's
dominating imperiousness.
He was built along the general proportions of a
grizzly bear, with tremendous hands and a grip that,


THE PURPLE PARROT
despite his seventy-two years, was still bone-crushing.
Add a large bulbous nose, small, deeply set, slate-colored
eyes, and a florid complexion which probably meant a
tendency toward apoplexy, and you have the picture
of Sylvia's grandfather. I own that I wasn't looking
forward with any pleasure to our interview that night.
The front hall was an inky black. “The switch is be-
hind the door, Bar— "
She wasn't allowed to say more. Space and time dis-
solved momentarily as I pulled her into my arms.
“You're lovely, so lovely! Like all the princesses in
all the fairy tales !"
But, if this were a fairy tale, I recognized presently,
upstairs was a very fierce old ogre to be placated.
I helped her off with her wrap. It was ermine and
had probably cost more than my year's salary. Once
again I realized all that I was forcing her to sacrifice.
And yet-even then I was powerless to halt her.
She turned her head, and I saw that her face wore
the expression she has when her mind's once and for
all fully made up. She's rather like her grandfather
then.
“I shall talk to him alone, Barry.”
I exclaimed indignantly: "What kind of spineless
worm do you think I am?”
“Please.” Her hand rested an instant on my sleeve.
"He's an old man, you must remember. I owe him a lot.
The very least I can do is to tell him myself.”
I kissed her.
"We'll have to compromise, I see. Suppose I wait
down here for ten minutes and then come up after you.
We'll face him together-like John and Lorna before
old Sir Ensor. Do you remember?”
Her smile was a little wistful. “I remember that Sir
Ensor called them two fools."


THE PURPLE PARROT
“And John answered that they were well content to
be two fools together," I replied.
“Well, aren't we?” Her eyes gazed beyond me, into
the dim shadows of the upper stairs. “Only I consider it
the wisest thing we've ever done, my dear.”
The tall clock in the front hall boomed. I counted the
strokes; there were exactly a dozen. Their echoes were
swallowed by the silence everywhere around us and
vanished like ghosts.
"Only ten minutes," I reminded as she started up the
stairs. She turned an instant to wave at me.
Silhouetted against the darkness her white taffeta
gleamed like a moon ray. Sargent-and Sargent alone
-could have done full justice to that portrait. Then
she was gone-blotted out by the blackness of the up-
per hall.
The house became suddenly empty, and I realized
then how intently I disliked it. A house of creaking
floors, of gloomy hallways. A house, dank and musty,
seldom, even in midsummer, visited by the sun. A house
which suffocated Sylvia's gaiety beneath Victorian op-
pression.
Or was I blaming the house when the blame should be
placed squarely upon the shoulders of Hezekiah Morse?
Taking off my overcoat I went into the living room
to wait my ten minutes. With all the lights on this room
wasn't so bad. It would even have been cheerful if flames
had been flickering—as they should have been in the
open fireplace under the marble mantel.
I sat down in a lounge chair, which faced the open
door to the hall and from which I could keep my eyes
fixed on the stairs where I had last seen Sylvia. Light-
ing a cigarette I reflected that the situation was rather
like something out of the Mikado. Something fantastic
and ludicrous and utterly muddled!


THE PURPLE PARROT
It was I who had drawn up for Hezekiah Morse the
document which would so effectually disinherit his
granddaughter if she married other than one specified
man (who was decidedly not Barry Foster). Sylvia
was forbidden, unattainable. Yet I, who should have
realized that fact better than any man, had ventured
to reach for her nevertheless, helpless in the grip of
a force I could not control. And what would be the out-
come of it only the gods could conjecture.
Morse loved his granddaughter, yes. Probably as
much as it was in his make-up to love anyone. But he
couldn't bear to have his will thwarted. And he didn't
back down. Those beetling eyebrows, that rugged jaw,
showed unmistakably how impossible it was for him to
capitulate.
Well, what of it? I asked myself fiercely. Sylvia could
come to me without one nickel from her irascible old
grandfather, and I asked nothing better. The money
didn't matter to her either, she had assured me.
Besides, I wasn't doing so badly myself. I was well
on the way to a junior partnership with Steelcraft,
Cunningham and Swift. But the catch came right there.
Morse wouldn't forgive easily. It might be more ac-
curate to say that he wouldn't forgive at all. Although
I didn't have a better friend in the world than Lawrence
Steelcraft would his friendship be enough when Heze-
kiah Morse began to pull wires? There were plenty he
could pull—Morse was well able to make his influence
felt in Chicago.
And if Steelcraft were forced to bow his head to the
storm? It's never easy at best to locate with a new firm;
it might be an impossible task if Hezekiah Morse wanted
to hound me, as he probably would. And then what?
Wearing out shoe leather walking hostile streets? Wait-


THE PURPLE PARROT
ing vainly in anterooms where many are called but few
are chosen?
And Sylvia? No, I didn't have any right to ask her
to share that sort of life. I had to tell Hezekiah Morse
that it wasn't true, I wasn't going to marry his grand-
daughter. Rising from my chair I took a hasty step
toward the door. But to give up Sylvia? I couldn't!
I sank back, undecided. No, I couldn't see any way
between the horns of this dilemma. Besides, things had
gone too far for action now. I could only wait.
Time had dragged interminably, but the hands of my
watch stubbornly insisted that only five minutes had
passed. I crushed my cigarette into a convenient ash
tray and thought of Hezekiah Morse.
He would be in his study, of course. That was his
favorite room, and he was generally to be found there
-among the books which lined its walls from the floor
nearly to the ceiling. Idly, I wondered how many of
them there were. Two thousand at the very least, I
estimated. Some dated back to the sixteenth century,
rare first editions. The total value of the collection
couldn't be much less than a hundred thousand dollars.
Morse had shown me one book for which alone he'd paid
enough to keep an entire family in decent comfort for
a year. Yet he'd considered it to be a great bargain-
because it had been printed in 1579 and because, as
far as anybody knew, there was only one other copy in
the world.
My thoughts strayed from the study, and I became
aware that Morse's house was surprisingly quiet. Was
Sylvia talking to her grandfather upstairs? One would
think their voices could be heard, or at least Morse's
rumble. He should, if past experience were any cri-
terion, be bellowing with a bull's anger by now.
I listened intently, but could discern nothing. The


THE PURPLE PARROT
silence continued to envelope the house in the manner
of a thick, heavy gas. Haunting walls of silence! Where
were the servants? Where was Morse? This eerie quiet
was like some sinister emanation from a disturbed
Egyptian tomb.
Glancing again at my watch I saw that it was now
nine minutes past twelve. And at that very instant every
nook and cranny of the room was alive with sound, its
waves beating their message into my eardrums. A
scream! The shrill paroxysm of a soul in terror. A
woman's voice. Sylvia's!
I ran to the stairs, dashed up three steps at a time.
Memory is vague with regard to what I had expected
to find up there. Perhaps I had envisioned Morse twist-
ing her arm or some such sadistic nonsense ... Faintly
as in a dream I was conscious of other footsteps than
my own, footsteps that were clattering up the other
stairs, the stairs which descended to the kitchen.
I reached the upper hall, and Sylvia, like a hunted
thing seeking refuge, ran into my arms.
“Barry!" Just that single word repeated over and
over. “Barry! Barry!"
She raised her head from my shoulder. Though I live
to reach the century mark I shall still be haunted by
the sheer horror which I saw imprisoned on her face.
“Grandfather! In there!”
Her gesture indicated the study, and I tugged at the
doorknob. The door met my pull with unexpected re-
sistance. Baines hurried toward us from the far end of
the hall, and I was vaguely conscious that it had been
his footsteps I had heard on the back stairs.
"It's locked !” I said stupidly. As though doubting
my word Baines tried the knob also.
“So it is, sir.”
“The other door!” Sylvia cried. “In here!"


10
THE PURPLE PARROT
I stepped across the threshold of the room she pointed
out-her own room I recognized at once. From it a
door opened onto the study, a connecting door which
now stood open.
A wide circle of light from the tall lamp on Morse's
desk illuminated the room, permitting me to see, only
too clearly, every hideous, horrible detail.
He was slumped far forward in the chair, his chest
resting against the edge of the desk. His fingers were
gripped about the handle of a small knife, the blade of
which penetrated through the coat of his gray suit,
disappearing from view within his very flesh.
“Why it's—it's Mr Morse!” Baines gasped weakly.
His voice seemed to be coming from a great distance,
an irrelevant element in a kaleidoscopic nightmare.
I lowered my eyes. A red pool had formed on the
desk top. A horrible pool of glistening crimson which
was trickling drop by drop down to the blue Chinese
rug. I glanced hurriedly about the room. It was in no
disorder with the single exception of one desk drawer,
which had been pulled open as though the desk had been
hastily rifled.
I turned my head and found Sylvia shuddering be-
hind me. Her eyes were fascinated, seemingly unable
to break away.
And it was then that I saw for the first time, staining
the hem of her white gown, that damning red smear!
II
I SENT BAINES back to the kitchen, acting upon some
vague sort of idea that he ought to be at his post when
the police arrived. I urged Sylvia to lie down in her


(North)
DIVISION STREET
7 Window
Window
Stick
Bookcase
Bookcase
Morse's Chair
Morse's Desk
Bookcase
Choir
VAIL'S RESIDENCE
Bookcases. for Folio Editions
Bookcase
Chair
Typewriter
Desk
Door to Hall
Door to
kcase Sylvia's Room
Bookcase
Scole-Feet
Floor Plan of Morse Study


12
THE PURPLE PARROT
own room; it was the only thing I could think of that
might make it even a trifle easier for her. She obeyed
me, moving mechanically as an automaton; she was too
stunned even to cry. I would have liked to shut the
study door, to cut off that sight from her eyes, but I
knew I had no business disturbing the status quo.
The desk telephone was fortunately well out of the
range of that bloody puddle. Lifting the receiver I
dialed “Police 1313." After I had made as brief and
noncommittal a statement as possible to the police oper-
ator I called Steelcraft. His voice, answering sleepily
over the wire, heightened in tense surprise as I told my
story. Yet his tones, cool and calm as always, carried as-
surance, and I felt a trifle easier when I left the tele-
phone. Since my legal experience had been largely
limited to probate and corporation work I was unable to
predict what course the police would take in such a case
as this. But Steelcraft, now forewarned, could be
counted on for immediate action in the event that both
Sylvia and I should be arrested and held incommuni-
cado. That possibility, however, seemed very remote
then.
Before leaving the room I made a hasty reconnais-
sance. As I have shown in my diagram (page 11)
mahogany sectional bookcases lined the walls on the
four sides of the study. All the bookcase doors were
closed, and there was no evidence that anything else in
the room had been disturbed. However, I noticed a piece
of paper lying upon the floor near the hall door.
I bent to pick it up. Disgustedly, I saw that it was
merely an obvious form letter from an advertising
agency, which must have blown from the top of the
desk. Just in time I stopped myself from tossing it
back there. The police, I recalled, would certainly not
wish any disturbance of that crimson pool on the glass


14
THE PURPLE PARROT
“I can try,” she said with a wisp of a smile. She did
sit down, but that was as far as she could comply with
my instructions. “Barry, why did he do it? Why?”
To that tortured cry I had no answer. Reluctantly I
left her, to return to Officer Sullivan.
“He's upstairs.” I pitched my voice low so that it
would be inaudible to Sylvia. “I'll show you— "
“My job's to keep the door covered,” he interrupted.
“There 'll be plenty of fellows from headquarters to
take care of the rest. Maybe O’Ryan 'll come too."
“O’Ryan?" I repeated for the sake of saying some-
thing.
“Captain O'Ryan,” he amended. “Water Tower
· Station. Don't you know this is in his district?”
I hadn't known, but the doorbell pealed again before
I was able to confess my ignorance. Sullivan opened it
and let in three blue-coated officers. One of them was
about as fine a physical specimen as I ever hope to see
anywhere. He was at least six feet four, and his shoul-
ders would have shamed an all-American fullback. This
giant, I soon found out, was Captain Terence O'Ryan,
and he took instant command of the situation.
“Stay by this door," he roared at Sullivan. “Anyone
watching at the back?"
“Patrolman Murphy,” Sullivan told him.
“All right, let him stay there.” For the first time he
appeared to be conscious of my presence. “And who
might you be?” His manner was bluff, yet not offen-
sive.
“Barry Foster.” I added, "I was Morse's attorney."
He asked bluntly, "Where'd it happen?"
“Upstairs. I'll show you."
He turned to the two patrolmen who had come with
him to the house. "Phelan, McCarter, both of you had
better come up, too.” Our cavalcade filed up the pol-


THE PURPLE PARROT 15
ished steps. When we had reached the upper hall I
stopped before the door leading to Morse's room.
“He's in there.”
O’Ryan tugged at the doorknob just as I had done.
“It's locked.”
“There's another door," I explained. “This way.”
We entered Sylvia's bedroom, and I noticed O’Ryan's
searching glance toward the flounced dressing table with
its array of crystal bottles.
“Woman's room,” he pronounced. “His daughter's?”
“Granddaughter's,” I corrected. “Miss Morse is the
only sur- "
But O'Ryan was staring through the open doorway.
“So that's Morse! He looks like he'd been carved up
plenty! Well, we'll take this thing in order. Who found
him-you or Miss Morse?”
I hesitated before answering. The truth was the best
policy in dealing with the police, but I remembered
that smear upon Sylvia's dress. If a lie would help her
I didn't mind telling several of them. Then I realized
that I couldn't say that we had been together. Baines
had already seen me running alone up the steps.
“Well?” O'Ryan demanded irritably. “Was it you?"
“It was Miss Morse,” I was forced to answer. “But
I was here almost as soon as she was.”
“Anyone else in the house? Any servants ?"
“Two. Baines—Morse's butler-and Matilda Samp-
son, the cook.”
“Are they downstairs?”
"In the kitchen. At least I told Baines to wait down
there."
“Phelan," OʻRyan directed to one of his henchmen,
“go down to the end of the hall and down the back
staircase and bring up this fellow Baines. There is a
back staircase, isn't there?” he asked me.


16 THE PURPLE PARROT
I admitted that there was, and O’Ryan smiled
broadly.
“Usually is in houses like these. What's that little toy
sticking into his chest? A paper knife?"
It was—but it had about as keen a double-edged steel
blade as you'd find anywhere, I remembered. Morse had
picked the thing up in China during his last round-the-
world cruise, attracted, I suppose, by the cloisonné
handle, which was really a work of art.
"It's his own knife,” I said. “I've seen it lying on
the desk several times.”
“Humph,” O'Ryan grunted. “I hope Johnny Mack
gets here before long."
“Mack?” I asked. “Who's "
“Homicide squad,” O'Ryan explained tersely. "I'm
not so sure this case isn't up his alley.”
“You think Morse was murdered?” I ejaculated. Be-
fore he could answer, Phelan brought in Baines.
Rather slender in build Baines carried himself with
an air of quiet dignity. There was a large bald area
upon the top of his head, and he had a solemn face. I
had never actually seen Baines smile, although once or
twice I had noticed a glint in his pale blue eyes that
showed he'd like to. He waited attentively at the door,
his head slightly bowed as though to receive his mas-
ter's final orders.
“What do you know about this?” O'Ryan interro-
gated gruffly.
“Very little, sir. Miss Sampson and I were together
in the kitchen when we heard the scream.”
“Scream?” O'Ryan echoed. “Who was doing all the
screaming?"
“It sounded like Miss Morse, sir.”
“Oh, it did! And did you find her when you ran up-


THE PURPLE PARROT 17
stairs?" He studied the butler's face intently. “You did
run upstairs, didn't you?”
“The back stairs," Baines told him. “I found Miss
Morse in the hall, sir.”
"Was Foster with her?” O'Ryan questioned.
“No sir. I noticed Mr Foster running up the front
stairs. We reached the hall at almost the same minute,
sir."
OʻRyan's vigorous snort might have meant almost
anything. “How long were you in the kitchen tonight,
Baines?"
“All evening, sir.”
“All evening? Didn't you see Morse any time to-
night?”
“No sir. Some time before nine o'clock I went up-
stairs, but I did not see Mr Morse then.”
The doorbell rang again. Sullivan's voice sounded
from below and another voice which O'Ryan recog-
nized at once. “Johnny Mack!” he roared delightedly.
Lieutenant John Mack of the homicide section walked
into Sylvia's bedroom a few seconds later. I examined
him closely, impressed by the deference which had ob-
viously been in O’Ryan's voice. He was about forty, of
medium height and build, and he was almost dapper,
being immaculately dressed in a dark-blue overcoat,
white silk scarf, derby hat and tan gloves. His first act
was to remove his overcoat and fold it carefully upon
a chair, putting the derby hat and the gloves on top
of it. But, although he was apparently absorbed in
these details, his eyes weren't missing an item of the
scene in front of them. They were restless eyes-keen
and alert as those of a lynx.
So intently had I been staring at Mack that I had
paid little attention to the inconspicuous little man who
had followed him inside.


18
THE PURPLE PARROT
“How are ya, Terry?" Mack greeted. “Remember
Westborough? I promised to give him a break on the
next big case, and this may be it."
“Captain O'Ryan, it is a great pleasure to renew
our acquaintance,” the little man declared earnestly.
O'Ryan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder-so
hard that the little fellow was very nearly bowled over.
“Theocritus Lucius Westborough! Good Lord, yes !
Haven't you had enough of murder cases yet?"
“I fear,” said the little man apologetically, “that an
unsolved mystery will always exercise a peculiar fasci-
nation for me."
He was standing there a little shyly, twisting his
black Homburg in his hand. Not much of a man as
far as size went was Theocritus Lucius Westborough
—if that incredible name could really be pinned upon
him. He couldn't have been much over five feet six, and
he was narrow-shouldered, flat-chested and scrawny-
necked. His hair was sparse and silvery; his features
showed that he must have been very close to seventy.
His face was triangular: the forehead was both high
and wide, but his cheeks narrowed down to a small,
pointed chin. And, on top of everything else, his eyes
peeked from behind a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals in
à manner that reminded me of an owl blinking at a
bright light.
Yet, oddly enough, this unprepossessing person was
sponsored by a detective lieutenant. Not until later did
I learn that this old man's brilliant chain of reason-
ing had solved for Mack a perplexing problem with
regard to the killing of an unpleasant fat man named
Elmo Swink.*
Westborough and the police lieutenant had been firm
friends ever since the Swink incident. It was a good
*The Fifth Tumbler-Crime Club, 1936.


THE PURPLE PARROT
19
thing for me that they were but I am getting ahead
of myself.
“Nice mess you got!" Mack grunted. “So Morse did
himself in? Or did he?”
O’Ryan shrugged his broad shoulders. “I haven't had
time to get very far into things. Miss Morse—his
granddaughter-was the one who found him."
“Who are these two fellows?" Mack asked. O’Ryan
made belated introductions.
“Foster was Morse's attorney, and Baines was his
butler."
“Dear, dear, but this is very interesting,” exclaimed
Mr Westborough. He had at last ventured to remove
his overcoat.
"It's his right hand holding the knife," Mack mused.
“Was Morse right-handed?”
“He was, sir," Baines informed.
“The knife is driven inward very deeply,” said Mr
Westborough softly, as though to himself. “Undoubt-
edly it was inserted with great force.”
“Blood's all right here by the desk," Mack declared.
"It happened while he was in this chair—whether he
did it or somebody else did it.”
“One would not think that a seated man would have
the leverage necessary for so powerful a blow," re-
flected Mr Westborough.
Mack went to the windows and inspected the catches.
One was unlocked the window near the west wall-
I noticed for the first time. Mack returned to the closed
door leading to the hall.
“This is locked-locked from the inside."
“Yes,” O'Ryan confirmed. “Foster found it that
way.”
Mack turned to the butler. "Were you here when
Foster tried the door?”


THE PURPLE PARROT 21
"Well, what's the matter with you? Anything miss-
ing there?”
“I'm not sure, sir,” Baines faltered. “But Mr Morse
always kept his purple parrot in that drawer, and I do
not see "
“Purple parrot?” Mack repeated in a puzzled man-
ner. “Are you crazy?”
A faint hint of a smile crossed the butler's solemn
face. “A terra-cotta statuette about six inches high,”
he explained. “Of a purple color, sir, with red glass
eyes. Mr Morse, I believe, once referred to it as a
kakapo, which I understand is a New Zealand ground
parrot.”
“A New Zealand parrot?”
“New Zealand was his birthplace, sir.”
“This statue worth anything?" Mack asked.
Baines shook his head. “From other than a senti-
mental standpoint, sir, it was very nearly worthless."
“Well, it must be in some other drawer," Mack
grumbled.
But it was not.
III
THE DOORBELL CLANGED AGAIN, just as we completed
our hurried inspection of the desk. “We'll have to talk
over this business later," Mack growled. “The Identi-
fication Bureau fellows must be here now."
Several newcomers crowded into the room. The only
one whose face I can remember was a spectacled young
man carrying a tripod and camera. Greeting this youth
as Jimmy Selzer Mack directed curtly:
“Shoot all the prints you find, but don't monkey


22
THE PURPLE PARROT
with the body until after Doc Hildreth gets here. Bet-
ter not touch the knife, either. And get some good pix
from several angles—you know what we want. And
be sure to get some shots of this mess on the desk;
that's evidence.”
The spectacled youth nodded in a bored manner as
he unpacked his camera.
Meanwhile, O'Ryan was telling his two patrolmen:
"I want you to go over the whole house. Start at the
top and work your way down. Look for any traces of
a fellow hiding and any signs of blood. If you find
either of 'em, report at once.”
Phelan, a red-cheeked young man, nodded and was
out of the door as eager as a hound upon the scent. His
colleague, McCarter, a grizzled veteran of many years'
service, followed at a more leisurely pace.
O’Ryan marshalled Baines and myself from the study
in order to leave the room to the ministrations of the
fingerprint men. Little Mr Westborough wrenched
himself from the bookcases with palpable regret. Mack
followed and closed the door behind him.
“Did you get Foster's story, Terry?"
“Only part of it,” said the giant O'Ryan. "He was
downstairs when Miss Morse found her grandfather.”
I added hastily, “She had left me only a few minutes
before. We were out of the house all evening and didn't
return until midnight."
“Why were you downstairs?" Mack asked bluntly.
“Why didn't you go home?”
I hesitated, not quite sure how to word my answer.
Baines coughed discreetly.
“Beg pardon, sir, but do you wish anything further
of me?"
“No, go on downstairs," Mack told him.
“Let's all go downstairs,” O’Ryan suggested.


24
THE PURPLE PARROT
I knew in a vague sort of way that the medical ex-
aminer would be able to fix the time of death within
very close limits—although the processes used were
totally unfamiliar to me. But there was nothing at all
to be alarmed about, I told myself. The murder—if it
were a murder—had undoubtedly been committed some
time before Sylvia and I had reached the house, and we
could easily prove our whereabouts right up to the last
moment if I could find the taxi driver again. No, there
was nothing that need cause us the slightest worry. And
yet, so inconsistent is the human mind, I was beginning
to worry by the time we went into the living room.
Sylvia was seated in a big lounge chair facing the
window. A tiny white handkerchief was clenched tightly
in her hand, and she had been crying. One look at her
grief-stricken face told me that.
O'Ryan began almost apologetically.
“Sorry, Miss Morse, but we have to ask you a few
questions.”
“Naturally,” she agreed. There was something im-
perious about Sylvia's manner-something that per-
sisted in spite of this shock-perhaps a touch of old
Hezekiah Morse. Or perhaps merely a slight reserve
that came from living too long in a lonely house with a
domineering old man for guardian.
“This ain't no third degree,” O'Ryan said good-
humoredly. "Let's all sit down and be comfortable.”
He seated himself upon a sofa and crossed his huge
legs while he was talking. Somehow I was reminded of
a big, good-natured mastiff.
But if O'Ryan were a mastiff, Mack was a greyhound
hot on the chase. His lynx eyes never left Sylvia's face.
And as for Mr Westborough, who was completely
dwarfed upon the sofa beside the big O'Ryan—well,


THE PURPLE PARROT
25
he was a silent little man, content to be a mere spectator
and not an actor in the drama. Or so I thought then.
It was Mack who did most of the questioning.
“Where were you this evening, Miss Morse?”
“With Mr Foster.” Her voice was steady, but there
was a sudden rush of color to her cheeks. “He took me
to dinner, and we stayed for the floor show. However,
we were home by midnight.”
“Not before?”
"Perhaps a minute or two earlier.” She pointed
through the open door to the hall. “That clock struck
while we were talking."
Mack rose to his feet and walked to the hall, compar-
ing the time indicated by the tall Jacobean-cased clock
with his own watch.
“Okay, you were here at twelve. But Foster didn't
give the alarm until twelve-ten.”
“We didn't know till then," I broke in angrily. "I
phoned as soon as "
“I'm doing the talking," Mack reminded curtly.
“Miss Morse, why was Mr Foster downstairs? Why
hadn't he gone home after you left him?"
“I–I had agreed to rejoin him in a few minutes."
“You went upstairs to get rid of your wrap?" Mack
suggested.
Sylvia scorned the subterfuge. “I went upstairs to
speak to grandfather.”
“What about?”
“A personal matter."
“That's no answer. You can tell us more than that."
She hesitated. “Why did you go upstairs to see your
grandfather?" Mack persisted.
“Miss Morse is under no legal obligation to answer
that question or any other," I informed. “You under-


26
THE PURPLE PARROT
stand that every answer she makes is made voluntarily
and of her own free will?”
“Sure,” Mack growled. "Miss Morse, do you refuse
to answer the question?"
“She does,” I snapped.
Sylvia nodded her confirmation, and Mack passed
to the next subject.
“What time was it when you went upstairs ?”
“Didn't I tell you?”
"No."
“I'm almost sure I did.”
“You told us the time when you and Mr Foster were
talking in the hall.”
“Well, I left him just as the clock had stopped strik-
ing.”
Truthful Sylvia! I admired her, even while regret-
ting that she had been quite so explicit. True, we had
been separated not quite ten minutes, but in that
time
O'Ryan said:
“She screamed, and then Foster ran upstairs. I got
that from the butler.”
“What time was it when you screamed?" Mack asked.
"I—I don't know,” she faltered.
“Do you know, Foster?”
“It was nine minutes after twelve,” I said truthfully.
“You sure of that?"
“Yes," I replied, volunteering no further explana-
tion.
Mack produced a cigar, bit off the end and spat it
into the fireplace. “Your story doesn't hang together,
Miss Morse. After leaving Foster in order to speak to
your grandfather, you waited nearly ten minutes before
you went into his room. Assuming, of course, that you
didn't see him before the time you screamed."


THE PURPLE PARROT
27
Her hand tightened slightly about the arm of the
chair; otherwise she displayed no signs of undue anxi-
ety. “You are correct in that assumption."
“Very well, Miss Morse.” Mack's face was that of a
seasoned poker player. “Why did you wait ten minutes
before going in to see your grandfather?”
“It's not necessary to answer that question, Sylvia."
“But I will answer it, Barry. You know how grand-
father detested rouge and mascara. I sat down at the
dressing table to remove my evening make-up."
“Humph!" Mack grunted. “That take ten minutes?”
“The operation frequently requires an even longer
period, I believe," said Mr Westborough from the sofa.
Mack started his investigation in a new direction.
“When you came into your room, Miss Morse, did
you notice the door which opens into your grand-
father's room?"
“It was closed,” she returned promptly.
Mack asked, with pretended casualness, “What was
this matter you were going to talk over with your
grandfather? Did it concern Foster?”
"I have already refused to discuss it,” Sylvia said
regally. Her dark curls made a stunning picture against
the tapestried back of the chair.
“Sure it concerned Foster," O'Ryan contributed
jocosely. “He wouldn't have waited for her downstairs
if it hadn't.”
“A non sequitur," murmured Mr Westborough.
“The inference does not necessarily follow, Captain
O'Ryan.”
Mack was chewing on his cigar with a sullen ferocity.
“Miss Morse, what was the first thing you saw when
you opened the door to the library?”
Her face was ash-white. “Grandfather,” she said in


28
THE PURPLE PARROT
a low voice, her hand pressing convulsively against the
chair arm.
Brutally, Mack asked: “Was that knife in his chest?"
Her lips barely breathed the affirmative.
“And then you screamed?"
“I–I don't remember screaming. The next thing I
can recall is seeing Barry in the hall.”
“Was the door from the library to the hall locked?"
“I didn't notice.”
“Didn't you try it to see?”
“I don't remember.”
“No?" Mack's tone was edged. “Well, please try and
remember this: How'd that blood get on your dress?"
Glancing downward she shivered. Was she seeing that
stain for the first time? I wondered.
""I'm afraid I can't tell you."
“Did you go near the desk?"
“I don't know,” Sylvia said helplessly. Once more
her eyes strayed to the hem of her dress. “Evidently, I
must have. But it is all a blank until I saw Barry.”
“Not very helpful are you, Miss Morse?" Mack ob-
served sarcastically.
I jumped angrily to my feet.
“As Miss Morse's attorney I demand that you stop
this at once. You've no right at all to subject her to this
sort of thing.”
Mack met my glare with one of his own. “You're not
in a courtroom, Foster. Not yet.”
Before I could reply the camera expert, Jimmy Sel-
zer, ran into the room, sputtering like a bomb about to
go off.
“Take a look at this key, will you?”
“Hall-door key?" Mack asked.
Selzer nodded. “No prints on it. Handle it if you
want to.”


THE PURPLE PARROT 29
Mack took the key, and I moved close to get a better
look. It was a round key with a solid, tubular shank-
the kind that is used in interior locks everywhere. Noth-
ing at all out of the ordinary except for one thing.
The single drop of dried blood on its bow!
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr Westborough. “This is
very important evidence, indeed.”
PATROLMEN PHELAN AND MCCARTER entered the living
room, the red-cheeked Phelan acting as spokesman.
“Chief, there's no one hiding in the house. We've
been over the whole place from top to bottom, and we
didn't even skip a mousehole. And there weren't any
bloodstains, either.”
“How about the windows?” O'Ryan asked.
“All those on the first floor were locked from the in-
side. And so were most of 'em on the second floor.
What's next, Chief?”
"You can look for a bloodstained glove," Mack or-
dered.
Mr Westborough nodded approvingly. “Excellently
reasoned. It is obvious that there must be one." He
paused briefly. “Although it might be a handkerchief
or any other similar article."
“Yes, it might be a handkerchief," Mack concurred.
“Where should we look?" Phelan wanted to know.
“Come out in the hall, and I'll tell you," Mack said.
He returned alone a few seconds later. Jimmy Selzer
completed his report.
“There 're plenty of prints on the telephone and on
the two doorknobs—most of 'em are badly blurred.


30
THE PURPLE PARROT
We're about ready to call it a day if you want back
up there."
"All right," Mack agreed. “Tell the fellows we'll
come up in a few minutes.” He scratched a match to
relight his cigar as Selzer was leaving the room.
“What's your slant on this now, Terry?”
The big Irishman was staring at Sylvia. “Murder,"
he said guardedly.
“Murder!” Sylvia echoed, springing to her feet in
alarm. “You mean that grandfather-
“Just that,” Mack said curtly. “As I dope it out, he
was stabbed by someone standing behind him. Whoever
he was, he locked the study door for some reason and
went out through your room, Miss Morse. We won't
know when it happened until Doc Hildreth gets here."
“The butler 'd know if Morse had had any visitors,"
O’Ryan suggested. Striding toward the dining room he
bellowed “Baines !” in a voice that a bull would have
had difficulty in emulating. Baines appeared from the
direction of the kitchen..
“Do you wish anything, sir?”
“Anyone here to see Morse tonight?”
“One gentleman, sir. He gave the name of Mr Wells."
“Gave the name?” O'Ryan repeated in a puzzled
manner. “What do you mean by that crack? Wasn't his
name Wells ?”
“I do not know, sir. He was a stranger to me.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I can try, sir. He was wearing a dark overcoat and
a derby."
“So were a million other fellows," Mack exclaimed
disgustedly. “What did the man look like?”
"A rather small man, sir. About the build of this
gentleman.”
“You mean Mr Westborough?”


THE PURPLE PARROT 31
“Yes sir.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
“Oh yes, sir. His beard was unmistakable.”
“Beard!" Mack shouted. “That's something. What
sort of beard was it?”
“A gray Vandyke, sir.”
“Gray, huh? Was he an old man, then?”
“About the age of this gentleman, sir.”
Further questioning revealed that Baines had noticed
nothing else about the unknown Mr Wells except that
he had insisted upon keeping on his overcoat when
Baines had escorted him upstairs to the study.
“What about his hat?" Mack asked.
“I deposited that upon the table by the stairs, sir."
“Did he have a card?” O'Ryan inquired.
“He did not offer one, sir."
“What was his first name?”
“He did not inform me, sir."
“Do you know what time he came?"
“Yes. It was some time before nine, sir. Perhaps even
as early as eight-thirty.”
“And when did he leave?”
“I am unable to say. From the kitchen I could not
have heard the front door close, sir.”
“Did you see Morse when you took Wells upstairs?”
“No sir. The door to the study was closed, and I con-
versed with him from the hall.”
“You didn't see Wells go inside?”
“No sir. I left Mr Wells at the study door and de-
scended the back stairs to the kitchen."
"His story," O'Ryan broke in, “is that he was there
all evening with the cook. That hasn't been checked yet.
Baines, tell Miss What's-her-name we want to see her.”
Baines bowed with imperturbable dignity. “The name
is Sampson, sir."


32
THE PURPLE PARROT
- -
-
-
-
-
-
Matilda Sampson had eyes at first only for Sylvia.
She was a short, pudgy woman of middle age, and she
was wearing a pair of tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles.
“Miss Morse, you poor lamb! I'd have come in here
before to tell you how sorry I was, but that fat cop in
the kitchen wouldn't let me.”
Rising from her chair Sylvia patted the older
woman's shoulder.
“Thank you, Matilda. I know you would.”
“What have these men been saying to you?" the cook
demanded. Standing with arms akimbo she glared furi-
ously at all of us. “I'm a respectable woman, not used
to killings and such. And I've always worked for re-
spectable people, not that that doesn't include Miss
Morse, the poor lamb!”
Sylvia suggested gently, “I believe that they wish
to ask you some questions."
“Questions !” Matilda exclaimed angrily. “I'll ques-
tion them! That cop has left his dirty feetprints all
over my floor. I scrub and scrub, and you can just tell
him he's got to clean it up before he goes.”
“Never mind that,” O'Ryan said gruffly. “Just tell
us where you spent the evening.”
“Right here in this house. In my kitchen.”
“Alone?”
“No, Baines was with me from dinnertime on. We
was playing cribbage—just like we do every night.
Now what are you going to do about that mess in my
clean kitchen?”
“You can give Murphy a mop and tell him I said to
scrub the floor,” O'Ryan told her. He chuckled as
Matilda flounced from the room. “That 'll keep him
out of mischief, I guess.”
The doorbell pealed again—I had lost count of how
many times it had rung since I had first seen old Heze-
-
-
.


THE PURPLE PARROT 33
kiah in the study. This time it was the coroner's phy-
sician, Dr Basil Hildreth, who was a short, rotund
individual of forty-five to fifty. He carried a worn
black bag, and a stethoscope protruded from his coat
pocket.
“Johnny Mack and Terry O'Ryan!” he exclaimed
the moment he had set foot inside the hall. “Hello, I've
seen this little fellow somewhere before.”
Mr Westborough extended his hand. “At the Hotel
Equable, I believe. Dr Hildreth, do you remember the
body of a certain Elmo Swink?”
“Good Lord, yes !” the doctor exclaimed. He wrung
Westborough's hand so heartily that the little man
winced. “So you're working with the police again, eh?”
“You honor me too much,” Mr Westborough mur-
mured. “This time I am a mere spectator."
I glanced back at the living room, where Sylvia had
resumed her chair by the fireplace. If there was any
way in which she could be shielded from the details of
this sordid business ! But I could think of none.
“So it's Hezekiah Morse, is it?” the doctor was say-
ing. “Met the old coot once several years ago. Where
do we go from here, Terry?”
O'Ryan led the way upstairs. I trailed along with
them. I didn't like to leave Sylvia alone, but the serv-
ants were in call and I felt that I had to know the
doctor's verdict.
The hall door was now unlocked and stood open. The
fingerprint men had finished with the room, but they
had left it much the same as when I had first seen it.
Hezekiah Morse was still slumped over the desk, his
eyes wide and glassy. Dr Hildreth, however, appeared
to be most interested in the dagger.
“Knife got the heart, all right. Musta nicked the
aorta, or there wouldn't be so much blood here. I can


34
THE PURPLE PARROT
remember a stabbing case where the chest cavity and
the heart chambers were filled, but there wasn't as much
blood on the surface as you'd get cutting your face
shaving. Yet the knife had penetrated the back between
the fourth and fifth ribs, and the man was deader 'n
a mackerel before he had time to know what it was all
about.”
Dr Hildreth, it didn't take me long to discover, was
an exception to the usual taciturnity of the medical
profession. He seemed to enjoy talking, and he kept up
a brisk rapid fire of patter all the time he was making
his examination.
“You can skip the ancient history, Doc," Mack ad-
vised. “What's the dope on Morse? When was he
stabbed, and did it happen here, and could he have
done it himself?"
“Of course it was done here," the doctor snapped.
“You don't see any blood around the room, do you? He
was probably killed right away, although that doesn't
always happen. The coroner's office has a record of a
Mexican who'd been stabbed in the right ventricle he
ran twenty yards before he dropped." He started to
touch the knife, then stopped hastily. “This been
checked for prints yet?”
“Hasn't been touched, Doc. I told 'em to leave it just
as it was.”
“All right, I'll be careful. This looks the right size,
and it's certainly sharp enough to make the puncture.”
Taking a small pair of scissors from his bag he cut
away Morse's clothing. “Blade's double-edged, about
three quarters of an inch wide, under a sixteenth inch
thick. Wound's larger- looks like the knife handle had
hit against the desk when he fell forward."
“That's the knife, though?" Mack queried.


THE PURPLE PARROT
35
"If it isn't I'll never do another job for the coroner,"
the doctor said cheerfully. “No signs at all of rigor.
Say, how long ago did they find this fellow?”
“An hour and a quarter,” said Mack after he had
referred to his watch.
"Well, I want to talk to the first person who "
“That was Miss Morse. We'll have her— "
“Maybe I can answer your questions," I broke in.
“I was here almost at once.”
“Who 're you?” the doctor asked bluntly.
"He's Morse's attorney," Mack informed. “Name's
Foster."
“Well, Foster, I hope you kept your eyes open.
Most people don't. See this pool of blood?”
I wasn't likely to overlook that sight.
“Sorta thick, isn't it?” the doctor went on. “Some-
thing like jelly? Was it that way when you first saw
it?”
“It was not,” I said.
“It hadn't begun to thicken?” the doctor questioned.
“No, it was a thin red liquid.”
Dr Hildreth whistled. “Well, that fixes your time of
death for you. Blood coagulates in from five to ten
minutes. If it hadn't started to coagulate when Foster
first saw it Morse couldn't have been stabbed longer
than ten minutes from that time.”
The full import of his words swept over me in a
sudden damning flood. That would put the stabbing
no earlier than midnight—but God in heaven how im-
possible that was!
Because there hadn't been anyone in the house at
that time but Sylvia, myself, Baines and Matilda. I
was downstairs; the two servants were together in the
kitchen. That left only Sylvia ...


36
THE PURPLE PARROT
THIS CASE was fast assuming the aspects of a gigantic
nightmare to me. If Doctor Hildreth was right con-
cerning the time of death he had proved the impossible,
because no one had left the house after Sylvia and I
had entered. That was self-evident: From my chair in
the living room I could have seen anyone approaching
the front door; the back door opened from the kitchen,
where the two servants had kept each other company;
nearly all the windows (except the one in the study)
had been found locked from the inside.
And Morse's murderer was not lurking within the
house; no, it had been thoroughly searched. Un-
less- "
But reason itself recoiled from a supposition so
hideous. There must be some other explanation; per-
haps it was suicide after all-in spite of that drop of
blood upon the study door key.
There must be some logical way in which to account
for that. If there were traces of blood between the door
and the body of Hezekiah Morse I could advance the
theory that Morse himself had locked the door after he
had stabbed himself. Why not? Dr Hildreth had just
mentioned the case of the Mexican who ran twenty
yards after receiving a knife thrust in the heart. It was
a pretty theory, but it didn't fit the facts. Scan the
rich blue Chinese rug as closely as I might, I couldn't
find a sign that even a single bloody drop had fallen
there.
Well, then, Dr Hildreth must be mistaken about the
time of death. Or I had been wrong about the condition
of the blood when I first viewed it. But I couldn't con-
haps it was suicidest be some other a supposition


THE PURPLE PARROT 37
vince myself of that; the picture was etched upon my
brain in a manner that couldn't be erased.
Besides the globular doctor had not yet finished. He
was now taking a reading from a thermometer.
“The loss of body heat gives another check on the
time. The temperature of the body drops about 1.6 de-
grees an hour on an average. It takes about twenty-
four to thirty hours for the body to cool completely.
That's normal for a clothed body. A naked one cools
faster for obvious reasons. And a fat one will usually
hold its heat longer than a thin one."
“That is a very interesting piece of information,"
chimed in Mr Westborough. His eyes, peering behind
the bifocals, hadn't left the doctor for several min-
utes. “If I mistake not the temperature of the body
should enable you to fix the time of death with reason-
able precision, thus confirming the evidence of blood
coagulation, which alone might not be conclusive.”
“It is conclusive,” the doctor snapped.
“Dear, dear! I was referring to”—he looked squarely
at me “the uncertain human element.”
“Oh, I see what you're driving at," the doctor
nodded. “Well, the loss of body heat gives just a good
rough approximation. There's so many things to be
taken into consideration. A hemorrhage like this
quickens the cooling, for instance. And the temperature
of the air makes a difference, too. Have these windows
been opened since you came?”
"They were closed when we got here," O'Ryan in-
formed. “We haven't opened 'em."
“Well, you take two objects at different tempera-
tures: say the stiff here and the air in the room. The
bigger the temperature difference between them, the
faster the "
“Yeah! We get it!" Mack acknowledged. “Even


38
THE PURPLE PARROT
dumbuicker in a cur little the the body temp
dumb cops like us ought to know a stiff is going to cool
off quicker in a cold room than in a warm one. What's
the dope from your little thermometer?”
“As nearly as I can tell the body temperature con-
firms the evidence of blood coagulation."
Mack glanced sharply at me. “So Foster was telling
the truth about the state of the blood when he first saw
it?”
"I see no reason whatever to doubt his word.”
“I don't either. Not about that point anyway," he
emphasized meaningly. “Well then, Doc, you'd say
that Morse was killed at midnight?”
“Certainly no earlier, if Foster's watch is right!"
It was. Mack and O’Ryan had already checked it.
“Okay, Doc, now tell us whether it was murder or
suicide.”
"Expect the coroner's office to do all the brainwork?”
the doctor grumbled. “You ought to have sense enough
to dope that out for yourself.”
“Maybe I did," Mack grinned. “Maybe I just want
to find out how dumb you are.”
The doctor snorted. “Maybe I'm a green-eyed hip-
popotamus! I can give you half-a-dozen good reasons
why it wasn't suicide!"
“Shoot!”
“In the first place the direction of the wound is
obliquely downward—the edges of the incision are un-
equal and that indicates the knife went in obliquely.
A fellow going to stab himself in the heart would stick
the knife in horizontally nine times out of ten. Then
the wound would be straight from front to back and
not right to left, as it is. Suicides rarely stab downward
at the heart—you get more force pushing it straight
in."
“Anything else?”


THE PURPLE PARROT 39
The doctor pointed to the clothing he had cut away
from the wound.
“Just look at the work this knife had to do! First it
went through his coat, then his vest, then a heavy Ox-
ford cloth shirt, then his underclothing-all before it
penetrated his body. Now a man sitting down and stab-
bing himself would have one hell of a time getting the
knife through all that—it could hardly be done except
by a man standing and coming down from behind with
a powerful swing. Morse's Oxford cloth shirt alone
might deflect the knife unless it traveled with consider-
able force.”
He pointed to the incision.
“Now look at this bit of cloth from Morse's under-
wear—driven into the wound! That 'll give you an
idea of the power with which the blade went in."
So Mr Westborough had been right! The little man
had been a shrewder observer than I had supposed.
“Yeh, you've made a pretty good case for homicide,"
Mack conceded. “Now what kind of fellow did it?”
“What the devil does the city pay you for?” the
doctor demanded. “Well, I'd say the murderer had to
be quick—and pretty strong. He was standing behind
Morse's chair and came down with the knife through
the chest and into the heart—from the position of the
wound I'm not so sure but what the blade didn't nick
a rib! That help any?”.
“Some!" Mack grunted. “Think it could be a
woman's job?”
I had been dreading this question-even though I
sensed its inevitability.
“Maybe. Let's see: Morse is seated in a low chair-
that would help to make up for the difference in height
-well, I'd say your woman couldn't be any shorter
than five feet six or seven inches. And she'd have to


40
THE PURPLE PARROT
have strong wrists—probably used to playing lots of
golf or tennis.”
Strong wrists? Well, Sylvia fenced, I was thinking.
And I had talked to her fencing master, a lively little
Frenchman. What had he said? “Ah, monsieur, noth-
ing in the world will so strengthen the wrist muscles.
Nom d'un nom, nothing !"
I had fenced with Sylvia myself; I knew only too
well the supple strength of those wrists, the strength
which had been able to parry so easily my most power-
ful thrusts, while her darting ripostes touched just
above my heart. Sylvia's hand was used to grasping
the hilt of a foil : .. a foil and a dagger! One blunt,
the other sharp, but was there not a certain psycho-
logical association ...?
I broke off this trend of thought abruptly. I didn't
have the courage to follow further on that path. But,
in spite of everything, I remembered that Sylvia was
tall. She was nearly five feet eight!
VI
HAVE I MENTIONED reporters? A whole clanjamfrie
of them descended upon the house shortly after Dr
Hildreth's departure. O’Ryan left the study to handle
these genial ghouls of the press, and, thinking of
Sylvia, I went with him. I was just in time. Three or
four of them were grouped about her, all firing ques-
tions at once, but they deserted her without a qualm
the instant O’Ryan appeared on the scene.
O'Ryan gave them some information-not too much
-and allowed them to ascend to Hezekiah Morse's
study. Useless for me to attempt a protest against the


THE PURPLE PARROT
41
invasion! Moreover—the thought came to me with
sickening suddenness—to antagonize the press at this
juncture would be about the most stupid move possible
to make.
However, I was thankful to get rid of them so easily,
because at that instant what I wanted above everything
else in the world was a chance to talk to Sylvia alone.
Strictly speaking we were not alone. The cop by the
front door, a beefy, red-faced patrolman who had re-
lieved Sullivan, could see us, but he was too far away
to overhear if we spoke in low tones. And besides he
wasn't even looking our way now—he had tilted his
chair at a precarious angle off the floor and seemed
to be entirely absorbed in his thoughts—whatever they
might be.
After the last reporter had filed from the room I
stood without speaking for perhaps half a minute.
Sylvia was seated in a lounge chair; her back was
toward me; I couldn't see her face at that moment, but
I could read only too plainly the grief expressed by
the dejected droop of her shoulders.
“Sylvia," I began, with as much hesitancy as little
Mr Westborough. “Sylvia, dear!”
She turned her head; her deep blue eyes were misty,
and her mouth quivered slightly. "Yes, Barry?”
Minutes were flying, minutes that were more precious
than emeralds. And still I couldn't tell her. Couldn't
say, boldly and brutally as I must, “Your grandfather
was murdered-at twelve o'clock—while you were up-
stairs. As your attorney it is my duty to caution ..."
No, I couldn't say it, but Sylvia was braver than I.
“Barry, is it true—what that detective said a little
while ago? That grandfather was "
She shrank from the word; I could sense her inward


42
THE PURPLE PARROT
shrinking. Desperately I blurted out, “It happened at
midnight—while we were in the house."
She sprang from her chair, her face suddenly as
white as her gown. “Barry, he was killed? Killed at
midnight, you say?”
I nodded. Somewhere, no doubt, there were words
adequate to explain, but I could think of none of them.
I couldn't even look her in the eyes. Instead I gazed
at the ring on her fourth finger, and I noticed, dully as
one does notice such trivialities at such times, that the
stone was glowing a dull raspberry red. Outside in the
daytime it would be as green as spring leaves. A pecu-
liar rare stone, alexandrite, I believe. The ring had
been a present from her grandfather, I could recall her
telling me. From old Hezekiah who
Sylvia's clutch on my arm brought me sharply back
to my senses. There was strength in those slender white
fingers.
“Barry, what are you saying! You know that
couldn't be possible.”
“But the medical examiner- " I began uncer-
tainly. She scarcely seemed to hear me.
"He was locked in his study. The only way in was
through my room. And nobody left the house."
I groped for words. “But the medical examiner
swears he was killed no earlier than midnight. Some-
thing about the blood ... oh, Sylvia !"
Fool! I was thinking. Barry, you damned fool! You
were the one who told them about the blood. Couldn't
you have known something was wrong when you first
saw it? Couldn't you have lied to them—lied for her?
Sylvia grasped intuitively what it had taken me
several moments to reason out—too late.
“If that's true, Barry, if the medical examiner is
right-


THE PURPLE PARROT 43
“They usually are,” I said inanely.
Her voice didn't falter. “Then the police will say
that I killed grandfather?”
I hung my head in mute acquiescence. I would rather
have faced a firing squad than her eyes.
“But I didn't kill him, Barry,” she said simply.
I didn't have a chance to answer her. Looking back
at it all now I often wonder what I would have said
if the cop at the front door hadn't interrupted us. He
carried his chair from the hallway to the living room
door and set it down with a loud thump.
“Captain's orders, Miss. You're not to talk with him
alone. I've heard what you've been saying so far, and I
have to hear the rest of it.”
I glared—somehow it relieved me just to find an ob-
ject at which I could glare.
“Miss Morse is not under arrest, and even if she
were she has the right to talk privately with her at-
torney. You're exceeding your authority, my man."
He didn't like my tone--I hadn't intended that he
should. I was rapidly losing control of my temper,
which was a mistake because the police aren't to be
bullied.
"Anything you have to say to her, you'll say in front
of me. If you don't like it, tell the captain.” He sat
down with a decisive grunt by way of a period to the
sentence.
I made the best of it. “All right, then, have a ciga-
rette?”
He shook his head. “Never smoke 'em. Now if it was
a cigar— "
Heavy feet sounded on the stairs. They were coming
for Sylvia now, coming to put on the thumbscrews of
third degree, to force her to confess— But it was
not that.


THE PURPLE PARROT
Nomit was a wicker basket which was being carried
down the stairs. A wicker basket six feet long! Heze-
kiah Morse's farewell to this old house on Division
Street! Before I could make any move to shield her
Sylvia had seen it, too.
If she had cried it would have been easier. Tears
would not have unnerved me as much as that deathlike
rigidity with which she stood. I put my arm around
her and led her to a chair.
“Would you like a glass of water?” I asked. It was
an asinine question but it was the only thing that
popped into my mind, and I had to say something.
Comfort her? As if I could!
“No, I'm all right now, Barry, honestly! It's just
that-well, it was sudden ..."
The cop was pretending not to notice us; not a bad
fellow after all.
“Barry, they will question me, won't they? What
shall I answer?”
“Nothing at all. You're not obligated to tell them
anything. Even in court a person doesn't have to an-
swer questions when he might incrimi— "
I stopped. It sounded too much as though I already
believed in her guilt, and I didn't! Or rather I couldn't
be sure of anything. Feelings were mixed up with facts
in a queer sort of hodgepodge in my brain. But Sylvia's
voice was not the voice of a guilty person.
“If I told them the truth, Barry, just the plain,
simple truth, no more and no less, could they twist
and turn it around so that it would all sound like lies?”
“Absolutely not,” I returned promptly. Hope was
pushing its way forward in my mind, hope growing like
a lily from an oozy black mire. “Only stick to the truth,
and they can't make you contradict yourself. Third


THE PURPLE PARROT 45
degree, all kinds of cross-examination are helpless
against the truth. It's the shining armor which— "
How much more I would have said in this vein I don't
know, but Sylvia interrupted me. There was a look on
her face which meant—well, everything in the world
to me.
“Thank you, Barry. I shall tell them the truth. The
truth, the whole truth, and— ”
“A very wise decision indeed, Miss Morse,” said a
voice behind me. I turned. Little Mr Westborough
was standing, a trifle self-consciously, in the hall.
VII
WHATEVER THE CONNECTION of this odd little man
with the Chicago Police Department, he was not at all
unfriendly. I sensed that in his shy manner as he waited
in the hallway.
“You will pardon the intrusion, Miss Morse?" He
made no attempt to enter the living room uninvited.
“Lieutenant Mack wishes to ask a few questions of
Mr Foster.”
"Won't you have a chair, Mr Westborough?” Sylvia
invited.
“Thank you, I shall.” He selected a large wing
chair which almost totally eclipsed him from view. "Do
not hurry yourself, Mr Foster. No hurry at all. Dear
me, there is at present a veritable bedlam upstairs, if
you will forgive my mentioning it, Miss Morse. The
ingenuity displayed by four reporters in the fabrica-
tion of questions is almost unbelievable.”
Sylvia tried to repress a shudder. “It will be a front-
page sensation? In all the newspapers tomorrow?"


46
THE PURPLE PARROT
His grave voice was sympathetic. “I very much fear,
so.”
O’Ryan's big voice boomed from upstairs, “You
know as much as we do about it now, boys. Run on
back and write your stories.”
There were shouts of “Okay!”, “So long" and "Sure
you're not holding out on us, Cap?”; then they trooped
down the stairs pell-mell. Rushing into the hall, I inter-
cepted them at the foot of the staircase.
"I'm Miss Morse's attorney. It may endanger her
health permanently if she has to talk any more tonight.
I hope that you'll be decent enough to let up on her
and put me through the works instead.”
They were sporting enough to agree to this, and I
spent a very busy five minutes answering (or evading)
questions. Considering it was my first experience I don't
believe I did so badly. At length even the most persist-
ent of the four was willing to concede that I was a
turnip from which all nourishment had been squeezed,
and I was able to return to the living room, where I
found Sylvia deep in conversation with Mr West-
borough. Her manner was more relaxed than I had seen
it since I had first waited at the bottom of the stair-
case.
She called to me, “Mr Westborough is quite an
authority on Roman history, Barry."
“Dear me, no, I am a mere student of the subject,"
the little man disclaimed modestly.
“Anyway he is writing a monograph on Helioga-
balus,” Sylvia finished. “And he's already written a
book about the Emperor Trajan. Isn't he a real celeb-
rity?"
“He certainly is,” I concurred. So the little man
wasn't a detective at all, but a historian.
“And now, if you don't mind, shall we return up-


THE PURPLE PARROT
47
stairs? Lieutenant Mack will be growing impatient.”
Hezekiah Morse's study was exactly the same; there
was the same bloody smear upon the desk and the rug.
But Hezekiah himself was gone, and the room seemed
strangely empty, in spite of the fact that Mack,
O'Ryan and the two patrolmen, Phelan and McCarter,
were all present.
Or perhaps I must except Mack, who could hardly
be called present. He had climbed out of the west win-
dow and was standing on the sill outside, a flashlight
in his hand. “There's been no monkey business," I
could hear him saying. “This window wasn't forced
open, Terry.”
He jumped back to the floor of the study. "Hello,
Foster. Answer a question for me. Wasn't this window
usually kept locked—like the other one is now?”
“I believe so," I assented. “Morse's books are valu-
able, and he took every precaution.”
“Then why the hell do we find it unlocked?" Mack
wanted to know. “No, I'm not saying anyone could 've
got in by it. There's no rain pipe or anything; only a
human fly could've crawled up that front wall. But
why does this window happen to be unlocked just on
this particular night at this particular time?"
“An odd circumstance indeed,” contributed Mr
Westborough. He leaned far forward out of the win-
dow which Mack had left wide open. “Lieutenant Mack,
may I borrow your flashlight?"
“Sure,” grinned Mack, handing it to him. “What's
on your mind now?”
“Very little. I merely wished to see if the impression
of a ladder could be discerned upon the turf below us,
but I fear the distance is too great to-dear me, what-
ever are those?”
I followed Mack to the window, to tell the truth,


48
THE PURPLE PARROT
well pleased at the turn the investigation had taken.
If it could only be established that someone had left
Hezekiah Morse's study by its one unlocked window!
However, Mr Westborough had found nothing to con-
firm that supposition. What he pointed out was merely
a series of small holes in the gray stone about a foot
below the window ledge. The nearest was almost a foot
and a half from the edge of the sill and there were
others under the second window and also under the
window of the adjoining house. All of them were in a
straight horizontal line.
“Whatever can their purpose have been?” pondered
Mr Westborough.
“Might've been some ornamental ironwork hung
there," Mack theorized.
O’Ryan nodded. “Might've been at that. There used
to be a lot of that old junk around these parts."
“Baines might be able to tell you something about
it,” I suggested.
O’Ryan bellowed for the butler, who was presently
escorted upstairs. He looked sleepy-and a little
scared. Neither he nor Matilda had been allowed to go
to bed. They had been kept together in the kitchen
with a patrolman to report every word they said to
each other, I learned afterwards.
Bowing, Baines waited for O’Ryan to speak.
“What do you know about these holes under the
windows?”
“There was at one time a small decorative balcony,
sir. It was suspended not only from below these win-
dows but also from under the windows of Mr Vail's
house next door. But it was demolished several years
ago since Mr Morse feared that this architectural
adornment might facilitate the ingress of burglars.
His collection of rare books is extremely valuable, sir.”
-
-
-
- - -
-
-


THE PURPLE PARROT
49
bahen Morse start given his cohoʻis this Val reply. His
“Well, it looks like your boss had shut out his second
story men, all right,” Mack conceded. “Nobody can
climb up that wall without a rope or a ladder, or I'll
eat my hat. But what did the fellow next door say
when Morse started to haul down his ironwork?”
“Mr Vail had given his consent, sir.”
"Vail?" Mack repeated. “Who is this Vail?"
OʻRyan interrupted before Baines could reply. His
bulky body was stooped over the wastebasket by
Morse's desk, and his big, clumsy hands were pawing
through its contents.
“There's paper and a string here, Johnny! Paper
and string !" He straightened up and turned sternly
upon the butler. “Say, what time did you empty this
wastebasket?”
“This morning, sir.”
“Then Morse unwrapped some sort of parcel since
then. Know what it was?”
“No sir.”
“Morse go out today?”.
“Only for a brief walk about four o'clock, sir."
“Was he carrying a package when he returned?"
“He was not, sir."
“You're sure of that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did any packages come for him today through the
mail or from some store?"
“Nothing, sir.”
“Anyone bring a package to him?"
“I believe Mr Wells, of whose visit I informed you a
short time ago, sir, was carrying a package under his
arm."
“Well, why the devil didn't you say so?" Mack de-
manded in an exasperated voice.
"You didn't ask me, sir."


50
THE PURPLE PARROT
“Say, who is this Wells, anyhow?"
“As I told you before, sir, I haven't the slightest
idea.”
“You went up with him to the study, didn't you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Could you hear anything that Morse said to him?"
“I do not eavesdrop, sir.”
“Well, slap my dirty face!" Mack exclaimed.
“Baines, you win the jack pot. Who else besides Wells
called on Morse today?"
“Only Mr Vail, sir.”'
“The fellow next door, huh? What did he want?”
“He was a very intimate friend of Mr Morse's,"
Baines informed reprovingly. “Mr Vail came about
three this afternoon and stayed until shortly before
Mr Morse went out for his walk.”
“And those two were all the visitors Morse had to-
day?”
“There was also his secretary, Miss Guild, but she
can scarcely be placed in the category of visitor.”
“Any telephone calls?”
“One while Mr Morse was at luncheon. About one-
thirty, sir. A man's voice which I could not identify."
“Could you hear the conversation?”
“I did not remain in the room while Mr Morse was
talking."
“Suppose that call was from Wells making an ap-
pointment for the evening,” I cut in. "If you trace it,
you-
>
“Trace it," Mack cut in disgustedly. “How the hell
can we trace a call from one dial phone to another? If
it was made from a toll phone we might have better
luck—they keep a record of those calls.” He had sev-
eral more pieces of information to add on this subject.


THE PURPLE PARROT 51
“Anything else, sir?” Baines inquired respectfully.
“No, run back to the pinochle game,” Mack ordered,
relighting his cigar and throwing the match on the rug.
“Cribbage, sir,” Baines corrected as he left the room.
“Nuts!" O’Ryan glowered. “I'd like that guy a
whole lot better if he'd forget to say 'sir once in a
while.”
"Willing enough to talk, though," Mack commented.
He looked at me sternly. “Hope I can say the same for
you, Foster. You ought to know all about Morse's
affairs.”
"As far as I know his affairs were simple. He had
been a client of my firm, Steelcraft, Cunningham and
Swift for a number of years, but lately we have had
very little to do for him.”
(Leaving out those confounded wills, of course! But
I wasn't going to bring up that subject!)
While Mack questioned me O’Ryan was rummaging
through the drawers of Morse's desk, and Mr West-
borough seemed very intent on the bloodstained papers
upon its top. Those papers were innocuous; I knew
that, but I felt a little uneasy at O'Ryan's investiga-
tions. No telling what might turn up in one of those
capacious drawers.
“Oh, you didn't?" Mack went on. “How did Morse
have his money invested ?"
“The bulk of his fortune was largely in government
bonds and other sound securities. He also owned some
real estate, mostly apartment buildings."
“How much was he worth?”
“I couldn't say exactly. Two million dollars might
be a close estimate. His holdings had shrunk consider-
ably during the depres "
Mack grinned. “Where have I heard that story be-
fore? But Morse had at least piled up enough dough


52 THE PURPLE PARROT
so he didn't have to work. What'd he do with all his
time? I'd go nuts just sitting around.”
I waved my hand at the bookcases. “This collection
kept him fairly well occupied. He was writing a book
about them. A sort of glorified catalogue, you might
call it.”
"It was evidently the latest installment of this work
he was perusing at the time of his death,” Mr West-
borough remarked. Thumbing through several sheets
he read aloud:
“And for those other faults of barbarism, Doric
dialect, extemporanean style, tautologies, apish imita-
tion, a rhapsody of rags gathered together from sev-
eral dunghills, excrements of authors, toys, and
fopperies confusedly tumbled out, without art, inven-
tion, judgment, wit, learning, harsh, raw, rude, phan-
tastical, absurd, insolent, indiscreet, ill-composed, indi-
gested, vain, scurrile, idle, dull and dry; I confess all
('tis partly affected), thou canst not think worse of
me than I do of myself.'”
“Say, that guy didn't have much of an opinion of
himself !” O'Ryan exclaimed.
“What's it all about?" Mack wanted to know.
“It is from ‘Democritus to the Reader', Burton's
satirical preface to The Anatomy of Melancholy,” Mr
Westborough explained. “That is the book now lying
upon Mr Morse's desk. Undoubtedly, he wished to
verify the quotation, which he had cited in his own
work.”
“Well, I don't see much in that lead !" Mack uttered
with the contempt of the thorough realist. “Books
aren't going to get us anywhere on this case.”
"I am not so sure,” Mr Westborough demurred
gently.
“Foster,” Mack demanded peremptorily, “what do


THE PURPLE PARROT
53
99
you know about Morse's will? He had made one, hadn't
he?”
It had come at last—but I was calmer than I
thought I would be!
“Yes, several of them.”
“Several? Couldn't he decide who was to get "
“It wasn't so much a question of who as of how."
“You'll have to explain that.”
“As is common when disposing of large fortunes, the
property wasn't willed outright, but was tied up in the
form of a trust. Mr Morse kept changing the trust
provisions continually altering the power of the
trustees.”
“But the same people were to get the dough?”
“Yes, the beneficiaries, with very minor exceptions,
remained unchanged.”
“Sylvia Morse one of 'em?”
“Naturally. She was his granddaughter and his only
living relative.”
“Who were the other beneficiaries?”
“In the last will signed by Morse about two thirds
of the estate was left in trust for Miss Morse and one
third in trust for Vail. Baines and Matilda were to get
five hundred dollars each and about half-a-dozen chari-
ties were mentioned.”
“Vail, eh?” Mack perked up at the mention of this
name. “Say, what sort of guy is he?”
O’Ryan, who had continued his search of the desk,
interrupted before I could answer.
"Here's Morse's checkbook, Johnny, and you can
take a look at this."
“This," I noticed as I leaned across the desk, was
the stub of a check made out for one thousand dollars
on the Continental Illinois National Bank and Trust
Company. It was made out to cash, and the date indi-


54
THE PURPLE PARROT
cated that Morse had signed it on the last day of his
life.
VIII
“WAS MORSE in the habit of drawing large sums of
money from the bank?" Mack asked Baines, who had
been called in once more for consultation.
“No sir. He was not. Once a week he visited the bank
and drew out enough cash to pay the household ex-
penses, sir.”
“When’d he do that?”
“Every Monday, sir."
“Hm! This is Wednesday—or rather Thursday
morning. He went last Monday as usual, I suppose?”
“Yes sir.”
“It's dated Wednesday," Mack speculated aloud.
“Wonder where Morse cashed it if he didn't go out
until four.”
“Banks are closed then, and a grand is quite a sizable
amount to get together on the spur of the moment,"
O'Ryan commented.
“What does that suggest to you, Terry?" Mack
asked after Baines had again left the room.
“I'd say Morse had to have some cash pronto for
something."
“Or somebody!"
“Blackmail, eh?”
“When a guy collects as much jack as Morse had
he can expect to be shaken down for a little of it now
and then.”
I was able to confirm this, and I did.
“An attempt was made about four months ago to
blackmail Mr Morse. A man by the name of Ernest


THE PURPLE PARROT
55
Hands, ex-clerk in a broker's office, had collected what
he thought was evidence implicating Morse in an off-
color stock speculation. He wanted five thousand to
keep quiet.”
"He get it?”
"He got six months instead! Morse's skirts were
legally clear on that deal—if it had smelled to the
general public—and he could afford to be tough. He
was!”
“What happened?"
“Morse played along with Hands, let him think he
was scared to death and persuaded the fellow to come
to his study. Hands was a rank amateur at the game
and didn't have much sense at that. Morse led him
along to spill the whole story, while I waited in the
next room with a dictograph and a representative of
the State's Attorney's office thrown in for good meas-
ure. Hands didn't have a Chinaman's chance when it
came to court. He got the full sentence too—six
months.”
“What kind of fellow was Hands ?”
“Little dried-up shrimp of a man with pale blue
eyes and a drooping mustache.”
"Hum," Mack grunted thoughtfully. “Is he still in
the big house?”
“He was the last I heard."
O’Ryan had come to the wide, shallow top drawer of
the desk. As he jerked it open, he let out a yell.
“Here's Morse's gat!”
Mack left me at once and dashed across the room.
“Let's take a look at it, Terry." He handled it very
carefully with his handkerchief, I noticed. “Smith and
Wesson thirty-two.” He broke it open and the car-
tridges popped out upon the glass top of the desk.
There were six of them. “Chambers full," Mack ob-


56
THE PURPLE PARROT
served, "and the barrel's clean, too. This didn't have
any more to do with it than my Aunt Harriet up at
Niles, Michigan.”
But O'Ryan had found something else in the top
drawer of Morse's desk-a number of typewritten
sheets, which were bound together by brass fasteners
within a blue manuscript cover. I glanced over his
shoulder, and the minute my eyes fell upon the first
two words, my heart traveled downward to the general
vicinity of the patent-leather Oxfords I was wearing.
Hezekiah Morse had made a carbon copy of the type-
written instructions he had given me. The instructions
for his last, diabolically conceived will!
"It's Morse's will,” O'Ryan roared. “And it's got a
lot of dope here that Foster kept mum about. Baines
was to get five thousand—not five hundred. And good
God, what's this?"
"Let's see!" Mack shouted, snatching the document
from O'Ryan's hands. He perused it rapidly, his eyes
skipping over words but extracting the sense of the
whole. "Listen to this, Westborough. Here's the motive
for our case—and my God, what a motive!” He read
aloud: “'In the event my granddaughter, Sylvia, fails
to comply with my wish to marry Vail I want it clearly
expressed that she shall receive nothing upon my death
but my purple parrot.'”
“The purple parrot!” Mr Westborough gasped.
“Dear me, how very odd!”
Mack put down the manuscript the better to glare at
me. “Why did you lie to me about Morse's will,
Foster?”
“You asked me the terms of Mr Morse's will, and I
told you," I returned. “What you have been reading
are some notes concerning a will which never became
effective."


THE PURPLE PARROT
57
O’Ryan turned back to the top sheet. “The date's
a week old, Foster. Don't try to put anything over
on us.”
“Nevertheless," I persisted, “Morse had never signed
the will."
“You drew it up for him, didn't you?" Mack de-
manded.
“Well, yes," I admitted.
"He was gonna sign it, wasn't he?"
I told the exact truth; they were bound to find out
sooner or later. “So far as I know, Morse expected to
come to the office today for that purpose."
“Was Mr Vail still to get his third share of the
estate?” inquired Mr Westborough.
“Only the bequest relating to Baines had been
changed,” I returned. “Otherwise, the new draft merely
alters some trust provisions with the exception of- "
“Of this clause relating to Sylvia Morse?" Mack
finished. “Two thirds of two million dollars! Christ,
what a motive! And the girls in love with you, Foster.
She wanted to marry you."
“No," I said. But my denial failed to carry convic-
tion.
“That's what she had to tell the old man that was so
important it couldn't wait until morning,” O'Ryan
contributed with a sudden flash of Celtic insight.
"Sure, it all hangs together," Mack agreed. “You
and she were engaged, Foster. Probably just got that
way tonight. She wants to marry you; she goes up to
tell the old man, and bingo the fireworks start!”
I found an unexpected ally in Mr Westborough.
“The deceased, I should judge from his face, was a
gentleman of a somewhat irascible character, was he
not, Mr Foster?”
“That's putting it mildly,” I said with a wry face.


58
THE PURPLE PARROT
“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” he quoted softly.
“What a pity that we shall have to break the tradition
in this instance! And I should also judge that he pos-
sessed a very loud and carrying voice?"
“Like a bull's," I admitted. “That is, when he really
got mad at someone."
"Excellent!" beamed Mr Westborough. “Now, Mr
Foster, as a sensible gentleman, I trust you will see the
folly of answering my next question other than truth-
fully. Did you or did you not hear voices from the
study while you were waiting downstairs for Miss
Morse?”
I started. This little fellow had an uncanny knack
of hitting upon the truth. Why, it had struck me
rather queer at the time, I remembered, how fantas-
tically quiet the house had been!
“No," I said. “I give you my word that I heard no
voices from upstairs."
“Well, what about it?" Mack asked, looking rather
puzzled. “What 're you driving at, Westborough?”
“Dear me,” smiled the little man. “The inference
appears so obvious! Unless Mr Foster is lying (and
if so he has not helped his fiancée as he will learn pres-
ently) Miss Morse could not have apprised her grand-
father of their engagement."
"Something in that," Mack mused thoughtfully.
“The old boy would've raised plenty of commotion if
he'd heard that news.”
“Yes indeed. If my judgment of physiognomy is at
all accurate, his roars of rage would have shaken the
house down-speaking figuratively, of course. There-
fore, either Miss Morse's story of not going into her
grandfather's room is entirely true, or- "
“Or what?" Mack demanded. .
There was a peculiar expression on the little man's


THE PURPLE PARROT
59
face. "If Miss Morse killed her grandfather she killed
him without warning. Killed him in the midst of
caresses, coaxings, blandishments—all maneuvers to
get behind his chair where, unseen, she could seize the
dagger. A terrible crime, gentlemen! A crime that
could be conceived only by such a misshapen monster
as Gloster. Gloster whose boast, if I recall my Henry
VI aright, was 'Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I
smile.'”
“Sylvia couldn't possibly have done that," I found
myself saying.
Mack sniffed doubtfully, “ 'Murder while I smile',
eh, Westborough? Well, it's usually a woman's way of
killing!”
“But,” Mr Westborough objected, “in the event
your hypothesis is true, how explain the disappear-
ance of the purple parrot?”
“I don't,” Mack admitted. “What difference does it
make? It wasn't worth a damn.”
“For that very reason it becomes of even greater
significance,” smiled Mr Westborough. “Were it of
value one could conceive of innumerable reasons for
its disappearance.”
“I get it," Mack said, a little sheepishly. “That is
something of a puzzler when you come to think of it!"
His face brightened. "Hell, it isn't either! Miss Morse
knows the old man was planning on booting her out
with nothing but that damn parrot. She simply got
mad and pitched the thing out the window. I can't say
I'd blame her.”
“Well, we can check up on that, and check up right
away,” O'Ryan cut in. He turned to the two patrol-
men, who had been waiting patiently by the doorway.
“Phelan, McCarter, go downstairs and look under all
the windows—as far in any direction as a girl'd be


60
THE PURPLE PARROT
able to throw. See if you can find any pieces of a purple-
clay parrot.”
Mack added instructions of his own.
“And take a look at the turf under the study win-
dow—the one that was open. See if there 're any marks
that look like someone had a ladder resting there."
The patrolmen nodded understandingly and were
gone. “You were engaged to her?” Mack asked of me.
There seemed to be little point in lying further about
it.
regulating this Vail 29, Tied some
“Yes, we were engaged.”
“Happen tonight?”
I admitted that the assumption was correct.
“Well, tough luck that this had to come up," Mack
said with a gruff sympathy. “Right now I'm kinda
interested in the fellow who was to get a third of the
estate, regardless of whether or not he married Sylvia
Morse. What kind of fellow is this Vail?”
By all rules and regulations Sylvia should have
preferred Tom Vail to Barry Foster! Even though she
didn't I couldn't help being a little jealous of the man..
However, I tried to be fair in my appraisal.
“He's rather slender, stands about five feet nine, has
steel-blue eyes that can stare you out of countenance.
Roman nose and long, thin hands. Talks with a slight
drawl, and you think when you first meet him that he's
affected, but there's nothing sissified about Vail. He's
a fine boxer and a crack revolver shot-as a matter
of fact he won several prizes shooting in tournaments.
Well, that's about all I know, except that he was once
in the diplomatic service.”
“Related to Morse?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Damn funny the old man should take such a big
shine to him," Mack mused.


THE PURPLE PARROT 61
“Say, how'd Vail feel about marrying Sylvia
Morse?” O'Ryan cut in.
The answer to that was easy-only too easy.
“He was in love with her," I said slowly.
"Well, that makes the cheese more binding,” Mack
exclaimed. He left me to stroll about the room, glanc-
ing at the bookcases, but I soon found that he was not
looking at the titles of the volumes inside. “These are
queer old houses, do you know it! Most of 'em were
built two or three in a row with one wall between them.
Architect's way of saving money, I guess. Not a very
thick wall at that. Any carpenter could make a door
between this house and the next. Is there one?”
“I never heard of it.”
“Guess we'll have to have Baines up again.”
The butler's legs must be getting tired of climbing
the back stairs, I couldn't help thinking. However, it
was difficult to visualize Baines complaining.
“Ever hear of a passage between this house and
Vail's?" Mack asked.
“If there is such a thing, sir, it is quite unknown
to me. I never heard Mr Morse speak of it."
"Did he ever tell you when he was going over to see
Vail?”
“Frequently, sir."
“Well, did he go out the front door at those times ?”
“Always, sir."
“Humph!" Mack muttered, still unconvinced. “I've
heard of bookcases being built to hide a door-you
worked a spring or pulled a lever and a whole section
slid back- "
“Yeah,” O'Ryan guffawed. “I've read them kind of
yarns too. Be your age, Johnny! We know enough now
to make the pinch.”
“Got to check every angle," Mack retorted gruffly.


62
THE PURPLE PARROT
He turned to the butler. “Suppose there was such a
door. Where would it lead to, Baines?"
“Into Mr Vail's bedroom, sir."
Mack said with obvious excitement, “Do you hear
that, Terry! We're going to have a couple of men in
tomorrow to shift these bookcases and sound the walls."
O'Ryan grinned. “Waste of time, but if it'll make
you any happier- " Patrolman McCarter returned
to the study before he could complete the sentence.
"Well, did you find any signs of a ladder being used?”
O’Ryan wanted to know.
McCarter shook his head. “Not on this job, Chief.
It'd have to rest on a plot of grass under the window.
The turf is pretty hard, but it's not frozen, and if a
ladder had been used there 'd be sure to be a couple of
dents.”
“Any footprints on the turf?" Mack asked.
“No," McCarter answered, “but they probably
wouldn't show-ground's too hard "
“If a guy dropped from this window his prints 'd
show all right," Mack declared grimly.
“Never thought of that,” McCarter exclaimed, his
round and ruddy face puckered. “It'd be considerable
of a drop.”
"It would," Mack agreed.
“Well, the turf's as smooth as a baby's hind end,"
McCarter informed.
“Now, what about that purple parrot?” O'Ryan
demanded.
McCarter grinned. “Phelan's still looking for it.
Persistent, that guy is! But we've gone all over the
street and the sidewalk with flashlights-every place
it could've been thrown from an upstairs window.
So far not even one dinky piece of the thing has turned
ea,
up.”


THE PURPLE PARROT
63
“Well, go on back and help Phelan look for it,"
O'Ryan directed. Followed closely by Baines, McCarter
left the study. Mack wheeled on me abruptly:
"I want Miss Morse here for questioning."
“Here? In this room where her grandfather-
“Yes, here," Mack growled. “Anything to say about
it, Foster?”
I managed to curb the reply that sprang to my
tongue.
"She told me only a short while ago that she in-
tended to tell you the truth with no mental reserva-
tions. May I go down for her?”
“Yeh, if you don't take all night about it.”
I found Sylvia abstractedly turning the pages of a
magazine. She glanced up as I entered, a trembling
ghost of a smile on her face.
“Barry, you look like the interne announcing that
everything's ready in the operating room.”
“It isn't that bad,” I said consolingly. “You needn't
talk to them at all if you don't want to."
“But I do want to. I want them to know the truth.”
The truth? Yes, I thought so. But would Mack and
O’Ryan? I wondered. It was plain enough to me that
they were convinced that they had a case. And it looked
like an almost airtight one, I was forced to admit. For
no particular reason I thought of little Mr West-
borough, and, oddly enough, the thought proved to be
comforting.
Mack began in an almost jovial fashion as we entered
the study, “Well, Miss Morse, feel like answering a
question or two?”
She nodded, her eyes deliberately averted from the
desk.
“All right,” said Mack, “have a chair.”
He was seated at Morse's desk, and the place he had


64
THE PURPLE PARROT
prepared for Sylvia was directly in front of him. I
hurriedly interposed.
“Miss Morse will sit here,” I said, indicating the
chair by the small typewriter desk, which was used by
Morse's secretary in the daytime.
Her look was ample thanks. Poor Sylvia ! Looking
back at it now, it seems that there was so little I was
able to do to make her lot easier.
There was a goosenecked lamp with a green shade
upon the typewriter desk, and O'Ryan was fixing the
shade so that the light would shine upon Sylvia's face.
I twisted the shade the other way.
“The light is bothering Miss Morse's eyes, Captain
O'Ryan.”
He glared at me in discomfiture. “See here,
Foster ”
“Let it go, Terry," Mack interrupted. Behind the
big glass-topped desk he had assumed almost a judicial
aspect-an effect slightly marred, however, by the
cigar which was bobbing in the side of his mouth.
“Miss Morse, you told us you came to your room at
twelve o'clock?”
“Yes," Sylvia confirmed. Her voice was steady, but
her hands, crossed upon her lap, were trembling the
barest trifle.
“Did you close the door from your room into the
hall?”
“I think I did. I'm not quite sure.”
“No?" Mack questioned sarcastically.
“I'm not sure of anything tonight,” she admitted
faintly.
Mack declaimed with easy assurance, “The door
might have been open, then, Miss Morse?"
“It might have been,” she agreed.


THE PURPLE PARROT
65
“At that time did you hear the noise of a person
moving? Either from the next room or from the hall?”
“No," she returned promptly.
“Then there was no one on this floor but yourself
and your grandfather?”
I couldn't stand for that. “That's not a fair question.
You've no right to ask what Miss Morse thought."
“Speak when you're spoken to," Mack snapped ir-
ritably. “This isn't a court, Foster, and I'd advise you
to pipe down if you want to stick around. Well, Miss
Morse, what about it?”
“How could I know whether anybody else was on
the floor or not?” Sylvia asked.
“If anyone had been, you'd have heard him fast
enough," Mack declared positively. “These floors creak
to high heaven when a fellow takes a step. You couldn't
miss a noise like that, Miss Morse. Not unless you
wanted to."
She faltered, “I don't know whether I could or not."
“Don't know, eh? Well, you do know this. You were
going in to ask your grandfather's consent to marry
Foster.”
She started—and I thought of a bird inadvertently
blundering near a crouching cat.
“Do you admit that's true?" Mack demanded.
“Yes,” she said softly. “It's true. But that doesn't
have anything to do "
"It has everything to do with it," Mack cut in per-
emptorily. “Your grandfather wouldn't allow you to
marry anyone but Vail. He was going to disinherit you
if_ "
“I don't know how you
“Never mind how we found out. We did, and that's
all that concerns you. Miss Morse, do you play much
golf or tennis?”


66
THE PURPLE PARROT
“A good deal of tennis." Her face was plainly
puzzled. “Why?”
Mack blandly ignored her question. “I had you doped
out as a tennis player. Good strong wrist muscles. Firm
fingers. Fingers that can hold— ”
I couldn't put up with any more of it. No man could.
“Miss Morse's tennis hasn't a thing to do with this.
Please confine your questions to the actual matter in
hand.”
“Have it your way," Mack said with pretended jovi-
ality. He winked at O'Ryan, standing across the room.
“Funny, Terry, that Miss Morse should spend nearly
ten minutes just sitting at her dressing table.”
O’Ryan returned the shuttlecock with a chuckle. "If
it had been me, I'd have been right anxious to find out
what granddaddy was going to say to me.”
“You'd think she would," Mack grunted. “And in-
stead she spent the entire time just fixing her face."
I motioned to Sylvia to make no comment upon this
badinage, but she failed to see my signal. “A woman's
way of procrastination, Lieutenant. You see I was
frightfully nervous, and
Mack was across the room in one spring—the cat
claiming its victim.
“You're lying, Sylvia Morse. We know you're lying.
You went into your grandfather's room right after
twelve o'clock, and you didn't dare tell him about Fos-
ter. You walked around the desk behind him and saw
that knife. You reached out a hand for it-he didn't
even look up. You grabbed it and don't lie, Sylvia
Morse! Lying isn't going to help you. I'm right, and
you know it. Just look at your dress! His blood spat-
tered on it when ”
“Dear me,” interrupted Mr Westborough. “But in


68
THE PURPLE PARROT
“I saw him sitting there-saw that awful knife! Then
it's all a complete blank until I met Barry-Mr Foster
-in the hall.”
“Quite understandable," breathed Mr Westborough.
He was on our side; I no longer had any doubts of it.
“Such an intense shock-I believe that any psychiatrist
will confirm this-might well account for the hiatus in
Miss Morse's memory."
Sylvia's head was poised high, and there was more
than a trace of her grandfather in her voice.
"If I were lying to you, lying about anything, you
understand, it would be easiest of all to lie about that.
But I'm telling you the exact truth. I can't remember
going near the desk. I can't even remember screaming."
“I wonder if you are telling the truth?" Mack said
sternly.
“Try me," she urged. “Ask any question you want."
“No,” I shouted. “I'm not going to let you take ad-
vantage of her. Mack, I'm telling you once and for all
that Miss Morse cannot be compelled to incriminate
herself.”
“No?" Mack drawled. He was smiling-hatefully.
“Even for a lawyer, Foster, you're all-fired anxious to
cover up. You're not worrying over her nearly as much
as you pretend. What you're really afraid of is that
she'll incriminate you.”
"That's a lie,” Sylvia flashed. “Mr Foster couldn't
have had anything to do with it. He was downstairs the
entire time.”
So I was forced to hide behind a girl's skirts! I didn't
like it—no man would—but I didn't see anything I
could say that wouldn't make the position even worse.
“Miss Morse can scarcely confirm my whereabouts."
I was hoping that they'd be dumb enough to take that
for a confession.


THE PURPLE PARROT 69
They weren't.
“She doesn't need to," Mack said. “You're cleared if
she says she didn't see you come out of this room."
“I didn't,” Sylvia returned at once. “I'll sign a state-
ment or swear it or do anything else that. "
“Nothing else is needed," Mack cut in, his eyes nar-
rowing shrewdly. “Miss Morse, were you sitting in such
a way that you'd have been sure to see Foster if he had
come out?”
“Don't answer!” I cried. “Sylvia, don't an— "
But she had answered.
“Yes. I was seated almost directly facing the door. I
couldn't have helped seeing him.”
That did it! In spite of myself, I couldn't help yield-
ing a grudging admiration to the cunning manner in
which Mack had spun this web. For if Sylvia had been
able to see me leaving the study certainly she would
have been able to see anyone else performing the same
act. And there was no other way out than through her
room.
“That's all I wanted to know," Mack crowed jubi-
lantly. “You could see anyone who came out of the
study, Miss Morse. And no one did come out for the
simple reason that no one was there. Miss Morse, you
killed your grandfather.”
I clutched at straws. "Perhaps Morse was killed
earlier.”
“I'll take Doc Hildreth's word on that any day
against yours.”
“I don't mean the doctor's wrong, but after all he
does allow some leeway. He didn't say that Morse
couldn't have been killed a few seconds or maybe a min-
ute before Miss Morse reached her room.”
"Where does that get you?" Mack snapped. “The
killer's got to go some place, hasn't he? He can't dis-


170
THE PURPLE PARROT
appear into thin air. You'd have spotted him if he
went down the front stairs. If he ran down the back
stairs he'd have gone into the kitchen where two in-
dependent witnesses were sitting. What's left? He isn't
in the house — Phelan and McCarter didn't overlook a
place where even a mouse could hide, they say. And
the windows were locked from the inside.”
“One window in this study wasn't locked,” I re-
minded.
"Hell's bells !" Mack exclaimed. “Are you trying to
tell me he turned into a bat and flew away?”
Phelan and McCarter entered the room at that mo-
ment. Phelan looked noticeably crestfallen.
“Chief, if that purple parrot was thrown from a
window of this house, I'll eat the thing myself.”
“Purple parrot?” Sylvia echoed. “You mean grand-
father's?”
“We do," Mack said grimly. “Of course you don't
know it's gone?”
“No,” she answered, ignoring his tone. “Is it?"
“It is,” Mack said firmly. “When did you see it last,
Miss Morse?”
“I can't say definitely.”
“When was the last time you were in here, Miss
Morse?"
“You mean before I returned this evening with Mr
Foster?”
Mack grunted affirmatively,
“This afternoon, somewhere around four. I came to
put back a book.”
"A book?" questioned Mr Westborough. "May I ask
the name of it, Miss Morse?”
“The first volume of Browning's Men and Women."
“Indeed?” smiled Mr Westborough. “Dear me, I


THE PURPLE PARROT
71
thought that only such old fogies as myself ever read
Robert Browning.”
“He isn't my favorite poet,” Sylvia admitted. “How-
ever, there was a certain quotation running through my
mind, and it seemed to be just the sort of thing that
Browning would have written. I had to make sure.”
"Indeed, yes,” Mr Westborough beamed. “I have
often experienced the identical sensation. Did you suc-
ceed in verifying your conjecture?”
“Oh yes. I already had half an idea where to look for
it. You know the stanza that begins: “ 'Tis an awkward
thing to play with souls'?”
“And matter enough to save one's own,'” Westbor-
ough finished.
Her glance was admiring. “You do know your
Browning."
“Mr Browning and I have had some very pleasant
hours together,” the little man said with a pleased
chuckle. “Your grandfather owned so many rare and
valuable books, Miss Morse. Is it possible that this vol-
ume is a first edition?”
“I think it is."
The light of the genuine booklover was gleaming in
his eyes. “May I have your permission to examine it,
Miss Morse? Although I have lived nearly seventy years
I have never been fortunate enough to see a first edi-
tion of Men and Women.”
“It's in there,” Sylvia said, pointing to one of the
bookcases.
“The books are arranged alphabetically by authors ?”
Westborough inquired.
“Yes, except for the folio editions. They are segre-
gated along the west wall in those bookcases with the
deep shelves.”
“Naturally those giant tomes would require specially


72 THE PURPLE PARROT
built cases," Westborough agreed. “But Men and
Women is not of their number, for I see that very work
now.” Lifting up the sliding glass door, he took out a
volume bound in faded green cloth. His eyes traveled
caressingly over the title page. “London: Chapman and
Hall, 193, Piccadilly, 1855," he read aloud. “Yes, this
is a first edition, Miss Morse, and it is in exceedingly
fine condition.” Regretfully, he restored it to the shelf.
As he did so, I could see him give a slight start. “Is
there by any chance an index to your grandfather's
library, Miss Morse?”
“That olive-green cabinet on the desk. Grandfather
made out every card in it himself.”
Measuring about a foot square by a foot and a half
deep, the cabinet contained four drawers, each of which
held about a thousand cards. Mr Westborough jerked
out a top drawer.
“They are indexed by titles, I see.”
“And by authors, too, in the two lower drawers,"
Sylvia informed.
Mr Westborough had withdrawn two cards and was
comparing them meticulously. “All of these cards, you
say, are in Mr Morse's handwriting? It is rather odd
that he should undertake such a tedious clerical chore.”
“He didn't think it tedious," Sylvia said. Her eyes
were moist. “Grandfather loved these books, Mr West-
borough. No detail in connection with them was ever
too much trouble for him.”
“A true bibliophile indeed,” Westborough declared.
Replacing the cards he opened a lower drawer and
withdrew two more. These also he returned to their
proper position. "It is the same. Exactly the same."
“What's eating you?" Mack wanted to know.
“It is the merest triviality,” said Mr Westborough.
“Not worth mentioning, I assure you."


THE PURPLE PARROT
Nevertheless, even Mr Westborough could be mis-
taken. Although, looking back upon it now, I don't
see how any man on earth could have guessed the as-
tounding secret of those index cards.
“LET'S GET BACK to the purple parrot," Mack sug-
gested. “Was it worth very much, Miss Morse?”
“A terra-cotta statuette? And not even particularly
well done? I'd say it would be overpriced at a dollar and
a half. Grandfather was attached to it because it was a
New Zealand parrot. He was born in Dunedin, you
know.”
“We're wasting time,” O'Ryan interrupted gruffly.
“Phelan, take Miss Morse to the living room. She isn't
under arrest-yet, but you're not to let her out of your
sight.”
“I'm coming with you,” I said. “Sylvia, dear- "
Mack's voice cut curtly across mine. “I want you to
go next door with me, Foster, to rout out Vail.”
"Vail!” O'Ryan exclaimed. “What's he got to do
with it? We've got our case already solved.”
“Not until all the loose ends are tied up," Mack
maintained firmly. “Vail is going to get a third of two
million dollars, isn't he? That's motive enough for half-
a-dozen murders.”
He was silent on our way downstairs, and I was com-
pletely absorbed in thoughts of Sylvia. “Not under ar-
rest-yet!” O'Ryan had said. I hadn't liked the way
in which he had emphasized that little word “yet.”
But, in strict justice, I was compelled to admit that
the police attitude was not altogether unreasonable.


THE PURPLE PARROT
After we had walked the few steps to the adjacent
house Mack pressed his finger against the bell and held
it there. Presently we heard advancing footsteps from
within, and then Vail's servant, Hudson, opened the
door a few inches and stared at us suspiciously through
the crack. He was a portly individual of about forty-
five, and he was clad in slippers and a dressing gown.
“Mr Foster!” Hudson exclaimed. His memory was
remarkable, because he had seen me but once before in
his life. “I'm sorry, but Mr Vail has been in bed for
nearly two hours.”
“Well, that's just too bad,” Mack jeered. He threw
back his coat lapel to display his shield.
“The police!” gasped the thoroughly frightened
Hudson.
“Right the first time, Fatty," Mack exclaimed.
“Open up there."
Hudson reluctantly complied. “I shouldn't like to
waken Mr Vail,” he said hesitantly.
“Well, you better do it anyway," Mack advised per-
emptorily.
Hudson ushered us into the living room and with-
drew. As Morse's and Vail's homes were almost exact
duplicates on the outside, a stranger could not be pre-
pared for the startling difference in the two interiors.
Stepping through Vail's door seemed to bring us right
into the heart of old Spain.
The rough white plaster walls and the soft red floors
(covered only by occasional small rugs) seemed to im-
part a certain brightness to the rooms that was lacking
in the murky gloom of Hezekiah Morse's dwelling.
Spanish chairs, upholstered in rich velvet, flanked a
curious sort of cabinet beautifully inlaid with ivory
scrolls—a cabinet that had a drop front like a writing
SW


THE PURPLE PARROT
175
desk and was mounted on a stand with turned uprights
and an elaborate arcaded base.
“A vargueño," informed Mr Westborough, who had
accompanied us from the other house. “Authentically
Spanish.”
Mack was regarding one of the huge chairs doubt-
fully. With its red upholstering fringed with gold, it
was a magnificent article of furniture—far too mag-
nificent for everyday use. “Some dump!" Mack ex-
claimed. He sat down, somewhat gingerly, on the velvet
chair and ejaculated, "See the swell looking dame over
the fireplace, will you?”
I had seen the portrait upon my previous visit; in
fact, it was impossible not to notice it, so completely did
it dominate the entire room. The full-length figure en-
closed within the huge gold frame was life-size or
larger. It was a portrait of a woman, seated in just such
a chair as Mack was now occupying and toying with an
ivory fan. A lovely, vivacious face with steady gray
eyes and sensitive nostrils, a face that seemed (so skill-
fully had the artist preserved his illusion) to be glow-
ing with the breath of life itself! Her light chestnut hair
was partially covered by a characteristically Spanish
headdress, which tumbled in a lacy black cloud about
the gleaming whiteness of her shoulders.
Mr Westborough observed, a trifle self-consciously,
“Gautier made the statement that a woman in a man-
tilla must be as ugly as the three cardinal virtues in
order not to look pretty."
Mack laughed. “Well, this dame's not even as ugly as
one of 'em. She's a honey, that baby. But she's a blonde,
and I thought all these Spanish janes had black hair
and black eyes.”
“It is difficult to generalize with any degree of ex-
actitude concerning the women of Spain,” Westborough


76
THE PURPLE PARROT
informed. “The fair type predominates among the
Catalans, and I have little doubt but that this woman
is of that people. Her skin is a pure white, not of that
delicate bronze shade of the women of Andalusia and
Castile, while her face, mobile and expressive, lacks the
impassive serenity so common among the women of
southern Spain.”
"Yeh?" Mack commented. He rose from the velvet
chair to fling his cigar butt into the fireplace. “Wonder
how long this guy Vail expects us to wait here, any-
way?"
Hudson returned, alarm written upon his round full
moon of a face. “I have not been able to wake Mr Vail."
He paused uncertainly. “The truth of the matter is
that he came home intoxicated. I'm afraid that it will
take several hours for him to sleep it off.”
"Well, we're not going to wait that long," Mack
informed, striding toward the stairs. “Put some coffee
on the stove and we'll see he gets up to drink it, all
right. Where's his bedroom?"
“First room on your left."
Mack paused, his hand on the wrought-iron rail of
the staircase.
“Say, Fatty! What time 'd you say your boss got in
tonight?”
“I didn't say,” Hudson evaded.
“Well, what time did he get in ?"
“Very close to one o'clock.”
“Don't forget about that coffee," Mack reminded as
he reached the landing.
Hudson had not exaggerated Vail's condition. We
found him lying, very drunk and snoring, in a huge
bed, which had an unusually high carved headboard
painted in yellows and blues. His clothes were strewn
on several chairs—Spanish chairs with turned legs


THE PURPLE PARROT
777
and his hat was perched grotesquely on one of the tall
candlesticks at either end of an enormous bureau.
“Stewed is right!" Mack exclaimed with a derisive
sniff. His glance left the occupant of the bed to traverse
the east wall—the wall which partitioned this room
from Hezekiah Morse's study—and his face brightened
as his eyes rested upon the huge tapestry which hung
there. He strode across the room and lifted the tapestry
high, allowing it to fall with a chagrinned expression
as he uncovered nothing but a plain blank wall.
He recrossed the room and shook the sleeping man's
shoulder. “Wake up, there!” Vail grunted, turned over
on his other side, and fell fast asleep again. “I'll fix
him," Mack observed. He went into the adjoining bath-
room and came out with a full glass of water, which
he splashed into Vail's face. The latter sat up, his
blue-striped silk pajamas drenched.
“What the hell! Who the devil are you?”
“Police,” Mack said succinctly and showed his shield.
“Well, what you doing here? Get out.”
“Vail,” I asked. “Do you remember me? Foster?”
“Don't know you from Adam,” said Vail, and turned
his back. “Gotta go to sleep.”
I grasped his shoulder and shook hard. “Vail, wake
up. Mr Morse's been murdered !”
"Eh?” In Vail's befuddled condition words required
a considerable interval to reach his consciousness. “Fos-
ter!” he exclaimed. “Uncle Hezekiah's lawyer. You say
someone's been murdered?”
“Mr Morse!” I shouted in exasperation.
Vail jerked bolt upright; the idea had at last pene-
trated. “Uncle Hezekiah killed! Oh my God!"
“Come on, let's get going," Mack said gruffly. “Stick
your head under the shower and put on some clothes.
Your man has some hot coffee downstairs."


178
THE PURPLE PARROT
Vail staggered from his bed and into the shower.
After his douche in cold water he began to show more
animation, but I had to help him dress.
“Come on, hurry up there," Mack directed. Vail
was unsteady on his feet, but we steered him downstairs
to the living room, where Hudson was waiting with a
tray. Pouring a cup of piping hot coffee from a big
silver pot he handed it to his employer.
“No cream or sugar in it," Mack ordered sternly.
“And drink it right down.”
Vail swallowed as much of the hot coffee as his throat
would stand, set the cup on the table and rose to his
feet. “Did you actually say that Uncle Hezekiah has
been killed?”
“Murdered," Mack confirmed callously. “We want
you over there now.”
“You don't know who did it?”
Mack's look was long and searching. “We think
maybe you can help us find that out.”
We returned next door to the study, where O’Ryan
was waiting. Seating himself at Morse's desk Mack
began his interrogation.
“Vail, you referred to the deceased as 'Uncle Heze-
kiah.' Is he any relation of yours?”
“No.”
“If he wasn't related to you why were you to inherit
a third of his property?”
“That's a long story," Vail answered. “I'm not sure
I care to tell it beyond saying that Mr Morse had been
a close friend of my parents long before I was born."
"He wanted you to marry his granddaughter?”
Vail stiffened immediately. “I'd rather not discuss
that."
“But you will discuss it," Mack insisted.
Vail took a silver cigarette case from his pocket.


THE PURPLE PARROT
79
1.th »
“See here, Lieutenant What-ever-your-name-is ! I don't
think that Morse's private business has anything at all
to do with his death.”
“That's for us to decide. And my name is Mack.
Lieutenant John Mack of the homicide section." He
chewed savagely on his cigar. “If you know what's
healthy you'll answer questions. Did Morse have any
enemies?”
“Of course he had enemies," Vail replied without
hesitation. “What man with two million dollars hasn't?”
“Well, do you know anyone that might've killed
him?”
“No."
“What about Wells ?”
“Wells?” Vail repeated.
“Yeh, know anyone of that name?”
“Several people, I should imagine. It's not an un-
common name."
“Don't try to be funny. Baines claims that a guy by
the name of Wells, no first name known, dropped in
some time before nine in the evening.”
“Well?"
“No, Wells," Mack yelled in vexation. “Have any
idea who he could be?”
Vail shook his head. “I don't know any Wells with
whom Morse had dealings."
“How long has Baines been with Morse?" Mack in-
quired.
“At least twenty years."
“Did they get along all right?”
“Doesn't twenty years' service speak for that?”
“When I ask you a question, answer it! I don't want
any riddles.”
“And I don't need any insolence. Modify your tone if
you want information from me.”


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"Listen, you, I'm not asking questions because I like
to hear you talk," Mack roared angrily. "You may have
been Morse's pet, but you're no more than a pain in
the neck to me.” .
O’Ryan added threateningly, “You aren't doing
yourself any good this way, Vail.”
Leaning languidly against the back of his chair
Vail surveyed the two officers with a thinly veiled con-
tempt.
“May I ask just what you would like to know-
gentlemen?”
His sarcastic inflection of the last word passed un-
heeded, although I could sense that Mack was inwardly
boiling.
“I asked, did Morse get along all right with Baines?”
“As far as I know, Morse valued Baines highly.”
“How long has the cook, Matilda, been here?”
"Morse hired her when he first moved into this house
four years ago.”
“He only had two servants?”
“How many did you expect him to have in a house
this size? I only have Hudson.”
“Didn't Morse even have a chauffeur?"
“No, he didn't own a car."
“Two million bucks and didn't own a car!" Mack ex-
claimed wonderingly. “What in hell 'd he get out of
life?"
“It would be useless for me to attempt to explain,"
Vail said patronizingly. With a visible effort Mack con-
trolled his temper.
"Is there a secret doorway between your house and
this one?” he asked.
Vail's eyebrows lifted. “Aren't you a bit melodra-
matic?"


THE PURPLE PARROT
81
Mack's annoyance was evident; no doubt this secret-
door business was one of his prize pumpkins.
“That idea's not so damn farfetched as you seem to
think, Vail. It wouldn't be much of a job for a car-
penter to cut through the wall between these two
houses."
“I agree,” Vail assented in a bored manner, “but why
go to all the bother?”
"Well, we'll know tomorrow if you're lying about it,”
Mack informed. “Every inch of this wall is going to
be sounded.”
Vail's face was unperturbed. “A harmless way of
amusing yourselves, I suppose.”
Mack ignored the gibe. “When was the last time you
saw Morse alive?”
“This-yesterday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Between three and four.”
“Here?”
“No, I didn't come up here. His secretary was typing
so we talked downstairs.”
“What about?"
Vail shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “Another
matter I don't care to discuss.”
“Wise guy," Mack sneered. “Well, tell me if Morse
wanted you to marry his granddaughter."
Vail hesitated. “It's a matter of record, as Foster
would probably say, so I don't mind telling you that
he did desire such a marriage.”
“And how 'd you feel about tying up with Sylvia
Morse?"
“I prefer not to discuss it,” Vail answered coldly.
Mack growled, “Did you know Foster had drawn up
a will disinheriting Miss Morse if she refused to marry
you?"


THE PURPLE PARROT
83
declared. “Vail, did you know that Sylvia Morse is en-
gaged to Foster?”
Vail's start was genuine. “No, I didn't know that,”
he admitted slowly. “Accept my congratulations, Fos-
ter."
“Thanks— ” I was beginning when Mack's voice
cut in sharply.
“Never mind that now. Vail, what time 'd you get
home this evening?”
Vail's shoulders shrugged once more. “I haven't the
slightest idea; you'll have to ask Hudson.”
“We did," Mack told him. “You got in around one
o'clock.”
“Then why ask me?”
“Because," Mack emphasized the words significantly,
“Hezekiah Morse was shot at twelve o'clock.”
“Shot?” Vail asked. “I thought- "
“You thought what?”
“Well, judging from the look of things, there seems
to have been an unusual amount of blood. It would sug-
gest the severing of one of the great arteries."
Mack stared with undisguised suspicion. “Vail, you
know something about this business. You know that he
was stabbed and not shot.”
“I tell you I didn't know. That was nothing but a
guess.”
“Well, if you're innocent, it 'll be easy enough to
prove it. Can you tell us where you were at twelve
o'clock.”
“Certainly,” Vail responded, “I was with— " He
stopped abruptly. “That is, I was visiting a friend.”
“What's his name and address?"
Vail shook his head. “I can't tell you.”
“The hell you can't! Let's have the name."


THE PURPLE PARROT 85
Vail. One more like it and we'll have to stick you in the
lockup."
Vail glanced across the room at Westborough in his
obscure corner. “As a person of some intelligence it
must amuse you to observe how these brilliant minds
function.”
“Your manner is undeniably provocative, Mr Vail,"
the little man scolded gently.
Vail, perversely set on infuriating the two officers,
continued, “Obviously the problem is too much for their
limited powers of reasoning."
OʻRyan's hamlike hand came down—none too gently
-upon Vail's shoulder. “Either you shut up, or-
“Take your damn hands off me!” Vail shouted. Elud-
ing O'Ryan's grasp he swung, but, in spite of his size,
O'Ryan was quicker. His big fist caught Vail squarely
on the chin, and the latter flopped to the floor without
a sound.
“Hell!” O'Ryan exclaimed in genuine consternation.
“I didn't mean to knock the guy cold!"
Souda.
XI
I SHALL DEAL BRIEFLY with the remaining events of that
night. Vail was revived and hustled down to a waiting
patrol wagon. He had deliberately done his best to
antagonize the police, and it was little wonder they re-
garded him with suspicion. But as for Sylvia-well, not
until the patrol wagon had actually driven away could
I fully realize that she, too, had been arrested. Standing
at the threshold of the now darkened house I felt that
I could never again believe in the existence of human
sanity.


86
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re climbing law words of But I'd ad
Before climbing into his car parked before the house
Mack growled a few words of caution. “We've got
nothing on you, Foster—so far. But I'd advise you not
to try to leave town.”
As if anything could be farther from my thoughts!
Mack drove away, and I began to walk west on Division
Street toward my hotel. Nothing could be done about se-
curing Sylvia's release that night, I pondered. More-
over, it was rather doubtful if we could succeed in get-
ting a writ of habeas corpus even in the morning. And
any premature attempt must inevitably have a damag-
ing reaction when the case finally came to trial. At this
point, I remembered gloomily that I was out of my ele-
ment in matters of criminal law; my firm confined itself
solely to civil cases. But if energy could make up for
experience
A voice hailed me, and I turned to see Mr Westbor-
ough hurrying behind me. Rather strange that he
should be there because I had heard Mack offer to drive
him home. “I believe that we are going in the same di-
rection, Mr Foster?”
I slowed my pace. “Nippy weather," I remarked
asininely.
He was breathing hard, as though he had been run-
ning for some time. “A decided chill,” he gasped. "Mr
Foster, I have been at some pains to overtake you be-
cause I should like to offer a suggestion."
I said ungraciously, “All I want is to clear Sylvia
Morse of this unspeakable charge your friends, the
police, have hung on her.”
“From their own viewpoint, Mr Foster, they are right
-indeed, they would be lax in their duty to act other-
wise. But there are elements in this problem that are far
from superficial. My hotel is no more than a few blocks


THE PURPLE PARROT
87
away. I suggest that you accompany me there, and that
together we endeavor to arrange the night's events into
some semblance of logical continuity.”
“It's after three,” I demurred.
“Dear me, so it is! But, unless I err greatly in my
estimate of you, you will scarcely be able to sleep
soundly tonight.”
“You've said it," I agreed. “But, before I go with
you, I want to know the answer to one question. Do you
believe that Sylvia Morse is innocent or guilty?”
"It is my belief that the truth may be ascertained by
applying rational methods of investigation. Further
apen that, I cannocured me; som. Sylvia's ent
. His words reassured me; somehow more than if he
had said glibly that he believed in Sylvia's entire inno-
cence. “All right, I'll go with you," I agreed. Rather
providentially a cab whizzed by on North State Street,
and I succeeded in calling it back. Mr Westborough
gave the address—the Hotel Equable, which proved to
be a good-sized residential hotel a few blocks away.
After receiving the key from the night clerk, a blond
Scandinavian, whom Mr Westborough addressed in-
formally as Chris, we took the elevator to the third
floor and strolled down a long corridor to Mr West-
borough's room. The little man scurried about hos-
pitably as soon as we were inside the door. "Pray allow
me to relieve you of your hat and overcoat, Mr Foster.
And I can quite conscientiously recommend that large
chair.”
Rummaging through the drawer of his writing desk
Mr Westborough produced a pad of scratch paper and
two pencils. He divided the pad into two sections and
presented me with one of them and with a pencil.
“No doubt you will wish to jot down various im-
pressions of this discussion. Nothing is more fleeting


88 THE PURPLE PARROT
than an unrecorded idea-as I have learned from sad
experience.”
I humored him by accepting the pad, but I rather
doubted that any ideas I might have that night would
be worth recording. I could think of nothing except
the hard and bitter fact that Sylvia had been arrested.
“Contrary to the general belief,” Mr Westborough
told me, "ideas rarely spring spontaneously into exist-
ence but must come from specially prepared soil. Al-
though it may strike you as a ridiculous waste of time
let us lay the foundation for our edifice of thought by
a discussion of the Morse house itself. Suppose that you
tell me everything that you can remember of it.”
“As you know, it's a three-story residence located
on the south side of the street," I began. “Externally
an exact duplicate of Vail's house, and there's a party
wall between them. The servants' quarters are on the
third floor, but I've never been up there so I can't
tell you a thing about them. And on the second
floor- ”
“Just a minute, Mr Foster. I believe that in the
course of the conversation tonight someone mentioned
that Mr Morse had owned the dwelling but four years?"
I nodded. “He bought it from a man named Jonas
Spendall.”
“It is a rather small house and does not appear par-
ticularly desirable for a wealthy man. Have you any
idea why he should desire to purchase such a dwelling?"
“There's only one reason that I can think of, and
that is its location next door to Vail's house."
Mr Westborough nodded sagely. “Pray proceed."
“There are only four rooms on the second floor-
but why do we have to go into all this?”
He ignored my objection. “Morse's study, Miss
Morse's bedroom and two additional bedrooms across


THE PURPLE PARROT
89
the hall. The front bedroom upon the other side of the
hall was Morse's, I presume?”
I nodded.
“Now, let us return to the study. The windows are
ordinary sash-type windows. Both of these were found
closed, but only one locked, a fact which may be of some
significance when it is considered that Morse appeared
to display some degree of apprehension with regard to
the safety of his book collection."
“But that smooth wall?" I objected.
He waved assent. “Entirely right. I am not suggest-
ing, merely enumerating. Outside of his books, Morse
kept no valuables in his house of which you are aware?”
“No, he had a safety deposit box. Of course, he had
one or two pieces of good furniture, but that's a little
bulky to attract burglars. Come to think of it, the
things he seemed to value most, after his books, were
his iron candlesticks.”
"I believe that I noticed the pair to which you refer.
They seemed to me to be authentic colonial-probably
dating at least as far back as the Revolutionary War
period.”
“Not much to look at.”
“Severely plain,” he agreed, “but iron candlesticks
in general are earlier than brass and consequently
harder to obtain."
“Well, I don't think these were so terribly valuable.
Although,” I admitted, “they were made in a rather
clever way. There's an iron top, which you unscrew
to put in the candle. The candle rests on a spring at the
bottom of the holder, and the pressure of the spring
keeps the wick at a constant height."
"Most ingenious,” he agreed. “Somewhat reminiscent
of the celebrated Carcel lamp of the same period, in
which a clockwork mechanism was used to force a steady


90
THE PURPLE PARROT
supply of fuel to the wick. However, we deviate from
our course. An object of even less value than the can-
dlesticks may have been removed by the thief who en-
tered Morse's study, if thief there were.”
“You mean the purple parrot?”
"Its color is not the least of the mysteries confront-
ing us,” he said slowly.
I disagreed violently. It was—the very least—as far
as I was concerned.
“Suppose that we temporarily table the question of
the purple parrot?” he suggested. “Before Miss Morse's
innocence can be either proved or disproved a number
of other questions require an answer."
“I can think of one. Why was the study door locked
from the inside?”
“That is a vexatious problem,” he admitted. “If an
attempt to simulate suicide, it failed completely, for
the very first clue to explode the suicide theory was the
bloodstained door key. Perhaps the action was an at-
tempt to implicate Miss Morse
“In which event, it succeeded diabolically," I in-
terrupted.
“But such an attempt would suggest a certain fa-
miliarity with the time of Miss Morse's homecoming.
That event was not prearranged, but occurred solely
by chance, did it not, Mr Foster?”
I admitted that we had had no definite intention of
returning at any stated hour when we left the house.
“But," I added (something in this little man's quiet
way of thinking aloud had stimulated my own cerebral
activity), “if we grant for the sake of argument that
Sylvia did kill her grandfather, why should she lock
the door to the hall while leaving the door to her own
room unlocked?”


THE PURPLE PARROT
91
“Excellently reasoned, Mr Foster. Certainly the
common-sense procedure would be diametrically the
opposite."
“It was fixed to look like a suicide,” I continued.
“Morse's fingers being around the knife handle and so
on. But the murderer might have known all the time
that the police would soon find out it wasn't suicide.
That's why he locked the study door from the inside.
It's all a deliberate plot to involve Sylvia !”
But he was not willing to go that far.
“Before that hypothesis can be established, Mr Fos-
ter, you must be able to say how your unknown mur-
derer could have left the study and, possibly, the house
as well, unnoticed.”
“The earliest possible time for the stabbing was
while Sylvia and I were entering the front door," I said.
“He could have left the study before she reached her
room."
“And then?” he questioned.
“I'm stuck," I frankly admitted. “I don't know how
he got out of the house. All the windows seem to be
out of the picture and so is the back door."
“The front door remains,” said Mr Westborough.
“Yes, but I had the front stairs under observation.
And if I didn't seewell, even then I don't see how I
could have helped knowing. The front door squeaks
when it's opened or closed.”
Mr Westborough was writing upon his scratch pad.
"Perhaps a timetable of your movements will be help-
ful. 12:00–Mr Foster and Miss Morse in lower hall;
12:01–Miss Morse reaches her room; 12:09_Miss
Morse screams. Are my figures exact so far, Mr Fos-
ter?”
I nodded. “Put down that I called the police at
12:10.” He wrote an additional line on the pad.


92
THE PURPLE PARROT
“Can you tell me how many minutes you remained
in the study?”
“Not over three or four," I estimated
He wrote: “12:13—Mr Foster leaves study; 12:15
arrival of police”; and laid aside his pencil. “Please
study this tabulation, Mr Foster. Since both exits are
officially guarded after 12:15, and you yourself had
the approach to the front door in view prior to 12:09,
the only remaining interval in which anyone might
leave the house unobserved is during the three minutes
in which you were telephoning. Where was Miss Morse
at that time?"
“In her own room-lying down.”
“Was the door from her room to the hall open or
closed?"
“Open, I believe.”
“Even so, Miss Morse might yet fail to see a figure
in the hall. And the time was ample to reach the front
door."
“But the floors creak and so do the stairs," I burst
out. “Oh, it's damning, Mr Westborough!”
He confirmed, a little reluctantly, “I fear you are
right, Mr Foster. Moreover, I was given the oppor-
tunity several times during the course of the evening
to observe that the opening of the front door is clearly
audible from the study. But in your agitated state "
"I'm going to be entirely honest with you. During
the few minutes I spent in the study my perceptions
were not dulled but heightened. I seemed to be noticing
every trifling sound-even the ticking of the clock from
the lower hall. But that's all I did hear. It was quiet
in that house then—as still as death!”
“You are not afraid to face the truth, Mr Foster,"
he remarked approvingly.
“I believe in Sylvia's innocence," I answered. “There


THE PURPLE PARROT
93
must be a rational way to explain this thing! There's
got to be!”
“Suppose that Morse did not die at twelve o'clock?”
he suggested.
“But Dr Hildreth's opinion?”
“It was based upon the normal time required for
blood coagulation. Certain diseases-notably haemo-
philia-may greatly lengthen this period, I believe.”
I sprang from my chair and reached for the Chicago
Telephone Directory, which I had noticed lying on the
phone stand. “Trowbridge," I mused, rustling rapidly
through the pages. “Dr Fred Trowbridge.” My eyes
ran down a long column of names. "Yes, here it is."
I picked up the phone and asked the night clerk to
put through the call. “Who is Dr Trowbridge?” West-
borough inquired.
“Morse's physician. Attended him for years. He can
tell us all about Morse's blood condition-if I can per-
suade him to talk.”
Dr Trowbridge, his voice sleepily annoyed, answered
over the wire. I endeavored to explain why I was calling
at that hour, and it proved to be no easy job. If I had
been previously introduced it might have been easier;
as it was, I could feel that he considered himself to be
the victim of a gigantic hoax. I had never thought so
fast nor talked so furiously in my life; four times, at
least, he was on the verge of hanging up.
Fortunately, he not only knew of my firm but had
met Steelcraft personally. That helped some, particu-
larly when I suggested he call Steelcraft at once for
verification of my tale. He was willing to admit then
that I might be telling the truth, but even so it was far
from smooth sailing. Conforming to a rigid code of pro-
fessional ethics, he was reluctant to say anything at all
regarding Morse's physical condition, and it was not


94
THE PURPLE PARROT
until I had aroused his sympathy by painting Sylvia's
desperate predicament in full detail that he weakened
and gave me the information I wanted.
Heartsick, I turned away from the telephone.
“Morse's blood coagulation time was entirely normal,”
I informed Westborough. “Dr Trowbridge has the
records to prove it."


PART TWO
Thursday, November 19





98
THE PURPLE PARROT
Wells, who is said to have called upon Morse at about eight-
thirty last evening. It is believed that this mysterious visitor
may possess information of importance concerning Morse's
death.”.
The complete story occupied a full column and a
half so I adjourned to the restaurant around the cor-
ner to finish my reading. However the reporter had
uncovered nothing that I didn't already know. I pushed
the paper aside, hastily swallowed my coffee and toast,
and left the restaurant.
I was down at the office by eight-thirty, and the place
was apparently deserted except for Ralph, the firm's
irrepressible office boy, who was slitting the morning
mail with a villainous looking paper knife. He gave me
a knowing leer.
“Steelcraft's looking for you.”
“Is Mr Steelcraft," I made the correction through
sheer force of habit, “here so early?”
“Yep,” Ralph informed. “Got in about five minutes
ago. Said he wanted you to come in as soon as you got
here. Say, what's the low-down on the Morse case, Mr
Foster?”
They were talking about it already! Our office boy!
Thousands of office boys in thousands of Loop offices !
Sylvia's name bandied carelessly on everyone's lips.
Sylvia condemned without a hearing by a good portion
of Chicago's three million inhabitants ! It was a ghastly
thought.
I advised Ralph to read the newspapers and knocked
upon the door of the office occupied by the head of my
firm. “Come in,” Steelcraft invited. His office faced
east, overlooking the narrow canyon that was La Salle
Street. It was a large room with panelled walls and a


THE PURPLE PARROT
99
thick carpet, a carpet that successfully muffled the
footsteps of every visitor.
Steelcraft looked up inquiringly. He was in his early
sixties and, either by will power or through consistent
exercise, had retained his figure. His hair was iron gray,
his closely trimmed mustache of the same shade, and,
to complete the color scheme, he usually wore a gray
suit.
“Oh, it's you, Barry?”
“They've arrested Sylvia Morse!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, I know,” Steelcraft said calmly. I had never
seen his habitual composure ruffled, nor was it now.
“Sylvia isn't guilty,” I blurted desperately. “I've
got to get her acquitted. We're engaged. I love her!”
The surprised glance Steelcraft gave in my direc-
tion was followed almost immediately by a frown. “In-
deed? The action was, perhaps, a trifle precipitous.” I
waited for a bawling out-certainly I deserved it for
so jeopardizing the firm's interests. However, he de-
livered no further reprimand.
“You had better tell me the whole story, Barry."
I epitomized the events of the night as tersely as I
could. Windy dissertations, as I well knew, were anath-
ema to Steelcraft, whose keen mind was always strain-
ing to plunge directly into the heart of a problem. He
shook his head dubiously as I concluded my narrative.
“It's going to be rather difficult to build a successful
defense, although I noted one or two points which tell
slightly in Miss Morse's favor. The most important of
them is the statuette obviously it had been taken from
Morse's desk prior to the time Miss Morse entered the
study. Perhaps something of real value has also been
stolen. Morse had several books which were worth a tidy
sum, I understand."
“Every book is going to be checked against its index


THE PURPLE PARROT
101
per column. That meant two hundred and twenty-five
persons to be investigated. But this particular Wells
might not be in the Chicago Telephone Directory.
Wells might be an assumed name. Or he might have
come from New York. Or Gopher Prairie.
"It's hopeless," I said aloud.
“Very nearly so,” Steelcraft agreed, replacing the
directory on the phone stand. “Unless, of course, the
man chooses voluntarily to step forward.”
But I had little expectation of such luck. I stared
helplessly at a picture on the wall, a framed enlarge-
ment of four eminent jurists who were intimate friends
of Lawrence Steelcraft.
“Moreover, strict logic renders it difficult to suggest
Wells as the actual murderer,” Steelcraft continued.
“There is slight chance that he or any other person
would have been able to escape from the house unob-
served, assuming, of course, that the medical examiner
is right about the time of death, and it would be an
impossible task to prove him wrong. Any juror, no mat-
ter how unintelligent, will see the obvious conclusion.
The murderer must be selected from among the four
persons who did not leave the house."
“Well, I'm among the four,” I said. “I had motive
enough; I'm tall enough and husky enough to meet the
doctor's description of the fellow who did the job.”
“Naturally you will be viewed with suspicion,” Steel-
craft said reprovingly. “If you hadn't been so foolish
as to become engaged last night-however, that's water
under the bridge by now. The butler, Baines, is another
legitimate suspect. Is he physically strong enough to
have done the stabbing?”
"I should think so. Baines isn't any more than fifty,
and he seems to be in a fair condition. But what motive


102 THE PURPLE PARROT
could he have? Morse's bequests to the servants were
ridiculously small.”
“The original bequest to Baines was recently en-
larged, I believe,” Steelcraft remarked.
“However, that will was never signed," I reminded.
“Baines benefits only to the extent of the original five
hundred dollars. Not much of a motive. And Matilda
Sampson gives him an airtight alibi.”
"I wonder if there is such a thing as a really airtight
alibi?" Steelcraft pondered. “An intensive cross-exami-
nation might reveal- "
“That she's lying to shield Baines? If that's so we
ought to be able to break her story down without much
trouble. She wouldn't make a particularly resourceful
liar; she isn't the type who can think fast under fire.
It ought to be duck soup to make her contradict herself
a dozen ways.” I was beginning to feel more hopeful.
“And now shall I go down and sue out a writ of habeas
corpus?"
“I'd advise against it,” Steelcraft said. “We haven't
much of a defense yet. It would be almost certain to be
denied.”
“You don't intend to leave her in that filthy jail!” I
almost shouted.
“Calm down a bit,” Steelcraft admonished. He was
setting a perfect example of coolness himself, and I
thought of Goldsmith's line about people generally
being calm at the misfortunes of others. “Naturally you
believe Miss Morse innocent. You wouldn't be worth
your salt if you didn't, boy. I feel the same way about
her myself. But the weight of evidence against her is
appalling.
“She is tall enough and physically vigorous enough
(witness her fencing) to satisfy the doctor's idea of
the murderer. She had what mercenary-minded people


104 THE PURPLE PARROT
"I presume that you are referring to the deceased
Hezekiah Morse,” Steelcraft said sternly. I didn't hear
the rest of his rebuke. I was busy tearing the envelope
open.
The letter was dated yesterday afternoon. It was
typed, but I recognized the signature. Unquestionably
that of Hezekiah Morse, although,
“Great Scott !” I ejaculated. “Just listen to this.”
Steelcraft frowned at Ralph, who left the room with
obvious reluctance. I read aloud:
"DEAR FOSTER:
“Baines, who, as you probably know, has been in my em-
ploy for two decades, has been contemptibly deceiving me, I
learned only today, I found it difficult to believe, but I can no
longer doubt as he has made a full confession.
“Foster, will you go to an employment agency and look over
suitable applicants until you find someone whom you think is
qualified to take Baines' place? Frankly, I don't feel equal
to doing this now: why I cannot say as I have hired and dis-
charged many men in my life.
"Realizing full well that this is not a usual request to make
of one's attorney, I am putting it to you on the basis of a
personal favor. However, if you wish to send me a bill for
your time, by all means do so.
“Thanking you for this and the past favors which you have
been kind enough to render an old man, I am
"Yours sincerely,"
Morse's signature was wavier and more uncertain
than I had ever seen it. And there was a certain de-
featist attitude shown by the wording which had never
been characteristic of my beetle-browed client. These,
however, were minor points. The main thing was that
here was a motive and a good one-to bring Baines
squarely into the picture.


THE PURPLE PARROT
105
I folded the letter and put it in my breast pocket.
“I'm going straight to the police with this."
"Of course," Steelcraft concurred, a little absent-
mindedly. “But there's something else rather strange
about this letter—something that isn't so apparent on
the surface. Has it occurred to you that the hiring of
a new servant is rather an intimate, personal service?"
“Meaning?” I asked.
“Others were closer to Hezekiah Morse than you,"
Steelcraft continued. “Vail, for instance, was like a
son to him. Why wasn't Vail asked to select the new
butler?”
Why not indeed?
XIII
As MY CAB PURRED NORTHWARD on La Salle Street I
remembered that I had agreed to meet Westborough
that noon for lunch. (“At the Canterbury Inn where
the food is delightfully English.") I was glad I would
have the occasion to talk to him again; somehow I
wanted to see his logic brought to bear upon this latest
tangent our case had taken.
My cab pulled up before the Water Tower Station,
whose dingy brick masqueraded behind the respecta-
bility of a grim stone front. I walked inside and asked
for Captain O'Ryan. His office was a small cubicle of
a room, and I found the Brobdingnagian occupant in
a genial humor.
“Foster! All set to get her out on a writ, I bet?”
“Wrong guess," I answered, taking out my letter.
“This may interest you. It's from Morse and was mailed
yesterday afternoon."
“Have a chair,” O'Ryan invited. He scanned the


108 THE PURPLE PARROT
time. You didn't leave him alone for a few minutes
while you mixed the drinks?”
“No, he was the one who fixed them.”
“What did you have?”
“Highballs. Whisky and White Rock.”
“How many highballs did you have?"
“Well, more than one,” she admitted, laughing.
“Was Vail drunk?" I asked.
“No," she said firmly.
“He came home plastered last night," I reminded
O’Ryan.
“Well, he didn't get that way at my place," Brenda
insisted.
O’Ryan asked her if she was willing to swear in
court that Vail had been with her every minute of the
evening until twelve-thirty.
"Certainly I'll swear it. Will I have to appear in
court?"
“Maybe and maybe not,” O'Ryan said evasively.
“Just between you and I, you've pretty well cleared
Vail. That is if you've been telling the truth."
"Well, I haven't been lying to you!" the girl flared
as she went out the door. O'Ryan took a deep breath.
"I don't think she was, Foster. I've had thirty years'
experience dealing with plain and fancy liars, and you
get to know ... Well, I'd better have Vail up here
and see if he tells the same story.”
The minute seemed propitious for my request.
“All right with you, Captain, if I see Miss Morse?"
“Why not?” he said genially. “Wait in the room
across the hall, and I'll have her brought in." He
nudged my ribs. “You can talk to her alone I know
how the land lays.”
Thanking him with genuine fervor I stepped across
the hall to a small reception room. It was not long-


THE PURPLE PARROT 109
although it seemed so before I heard footsteps in the
corridor. A patrolman ushered in Sylvia and departed,
silently as a cigar store Indian, closing the door behind
him. I could hear the click of the lock, which, for the
I sprang forw.prisoners togethelock, which, for
I sprang forward and caught both of her hands.
“Darling!"
She smiled; that brave little movement of her mouth
hurt me more than tears would have done. “It's so good
to see you again, Barry.” She relaxed happily for a
moment; then her hand flew to her hair. “I know I
must look awful! I had to wash in cold water, and they
even took away my comb and compact.”
“Took away your compact?" I asked stupidly.
She nodded. She was wearing a dark-blue tailored
suit-smart, snappy like all of Sylvia's clothing. They
had allowed her to change before leaving the house last
night. No doubt the white evening dress was to figure
as People's Exhibit A or B in the case which
“They said the powder had to be analyzed,” she went
on. “But face powder isn't poison, is it? Even if I
wanted to I couldn't- "
“And wouldn't if you could,” I finished emphatically.
“Sylvia, if it's the last thing I ever do, I'll get you
out of this horrible "
She laughed. “You should see where I spent the
night! An iron cot without springs, and as for bed-
clothing—well, far be it from me to slander this hotel,
but I have a suspicion that other occupants have used
it before. Only a suspicion, mind you.”
Her gay courage was infectious. “Suppose you smoke
a cigarette and tell me all about it," I suggested. I lit
one for her and asked: "Have you any money, darling?”
“No, they took my purse."
Unfortunately, I didn't have a great deal either.


110
THE PURPLE PARROT
There wasn't over ten dollars in my billfold. I kept a
dollar bill and gave her the rest. “Can you put this
away-in your stocking or somewhere they won't
notice?”
She answered me by removing her slipper, putting
the bills inside and fitting it to her foot again. The
whole operation didn't take more than a few seconds.
“Thank you, dear. It may come in handy. Now let's
hear the worst !”
“There isn't any worst.”
“Oh yes. If you had come to take me away you
wouldn't give me money."
I had to admit her logic was correct. “Steelcraft,
and I have to agree with him-thinks it would be just
a waste of time to try to free you by a writ of habeas
corpus. More than that; if the writ were denied, it
would kick back on us when the case comes to trial.”
I hadn't meant to admit that there was any possi-
bility of things going that far, but the words had
slipped out of their own accord. However, she took it
like a trump.
“It doesn't matter if I do have to stay here for a few
days. Or will they move me to some other place?”
“Very likely. After the inquest- "
“When will the inquest be held ?" she wanted to know.
“As soon as they can make it. Perhaps today. Cer-
tainly not later than tomorrow. Sylvia, we'll have to
work fast. They're not going to give us much time, and
all the cards, in some grotesque fashion, seem to be
stacked against us. Tell me about that knife. Have you
ever handled it-to open letters or anything like that?"
“Yes, often. I opened grandfather's mail with it only
yesterday morning. He he liked to have me do it for
him.”
“They are looking for fingerprints,” I said. “And


THE PURPLE PARROT 111
unless the murderer was thoughtful enough to wipe the
knife "
“They'll find mine, you mean?" asked Sylvia.
“I'm afraid so," I admitted. Taking a pencil from
my pocket I said to her, “Take this and show me how
you hold a knife to open letters.” She did so. “All
right," I observed, “I think we can lick them on that
point. But they're going to question you even more in-
tensively than before. You've got to stick to your story.
Don't change it by a hair's breadth at any place, or
they'll be down on us like a ton of bricks."
“They did their best to trip me last night.” Her
courage I found remarkable. “Captain O’Ryan and
six or seven detectives. There was a big glaring light;
it hurt my eyes ...."
While she talked the scene unfolded vividly before
me. I could see them-grouped in a ring surrounding
her—all large and burly men, modeled along O'Ryan's
magnificent physique. Their questions would be tricky:
leading questions, questions which begged the answer.
And they would shout or yell them, endeavoring by
sheer force of lung power to break down her resistance.
The brutally phrased innuendoes dinned in my own
ears as Sylvia continued:
“ 'Were you engaged to Foster?'
“ 'Didn't you know your grandfather would disin-
herit you?
6 ‘Didn't you know about the will he was going to
sign?'
“ 'Didn't you kill him to keep him from signing the
will?
“ “The knife was on the desk when you took it, wasn't
it?'
“ 'You hated your grandfather.' (That would be
O'Ryan; I could hear his deep voice tolling like a bell.)


THE PURPLE PARROT 113
“One question at a time!" Sylvia laughed. A faint
tinge of color was returning to her cheeks, I noticed
gratefully. "He'd'had it-oh, at least ten years. George
Smith left it with us. I couldn't have been much over
thirteen."
“George Smith?" I repeated the name mechanically.
“Who's George Smith ?”
"The son of a man grandfather used to know when
he was a boy at Dunedin. He was born in New Zealand,
you know; that is, grandfather was. Mr Smith stayed
with us a few days, and he gave grandfather that
statuette just before he went away.” She paused un-
certainly, “I'm not sure but it seems to me that grand-
father had helped Mr Smith to establish himself in
business.”
“In Chicago?” I asked.
“No, some little town in New York; I can't remem-
ber the name. I think it was a pottery, at least I seem
to have that sort of association with him.” She added
apologetically, “It's been so long ago, and grandfather
never did talk about him much."
“Your grandfather gave”-I made haste to correct
myself, “lent him money?"
“I'm not sure," she faltered. “I never did know
exactly."
Even through the closed door O’Ryan's bluff voice
penetrated.
“Bring in Foster and take the jane back to her
cell.”
The unmistakable tread of a heavy policeman
sounded in the corridor. We had only a few seconds
left.
“How can we find this George Smith?” I asked. Our
guard was now unlocking the door.
“You can't find him, Barry. He's—he's dead!”


THE PURPLE PARROT
115
horrible, sir. But I cannot find it in my heart to blame
Mr Morse.”
“Suppose you tell us all about it,” O'Ryan sug-
gested.
“It began with the bottle of Est, Est, Est, sir. Mr
Morse found out about that.”
“Est, Est, Est?” O'Ryan echoed. “What the devil
language are you talking? Chinese?”
“It's Latin, sir,” Baines explained humbly.
“It means, 'It is, it is, it is'," I added. I don't know
a great deal of Latin–the time is past when it's a
necessity in law as it was in Blackstone's day—but I
did happen to know that much.
“It's a wine, sir,” Baines informed. “An Italian
white wine.”
“What's a Wop wine got to do with Morse?"
“It began because I couldn't keep away from the
bookies," Baines confessed with a rueful expression.
O’Ryan shook with laughter.
“My God, I didn't know you were that human. Play
'em to win, place or show?”
“Usually to win, sir. I was singularly unfortunate."
“Well, some cash in a forty-to-one shot, but most of
us lose our shirts,” O'Ryan philosophized. “But I still
can't get through my skull what the bookies and a
bottle of wine have to do with Morse firing you. Did
he catch you getting drunk at the races ?”
“The wine, sir, was from his own stock."
“Oh, he had a stock, did he?" O'Ryan exclaimed.
“A very fine one, sir. He purchased it from Mr
Spendall at the same time he bought his house four
years ago. Mr Morse, however, was not much of a
drinking man. Only rarely would he ask me to bring
one of those bottles from the basement.”
“Where do the bookies come in?” O'Ryan asked.


116
THE PURPLE PARROT
“The salary paid to me by Mr Morse was not large.
In an unlucky moment I tried to augment it by wagers
upon various horses.” Baines sighed dolefully at the
recollection. “Unfortunately, my bets were seldom well
placed, sir. If I tried a long shot it fully justified the
name. If I placed my money upon the favorite it was
almost certain to have an unlucky day. In this manner
I soon expended most of my savings, sir."
Said O'Ryan: “I know what you mean, all right, all
right.”
“One day,” Baines continued, "I was introduced by
a bookie to a very pleasant young Italian, named
Giovanni or John Canzonetta. Rather early in our
acquaintanceship, I happened to mention the large
stock of wines in Mr Morse's cellar."
“Canzonetta !” O'Ryan exclaimed. “I know that
bird. Dago John, we called him. Had some connections
with the Allergi mob. Pleasant little playmate to chum
around with, Baines !"
“Giovanni was a bootlegger, as you have surmised,
Captain O’Ryan. He had quite an extensive clientele
on the near North Side."
"And a damn good pull,” O'Ryan interpolated
wryly.
"I negotiated a small loan from him one day when I
had lost more than usual at the races. I found him very
obliging, sir.”
“I'll bet !” was O'Ryan's comment.
“I borrowed two or three more sums, hoping to be
able to repay him whenever I had a lucky day at the
races. Unfortunately that day never seemed to arrive,
and Giovanni grew impatient. He threatened to call
upon Hezekiah Morse and tell him the whole story.
Naturally I did not wish my position jeopardized, and
I pleaded with him for more time. Finally he said:
1


THE PURPLE PARROT
117
“ 'See here, Baines, let's you and me do a deal. Then
you'll be able to square up accounts and make some
nice change for yourself besides.'
“'What kind of deal?' I asked.
6Your boss has a whole cellarful of wines-French
and Italian stuff that they'll pay any money for. Slip
me a bottle of it now and then, and I'll sell it for you.
We'll split fifty fifty-no, sixty forty. Forty for you
and sixty for me. What do you say?" »
“What did you say?” O'Ryan asked.
“I didn't want to turn thief, sir,” Baines supplicated.
“But there was no alternative. Moreover, the risk of
detection was small. Mr Morse touched the wines rarely,
as Giovanni reminded me. I could see little chance that
he would ever find out as long as I was careful to leave
at least two bottles of every kind of wine in the cellar.
Mr Morse had a list of the cellar's contents, and he
would from time to time refresh his memory by consult-
ing it. He took a collector's pride in his wine in spite
of the fact that he so seldom drank it. However, he had
never made an actual physical inspection, and "
“Well, how did he get on to you?” O'Ryan wanted
to know.
“Because, sir, I had failed to follow my original
plan of reserving at least two bottles of every vintage,
sir. One of Giovanni's clients evinced a particular fond-
ness for Est, Est, Est. Just a few weeks before the
repeal of prohibition I very foolishly allowed Giovanni
to take away the last two bottles, sir.”
“Why didn't you buy two more after repeal?” de-
manded O’Ryan.
“There were none on the market of that particular
year, sir.”
“How would Morse know that? He didn't visit the
cellar, you said.”


.118
THE PURPLE PARROT
“But he had a collector's pride in it, sir—and a
phenomenal memory for dates."
“Kinda on the spot, weren't you?” O'Ryan chuckled.
“When did Morse ask for a bottle of the Triple E?”
“Yesterday afternoon, sir. As I explained last night
he was called to the telephone from his luncheon. He
returned in a very mellow mood and directed me to
bring up a bottle of the Est, Est, Est.
“ 'Do you believe that such a strong wine is suitable,
sir?' I demurred. Mr Morse, however, was quite head-
strong and he did not like to have his wishes crossed.
“When I want your advice about what to drink, I'll
ask for it!
“ I'm afraid, sir,' I blurted, 'there is no more of the
Est, Est, Est.'
“ 'Nonsense! There are a dozen bottles of it.'
6 You are mistaken, sir.'
“ 'Baines, you scoundrel, you're lying to me! Just
look at your face! You've been drinking my wines !
“ 'Not drinking, sir.
“There was nothing to do but make a clean breast
of it. He would have forced me to anyway. A very diffi-
cult man to deceive, sir. When I had finished, he said
angrily:
“'You can stay here until tomorrow-I won't be
able to get anyone to take your place before then. But
after tomorrow you're through, Baines.'
“I pleaded the length of time I had been in his serv-
ice and the difficulties I would face in securing another
situation without his recommendation, but he was deaf
to all entreaties.”
"Humph!” O'Ryan pondered. “His death came at
a damn convenient time for you, Baines."
"It did, sir,” the butler admitted anxiously. “But I
had nothing to do with that. I swear it, sir.”


THE PURPLE PARROT 119
“That remains to be seen,” O'Ryan declared. He
bawled for the “Sampson woman” to be brought in,
and Baines was ushered away.
"I told you all I knew last night," proclaimed Ma-
tilda with a defiant glare. “I can't see why you have to
keep a woman from her honest work.”
O’Ryan handled this truculent witness with more
tact than I had given him credit for having.
“Just answer a few questions, Miss Sampson, and
we'll give you a nice ride home. I'm a good friend of
yours if you'd only admit it. Didn't I make Murphy
mop up your kitchen last night?”
“That's so," Matilda agreed, somewhat mollified.
“What do you want to know?”
“If Baines was in the kitchen with you all of yester-
day evening.”
“I told you that last night.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“Is Baines any relation to you?”
“Of course not!” Matilda exclaimed indignantly.
“Don't you like him?” O'Ryan asked shrewdly.
Matilda sniffed. “I'm not saying I do and I'm not
saying I don't. I don't have anything against him,
though.”
“How long have you been with Mr Morse?”
"Four years. I came with the house, so to speak. I
used to cook for the Spendalls, but they moved away
to France, and ”
O’Ryan said quietly, “Baines had been stealing from
your boss's private stock. Did you know that?"
“The dirty thief !” Matilda ejaculated. “Of course
I didn't know that, or I would have told Mr Morse so
fast it would've made his head swim. I can't abide
stealing any more than I can adultery."


120
THE PURPLE PARROT
“Never mind the ten commandments. Baines had
been fired yesterday afternoon for it. Did he tell you
that?”
“No, he didn't,” Matilda returned at once.
“Well, then, did he make any threats against
Morse?”
"I can't say that he did,” Matilda admitted. “To
tell the truth Baines never did complain much. And
Mr Morse used to storm around sometimes like the
devil was in him. I wouldn't stand for it either. Once
I told him: 'Just because you pay me wages don't
give you no right to talk to me this way. If you don't
like how I do things get yourself another cook and
see if I care,' I said. I told him I'd been used to work-
ing for people that was ladies and gentlemen and— "
"Let's get back to last night,” O'Ryan said, inter-
rupting the flood of reminiscences. “Are you willing to
swear in court that Baines didn't go out of the kitchen
even once before Miss Morse screamed?”
“He did leave to answer the doorbell.”
“When?”
“A little after eight-thirty, I think it was. He came
right back.”
“And he didn't leave the room any other time later?”
“No. I've already told you at least half-a-doz— "
“Now wait a minute. Maybe you were out of the
kitchen for a while."
“And maybe I wasn't!"
“Not even to go to the toilet?”
Matilda's face reddened. “That's none of your busi-
ness !”
“Well, were you?” O'Ryan persisted.
“Yes, I did go once,” Matilda admitted.
“How long 'd you stay?"


122 THE PURPLE PARROT
“Did you look at this pet watch of yours any other
time during the evening?” the captain questioned.
“Come to think of it, I did,” said Matilda, wrinkling
her forehead. “It was five minutes past twelve. I'm
positive of it because it seemed like hardly any time
afterward when we heard Miss Morse scream.”
"Five minutes past twelve!” O'Ryan ejaculated.
“That didn't happen to be while Baines was out of
the room?"
“No, he was right across the table from me then-
he'd been sitting there at least an hour.”
Dismissing her O’Ryan turned to me with a gar-
gantuan chuckle.
“You’re cagey, Foster, lawyers usually are. But if
you've got the guts to admit what you're really think-
ing you'll say that dame was telling us the truth. You
know why as well as I do. When a woman like Matilda
starts out to lie she's going to invent all sorts of de-
tails to make her yarn stronger. Before long she's for-
gotten just what she did say and given herself away
a dozen times. But Matilda didn't do that. She stuck
to the straight story, and I wasn't able to trip her up
on anything."
I was forced to acknowledge that had been true.
"Liars don't get far with Terry O'Ryan,” boasted
that gentleman, chuckling once more. “And now it
looks like Baines is definitely in the clear as well as
Vail. She looked at her watch at five minutes past
twelve and Baines was right there in the kitchen-had
been there for at least an hour she said. Vail's alibi
seems to stand up, too. Too bad you can't dig up one
as good for your girl friend.”
I answered, more confidently than I felt, “I'll do
better than that. I'll find out who really did kill Heze-
kiah Morse."


THE PURPLE PARROT 123
But, if I could have seen what lay ahead, I don't
think I would have ever made such a foolish promise.
XV
As I CAME OUT of the station I noticed Vail walking
on the opposite side of the street, and I hurried to
catch him. He was inclined to be reserved, but melted
when I outlined Sylvia's predicament. “Why it's ap-
palling!” he exclaimed and added more in the same
vein. I could detect no false notes in his consternation.
Assuming complete ignorance of the visit of Brenda
Carstairs, I inquired how he had managed to secure
his own release.
Vail smiled—there was a likable quality to his smile.
“A certain young lady of my acquaintance proved
herself a real friend. I hadn't wanted to drag her into
this, but O’Ryan assured me he'd keep her name from
the newshounds. He isn't such a bad egg when you get
to know him."
I agreed to this with all sincerity, and Vail con-
tinued:
“I tried to be tough with those fellows, and I landed
in the cooler. I'm not complaining; I deserved it. How-
ever, the young lady was kind enough to explain to
them where I was at midnight. Hence the release
with apologies on both sides and no hard feelings on
either."
His tone was light, almost flippant, but he appeared
to be speaking frankly. However, I tried to guard my-
self from taking him entirely at face value.
“I'd like to talk with you as soon as possible. If we
get Sylvia acquitted it's necessary to clear up all loose


124 THE PURPLE PARROT
Vaagency and se: He asked me fived a letter
ends. And that means”-I grasped the bull firmly by
both horns—“your relations with Hezekiah Morse.”
His face whitened. For a moment I could see he was
on the verge of telling me to go to the devil. Then he
regained control. “I can't tell you much that will do
any good, Foster.”
“I'd prefer to be the judge of that," I insisted, smil-
ing in an effort to take the sting out of my words.
“Well, then, walk over to the house with me and ask
as many questions as you like. I don't guarantee I'll
answer them.”
We started east toward Michigan Boulevard. “Vail,"
I began without preamble, “I received a letter from
Morse this morning. He asked me to visit an employ-
ment agency and select a butler to replace Baines.”
Vail whistled. “That's almost inconceivable! Baines
had been with him since good Lord, I used to borrow
money from him when I was in my teens and ran
through my allowance too fast.”
“Didn't Morse tell you about this?” I asked. I was
studying Vail's face intently,
“He did not! Why should he?"
But he knew the answer to that question. I was sure
of it.
“Because you were very close to Hezekiah Morse.
He always spoke of you as though you were his own
son. I was comparatively a stranger to him. He
wouldn't ask me to perform a favor if he could turn
to you. Vail, why couldn't he?"
Vail took out his cigarette case. “He wasn't asking
favors of me after yesterday afternoon.”
“You quarrelled with him?" I inquired. Vail puffed
meditatively upon his cigarette.
“Foster, I don't see why I should tell you about it.


THE PURPLE PARROT
125
You're not my lawyer. If you want the truth I don't
even like you very much.”
In his manner was the same studied insolence that
he had displayed last night toward the police.
"Your opinion of me doesn't matter,” I snapped.
“I'm trying to find some way to help Sylvia Morse.
Are you with me or against me?"
A girl, passing us on the street, nodded her recogni-
tion. It was Morse's secretary. Meeting her was such a
slice of pure luck that I temporarily forgot Vail's
antagonism.
“Miss Guild!" I exclaimed. “I was planning to call
you this morning.”
"Poor Mr Morse!” she lamented. She was a quiet
little mouselike thing, and her reddened eyes told of
recent tears. She was on her way to the police station
now. Captain O'Ryan had asked her to come down. I
noticed that the cheap fur of her brown coat had worn
thin, and that a tiny hole was visible in the glove of her
right hand. The girl was having a tough time of it, it
was plain, and losing this job certainly wasn't going
to be any help to her financially.
“As executors of Morse's estate," I began, more pon-
derously than I meant to express it, my firm is em-
powered to liquidate all of his obligations. Under this
head is included your salary, with, of course, a month's
notice. How much did Morse pay you?”
“Twenty-five dollars a week,” she answered. “There's
about four days' pay coming to me.”
“Let's say an even five weeks,” I answered. “That's
a hundred and twenty-five dollars. I'll see that a check
is sent you as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Why that's awfully nice of you, Mr Foster!" she
exclaimed, her small face brightening. “I don't know
just how to thank - "


THE PURPLE PARROT 127
home, and a crowd of curious Chicagoans were stand-
ing around on the sidewalk. I could picture to myself
what the police were doing inside at that moment:
moving bookcases, sounding walls in quest of a secret
doorway which connected from the Morse study to the
home of Thomas Raymond Vail. If they found it-but
it wasn't in the realm of common sense that they would.
Anyway Miss Carstairs' positive declaration had
eliminated every chance that Vail could have had any-
thing to do with the Morse murder.
Once within the living room with its gold-framed
portrait, Vail pulled up one of the vividly upholstered
chairs for Miss Guild.
“What did Mr Morse do yesterday, Miss Guild?” I
began.
“He dictated most of the morning. We were on a
section about Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, and it
was rather hard going. And after lunch he spent a
long time hunting for a quotation in Burton's book.
He said that he wanted to use it as a sort of foreword.”
“Something about 'a rhapsody of rags gathered to-
gether from several dunghills'?” I asked. She blushed,
and I continued my questioning. “Did Mr Morse do
any other work yesterday?”
“Yes, he dictated a letter.” An odd little quirk about
her mouth fought hard to keep from turning into a
smile. “A letter to you, Mr Foster.”
"It came to the office this morning," I told her.
“When was it dictated?”
Baines had already provided the approximate an-
swer to that question, but I wanted to test the general
accuracy of this witness.
"Early in the afternoon. Just after I came back
from lunch.”
“Morse didn't invite you to eat with him?”


THE PURPLE PARROT
129
call at three. But it was difficult to see how she could
be made to fit further into this case.
Even though she had a motive for returning to the
house last night and possessed a means of entering un-
observed, she couldn't have stabbed Morse. She was
below the doctor's height limit. Unless she stood on
something ... but that was pure fantasy. I smiled at
the morbid trend my imagination was taking today.
Miss Guild turned the tables by putting a question
to me.
“Are the police holding Miss Morse?”
“I'm sorry to say that they are.”
“That's nonsense!” she exploded. “Miss Morse is one
of the sweetest girls I've ever known, and I'll certainly
tell that to Captain O’Ryan when I see him!”
I liked her for that.
Vail escorted her to the cab, and I went with them,
half expecting some trick from him to get away from
me. However, he made no such attempt.
We returned to the house. Vail offered cigarettes and
waited, relaxed and apparently indifferent, for me to
begin. As I remembered from last night, he was a hard
man to handle when the conversation turned upon per-
sonal issues. And there was no way on earth to keep it
from turning that way.
"Why did you and Morse quarrel?” I asked, resum-
ing my inquiry at the point we had reached prior to
the advent of Miss Guild.
Vail coolly flicked his ashes into a large brass re-
ceptacle standing upon a tripod. “I don't know that
it's any of your business, Foster.”
My own temper was beginning to rise, and I an-
swered tartly, “Anything that bears on the welfare
of Sylvia Morse is my business. Are you refusing to
help clear her of this charge?”


130
THE PURPLE PARROT
Vail, studying my face as I had studied his own not
half an hour before, suddenly extended his hand.
“Accept my apologies, Foster. You're right, but this
story involves a woman. There are some things- "
“I'm not a gossiping old maid,” I said. “A lawyer is
used to confidences—the same as a doctor or a priest.”
“I'll trust you,” Vail decided abruptly. He smiled
in a pleasant manner. “If I begin at the beginning, as
I should, this will be a long story, and you may find
it a dry one. Let's start with a scotch and soda."
He rang for Hudson, who brought a tray contain-
ing glasses, a pinch bottle and a siphon. Vail poured
a good stiff potion into each glass.
“Perhaps you've wondered why Morse should will
such a large portion of his property to me? Or why
he brought so much pressure to bear to induce Sylvia
to become my wife?”
I answered, sipping at my drink, that I had never
understood why Morse had resorted to such coercive
tactics.
Vail pointed to the portrait.
"It's her story—Dolores, lady of sorrows, but al-
ways known by the affectionate diminutive, Lolita.
And it begins with her father--my grandfather-Don
Ramon Rusiñol y Milá."
It is impossible to describe the manner in which the
long sonorous name rolled from his tongue. The scotch
had the peculiar smoky taste that good scotch ought
to have, and I took a deep swallow as Vail continued.
“Don Ramon, as a true Catalan gentleman, was
active in politics. Also he possessed the Catalan genius
for allying himself with the losing side. An ardent
supporter of Don Carlos during the furious days of the
early seventies, he was exiled from Spain with ten
thousand others when Carlism was finally quelled in
Ramon vegins with her fatheonate diminutive


THE PURPLE PARROT 131
1876. My mother was born that year, the very year he
came to Chicago.
“Like most Catalans, Don Ramon was energetic,
progressive, commercial. This city appealed to him. He
became a success, and in so doing he had business deal-
ings with Hezekiah Morse. This portrait was painted
in 1894 when Dolores was just eighteen. That was the
year in which Uncle Hezekiah first visited my grand-
father's house.”
I calculated mentally. Morse would have been thirty
then. Since he had come to Chicago from New Zealand
in his early twenties, I recalled his mentioning, he
must have been almost a stranger in the city himself.
“Yes, his foot was still on the bottom rung of the
ladder,” Vail confirmed. “My grandfather was one of
those who helped him to rise. Morse never forgot an
obligation, and this partially explains his feelings for
me. Lolita, however, explains by far the greater part
of them.”
“But why didn't they mar— "
“Because Hezekiah Morse was already married and
had a five-year-old son to boot at the time they met.
Lolita was a Catholic; divorce was out of the question.
Any other alternative was unthinkable to them. Catalan
women are rigorously virtuous, and Morse, a descend-
ant of the Scotch Presbyterian founders of Dunedin,
was something of a moralist himself.”
Vail drained his glass. “It wasn't much of a love
affair by today's standards. Stolen glances at meetings
at which Lolita's parents were always present. Several
clandestine letters, daring in their utter hopelessness.
The inevitable renunciation. Another drink, Foster?"
I declined, and Vail refilled his own glass. “She mar-
ried four years later. Am I boring you, Foster?”
“No, go on.”
ravil drained his gloria Stolen glances au
Several


132
THE PURPLE PARROT
“Morse's frustrated love affair had unfortunate re
percussions upon his son Philip. Morse disliked him
intently from that date. It was rottenly unfair, of
course, but I doubt if Uncle Hezekiah ever paused to
analyze his feelings. When he was twenty-one Philip
ran away from home and married a ballet dancer. The
marriage turned out surprisingly well, I believe, al-
though Uncle Hezekiah would have nothing to do with
either of them. After nine years Philip and his wife
were killed together—in a train wreck. Sylvia was
only six. Uncle Hezekiah took the child; there was no
one else to do it.”
Vail deposited his glass upon the tray. “My own
mother died twenty years ago; my father soon after.
Morse was guardian and father rolled into one. I was
eighteen when little Sylvia came to live with him.
Twelve years older, I never thought of her except as
the merest baby. She was just a long-legged, lanky
kid of thirteen when I left for Barcelona. Through
the influence of my grandfather's family I had secured
the appointment."
He talked of Barcelona, and his words sketched the
city before my eyes. The flower market-Rambla de las
Flores! In the cool freshness of early morning an entire
street assails the nostrils with perfumed fragrance, and
the eyes are stabbed with the flamboyant brilliance of
scarlets and yellows and crimsons. A great cathedral
relic of Spain's proud grandeur—with darkened nave
and dim aisles and glowing stained-glass windows of the
fifteenth century. Towering over all, Mount Tibidabo,
from whose top the city is spread out like a fantastic
checkerboard, and the blue shimmer of the Mediter-
ranean merges imperceptibly with the horizon.
Barcelona! Factories and clanging tramcars, side-
walk cafes, broad plane tree-lined boulevards. A bus-


THE PURPLE PARROT 133
tling modern city above whose teeming harbor the
outstretched arm of a gigantic Columbus points for-
ever west. In whose heart Roman columns crumble-
forgotten, unnoticed.
"A city can be like a mistress, Foster, loved like a
mistress. And yet," Vail paused self-consciously, “I
left Barcelona."
“Because of Sylvia ?” I hazarded.
He reached for the bottle and poured himself an-
other drink. “Yes, Sylvia. Five years ago I came to
Chicago intending to close out my affairs and return
for good to Barcelona. But I never did go back. I
couldn't leave her-even though she wouldn't have me
I couldn't leave her.” He drained his glass, his voice
thickening. “She was only eighteen then; I thought at
first that it was because she wasn't yet ready for mar-
riage. Later I wasn't so sure. It was plain, unvarnished
hell, Foster, and I'm only human. Jonas Spendall lived
next door then. He was a cold-blooded icicle of a man,
and his wife Dorothy, a pretty brunette in her twenties,
was about as sexually unsatisfied a woman as I've ever
met. Jonas played bridge with three old cronies regu-
larly two evenings a week. It didn't take long to learn
those evenings.”
Lighting a cigarette Vail blew a series of debonair
smoke rings.
“I didn't compromise her by calling openly; the
servants were given no opportunities to suspect that
anything was amiss. Dorothy had the front room-
yes, the same room in which Uncle Hezekiah was killed.
An ornamental iron balcony ran from under her win-
dow to the window of my own bedroom. It was entirely
practicable, particularly on a dark night when one
couldn't be seen from the street, and the romantic side
of it appealed to Dorothy's nature. Our affair lasted


134
THE PURPLE PARROT
several months until old Jonas happened to come home
unexpectedly and found me there."
Flicking the ashes from his cigarette Vail laughed
sardonically. “It was like something from the Com-
media dell' Arte. Harlequin scurries around for his
trousers while Pantaloon storms and Columbine dis-
solves in tears! Some men would have shot me outright.
Jonas wasn't one of them. He didn't even ask for a
divorce; couldn't stand the scandal. Uncle Hezekiah
made him an offer for the house soon afterwards, and
they sailed for Southern France. He was tickled to
death to sell, because it gave him an excuse to take
Dorothy permanently out of Chicago.”
“You haven't explained why you quarrelled with
Morse," I reminded.
“No?” said Vail. “Well, I asked Sylvia to marry me
for the umpteenth time. She refused—uncertainly-
but still refused. That was according to precedent, but
Morse happened to overhear the proposal and from
then on made the child's life miserable. I believe I could
have persuaded her if he hadn't interfered; as it was
I didn't have a chance. However, I didn't really take
a definite stand against him until he gave you instruc-
tions to draw up that will disinheriting Sylvia. I spoke
to him about it several times, but I couldn't make him
change his mind. Yesterday afternoon I determined
to have one more try.”
“So that's it!” I exclaimed.
“Yes," Vail confirmed grimly. “As his secretary told
you I dropped in about three o'clock. I began by point-
ing out that he was being very unfair to Sylvia. He
retorted by referring to her as 'a silly chit who doesn't
know her own mind' and to me as a 'chivalrous fool.'
“I lost my own temper-and I have a good one as
you've probably noticed. 'If you weren't a blind, ob-


THE PURPLE PARROT
135
stinate old fool,' I said, 'you'd know what sort of man
you were forcing your granddaughter to marry.
“I gave him the whole Dot Spendall story and threw
in one or two others for good measure. Foster, the old
boy went purple! He was so mad he couldn't talk;
just pointed at the door and said in a squeaky sort of
whisper that wasn't at all like his usual roar, 'Get out!'
“I went, feeling-well, you can imagine how. Foster,
you'll have to take my word for it, but that's the last
time I ever saw him alive.”
XVI
AFTER LEAVING VAIL I stopped for a paper before
catching a southbound streetcar. The news I had ex-
pected and feared was spread all over the front page:
FIND SYLVIA'S FINGERPRINTS
ON DEATH KNIFE
Fingerprints on the knife unsuccessful attempt had been
used to stab the retired finan- made to wipe them off prior
cier, Hezekiah Morse, who to the arrival of the police.”
was killed last night in his Questioned at police head-
home at 49 East Division quarters, where she was taken
Street, were today identified this morning from the Water
as those of Sylvia Morse, Tower district station, Sylvia
granddaughter of the de- Morse admitted that the
ceased, by 0. A. Schmidt, as- prints might be hers. She said
sistant chief identification that she had frequently used
inspector.
the knife to open letters, but
“The prints were blurred, denied that she had ever tried
although readily identifiable,” to remove the prints from the
stated Inspector Schmidt. knife handle. ...
“This might mean that an


136
THE PURPLE PARROT
ells.
There were a few more details concerning the identifi-
cation of the fingerprints, and then came the news that
the inquest was slated for 2 P.M. tomorrow and that
Lewis M. Teagan was handling the case for the state's
attorney's office. The paper slipped to my lap while
I stared dully from the car window.
Assistant State's Attorney Lew Teagan had a deadly
record of convictions. He would be all set to make a
killing in this case, particularly if public sentiment
turned against Sylvia Morse, as it seemed likely to do.
And the fact that Sylvia had over a million dollar
stake in her grandfather's death was going to look
ugly to a jury.
Juries, generally speaking, feel an unconscious re-
sentment toward anyone with money. It's the psy-
chology of the old adage—the one about it being the
high hat that gets the snowballs.
Of course, if your client happens to be hard up, the
thing works just the other way. Maybe the washer-
woman who is suing the tramway company on account
of a broken leg had been so drunk that she had lain
down to take a nap right across the car tracks. Prove
that fact, and six juries out of ten will allow her dam-
ages just the same. It's easy to be generous with some-
one else's money, and it gives you a nice feeling of
satisfaction.
In this case, however, ordinary human sympathies
were alienated from the start. Greed is the most likely
motive for murder. It is the motive that people can
best understand, and it is the one that they are the
least apt to condone. Of course, if Morse had been able
to sign that will before his death, if Sylvia actually
were to be disinherited, the situation would have been
vastly different. Then all these imponderable psycho-
logical factors would be in our favor instead of working


THE PURPLE PARROT
137
against us. However, there wasn't much use in dwelling
upon that.
Our financial disadvantages were counterbalanced
somewhat by other resources. Sylvia's youth, looks,
voice, her obvious sincerity—but it was out of my line to
weigh the probable influence of such qualities upon the
"welve good men and true.” I wasn't going to attempt
to plead the case in court. A very clever criminal lawyer
would be required for that, and Sylvia was going to have
the benefit of the cleverest that could be obtained.
Nevertheless, the surest and only really satisfactory
way to secure an acquittal was to prove that someone
else had killed Hezekiah Morse. And, if that were
humanly possible, it was going to be done, I resolved
grimly.
My thoughts turned to Westborough, whom I was
meeting for lunch. He had made some excellent points
in our favor last night. Who was he? What had he
done to give him the respect of such men as Lieutenant
Mack and Captain O'Ryan? Steelcraft had promised
to make some inquiries for me upon these points, and as
soon as I had left the streetcar I hurried into a drug-
store to call the office.
Steelcraft was out, but he had left a rather lengthy
message, which Miss Birch, his secretary, read to me
over the phone. Westborough, I discovered, had been
the prime mover in the solution of two murder cases,
one of them a very baffling affair upon a large Wiscon-
sin estate.* And the little fellow was halfway on our
side already! Altogether I was considerably heartened.
I stopped at my bank to cash a check, which made
me a minute or two late for my appointment with West-
borough. As I was walking west along Randolph Street
I noticed him standing on the sidewalk, wearing his
*The Death Angel–Crime Club, 1936.


138 THE PURPLE PARROT
black Homburg of last night and a huge black Chester-
field which almost totally engulfed him. He was peer-
ing anxiously down the street, but did not recognize
me until I was within about fifteen feet.
“Mr Foster! I was hoping that you had not for-
gotten our appointment."
I apologized for keeping him waiting, and we went
into the restaurant, where we were shown to a table
well toward the center and directly beneath a colossal
oval mirror, one of the largest I had ever seen.
“The Canterbury Pilgrims make their way to the
Canterbury Inn's luncheon-food with a story behind
it.” Westborough was quoting from the menu. “Shall
these pilgrims start with blue points? And then may I
suggest the grilled mutton chops with kidneys? I can
recommend this dish with a good conscience.”
I assented without much enthusiasm. Food held little
interest for me that day. While we waited for the
oysters I began by telling him of Morse's letter, which,
like a voice from the dead, had reached me that morn-
ing. The blue points arrived, large and succulent and
served with an excellent sauce. I continued with the
statements of Miss Carstairs, Baines and Matilda at
the police station and ended with a full account of
Vail's rather fantastic tale.
Swallowing the last of his oysters Westborough ob-
served:
“Mr Vail is undeniably obstinate, headstrong and
proud, as only a Spaniard can be. But, rather curi-
ously, he does not appear to possess a modicum of the
characteristic Catalan practicality. His finances are at
a low ebb, yet he ventured to provoke a quarrel which
might easily have resulted in his removal as a bene-
ficiary of the Morse will—had Morse lived long enough
to make the necessary revision.” He shook his head


THE PURPLE PARROT 139
distressedly, "Dear, dear, I believe that the scent of the
too familiar Ethiopian may be discerned behind the
firewood. Or, as Lieutenant Mack puts it so pictur-
esquely, 'There's something screwy about it.'”
“I see,” I cogitated. “Then you think Vail's lying?”
The arrival of the waitress prevented his immediate
answer. Our mutton chops were sizzling hot and done
to a perfect brown, and Mr Westborough smiled as
his knife and fork began the attack.
"Our present knowledge, Mr Foster, may be likened
to a tangle of underbrush under which a tiny white
flower is hidden. We must find that flower, Mr Foster.”
“Are you with me?” I fired at him point-blank.
“The problem interests me strongly."
“Show me Morse's murderer, and you can name your
fee!” I cried.
He swallowed another morsel of chop. “I am not a
businessman, Mr Foster. I should not have the slightest
idea how to appraise the merits of my services. More-
over, my financial resources are ample for my simple
wants.”
It was no use arguing; he simply refused to listen.
Money as such had no interest for this curious little
man. It was the baffling nature of the puzzle which had
caught his fancy—and held it until the end.
Of his own accord Mr Westborough changed the
subject.
“You will be surprised, Mr Foster, to learn where I
have spent the forenoon. In the public library, im-
proving my knowledge of New Zealand.”
I was surprised—and showed it.
“Entirely because of Mr Morse's purple parrot,"
he explained, and that did take me aback. However,
his eyes were beaming so earnestly behind his gold-
rimmed bifocals that I held my peace.


140
THE PURPLE PARROT
“The parrot is, like Joseph's celebrated coat, of
many colors," said Mr Westborough, his knife and
fork delivering a fresh assault on the mutton chop.
“There is the common American green parrot, its
plumage often variegated with blue, red and yellow.
There is the gray parrot of Africa. There is the giant
black ara of New Guinea-largest of all the order
Psittaci—and there is a certain Australian parrot
which is a vivid blood-red. There are cockatoos: a
snowy white or tinged with rose or saffron or orange.
There are macaws: blue-and-yellow, blue-and-red, even
with all-blue plumage. Nature, however, appears to
have entirely neglected the color purple in her decora-
tive schemes for this interesting hook-billed bird. I
think that I may safely venture the predication that a
purple parrot is, to say the least, something of a rara
avis.”
I smiled; it appeared to me a matter of small im-
portance.
“The kakapo,” he continued, “is a species hitherto
unknown to me, and I wondered if its plumage actually
was purple. You will think me extremely foolish, Mr
Foster, but I assure you that I was unable to set my
mind at rest until I had answered this question.”
I inquired (rather impatiently) what he had found
out.
“A great many interesting facts,” he replied. “I
was amazed to discover how little I knew concerning
the Dominion of New Zealand. In an area no larger
than the state of Colorado one may have one's choice
of Switzerland's peaks and glaciers, Japan's volcanic
cones, Norway's fiords, Italy's lakes, the waterfalls of
a Yosemite, the geysers of a Yellowstone but I fear
that I am digressing. Even more impressive than the
scenic wonders is the incredible remoteness of these


THE PURPLE PARROT
141
islands. Find them upon a globe, and you will see how
they lie under the very rim of the world-alone in the
vast stretches of the South Pacific."
My knowledge of geography was a trifle hazy, but
I ventured to argue the point. “New Zealand's right
next door to Australia, isn't it?”
“It takes nearly as long to sail from Sidney to
Wellington as to cross the Atlantic,” he informed.
“Keeping this amazing isolation in view one might
naturally assume that New Zealand flora and fauna
would possess unique characteristics, and I assure you
that such is indeed the case. Giant ferns flourish in
great abundance; fuchsias grow to a height of forty
feet, and there is a white buttercup with blooms four
inches across. But the fauna are even more singular
than the flora. Oddly enough, it is the omissions which
strike one the most."
“All this is very interesting but- "
He was not to be hurried. “There are no indigenous
mammals with a few unimportant exceptions. There
are no indigenous snakes. There are birds which can
not fly."
“Including a purple parrot?” I asked, grinning.
“That would scarcely appear startling among the
avian marvels I did discover upon this voyage in
print,” he returned soberly. "The extinct moa, for ex-
ample, which must have stood at least fourteen feet
high. The odd-looking kiwi, which violates physical
and natural laws by laying eggs a quarter of its own
weight. And the kea, whose sharp beak incises the side of
a living sheep and tears out the kidneys. But I digress
again. The kakapo is the only New Zealand bird in
which you could possibly be interested, and yet I fear
that you will now find it something of an anti-climax. It
is a bird about the size of a raven, and it has radiating


142
THE PURPLE PARROT
wreaths of feathers about its eyes which give it a slight
facial resemblance to an owl. The name, kakapo, is de-
rived from a Maori word meaning 'night.'”
“A night parrot!" I interjected.
“Yes, it is often referred to by that very name and
with some reason, for, like the owl it resembles, the
kakapo is nocturnal and predatory. It has wings, but
is unable to fly. And it is said to make an affectionate
and amusing household pet.”
“What about its color?” I reminded. "Is it purple?”
“Dear me, no. It is green varied with brown above
and a yellowish-green varied with brown and yellowish-
white below. Not in the least like Mr Morse's missing
statuette. And the eyes are not red but black.”
“Maybe Morse's parrot was a futuristic conception
of a kakapo,” I chuckled. "Artists don't always stick
to hard-boiled facts.”
“Are you familiar with the four Laws of Thought?”
he inquired.
“I haven't paid much attention to them since my
logic course in college,” I confessed.
“Nevertheless, you will be able to recognize the par-
ticular truism known as the Law of Sufficient Reason.
The purple color is a discrepancy; there must be some
adequate explanation for— "
My attention had wandered to the giant oval mirror
hanging on the wall above our heads. There was a man
at an adjoining table leaning toward us a trifle too
anxiously. He had a stubby mustache, small gray eyes
and a grim, square jaw.
“Look in the mirror!" I said in a low voice. “We're
being watched.”
He nodded calmly. “Naturally, Mr Foster, you are
on the list of official suspects. Doubtless you have been
under police surveillance the entire morning."


PART THREE
Friday, November 20





XVII
keep. I have antudded door whichshutting and
I WAS DREAMING of detectives. They commenced to fol-
low me as I left the Water Tower Station, lay patiently
in wait before Vail's home, took up the trail to the
Canterbury Inn. Then the city suddenly melted away
in the disconcerting topsy-turviness of dreams, and
Sylvia and I were running for our very lives through a
shadowy forest with unknown foes in hot pursuit. We
sought refuge in a round tower—a sort of Norman
keep. I have an extraordinarily vivid impression of the
massive, nail-studded door which, in the nick of time,
we providentially succeeded in shutting and bolting.
Then “they'—their faces always appeared as a blur
although the terror they inspired was very real-com-
menced a hammering like all the demons of Sheol upon
the entrance ...
Sleepily I struggled to the conscious realization that
someone was actually rapping on the door of my own
hotel bedroom. Wondering if an important message
had come concerning Sylvia I sprang from the bed
and hastily donned my dressing gown. But it was only
Charles, the hotel valet, returning my dinner jacket.
“Why wake me up to bring that here!” I exclaimed
irritably. Glancing at the alarm clock I discovered I
had overslept half an hour and added in a more
amiable mood, “You should have left it in my room
yesterday.”
Charles, a small, swarthy Latin with the suavity of
a diplomat, regretted beyond measure that he had dis-
145


146
THE PURPLE PARROT
turbed my repose. He had, however, discovered a cer-
tain letter in a pocket which he thought advisable to
return to me in person.
“What letter?" I asked in genuine puzzlement.
Charles handed it to me and I discovered it was the
advertising letter I had found on the floor of Morse's
study and completely forgotten.
I gave Charles the tip for which he had been angling,
and he went his way. Closing the door I read the mis-
sive again, secretly hoping that there might be some
clue between its lines. But I didn't see how it could
have had any more to do with the case than Mack's
Aunt Harriet up at Niles, Michigan. It was so patently
and obviously exactly what it seemed.
ROY N. PICKENS
Advertising
333 North Michigan Ave.
CHICAGO, ILL.
DEAR SIR:
“A good cigar's a smoke," as Kipling so aptly observed.
You know from your own experience what a smoke Sir An-
drew is—we don't have to tell you about its prime Havana
filler and its costly wrapper from distant Sumatra.
You know also that Sir Andrew has hitherto been available
only to the discriminating smoker who has found it worth the
extra trouble to order a box at a time by mail.
The makers of Sir Andrew are considering a change in
policy. They feel that the mellow goodness of Sir Andrew
should no longer be limited to a favored few. They would like
to give all cigar smokers a chance to select a Sir Andrew,
even if it does cost a little more than an ordinary cigar.
This can only be done through advertising. Will you help
us to plan the advertising for Sir Andrew ?
We don't want a testimonial-we don't even ask for your
name if you prefer to remain unknown. All we ask is that
you list the three biggest reasons why you like Sir Andrew


THE PURPLE PARROT
147
on the three lines below and mail this letter back to us in
the enclosed stamped envelope.
Will you do it?
..........
.............
Thank you.
a pape
anoth. while
Idly I flopped the sheet over. On the back a small
number, “56”, had been written with pen and ink in the
upper right-hand corner. Evidently, it appeared, Mr
Pickens didn't intend that the endorsers of Sir Andrew
should remain as unknown to him as he had pretended.
I smiled as I thought how incensed Morse, who had been
a devoted cigar smoker, would have been had he dis-
covered this little trick of the advertising profession.
However, there was no time to be wasted in trivial
speculations that morning. I dressed and shaved hur-
riedly, bought a paper and rushed across the street to
read it while I swallowed a cup of coffee. There was
another story on the Morse case on the front page:
MORSE CASHES CHECK
AFTER BANKS CLOSE
Milton R. Penrose, man- for several years, but that
ager of the large and opu- the latter had not informed
lent Hotel Duke on the near him for what purpose the
North Side, appeared at the money was wanted.
Water Tower District sta- Morse, Penrose asserted,
tion yesterday afternoon to had visited the hotel shortly
inform Captain Terence after four o'clock. This
O'Ryan that he had cashed statement corroborates the
a $1,000 check for Hezekiah accounts of Morse's butler,
Morse on the afternoon pre- Judson Baines, and his sec-
ceding the financier's death. retary, Evelyn Guild, both of
He declared that he had whom mentioned that the de-
been acquainted with Morse ceased had gone out at four.


THE PURPLE PARROT
149
ponderous title topped a pile Means of Natural Selection,
of books in another corner of or the Preservation of Fa-
the library. This treatise is vored Races in the Struggle
credited with having done for Life," and the author is
more than any other work to Charles Darwin. The copy
revolutionize the thinking of which belonged to Morse is
humanity. Its full title is "On valued in the neighborhood
the Origin of Species by of $150.
Mack's concealed doorway, as I expected, had been
a total flop! I gulped down the last of the coffee and
made for the door. At the cigar counter I stopped
abruptly. Something I should remember was buzzing
around like a wasp inside my brain. It was connected
with cigars. Did Morse order his cigars by mail? And
what brand of cigar did he favor?
There was a telephone booth in the restaurant, and
I was dialing in two seconds. Baines answered the call.
“Mr Foster, Baines. Do you know what kind of
cigars Mr Morse smoked?”
“Corona Coronas, sir.”
“Anything else? A cigar called Sir Andrew for in-
stance?”
Baines's voice sounded positive. “He was very par-
ticular not to smoke anything but Corona Coronas,
Mr Foster.”
And that was that! I phoned Westborough's hotel
at once. “This is Foster. I'm on the track of something
which may turn out to be important. If I learn any-
thing I want to talk it over with you as soon as I can."
He answered that he was entirely at my disposal
during the whole day, and we agreed to meet at the
northwest corner of State and Lake in an hour, which
would give me ample time for a call upon Roy N.
Pickens.
I dashed out of the restaurant and flagged a cab.


150
THE PURPLE PARROT
Pickens' office was on the twelfth floor of the building,
and I entered it through a cubbyhole of a reception
room, which was furnished in the ornate style that
advertising agencies often affect. A blasé platinum
blonde with a movie accent scrutinized my card and
looked unimpressed.
“Mr Pickens is very busy just now. Do you have an
appointment?”
I answered that I didn't, but that I was calling on
an urgent legal matter. Finally I succeeded in persuad-
ing her to send my card into the holy of holies. She
returned a few minutes later with word that Pickens
would see me.
Pickens, who was sandy-haired and blue-eyed, was
just banging down the receiver of his telephone as I
entered the door. His face mirrored an ill-concealed
annoyancal matter, Chase. If you !
“A legal matter, eh? Well, we haven't run any pic-
tures without a release. If you knew how I checked
you— "
“It's nothing like that. There's no lawsuit in the
offing."
“A lawyer who doesn't want to sue!” Pickens smiled,
extending his hand. “What can I do for you, Foster?”
“I'm after information. You sent out a certain form
letter, which- "
The desk telephone set up an insistent ringing.
“Sorry, Foster, you'll have to wait,” Pickens said,
picking up the receiver. “Hello, Paul, have you still
got the form standing on the Beatty Furniture spread?
Well, they want the head changed to 'Thousands of
satisfied owners acclaim the Beatty trademark dash
the hallmark of excellence.' Yeh, hallmark, h-a-1-1-
m-a-r-k. Yeh, I know it's long for Ultra Bodoni-put
it in eighteen point if it won't go in twenty-four. And


THE PURPLE PARROT 151
listen here-it's got to go off on the two o'clock plane
-The Home Courier goes to press tonight. Sure you
can make it. Just rush the corrections through as fast
as God Almighty 'll let you, bundle up the original
form and shoot it in a taxi over to the municipal air-
port. Yeh, I did say the original form. Sure, I know
type costs money—we're not asking you to stand the
expense!”
Jerking down the hook he barked into the telephone,
“Get me Morgan of The Home Courier in New York.”
He slammed down the receiver. “Sorry to keep you
waiting, Foster. You said something about a letter?”
“A letter about Sir Andrew—the cigar.” .
“Damn fine cigar!” Pickens observed. “Lot of rich
old buzzards smoke them. We're planning a new cam-
paign if you're interested.”
“Yes, I know. You sent out a form letter- "
But the New York connection had been completed
in a surprisingly rapid time.
“Well, Morgan, I saved your two-page spread for
you! Yeh, Turco are putting the original type with all
corrections on the two o'clock plane, which gets in at
seven-fifteen at the Newark airport. If you make
arrangements to hash out some sort of electro tonight
you can go to press as per schedule.”
Breathing a deep sigh of relief he replaced the re-
ceiver. “This is the world's craziest business, Foster.
What is it you were saying about Sir Andrew ?”
“You sent out a form letter asking for recommenda-
tions,” I reminded. “Those letters were numbered to
correspond with your mailing list, weren't they?”
Pickens said, with noticeable exasperation, “If they
were that's our business. Why the cross-examination?"
“Because one of your letters with the number (56'
on it was found on the floor of Hezekiah Morse's study


152
THE PURPLE PARROT
the night he was killed. And Morse didn't smoke any-
thing but Corona Coronas. Do you see?”
"You bet I see!” Pickens ejaculated. He picked up
the telephone again. “Miss Gillis, look up the file of
those letters we sent out for Fortunatus Tobacco and
bring me the name and address of number (56'.”
“What was the idea of the numbers?" I asked.
“New advertising campaign as I said before. Play
up the slogan, “Sir Andrew, the cigar smoked by the
successful.' No harm to know who our friends are.
Later I can make a few personal calls on the biggest
shots and get their okay on testimonials."
“But when they see that number on your letter they
ought to be good and mad," I objected. “Especially
after you tell them you aren't looking for their names.”
“Ninety per cent of them are never going to see that
number," Pickens told me. He handed me a blank sheet
of copy paper. "Try it yourself, Foster. I'll make a
cross right here to represent the number in the upper
right-hand corner. These letters were mailed in a num-
ber 10 envelope with a 634 return envelope. The letter
has to be folded in sixths to fit the return envelope.
Now turn the sheet over so that the number's on the
back and fold it in half. Now fold it in thirds. See
what you do? You turn it ninety degrees clockwise and
fold it twice. Now you'll put it in the return envelope;
if you don't turn over your folded sheet-and why
should you?-you'll never know the number was
there."
"Ingenious," I agreed. He waved his hand depre-
catingly.
"Nothing at all. Say, leave your card, Foster, and
I'll give you a ring the next time some chiseler starts
to sue ”
The blasé blonde with the bored voice marched into


THE PURPLE PARROT
153
the room with a slip of paper. "Here's the name and
address you wanted, Mr Pickens."
Pickens handed the slip to me, and I read:
“J. Worthington Wells, 1924 Russell Avenue,
Chicago.”
I thanked him and left the office. J. Worthington
Wells! The name had an aristocratic ring to it, I
mused, while I waited for an elevator. And Pickens had
implied that his letters had gone to men of wealth.
Still, plenty of men who could have qualified in that
category only a few years ago were now wondering
where the next plate of beans would come from. I
stepped into the elevator, reflecting that possibly the
address might give a clue to Wells's present status. But
it didn't help. Russell Avenue, I remembered vaguely,
was in the far northern section of the city, somewhere
in the Rogers Park district, but I didn't have the least
idea in what kind of neighborhood Number 1924 would
be.
As I stepped out of the elevator I received a big
surprise. There was my stubby-mustached friend again.
No, I couldn't be mistaken. He was standing by the
cigar counter, apparently engrossed in conversation
with the clerk. Considerably nettled I strolled toward
him and asked for a match. Without saying anything
he handed me a packet.
“Thanks," I said, returning the matches. “Your
face is familiar to me. Haven't we met somewhere?”
Stubby Mustache grunted. “Don't remember it if we
have. My name's Jones. Ted Jones."
“Well, I can't place any Joneses, but I'm glad to
know you anyhow. I'm Barry Foster.” I handed him
one of my business cards, which he accepted uncom-
fortably. "I'm a lawyer," I added. “What's your line?"
“Broker,” he returned, a little sullenly.


154 THE PURPLE PARROT
“Good!” I exclaimed. "I'd like some reliable advice
on the market. What would you do with American
Motors today?"
He hesitated perceptibly. “I'd stay out of it.”
“Thanks, I will.” (American Motors had been mov-
ing upward steadily for about three weeks, and was
generally known as one of the blue chips of the market
-only slightly more of a risk than government securi-
ties.) “We must have lunch together some day, Jones.
I usually eat at the Canterbury Inn."
That was pure idiocy; there was nothing at all to
be gained by letting this fellow know I recognized him.
He'd only be called in and a new tail sicked on to me.
However, I got a simple, human satisfaction out of
telling him.
“Yeh, good idea," he grunted and turned back to
the cigar clerk. As I left the building I stifled a Little
Audreyish impulse to "laugh and laugh.” If Jones con-
tinued to follow me during the next half hour he was
due for a shock.
Westborough was standing on the corner even though
the hour I had given him wasn't quite up. I told him
of my discovery, and he agreed that our best move
was to go straight to police headquarters. While we
were riding south on a State Street car he produced a
newspaper clipping from his billfold.
“I ran across this in the Bugle this morning. It will
undoubtedly interest you, Mr Foster."
“There were a couple of stories in the Trumpet,” I
told him in return. “Some new developments »
“Yes, I recall the items quite well. Particularly the
description of Mr Morse's library. But tell me your
opinion of this bit of pertinent information, Mr
Foster.”
I took the clipping from him. It was, I noticed, the
-
- -
-
--
-
-
-
-


THE PURPLE PARROT
155
picture of a young lady, whose attractiveness, despite
the necessary coarseness of newspaper reproduction,
was distinctly discernible. “The Merry Widow" was
the facetious tag inserted above the picture, and the
caption underneath it read:
“Vivacious Dorothy Spendall has left the Riviera to
enliven Chicago society. Mrs Spendall, a former Chi-
cago resident and well known here, has been at Nice
during the past four years with her husband, the late
Jonas Spendall.”
“Vail didn't say a word about Spendall's death,” I
mused aloud. “I wonder if he's going to be glad or sorry
to learn that his former inamorata is back-minus her
elderly husband.”
“The data are too meager to hazard a prediction,"
was Westborough's answer.
At police headquarters, a curt desk sergeant directed
us to Mack's office.
“There's no use your trying any hocus pocus to get
your girl friend out,” was the detective lieutenant's
greeting. "All we need to hold her is reasonable grounds
of suspicion—you know that as well as I do. And we've
sure got that.”
"Have you located Wells ?" I inquired.
“No," Mack returned shortly. He directed a long
shot accurately into a cuspidor. “There's over two
hundred fellows with that moniker in the phone book.
Some of 'em are well-known citizens, too. We can't drag
two hundred people like that down to the station on
the off chance that Baines may be able to identify one
of 'em. It'd stir up a hornet's nest. What's the answer,
wise guy?”
Westborough, his eyes twinkling, replied for me.
“Mr Foster has the full name and address of our
Mr Wells."


156
THE PURPLE PARROT
“What?" Mack shouted.
I presented the slip of paper Pickens had given me,
and he sniffed suspiciously.
“How'd you get hold of this, Foster?”
I explained about the Pickens letter-and how it had
happened to be in my dinner jacket.
“That's concealing evidence," Mack growled.
“I suppose so.”
Mack continued the bawling out as he thumbed the
pages of the telephone directory. “You're a lawyer.
You ought to have known better."
"If you weren't deaf, dumb and blind," I cut in
hotly, "you'd know I didn't walk away with it on pur-
pose. And, while we're on the subject, I'm tired of being
tailed. There's no need for it. I've played square with
you fellows; I've given you every bit of information
I had.”
Mack, intent on the pages of the directory, didn't
appear to be listening. “Yeah, there's a J. Worthington
Wells—address checks, too ... Say, what were you
saying, Foster?”
“I'm tired of being tailed," I snapped.
“What's eating you?" Mack demanded in wonder-
ment. “There hasn't been any tail on you, Foster."
XVIII
I WAS UTTERLY NONPLUSSED. “You didn't have a man
following me?”
“We did not,” Mack said. “You can take my word
for it."
Even if he were lying I didn't see anything to be
I
W
ord


THE PURPLE PARROT
157
gained by telling him so. As it was our relations hadn't
been any too amiable.
“Dear me,” Mr Westborough sighed. “I, too, had a
distinct impression- "
“You saw him, too!" Mack yelled. “What kind of
guy was he?”
“He had a fair, stubby mustache, light-brown hair,
and pale-blue eyes,” I was able to recall. “Square face
-big jaw. And he was wearing a pepper-and-salt suit.”
“Yesterday it was a brown suit,” Westborough con-
tributed. “And the gentleman had a very thick neck
and somewhat large feet. That is no doubt why Mr
Foster and I mistakenly assumed— ”
Mack roared with laughter, then suddenly sobered.
“You weren't being tailed by us, Foster. That's the
straight dope. If you see him again get to the nearest
phone booth and call headquarters. Then stall around
with him until we get a chance to pick him up. If that
bird really was tailing you I'd give a lot to know his
game.”
“So would I,” I confessed wholeheartedly.
Mack glanced at his watch. “Quarter to eleven!
There's plenty of time to make a call on Wells before
the inquest. You fellows like to come along?”
I agreed, and Westborough murmured politely, “In-
deed yes.”
“Well let's make it snappy," Mack gruffly advised.
There was plenty of room for three in the front seat
of Mack's car, particularly with Westborough, who
didn't take up much room, in the middle. Mack drove
fast—somewhat recklessly, but with consummate skill.
We discussed the case as we sped northward.
“The Morse girl's a damn nice kid !" Mack conceded.
“I don't like to see her take the rap for this, but who
else is there?"


158 THE PURPLE PARROT
Unfortunately, I wasn't able to answer nor was West-
borough. The little man, however, had a question of
his own.
“Were any volumes missing from the Morse library?”
“Just got the final report this morning." Mack shot
through a light that was shifting from orange to red,
dexterously avoiding a car coming at right angles. “We
had three men on that job_two to check the index
cards and one at the books. Every book checked with
both sets of cards.”
“What about your hidden door?” I reminded mali-
ciously.
“Ouch!" Mack exclaimed and made a wry face.
“That's out for good! Those walls are solid every-
where.”
“It was an excellent idea—by no means improbable,"
Westborough said consolingly. He paused hesitantly.
“Had any article other than the purple parrot been
removed from the house?”
“Baines said no; nothing so far as he knew. We
looked into Morse's deposit vault—nothing to be
learned there. Morse hadn't visited it for a week any-
how.”
“What's your theory about the thousand dollars in
cash?" I asked as we sailed through Lincoln Park
at a forty-mile clip.
“What's yours?" Mack retorted, his eyes focused
on the road.
“The one-thirty call might easily have been from
Wells," I speculated. “Suppose he made an appoint-
ment for the evening—and wanted money! Wouldn't
that explain why Morse cashed the check?”
"Then why was there not a receipt for the sum in
Mr Morse's desk?” Westborough inquired. “A business-


160
THE PURPLE PARROT
would make threats. They wouldn't be idle threats,
either, I can testify. Wells got panicky and— ”
“Yeah!" Mack scoffed. “Morse wasn't stabbed until
midnight; Wells came at eight-thirty. How long do you
think it takes to deliver a pack of letters? Morse would
get rid of the fellow as soon as he could. He'd just as
soon have a snake in the house as a blackmailer."
He had me there, all right, and I acknowledged my
defeat. However, it wouldn't do any harm to thresh out
other problems—particularly since Mack was in a posi-
tion where he had to listen to me.
“The hall-door key is a weak point in your case
against Miss Morse.” (I had done no little thinking on
this subject.) “There weren't any fingerprints so who-
ever turned it must have been wearing a glove. But
the key was bloodstained so the glove must have been
that way too. Your men searched the house carefully
and searched Miss Morse's room completely. They
didn't find any bloodstained glove."
“She had plenty of time to wash it," Mack growled.
“Strongly open to question. But if she had washed
it your men would have still found a damp glove."
“There was a bottle of cleaning stuff in her room,"
Mack pointed out. “She could've cleaned the glove
with that, and it wouldn't be damp by the time we got
there.”
“An excellent theory, but not in accord with physical
facts,” Mr Westborough commented. “Only yesterday
I consulted a work upon the removal of stains. Organic
solvents, such as benzol or carbon tetrachloride, which
are the basis of most cleaning fluids, do not seem to be
particularly effective upon bloodstains. Why I do not
know. Cold water or hydrogen peroxide is recommended
if the stain is on silk, wool or rayon; ammonia, hydro-
gen peroxide or javelle water if it is on cotton or linen."


THE PURPLE PARROT 161
“There you are!" I exclaimed. “Your cleaning fluid
wouldn't have worked. And you didn't happen to find
a bottle of ammonia or javelle water in Miss Morse's
room, did you? Such things are kept in the kitchen,
and you know that she didn't go down there."
“Well, there was a bottle of peroxide in the bathroom
cabinet," Mack said. “I can remember seeing it there."
“Miss Morse is not a practicing chemist!" I objected
heatedly. “You can hardly expect her to know that
peroxide will take out bloodstains.”
"Moreover, hydrogen peroxide is no more volatile
than water,” Mr Westborough added. “In the event of
its use, the glove would have still been damp."
“You see!” I grinned. “You're right back where you
started from.”
“Oh, to hell with it!” Mack snapped. “It's going
to take more than ammonia and hydrogen peroxide to
get your girl out of this jam, Foster.” He turned left
from Clark Street and drove under the elevated tracks
of the Chicago and Northwestern Railway, "Here's the
street now.”
The dwellings in this part of Russell Avenue were
staid two-story houses, set comfortably back from the
sidewalk. Tall elms ornamented the parkways; the
neighborhood, in startling contrast to the uniform
rows of apartment buildings only a block or so away,
had the leisurely charm of a small town. Mack drove by
a yellow frame house with a high-gabled roof and a
spacious porch.
“That's the place. Can you spot it from the alley,
Foster?”
I nodded. “With that color it would be hard to miss.”
Mack pulled up to the curbat least half a block
away from the yellow house.
“All right, run down the alley and watch the back


162. THE PURPLE PARROT
door. If anybody tries to make a getaway stop him and
yell for me. Get it?"
The thrill of the chase stole upon me as I sneaked
up the alley in accordance with Mack’s tersely ex-
pressed commands. Leaning against a telephone pole
I waited expectantly. There were no signs of move-
ment from within the house. The shades had been tightly
drawn, and the place wore a bleak air. Deciding it
could do no harm to reconnoiter I lifted the latch of
the back gate. Just as I stepped inside the yard Mr
Westborough came walking briskly from around the
side of the house.
“Come at once, Mr Foster,” he said. “Mr Wells is at
home.”
Mack was standing by the front door, talking to
the most unprepossessing female I have ever seen. She
was all angles, her hair was strained back in an un-
compromising knot at the back of her head, and she
had a face beside which a glass of vinegar would have
been as palatable as fruit punch.
“Why don't you let them come up, Hannah?” a
man's voice called from above. With a loud and reluc-
tant sniff the woman stepped aside.
The house had evidently been furnished at least
twenty years ago, and nothing had been done in the
way of interior decoration since. There was even an
ancient carved umbrella stand in the front hall. The
light from the leaded glass window on the landing,
allowed me to discern that the stair carpeting was badly
worn, almost threadbare in places.
"Good morning. Will you be kind enough to come
this way?" said the man who greeted us at the top of
the stairs.
. He was slight-no taller than Westborough—but it
was too dark in the upper hall to make out his face. His


THE PURPLE PARROT
163
voice, however, had sounded tired and a little uncer-
tain. He opened the door to a front room. It had a large
bay window facing south, through which the sun was
cheerfully streaming
“Will you be seated, gentlemen?" His manner was
courteous, his tones gentle.
“Is your name Wells ?" Mack demanded.
Our host bowed. He was in his late sixties, I judged.
His features were refined, delicate. They were the fea-
tures of a scholar, an impression augmented by his nose
glasses and his neatly trimmed, gray Vandyke beard.
His blue suit was freshly pressed, but the serge was
shiny, and his shirt, although spotlessly white, was
slightly frayed at the cuffs. He was stoop-shouldered,
and his eyes were reddened and squinting.
The room was in obvious keeping with this hermit
of a man. Like Morse's study it was lined with books.
They stretched to the ceiling, and there was a step-
ladder sort of thing on casters to be shoved around to
reach the upper shelves. A massive Elizabethan re-
fectory table with melon-bulb legs took up most of
the center of the room, and there were two large black
chairs with markedly worn leather upholstery. In one
corner was an old-fashioned iron safe.
“Yes, I am J. Worthington Wells," our host replied.
“And you, gentlemen?”
"Lieutenant Mack of the homicide squad. This is Mr
Foster and this is Mr Westborough.”
“Westborough?” Wells repeated. “Are you the
author of that splendid work: Trajan: His Life and
Times?”
“I have enjoyed that slight distinction," Westbor-
ough answered, his manner noticeably self-conscious.
Mack broke impatiently into the conversation.
“We didn't come here to talk about books. Wells,


THE PURPLE PARROT 165
thousand dollars for the book,” Westborough inter-
preted.
Wells smiled, a shade wistfully. “Necessity, gentle-
men, is frequently a sad taskmaster. I was compelled to
part with it at that price."
“An even grand for just one book?” Mack repeated.
“But this is the edition printed by Richard Pynson
in 1494! There are only ten known copies.”
"You may be assured, Lieutenant Mack, that the
volume is a collector's rarity," Westborough con-
firmed. “In more propitious times than these it would
have fetched an even larger sum.”
“Well maybe.” Mack sounded as though he didn't
in the least believe it. “Did Morse give you cash or a
check?”
Wells replied, "He was good enough to pay in cash.
I had made that request of him.”
“You asked him for cash? Why? His signature was
as good as gold on any check he cared to write.”
Once again Wells smiled his wistful smile. “I am no
longer fortunate enough to have a bank account. It is
an open secret that I have been living from hand to
mouth for some time now, parting one by one with these
old friends whom I have spent the better part of a
lifetime in amassing."
"Dear, dear!” Westborough sighed. “That is really
too bad.”
Mack's attitude was more realistic. “You're living
anyhow. And when you can collect an even grand for
just one book, I'd say you didn't have much to worry
about. Did Morse ask for a receipt?”
“Yes, I gave him a receipted invoice.”
“What became of it?”
"Is it missing? It was lying on the top of his desk
when I left the room.”


166
THE PURPLE PARROT
Mack leaned forward in his chair. “What do you
know about Morse's purple parrot?”
“Purple parrot?"
“Yeah! Little statue of a parrot about six inches
high. Did you ever see it?”
“Yes.” Wells's eyes were fixed on the oaken top of
the refectory table.
“When?”
“That evening.”
“You saw it lying on top of the desk?”
“Why, no. Mr Morse brought it from a lower drawer
to show me.”
“What made him do that?”
Wells's face appeared rather strained, I fancied.
“Why does anyone show his curios to anyone else? I
can't recall the circumstances clearly—it seemed of such
trivial importance. But I believe that Mr Morse asked
me if I could tell him what a kakapo was. I answered
that I believed it was a New Zealand bird, and he
brought out the statuette from the drawer."
“Did he put it back in the drawer before you left
the room?”
“I-I can't remember.”
“You didn't take the thing?" Mack demanded
bluntly.
Wells's glance shifted uneasily to his bookcases.
Then he turned and said in a surprisingly peppery
tone, “I did not. That question is an insult, sir."
Mack's fist banged down on the table.
“Maybe you're lying and maybe you're not! But I'll
have the truth if I- "
“May I ask Mr Wells a few questions?" Westbor-
ough interrupted.
Mack grudgingly yielded the floor.


THE PURPLE PARROT
167
“I should like to know the subject upon which you
addressed the association of bibliophiles.”
“It was reviewed in the paper,” Wells answered.
“Merely a few paragraphs, but I was surprised to learn
that my subject had even that much interest for the
general public. I believe that I preserved the notice.”
He opened the table drawer. “Yes, here it is.”
He handed a newspaper clipping to Westborough
who read aloud:
PRINTED IN 1462, BIBLE
IS WORTH $30,000 TODAY
The first dated Bible was minded his listeners, there is
printed in Mainz, Germany, no conclusive evidence to
in 1462, and a copy is worth show that the so-called "Gut-
about $30,000, J. Worthing- enberg” Bible, printed in
ton Wells of 1924 Russell Mainz before August, 1456,
Avenue told members of the was actually the work of Gut-
Bibliophile Club last eve- enberg.
ning.
About as few copies are
This is probably the fourth known of the “1462" as of
printed Bible to be produced, the “Gutenberg”, Mr Wells
Mr Wells explained, and it said. Only four have been
was preceded in time by only placed on the market during
the "Gutenberg” or “42 Line recent years, and these have
Bible”, the Bamberg Bible, been sold at prices ranging
and the Mentelin Bible. In- from $19,000 to $35,000.
cidentally, Mr Wells re-
Mack chuckled. “My Aunt Harriet's got an old
Bible I could have for nothing. Who'd pay thirty-five
grand for such a thing?"
“I have refused an offer of thirty thousand dollars
for my own copy,” Wells answered. Mack shook his
head in baffled astonishment.
“Nuts! Clear nuts! Anyway, if I had something


170
THE PURPLE PARROT
couldn't have made it out here until at least eleven-
thirty."
“I didn't notice.”
“Did he come inside with you and stay for a while?”
“Nc, he drove on at once. Mr Whealon, I am sure,
will confirm this story.”
“Well," Mack deliberated, “I don't see how you could
have got back to Division Street by twelve o'clock. If
Whealon confirms that story you're cleared, Wells."
The relief in the man's face was very nearly lu-
dicrous. Mack noticed it, also, for he added sternly:
“But take a tip from me tell the police all about it
the next time you happen to be calling on a guy who
gets murdered.”
Wells said humbly, “I'm sorry. I was confused, up-
set. I didn't know just what I ought to do.”
"You should ’ve come straight to headquarters,"
Mack told him severely. “That would have saved us a
lot of bother and yourself some embarrassment. Re-
member it next time.”
“I will, indeed,” Wells promised with fervor.
Wells had contributed one important bit of new
information. The purple parrot had not been taken
earlier than Wednesday evening; it was now known
definitely to have been in Morse's possession up to as
late as nine o'clock on the night of his death.
But, as we left the house, I was not so certain that
Wells had told us everything he had known concerning
Hezekiah Morse. Walking down the stairs I reviewed
the entire scene, and by the time we had reached Mack's
car I had reached a definite conclusion.
Wells had been patently anxious several times during
the course of the interview. But his uneasiness had
reached its peak at the time Morse's purple parrot was
under discussion !


THE PURPLE PARROT
171
XIX
PUBLIC INTEREST in the dramatic Morse case was at
white heat. The inquest room at the county morgue
would seat about a hundred people, but at least three
times that number were pushing and crowding for
places.
Sylvia sat beside me in the front of the room. Her
black crepe dress accentuated the whiteness of her
throat, the pallor of her face. Although she was un-
doubtedly fighting hard to retain her poise her lips
quivered slightly.
Coroner Gerald E. Hunt, the white-haired veteran
of several thousand inquests, fidgeted with the black
ribbon of his pince nez and frowned on the male and
female sensation seekers who were fighting their way
into the room. He reminded me of Shakespeare's de-
scription of the justice_“in fair round belly with good
capon lin'd.” And the “good and lawful” men pre-
scribed by Illinois statute, looked as though the worthy
coroner had picked up the first six fellows he had hap-
pened to meet on the street.
One of them, a fussy little man with glasses, ob-
viously wore a toupée at least there were two shades of
hair on his head which didn't quite match.
The coroner's deep bass droned the oath adminis-
tered to the jury foreman—no other than my friend
of the toupée.
"You, as foreman of this inquest, do solemnly swear
that you will diligently inquire and true presentment
make how and in what manner and by whom or what
the body which here lies dead came to its death, and
that you will deliver to me, the coroner of this county,


172
THE PURPLE PARROT
a true inquest thereof, according to such evidence as
shall be given you, and according to the best of your
knowledge and belief, so help you God?”
The foreman answered resolutely, “I do,” and the
coroner turned to the other jurors.
“The same oath which John J. Piersons, your fore-
man, has just now taken on his part, you and each of
you do solemnly swear to keep on your respective parts,
so help you God?”
"I do,” the jurors chorused.
I glanced over at Assistant State's Attorney Lew
Teagan, who was a Napoleonic sort of man with a
prominent aquiline nose. He was swaying nervously in
his chair-like a race horse pawing the ground before
the starting gun.
O'Ryan, big and blustering in his blue uniform, was
the first witness called. The coroner, after putting the
conventional routine inquiries, directed:
“You may tell the jury what you found at the Morse
residence on the night of November 18."
“I got a call from headquarters at twelve-thirteen
and went immediately to the home of Hezekiah Morse at
49 East Division Street, arriving there at twelve-
twenty.” O'Ryan stressed each sentence as though
cognizant that it would become a matter of public
record. He was conscientiously thorough in his inclusion
of details, and I realized what an ordeal this inquest
would be for Sylvia.
“The deceased,” O’Ryan concluded, “was slumped
forward and resting against the edge of the desk. A
knife was sticking in his chest, and he had his hand
around the handle of it. The door from the hall into
the library was locked from the inside, and the key
was in the lock. A second door to the library was stand-
ing wide open. It opened through Miss Morse's room.”


THE PURPLE PARROT
173
“There are only two doors to the room in which you
found Morse?” Teagan inquired.
“Yes."
Mack confirmed O'Ryan's account and also men-
tioned the bloodstained door key. Teagan began to
question him.
“Were the windows of the study closed and locked?"
“They were both closed, but only one was locked.”
“Do you think it possible for a person to have left
the house by the unlocked window?”
“No.”
A juror, rubbing his hand across an unshaven chin,
leaned forward.
“Why couldn't they? Anybody can go out an un-
locked window.”
“Anybody leaving by that window would've had to
drop a good fifteen feet to a plot of turf," Mack ex-
plained. “He couldn't do it without leaving his foot-
prints, and there weren't any footprints."
“What about a ladder?” persisted the inquiring
juror. Mack looked at him witheringly.
“A ladder would've left a couple of dents to show
where it rested. The turf was perfectly smooth.”
I rose to my feet. “The ground is partially frozen.
Are you sure that footprints or the marks of a ladder
would necessarily appear?"
“I don't care how hard the ground is," Mack main-
tained. “A fifteen foot drop or the weight of a man
op a ladder would be bound to leave some marks."
“Would it be necessary to rest the ladder on the grass
in order to enter the house?” I persevered. “Might it
not have been placed on the concrete sidewalk?”
“If it was I'd hate to go up on it.”
Two or three jurors snickered, and the diminutive
foreman, who took his new dignity seriously, glared at


174
THE PURPLE PARROT
them. The coroner, after a number of questions, most
of which had to do with the position of the deceased
when found, dismissed Mack and called Baines. The
butler was allowed to tell his story uninterrupted until
he mentioned Sylvia's scream.
The coroner fingered his black ribbon. “What did
you do then?”
“I went upstairs, sir.”
“You may tell the jury what you saw.”
“The first thing was Mr Foster running up the front
stairs. We met in the hall, sir.”
“Where was Miss Morse?” Teagan put in.
“Also in the hall, sir.”
“Did you see her come out of her room?"
“No sir.”
“Did you see her before or after you noticed Mr
Foster?”
“I hardly know, sir. We all three met in the hall."
“What did you do then?”
“We entered the study."
“Through which door?”
“The door from Miss Morse's room, sir."
“Why not the door from the hall ?”
“That door was locked, sir.”
“How did you know that?"
“I tried to open it, sir, and so did Mr Foster."
“Was the door to the study from Miss Morse's room
open or closed?”
“Open, sir. Mr Morse's body was plainly visible.”
Teagan took up the questioning. “Had you left the
kitchen at any time prior to the scream?"
“Once," Baines admitted. “To go to the toilet, sir."
A juror guffawed and was given a reproving look
by the foreman.
“At what time?” Teagan interrogated.


THE PURPLE PARROT
175
“I don't recall. I was not away more than two or
three minutes, sir.”
Matilda was the next witness. She admitted that her
name was Matilda Sampson and her occupation that of
cook for the deceased. She added a number of other
statements that were not particularly relevant. Finally:
“Could Mr Baines, while out of the room, go upstairs
without your knowledge?” the coroner inquired.
Matilda shook her head with positive assurance.
."No, he would've had to come back through the kit-
chen. He didn't go upstairs unless he went there while
I was out of the room."
“When was that?”
“About ten o'clock."
“Was Mr Baines with you when you heard the
scream?”
“Yes."
“Had he been with you for some time prior to that?"
“Yes, at least an hour or so."
Matilda swept to her seat with the air of a good
woman who has done her lawful duty, and I heard my
own name called. I tried to keep my statement as non-
committal as possible.
“... I remained downstairs while Miss Morse went
up to speak to her grandfather. I heard her scream
and rushed upstairs. She had just gone into her grand-
father's room— "
Teagan darted at me with the swift swoop of a
hornet.
“How do you know she had just gone into her grand-
father's room?"
“It's obvious—or she would have screamed before,”
I snapped.
“Oh, is it? Not if she killed him herself, she wouldn't.”


176
THE PURPLE PARROT
I applied to the coroner. “The assistant state's at-
torney has no right to make such an assumption."
“You know that this is not a judicial proceeding,
and that we are not bound by the formal rules of evi-
dence,” Coroner Hunt replied. Teagan returned to the
attack.
“Are you engaged to Miss Morse?"
I hesitated. “Are you or aren't you?” Teagan
snarled.
“Yes.”
“Didn't you wait in the Morse living room because
Miss Morse was going to ask her grandfather's consent
to your marriage that night?”
“Yes.” (The fellow had a fiendish knack of picking
out his adversary's weak spots.)
“Wasn't it extremely unlikely that such consent
would have been granted ?”
This question, however, wasn't up to his usual
shrewdness.
“I can't say whether it would have been or not.”
Teagan sallied from another direction. “Is it not a
fact that you drew up several wills for Hezekiah
Morse?"
“Yes.”
“Will you tell us the provisions of the latest will
the will which had not been signed prior to Morse's
death?”
“Is this relevant?” The coroner ruled that it was.
“The will divided the great bulk of Morse's property
between his granddaughter and his friend, Thomas Vail.
There were bequests for the two servants and for sev-
eral charitable organizations."
“There was also a provision disinheriting Miss
Morse if she married anyone but Mr Vail, wasn't
there?”


THE PURPLE PARROT
177
I was forced to admit that there had been such a pro-
vision. Teagan was satisfied, but my ordeal was by no
means finished.
“You may describe your first view of the body of the
decedent,” the coroner directed. I could see Sylvia
shuddering as I complied with the request.
"Did you notice that a pool of blood had formed
on the surface of the desk?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell the jury what the blood looked like?”
“Like blood.”
Several people laughed, and the coroner rapped for
order. If I could play the imbecile long enough,
“Had the blood you saw commenced to coagulate?”
the coroner inquired.
“Coagulate?” I echoed, striving to keep my face an
uncomprehending blank.
Very patiently, as though dealing with a subnormal
intelligence, the coroner elucidated. “Had it commenced
to thicken, or was it still a thin liquid?”
There was no escape from it. I was forced to give
that devastating testimony against Sylvia. “A thin
liquid.”
I was dismissed after a few more minor questions, and
the coroner called a new witness: 0. A. Schmidt, assis-
tant chief identification inspector.
Schmidt was a jovial, bearded German, who spoke
with a faintly discernible accent. The coroner exhibited
the cloisonné-handled letter opener.
“Did the Identification Bureau discover fingerprints
on this knife?"
“Yes.”
“Were you able to identify those fingerprints?”
“Yes.”


178
THE PURPLE PARROT
“Whose fingerprints were they?”
“They were made by the fingers of Miss Morse's
right hand.”
I asked permission to question the witness.
“I understand that the prints found on the knife
were blurred?"
“That is correct.”
“How then are you able to identify them with such
assurance?”
A broad smile swept across the face of the German.
“We used the fingerprint projector."
“Fingerprint projector?”
“Yes, an instrument which throws together on a
lighted screen the enlarged images—magnified to about
the size of a man's head of two separate fingerprints.
If the two fingerprints are identical, the convolutions
will flow into each other.”
I switched to another line of inquiry.
“What prints were on the knife?"
“The four fingers."
“Were they on the blade or the handle?"
“Upon the handle and perpendicular to it."
My next question, I considered parenthetically,
might save Sylvia, or it might utterly damn her. Never-
theless, I felt justified in going on.
“Was the little finger or the index finger toward the
blade?”
“The index finger was toward the blade, the little
finger toward the end of the handle.”
"Miss Morse frequently used this knife to open her
grandfather's letters. From the position of the finger-
prints does it seem probable to you that the knife had
been held for this purpose?”
"No," Schmidt maintained after a few minutes'
thought. “The normal way to open a letter is to hold


THE PURPLE PARROT 179
the knife between the index and second fingers and to
extend the index finger along the blade in a direction
nearly parallel to it. This knife was held for stabbing.”
“It's the way you would hold a sword,” I declared.
“Or even a knife if you were going to stab somebody
facing you. But Morse was stabbed from behind.”
Picking up the knife from the coroner's desk, I
handed it to Schmidt.
“I am seated in a chair, my back toward you. Grasp
the knife, reach around and stab at my chest."
Teagan rose to his feet. “This is an inquest and not
a third-rate melodrama.”
The coroner repeated what he had earlier told me.
“We are not bound by the formal rules of evidence.”
“There are some things not admissible,” Teagan
grumbled.
“In my opinion Mr Foster's demonstration is rele-
vant," the coroner ruled.
I grasped Schmidt's wrist and raised it toward the
jury. “Do you see how he holds this knife? The little
finger is toward the blade, the index finger toward the
handle. If a knife is held the other way with the index
finger toward the blade and the fingerprints show
that this knife was held that way—then it's necessary
to turn the wrist in a very awkward manner in order
to stab downward from behind.”
Taking the knife from Schmidt I held it with my
index finger toward the blade.
“When Miss Morse made the prints Mr Schmidt
identified she held the knife in this manner. If any of
you gentlemen of the jury care to experiment you will
find it quite easy and natural to open an envelope with
this grip.”
I extended the knife to the jury foreman, who
grasped it in the manner I had described, and, an air


THE PURPLE PARROT
181
The coroner requested him to identify the knife, and
he did so after a brief examination of it. Then he was
asked to tell the jury the time at which Morse's death
had occurred.
“In my opinion between midnight Wednesday and
five minutes past that hour.”
"How does he know so exactly?” murmured a juror
in an extremely audible stage whisper. The coroner
suppressed an incipient laugh from the audience.
“You may tell the jury your reasons for believing
that the decedent was killed at the time you have
named.”
“Blood begins to coagulate in from five to ten min-
utes. When Mr Morse's body was discovered at ten
minutes past twelve the blood had not yet coagulated.”
“Who told you, Dr Hildreth, that the blood had
not coagulated?”
“Mr Foster.”
“Just what were his words to you?”
“I don't recall his exact words. The substance was
that the blood appeared to him to be a thin, red liquid.”
Hearsay evidence, provided it was relevant, might be
introduced at the inquest, I knew. However, the coroner
left no doubt in the minds of the jurors.
“You remember, gentlemen, that Mr Foster stated
that the blood was a 'thin liquid' when he first saw it.”
Teagan hurried to make the doctor affirm the point.
“You are positive that Morse's death did not occur be-
fore twelve o'clock?”
“As positive as one can ever be in these cases."
I rose to my feet, grasping at the one tiny loophole.
“Would you say, Dr Hildreth, that Morse could not
have been killed as early as five minutes to twelve?”
“There might be a small variation from the time I
have stated. I do not believe it would be as long as five


182 THE PURPLE PARROT
minutes before twelve, but I'd be willing to allow you
that much time after twelve.”
"In your opinion," asked the coroner, "is Miss Morse
able to deliver the blow which caused her grandfather's
death?”
“Will you ask Miss Morse to stand, please?”
His searching glance of Sylvia seemed interminable.
“Yes,” he declared at length.
The coroner called for the next witness.
Sylvia Elaine Morse!
“It is my duty to inform you that any testimony
you might give in this hearing may be used against
you,” his heavy bass boomed. “Knowing this, do you
still wish to testify?"
She nodded, and the coroner administered the oath.
With gratification I noted that she had been able to
control all traces of the anxiety I had remarked at the
beginning of the inquest. Her voice was clear and
resonant, and she kept her eyes fixed squarely on the
faces of the jurors. Teagan interrupted her account
after half-a-dozen sentences.
“Why didn't you go into your grandfather's room
immediately?”
“I was—hesitant about approaching him.”
“Because you had just become engaged to Foster?"
“Yes.”
Striding toward her Teagan extended his finger
threateningly. “Did you or did you not go near the body
of your grandfather?” he demanded curtly.
"I can't remember.”
Teagan spoke to the coroner in a low voice; the next
instant he was holding out a white evening dress for
Sylvia to examine.
“Is this the gown you wore on the evening of Novem-
ber 18?"


THE PURPLE PARROT 183
“Yes."
He turned the dress so that the jury could see the
red smudge across its hem.
“When did this dress become stained?”
Sylvia nervously clenched and unflexed the fingers
of her right hand. Her eyes sought mine imploringly
—but I could do nothing.
“I don't know.”
“You don't remember going near the deceased ?"
“No! I tell you I don't!"
“Did Mr Foster remain downstairs the entire ten
minutes prior to your scream?”
“Yes,” she affirmed steadfastly.
“He didn't come through your room while you were
waiting at the dressing table?”
"No."
“Miss Morse, you may be charged with the murder
of your grandfather," the coroner admonished impos-
ingly. “Knowing this, do you wish to persist in your
statement that Mr Foster didn't enter your room at
any time prior to your scream?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were fixed straight ahead with a confidence
nothing on earth could break down, and I felt a lump
rise in my throat. I would have given anything to have
been able to save her from this.
The testimony concluded at last, the coroner in-
structed the jury:
“Remember, gentlemen, that it is not your function
to decide whether or not any certain person is guilty
of the death of Hezekiah Morse but to decide whether
or not the evidence you have heard is sufficient to jus-
tify that any person or persons be held for trial.”
They filed from the room. Minutes dragged like
great black hours across the face of time until Foreman


THE PURPLE PARROT 185
fibre my brain possessed. Sylvia in the County Jail!
Sylvia surrounded by its hardened and calloused in-
mates! And I was doing nothing—nothing at all!
We neared State Street, and a tall hotel loomed from
the shadows. There was a florist shop across the street;
I had once stopped there to buy flowers for her. How
long ago had that been? A week? Or a hundred years?
My mood, however, did not affect Westborough's
invariant cheerfulness. “Who knows?” he continued
genially. “Perhaps tonight we may be fortunate enough
to clear away a little more of the underbrush which
conceals our white flower.”
We reached the Morse house. I was going there for
a confidential talk with the servants, and Westborough,
for some reason of his own, had been eager to accom-
pany me. Baines opened the door for us, and we went
upstairs at once to the study. Something had been
bothering Westborough ever since the inquest. I wasn't
sure just what it was, but it was something connected
with that room.
The study, however, was much the same as it had
always been prior to Morse's death. The stain had been
washed from the desk and rug, I noticed the first thing.
With the tall desk lamp lighted, the room bore a
pleasant, cheery air that was not at all in keeping with
its recent history.
Westborough deserted me without compunction for
the bookcases. He was examining titles, his eyes, like
those of a true bibliophile, dwelling upon each volume
with a caressing tenderness.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“The missing receipt which Mr Wells gave Mr
Morse.”
“But the police "


186
THE PURPLE PARROT
“The police," he interrupted, “did not then possess
the knowledge that we have now. I have a deep-rooted
conviction that they failed solely because they did not
know where to look. Perhaps my theory is entirely
wrong, but I should like to put it to the test. Can you
tell me if that exceedingly rare volume, The Fall of
Prynces, is still in Mr Morse's library?”
I consulted the olive-green cabinet on the desk. The
index cards were there all right-made out in Hezekiah
Morse's own handwriting. After some search we found
the volume among the folio editions; it was a book with
a handsomely ornamented black calf cover.
Mr Westborough held it reverentially in his hands.
“The binding, if I am not mistaken, is early sixteenth
century.” He pointed to the ornaments. “Note the four
royal badges of the period: the Tudor rose, the royal
initials H.R., the Tudor portcullis, and the fleur-de-lys.
Dear me, what a treasure for a collector to acquire.”
He opened the cover, and Wells's receipted invoice
stared us full in the face. A brief notation upon the
back of the receipt explained why Morse had elected
to keep it with the book: "There are about ninety miss-
ing pages. Of the nine other copies of this work known
to exist, not one is entirely perfect and most of them,
like this, are large fragments—J.W.W.”
But something else had also been placed within The
Fall of Prynces, a white card which fell to the floor.
I stooped to pick it up. It was a card of the size and
shape Morse had used for his indexing, and there were
a few lines on it in Morse's bold handwriting:
BIBLE, “1462"
Fust and Schoeffer, Mainz, 1462. Printed on vellum; Latin
in Gothic characters. First dated Bible. First Bible to bear
name and device of its printer-Johann Fust and Peter
Sehoeffer.


THE PURPLE PARROT
187
“Dear, dear!” Westborough exclaimed. “This is most
interesting. I must remember to see that it is brought
to Lieutenant Mack's attention." He laid the card, to-
gether with the receipted invoice, upon the desk while
I restored The Fall of Prynces to its shelf. “And now,"
he continued, “shall we press our luck with regard to
another matter?”
“What matter?” I inquired.
“That concerning the somewhat enigmatic George
Smith-the erstwhile owner of the purple parrot.
Surely you have not forgotten him?”
I had not.
“You think we may be able to trace his family?”
He shrugged his slight shoulders. “Dear, dear, I
would not care to be that optimistic. But Miss Morse,
I recall your saying, mentioned that her grandfather
had rendered financial assistance to this emigrant from
his boyhood home. Doubtless there is a record of the
transaction.”
Morse had kept books, we soon discovered upon rum-
maging through the desk drawers. Every item of in-
come and expenditure had been meticulously entered in
a small ledger, which, however, did not contain any
entries further back than the beginning of the current
year. While Westborough, making no effort to disguise
his curiosity, was poring over the ledger, I leafed
through a bundle of canceled checks. They were care-
fully arranged by months, a rubber band securing the
checks for each monthly period, but, like the ledger,
they did not extend back any further than the current
year. Westborough continued his intent study of the
ledger. Hoping that there might be a letter from
George Smith or his family, I went through the entire
desk. The only letters I found were those in the steel
box which Mack had mentioned—the ones from Lolita.


188
THE PURPLE PARROT
These I did not disturb; I could not bring myself to
trespass upon their very personal contents.
I slammed the last drawer shut. “There's no reference
to George Smith in this desk. I'll swear to that.”
Westborough closed his ledger. “No doubt the older
records are stored in some other place. Let us go down-
stairs and consult Baines.”
The single lamp bulb in the center of the long hall
afforded so little illumination that it was almost neces-
sary for us to grope our way toward the back stairs.
But if the hall was dim the stairs were worse. I won-
dered how Baines had escaped breaking his neck a
dozen times a day in traversing this passage.
We paused on a small landing, half-a-dozen steps
from the kitchen, which, despite the gleaming electric
refrigerator in one corner, appeared definitely dingy
and outmoded. Matilda-our lady of the skillets—was
nowhere in evidence, but I could see Baines. Evidently
he had not heard us approach, for we caught him very
much off guard. He was in his shirtsleeves; his chair
was tipped back at a comfortable angle, and he puffed
clouds of smoke from a villainous smelling briar as he
perused the pages of The Saturday Evening Post.
“Baines !” I called from the landing.
Down banged the chair, the pipe clattered to the
table, and the magazine dropped to the floor while
Baines hastily donned his coat.
“I am sorry, sir. I did not hear you."
“Reading a good yarn?” I smiled.
His coat on, Baines had regained his professional
dignity.
“Quite amusing, sir.”
“Where's Matilda ?” I asked. “This her night off?”
“That day falls on a Thursday, sir. Miss Sampson
has retired to her room with a slight headache."


THE PURPLE PARROT 189
“That's too bad. I wanted to talk to both of you.
But if she's sick- "
“I do not believe it is at all serious, sir. I will inform
her at once."
I stopped him on his way to the stairs. “Not just
yet, Baines. Mr Westborough and I wish to examine
Mr Morse's old records."
“Is Mr Westborough a detective, sir?”
“An amazingly clever one,” I informed.
Westborough's face flushed. “You are far too kind,
Mr Foster."
“If I may be allowed the liberty of speaking out of
place ” Baines began.
“You may,” I told him.
“Then I sincerely hope his efforts may be crowned
with complete success, sir. It is unthinkable that Miss
Morse could be concerned with Mr Morse's death. I
have known her since she was six years old, and there
never was a more lovable child nor a sweeter young
lady, if I may be allowed to say so, sir.”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Bully for you,
Baines. You can count upon Mr Westborough getting
to the bottom of it.”
“I fear that you paint my abilities in far too glowing
colors,” Westborough returned. “One can only do one's
best. And now, Baines, will you tell us where Mr
Morse's old ledgers and canceled checks have been
stored?”
"In a trunk in the storeroom, sir.”
“Where's the storeroom?” I queried.
“In the basement, sir. I will show you the way.”
The door to the basement stairs opened from the
kitchen. After pressing a switch at the head of the
stairs to turn on the lights below Baines reached up-
ward for a ring of keys, which were hanging on a nail


190 THE PURPLE PARROT
behind the door. Westborough was examining a small
shelf protruding from the wall, upon which was re-
posing a pair of white cotton gloves.
“Do your duties, Baines, include the firing of the
furnace?"
Baines affirmed apologetically that they did. He
seemed to feel that he was losing caste by the admission.
“The house is so small, sir.”
The furnace was of the old-fashioned hot-air type.
The pipes, which radiated in all directions from above,
gave it a marked resemblance to a gigantic octopus.
"The ashes have been emptied recently?” Westborough
inquired.
“Daily, sir. The storeroom is here.”
The door was locked, but the key was one of those on
the ring which Baines had brought with him from the
head of the stairs. He flung the door inward to dis-
close a dusty, cobwebby sort of room, which contained
four or five trunks and innumerable truck of all kinds.
Strangely enough, the only items I can specifically re-
call are an empty bird cage suspended from the ceiling
and an ironing board stacked behind the door, neither
of which has the slightest thing to do with this account.
Selecting another key from those on the ring Baines
unlocked the largest of the trunks.
“All the old records are here, sir. I have myself con-
veyed many armloads of them to this place."
I could well believe it. The top of the trunk was
crammed with papers, and it looked as though we were
letting ourselves in for a man-size job. Baines with-
drew from the room, and we settled down to tackle it
as methodically as possible. Presently Westborough
called that he had found several bundles of canceled
checks. He carried them over to the light for a better
examination.


THE PURPLE PARROT 191
“They appear to be arranged by years, Mr Foster.
Dear me, our search will be considerably facilitated.”
“Sylvia said he was here ten years ago," I reminded.
“Find 1926 if you can.”
I had caught sight of some ledgers like the one up-
stairs and I began to hunt for the one covering the
same year. I soon found it and commenced an impatient
search among the entries. Since Sylvia had not told me
what month it had been when George Smith had visited
them, I was forced to start with January. I had gone
clear up to June before I found what we were after. I
read the amount and whistled.
“Great Scott! Morse gave the fellow ten thousand!”
Mr Westborough found the canceled check. It was
endorsed “George Smith," and it had been cashed at
Morse's own bank.
“Probably Morse himself took him there," I mused.
“He had to be identified, and a stranger from New
Zealand couldn't have known many people. It's a slim
chance, but somebody may have remembered him."
"Perhaps we may be able to discover a letter con-
cerning Mr Smith," Westborough suggested.
But Morse appeared to have been in the habit of
destroying his personal correspondence. An hour's ex-
haustive search yielded no further results. Only the
canceled check and the single ledger entry testified that
George Smith had actually been a reality.
Shamelessly leaving the entire search to me, West-
borough had retired to a far corner of the room with
the old ledgers. He seemed to have developed an inordi-
nate curiosity regarding the details of Hezekiah
Morse's personal finances. Finally I gave up the quest.
“It's no use. The bank is our only lead.”
We carried the ledgers back to the trunk, shut the
lid and locked it with the key Baines had left. Our dis-


192
THE PURPLE PARROT
coveries had apparently terminated in a blind alley.
Still it was something to know that Hezekiah Morse
had paid ten thousand dollars to the fellow who had
given him the purple parrot. Although that fact prob-
ably had about as much to do with Morse's death as
Mack's Aunt Harriet.
Baines was waiting for us at the top of the stairs.
Eyeing his hands ruefully Westborough asked to be
directed to the nearest lavatory, and Baines showed
him the one adjoining the kitchen. My own hands being
in an equally grimy state, I employed the same facili-
ties. As I stepped inside the door, I made a close exam-
ination of the diminutive room. There was only the one
door and a single small window, which was high in the
wall and too tiny to admit anything much larger than
a monkey. Matilda had been right; Baines would cer-
tainly have had to return to the kitchen. Besides, I re-
membered, the time was all wrong. He hadn't been here
at midnight or even at all close to it.
“Miss Sampson will be down in a few minutes, sir,"
Baines informed as I returned to the kitchen.
I directed him to bring her into the living room where
Westborough was now waiting. It was true that I didn't
have anything to tell her that Baines couldn't have re-
layed, but Westborough wanted to question her. I
didn't see what earthly good it would do, however;
O'Ryan's thorough catechism and the examination at
the inquest had undoubtedly exhausted Matilda's mea-
ger portion of information. Nevertheless, I agreed
wholly with Westborough that even such unpromising
straws must not be slighted, so bizarre, so inexplicable
was this puzzle from every ordinary standpoint.
Walking into the living room I found Westborough
standing by the fireplace, his hands locked behind his
back in a manner that made me think of Felix the Cat.


THE PURPLE PARROT 193
He was regarding the cold grate with a thoughtful pre-
occupation, but glanced up as I approached.
“That was a very odd loan, Mr Foster. Not only did
Smith apparently give no security, but, even more re-
markable, he did not pay any interest. Or, if he did,
Mr Morse had not recorded its receipt, an equally un-
usual circumstance.”
“Maybe Morse gave him the money,” I suggested.
“After all, ten thousand to him was no more than ten
dollars to me. And if Smith was the son of a boyhood
friend "
But I couldn't visualize Hezekiah Morse as such a
sentimental philanthropist. Nor could Westborough.
“A purchase appears to be more probable than a
gift.”
“But what could Smith sell him that was worth that
much?”
“So far we know of only one object."
“But that's absurd,” I objected. “Anyone willing to
pay ten thousand dollars for a bit of purple crockery
is stark, raving loony.”
“I am well aware that the theory verges upon the
fantastic,” Westborough smilingly conceded. “On the
other hand— ”
“I hear you wanted to talk to me,” said Matilda,
sweeping belligerently into the room with Baines in
tow.
I invited them to be seated. Baines expressed a pref-
erence for standing, but Matilda seated herself stiffly
on the edge of a large wing chair. She was wearing a
black dress as stiff as her manner, a dress a bit too
tight for her voluminous form. I explained that as
Morse's will had named my firm the executors of the
estate, we were empowered to pay all legitimate ex-
penses in connection with it and that their salaries


THE PURPLE PARROT
195
“I guess so,” Matilda groaned faintly.
“Do you like Miss Morse?” Westborough interro-
gated with surprising abruptness.
“The pretty thing—I should say I do!” Şincerity
showed in every line of the cook's middle-aged coun-
tenance. “She was always so bright and gay; it was
like a tonic every time she came into my kitchen.”
“Do you believe that Miss Morse killed her grand-
father?”
“Of course not!” Matilda snorted indignantly. “She
was too tenderhearted to kill a fly! And she thought the
world and all of him—who should know that if not me.
Many a time I've seen him so grumpy there was no
livin' with him, and her a-coaxin' him out of it with her
pretty ways. Lord, Lord, this headache's a-comin' on
sure!"
“A most distressing affliction!” sympathized Mr
Westborough. "Perhaps a wet towel on your head while
you lie down in a darkened room might be of some as-
sistance?”
"It don't do no good! Nothing does much good when
one of 'em gets really started. But go on with your
questions,” she added, with the air of a martyr de-
termined to do her duty although death snatched her
bodily the next instant. “What else do you want to
know?"
“I should like you to think back to Wednesday eve-
ning.” He held up his hand to stifle her unvoiced pro-
test. “Dear me, I know that you have already done
that, but if you are able to recall anything else, no mat-
ter how trivial it may seem, you may be of great as-
sistance to us in securing Miss Morse's acquittal.”
“I'll try, Mr Westborough,” she promised. “I'll try
to do the best thinking I can.” Her labored breathing
informed us that she was indeed indulging in a very


THE PURPLE PARROT
197
foot of the stairs and called for Baines, but there
wasn't any answer.
“He's been killed !” screamed Matilda.
“Be quiet,” I ordered. “I'll soon find out."
“I shall not allow you to go alone,” Mr Westborough
declared firmly. Considering his size and his age, he
was certainly dead game.
“You're not going to leave me here!” Matilda
shrieked. I had already reached the top of the stairs
and didn't stop to answer her.
The door to the study was open, and there was a
light burning within. Except for Baines the room was
empty.
We found the butler along the west wall, lying face
down at the foot of the bookcases. On the floor, not far
from his unconscious head, was one of Hezekiah Morse's
cherished iron candlesticks.
XXI
“SAKES ALIVE! Is he dead?” shrieked Matilda from the
doorway.
Half raising the prostrate butler I laid my hand over
his heart and was relieved to feel its steady beating.
“Not dead, but it looks like it had been a close shave
for him," I said.
“I shall notify the police at once," announced Mr
Westborough, who was already at the telephone. While
he inquired for Mack I made a quick survey of the
study.
Three books were scattered on the floor. A yawning
gap in one of the upper shelves of the bookcase showed
where they had originally rested. The glass door was
still open. I turned my attention to the desk. One lower


THE PURPLE PARROT
199
deserted, and no wonder! If Baines's assailant had filed
that way he would have had time to get at least as far
as the Loop.
I returned to the kitchen, where I found West-
borough. He was examining the kitchen floor, which
was immaculately scrubbed and bore no signs of out-
side dirt. But then, I told him, the alley as well as the
yard was paved.
We searched the whole house, beginning with the
basement and finishing with the servants’ quarters on
the third floor. There wasn't a sign of any intruder.
Somehow I hadn't expected that we would find any-
thing. If I had dashed down the back stairs right away
instead of— However, it was too late to worry over
that now.
The doorbell rang, and I went down to admit Dr
Trowbridge, the same person whom I had talked with
over the telephone the other night. There was some-
thing about his broad, square jaw and lean figure that
told me Baines would be in safe hands. We found the
butler moaning deliriously, and Matilda was wringing
her hands in dismay.
“The poor man's been groanin' somethin' terrible!”
Dr Trowbridge stooped over the recumbent figure,
his long, bony fingers skillfully exploring the lump on
Baines's head.
“A severe contusion! Doesn't seem to be any frac-
ture, though.”
The doorbell rang once more, and Westborough and
I left him issuing terse instructions to Matilda. Mack
greeted us with a curt:
“What the hell's it all about?"
Westborough explained briefly on our way upstairs.
Mack took a quick look around the study.
“Where is he?"


200 THE PURPLE PARROT
“In the bedroom across the hall. A doctor is now
with him,” Westborough replied. “You can readily see
how he fell from these powder markings. We found him
lying parallel to the bookcase, his head in the direction
of Miss Morse's room.”
“What 're the books doing on the floor?” Mack
wanted to know.
The question was something of a poser. For the first
time I examined them closely. They were large folio
editions, too tall to fit in an ordinary bookcase. I picked
up the nearest volume: The Workes of Benjamin Jon-
son. The other two books were volumes one and two of
Samuel Johnson's Dictionary of the English Language.
“If just one book was worth a grand three of them
ought to be worth some real dough," Mack conjectured.
Westborough was of the opinion that the identity of
the books made some slight difference in this matter.
“The set of Jonson's Workes—I notice that the second
of the two volumes is still upon the shelf—I have seen
quoted at $250. And an original edition of Johnson's
dictionary probably could not be sold for more than
$150.”
“Well, that makes four hundred," Mack declared as
he picked up the first volume of the dictionary. He
turned to the title page and the spell of the old book
asserted itself over even his matter-of-fact mind. “Say,
this was printed way back in 1755—long time ago. 'In
which,” he read aloud, “the words are deduced from
their originals and illustrated in their different signifi-
cations by examples from the beft- Must be a mis-
print here! They've used an 'f' for an “s”.”
Westborough refrained from even a suggestion of a
smile.
"If you care to look further inside the volume you
will find some very quaint definitions. Samuel Johnson


THE PURPLE PARROT
201
was a gentleman of forthright opinions, and he saw
no reason why, even in a dictionary, he should not
maintain them. Pension he defined as generally mean-
ing in England the pay given to a state hireling for
treason to his country and excise as 'a hateful tax levied
upon commodities and adjudged by wretches." " The
little man chuckled softly. “My own favorite bit of
Johnsoniana, however, concerns itself with the good
doctor's reply to the woman who queried why he had
defined “postern' as he did. “Because, madam, I knew
no better, the lexicographer is reputed to have thun-
dered.”
Mack, however, had now lost interest in Samuel
Johnson. “Somebody might've been trying to cart these
books out when Baines butted in and got himself
slugged. There was a newspaper yarn about how much
dough these books are worth. How does that idea strike
you, Westborough?”
“But the newspaper did not mention Jonson's
Workes nor Samuel Johnson's dictionary,” demurred
the little man. “Six other volumes were described, none
of which are to be found on this particular shelf of the
bookcase. Would not such an intruder choose to pick
out those volumes of whose market value he had been
informed rather than others which, for aught he knew,
might well have been worthless ?”
Mack thought this over. “Maybe this yegg had been
to college. He might've known these books would bring
him four hundred berries.”
"But, in the event he possessed such knowledge, he
would surely know also that these volumes are by no
means the most valuable in the library. The Anatomy
of Melancholy and Paradise Lost, both of which were
mentioned in the newspaper article I may remind you,
could be sold for a total of two thousand dollars. And a


202
THE PURPLE PARROT
single volume, The Most Noble and Famous Travels
of Marcus Paulus, would bring the same amount.”
“One book worth two grand !" Mack ejaculated.
“An exceedingly rare work,” Westborough pointed
out.
“Humph! Morse should 've put up bars on these win-
dows," was Mack's spoken thought. He crossed the
room to make an inspection of them. “Say, here's some-
thing else funny. The window's unlocked again. The
same window that was unlocked on Wednesday night.”
An odd coincidence certainly, but it was hard to see
how it could be anything else than coincidence. Prob-
ably Baines had overlooked locking the window since
Wednesday night; yes, that might easily prove the
true explanation. Moreover, there was the matter of
the unlocked kitchen door. I explained this to Mack,
and he declared with conviction:
“Somebody sneaked in that way while you had Baines
and Matilda in the living room-beat it the same way
after he'd slugged Baines. But, if he didn't come here
to swipe the books, what did he come for?”
“I cannot say,” Westborough returned, “but Mr
Morse's desk has also been searched. “That lower
drawer was not pulled out in that fashion when Mr
Foster and I left the room. And here is further con-
tributory evidence.” He pointed down to the floor, and
I noticed a broken rubber band about three inches
long. It was the first time I had seen it. “I am almost
certain that came from the desk,” Westborough added.
“Mr Foster and I found several such rubbers around
various rolls of papers."
“And left them there,” I affirmed. “At least I'll swear
I put every one of them back.”
“All right, the desk was rifled," Mack agreed. “So
what?" He picked up the receipted invoice, which was


THE PURPLE PARROT
205
“You think it's valuable?" Mack asked.
The little man nodded. “I am almost certain."
“Why?”
“Candidly, I haven't the least idea,” Westborough
replied.
“Can't say I ever found you very far wrong before,”
Mack admitted, staring thoughtfully at the floor. “All
right. Pete Whealon or no Pete Whealon, I'll do it.”
“I do hope that you will have no cause to regret the
step,” Westborough murmured.
“I'll take the risk," Mack answered shortly. “Now
what about this desk? Foster, have you any idea what
the fellow could be looking for?”
I shook my head. I couldn't name a single item with
market value among the papers I had so recently pe-
rused. Westborough had a suggestion to offer.
“Doubtless Mr Foster and I will be able to ascer-
tain if anything has been taken.”
Mack gave an approving grunt, but Dr Trowbridge
came into the room before we were able to begin our
search. The doctor had already donned his overcoat.
“The patient is conscious," he said laconically. “A
nasty crack, but no particular harm done. He ought
to be quiet the rest of the night, but he'll probably be
all right tomorrow.”
"Can I ask him a few questions?" Mack inquired.
"Shouldn't do any particular harm-if you don't
keep him talking too long. Good night, Mr Foster, Mr
Westborough."
"Hey, wait a minute!" Mack called. “Take a look
at this iron candlestick, will you? No, don't touch it-
we have to go over it for prints. Take the one on the
stand—it's just like this one. Heft it and tell me if it
was the thing used to slug Baines.”
Dr Trowbridge “hefted” as directed and made a few


THE PURPLE PARROT 207
parent from the surface like the submerged seven
tenths of an iceberg! Mr Foster, we are confronted by
certain forces which might almost be termed hyper-
physical. Sinister forces which-
“Baines was able to talk all right," Mack informed,
stepping genially into the room. “Doesn't know much,
though. Saw the light in the study on when he came
upstairs, he says. The door was open and the first thing
he noticed was that one of the bookcases was open and
some books were lying on the floor. He stooped to pick
'em up, and zowie! That's all Baines knows. I tried to
check about the back door, but Baines didn't remember.
Matilda first said it was locked and then she switched
around and claimed it wasn't. What a face that hen's
got! It'd stop more than a
He broke off abruptly. “Say, what the devil's eating
you fellows?”
Westborough answered for us.
“Something has been stolen from the desk. Mr
Morse's revolver!”


PART FOUR
Saturday, November 21





XXII
I WAS TRYING to catch up on some work I had allowed
to slide during the past two days. There was nothing
particularly urgent except the Lingley matter, a dis-
pute in the title of certain South Side real estate
which threatened to necessitate a thoroughly trouble-
some search of old records before we were ready to go
to court. I was wondering whether or not it would be
advisable to ask for a continuance when Steelcraft came
into the office and sat down on the other side of the desk.
I hadn't seen him since Thursday's conversation,
and I had some hopes that he might be able to shed some
light on the George Smith incident. Steelcraft had han-
dled Morse's legal affairs personally before he had
turned them over to me, and he had known the financier
for a long time. However, it turned out that he had
never heard Morse mention the name, George Smith.
I informed him that Mack had promised to get a
warrant to search Wells's house for the purple parrot.
“But, even if he finds the thing there, I don't see
how it will be any help to us," I opined. “Wells has a
first-rate alibi. He was driven home and left on his own
doorstep at eleven-thirty. He couldn't get from Rogers
Park back to Division Street in time to kill Morse, and
that lets him out."
Admitting the truth of this Steelcraft inquired how
many witnesses Wells could produce to testify to the
hour at which he had arrived home.
“Only one," I answered. “But he's as good as
twenty. It's the political big gun, Pete Whealon."
Bant to search What Mack hadhe, George Smith
hour ato one," I answil big gun, Pete
211


THE PURPLE PARROT 213
Scarcely had the voice at the other end of the wire
spoken two words before I realized that this call was
going to be decidedly out of my ordinary routine. The
tones were rough, low, obviously disguised, yet the voice
had a tantalizingly familiar quality. But, search my
memory as I would, I could not recall where or in what
connection I had heard it.
The very first thing the Voice said was:
“Will you pay ten grand for the name of the guy
who bumped off old Morse?”
Fortunately there was a scratch pad and pencil
conveniently near at hand. I wrote: “See if this call
can be traced,” and handed the note to Steelcraft, who
at once left the room.
I stalled for as much time as I could possibly gain.
If the telephone company could get into action while
we were still talking the call could be traced. I had
heard Mack say something to that effect the other
night. But I didn't have any idea how long it would
take to persuade the company to act, nor how long the
operation would require after they started.
“Ten grand is a lot of money. Have you evidence
that will stand up in court?”
There was a derisive snort from the other end of the
wire. “Offer a lawyer the moon, and he'll ask you to
put a red fence around it. No, I haven't any evidence,
but I can give you the name of the guy who bumped
off Morse. The rest is up to you—and the cops, god-
damn 'em.”
“Do you know how it was done?” I asked. “How he
left the house without being seen?”
“Hell, yes! I can give you the works!”
“How do I know this isn't a practical joke?” I
inquired.
“Because I'm telling you."


214 THE PURPLE PARROT
“Well, if you're acting in good faith, give me a test
of it. Tell me how Morse's murderer left the house."
The Voice instructed ribaldly, “You go slit a fat pig.
I'll talk when you give me ten grand and not before.”
"I haven't got that much money."
“Hell, you're Morse's executor, ain't you? That's
chicken feed to the pile he left."
“But I'm not empowered to draw on the account."
“You pay his bills, don't you?"
“Only the legitimate debts of the estate. I would be
criminally liable if I employed the funds for other pur-
poses.”
“You make me sick," the Voice informed wearily.
“You're engaged to the Morse girl, ain't you? Is it or
isn't it worth ten grand to get her out of the mess she's
in?
“It's worth a good deal more," I assented. “It's
worth everything. But how am I to get the money?"
“Cash a check on old Morse's account.”
“Even if they gave me the money I'd be arrested
before I could leave the bank. I'd have to get a court
order and you're crazier than you sound if you think
the probate court will allow such a claim.”
The excuse passed muster.
“Borrow it then!”
“Who from?” I returned. “You can't go around
borrowing ten thousand dollars at a minute's notice.”
“The hell you can't !”
“Maybe you can," I qualified. “I certainly can't.”
“Then to hell with you, Foster.”
“Wait a minute,” I cut in hurriedly. “I've got a
thousand of my own. I'll give that to you."
“Make it five.”
I hesitated as long as I dared. "All right, maybe I
can borrow four thousand. I'll have a check for you."
thousand a minute,” you, Foster.» certainly can't »


THE PURPLE PARROT
215
“You know what you can do with a check," the
Voice returned in annoyance. “I want it in cash-
one thousand five-dollar bills.”
I agreed that this sounded reasonable.
“And I don't want new bills either,” the Voice went
on mandatorily. “One thousand old bills—the dirtier
the better."
“But what if the bank doesn't have that many old
bills ?”
“It better have, or we don't do business.”
“All right," I assented. “I'll do the best I can.
When shall I meet you?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Where?”
“By the Buckingham fountain. Walk over and keep
staring at it. Don't look around. I'll come up behind
you and give you an envelope with all the dope in it.
Then I'll take the satchel.”
It was my turn to be derisive. "I wasn't born yester-
day, my friend. At this time of year the Buckingham
fountain will be as deserted as the beach. All you have
to do is to stick a gun in my ribs and collar the money.
If you do leave an envelope there will be nothing in it
but torn-up newspapers.”
“No, this is on the level. You pay me the five grand,
and I'll give you the straight dope."
“Then make a more reasonable proposal.”
“All right, you go to the Sherman tomorrow night.
Register under the name of John Jacob. I'll come up
to your room some time before eleven, tell you what I
know about the guy who bumped off Morse, and you
give me the sugar afterwards. I can't make any fairer
proposition than that, can I?”
I affected to consider this carefully, wondering if


216
THE PURPLE PARROT
Steelcraft had had time as yet to induce the telephone
company officials to start tracing the call.
“When I open the door to let you in you'll flash a
gun and take the money,” I objected.
“Suspicious as hell, ain't you?”
“I believe in going halfway to meet trouble.”
“Well, get a rod yourself. Pull it on me as soon as I
come in if that'll make you feel safer.”
“Now you're talking sense,” I said. “But if I have
you covered with a gun, how will you know I won't
you covereder to the policely, “Try it, you
The Voice swore profusely. “Try it, you bastard,
and they'll carry you out in a wooden overcoat.”
“Don't worry," I said apologetically. “I don't intend
to do anything of the kind. What time will you be at
the Sherman?"
“When I get there! I'll try to make it before eleven."
“What time should I be there?”
“God almighty, do you want a wet nurse? Any time
after eight. And one more thing, Foster."
“Yes?”
“The deal's off if you tell the bulls."
“I don't intend— ”
“And don't think I won't know it if you do. You've
been watched since Thursday, and my men know every-
thing you do. If you're as much as seen talking to a
dick this deal's off.”
I assumed as much alarm as I could conveniently
throw into my voice.
“I won't even say hello to a traffic cop. But you
haven't told me your-
A click from the other end of the wire was the only
answer. Steelcraft returned to the office. “They prom-
ised to trace the call, but they didn't start until a mo-
ment or so ago. It took some time for me to get to the


THE PURPLE PARROT 217
proper parties and explain what I wanted and why.
I doubt if there's been "
The phone rang again. A feminine voice from the
telephone company reported that they were sorry but
they had been unable to trace the call."
"Too bad you couldn't stall a while longer,” Steel-
craft remarked. “Although you did a first-rate job as
it was.”
“You listened?” I asked.
He nodded. “I asked Miss Fisher to plug me in on
an extension while Coleman talked to the telephone
company."
“Did you think it was anything more than a stage
setting for a first-class holdup?".
“It's hard to say,” Steelcraft returned cautiously,
“Well, I'll see if I can borrow a revolver some-
where,” I said. “It's pretty hard to hold up a man who
has you covered when he opens the door.”
Steelcraft shook his head dubiously. “That was his
suggestion, Barry. It may be a trick.”
“Anyway, I'm going through with it," I answered
grimly. Rather to my surprise Steelcraft did not at-
tempt to talk me out of the decision.
“I'll see you through on the money end.”
“That's decent of you," I said fervently.
“No, it's merely business. It's a legitimate expense
of the Morse estate. But even if it wasn't it would be
worth all that and a good deal more to help Sylvia
Morse. I like that girl, Barry.”
There was a whole lot I could have said to that but
I wasn't given the opportunity. The phone was ringing
again, and I picked up the receiver, wondering if the
Voice had changed his mind and was going to insist
upon “ten grand” after all. But this time it was Mr
Westborough.
worthe. I like thathole lot I cou. The phone


218 THE PURPLE PARROT
“Good morning, Mr Foster. I have a rather peculiar
request to make. However, I believe that my reasons are
good and sufficient. Are you able to obtain a key to the
Morse home?”
“I guess so. Why?”
“I should like to have one. But please do not tell
anyone for whom it is wanted.”
* I was taken aback. He could get into the house at
any time day or night. If Baines did happen to be
out, which rarely occurred, Matilda would surely be
there.
“Why “on earth do you want a key?" I asked.
“Dear me, I should prefer not to say at the present
time. There are so many conflicting threads-one inust
exercise unusual caution in making his way through the
tangled maze of the labyrinth.”
“All right, when do you want it?"
“If possible, today.”
“You'll get it today," I promised.
“One thing more, Mr Foster,” he added as I started
to hang up the receiver. “Will you come to police
headquarters at once? Lieutenant Mack has just dis-
covered Mr Morse's purple parrot."
6 All rigible, today. , I promised
XXIII
I WAS IMPALED upon a dilemma with two exceptionally
sharp horns. I had the sworn word of the Voice that if
I went to police headquarters negotiations would be
broken off completely. But if the purple parrot had
been found it was certainly my duty to be on the spot
as quickly as possible. Moreover, not to comply with
Westborough's natural request would undoubtedly


220 THE PURPLE PARROT
Mustache, but then, I reflected, the Voice would hardly
employ him again.
Climbing down from the train at Wilson Avenue I
waited for a while on the platform. Nobody else got
off but a middle-aged woman, who walked briskly down
the stairs. I followed her to the street and watched her
disappear along Wilson Avenue. She hadn't even once
glanced back at me; I was sure of it. I waited a few
more minutes at the foot of the stairs, but I might as
well have been at the bottom of the Grand Canyon for
all the attention I was attracting. I flagged a cab and
ordered the driver to take me to headquarters.
The tall gray building towered like a monolith from
amidst the squatty edifices surrounding it. Before
stepping out of my cab I remembered that it would be
very easy for the Voice to have a watcher posted
nearby. If so all my efforts at confusing the trail were
utterly useless. I glanced cautiously up and down the
street before leaving the taxi, but, seeing no suspicious
looking loiterers, I decided to take the chance.
The purple parrot was in Mack's office, sitting on the
detective lieutenant's desk. I inspected it closely. A
funny-looking bird, shaped with feathers around its red
glass eyes and perched upon a purple rock. As a work
of art it wasn't so hot. If, as Westborough seemed to
think, Morse had really paid ten thousand dollars for
this thing he certainly should have had his head ex-
amined.
“Did you find this in Wells' house?” I asked.
“Right behind the books in that room upstairs where
Westborough said it'd be," Mack informed.
“Where I said it might be," the little man corrected.
“What did Wells have to say for himself?"
“His explanation is a very curious one,” West-
borough stated. Mack guffawed.


224 THE PURPLE PARROT
Mack jerked his broad thumb in my direction. “Fos-
ter."
Whealon glared threateningly. “Foster! Morse's at-
torney makes the identification! What kind of dirty
frame-up is this?”
“Frame-up is a hell of an ugly word,” was Mack's
comment.
“It's a frame-up as plain as your nose,” Whealon
retorted. “You know damn good and well who killed
Morse; you got her down in the jail now. Foster hasn't
a ghost of a chance to clear that girl. She's guilty as
hell, and he knows it. And here's a fellow who was
known to have called on Morse the night of the killing
-it doesn't matter if he's a harmless little cuss who
wouldn't hurt a beetle, and has an iron-clad alibi for
the time of the murder in the bargain. Since there's
not any real evidence Foster decided to manufacture
some. So he bribes you with some of Morse's dirty mil-
lions "
Which was about as much as I could stand.
“See here, Whealon, let me tell you a thing or two.
Once you called Morse a swindler before witnesses, and
had to back down and eat humble pie or you'd have
paid plenty for it in court. If you're not careful history
is going to repeat itself.”
“You goddam shyster,” Whealon roared.
He swung for me but somehow Mack got between us.
Mack isn't nearly as big as Whealon; as a matter of
fact, he's a couple of inches shorter than I am. But
he caught Whealon's arm, and, in spite of his bulk,
Whealon couldn't seem to shake himself loose from
the detective's grip.
“Sit down," Mack ordered. “You've raised enough
hell for one morning, Whealon. Now I've got a few


PART FIVE
Monday, November 23





XXIV
THE JANGLING OF THE TELEPHONE aroused me from a
sound slumber. Drowsily I opened one eye and won-
dered where I was. Certainly not in my own room. Then
it came to me in a single illuminating flash.
The Sherman !
I sprang out of bed and grabbed the phone.
"Eight o'clock, Mr Jacob," informed a pleasantly
cheerful voice.
“Any messages for me?" I asked, hoping still against
all reason. However, there was nothing. The Voice had
definitely let me down!
Had it been just a ghastly practical joke? There
were, I knew, people who were capable of such jesting.
Or had the Voice's unknown agents seen me enter the
police station and reported the fact to their employer?
That would be supremely ironical, because if ever in-
structions were faithfully executed to the letter, these
had been. I had not told the police. I had not even
told Westborough, much as I disliked breaking faith
with the little man.
But Westborough was too close to Mack to take the
risk. Moreover, I told myself consolingly as I shaved,
his flawless logic couldn't be employed upon this mat-
ter, which was merely the sordid business of paying a
stool pigeon his thirty pieces of silver. Or rather (my
legal training compelling the correction for the sake of
accuracy) his thousand five-dollar bills. Wrinkled bills,
dirty bills—exactly as the Voice had ordered. They
229


230
THE PURPLE PARROT
were still in the suitcase under the bed. Or were they?
My face covered with a mask of lather, I hurried across
the room to see.
However, the suitcase was there locked. I hastily
opened it. Inside was my own brief case and in it a great
sheaf of bills—seemingly as many as I had put there
on Saturday afternoon. If the object of the Voice's plan
had been robbery he had not succeeded in carrying it
through.
I thought it over as I finished shaving. The locked
hotel door undoubtedly did make robbery difficult, but
the hotel room had been his own idea. I had acquiesced
in every detail, taking no precautions beyond the ob-
vious one of borrowing Coleman's revolver. And even
that had been the Voice's suggestion; not mine.
What was the answer, then? I tried to reason it out
while I finished dressing, but my brain refused to click.
Maybe some of Westborough's logic was needed after
all. My own mind. couldn't produce anything better
than the old idea of a practical joke. Perhaps that
would explain why the Voice had been so hauntingly
familiar. Perhaps one of my so-called friends "
I ran the list over in my mind, but I couldn't conceive
of one of them capable of such macabre humor. I
packed my soiled shirt, socks and toilet articles into
the suitcase and started out of the room. As I reached
the door I remembered Coleman's revolver—I had put
it in the drawer of the writing desk, where it would be
handy to the door and yet out of sight.
It was still there, looking coldly menacing as I
opened the drawer. I dropped it into my overcoat
pocket, but it bulged conspicuously and made me recall
there was a stiff law against carrying concealed weap-
ons. Opening the suitcase again I stowed it in there.
I walked toward the elevator, reflecting that if the


THE PURPLE PARROT 231
police should see fit to arrest me at that moment, I'd
have some difficulty in explaining why I was registered
at a hotel under an assumed name and why I carried
a suitcase containing five thousand dollars in bills and
a revolver.
However, there were no detectives in the lobby, at
least none who were looking for me. While paying my
bill I asked once more if there had been any message
for Fos— Just in time I caught myself and sub-
stituted Jacob.
There had been no message; I hadn't really expected
that there would be. On my way to the coffee shop I
noticed a pile of morning newspapers stacked on the
counter of the cigar stand.
There had been another murder in Chicago said the
black headlines which were smeared all over the front
page of the Bugle. But I didn't buy a paper. This,
obviously, had nothing to do with the Morse case, and
I was in no mood to read the gory and gruesome details
of another killing. After breakfasting I took a cab to
the office and was deep in the intricacies of the Lingley
case by the time Steelcraft arrived.
"A complete washout," I answered in response to his
inquiring look.
“Your man didn't show up?"
"No."
“Strange,” he meditated.
“Probably nothing but a practical joke.”
“I doubt that,” he took issue. “Not many people
think in that manner. Practical jokesters run in well-
set grooves as a general rule. They will give you the
number of the city zoo and tell you to ask for Mr Fox
or the number of the city incinerator and tell you to
call Mr Berner. This seemed to me to have all the ear-
marks of the real thing." His forehead knitted medi-


232
THE PURPLE PARROT
tatively. “Perhaps something happened to your in-
formant."
This was an aspect I had never considered, and the
implications left me momentarily speechless.
“It's rather a dangerous game to peach on a mur-
derer,” Steelcraft continued. "Perhaps- "
Perhaps I had been a bit hasty in refusing to read
about the details of last night's killing. If this theory of
Steelcraft's should be right-
The telephone shrilled in my ear, and I answered it
hurriedly, hoping that it would be the Voice after all to
set another appointment.
It was only Westborough—but a very excited West-
borough.
“Mr Foster, good morning! I have another ridiculous
favor to ask of you. Doubtless you are thinking I am
completely unbalanced, but I assure you that such is
not the case. I have indeed a very good reason for this
strange request, but, unfortunately, it would take too
long to explain over the wire."
After all this prologue I thought I was ready for
almost anything. But I was not prepared for the
“strange request" when it finally did come.
“Mr Foster, am I correct in my belief that the stone
in Miss Morse's ring is one of those curious gems which
are named after the Czar Alexander II because found
in the Ural mountains on his birthday—an alex-
andrite?”
“Yes,” I returned, a little impatiently. “What on
earth- >
“Very good indeed!” he exclaimed. “Miss Morse
did not remove the ring prior to her incarceration?”
“I don't think so. Whatever- "
“Mr Foster, will you be kind enough to procure it


236 THE PURPLE PARROT
led."
“Which reminds me that he told me to ask you some-
thing else. Did your grandfather ever belong to an
association of rare book collectors?"
Her eyes were frankly puzzled. “The Bibliophile
Club? I believe that's the only such organization.”
“That's the one Westborough specifically men-
tioned.”
“Grandfather refused to have anything to do with
it, because he didn't like one of the members," she con-
tinued.
“Mr Whealon?” I hazarded.
Her eyes widened. “Are you reading my mind?”
“Not in the least," I assured her. “It isn't even
moderately brilliant deduction. I knew Whealon was a
member of the club, and Steelcraft told me about the
rumpus your grandfather had with him.”
A morose deputy entered to inquire if I expected to
linger in that particular spot the rest of the day. “I'm
going now," I told him. Sylvia's look was so sorrowful
that, without regard for the deputy's sour visage, I
stepped back to the partition.
“My poor darling?"
“Don't, Barry.” She smiled bravely, but there was a
telltale trace of moisture in her eyes. “Don't make me
feel sorry for myself. It really hasn't been so bad.”
The deputy made some sarcastic observation to the
effect that if I didn't go soon it would be necessary to
build a fire under me. Regretfully I left her to go to
headquarters.
I found Westborough gazing blankly from a window,
while Mack fiddled with some papers on his desk.
"I've got it,” I proclaimed as soon as I came into
the room. “Now tell me what- "
Mack's shout prevented me from getting out another
word.


238
THE PURPLE PARROT
“However, we do know that this man was shadowing
Mr Foster,” he said. “I recognized him myself as the
individual who was watching us at the Canterbury Inn."
Mack's voice was ominously calm. “Just the same,
Foster, you can tell me where you were last night.”
The request was only reasonable, but it put me in a
predicament. If I didn't tell him I'd probably be ar-
rested on suspicion, and if I did,
I thanked my lucky stars that Steelcraft had listened
in and could corroborate my goofy story.
“I was staying at the Sherman under the name of
John Jacob.”
“What!” Mack roared. “What!”
I told about the Voice. Westborough looked at me
reproachfully, but said nothing beyond a brief, “Dear,
dear.”
I concluded my account with the statement that
Steelcraft, whose reputation for respectability was on
par with that of an ordinary bishop, had listened in
on the extension and could corroborate what I was say-
ing.
Mack thundered belligerently, “Why didn't you tell
me about it?"
I explained that the Voice had expressed himself with
undisguised clarity that any such action would lead
to the breaking of all negotiations. Mack groaned in
disgust.
“Same old stall! How do you expect us to get any-
where on a case when the public won't co-operate?”
He read me a lecture on the subject, and in all fair-
ness I had to admit that he was entirely right about it.
In my own defense, however, I stated that I had acted
as I had believed to be in the best interests of my client,
and since the police had already fixed upon a solution
presumably they didn't need my help. Our discussion


THE PURPLE PARROT
239
was rapidly becoming heated when Mr Westborough
interrupted with a pertinent question:
“Was it Gronstein's voice you heard over the tele-
phone, Mr Foster?”
I answered that it had been an obviously disguised
voice, and I hadn't been able to identify it, although I
did have the feeling that I had heard it before.
“It must have been Gronstein,” he answered with
unwonted assurance. “Everything fits, even his occupa-
tion."
“What was that?" I asked.
“Jewel fence,” Mack returned laconically.
“Which reminds me of Miss Morse's ring,” West-
borough said cheerfully. "You have it, have you not,
Mr Foster?”
I answered by taking it from my pocket and handing
it to him. He carried it over to the window for inspec-
tion: the stone, I could see, was now a bright green.
“An emerald by day and an amethyst by night,”
Mr Westborough quoted softly. “The stone absorbs the
red part of the spectrum, which is strongest in artificial
light.”
“Is that why you wanted the ring?" I asked.
“Oh dear, no. I wanted it for quite a different reason,
which will be at once apparent to you. Lieutenant
Mack, do you still have Mr Morse's purple parrot in
your possession?”
Mack brought it from a drawer of his desk. He was
as much mystified as I was, I could tell.
“Before beginning my little experiment," said West-
borough, “I should like to ask what Mr Foster has
learned concerning Mr Morse's membership in the
Bibliophile Club."
“He didn't belong-couldn't stick our friend Whea-
lon," I answered.


240 THE PURPLE PARROT
“I surmised that Mr Morse was not a member,"
Westborough stated quietly. "Otherwise it would have
been quite impossible.”
“What would?" Mack wanted to know.
Westborough did not reply. He had taken the
statuette from the detective and was scrutinizing it
closely.
“I think I mentioned to Mr Foster,” he recalled,
“that the kakapo is not purple, which is indeed an un-
common color among the order Psittaci, but green var-
ied with brown. If I am not mistaken I hazarded at the
time that the purple shade might be of some signifi-
cance. Now I feel fairly certain that the purple glaze
was selected solely for camouflage.”
“Camouflage!" Mack and I exclaimed together.
“Yes,” Westborough explained. “The bird was
tinted purple because a true verisimilitude in color was
impossible without one incongruous detail. The eyes
of the kakapo are black—not red.”
Mack shook his head doubtfully. “Have you gone
screwy, Westborough?"
"I hope not,” smiled the little man. Holding the par-
rot in his left hand, he pressed Sylvia's ring against the
thing. The stone was brilliant cut-like a diamond-
and he drew the edge of one of its facets lightly over
the round, protruding eyes. Then he returned the
statuette to Mack.
“Examine the eyes carefully, please.”
Mack did so. “They're just the same as they were
before,” he said disgustedly.
“Exactly the same as they were before,” West-
borough beamed. “But ordinary glass would not be so
unmarred. Jewelers, defining hardness as the ability
to resist abrasion, have established an arbitrary scale
with which to make comparisons. Upon Mohs's scale


242
THE PURPLE PARROT
facets to reflect the light and make 'em glow. These
are rounded—as though you sliced 'em off a ball."
“Yes," Westborough confirmed. “They are cut en
cabochon, and hence make very satisfactory eyes. It is
undeniably true that rubies are best in color when in
full step cut—with parallel and horizontal facets
but the cabochon cut, older and more economical, is
often preferred by purchasers of quiet taste. More-
over, it is the only proper cut for star rubies."
“Are these star rubies?" I asked.
Westborough shook his head. “Apparently not, and
yet their value is by no means to be sneezed at. I do
not see how they can weigh less than three carats
each, and a three carat ruby of the desirable color
and fire these stones have is something of a rarity.
I am the veriest layman in matters concerning jewels
(here, as always, Westborough underrated himself),
but I believe that prices for fine natural rubies of as
high as twenty-five hundred dollars per carat are by no
means uncommon."
Mack began to calculate. “Two rubies, three carats
each. Six times—say, that makes these things worth
fifteen thousand bucks. But how do you know they're
not synthetic?"
“I am not enough of an expert to tell,” Westborough
admitted. “However, I should think it unlikely that
Hezekiah Morse would pay ten thousand dollars for
them without having an appraisal by a competent
jeweler.”
"I'm going to take this thing down and get a jew-
eler's report myself," Mack declared. “But if you're
right and they are rubies, how the devil did they ever
get sunk in a lousy little purple parrot?"
“George Smith must have put them there," I specu-
lated. “I remember Sylvia saying that the money her


THE PURPLE PARROT
243
grandfather gave him went to establish a pottery. He
probably owned one, or at least worked in one, in New
Zealand. That's how he could make the thing himself,
and that's just what he did. He put the rubies in while
the clay was moist and then fired it."
“Nuts!" Mack exclaimed. “The heat 'd melt 'em.”
Westborough shook his head. “I have already con-
sidered that question. The average clay is fired at a
temperature of 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. Rubies do
not melt under a temperature of 6,000 degrees.”
"Well, the oven 'd break the stones up or spoil their
color or something," Mack persisted.
“Not in the least,” Westborough demurred. “A
graduated increase of heat will not fracture the stone.
And while it is true that the ruby does change color
upon being heated, the color is not altered permanently.
The pristine tint is restored as soon as the stone has
cooled again.”
Mack yielded. “The thing could have been done
then. But why in blazes did this fellow Smith do it?”
“Smith emigrated from New Zealand,” Westborough
reminded. “I can see a very simple and very obvious
reason to justify his trouble.”
“To smuggle the rubies through the customs?”
Mack asked.
Westborough nodded. “Yes. Under the tariff act
then effective a tax of twenty per cent was imposed
upon such stones. If these rubies are worth, as we have
conjectured, fifteen thousand dollars the tariff would
amount to three thousand dollars, a not inconsiderable
sum. Dear me, I can only paint the picture with ex-
tremely broad strokes. Many of the details must re-
main forever obfuscated. But it is not too improbable
that Mr Smith was unable to pay such an amount,
nor that he should be pessimistic concerning his ability


244 THE PURPLE PARROT
to procure the required ransom during the three years
allotted him to release the rubies from a government
warehouse."
"If he wanted to fool the fellows at the customs he
took a hell of a big chance," Mack grumbled. “Leaving
these rubies right out in the open where anybody
could spot 'em! If he must bring 'em over in a purple
parrot why not bury 'em inside?”
“But," objected Westborough, “in that event Mr
Smith could not know how his rubies had survived
their ordeal by fire. Nor could he exhibit them to a
prospective purchaser without destroying the statuette,
which might not have suited his purpose. There was
indeed the risk that the stones might be detected as
such, but if the statuette had been obviously pur-
chased for a small price from a New Zealand pottery
(and I do not doubt but that Smith secured a bill of
sale to testify to this fact) then its examination by
customs officials might easily be perfunctory. It is the
Purloined Letter psychology once more, and that it suc-
ceeded is sufficiently well evidenced by the fact that the
rubies are now here.”
Mack grudgingly admitted the explanation might
not be too unreasonable. “But," he objected, “why did
Morse keep 'em in the statue like this, instead of lock-
ing 'em away in a safety deposit vault, like anyone with
any sense ought to do?”
“I fear that is one of the details which must remain
in obscurity,” Westborough confessed. “However, I
believe it suited Morse's caprice to see such valuable
jewels taken without question for worthless glass by
all to whom he showed them.” He sighed. “Dear, dear,
it is pitifully ironical that such a harmless whimsy
as his purple parrot should have sealed Hezekiah
Morse's death warrant.”


THE PURPLE PARROT
245
“Morse was killed for that thing?" Mack shouted.
“I am nearly sure of it.”
“Who knew it was worth real money?"
“Obviously its secret could not have been known to
many people,” Westborough opined. “George Smith is
dead, and— ”
“The jeweler!" Mack interrupted. “If Morse did
take it to one for appraisal.”
“I think that we may except the jeweler," West-
borough averred. “Jewelers, like lawyers and doctors,
retain the confidence of their clients."
I had an idea of my own at this point. If West-
borough was right in his belief that Morse had been
killed to obtain the purple parrot then the financier's
death could not be laid to Sylvia. For, by terms of the
unsigned will, it was the one object which would con-
clusively and undeniably be hers. I voiced these
thoughts aloud and, to my delight, Westborough con-
firmed them.
“Yes, in my own mind at least, that unfortunate
child is entirely exonerated.”
“Humph," Mack grunted skeptically.
Well, it was a long way from Westborough's mind
to Mack's, and probably a still longer journey from
Mack's mind to Lew Teagan's, but Westborough's
words comforted me, nevertheless. He had never said
before, in so many words, that he believed Sylvia to be
innocent.
Mack grumbled, "I can't check with you that Morse
was killed for the rubies. Too simple, by far. There
might be a hundred other reasons. But if that was the
answer, then the guy that did it was the guy who stole
'em. Wells. And Pete Whealon gives him ”
“Mr Wells could not possibly be Mr Morse's mur-
derer,” Westborough interrupted. (I was willing to


THE PURPLE PARROT
247
“Have you gone clean screwy?" Mack wanted to
know when he was finally able to say anything at all.
I found the implication equally difficult to accept.
“Do you mean to say that Hezekiah Morse, a million-
aire and a man of some position, deliberately framed
this poor little bookseller?”
“That is exactly what I do mean,” Westborough in-
sisted. “You cannot deny, Mr Foster, that Mr
Morse had at times been a trifle unscrupulous in his
methods? In other words, that he was a believer in the
dictum concerning the justification of the means by
the end?”
“Hell and high water wouldn't stop him when he
wanted something," I admitted. “But to frame this
poor little scholar for no reason at all! And to use for
the frame-up the one thing he was planning to leave to
Sylvia without any strings attached to it!" I shook my
head doubtfully. “You're asking us to believe a great
deal, Westborough.”
“Let me answer your last objection first, Mr Foster.
I fancy that the purple parrot was to enjoy no longer
the distinction of being the only object left unre-
strictedly to Miss Morse. From Mr Vail's account we
can guess that Mr Morse, had he lived, would un-
doubtedly have made still another alteration in his
will. And the purple parrot was the only object of ade-
quate value and sufficiently small size to serve his
purpose.”
“What purpose?" Mack asked.
“Dear me, it appears so obvious. What was Morse's
greatest interest in life?”
“His books,” I answered without hesitation.
“And what did Wells have that Morse wanted?”
Westborough continued to catechize.
“An old Bible,” said Mack. “The one he offered


248 THE PURPLE PARROT
thirty grand for. Good Lord! Would he pull such a
low-down trick just to get that?”
Westborough was sure of it. And, I conceded, if
Hezekiah Morse had wanted Wells's 1462 Bible badly
enough, he wouldn't care much about the shabbiness of
the trick employed. As Westborough had mentioned
some of the steps in Morse's career had not been overly
scrupulous.
“I do not believe the plan to have been at all pre-
meditated,” Westborough resumed. “I think that
Morse acted impulsively and upon the spur of the mo-
ment, after his scanty store of patience had been ex-
hausted by Wells's persistent refusal to sell. Morse
accompanied Wells to the front door. While traversing
the darkened stairway the statuette might easily be
slipped into Wells's pocket. Its bulk is not large
enough to attract undue attention; it is entirely within
the realm of probability that Wells is speaking the
exact truth when he says that he did not notice it until
the following morning.”
“Then the next day Morse was going to call up and
raise the devil," Mack speculated. “He meant to
claim Wells had swiped rubies worth fifteen thousand
bucks, and there was going to be hell to pay about it."
“Something of the kind was no doubt his intention,”
Westborough concurred. “Mr Wells, for all his knowl-
edge of rare books, is an amazingly unsophisticated
person. After he had found the parrot statuette in his
own possession he would be helpless against such an
attack from Morse.”
“And Morse, after putting on the screws for all they
were worth, would finally calm down and agree to let
the matter drop if Wells would return the purple par-
rot and give him the Bible,” Mack continued to the
orize.


THE PURPLE PARROT 249
Westborough had a slight correction. “I feel sure
that Mr Morse had fully intended to purchase the book
at his original offer of thirty thousand dollars. His
object, I believe, was merely to break down Wells's
obstinacy, not to benefit financially.”
“Wait a minute!" Mack exclaimed. “Wells was a
good friend of Pete Whealon, and Morse would 've had
sense enough not to monkey with him. Whealon can
pull ropes and plenty of 'em in this man's town, and
Whealon hated Morse. Boy, oh boy, how he hated him!
Morse 'd know if he tried a stunt like that on Wells,
he'd land behind bars so fast it wouldn't even be
funny.”
“That would undoubtedly have been the outcome
had Morse survived,” Westborough admitted. “But it
was not the outcome that Morse had foreseen. Morse did
not know that Wells was a friend of Whealon's."
“He didn't? What makes you think that?”
“Baines had never seen Wells before, and the name
conveyed nothing to Vail nor to Miss Morse. Moreover,
Morse was not a member of the Bibliophile Club to
which Wells and Whealon belonged. The conclusion is
inescapable that Wells and Morse were not intimately
acquainted, and hence it is reasonable to assume that
the close association between Wells and Whealon was
unknown to Hezekiah Morse.”
“Well, it's a sweet theory," Mack admitted. “Trouble
is you haven't a speck of proof."
“On the contrary the proof is in Morse's own hand-
writing,” Westborough smiled.
“What!”
“On the card which we found with Wells's receipted
invoice.”
“Oh, that card! I remember now. There was some
dope on it about the Bible."


252 THE PURPLE PARROT
table. "Your message sounded rather mysterious,
Baines. As though something strange has been going on
here."
He helped me to remove my overcoat. “There has
been, Mr Foster. I decided not to notify the police un-
til I had talked to you first.”
“Notify the police?" I repeated. "Was it that seri-
ous?”
Baines bowed apologetically. “Another burglary,
sir.”
“What?"
“I am sorry, sir."
"Last night?”
“Between two and three, sir.”
So, while I waited at the Sherman for a Gronstein
already lying stark and cold on a Lincoln Park bridle
path, Morse's killer--the “Xi” of Westborough's fancy
-had prowled again. Was he still looking for the pur-
ple parrot? I wondered. True, it had then been down
at the police station, but Xi could scarcely know that.
Not a word had been allowed to leak into the news-
papers concerning the part played by the statuette in
this baffling enigma. And the same object could readily
explain his Friday night visit; his hurried search of
Morse's desk, the volumes frenziedly yanked from the
bookshelves. But, I told myself, it might be just as well
to hear Baines before I embarked upon such a specula-
tive sea.
Baines used no more words than were actually neces-
sary, but for all that, and despite the interpolation of
frequent “sir's," he told his story in a vivid, convincing
manner. He had been awakened at about half-past two
by a noise from the floor below. "Like someone walk-
ing around, sir.” Putting on dressing gown and slip-


256
THE PURPLE PARROT
the Grand Jury, before which she was to appear on
Wednesday.
I considered my chances; they were probably about
as good as of reaching the moon. Nevertheless, there
was nothing to stop me from trying. And, since I had
to begin somewhere, I began with the man whose name
was at the moment uppermost in my thoughts. The
man with the biggest motive of all for killing Hezekiah
Morse.
That he had talked to me with a specious frankness
I was by now entirely convinced. He had concealed an
important piece of relevant information, for surely
he must have known of Mrs Spendall's return to Chi-
cago. And there had been two serious discrepancies in
his story.
Westborough, with his uncanny predilection for the
niceties of logic, had spotted one of them immediately.
Vail had not given me a sufficient reason for his quarrel
with Morse, a quarrel which he had admittedly pro-
voked. True, Vail's temperament was perverse enough
-both Mack and O'Ryan could testify to it—but it
was scarcely that much at variance with his self-
interest.”
The other discrepancy was a trifle—but of the trifles
which sometimes hang men. We had aroused Vail from
a drunken stupor, and Hudson had declared that he had
arrived home in a condition of uproarious inebriation.
Yet Brenda Carstairs had told O'Ryan in the Water
Tower Station that Vail had been sober when he left
her–or, at the very most, not noticeably squiffy.
I was trying to decide just where that led to when
my pipe went out and with it my entire train of
thought. I reached for an ash tray, but there wasn't
one in the room, so I went to the window to knock out
the cold ashes against the window sill.


258
THE PURPLE PARROT
“Yes, this is Miss Carstairs."
“I'm Barry Foster. Captain O'Ryan introduced us
at the station."
“Yes, I remember. You're Sylvia Morse's lawyer?"
“That's right. May I come over right away?”
She laughed banteringly. “Fast worker! Sorry, but
I'm busy tonight. Any other time do?”
“You don't understand. All I want is to ask you a
few questions." I added, earnestly, if melodramatically,
“A woman's life may be at stake.”
“Sylvia Morse's?”
“Yes. I won't take up more than half an hour of
your time, Miss Carstairs, I promise.”
“Well, there's a party on here, but we can talk in
the kitchen if you have to make it tonight.”
“I'll be over in fifteen minutes,” I told her. “Thanks
a lot.”
Replacing the receiver I tore the address from the
scratch pad and started toward the door. Then I re-
membered something that I had overlooked and rushed
back into Sylvia's room. I took a photograph from its
silver frame on her writing desk.
Baines appeared as I reached the bottom of the
stairs.
“Are you leaving so soon, Mr Foster?”
“I'm coming back tomorrow- " I paused with
my hand on the doorknob. “By the way, is tomorrow
night Matilda's night out?”
“No sir."
“Then tell her to take it. I've a special reason for
wanting her out of the house.”
Baines bowed imperturbably. "I shall so inform her,
sir.”
I looked at my watch upon leaving the house and
consulted it again when I reached the address on Dela-


260
THE PURPLE PARROT
but wit up and mall night, th to tell you:t of drinking
know him particularly well. As a matter of fact, I— "
She paused abruptly. “As a matter of fact what?" I
asked.
“Nothing.”
“Miss Skipworth shares the apartment with you,
doesn't she?”
“The rent is too much for either of us to swing
alone.”
“Was Miss Skipworth here the night Vail called?”
“Not that night. Jane was out on the South Side
calling on Aunt Martha, who's as mean as they come
but who may leave her a million bucks some day--if she
doesn't up and marry a gigolo first.”
“She was gone all night, then?”
“That's what I was trying to tell you."
“Pardon. You and Vail did a good bit of drinking,
didn't you? I hope you don't mind my getting per-
sonal.”
“Call that getting personal?" she gibed. “Yes, we
were lapping them up pretty fast, I guess."
“How did the drinks affect you?" I asked hopefully.
“Did you- "
She shook her head vigorously. "I see what you're
driving at, Mr Lawyer-Detective, but it won't work.
Things were pretty blurry, I admit, but I knew what
was going on every minute of the time. Tom wrapped
a wet towel around my head, and I laid down on the
couch while he made coffee-pretty good coffee too. He
made me drink two cups of it. Speaking of drinking
I must be getting back to that bunch of bums now.”
I caught her arm in time to stop her from opening
the door. “Please, Brenda. Just a minute or two. You
were lying on the couch and things were 'pretty blurry.'
Why didn't Vail open the windows and let the room
air out?”


262
THE PURPLE PARROT
"Angbodded. .ou and i anywhere
shooting down a new track. Where do these questions
lead to?”
“I'm not sure they lead anywhere," I answered. "I
understand that you and Vail were out for dinner?”
She nodded. “«'s God's truth,' the maiden said.”
“And then you came here?”
“No, didn't I tell you? We flew to China."
I skipped the sarcasm. “Who opened the door down-
stairs ?”
“Tom. I gave him my key, and he opened it like a
perfect little gentleman."
“The same key unlocks the door upstairs?”
“That's usually true in an apartment, isn't it?"
“Therefore, Vail would naturally keep your key to
open that door?”
“Of course,” she nodded.
I inquired impressively, “Brenda, are you sure that
Vail ever did return your key?”
“Gosh!” she exclaimed. “You've got hold of a honey
of an idea! Come to think of it, I don't remember him
doing it.”
“But you found it in your purse the next morning
as usual?”
“Yes,” she corroborated, “it was in my purse the
next day.”


266
THE PURPLE PARROT
would be delivered, and I had to be content with that.
Baines came up from the basement, shouldering a
plank of the size specified, and I helped to carry it up
to the study. “That's just the medicine the doctor
ordered!" I exclaimed.
He shook his head doubtfully. “I am still mystified,
Mr Foster.”
“Baines, did you ever puzzle over how Morse's mur-
derer left the study?”
“It is very perplexing, sir.”
“Perplexing is no name for it. Our killer-by the
way, Westborough actually knows his name!"
“Not really, sir?”
“He does, but he won't call him anything but Mr Xi.
Well, let's follow his example. Xi could make his exit
from the study only through the window or by the door
to Miss Morse's room! Take the door first: even if he
went out before Miss Morse arrived, he'd have to go
down either by the front or by the back stairs; there
isn't any way he could leave the house without being
seen. Therefore, the door's impossible; it's got to be
the window—the window that was left unlocked.”
“But that's equally impossible, sir."
"Is it? Come over here and I'll show you something."
I led the butler to the window and triumphantly indi-
cated the holes in the masonry. “See those, Baines?
For some reason or another, they weren't filled up after
the balcony was torn down. They're in a straight line,
a foot below the window sill. One is eighteen inches to
the left of this window and the other is an equal dis-
tance to the right of Vail's window. Now I'll show
you what I bought this afternoon."
I unwrapped my parcel to reveal two oval-headed
spikes. Each was a foot long and about half an inch in
diameter.
1000."


THE PURPLE PARROT
267
“What large nails, sir!" Baines exclaimed.
I smiled. “Those, Baines, are spikes, and a devil of
a time I had getting them. I went to three hardware
stores before I hit on the idea of hunting up one that
specialized in builders' hardware.”
Baines shook his head in bewilderment. “I don't see
what you are planning to do with those, Mr Foster.”
“Just this,” I said. Leaning out the window I in-
serted a spike into the nearest hole; it fitted snugly and
penetrated to a depth of about six inches allowing half
of its length to protrude from the wall. I had to lean
far out of the window and stretch my arm a consider-
able distance in order to infix the second spike.
“Be careful, sir," Baines called in alarm.
“It's all over now," I reassured him. I stepped back
to survey my handiwork. “There! Now we lay the plank
across those two spikes, and we have a peach of a bridge
between the two houses. Get the idea, Baines ?”
He got it, all right, as I could tell by the sudden look
of horror on his face. “Then the murderer, sir, is-
is Mr Vail?”
“He is,” I said grimly.
“I can't believe it, sir," Baines expostulated. “Is that
also what Mr Westborough thinks?”
“As I told you he's never said what he thinks. But,
unless he's a million miles off, I don't see how he could
have any other idea.”
"But Mr Vail was with a young lady until twelve-
thirty," Baines objected.
“Wait till I get through tearing that alibi to pieces,"
I prophesied sternly.
“I can't believe it of Mr Vail,” Baines mumbled, but
he sounded as if he wasn't sure he could convince him-
self.


268
THE PURPLE PARROT
“If Vail is guilty you'll help me to bring him to
justice, won't you?” I asked.
“Yes sir. It was a brutal, inexcusable murder, sir.
And a very cowardly act to allow Miss Morse to be
blamed unjustly, if I may say so, sir."
“First, is Vail's servant, Hudson, a particular pal
of yours?"
“We often exchange pleasantries across the back
wall, sir.”
“That ought to make it easier. Call Hudson on the
telephone and find out from him if Vail is going to be
home this evening. If he is there's nothing we can do.
But if he's going out, invite Hudson over to share a
bottle of beer with you. I suppose there's some in the
refrigerator?”
“At present there is not, but I can easily procure
some. You're not actually going to enter Mr Vail's
house, sir?”
I nodded determinedly. "If I find some spikes like
these hidden there they'll make a mighty sweet exhibit
for a jury.”
“But if the window is locked, sir?”
I reached in my pocket for a small instrument, which
was red-handled and which terminated in a small,
sharp-edged wheel.
“This, Baines, is a glass cutter. It should be a simple
trick to cut a hole around the catch, reach in and un-
fasten it."
Baines was profoundly shocked. "But that's house-
breaking, sir!"
I admitted it and confessed I'd probably get several
years in Joliet if Vail caught me and cared to prose-
cute. However, I had thought the thing out and had
to take the chance. “And, besides, the risk will be negli-
gible if the house is empty," I concluded. “Pick up the


270
THE PURPLE PARROT
Turning my head I glanced downward at the dark,
empty street. There didn't seem to be much chance of
being seen. I clung to the window embrasure and felt
for the plank with my left foot. I am one of those who
marvel at the feats of steeple jacks and window washers,
and that six-inch plank looked appallingly narrow.
If I slipped—but I decided not to dwell on that. My
feet rested upon the plank at last-right in the center
of it between the two spikes. For one awful moment I
swung there like Mohammed's coffin, and then my hand
clutched the embrasure of Vail's window, and I stepped
up easily onto the sill. Now that it was actually ac-
complished, I felt it had been easy.
I found the window unlocked so that my glass cutter
turned out to be just excess baggage not that I re-
gretted it. I jumped inside and pulled down the shade.
Then I stood there a few minutes in the dark and
listened. But the noise of my own breathing was the
only sound I could hear. It certainly did seem safe
enough to go on with this venture. I had brought a
small flashlight with me, and I pushed its sliding but-
ton. A beam of white light fell upon the blues and yel-
lows of the huge bed. Should I begin my search in this
room? It scarcely seemed logical that Vail would keep
his spikes in the capacious drawers of that mammoth
carved bureau. But the only sure way of finding out
was to look.
A board creaked under foot; boards were always
creaking in these old houses. And, thanks to my own im-
patience, Hudson was still downstairs. At such moments
one's mind plays queer tricks. Once I swear that I ac-
tually heard his footsteps ascending the stairs. But,
though I listened intently, the sound was not repeated,
and I told myself that I had heard nothing but my own
protesting conscience.


THE PURPLE PARROT
271
The bureau drawers, as far as I was concerned, were
empty. I peered fruitlessly under the bed and then rum-
maged in a capacious closet, which had been built in the
days when a closet was a giant cavern. Here were in-
numerable suits and a million or so shoes—but still no
spikes.
Neither were they in the bathroom, but that wasn't
a likely cache. I found a second bedroom; Hudson
evidently hadn't visited it for some time because there
was dust over everything. I ransacked a chest of
drawers, then another bureau. I had so far found ex-
actly nothing, and all the while time was slipping, slip-
ping away from me.
“Where does he hide the damned things?" I asked
myself.
Flashlight in hand-like any sneak thief-I stole
across the hall. Another board groaned underfoot, and
I stood stock-still. Presently, venturing to go on, I
entered the nearest room. It was a small den, utterly
at variance with the Spanish character of the rest of
the house, but Vail had made it very inviting with a
bearskin rug before the open fireplace and a number
of large lounge chairs. It wasn't the sort of place where
I could expect to find anything. However, I would
have a look around. ... I stiffened suddenly into im-
mobility.
Downstairs men were talking. Two of them; I could
even recognize the voices. And, though I wasn't men-
tioned by name, they were talking about me. For Hud-
son was saying in a voice frightened and alarmed:
“There's someone upstairs, Mr Vail!”
Vail! He was back in the house! Had it been a mis-
take about his date or what that had led him to return
so unexpectedly? However, that question was of minor
importance. Vail was here, and Vail was dangerous !


272
THE PURPLE PARROT
brew me dome. But luck,' liould go down
I must admit that I threw all heroism to the winds and
thought only of getting out as quickly as possible.
Tiptoeing cautiously to the door I saw, to my com-
plete and utter demoralization, that Vail and Hudson
were coming up the stairs together. There wasn't any
way to get across the hall without being seen. I was
cut off from my plank, and I couldn't leave the house.
All I could do was to grope my way back again into the
den in the dark, hoping they would go downstairs with-
out finding me. But luck, like a capricious woman,
threw me down at the moment I needed her most. I
happened to brush against a book lying at the edge of
the table, and it fell to the floor with a loud crash. .
“Hudson, you're right!” Vail's exclamation came
from just outside in the hall. “Someone is here!"
Their footsteps drew closer and closer to me. There
wasn't another way out of this confounded den. I was
trapped, and trapped neatly. There wasn't even a place
to hide, except an obvious closet. However, poor con-
cealment though it offered, it was decidedly better than
nothing. I hurried inside and pulled the door shut be-
hind me.
“The noise came from the den,” I could hear Hudson
conjecturing, and I thought angrily:
“The fat slob! Why couldn't he have been wrong for
C.
once?”
Then I noticed a glimmer of light under the closet
door. “The noise was that book, Hudson,” Vail de
clared with calm assurance. "It's been knocked on the
floor.”
Mentally, I kicked myself to Jericho and back. It
would've been so easy to have picked the thing up, but
I hadn't even thought of it.
"He must be hiding in this room,” Hudson whispered


274
THE PURPLE PARROT
set in an uncompromising straight line. "Well, Foster,
I'm waiting for you to explain.”
“You told me an interesting story the other after-
noon," I began, “but even more interesting were the
two facts which you left out.”
Vail's steely blue eyes were fixed rigidly on my face.
“Well?”
“One of those facts," I went on, “is that Dorothy
Spendall, your former mistress, has recently returned
to Chicago.”
Vail's tone would have chilled the interior of a re-
frigerator.
“And the other?”
“That Dorothy Spendall called on you Wednesday
afternoon."
Vail started visibly. "You're bluffing. You can't pos-
sibly know that."
If the truth must be known I hadn't been able to
prove it, but his reaction clinched the point.
“She called on you to demand some money," I con-
tinued. “I don't know how much, but more than you
have in the bank-probably a good deal more. Your
financial affairs are shaky; I've seen a Hill's report on
them.”
Vail moistened his lips. “That's rather a contemp-
tible bit of spying, Foster. But go on.”
“Mrs Spendall threatened to tell Morse all about
your affair if you didn't pay her. Morse, descended
from the Scotch Presbyterians of Dunedin, was a stern
moralist. You've admitted that much to me. He
wouldn't be apt to condone adultery. It looked very
much as though your hope of marrying Sylvia was to
be unfulfilled and, in addition, Morse would probably
cut you out altogether from his will. You pleaded with
Mrs Spendall for time, but she was obdurate."


THE PURPLE PARROT
275
Vail's face showed his perplexity. “I can't possibly
see how you found this out, Foster.”
“Then you remembered Morse's purple parrot,” I
pointed out.
“Purple parrot?” Vail repeated. “Are you crazy?”
"Don't try to pretend to me that you weren't ac-
quainted with its secret," I admonished. “You knew
- and you were probably the only person in the world
besides Hezekiah Morse who did know—that its red
eyes were rubies worth at least fifteen thousand dol-
lars."
“My God!” said Vail. “Is that why— "
“Yes, that's why Morse was killed,” I told him. “You
could stall off the Spendall woman with the rubies, but
you didn't dare to leave Morse alive if you took them
-he would suspect you right away since you were the
only other person who knew their value. And you'd
be assured of at least a third share of the Morse
estate if Hezekiah Morse died that night. Moreover,
there was an excellent chance that Sylvia might feel
herself obligated to carry out her grandfather's last
wish. Cold-bloodedly, you determined to kill him!”
“I killed him?" Vail's lips compressed threateningly,
but I hurried on.
"It's obvious to you by now, Vail, that I entered
your house tonight by the very same method you used
to get into his study.”
“I haven't the slightest idea what you mean.”
“Your portable bridge, however, clever as it was,
might be deduced by the police, since you couldn't ob-
literate the holes in the wall. Hence, you arranged to
have a witness who would swear that you were with her
at the time of the murder, and to swear with the con-
viction that her words were perfectly true!"
“Are you demented?”


THE PURPLE PARROT
277
clock ahead—not less than half an hour. Brenda was
in the living room but in her befuddled condition it was
easy matter to escape detection while you moved the
hands of her electric clock ahead by the same amount
you had altered the alarm clock. Her watch isn't in run-
ning order, and there are no other timepieces in the
apartment.
“Your next action was, of course, to revive Brenda.
Here, you were skating on dangerously thin ice. If she
failed to respond to the stimulant and lapsed into an
alcoholic coma she was no good to you as an alibi. It
would take too long to resuscitate her, and time was
precious to you then. But your worst hazard was that
if she became conscious of a lapse in memory, she
wouldn't be able to testify that you were with her all
the time. I imagine, Vail, that you were inwardly on
pins and needles, as you forced her to drink the coffee
and waited to see its effects.
"Fortunately for you, she revived, and you told her
it was twelve-thirty. You emphasized the time pointedly
so that she would glance at her clock to make sure you
were right-another natural action. You are as fa-
miliar as I with the narcotic effects of alcohol. Brenda,
in her own words, dropped off the minute her head hit
the pillow.
“It took you less than ten minutes to walk to your
home, where you let yourself in and tiptoed to your
bedroom to avoid rousing Hudson. You inserted the
spikes into the wall, as I did this evening, and laid a
plank over them on which you could cross to Morse's
study. You found his window open or at least unlocked.
The slight noise you made as you stepped from the
window sill wasn't sufficient to attract Morse's atten-
tion. You knew his remarkable capacity for sustained
concentration. Standing directly behind him you seized
WOW.


THE PURPLE PARROT 279
defense for jo silencedir as I apprenad now gon
“Thomas Vail,” I concluded, as impressively as I
could make it, “that's the case I can make against you,
and now I'm going to call the police.”
But Vail held the ace of trumps in the squat and
efficient automatic he had in his coat pocket, and un-
easily I began to wonder if I hadn't acted nine kinds
of a fool in so fully revealing my hand. I had broken
into Vail's house, a fact which would make a strong
defense for him if he were to conclude that I should be
permanently silenced.
I shivered inwardly as I apprehended my full pre-
dicament. Then, realizing that I had now gone too far
to be able to back down, I started across the room to-
ward the telephone. Vail's voice arrested me.
But Vail's tone, I heard with relief, was not that of
a killer.
“There is one serious error in your chain of reason-
ing, Foster. You said that I found the window unlocked
and so was able to enter the study. What would I have
done, Foster, if the window had been locked?”
My hand was already on the telephone, but I with-
drew it abruptly.
“According to your theory," Vail went on, “I plotted
an elaborate and involved procedure to establish an
alibi for a murder which I could only perpetrate if a
certain window happened to be unfastened. No mat-
ter how great Morse's powers of concentration, even
you'll have to admit that I certainly could not force
the window with a jimmy or break the glass without
attracting his attention. Therefore, the success or fail-
ure of my plot depends upon that window, and the
chances are that it would not be unfastened. The win-
dows to Morse's study were usually locked as I was
aware from my association with him. Now, if I had


280
THE PURPLE PARROT
sufficient foresight to arrange such an alibi as you sug-
gest, don't you think that I would also have considered
that contingency?”
His logic seemed irrefutable. Was this, I wondered,
the obstacle that had stopped Westborough?
“Your preliminary conjectures are true," Vail coolly
continued. “Dorothy Spendall did call on me, and she
did demand ten thousand dollars under threat of in-
forming Morse of our former relationship. I don't mind
admitting that my finances are at low ebb. However,
your assumption that I then determined on Morse's
death is the false foundation on which you erect your
entire scaffolding. Instead I did what any decent man
would have done under the circumstances. I told Heze-
kiah Morse the whole story, and that's the real reason
why we quarrelled.”
Was the man telling the truth? For the life of me
I couldn't tell. His voice carried conviction, and I
decided that if Vail were lying he was a peerless actor.
“You still doubt me, don't you, Foster? Very well,
I'll have to tell you that Brenda and I weren't alone
in her apartment that evening. Another person also
saw me leave at twelve-thirty, and that person was Dot
Spendall!"
“Dot Spendall!" I echoed in disbelief.
“Yes. After I had gone to Uncle Hezekiah with the
results you already know I kept my appointment with
her solely for the pleasure of letting her know her guns
had been spiked. Dorothy only laughed and said that
she had never had any serious intention of telling him
anyhow. I didn't know whether or not she was speaking
the truth, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt and
elected to bury the hatchet by asking her to dinner. At
the restaurant we met Brenda, an old friend of Doro-
thy's, who invited us to her apartment.”


THE PURPLE PARROT 281
“Why didn't Brenda mention Mrs Spendall to the
police or to me?” I demanded.
“Dorothy confessed to Brenda that her name and
mine had once been linked by gossipmongers and added
that it would be better if they weren't coupled in the
press. Brenda promptly agreed to take the entire mat-
ter of clearing me on her own shoulders.”
“But you did stop at the tavern on your way home,”
I insisted.
“Certainly,” Vail acknowledged. “That day had been
rather disastrous for me. I had quarreled irrevocably
with Uncle Hezekiah; I had been forced to give up my
last chance of Sylvia. Under the circumstances you
may understand why I didn't choose to go to bed sober."
Could I believe his story? What was true, what was
false, and how could the two be sifted? Vail seemed to
read my hesitation.
"If you want confirmation why not call Mrs Spen-
dall at the Jetrock Hotel?”
I did so—and conducted a lengthy conversation with
a tinkling little voice at the other end of the wire.
Finally I replaced the receiver and shamefacedly ex-
tended my hand.
“Vail, I want to beg your pardon. I'm convinced
you're innocent."
XXIX
I SHOWED VAIL my improvised catwalk.
"Ingenious! But you're not going back that way,
Foster?”
“Not as long as you're willing to let me out the front
door. One such trip is enough for an evening, I don't
mind telling you.”


282
THE PURPLE PARROT
“I should think so." Vail smiled as we descended the
stairs. The door closed behind me.
The windows of the Morse house were dark; even
the light in the study had been turned off. I felt a faint
tinge of apprehension as I rang the bell. Baines seemed
to be a long time in making his appearance. It didn't
usually take him more than a minute or so to answer
the bell. I pressed my finger upon the button and kept
it there. I could hear the clamor of the bell within, but
no sound of answering footsteps.
"Baines !” I hammered anxiously against the door.
“Baines!”
Only a stolid silence answered. My uneasiness in-
creased. Twice, I remembered, Baines had been in close
contact with Morse's assassin. At neither time had
Baines seen the man, but Westborough's “Xi” might
well fancy that he had been recognized.
Xi-his identity was more of an enigma than it had
ever been-might have decided to complete his mur-
derous work tonight. And Xi was possessed of an un-
canny secret which apparently enabled him to enter the
house at any time.
I rushed back to Vail's door; I think I was a little
mad. I rang impatiently until Hudson, alarm written
plainly upon his podgy countenance, came to admit
me, and then I brushed hurriedly past him. I found
Vail in the Spanish bedroom upstairs. He was just
changing to a dressing gown, and the blue-black auto-
matic was reposing carelessly upon the top of the
carved dresser.
“Baines doesn't answer! Something's happened to
him!”
Vail's first move was to replace his coat, and his sec-
ond to slip the automatic in his pocket.
“That bridge of yours is going to be some use after


284
THE PURPLE PARROT
“I did leave the house for a few minutes, sir. To
procure the beer with which to entertain Hudson."
Vail, I could see, was puzzled by this explanation, but
I didn't enlighten him. I was beginning to feel foolish
for having stirred up such a mare's nest. To cover my
chagrin I asked exasperatedly:
“Didn't anything at all happen while I was away?"
“Mr. Westborough telephoned, sir.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“He said that he would be here shortly, sir."
“How long ago was that?”
“Shortly after you left. At least an hour ago, sir."
I turned to Vail and admitted that I seemed to have
brought him over on false pretenses. “However," I
added, “now that you're here, why not wait for West-
borough's slant? I promise you you won't be bored by
him.”
“Westborough? Oh yes, the little historian! All
right, I'll wait for him, Foster.”
"Is there anything else, sir?” Baines wanted to know.
I pointed to the window.
“If you really want to be useful you can dismantle
the Bridge of False Hopes and carry its components
back to the basement."
His face remained immobile. “Very good, sir.”
Vail had seated himself at the desk. “It's a theory of
mine that one can get a clue to a person's thoughts from
the scribblings he makes while he's telephoning. Sup-
pose that Uncle Hezekiah had jotted down a few stars
or triangles on this scratch pad "
“I tore the top sheet off yesterday," I interrupted.
“Anyway, there wasn't any scribbling on it."
“But there's a word written here now," Vail said.
“There can't be!" I objected. “The pad was blank


288
THE PURPLE PARROT
attention at the time, but I was completely wrong.
“That's Westborough for you! Queer little codger!
Full of stories like that—about people no one ever
heard of who've been dead a hundred years or so." His
frown deepened into a ferocious scowl. “If anything's
happened to that little fellow I'll— "
“But Mr Westborough could not possibly have been
here,” Baines averred.
“Why not?" Mack demanded truculently. His nerves
-like my own—were worn to razor thinness. “Foster
said you were out. How long were you gone?"
“Scarcely more than fifteen minutes, sir."
“That's time for—hell, it's time for anything !"
Baines was quietly patient, as one explaining an ob-
vious fact to a three-year-old. “But Mr Westborough
could not enter the house in my absence, sir.”
“Hell, that's right!" Mack exclaimed. “Foster, if
you've been trying to kid me "
“Westborough had a key,” I said shortly.
“He had a key?”
“Baines knows I had one made.”
“I did not know that it was intended for Mr West-
borough, sir."
“Well, it was. I gave it to him on Sat- "
“That clinches it!" Mack proclaimed. He tore off
the top sheet from the scratch pad. “This thing is evi-
dence enough—even if there hadn't been something
screwy about his phone call.”
“Westborough called you?" Vail and I asked to-
gether.
“Yeh, it was him," said Mack. “I recognized the
voice, but he didn't get a chance to say more than two
words before the line went dead. I thought we'd been
cut off, and I waited about five minutes for him to
call back. Then I got a little worried and phoned his


THE PURPLE PARROT
289
hotel. Night clerk-fellow by the name of Larson-
told me that you'd called him from here, Foster. Said
that Westborough had tried to get you just before he
left the hotel and that he had talked to somebody at
the number.”
“He talked to me, sir,” Baines informed. “At the
time I received the message Mr Foster was away from
the house."
Mack's stare was undisguisedly suspicious.
“Every one of you seems to have been out. Con-
venient for some of you, maybe.”
Vail corroborated my account, but Mack would not
listen to an explanation.
“We've wasted way too much time now. Baines, you
and I'll take the top floor. Foster and Vail, you take
this one. Sing out if you find anything."
Vail and I poked feverishly in closets, peered anx-
iously into dark corners, but could find no further
traces of Westborough's presence. Equally unsuccess-
ful, Mack and Baines rejoined us in a few minutes.
“The basement,” Vail suggested. “It's the most likely
place if he's— "
I don't believe he could have finished that sentence.
I know that I couldn't have done it even had Mack
allowed it.
“Where's the basement, Baines ?”
Descending the back stairs to the kitchen I was re-
minded of Westborough. He and I had come the same
way when we were in quest of the canceled check from
George Smith. Baines opened the door to the basement
stairs, revealing a yawning dark cavern. "Turn on the
lights," Mack growled.
Baines pressed the switch, and the cavern was con-
verted into an ordinary, harmless basement. The butler
reached behind the door for the ring of keys on the nail.


290 THE PURPLE PARROT
“Well?" Mack grumbled. “What ’re you waiting
for?”
“My keys, sir. They're gone!"
“Keys to what?"
“To the wine cellar and to several storerooms, sir."
“Now we are on the trail !" Mack shouted jubilantly.
“I'll find that little guy if I have to kick down every
door in the place.”
But the kicking wasn't necessary. We found Baines's
keys protruding from the lock of the first door we
tried—the door to the same storeroom Westborough
and I had visited the other evening.
Mack flung the door open unceremoniously, and we
rushed inside. Someone had shoved an enormous ward-
robe trunk a foot or so away from the wall; that was
the first thing I noticed.
I hurried over there at once, and, in the space behind
the trunk, lying ominously quiet, I saw Westborough.
His hands and feet were bound with a length of clothes-
line; his mouth had been taped shut with adhesive tape.
As I shouted to the others my heart sank clear down
to my shoes and stayed there. The little man's hair,
sparse and silvery, was discolored by an ugly-looking
clot of blood.
XXX
Mack's HEAD shook gravely. "He's still breathing, but
it looks like it had been a close call for the little fel-
low."
We carried Westborough, trussed as he was, to a
sofa in the living room. While Mack cut loose the ropes
and ripped off the adhesive tape, I went with Baines to
procure hot water. Vail, almost as well acquainted with


292 THE PURPLE PARROT
knot in the bandage. “Fortunately, their evidence will
not be needed.”
“You mean you've got the goods at last!” Mack
cried delightedly.
“Yes,” Westborough confirmed. “All the necessary
proofs are in my hands." He fumbled anxiously
through his pockets, and I waited expectantly. “Dear
me, I do not seem to have my spectacles,” the little man
sighed. “Strange, is it not, that one's eyesight should
be so utterly dependent upon two curved pieces of
glass?"
“What did become of 'em?" Mack growled. “Come
to think of it, I- "
Baines produced the gold-rimmed bifocals from his
own pocket. “They were lying upon the floor beside
you, Mr Westborough. I took the liberty of cleaning
them, sir.”
“Thank you,” the little man murmured, adjusting
the bows over his ears. “Once more the world is revealed
in its true perspec "
“Who was the guy who hit you?" Mack asked
bluntly.
Westborough asserted with conviction, “The same
person who struck down Baines last Friday. The mur-
derer of Carl Gronstein. The assassin of Hezekiah
Morse."
“What's his name?" Mack demanded peremptorily.
Westborough smiled. “The chain of logical inference
is the meal, the conclusion merely the dessert. Surely,
you do not wish your dessert to take precedence over
even the preliminary cocktail?”
Mack grinned. "Give me enough cocktails, and you
can keep the whole dinner. But tell your yarn in your
own way. I guess you've earned that.”
“Shall we begin by adjourning to the study? There


THE PURPLE PARROT
295
provides that Miss Morse, in the event she defied her
grandfather's matrimonial wish, was to receive from
him only this statuette. Why was the 'purple parrot
thus specified? For two reasons: it was valuable—the
rubies, as we now know, are worth at the very least
fifteen thousand dollars and its value was unrecog-
nized. Both of these qualities were necessary for the
success of Morse's plan.”
“What plan?”
“While Morse lived he did not wish to exhibit any
signs of yielding. Neither, however, did he desire to
leave his granddaughter entirely destitute. That con-
clusion is, I believe, fully justified; otherwise, Morse
might easily have substituted any worthless object or
the conventional one dollar for the parrot in his will.
Miss Morse, however, was ignorant of the parrot's
secret. Unless Morse planned to play a grisly post-
mortem joke upon his sole descendant, a hypothesis
scarcely consistent with his character, some provision
must have been made for apprising Miss Morse of the
parrot's true worth. Shall we suppose that, at the same
time he drew up the rough draft for the will, Morse also
wrote a letter? A letter which he left with some trusted
person to be delivered to Miss Morse only after her
grandfather's death and, perhaps, only upon the event
of her marriage to another person than Mr Vail?”
I couldn't see it. “Anything as important as that
would have turned up before. Under the circumstances
no one would keep such a secret."
“Unless motivated by his own self-interest,” West-
borough demurred. “Gentlemen, I think that Morse did
leave such a letter. I think that it was opened and read
by the supposedly trusted recipient, who thus became
the only other person besides Hezekiah Morse to learn
of the purple parrot's secret. And the name of


296 THE PURPLE PARROT
that trusted recipient~Morse's murderer—is written
plainly in Morse's unsigned will."
“I couldn't read it there," Mack sighed.
Nor could I.
“Then consider the bloodstained glove," Westbor-
ough suggested.
“There wasn't any such glove," Mack objected.
“But the glove, or its equivalent, had indubitably a
real existence. Your men conducted a very thorough,
painstaking search. Why was the glove not found?”
“Because it was carried out of the house," Mack
snapped.
“Dear me, no. Let us try another line of thought. It
is odd,” he continued reflectively, “that among all of
the possible suspects only one appears to have had
traffic with underworld characters. Evidently the boot-
legger, Giovanni Canzonetta, was among the least harm-
less ”
I shrieked a warning_too late! When or in what
manner Baines had possessed himself of Vail's auto-
matic I never knew. At that moment, however, it was
enough that he had it and was holding it inflexibly.
"Stand together in that corner!” he barked. “All of
you! And keep your hands up!"
XXXI
THERE WERE NO HEROICS. Mack carried an automatic
in a shoulder holster, but it might as well have been
down at headquarters for all the use it was now. The
detective made no attempt to reach it—a wise decision
because a bullet can travel a good bit faster than the
human arm.


THE PURPLE PARROT
297
“I have lamentably blundered," sighed Westborough.
“I must admit that I had hoped for some overt act
which might be construed as a confession. But I had
not dreamed that - "
Nor had I! What a stupid, blundering amateur of a
detective I had been ! Bent upon a wild-goose chase next
door when all the time the quarry was under my very
nose! I had even asked that quarry to help in my mis-
guided attempt a joke for the high gods. Why hadn't
I perceived the truth? Westborough had declared that
the name of Morse's murderer was plainly written in
the unsigned will, and now, perversely enough, I was
able to read the riddle plainly. The five-thousand dollar
bequest to Baines had not been granted because of the
stirrings of Hezekiah Morse's conscience. Not in the
least. Morse had demanded value received from the but-
ler. Baines was the one who had been selected to impart
to Sylvia the truth concerning the purple parrot.
Yes, Baines had learned the secret of the statuette
and had killed Morse to secure it. That much was plain,
but a myriad questions remained to be answered. The
attack on Baines. Sunday night's burglary. The but-
ler's undoubted alibi at the time of Morse's death.
These were puzzling problems and clamored for a solu-
tion. I could answer some of them, perhaps. Obviously,
it had been Gronstein who
Baines's curt command broke into my thoughts. The
butler had dropped his mask as completely as Uriah
Heep had shed his supposed “humility” under similar
circumstances.
“Hand over that gun, Mack!”
“It won't be healthy for you if I do," the detective
warned. His tone was quiet, matter of fact. “The min-
ute my fingers close around that baby, I just naturally
itch to start shooting.” He added with significant em-


THE PURPLE PARROT 301
“I see that I must be more explicit. You will remem-
ber that we found a rubber band on the floor-a broken
rubber band.”
"Now I see it," Mack shouted. “When you push
back those receding doors, there's a knob sticking out
-two knobs for each door. Baines simply hung the
rubber band on one of 'em and balanced the candlestick
on it. That your idea?”
"It is exactly my idea,” Westborough corroborated.
"Indeed, I made the same experiment myself prior to
telephoning you this evening. I used one of the rubbers
from Mr Morse's desk. The rubber was old and broke
under the weight of the heavy candlestick, but it did
not break immediately. No, there was an interval of a
few seconds before the candlestick fell. That period pro-
vided Baines with ample time to stand below the
suspended iron weight, bow his head and receive the full
force of the blow. When the candlestick fell the rubber
snapped away from the knob, and there remained noth-
ing to tell the story but the open bookcase door, which
we interpreted as the hurried work of a thieving
prowler."
“Neat!” Mack exclaimed, his voice reverent.
“Damned neat, I'd say! But when was Morse killed?”
For the moment, so absorbed were we in the un-
raveling of the puzzle, we forget that we were entirely
at the mercy of a cold blooded killer.
“Very close to midnight,” Westborough returned.
“Baines had at least a minute from the time he heard
the voices of Mr Foster and Miss Morse in the hall
below until Miss Morse arrived upstairs. That minute
was ample for him to affix the dead man's fingers about
the knife handle, and make his escape.”
“But she didn't hear him," I objected. “And all the
floor boards creak.”


THE PURPLE PARROT 303
“It's the truth, all right," Baines owned. He was
smiling—the nastiest smile I have ever seen. “It was a
simple matter to reach his heart. I am quite familiar
with anatomy-as you will soon have occasion to learn,
gentlemen!”
“Dear, dear!” Westborough shuddered.
Mack shouted exasperatedly, “Think how we were
taken in by the Sampson woman! We thought she was
giving us the straight dope, and here she was in ca-
hoots with Baines all the time.”
“Dear me, no," Westborough replied unexpectedly.
“Are you crazy? She said he wasn't out of the room
at twelve that he'd been with her at least an hour be-
fore.”
“Nevertheless,” Westborough maintained, “Matilda
is completely and utterly innocent of any complicity."
It was too much for Mack—and for me. It didn't
make sense. It just wasn't possible.
“Yes,” Westborough agreed, “it is rather reminiscent
of Black Magic. I do not believe that I would ever have
been able to puzzle out the secret if Baines, fearing
a possible search of his belongings, had not concealed a
certain book in the safest possible place of all—among
the two thousand others in Morse's library. Since the
opportunity to do such a thing occurred only while
Morse was taking his walk at four o'clock in the after-
noon, the crime had evidently been premeditated at
least that long."
“What book?" Mack asked. “And why didn't we
get on to it when we checked them with the index
cards?”
“The necessary index cards had been provided—a
very passable forgery, by the way. It deluded me com-
pletely when I made my first and only examination.”


THE PURPLE PARROT
305
stroyed my hopes of proving it. There was only my
word that the book had ever been in the library since
I had said nothing about it upon that night. Unfor-
tunately, I was so ill acquainted with the subject that
I didn't realize until- "
"Shut up,” Baines barked. "I'm through listening
to you."
“You are not going to allow me to explain the nature
of—
“No, I'm sick of your yapping."
"You are not even interested in learning that your
unwitting accomplice is now in the hands of a com-
petent psychiatrist?”
“Damn you !" Baines shouted. “You've done it !"
“I fear so," the little man admitted gravely. “No
matter what you do to us, you are unable to prevent
your secret from being made public. And the arm of
the law is extremely long, if I may remind you of that
truism.”
“Damn you !" the butler sobbed. “At least I'll pay
off my score with all of you before they get me. Who
wants to be the first? I'll let you make your own selec-
tion—if you don't take too long about it.”
“Shoot and be damned to you,” Vail said wearily.
"No," I objected, “let me »
Westborough interrupted. “Dear me, there is really
no need for these heroics. We are all quite safe because
Baines is an extremely poor shot.”
“I'm a good shot!” Baines exclaimed indignantly.
“I did for Gronstein, didn't I?”
“Yeah, you can shoot," Mack laughed contemptu-
ously. "In a pig's eye!”
"I am not as a rule a betting man,” Westborough
observed. “But I should like to make one wager, al-
though it may be the last I shall ever make. Standing


PART SEVEN
Wednesday, November 25


312 THE PURPLE PARROT
“That is the crux of the whole problem, Miss Morse,
and I shall explain from the very beginning. Are you
ať all familiar with the phenomena of post-hypnotic
suggestions?”
“Post-hypnotic suggestions?” Sylvia repeated. “Yes,
I have seen them demonstrated. The hypnotist was
only an amateur, but he did succeed in putting one of
our group under. He told Billy when he woke up, he'd
be thirsty and ask for a drink five minutes later, and
that's just what happened. Right in the middle of his
conversation, Billy blurted out that he wanted a glass
of water. He said it so unconsciously that it made all
of us laugh.”
“That is a genuine example, but a simple one,"
Westborough told her. “Subjects can be made to per-
form all sorts of involved acts, some apparently gro-
tesque, some extremely complicated and requiring a
number of different operations to be undertaken in a
prescribed sequence at a prearranged time. The only
limitation is that they must not be acts which the sub-
ject would hesitate to perform normally. It is also
possible to produce post-hypnotic hallucinations, affect-
ing any or all of the senses or even the unconscious
processes of the body. Assuming that you reached the
proper stage of somnambulism you might be caused,
upon awakening, to see and hear an imaginary bird
perched on one of these bookcases. The delusion might
last for several hours, and during that time it would
be extremely difficult to make you believe that your
senses were playing you false.
“Post-hypnotic negative hallucinations are as easily
produced as are the positive," he went on. “In other
words, the operator through suggestion can block out
the normal perception of any designated object. Alfred
Binet and Charles Féré cite the case of a young lady


314 THE PURPLE PARROT
“ 'This amnesia may occur in various ways:
“'(a) It may apparently be complete. The subject
is then unable to recall anything connected with his
waking life, and may even have lost the sense of his
own identity. All memory of previous hypnoses is also
forgotten.
““(b) The amnesia may be limited by suggestion.
Here the subject cannot remember selected events and
ideas of his past life. For example, he may be unable
to recall certain words or letters; or he may remember
them, and yet be unable to utter them or write them
down. This power of suggesting post-hypnotic amnesia
is sometimes of therapeutic as well as of experimental
value. For instance, one of my patients, a nervous girl,
was much frightened by seeing a friend in an epileptic
fit and was unable to dismiss the scene from her mind.
This was blotted out by suggestion and, although sev-
eral years have passed since then, its memory has
never risen either in the normal state or in hypnosis. »
“Then, all that Baines had to do was to tell Matilda
that when she recovered consciousness she wouldn't
remember that he had hypnotized her that evening?"
Sylvia pondered.
"Yes,” Westborough confirmed. “Extremely simple,
is it not? But, dear me, what an effective alibi it made!
Miss Sampson, firmly believing that she was telling the
exact truth, would have gone through even a lie detector
test with flying colors.”
“Did it take long to hypnotize her?” Sylvia inquired.
“Scarcely any time at all. She is a responsive sub-
ject, and we must keep in mind that on previous oc-
casions Baines had induced several other hypnoses,
each of which had faciliated his control.”
“Was it also a post-hypnotic suggestion that caused


816 THE PURPLE PARROT
“As many as you like.”
“On Monday you told us that you knew the name of
Mr Morse's murderer but that you had no proof.”
“The preceding evening I had discovered Dr Bram-
well's book and the index cards missing from the li-
brary.”
“But Tuesday night you declared to Mack that the
necessary proofs were in your hands. Since Baines con-
fessed you didn't have to produce your proofs, but,
to satisfy my own curiosity, I'd like to know what they
were.”
"I had only one proof,” Westborough smiled. “Miss
Sampson's lost memory.”
“What!” I ejaculated. “Matilda's memory came
back?"
“It would be more accurate to say that it was re-
stored.”
“Restored? How?”
“Through the medium of another hypnosis. I per-
suaded Miss Sampson upon Tuesday afternoon to come
with me to the office of a capable psychiatrist, who per-
formed the simple experiment necessary. That had
always been the one chink in Baines's armor, but, unfor-
tunately, my knowledge of the subject was so limited
that I did not fully realize his vulnerability until yes-
terday.”
Westborough's reference to his "limited knowledge
of the subject” was highly amusing after the exhibi-
tion he had just given, and Sylvia and I both exclaimed,
“You seem to have learned a few things about it since.”
He smiled, “I am blessed-or cursed, perhaps—with
an inquiring mind. When my interest had been aroused
I did take some steps to rectify my previous igno-
rance.”


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