A 515823 OALIE SliMNEI 6 3^8 L 731 13 THIRTEENTH STREET By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN MARKED "CANCELLED" THE FIFTH LATCHKEY THE SECRET OF MOHAWK POND THE DANCING SILHOUETTE P. P. c. THE BLUE CAR MYSTERY THE MISSING INITIAL THE THIRTEENTH LETTER THE MEREDITH MYSTERY THE CAT'S PAW THE UNSEEN EAR THE THREE STRINGS THE MOVING FINGER THE RED SEAL THE MAN INSIDE Copyright, 1932, by D. Appleton and Company All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission of the publisher. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA To My Cous1n FLORENCE LINCOLN WASHBURN A CRITIC, JUST, DISCREET AND KIND, THIS TALE OF PLOT AND COUNTER PLOT IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED -■ CONTENTS CHAPTEI PACI I. The House with the Om1nous Num- ber I II. At Police Headquarters 9 III. A Fresh Enigma 23 IV. The Search Warrant 38 ,V. Test1mony 47 VI. More Test1mony 62 VII. Further Complicat1ons 78 VIII. S1nister Shadows 92 IX. Theor1es versus Facts 107 X. The Eyewitness 119 XI. In1t1als Only 133 XII. A Matched Pa1r 147 XIII. The Coroner Grows Curious ... 162 XIV. A Fatal Sequence 177 XV. The Arrest 194 XVI. The Jury's Verd1ct 213 XVII. Bl1nd Evidence 231 XVIII. A Quest1on of Ownership .... 249 XIX. The M1ss1ng Clue 258 XX. The Mystery Deepens . . . . . 267 XXI. The Final Reckoning 280 CHAPTER I The House with the Ominous Number IKICKED the smoldering logs into a brighter blaze and, stooping, held my hands towards it, an involuntary act, for the sputtering in the radiator indicated heat was coming up and the need for an open fire would soon be past. The ashes, which my energetic treatment had scattered plentifully over the hearth, attracted my attention and taking up the brush on the brass fire stand I swept them under the logs. "Excuse!" The apologetic ejaculation came from behind and I whirled around. Standing in the door- way of my living room was Moto and in back of the Jap's diminutive figure towered a policeman in uni- form. "Mr. Officer say he no can wait to see you later." "'T's all right; run along," and Moto, propelled against his will, retreated with some suddenness be- hind the portieres. Not until then did my unex- pected caller release his hold on the servant's arm and address me. "Colonel Wayne Campbell?" "Yes." At my monosyllabic reply, the officer advanced farther into the room. I The House with the Ominous Number "Do you think because you found a dead person in a house I own, I am a murderer?" I demanded, regaining my wits and my voice at the same time. "T'isn't what I think but what the Chief be- lieves," he retorted hotly. "And you've got to come along with me." There was no doubting the man's earnestness. Whatever his orders, he was determined to have his way and argument would be wasted upon him. I tossed aside the hearth brush and moved down the room. It was a pleasant place in which to sit and while away idle moments and at that early hour— six in the morning—in the bleakness of a December day with flurries of snow every now and then blowing against the windowpanes, I found it particularly alluring to stay there. "My coat and hat, Moto," I directed, as the Jap came in quick response to the pressure of my buzzer. "Oh, and"—I reached for the cradle phone close by. The policeman guessed my intention. "I've a car outside." He took my overcoat un- ceremoniously from Moto and bundled me into it, thereby interposing himself between us, so that I might have no opportunity of holding a whispered conversation with my servant. "All ready, sir." And he waited for me to precede him. "But you have not breakfasted," remonstrated Moto, trailing us to the front steps. 3 13 Thirteenth Street "I'll return shortly," I called over my shoulder. "And, Moto, phone Slater to bring the car to 13 Thirteenth Street at once." My apartment occupied the entire second floor of the old house now turned into an apartment house and I seldom resorted to the self-operated elevator. I ran down the staircase and outside the build- ing, which fronted on broad Massachusetts Avenue, where I saw a small police car at the curb. Wasting no words I climbed into it ahead of my companion. The policeman was equally taciturn and our run through the city streets was made in silence, and at a rapid pace, for traffic was light at that hour, and in every instance where there was the slightest conges- tion, the police car was given precedence. Therefore I had but little time to reflect on my short stay in Washington and certain events preceding my arrival in the national capital, when we approached the downtown section where stood the house with the ominous number. It was a large, colonial homestead, with lofty ceil- ings and big square rooms. In earlier days the Apthorpe Mansion, as it was called, had stood in the center of a plantation which reached from Tyber Creek to the Potomac River. Now, bereft of its former grandeur but still a famous landmark, it awaited condemnation proceedings so that the plans 4 The House with the Ominous Number for governmental building expansion might be car- ried out. Eight months before I had inherited the property from "Old Aunt," as we youngsters in the family generally styled my mother's sister, Miss Agatha Apthorpe, but formal possession had been given to me by court order only a week ago. My aunt had resided there, cared for by old family servants and refusing flattering offers for the property. In later years, so I had been told, she lived behind drawn curtains and never ventured outside the extensive high-walled garden at the back. A few loiterers stood about the entrance when we stopped before the mansion and curious stares fol- lowed us up the steps to the boarded front door, a section of which swung open as we gained the thresh- old. "Come inside," directed a rotund little man. "Colonel Campbell, I take it," and, as I nodded, "I am Inspector Judson, of the Homicide Squad of the Metropolitan Police." His pleasant voice made a favorable impression on me, and I toned down my angry retort. "Your patrolman, there"—a jerk of my thumb indicated my companion who waited close at my heels—"said I was 'wanted' for murder because you found some dead person in this house, which I own. Is this a sample of the acumen of the Wash- 5 13 Thirteenth Street ington police force? To arrest a man on so flimsy a pretext!" "Gently, Colonel, gently," cautioned Judson, in no way ruffled by my belligerent manner. "Did your wife come with you?" "My wife"—I stared at him. "I've been twelve years a widower." "Oh, then I misunderstood Aunt Polly"— "So Aunt Polly is not dead?" I interrupted him hastily in my turn. "Then her son Ezra—" "Neither one," replied Judson. "It was Aunt Polly, your caretaker, who discovered this. . . ." All the time we had been speaking Judson had led the way across the dimly lighted, wide square hall into the front drawing-room. There the light was even less, due to the shuttered windows. From the drawing-room we proceeded into what was termed the "back parlor," and from there into a room partly bare of furniture. A window toward the rear had been raised and the light from it fell full upon a prone figure stretched before the wide hearth. In ever increasing horror I stared down at the woman—at her stylish, low-cut dancing frock, her shapely figure, and her beautiful face. She lay as if asleep and as I bent even lower I noted the length of her eyelashes against the ghastly pallor of her cheeks. 6 The House with the Ominous Number "A beautiful woman, even in death." Inspector Judson's voice came as from a great distance. In- stinctively I strove to master my emotion and turn back to him. "As beautiful in death as when I saw her dancing on the stage of the National Theater last night." He looked at me and I caught a flash of fire in the mild blue eyes. "You recognize. . .?" "Surely—Countess Ilda Zichy—the Hungarian dancer is famous the world over. But, good God, how did she get here?" The words were wrung from me. "And what killed her?" "Stabbed." Judson's voice sank to a whisper. "See ..." I shuddered as the inspector, stooping down, indicated a red stain just showing on the floor under the stiffened shoulders. Her hands were crossed upon her breast. I sank down on one knee. Slowly my gaze traveled from the young face, younger than in life, for the lines induced by hard work and high living were no longer visible, to a tiny flickering flame which came from a small can just above the girl's head. "What's this?" and I touched it. "Hands off!" warned Judson harshly. "It's a Sterno can—see, one is placed at her feet also." I followed his pointed finger in fascinated silence. "There's no gas turned on in this part of the house, and obviously these cans—for one is burned out— served as candles to aid the murderer." His glance 7 13 Thirteenth Street bored into me even as his finger again indicated the cans. "A religious fanatic, perhaps." I shrugged as I scrambled to my feet. "It's hor- rible," I muttered and taking out my handkerchief mopped my face. But further speech was cut short by the entrance of more men, the policeman who had brought me here, my chauffeur, Slater, and a stranger—the latter was breathing hard. "I've found out, Inspector, the countess was last seen with a Count Erdody—a young man very much • sought after socially," he blurted out, and paused in uncertainty, confused by Judson's imperative gesture for silence. The keen eyes watching me must have caught the sudden tightening of my lips, for the inspector spoke with swift, sharp intentness: "Do you know this young chap, Colonel Camp- bell?" I unbuttoned my overcoat, conscious of the poor ventilation in the room, and stepped back into the shadows by Slater's side. "Oh, yes," I replied quietly. "Count Erdody is my stepson." CHAPTER II At Police Headquarters INSPECTOR JUDSON broke the silence; except for the horror of our surroundings and the poor light which cast fantastic shadows, I would have sworn his lips were twisted into the semblance of a smile. "Ah, then we can locate Count Erdody without delay. Your address, Colonel"r—r I gave it to him and glanced around in time to see the stranger, who had first mentioned my step- son's name, slip from the room as others entered carrying cameras. Swiftly and with only a muttered word now and then, the men went about their work of photographing the ghastly scene. At last the winter sun, creeping from behind the banked clouds which threatened more snow, sent its rays through the one window the room boasted—they could not warm the marble whiteness of Countess Ilda's cheeks nor flex the rigid limbs into even the semblance of a slumbering posture. A flare of light directly in my face blinded me, and I threw up my hands to protect my eyes, and lowered them a second later, thoroughly incensed. 9 jj Thirteenth Street "There's no occasion to photograph me." My protest brought forth a "Sorry, sir," and the camera was faced another way. "Well, Inspector"—as Judson came back into the room—"has the coroner been called in?" "Been and gone." Judson clipped his words short in a manner I later grew accustomed to. "Come along, sir." I did not budge. "How about Countess Ilda?" I glanced over his shoulder at the dead woman as I put the question. "She must not rest here." "We are waiting for a representative from the Hungarian Legation." He met my quick glance steadily. "We deemed it best to notify her gov- ernment before taking the body to the morgue." The morgue! I had passed recently the dull, drab building on the Potomac River where the unfor- tunates of the capital of a great nation find tempo- rary resting place. Countess Ilda to go there—the idol of the Viennese play-world, the delight of pleasure-loving Paris—beautiful, talented and young in years! My lips tightened. "If the legation makes no other arrangements, In- spector, I'll defray the expense of a first-class under- taker and decent burial." My statement caused Jud- son to bend toward me, possibly to see me better for I still stood in the background. 10 At Police Headquarters "Why?" he demanded. "Were you—intimate friends?" My anger rose at his insinuating tone. "No," curtly. "Ah, enemies, then?" "No." I supplemented the second monosyllable a moment later: "How the countess got here, why she came are both unknown to me, but I do know that she died here in my house and I have a— a sense of—of—responsibility." The inspector broke brusquely into my halting speech. "You assume she died here, then?" he asked, and before I could frame a startled question, he linked his arm in mine and we went into the front of the house. "How long has this place been closed?" "Ever since the death of my aunt, Miss Agatha Apthorpe," I paused to do some mental calculat- ing. "About eight months ago. I was in Budapest at the time." "And you did not hurry back?" I shrugged. "I was not necessary to Aunt Agatha during her life and certainly my presence was not a necessity after her death." "Were you not her heir?" The dryly put ques- tion irritated me, or was it the close atmosphere of the great rooms through which we passed, shrouded furniture looming specterlike in the half light? // 13 Thirteenth Street "I was residuary legatee," I explained shortly and turned toward a window. "Suppose we open the house." "Not now!" Judson spoke with authority and I halted in my attempt to unlock a window. "Every- thing must remain as it is for the present. Come upstairs, Colonel," and nothing loath I climbed the broad staircase to the second floor. There, several men had preceded us. They glanced up from their examination of the woodwork and furniture, recognized Judson and, satisfied, con- tinued their search for fingerprints. The blinds had been opened already in each room and I had an ex- cellent opportunity of studying my surroundings. The old mansion was typical of its time, with in- tricately carved mantels, high ceilings and massive doors opening upon the square center hall and into large closets. The two chambers toward the back looked out upon the gardens and were connected by a smaller one which had been converted into a mod- ern bathroom. "Beautiful old furniture," commented Judson as we retraced our steps into the southwest chamber. "Your aunt's quarters, apparently." I nodded. "Apparently so," I agreed, and looked around to find the inspector was regarding me rather than the furniture of which he had spoken in such admiring tones. 12 13 Thirteenth Street its storehouse of treasures." He pointed to the beautifully carved four-post bed. "Why?" "Because I did not come into legal possession of the property until Wednesday." I drew out my cigarette case and held it toward him, but Judson waved it away. "If you have no objection, I'll smoke," and I struck a match. "Was there, then, a contest over your aunt's will?" asked Judson, paying no attention to my last remark. "No; only the threat of one." I sat back more at ease. "Drawing wills was a foible of Aunt Agatha's, evidently, for no less than six were located. Their very number defeated her object, that is, if she really intended to will away her entire fortune to her com- panion and it was not a case of undue influence. For the court held that the drawing of so many wills in a short period constituted in itself evidence of men- tal incapacity at that time; and her first will was allowed to stand." "And this will made you residuary legatee?" I nodded. "Did it benefit others, too?" "Yes, small legacies to Aunt Polly, her faithful old servant, several old friends, who predeceased her—that was all." "So virtually you were her only heir?" I wondered at his persistent harping on the sub- ject. "Yes, it amounted to that." u At Police Headquarters "And this companion of your aunt's, who was she?" asked Judson quickly. "A Mrs. Ellen Maury." "A widow?" "I believe so; a Washingtonian, or so my stepson and Peter Clemens implied in their letters about the case." "I see." Judson did not remove his gaze from me. "And this Peter Clemens—?" "A Washington lawyer, who has ceased to practice generally and devotes his time to real estate." I lit another cigarette and tossed the stub of the old one into the iron grate on the wide hearth. "He handled the case for me at the request of Count Erdody." I amended my statement somewhat as the inspector, for once, evinced no immediate intention of address- ing me. "Business connections in Europe made it impossible for me to return eight months ago, so I relied on my stepson to represent me. He has been here over a year, you know, attached to the Hun- garian Legation." "I didn't know," dryly; "and how often has your stepson been in this house?" "I have no idea." I rose, wearied by so much questioning. "Why not ask Count Erdody, In-t spector?" "All in due time." Judson spoke good-naturedly, and rising also, stretched himself. "It's still early; 15 13 Thirteenth Street breakfast would taste good, eh, Colonel?" Not waiting for a reply he made for the hall door, reach- ing it before me. "You and Count Erdody both have keys to this house?" I shook my head. "On the contrary, on Friday I gave back the only set we had to Mr. Clemens who is arranging to sell this property to the Federal Government." I paused to look back at the room; Judson was right, the furniture was lovely. "I un- derstood yesterday from Clemens that all terms had been agreed upon and the house would go into the hands of wreckers shortly." "What a pity!" Judson swept the place with a keen glance. "We don't build houses like this to-day—those walls are thick enough to serve as fortifications. Suppose we postpone breakfast an- other hour, Colonel, and visit the attic, the cellar— and Aunt Polly." But I did not immediately follow the inspector to the hall door; instead I paused and looked about the room. There was a surprising absence of dust on the furniture and window sills, a condition that did not prevail elsewhere. I wondered if Judson too had noticed this. "Come along." My companion was obviously anxious to be on his way. In the garret we saw the customary store of dilapidated chairs, old bureaus, chests and whatnots 16 At Police Headquarters to be found in a house which has remained for generations in the same family. The inspector's flash- light was powerful enough to show an accumula- tion of cobwebs—decidedly no trace of a recent visit to the garret was to be found. Judson went over the place very carefully and in silence. Still in silence he led the way to the lower floors but at the entrance to the cellar stairs paused. "Has it struck you that all the closets are empty?" he inquired. "What became of Miss Apthorpe's personal effects?" I shrugged my shoulders. "Possibly packed away in the numerous trunks and chests upstairs." My suggestion met with a grunt which conveyed nothing to me, in fact proved an annoyance. "You seem determined, Inspector, to make me my aunt's keeper. May I suggest you would make more progress by questioning those who were in touch with my aunt up to the day of her death." "And these persons—?" "Aunt Polly and—er—her companion, Mrs. Maury." Without answering Judson laid his hand on the cellar door but before he could open it a figure swished toward us with hurricane-like violence. "Cunnel Ca'mel, I'se a respectable cullud pusson, sah, maybe you'se can explain to these hyar police- men I'se a pillar ob my church an' dey'll let me go 13 Thirteenth Street free." Aunt Polly came to a breathless pause and her voice, raised almost to a shriek, ended in a sob as she shook off the detaining hand of a blue-coated policeman. "Cut it out." Judson's peremptory tone did much to quiet her inclination to hysterics. "Colonel Campbell can explain to you, Aunt Polly, that your detention is a formality. In fact," and Judson's fea- tures relaxed in a smile, "Colonel Campbell must himself come with us to Police Headquarters." This statement was news to me but it served to pacify Aunt Polly. Without giving me an opportu- nity to address the old servant, the inspector mar- shaled us toward the front door and out of the house. Again I occupied a seat in a police car and we whirled away, Slater, my chauffeur, bringing up the rear of the small procession in my limousine. I spent a weary half hour at headquarters, shunted from one official to another, regardless of my feel- ings in the matter. In the office marked "Finger- print Division" I came face to face with Aunt Polly. A tall, white-haired mulatto, her features swollen by recent tears, she regarded the men in the room with indignation mixed with fear. Suddenly a low cry broke from her—a cry of pain, and I stepped to her side hastily to find a policeman striving to force open her tightly clenched hand. Slowly, surely her fingers unbent and before I could intervene her left 18 At Police Headquarters palm was thrust down on the prepared fingerprint record sheet. "Violence isn't necessary," I protested hotly. "Just explain to Aunt Polly what you wish and she will—" "Come across." The fingerprint expert smiled. "Sure. We haven't time to waste any more words, however-—not with Aunt Polly," and he glanced significantly at his scratched hand. "Now, Colonel, suppose you let us take your fingerprints." Willingly I complied, hoping thereby to distract attention from Aunt Polly who stood in sullen si- lence regarding us. Suddenly as I dropped my left hand from the table I accidentally touched Aunt Polly. Her fingers twitched against mine and then were withdrawn, but not before I had grasped a tiny piece of metal. "You see, Aunt Polly"—I strove to keep my voice natural as I thrust my hand into my pocket— "taking fingerprints is a painless job if you place your right hand as I did mine on this sheet." I paused as her hand came slowly up, open, and rested on the table before us. "Now, Judson, how about letting Aunt Polly return to her quarters?" But Judson shook his head. "We must detain her for further questioning," he answered shortly. "You, Colonel, are at liberty to leave." The latter was most agreeable news but I paused 19 jj Thirteenth Street in indecision as I met Aunt Polly's appealing glance. "Come, Inspector," I said, "I am willing to guaran- tee Aunt Polly's appearance here or in court at any hour. Surely it is not necessary to detain her longer. She has been in my aunt's employ for over thirty years and with her son lives in the tenant house at the back of my aunt's garden." "Dat's de truth," broke in Aunt Polly. "Ezra and me has done live dar all his lifetime for de old Madam done give us dat home when de boy was born. I don't know nothin', Cunnel Ca'mel, 'bout how dat body get on de flo' ob yo' house. De fact was I 'most fell over it when I went in dar to see why de window was open. Den I hollered long and loud fo' de cop on de beat. Fo' God, dat's all I knows." "Surely, surely," agreed Judson soothingly. "Now, Aunt Polly, sit awhile until Sergeant Meade gets back. This way, Colonel." Taking me by the elbow, he accompanied me to the Fourteenth Street entrance of the District Building. Here I found Slater parked double, regardless of his proximity to police headquarters. Before stepping into the car I faced Judson. "If you subject Aunt Polly to any third degree methods, the matter will not end here," I said, keep- ing my voice lowered with an effort, and would have added more but for his hasty interruption. 20 Thirteenth Street his dinner coat, across the mattress and lay with eyes shut. "Please"—Moto was against my elbow—"I cannot waken him. He drunk," and again Moto vanished. My eyes traveled from Wolf's flushed features to his disorderly clothes. His white shirt, mussed and stained, lacked a gold stud. Slowly I drew out from my pocket the piece of metal slipped into my hand by Aunt Polly. It was the exact mate of the stud remaining in Wolf's shirt. CHAPTER III A Fresh Enigma EXCITED voices raised in heated altercation penetrated my preoccupation, and I looked around, startled. The sounds came through the bedroom door, standing slightly ajar. Its well oiled hinges made no noise as I pulled it wider open and stepped into the hall. From there I had an unob- structed view of the reception hall beyond. Slater, his shoulder jammed against the front door, was having some difficulty in retaining his position and, at the same time, his native politeness, against the importunities of several callers. "Colonel Campbell will see no one." His words were drowned out by a heavier bass voice. "Nonsense, man, nonsense, the colonel must see me," and the speaker, Inspector Judson, pushed the others unceremoniously to one side and stepped past my chauffeur. "Tell him I am here. In the mean- time I'll talk to these gentlemen of the press," and he turned to the four men who had crowded behind him into the reception hall. Noiselessly I slipped back into my stepson's bed- room and closed the hall door. Wolf, in fresh 23 /J Thirteenth Street pajamas, lay resting comfortably in bed. It had been no easy task to undress him, and I was con- scious of physical weariness as I glanced about the room; no chambermaid could have spent more pains in "tidying up" than I and the place was in im- maculate order. Satisfied with the results, I walked toward the communicating door which opened into the dressing room that Wolf and I used jointly. In so doing I passed his chest of drawers and halted, surprised; thereon in close proximity stood two framed minia- tures, one was new to me—a face of youthful beauty, innocence and charm; the other— I picked up the latter miniature and walked over to the bedside; the act was involuntary. In the time that had elapsed since I first entered the room Wolf's expression had relaxed—softened, and he slept more naturally. The likeness between him and the miniature in my hand was unmistakable. He was as handsome as his mother, save that where Priska's classic features and delicate coloring were lovely in a woman, in Wolf they gave an effeminate touch, offset somewhat by his tall and muscular figure. Sighing heavily, I replaced Priska's miniature; twelve years had passed since I had given it to her son and charged him to cherish her likeness as his most priceless possession. And now another minia- 24 A Fresh Enigma ture stood by it. Again I stared at the second minia- ture. It had not been in Wolf's room twenty-four hours before, that is, not on public view, to that I could swear. As I continued to look at the two miniatures, I shivered suddenly, unaccountably. Be- tween them, the shadow cast by the tassel of the window shade wavered back, and forth—or was it the body of the dead woman, Ilda Zichy, in its stark tragedy, which distorted my vision? Snatching up my coat, I hurried into the dressing room, from where I heard an incessant tapping on the door of my bedroom. Stopping long enough to pick up a towel and unfasten my necktie and collar I went to answer the summons. Slater stood on the threshold. "Inspector Judson," he announced, and came into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He had often valeted me in the past and, without wasting words, assisted me into clean linen. "Where is Moto?" I asked, stopping to fill my cigarette case. "In the kitchen, trying to keep your breakfast warm, sir." Slater smiled slightly. During the World War he had been wounded in the throat and his voice was harsh and sometimes discordant, giving him a peculiar enunciation, which, however, did not stop him from using the longest phrases and most difficult words in our language. 25 13 Thirteenth Street "Tell Moto to prepare breakfast for Inspector Judson also," I directed, and sought that gentleman without further delay. I crossed the empty reception hall and hurried into the living room. At first I thought it vacant, then as I went forward I discovered Judson on his hands and knees before the hearth. "What in the world," I began. Judson looked up in no way abashed. "It's un- usual to find in an apartment house fireplaces where you can really burn a wood fire," he commented. "And more unusual to find a police inspector on his knees before it," I retorted grimly. "What claimed your interest?" "The ashes." Still with the utmost good humor Judson scrambled to his feet. "Count Erdody"— "Suppose we breakfast," I interrupted hastily, and giving him no chance to object had he so wished, led the way into the dining room. Moto awaited us. Neither his manner nor his expression gave any indication of surprise at my second postponement of that early meal. Not so Judson. "You breakfast late," the latter remarked; "it is fully three hours since you left me to return here." "Quite so," I agreed amicably, "a bath and a shave take time. Who were you talking to in the hall, Judson, when you first came?" "Reporters from the local papers." Judson may 26 A Fresh Enigma have breakfasted earlier but it had not impaired his appetite, judging from his enjoyment of the dishes placed before him by Moto. "I took the liberty of suggesting that they return later and interview"—he paused to take a swallow of coffee—"Count Erdody." The loud and incessant ringing of the bell sent Moto scurrying from the room. My hastily called order to admit no one evidently went unheard for the Japanese returned a moment later followed by a well groomed, powerfully built man. "A shocking affair, Campbell." Peter Clemens' voice boomed through the room. "I hurried over to offer my services." "For what?" My cool reception or else the sight of a stranger acted as a damper. "Sit down, Peter, and have some coffee. Inspector Judson, this is Mr. Peter Clemens." Their names produced a marked effect; Judson's countenance brightened, while Peter's naturally ruddy complexion turned a shade darker. "Ah, Mr. Clemens, I planned to call on you later in the day." Judson made no effort to conceal his satisfaction. "That is, ever since hearing from Colonel Campbell that you had his set of keys to 13 Thirteenth Street." "Quite so—quite so," Peter stirred his coffee with nervous haste, "do you wish them back, Campbell?" 27 Thirteenth Street "Let me have them," Judson broke in hastily and held out his hand, but Peter shook his head. "I haven't the keys with me." Swiftly he changed the subject. "To think—last night Ilda, the life of the party and now stabbed to death. It's unbeliev- able, horrible." Peter failed to hide his feelings. Judson's toast lay neglected on his plate. "Who gave the party?" he demanded. "Why, she did." This answer was not what Jud- son expected, but he recovered himself quickly. "Who was there?" he demanded. "Oh, the usual crowd—Herr Hardegg of Vienna, her manager; von Obendorf of the Hungarian Le- gation; Marquis Collato of the Italian Embassy; Flotow, her dancing partner, and of course Erdody." As he gave Wolf's name Peter avoided my glance; he was equally reticent about meeting Judson's twin- kling blue eyes. "When did the party break up?" asked the in- spector. "I don't know—after midnight." "Vague," commented Judson dryly, "weren't you in a state to recall the hour, Mr. Clemens?" Peter turned an apoplectic red. "I left at mid- night," he explained haughtily; "anything might have happened after that." "Something did," retorted Judson. "Some one 28 A Fresh Enigma escorted Countess Ilda from that party to her death." "Oh, come now," Peter squirmed in his chair, "there were only decent chaps at that party and all devoted to the countess; why, we knew her well abroad." Judson eyed us both in speculative silence. "Where was the party held?" he asked. "At the Cafe St. Regis." Judson counted on his fingers. "Ten blocks or less from 13 Thirteenth Street. Any other women at this party, Mr. Clemens?" "No." But Peter was a poor liar. Even I de- tected his furtive look. "They might have come later," he added lamely. "I say, Campbell, may I see Wolf?" It was a question I had anticipated. "Surely. You will find him in his room." But Peter was not the first on his feet. Inspector Jud- son beat him to the door. "Wait." I, too, stood up. "I'll go with you." Perhaps it was courtesy that caused Peter to step back to make way for me and thereby block Inspec- tor Judson's quick exit, but there was a faint twinkle in Peter's eye which led me to believe he had re- gained his nerve. The two men were close at my heels when I opened Wolf's door and they followed me into his bedroom. 0 29 Thirteenth Street Moto had preceded us there and we found him seated on the bed assisting Wolf to drink a large cup of black coffee. Moto was not only an excellently- trained servant but also he had waited upon Wolf for the past year, and I imagined his experiences had been many and varied. "Excuse." Moto took back the cup from Wolf's unsteady grasp. "Two gentlemen and Colonel Campbell." The announcement was almost hissed into Wolf's ear and brought a more intelligent ex- pression to his sleepy countenance. "'Lo, Peter, come sit down." The latter, being more agile than either of us, had wormed himself toward the bedside. "'Lo, Dad." Wolf's eyes wandered from me to Judson. "Doctor?" he asked hopefully. "Got a hell of a headache." "Try Bromo Seltzer," suggested Judson, and his manner was most sympathetic. "These bootleg parties sure do us up, and you had quite a night of it, Count Erdody." His voice deepened. "Quite an unusual night, I might say." "Yes?" Wolf rubbed his aching head. "I'll say it was. How did I get back here, Dad?" That was not a question I had anticipated. "I've no idea," I admitted, conscious of Judson's steady gaze. "Come, Wolf, turn over and go to sleep; we'll leave you now." Peter was the only one to take the hint; Judson 30 A Fresh Enigma did not budge. Instead, he laid his hand on Wolf's wrist. "Pulse sluggish," he declared. "How about an- other glass of wine with Countess Ilda?" In the electrified silence I heard Peter Clemens smother an oath. The sheet over Wolf's broad chest rose and fell with his accelerated breathing. Suddenly he stirred and glanced up, heavy-eyed. "Can't drink now—even to 'blige lady." His thickened speech made understanding difficult. Jud- son and I had to stoop to catch his words. Then with a sigh he rolled over, apparently overcome by sleep. Judson's grip on his wrist was transferred to his shoulder but shaking only brought a grunt from Wolf. Hot and perspiring, Judson gave up the attempt to arouse him. "I can wait," he announced calmly, encountering my belligerent glare, and selected a lounging chair near the bed. "A nurse is due here at any moment," I pointed out with heat. "Unhappily Count Erdody goes on periodic sprees and, frankly, your presence is not re- quired." "Gently, Colonel Campbell, gently. You for- get—" "I forget nothing." My nerves were decidedly on edge. "You cannot force us to put up with your so- 31 Thirteenth Street ciety. Neither my stepson nor I can aid in your investigation." Judson's eyebrows rose questioningly. "No?" The mockery in his tone made me wish to kick him. "No, of course not. When a young and beautiful woman is found dead in your house, when your step- son was seen in her society a few hours before, it is expecting too much for either of you to throw light on the subject." He leaned back and looked up at me. "Well, Colonel, my Bureau believes that when a man can talk and won't talk, he should be made to talk. So, under the circumstances, I'll stay here for the present," and by way of emphasizing his mean- ing he reached over and took up Wolf's bedside tele- phone. Fuming inwardly I stared first at Wolf and then at the inspector; if I ejected Judson it meant further publicity and I realized the murder of Countess Zichy would be headlined in every metropolitan daily. Neither Wolf nor I could hope to escape notoriety. To antagonize the police would be but playing into their hands. As I walked moodily about the room I felt some one tugging at my coat. "Come along." The sibilant whisper came from Peter and it was his frantic clutch that drew me out of the bedroom. "You're wasting time talking to that guy. I've got to see you." A Fresh Enigma One glance at his face convinced me of his earnest- ness. I led the way into my living room. "Well?" I began. "It's anything but well," exploded Peter. "Dash it all, Campbell, Wolf's in a hell of a fix. Why did he ever take Ilda to 13 Thirteenth Street!" "Go slow," I cautioned, with a hasty glance about to make sure that we were alone; "you forget you have the house keys." Peter sighed dismally. "Wolf didn't need keys. Aunt Polly is always amenable to a bribe." I stared at my companion in horrified silence. His suggestion opened up ghastly possibilities. Un- able to keep still I paced up and down. Wolf a murderer! It was inconceivable. He had his faults but they were mainly on the surface and he was fundamentally a man of decent impulses. For him to strike a woman, to kill except in self-defense; but then a man under the influence of liquor—I groaned inwardly. "Wolf wasn't drunk last night," broke in Peter, "at least not while I was with him." I stopped and eyed Peter wrathfully. "And why did you leave early?" I demanded. "What took you away from so congenial a party?" Peter's hesitation was obvious. "I had to take a woman home." His words brought enlightenment. 33 Thirteenth Street "So there were other women at the party!" I ex- claimed. "Well, who were they?" "I'd rather not say." Peter mopped his face. I flung my half-smoked cigarette on the hearth. "You must, Peter; if you don't others will—you weren't the only guest." Peter's harassed manner grew more pronounced. "You're right," he agreed. "Well, it was Ellen Maury." "Ellen Maury," I echoed blankly; for an instant her name did not register. "Oh, you surely don't mean Aunt Agatha's companion?" "Don't speak of her in that tone." Annoyed, Peter came closer. "Why do you entertain such a ridiculous prejudice against Ellen Maury?" I regarded Peter in surprise. "I've no feeling about her one way or the other. She's harmless, I suppose." "Speak more respectfully of the woman I hope to marry." My mouth dropped open. "Peter!" I ejaculated. "Don't holler at me." He drew himself up to his full height and glared in my direction. "There's nothing remarkable in my wishing to marry." "But why pick on Ellen Maury?" I asked, amused in spite of myself. "Now, two days ago, if you had told me you contemplated marrying Ilda Zichy"— 34 A Fresh Enigma Peter's face whitened. I had touched him on the raw. Twice he essayed to speak. "Campbell, you and I have been through much to- gether in Budapest, but don't put too great a strain on our friendship." Ashamed, I held out my hand. "Forgive me, Peter. I meant no offense. It's been a hard day." "I understand." Peter gripped my hand warmly. "What I don't understand is your dislike of Ellen Maury." "I don't dislike her," I protested. "But when a woman influences your aunt to cut you out of her will and leave the property to her, it is not surpris- ing I've formed a slight prejudice. And besides, Peter, you and Wolf have held her up as an ex- emplary character which proved another annoy- ance." I lit a cigarette. "What was she doing at such a party last night?" Peter did not reply at once. "She came with Wolf." I eyed him, surprised by something peculiar in his tone. What was he driving at? "Beg pardon." The interruption came from the doorway and looking around I saw Slater standing there. "Inspector Judson is wanted at Police Head- quarters and the police car is here." "Good." With alacrity I returned to Wolf's bed- room. Slater's loud-voiced announcement had evi- 35 Thirteenth Street dently reached Judson for I found the inspector standing, hat and coat in hand, by the hall door. "I'll be back, Colonel," he said, "but first I advise you," he was walking down the hall even as he spoke, "to cancel your call for a trained nurse. Count Erdody has full possession of his senses," and with an enigmatic smile, which further aggravated me, he turned to Peter Clemens who that instant joined us at the front door. "I'll give you a lift, sir." To my surprise the invitation was instantly ac- cepted and Peter, with a casual nod to me, accom- panied the inspector. Stopping long enough to pick up a fresh package of cigarettes I again went to Wolf's room. "Wolf!" Twice I called his name, raising my voice. I spoke to deaf ears and approaching the bed touched his shoulder, rolling him slightly on his back. His eyes were closed and from his even breathing I judged him to be sound asleep. Walking away from the bed I went to his closet. So far as I could see everything there was exactly as I had left it. Closing the closet door, I tramped around the room, taking care, however, to tread lightly. My thoughts were in a turmoil. What merry-go- round of fate had brought together once again Wolf and Ilda and Peter Clemens, and to complicate the situation still further, dragged in another woman, Ellen Maury. Was she young? Was she beautiful? 36 CHAPTER IV The Search Warrant PENING the top drawer, I took a final look V>/ at the compartment where Wolf kept his cuff links, collar buttons and gold studs; the latter were where I had put them. A faint sigh from the direc- tion of the bed caused me to close the drawer and approach Wolf. He had slipped back into a more relaxed position, one arm flung across his eyes. "Wolf!" My urgent exclamation produced no effect; he lay silent, inert. Heavy-hearted I watched him for a second or two. Impetuous, headstrong, his twenty-five years of ex- istence had taught Wolf little self-restraint. After my wife's death in 1919, I had put the boy in a school in Switzerland and his vacations had been spent mainly with his father's relatives in Hungary. Since his graduation from Oxford he had divided his time between Vienna and Budapest with occa- sional trips to see me in Moscow and London. The news that he had entered the diplomatic service reached me after he had left for his post in Wash- ington. That he enjoyed the gay life in my home city I gathered from his letters, and it decided me to 38 The Search Warrant take up my residence there once again. I had been home but eight days—and here I was with Wolf in- volved in what promised to be a cause celebre. Placing a glass of water within Wolf's reach, I went in search of Moto. I found the Jap in the pantry putting away the breakfast dishes. "At what hour did Count Erdody return?" I asked. A saucer unevenly balanced in Moto's moist hand fell with a crash to the floor. "I very sorry." Moto spoke in sincere contrition and stooped to pick up the broken china. "I buy another." "Don't bother!" impatiently. "Answer my ques- tion, Moto: How soon after I left with the police- man did Count Erdody come in?" Moto considered me in silence for a moment. "He here when you left." "Here! Where?" "Where you saw him—on his bed." Surprise had caused me to raise my voice, but his flat tones were monotonously regular. "Early, quite early I hear front door open and shut." Moto's eyes shifted from my face to my hands, nervously fingering a folded section of the Sunday paper. "I sleep with transom down for air, it too cold to open window." From where I was I could see the room occupied by the Jap. It was at the far end of the hall—a 39 13 Thirteenth Street mere crack—but Moto had chosen the place for his own use in preference, so Wolf had told me, to one of the servants' bedrooms in the basement which went with each apartment. The pause was broken by Moto. "You hear noise too?" he asked. I shook my head. "I am a heavy sleeper." The Jap removed his apron, and looked at me expect- antly. "Where is Slater?" I asked. "In the kitchen." "Tell him to answer the door and you, Moto, stay with Count Erdody." I spoke sternly, as the Jap's black eyebrows met in a frown. "He is not in a con- dition to be left alone—or to see any one," and turning on my heel I went back to the living room, disturbed in mind. My apartment occupied the entire/Second floor of the building, but it was not so spacious that sounds did not carry. A man in Wolf's obvious condition could not have entered and walked down the hall without creating a disturbance. Suppose, though, Moto had gone to his assistance? The idea was feasible, for the Jap's devotion to Wolf was patent to all; he had left my employ to be with him one year before in Budapest. But there was one thing certain, if Moto did go to his assistance the Jap could fix, to a dot, the hour he had come home. The - 40 The Search Warrant question of time, I realized, was sure to be a vital factor in tracing the murderer of Ilda Zichy. If I could be sure of two things=when she died and the hour of Wolf's return! Unable to keep still I wandered about the room. There was no use in pretending to interest myself in the fine library, handsome furniture and oil portraits on the wall. Wolf had leased the apartment for me and at my suggestion had moved into it in October, two months before. The telephone bell pealed forth in the silence and I snatched the receiver off the hook. "Wolfgang!" A woman's voice came over the wire, soft, appealing, tremulous. "Who's calling?" I demanded. "Wolfgang!" The name was repeated, but a tone of uncertainty, of fear blurred her pronuncia- tion. "Hello," I called. "Hello!" A faint click was my sole reply. "Party's hung up." Central's impersonal an- nouncement stopped my endeavor to get the connec- tion again. "Where did the call come from?" I asked. There was a brief pause. "It came through the Decatur exchange," ex- plained another female voice, "a pay station call." Baffled, I hung up the receiver. "Wolfgang" the 41 Thirteenth Street unknown woman had called him. Priska, his mother, had used his full name always, and after her death Wolf would allow no one to call him by it. Who, then, to-day addressed him as Wolfgang? "Sorry, sir,"—I looked around, to find Slater in the doorway—"but"—he got no further; Aunt Polly ducked under his arm, extended to bar her entrance, threw herself into the nearest chair and burst into a storm of tears. "Hush, hush, calm yourself." I shook her to en- force obedience. "Slater, bring a glass and some water." The chauffeur was back almost before I had time to unlock my desk drawer and locate a bottle of whiskey. "Put down the pitcher and don't wait." Aunt Polly had regained some semblance of self- control and as Slater vanished I poured some whiskey into the glass and let her sip it. "Cunnel!" The old servant's fingers played spasmodically with the buttons on her coat. "Does yo' s'pose dey b'lieve I killed that po' lady?" "Of course not." My positive answer brought some ray of comfort and, combined with the fiery stimulant did much to lessen the hunted look in her eyes. "But—but—dey's got my finger marks!" "What of that?" I simulated a smile of encour- agement. "They've got mine,, too." 42 The Search Warrant "But yo'—yo' didn't tech her body." Aunt Polly's trembling lips had difficulty in forming the words and she stopped for a second. "When I seen her fust I slips ma hand inside her dress and her breast was warm." She shivered and drew the old coat tighter. "Yes, yes, go on!" In my excitement I prodded Aunt Polly on the shoulder. "At what hour was this?" "'Bout five o'clock or a little later, maybe." Aunt Polly rubbed her eyes with an already wet handker- chief. "I teches her cheek and her legs—dey was icy cold." She choked, overcome by recollection. "Den I gits up and rushes to de front door." "Wait." I held up an imperative hand. "How much time passed—" "Didn't none go by," she interrupted doggedly. "One pa't of her was warm and de odder cold." Aunt Polly's eyes looked as if they would never be their normal size again. "She must-a died by inches —and I teched her!" Once more came tears and I gave her another sip of whiskey. "What took you into Aunt Agatha's house at that hour?" I asked, and waited anxiously for her reply. Would she betray any knowledge of who was there? Did she really know? And what had she told the police? "I seen de window blind open. I done told Mis- 43 13 Thirteenth Street tah Judson dat." Aunt Polly allowed her sur- charged feelings some outlet in a mild display of temper. "But you can't see the house clearly from your cottage," I objected. Aunt Polly squirmed about in her seat. "I was jest passin' 'long de garden path to de small front gate"— "At five in the morning?" "Yessah, I was on my way to early church, which is a right smart distance away." Aunt Polly raised her voice to emphasize her meaning. "I'se tellin' de gospel truth, 'deed I is, Cunnel." I nodded in agree- ment for I had no wish to continue the argument at the moment; there was other more pressing informa- tion that I needed. "Aunt Polly, did you see any one in the house be- sides Countess Ilda—hear any one?" I almost whis- pered the questions. She shook her head. "Honest to God I didn't," and as I met her steadfast gaze I realized she was not lying. "Aunt Polly, the studW' "Sh—sh—sh—!" Aunt Polly laid a warning finger on her lips; her keener hearing had caught the sound of advancing footsteps before I did. "I'se 'bliged fo' yo' advice, Cunnel," she rose. "I'll see Mistah Clemens; yo' say he's sech a fine lawyer." 44 The Search Warrant Her raised tones reached Judson and the inspector came forward, accompanied by two other men. "Mr. Williams of the Associated Press," he said by way of introduction, "and Mr. Marsh of the Evening Star. They are anxious to interview you." "Just a moment," broke in the representative of the Associated Press hastily. "It is not our intention to worry you, Colonel Campbell." His friendly smile was disarming. "We already know you are a civil engineer of international reputation; that you have done some exceptionally fine work in Russia recently; that during the World War you served in the Engineers Corps, married Countess Priska Erdody at Vienna in December, 1918, and that she died within the year." Williams paused to draw breath. "Is the sketch O. K. so far, Colonel?" I nodded. "You might add I am fifty years of age," sarcastically. "Thanks." Williams' manner grew brisk. "Now, may we see Count Erdody, your stepson?" "No." I supplemented the curt refusal with a word of explanation. "He is ill." "But sufficiently himself when roused to be inter- ested in the news I bring." Inspector Judson stepped into the center of the room and faced me directly. "A cable from the Budapest Police Bureau in answer to mine has confirmed our belief that Count Erdody was on intimate terms with Countess 45 13 Thirteenth Street Zichy." Judson waited to let his words sink in. "Come, Colonel Campbell, your common sense must tell you that Count Erdody is a possible—no"— he corrected himself—"the suspect in her murder. I am entirely within my rights in questioning him." He heard my furious ejaculation and pulled out a paper. "My search warrant"— "Is no earthly good!" I retorted with stern em- phasis. The three men and I had the room to our- selves; Aunt Polly had disappeared and only Slater hovered in the background. "You cannot examine my stepson's belongings, or interview him." "Why not?" The question was almost a threat. I squared my shoulders as I met Judson's angry gaze, and plunged blindly ahead. "Because Count Erdody claims diplomatic im- munity." CHAPTER V Testimony IPUSHED aside my breakfast plate and opened the morning Post, that moment brought to me by Slater. Moto had taken my orders literally and the preparation of my meals had been left to my chauf- feur, in the Jap's desire to wait only upon Wolf. Fortunately Slater was an old campaigner and in Russia had frequently acted as cook in emergencies. Slowly, carefully I read the lurid newspaper ac- counts of Ilda's murder and studied the pictures of the scene of the crime. None of them were very dis- tinct and I turned my attention to the theories ad- vanced by an enterprising reporter; they all centered about Wolf. Their old friendship and his attention to Ilda since her arrival in Washington had set tongues wagging in diplomatic circles where both were well known, and the reporters enlarged upon a possible lovers' quarrel. No other woman's name was mentioned and no details given of the supper party on Saturday night at the Cafe St. Regis—to me a significant omission. Not one of Ilda's guests was anxious to talk, apparently, and Peter Clemens was generally a garrulous soul! 47 Thirteenth Street As I folded the paper my eye caught a short para- graph stating: "Coroner Wilson expressed the opinion that from the condition of the body death must have occurred three hours before its discovery. . . ." I paused and counted on my fingers. Aunt Polly had declared she found Ilda at five o'clock—this placed the murder then as taking place at or about two o'clock Sunday morning. If reliance was to be placed on such testimony the party must have broken up unusually early—just after Peter Clemens' de- parture with Ellen Maury. I had spent fruitless hours searching for Peter after the departure of Inspector Judson and the two newspaper men. He was not in his usual haunts, nor was I able to find in the telephone directory the address of Ellen Maury. In the Social Register it was given as 13 Thirteenth Street. I had Slater even drive me to Aunt Polly's cottage, to find it as dark and deserted in appearance as Aunt Agatha's mansion. Before each lurked policemen in plain clothes or so I took them to be when I saw one of the men warn away two curious Negroes who were trying to climb the wall and so gain a better view of the "mystery mansion," the name given my house in the morning papers. Returning home around midnight, tired, cold and discouraged, I had found Moto in a devil of a humor 48 Testimony and my stepson still in no condition to be questioned. A heavy hand on my shoulder startled me and I looked up. There stood Wolf in pajamas and dress- ing gown. "Sit down, sit down," I exclaimed, and dragged back a chair from the table. "I thought you would never snap out of it." Wolf dropped into the chair somewhat suddenly. "I am weak," he admitted as Slater, at my call, brought in fresh coffee and toast. "Say, Dad, do I remember rightly—was Peter in my room yester- day? This is Monday, isn't it?" "Yes." I was watching Wolf closely. His pallor and the dark circles under his eyes spoke eloquently of dissipation. "Peter was not your only visitor, Wolf." "No?" He looked up questioningly, evidently struck by my tone. "Who else?" His glance trav- eled from me to the newspaper tossed forgotten on the table opposite him. Across the page ran the headlines: COUNTESS ILDA ZICHY MURDERED Body Found in 13 Thirteenth Street The silence grew prolonged. In alarm I stared at Wolf's frozen features. If he had seen the famed Medusa's head he could not have appeared more stricken. As one in a daze he picked up the paper 49 13 Thirteenth Street and read the opening paragraph, then dropped back in his chair. I was by his side instantly but he waved aside my proffered help. "Give me a minute," he gasped. "I'll be my- self then." The seconds ticked themselves into minutes and I sat down again heavy-hearted, speechless. What could I say? What could I do? I knew so little of Wolf's life in either Budapest or Washington. Sud- denly Wolf dropped his hands from before his face and looked at me, his expression stern and inscru- table. "Help me dress, Dad," and he pushed back his chair. "You're too weak," I protested, alarmed. "Bet- ter go back to bed and let me send for a doctor." "No." He eyed me in reproach. "Why did you keep this from me?" and he touched the paper with his finger, that is, almost, for his finger hovered over Ilda's name and was then withdrawn—a gesture al- most of repulsion. "You were not yourself"—I hesitated; it was no time for a temperance lecture. "I know." His hand rested on my arm as he rose somewhat unsteadily. A look about the room and he drew closer to me. "I found this between my sheets." He took from his pajama pocket a small piece of white paper, creased in regular folds and 50 Testimony opened it—such a paper as druggists use for pow- ders. "Who drugged me?" he asked below his breath. "Peter?" Too astounded for words I stared at Wolf in- credulously. With an impatient tug at my elbow he headed for his room, and still in silence I went along with him. Could I dismiss his suspicion as a sick man's fancy? But there was the paper. Wolf dressed with feverish energy, deaf to my remonstrances and unmindful of his weakened condi- tion. "What's the occasion for such haste?" I de- manded. "Where are you going?" "Out," and he struggled into his overcoat. My patience had been sorely tried, for every previous question I had put to him had gone unanswered. Stifling an angry retort I laid a heavy finger on Wolf's bell. Slater answered it on the run. "Send Moto here." "He has gone, sir." "Gone!" I repeated. Wolf slammed shut his closet door. "I sent him out with my laundry," he explained curtly. "Ready, Dad?" I turned to Slater. "The car?" "I parked it outside, sir, early this morning." The chauffeur looked at me. "Will you want me, sir?" I nodded and Slater vanished. 51 13 Thirteenth Street "Wolf!" He was standing by his chest of draw- ers. "What became of the other miniature?" In- stead of following my pointed finger his gaze never left me. "The miniature of the young girl. It stood here by your mother's picture yesterday morning." For fully a minute Wolf continued to regard me, a faint of gleam of amusement in his handsome eyes. "You have a vivid imagination!" and the scorn in his voice made my blood tingle. "Come along, Dad." For a second I hesitated, undecided; Wolf's at- titude was infuriating to one of my temperament— to be ignored where I had expected confidences. Wolf had reached the front door of my apartment, I trailing him by a foot or two, when I saw him stag- ger, and rushing forward steadied his swaying figure. "You are in no shape"—my protest fell on deaf ears and Wolf opened the door. "I'll feel better in the fresh air." Slater, waiting for us in the small hallway, pressed the button for the self-operating elevator and in the time it took to reach our floor I had picked up my overcoat and hat and closed the apartment door. But on the ground floor Wolf stopped and a look of consterna- tion flashed across his face. "My wallet," he faltered. "I must go back and get it." But I put out a detaining hand. "I'll get it." I stepped back into the elevator. 52 Testimony "Slater, help the Count into the car and I will join you there. Where did you leave your wallet, Wolf?" "In the pocket of my evening clothes"— His words came to me through the grating of the inside door. He slammed the outer one and I pushed the button. If I lacked Wolf's confidence how could I be of aid to him was the thought uppermost in my mind. The elevator stopped and, intending to be gone but a second, I did not trouble to close its doors. Laying an impatient hand on the knob of my apartment door I drew out my latchkey; it was not needed, for to my surprise, the knob turned in my grasp and I stepped inside. As the door swung shut I went down the hall, then halted in uncertainty. I was not in my own apartment. Evidently I had ac- cidentally pushed the wrong floor button in the ele- vator. "What are you doing here?" I swung about at the imperious question and stood thunderstruck—the girl of the miniature was staring at me. "I—I"—I struggled to master my feelings and collect my scattered wits. "I came in by mistake thinking this my apartment." While speaking I had backed down the hall and once more grasped the doorknob. "Pardon me"— Evidently reassured, the young girl came towards me and in the better light from the hall window I 53 13 Thirteenth Street saw the miniature did not flatter her, save in one par- ticular—her cheeks lacked color. She too, had ob- tained a clearer look at me. "You," she faltered, "Colonel Campbell! Go at once," and she almost pushed me out of the door and slammed it in my face. My mind in a whirl I got in the elevator, pressed the button for the second floor, reached there and went for Wolf's wallet. The errand took but a second and, too impatient to fool with the elevator, I raced down to the ground floor and turning to my left, looked at the row of letter boxes ranged along the wall of the vestibule. Under the numerals "301" was stuck a visiting card, "Mrs. Ellen Maury." My walking stick clattered on the tiling and I stooped to pick it up, my thoughts in turmoil. So the woman I had tried to locate was living on the floor above me! But, even more startling, was to be so summarily ejected from her apartment. I knew none of the other tenants of the house by name and seldom made use of the elevator, which possibly accounted for my not being acquainted with even their appearance. My arrival in Washington had been more or less unexpected as I had not tele- graphed ahead the exact date of my coming. I had insisted on Wolf keeping all social engagements which he had offered to cancel so he could be with me. Thus I had so far met few of his friends. 54 Testimony When I got to the sidewalk I found Slater in angry altercation with a number of camera men and Wolf, seated in the car, was absorbed in a news- paper. Catching sight of me, the chauffeur swung open the door and I jumped inside to the click of cameras. Evidently Slater had his directions, for he speeded down the avenue without orders from me. "Wolf." I laid my hand over the printed page, determined to have his full attention. "What is Ellen Maury to you?" If I had exploded a bomb Wolf could not have appeared more staggered. "Nothing!" he protested vehemently. "Why are we stopping?" Slater, on signal from a traffic policeman, brought the car up to the curb, and Inspector Judson opened the door. "Glad to see you, Colonel Campbell," he said, ignoring my cool nod, "and Count Erdody too." Without so much as "by your leave" he squeezed himself into the car. "The morgue," he called to Slater, and as the chauffeur shook his head, bewil- dered, "go down Seventh Street to the wharves. I'll point out the place when we get there." The inspector settled down between Wolf and me. "Sorry to inconvenience you both this way," he went on, giving me no time to expostulate, "the United States Attorney and Coroner Wilson sent me to 55 /J Thirteenth Street bring you, Colonel, to the inquest." He cocked an eye at me. "You, sir, cannot claim diplomatic im- munity." "And who in hell are you?" Wolf found his voice and his vocabulary at the same time. "Inspector Judson." In no wise abashed, Jud- son announced his identity and lighted a cigar. "I'll say your memory ain't of the best, Count Erdody," he remarked, meeting Wolf's infuriated glare. "So you plain forgot I sat by you for some time yester- day in your bedroom." Wolf slumped back in his corner as if shot and, as I looked at him over Judson's head, I was startled by his expression. Slater, evidently considering himself immune from traffic laws because of the presence of a police in- spector, reached the wharves in record time. We three on the back seat had completed the drive in si- lence. Judson scrambled nimbly past me when we stopped at the morgue. "Will you come in also, Count Erdody?" His politeness I felt covered other feelings. To my sur- prise Wolf nodded in acquiescence and the three of us trooped inside. Being the first to enter the larger room in the rear I was the first to encounter the stares of the thirty or more persons attending the inquest. People from all walks of life were there, judging by their dress, their morbid interest whetted 56 Testimony by the accounts of Ilda Zichy's murder in the morn- ing papers. Apparently the inquest had been under way but a short time for the blue-coated policeman in the wit- ness chair was describing his arrival at 13 Thirteenth Street. I wondered vaguely why we, possible wit- nesses, were permitted in the room; it was contrary to custom in the conduct of an inquest in England and Hungary. "You say the body lay on the floor?" The man whom I took to be Coroner Wilson came closer to the platform on which sat the witness and the twelve men composing the jury. "Did you, Darcy, notice anything peculiar about its position?" "Yis, sor." Darcy's rich brogue showed he was not long from County Antrim in the old country. "Sure, she'd been laid out wid lights an' iverything, like ready for a wake." "You mean Countess Zichy did not fall naturally in that pose?" And to demonstrate his point the coroner held up a greatly enlarged photograph of the scene. Darcy scratched his head. "Not unless she come to and crossed her arms on her breast and lit them little lights at her head and feet." "Were they both lighted?" "Yis, sor," the Irishman shuffled his feet nerv- ously, "I blew them out." 57 Thirteenth Street "Why?" The sharp interrogation completed his confusion. "Becase they flickered so, an' I also thought mebbe the inspector ud better see them not burned out so he could tell the length of time they'd been lighted." I listened to his halting statements with interest. When I had seen the body one Sterno can was lighted. Coroner Wilson went back to his own table and displayed two small objects. "Are these the cans?" Darcy nodded. "Yis, sor, or their twins." "You can go." Nothing loath, the big Irishman scrambled from the platform and sought a less con- spicuous place in the room. The next witness was according to his own state- ment the deputy coroner. His air of assurance tes- tified to his familiarity with such scenes. "I performed the autopsy," he began in answer to a question, "in the presence of my colleague, Dr. Penfield. Countess Zichy was in perfect physical condition." He paused a second. "Death was caused by a stab in the back." A ripple of excitement spread through the room, quelled instantly by Coroner Wilson's stern order for silence. "What leads you to think she was stabbed in the back?" asked Wilson. "Because the wound between the shoulder-blades 58 Testimony was wider at the opening. A punctured wound we call them, one inflicted with a sharp-edged, pointed knife like—like"—he hesitated—"oh, well, a small hunting knife." A woman near me tittered and then turned fiery red as she met my eyes. Coroner Wilson did not press for a more definite description of the kind of weapon. "Were there other marks on the body?" he asked. The deputy coroner cleared his throat. "Only a slight abrasion inside the lower lip, evidently in- flicted in her death throes." Wilson consulted his notes and, turning to the morgue master: "You may retire," he said; "call Sergeant Meade." The man I had seen both at 13 Thirteenth Street and in the office marked "Fingerprint Division" took the stand. My attention strayed from him during the preliminary questioning to Wolf, to find to my relief that the latter had taken an aisle seat in front of me. If the close atmosphere of the room, satu- rated with tobacco smoke, and the sense of excite- ment made my head swim, for Wolf in his weakened condition I feared a physical collapse. It was some- what of a shock to me to realize that Inspector Judson was watching Wolf with absorbed attention. Oblivious of the inspector's regard he sat gazing 59 13 Thirteenth Street straight ahead, his expression one of varying emo- tions. Was it for observation purposes that Jud- son had brought us to the inquest? Could I, without attracting attention, signal a warning to Wolf to mask his feelings? Twirling my walking stick in apparent disregard of the proximity of others, I banged it with some force against Wolfs ear and his profane ejacula- tion covered my whispered caution: "Control your- self! You're being watched." Sergeant Meade's voice was of a quarter-deck variety and filled the room. With renewed interest in the proceedings I listened to his testimony. "And you found no fingerprints?" questioned Coroner Wilson. "On the contrary, there were a mess of them on the front door," retorted Meade, his disgust evident. "Word of the murder must have gotten about and people in the neighborhood planted their hands on the front door before the police guard was placed there." "But inside the house?" persisted the coroner. "Ah, that's a different story," admitted Meade, "we found none except"—he paused dramatically and with one accord we bent forward to catch what he said—"except on one of the Sterno cans." "Yes, go on." But Sergeant Meade was not to be hurried. From 60 Testimony his pocket he drew out a number of documents and held up first one and then another. "These," he began, "show definitely that the fingerprint on the can was made by Countess Zichy, the dead woman." CHAPTER VI More Testimony SERGEANT MEADE'S testimony absorbed my attention, to the exclusion of all else happening about me. Ilda's fingerprints on the Sterno can! It proved conclusively that she had entered 13 Thir- teenth Street alive, that she had gone into the store- room, taken the Sterno cans from the shelves and lighted one, at least. But why—why? For illumi- nation, Inspector Judson had suggested when I first saw the body on Sunday morning. That might be the solution of the fingerprint on the can, but the question remained—why had she gone to my house between midnight and five in the morning—a house untenanted, dark and forbidding? What had she expected to find there? I took out my handkerchief to wipe the beads of perspiration off my forehead. Who had accompanied her or had she gone alone on her midnight excursion? In either event who had admitted her? The scoundrel who had stabbed her in the back was the obvious answer. I shivered as with a chill and laid my hand on Wolf's shoulder. "Suppose we go." 62 More Testimony He turned frowning and muttered in his native tongue: "Listen!" A nod of his head towards the platform emphasized his meaning and I looked that way. Aunt Polly was just seating herself in the witness chair and the morgue master, on whom fell the task of swearing in the witnesses, stepped back, Bible in hand. Her answers as to her name and length of service in Aunt Agatha Apthorpe's employ were given in such shaky tones that they failed to reach me distinctly. "Who pays you now?" asked Coroner Wilson. "Speak louder." "Cunnel Ca'mel." She brought out my name with startling distinctness. "Dat is, Mistah Peter and Mistah Count Wolf done brung me de money right along." Her voice expressed satisfaction. "Mis- tah Count was so pleased wif de way I'se kept Mis' Agatha's house, he done raised my pay five dollars a week." "Indeed?" Coroner Wilson evidently knew Negro mental processes and let her chat on, once she showed an inclination to talk. With a few interrup- tions he drew from her a description of her discovery of the murder. It was the same in every particular as she had told me. "Aunt Polly, how did you enter the house?" in- quired Wilson as she stopped to take breath. 63 jj Thirteenth Street "Through de back do'. I has my key." She took from her dilapidated bag a door key. "How did yo' s'pose I got in?" Wilson ignored her somewhat heated question. "Has that key been out of your possession, Aunt Polly? Think well before you answer." Her reply, however, was instant. "It ain't never out of my possession. Didn't Mistah Peter, my lawyer"—with withering emphasis—"tell me away back I'se responsible fo' all Mis' Agatha's belong- ings. No, sah, dat key done stayed wif me." "And you never gave it to either your employer, Colonel Campbell, or his stepson, Count Wolf Erdody?" persisted the coroner. "No, sah," emphatically. "Dey has deir own keys." "That's all, Aunt Polly. You may go." My name, pronounced in stentorian tones by the morgue master, brought me to my feet and Inspector Judson's beckoning finger gave further clear indica- tion I was wanted on the platform, had I shown any inclination to linger. The words "to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God" were still echoing in my ears when I completed a brief account of myself, prompted thereto by Wilson's persistent questions. In as few words as possible, I described my summons to 13 Thirteenth Street. 64 More Testimony "And now, Colonel Campbell," Wilson laid aside his notes and came closer to me, "where were you Saturday evening?" "At the National Theater." "Ah, then you saw Countess Zichy and her Hun- garian dance troupe?" "Yes." Wilson looked up at me. "And later, Colonel Campbell?" "At the close of the performance I went home," curtly. "You were alone?" "Yes." Wilson was interrupted by a whispered word from Inspector Judson who at the moment stepped up to him. In the interval that ensued I sat back and looked about the room. It was approaching the noon hour and that fact or lack of interest in my testimony had emptied many of the front seats and I had an uninterrupted view of Wolf, leaning back sullenly in his chair. From his bored attitude it ap- peared he was the least concerned person there. "Colonel Campbell"—Wilson's sharp tones brought my wandering glance back to him—"was your stepson, Count Erdody, in the theater audi- ence?" "He was one of a box party"— 65 Thirteenth Street "And who were the others?" broke in Wilson as I hesitated. "Strangers to me." "Oh." Wilson did not look any too pleased; whether it was my manner or the lack of information elicited, I could not tell. "You have recently ac- quired the property, 13 Thirteenth Street?" "Yes," and added hastily, catching his eye, "through inheritance." "You plan to live there?" "No; the property is in line with the proposed government building program," I explained; "in fact, it has already been condemned and the price agreed upon." "But the government has not yet taken title?" in- quired Wilson, breaking into my statement. "No, not yet." "And you still own 13 Thirteenth Street?" "Yes." I wondered at what he was driving. I felt my cigarette case in my pocket. I would have given a good deal for a smoke. "And where do you keep the keys of the house?" demanded Wilson. "Mr. Peter Clemens has them." I encountered his dubious glance. "Mr. Clemens is handling the sale of the property for me." "And his is the only set?" "To the best of my knowledge, it is." I stared - 66 More Testimony steadily at the coroner. "The keys are old-fashioned and easily recognizable. There are none such in my apartment." "Ah—then you have searched for them?" "No," I drawled the disclaimer, "only looked— among my belongings and those of my stepson. A natural curiosity on my part, you will admit, Mr. Coroner." Coroner Wilson went back to his table. "You're excused," and turning to the morgue master, he re- quested the latter to bring in my chauffeur, Slater. My servant and I passed each other in the aisle, and the mystification on his face equaled mine. Wolf stirred himself sufficiently to move up a seat and let me take the aisle chair. Slater answered Coroner Wilson in the stilted English to which I had long grown accustomed but which evidently annoyed the coroner. After telling of our trip home from Europe he sat respectfully waiting, one eye on the coroner and the other taking in his unusual surroundings. "Did you drive Colonel Campbell to the theater Saturday night?" "Yes, sir, and called for him after the perform- ance." Slater twirled his chauffeur's cap about. "It was commencing to snow—a nasty night, sir, if you will pardon me for saying so, and I was glad of the orders to drive straight home." 67 jj Thirteenth Street "So you went home at once?" Wilson put in swiftly. "You didn't stop anywhere?" "No, sir," firmly. "I put up the car, carried some wood to the Colonel's living room, said 'good night' and retired, sir." "What time was it then?" Slater thought a second. "Close to midnight," he said. "Ah, then it did not take you long to put up the car?" "No, sir, the garage is in the alley back of us." Wilson took off his glasses, polished and read- justed them on his nose. "You may retire, Slater," he directed, and omitting the usual procedure, him- self requested Inspector Judson to take the stand. With painstaking care Judson told of his connec- tion with the Homicide Squad, his summons to 13 Thirteenth Street early Sunday morning, sending for me, and our inspection of the mansion. "Did you wait for Colonel Campbell to arrive be- fore searching the house?" demanded the coroner. "No, sir. The patrolman and I went over it from top to bottom, but nobody was hidden in the house." "You found no trace of the house having been broken into?" "Absolutely none. Whoever entered that house, Mr. Coroner, used the door key." 68 More Testimony "Did you find any evidence of the intruder's or intruders' identity?" "Only the dead woman, Countess Zichy, was to be seen. She could be called an intruder—it wasn't her house." Wilson frowned. Evidently Judson's answers were not quite what he had anticipated. "Then the countess' companion or companions may have been a man or a woman, or both?" "Exactly, sir." Judson cleared his throat and raised his voice. Consciously or unconsciously his glance had alighted on Wolf. "One thing is cer- tain—she wasn't there alone." "What leads you to think that? You have just said there was no evidence to show the presence of others." "In the first place, the countess could not have flopped down in the position I found her body." Judson wagged his finger impressively in the cor- oner's face. "Secondly, we found no weapon any- where in the house," he paused. "The corpse couldn't have made away with that." "True," agreed the coroner dryly, "but Aunt Polly"— "No, she didn't!" Judson spoke with conviction. "We searched her at once, and then her house." But Coroner Wilson clung to his point. "She was alone with the corpse," he argued. "There was time 6q More Testimony For a minute or two Judson and the coroner gazed at each other. "That's all now, Inspector; stick around"—but Judson did not wait for him to complete his remark. Leaving the witness chair, he went over to the press table and engaged one of the reporters in earnest conversation. "Why, here you are." And Peter Clemens, ap- proaching from a side door, dropped into the seat in front of us. "I've called your apartment a dozen times, Campbell. Nobody answered." "Moto must have taken the day off." It was Wolf who spoke and his manner was so conciliatory, for him, that I eyed the two men in considerable be- wilderment. Not three hours before, Wolf had voiced his sus- picion that Peter Clemens had given him a drug; why any one should drug him and why he should pick on Peter as a suspect was beyond my comprehension. Having formerly had exhibitions in public of Wolf's unbridled temper and his quick resentment of what he deemed injustice, I was doubly surprised he did not vent his indignation against Peter there and then. "Moto is no worse than the rest of us," com- mented Peter; "I haven't been near my office to-day." Wolf took from his pocket a well-thumbed memo- randum pad and turned its leaves. "This is the 71 More Testimony so thoroughly, so satisfactorily that Aunt Agatha wished her to share her wealth." "But she didn't get it," I rejoined dryly. "I take it Mrs. Maury is no better off now than before Aunt Agatha's death. Then how can she afford to live in an apartment which is as expensive as ours?" Wolf eyed me in wrath. "Very simple," he re- marked; "she doesn't pay the rent." Somewhat staggered, I sat back in time to see a tall graceful figure swing up the aisle to the plat- form. I wasn't entirely sure of the man's identity until I heard Coroner Wilson call him by name. "Herr Flotow," he began, plunging at once into the investigation, "you were Countess Zichy's danc- ing partner?" "Yes—yes." Flotow looked in mild-eyed surprise at the coroner. "I have so stated to the gentleman, Inspector Judson, and other officials of the Police Department." "And you came with her from abroad?" "Yes." Flotow's pleasant voice made a favorable impression and his decided accent proved no handi- cap, judging by the audible comments of a well- dressed woman, who, with several others, had entered the room and sat down behind us. His good looks, and his gesticulations when speaking, were characteristic of his race. 73 More Testimony and hesitated, "she expressed, I fear audibly, dis- pleasure with Count Erdody." "Why?" "Because—because"—he moistened his lips— "Count Erdody brought with him an uninvited guest." An oppressive silence followed his statement. Wolf't heavy breathing was audible and I glanced at him to find that he sat with face slightly averted, one crossed foot moving continuously. "Who was the uninvited guest?" demanded Wil- son. Flotow flushed. "Must I answer?" "Unless you, too, claim diplomatic immunity"— sarcastically. "I cannot do that." Flotow smiled ruefully. "I am a professional dancer and have no connection with the foreign service." "Suppose, then, you answer my question," prompted Wilson. "Who was the uninvited guest?" "A Mrs. Ellen Maury." "How did you know she was not expected?" Flotow's smile showed his handsome teeth. "Countess Zichy greeted her with the words: 'How unexpected! Count Erdody did not prepare me for this,' and her accent on 'this' was not pleasant." "What happened next?" "Nothing." Flotow's shrug was expressive. 75 13 Thirteenth Street "We all talked very fast and Mrs. Maury took Erdody's seat." "And Count Erdody," asked Wilson, "what be- came of him?" "He laughed and drank a toast to our hostess and went to the foot of the table." "Continue," directed the coroner. "How long did the party keep up?" "Until one, perhaps," doubtfully. "Clemens and Mrs. Maury were the first to leave." "And the last were . . .?" "Oh, we left the cafe together." He motioned expressively with his hands. "The ladies went to get their wraps and we men to get our overcoats." "And that was the last you saw of Countess Zichy?" questioned Wilson, his disappointment at so tame an ending to Flotow's testimony discernible in his voice. "Did not the countess and Mrs. Maury hold any conversation?" "I did not hear any." "Did she not talk with Erdody?" "I did not see them together." Flotow looked in our direction and, from his start, I gathered he had not before caught sight of Wolf among the spec- tators. "And you did not see the countess again?" For the second time Coroner Wilson put the same ques- tion. 76 More Testimony "But I did." Flotow drew in his breath with a certain nervous tension and plunged ahead. "I was the last to leave the men's dressing room. I went outside the St. Regis. The doorman was not there. Suddenly my name was called and, turning, I saw Countess Zichy"— "Was she wearing a coat?" broke in Wilson. "Yes, of course. Some dark affair," vaguely. "The countess asked me to call a taxi"— Once more he was interrupted. "Did you see Count Erdody anywhere around?" "No." Flotow added hastily: "But then I looked only for a taxi; none was in sight and I rushed back into the lobby to the office desk tc^ask them to call one. When I returned outside the St. Regis, Count- ess Zichy was gone." "Gonel Gone where?" 'I do not know." CHAPTER VII Further Complications FLOTOW'S statement caused a veritable sensa- tion and audible comments followed him from the platform. It was long past noon and hours since I had eaten; my spine bored into my wooden chair but nothing could budge me from my place. With an impatience almost equal to Coroner Wilson's, I watched the next witness being sworn in. She was an elderly woman, neatly dressed in black. That she didn't relish her conspicuous place in the witness chair was evidenced by her nervous, apprehensive glances about the room. Her broken English added to her general state of confusion. "Now, Miss Bornot," began Wilson, and his kindly manner invited confidences, "you came to this country with Countess Zichy as her personal maid?" "Oui, m'sieu, I joined ze countess in Paris; her last maid died there, and now, alas !"— The coroner hastily checked the Frenchwoman's voluble speech. "Just answer my questions," and as she flushed, he added more gently: "Was the count- ess happy or did she seem downcast?" 78 Further Complications "Oh, happy, m'sieu, that is"—she stammered a bit—'"always light-hearted until she came here." "Indeed?" Wilson's conversational tones were belied by his sharp glance. Obviously he was ap- praising the value of her testimony. "Had she many callers?" "Mais oui, m'sieu." Her surprise was marked. "Ze countess always had ze gentlemen around her. She was ver' populaire and it was tres difficile for her to receive just ze favorites.". "And who were these favorites?" quickly. "Herr Flotow, Marquis Collato, Count Erdody and"—she hesitated noticeably—"M'sieu Peter Clemens." Coroner Wilson jotted down the names as she gave them, then looked up again at the witness. "You said, Miss Bornot, that the countess was light-hearted until she came to Washington. When did you arrive?" "A week ago Sunday." "And when did you notice the change in her?" "About four days later—say Thursday." She twisted her handkerchief in and out of her fingers. "And what, in your opinion, brought about this change?" The Frenchwoman regarded him appealingly. "It is only my thought, m'sieu, but—Count Erdody came less often to see the countess and—and"—she 79 /5 Thirteenth Street stopped, evidently regretting the words the instant she had spoken them—"there was anozzer mat- ter"— "Go on," urged the coroner. Inwardly I echoed his words for I, too, had lis- tened with increasing consternation. Even in my biased judgment Wolf was becoming every minute more deeply involved. He sat so still I wondered if he was taking in the full significance of what the maid said. "What about the other matter?" asked Coroner Wilson as she kept silent. "M'sieu"—she was having difficulty in express- ing herself—"ze countess was of a passionate na- ture. There was a bundle of letters—oh, letters written sometime in the past." She cast a look al- most of entreaty at her questioner and Coroner Wil- son came to her aid. "You mean compromising letters?" he asked. "Just so, m'sieu." The Frenchwoman's face brightened. "Ze countess was ver' excited on Fri- day and told me some gentleman wished them. He threatened even." "Oh!" The exclamation spoke volumes. "Who threatened the countess?" "She did not say." Wilson's disappointment was plain. "Have you no idea?" he egged her on, one persuasive hand laid 80 Further Complications on hers. "Come, Miss Bornot, you have sworn to tell the whole truth, and the truth can hurt no inno- cent person." But it was a second or two before the maid an- swered. "Some one called on the phone Saturday and asked for the countess. I say: 'Who ees eet?' No answer. I repeat. No answer. And I am about to ring off when ze countess snatched the phone from me. Her face changed and I hear her say: 'No! No! Nevaire will I give you ze letters.' And bang goes ze telephone. She turned to me and say: 'Marie, I have been deceived.'" There was a pause. Marie Bornot had told her story with dramatic force. "Did she say anything else?" demanded the coroner. "No, m'sieu." "Nor give you a hint of the person's identity?" "No, m'sieu." But her parrotlike denials were not convincing. "Can't you hazard a guess?" Her blank expres- sion showed she did not understand the colloquial- ism, and he tried again. "Come, Miss Bornot, you are too clever, too observing not to have some idea who threatened the countess." "An idea, but I do not know." Marie clasped and unclasped her hands. "Perhaps I do wrong but— 81 13 Thirteenth Street the voice on the phone sounded like that of M'sieu Clemens." I sat back with a gasp, for a moment too dazed to take in what more was said. Peter threatening Ilda was a situation I could not grasp. He, the most peaceable of citizens! "Miss Bornot!" Coroner Wilson raised his voice through sheer excitement. "Where are those let- ters? Did you bring them with you?" Marie shook her head. "I saw them but once, a little package—so big," she demonstrated the size with her fingers. "That was Saturday. What ze countess did with them later, I do not know. They are not in her jewel box." "Did Mr. Peter Clemens come to her hotel after the telephone conversation?" "Oui, m'sieu; he and Count Erdody called for but a little while around five o'clock. They left to- gether." Coroner Wilson considered a minute before again addressing Marie. "Did the countess have any woman callers?" he asked. "None that she received, that is, only a black woman. Tante Polly she called herself." Wilson looked puzzled. "Tante Polly," he re- peated, "do you mean by chance Aunt Polly?" "Oui, m'sieu. My hands are lame with rheuma- tism and I dare not launder ze countess' ver' most 82 13 Thirteenth Street "I'll take them all," and to his infinite surprise, gathered them up. "Thanks," I added, as he pro- duced a large envelope. "Now, Peter, what has be- come of my aunt's personal belongings?" "Well—er"— Peter tipped back in his revolving chair. "Hasn't—er—Wolf told you of the letter left by your aunt in which she directed that her per- sonal effects be given to Ellen Maury?" "You mean"—I looked at him questioningly— "this letter was in addition to the will giving Ellen Maury the greater part of her fortune—the will which the court rejected because of the testator's mental state?" "Quite so." Peter gazed anywhere but at me. "You will recall, Campbell, that you left the settle- ment to Wolf and to me. After due consideration, we—er—concluded it would be only fair to Mrs. Maury to carry out Miss Apthorpe's wishes as ex- pressed in her letter—let her down easy, so to speak." My stare grew prolonged. Peter was certainly not like himself. He shifted uneasily about and spoke again in some agitation. "After all, Camp- bell, neither you nor Wolf have any use for a woman's personal apparel and knickknacks and, dash it all, man, you got all the money." I laughed shortly. "Mrs. Maury's charms must 86 Further Complications be out of the ordinary—she appears to have you and Wolf bewitched." He reddened uncomfortably. "You already know how I feel about her. . . ." "But the question is, what are Wolf's feelings in the matter?" I stopped, struck by his expression. If looks could injure, I would not have escaped un- scathed. Without replying, he reached across the desk, picked up an open magazine and threw it at me. "Read for yourself," he growled. My eyes were arrested by the black cross on the margin and I read the printed words opposite it: The devotion of a certain young diplomat to a recent claimant of Miss Agatha Apthorpe's fortune is a convincing answer to the story that he plans to marry an internationally famous dancer. It is rumored that the young American widow, unlike her foreign rival, is keeping the fickle Count guessing. Peter saw my glance stray to the top of the page. "Same old scurrilous sheet," he exclaimed. "And given to me marked, as you see it, by Ilda Zichy." I laid aside the paper without comment. "Let me have the keys to 13 Thirteenth Street." Peter straightened up and reaching over to a drawer, pulled it open. "Here they are." But what he drew out was a 87 13 Thirteenth Street collection of keys of various sizes tied together. He gazed at them blankly and then at me. "Good God!" he exclaimed, and dragged the drawer out still farther, pawing through its contents. "Your keys were here Saturday afternoon." He touched the buzzer on his desk and his ste- nographer came at once. "Who's been in this office this morning?" he asked. "No one, sir, until you came," she replied. "Not even the charwoman, as you took the door key away with you Saturday night." "But who came in Saturday afternoon?" She thought a second. "No one, sir; I sat here with you taking dictation until after four"— "True, you did! And you put the keys to 13 Thir- teenth Street in that drawer?" touching it as he spoke. "Yes, sir. I did so just a few minutes before Count Erdody came in to go out with you. Is that all, sir?" And at his nod, she left us. Peter was the first to speak. "Looks kind of bad for Wolf," he said. My temper, already roused, got the best of me. "So you threaten Wolf!" I exclaimed. "You tried that game on Ilda." White-faced, Peter sprang up. "By !If it wasn't for our old friendship, I'd make you eat those words!" 88 Further Complications "How about your friendship," with sneering em- phasis, "for Ilda—in Paris?" For a long moment Peter glared at me, lips twitch- ing, eyes aflame. "You"—he could hardly articu- late—"get out of here!" Whirling around, I left him. But I had not gained the outer door when I remembered my aunt's wills and, turning, retraced my steps. I did not re- enter the private office, however, for Peter, his back to me, was talking into a cradle phone: "Mrs. Maury"—he spoke hurriedly, urgently—"get her to the phone, quick." An unintentional eavesdropper, I closed the door to Peter's private office and departed. On reaching Jackson Place I looked up and down for my car. Evidently Wolf had either decided to keep Slater, or he had not understood me fully when he drove off. It was long past the lunch hour and I was decidedly hungry. The Metropolitan Club was but a block away and, after a moment's indecision, I went there. A sandwich and a cup of black coffee put new life into me and, not stopping to try and reach Wolf by phone and tell him of my altered plans, I took a taxi home. More snow threatened, and the dreary skies and biting wind seemed a fitting accompaniment to my sense of dejection. My usual custom was to ring for Moto, but this time I used my latchkey. Dropping my hat and 89 Thirteenth Street overcoat on the nearest chair, I crossed the recep- tion hall and entered the living room. The room was oblong in shape and my flat-topped desk stood cater- cornered at the farther end, near a window. I had reached the fireplace part way down the room when I grew aware that I was not alone. From a stoop- ing position behind my desk rose the girlish shoul- ders and flaxen head of a fairylike creature. So fragile, so ethereal, that a touch of pathos was added to the admiration which her deep blue eyes brought forth. For a second or two we stood eying each other. She was the first to recover herself. "Colonel Campbell." "Mrs. Maury." I bowed low, and she took a hesitating step forward. "I shan't hurry you away." Her eyes twinkled and, quite self-possessed, she took the chair I offered her. It faced the cold, gray light and I had at last an uninterrupted look at her. She was older than I had thought in my first glimpse of her; about twenty-four, I judged,, and found later my guess was correct. She showed no inclination to open the conversation. "Mrs. Maury"—I, too, sat down—"are you call- ing on me or on Wolf?" "On neither." Her soft voice and her lovely smile were very captivating. "Moto admitted me go Further Complications that I might scribble a note"—she extended her hand and for the first time I saw a folded paper within her fingers—"to you. It fell to the floor as you came in and"—again a smile touched her lips— "you caught me in a rather ignominious position." "May I have the note?" But she did not offer it to me. Instead, she rose and spoke in breathless haste. "I came to return these"—and there dropped from her left hand a bunch of keys. "My set to 13 Thirteenth Street," she said, and slipped away, while I stood too thunderstruck to move. CHAPTER VIII Sinister Shadows THE keys to 13 Thirteenth Street!—well, Ellen Maury had lived with my Aunt Agatha Ap- thorpe for two years or more; then what more likely than that she should have kept a set of keys to the house. It was a coincidence that Peter Clemens, my representative in the pending real estate deal, should miss his set of keys, that Wolf should have been at his office when they were last seen there, that I should accidentally overhear Peter calling Ellen Maury on the phone after their loss was discovered, and that upon my return I should find Ellen in my living room with a set of keys! It was a coincidence, I argued fiercely with myself—it had to be. And then my heart sank. Suppose Wolf had given the keys—Peter's set—to Ellen to rid himself of such incriminating evidence, and she had chosen that method of returning them to me. I beat the devil's tattoo on the desk at which I was sitting—Ilda, dark, beautiful, passionate—she had been well named the "Tiger Lily of the Stage." The exact antithesis of Ellen Maury—had she tempted Wolf beyond his strength? A quarrel, bit- r 92 13 Thirteenth Street and, after some search, found my flashlight. I was putting on my overcoat when Moto joined me. "How long had Mrs. Maury been here?" I asked, and studied his expression attentively, for I knew the Jap was not above accepting a bribe. Moto handed me a silk muffler before replying; his manner was most solicitous. "Very few min- utes. About five," with characteristic brevity. "I leave her to answer kitchen doorbell; then I feed Slater. What time we have dinner?" "Serve Count Wolf at any hour he wishes. I'm not sure when I will return," and I shut the door in Moto's inquisitive face. "Where to, sir?" Slater's question diverted my attention from a window in the apartment above mine. The shadows on the drawn shade swayed back and forth as the breeze, blowing through the slightly opened window, moved it; now large, now small, one profile was surely that of Ellen—but the other . . . Ah, it resembled Peter Clemens' fea- tures. For a moment I hesitated, then sprang into the car. "Go to 13 Thirteenth Street." Pulling my coat collar upright, I lit a cigarette and sank back in the car. Homeward-bound traffic, for it was approaching six o'clock, slowed us up and fully twenty minutes passed before Slater stopped in front of my house. 94 Sinister Shadows Through the car windows I looked up and down Thirteenth Street; no loiterers were about and I heaved a sigh of relief. I was not anxious to have the police know of my visit. The winter chill of the December night struck me as I left the heated limousine and I shivered inside my heavy overcoat, or was it a desire for human companionship at sight of the gloomy exterior of the old mansion? I paused in uncertainty at the foot of the steps. "Lock the car and come along," I called shortly, and Slater was soon by my side. The key to the Yale lock of the storm door turned easily; not so the old-fashioned key to the front door. I turned it this way and that in my impatience, and Slater's re- spectful, "Allow me, sir," came as a relief. He manipulated the old-fashioned lock carefully and the door swung open. If I thought it cold outside, the air that struck us as we went indoors was frigid—the dank, un- healthy atmosphere of a closed house. Even so I took off my overcoat; its weight hampered me. My action drew a protest from Slater. "You'll catch cold, sir." His voice echoed weirdly in the deserted rooms and I actually jumped. Paying no attention to the chauffeur's kindly meant warning, I went from room to room, using my flashlight to see my way about. Slater, never very far from me, did not speak again for some time. 95 13 Thirteenth Street I had completed the round of the first floor and arrived at the storeroom. In spite of my deter- mination to examine the house thoroughly and at my leisure, it took all my nerve to cross the threshold and once more stand close to the spot where I had seen the body of the murdered dancer less than thirty-six hours before. My attention now was focused on the pantry shelves and I played the flashlight over the articles resting on them, careful, however, to touch none of the dusty china. In no crack nor cranny did I find a Sterno can and what I considered more important, no metal stand on which the cans fitted when in use. Possibly the police had taken it away in their en- deavor to find fingerprints. My search in the large basement kitchen and pantry was equally unproduc- tive of results. With Slater at my heels I went to the library, a large paneled room to the right of the front door. As a boy, I had spent many hours browsing about, deeply interested in the hundreds of books on their shelves, which were built in the paneling and gave the room its rich and restful appearance. But it was not the books that now engaged my attention but the recollection of a chance discovery made thirty- eight years before. Crossing over to the fireplace, I moved to the left of it and stopped in front of the bookshelf there. Taking out a row of books facing 96 Sinister Shadows me, I felt along the paneling for a knob or a metal protuberance. None was there. Only the smooth surface of the age-old oak rewarded my touch. In deep chagrin I put back the books. My memory, ap- parently, was faulty. And yet, could I be mistaken? It had been the thrill of my boyhood to penetrate a mysterious section of the old house. I stepped back and studied the bookshelves. "Oh!" At my short exclamation Slater came closer. "What is it, sir?" And this time he took care to whisper the words so they would not echo weirdly in our ears. "I've grown." I dropped on one knee. At twelve I had not measured six feet, two inches. Quickly I calculated the distance from the floor to my approxi- mate height at that age—the bookshelf behind which I had found a secret door had come about to my shoulders then. Slater caught my enthusiasm and we soon had the books on the floor—and this time I found the hidden spring. A strong pressure and the whole section of the bookcase swung open. Snatching my flashlight from Slater, I stepped inside the secret passage and stumbled down a few steps and around the stone chimney. I had not told Slater to come with me but his heavy breathing proved that he was not far behind. The flashlight showed a brick wall a yard or more ahead. It also showed a figure braced against the 97 12 Thirteenth Street bricks. For a minute the three of us stood motion- less. Slater's hand on my shoulder pressed down heavily as I lifted the flashlight and focussed it full upon the terrified face of a Negro. "Ezra!" My exclamation broke the stillness like a bomb. "What are you doing here?" Ezra's knees sagged under him and he collapsed at my feet. Only his white eyeballs showed clearly in contrast with his brown skin. "I didn't kill her, fo' Gawd I didn't," he gasped. Slater and I lifted the terror-stricken boy to his feet and onto a mattress stretched across two wooden boxes, the only furnishing in the two-by-four secret chamber. Burnt matches, pieces of candle and a brass candlestick showed he had some means of light- ing his hiding place. "Why are you here, Ezra?" My repetition of his name made an impression and he looked at me with dawning recognition. I had seen him twice be- fore—on Thursday when I first visited the old mansion and on Friday when I stopped to see Aunt Polly. "Cunnel Ca'mel! Den yo' ain't de p'lice." He fondled my hand in spite of my endeavor to loosen his grasp. "Mammy done tole me yo' was a mighty smart man." "I'm obliged to Aunt Polly, but just now, Ezra, I am more anxious to know how you got in here 98 /J Thirteenth Street quenched his thirst and, in some measure, satisfied his craving for food. "Drive farther down the block, Slater." And as the car moved along, I turned in my corner and faced Aunt Polly's son. "Now, Ezra, tell me every- thing." "Yes, sah." Lacking a handkerchief, Ezra wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well, sah, Mammy done give me de clothes fo' dat der lady— countess—what yo' call her"— "The Countess Ilda Zichy." "Yes, sah." Ezra bobbed his head respectfully. "Dat's de lady. I done got to de hotel after she left Saturday night but de clerk dar give me de money fo' Mammy. It were ten dollars." Ezra rolled his eyes until the whites showed alarmingly. "Well, sah, de debble got behind me an' jes pushed me into a crap game." "And you lost the money?" I asked. "Every cent." Ezra shook his head mournfully. "Cunnel, yo' ain't never seen Mammy when her temper's up. I didn' dare go home wif no money an' worse yet, let on I'se played craps on Sunday. Mammy's terruble religious an' Sunday can't be broke no way." "That may be, but how does that put you in the secret chamber?" Ezra made a wry face. "'Tain't de fust time I '\ 100 Sinister Shadows been out all night, so I made fo' de ole home, got In de back do' wif my key which ole Miss Agatha git me so's I could run de furnace, an' stole into de front hall meanin' to sleep on a sofa." Again terror made his voice shrill. "Jes' as I stood dar I heerd a screech from de back ob de house—an awful screech. Den Mammy comes a-runnin fo' de front do' an' I lets out fo' de secret chamber. An' dar I stays 'till yo' come." It was some minutes before I spoke. "The house was dark at five o'clock. How then, Ezra, did you know the person rushing into the front hall was Aunt Polly?" Ezra twisted about. "I jes' guessed it. She could get in dar, an' she was de one pusson I didn't want to meet—leastways wifout her ten dollars." I thought again. "If you bolted immediately into a secret passage, how did you know that a woman had been killed in the house?" Ezra's answer was ready. "Soon as de do' was closed between Mammy an' me an' I'se a chance to catch my breff, I calc'lated I'd find out what de hullabaloo was about an' I pokes de do' open a crack an' I hears de p'liceman an' Mammy talkin' 'bout de murder. An' den I was sure enough scared an' hid whar yo' finds me." Ezra's explanation had the ring of truth. "Did you meet any one or see any one loitering 101 13 Thirteenth Street around the grounds of the house when you first got there?" But Ezra shook his head. I glanced at my watch and then took out my wallet. "Here's ten dollars, Ezra. Go on back to your mother and say nothing." Ezra's gratitude made him almost incoherent and when we drew up at the old cottage, which fronted on Twelfth Street, he was still voicing his thanks. The car's approach was evidently seen by Aunt Polly, for she swung open the cottage door before we had fairly stopped. My detaining hand stayed Ezra's plunge towards her. "Sit still," I whispered fiercely, and he shrank back out of sight. "Aunt Polly"— my long legs carried me swiftly to her side, and to make room for me to enter she turned so that the light from her lamp fell directly on her face— "where is Ezra?" Her look of pleased delight at my unexpected appearance gave way to one of suspicion. "Why yo' ask fo' dat worthless coon?" she asked. "I spec he done gone off wif my ten dollars." "Ezra," I called, and as the Negro left the car and came down the path, I hurried back to Slater, not waiting to see Aunt Polly greet her son. But as I drove away doubts of Ezra's story grew stronger. Suppose he had gone earlier to my house, been awakened by Uda's entrance, and attacked her? Such things had happened before, but then, 102 Sinister Shadows had Ilda gone unaccompanied to 13 Thirteenth Street? If alone, she might have heen unable to fight off Ezra. I paused in my reasoning. There were no signs of any struggle having taken place in the house. We were halfway home when I leaned over and touched Slater. "Go to Police Headquarters," I directed, and turning, we sped south again. At that hour, before the theater rush, there was no difficulty in parking in front of the District Building. In fact I was far longer locating Inspector Judson. His welcome was all I could wish in point of hearti- ness. "What can I do for you, Colonel?" he asked, as I declined a chair in my desire to shorten the inter- view. "Have you discovered any clew of how and with whom Countess Zichy left the Cafe St. Regis?" My question met with a decided shake of Judson's head. "None whatever. The doorman, Jim Morris, was over getting a parked car for another lady, and he swears he never saw the countess. And so far as we can find out, no one else did either." Jud- son stopped and made sure his office door was closed. "Say, Colonel, when we first met, didn't you tell us something about Aunt Polly having a son?" "Yes, a boy of nineteen or thereabouts." "Do you know where he is?" 103 13 Thirteenth Street "With his mother." I looked steadily at the inspector. "Why?" "He has a police record." My low exclamation was drowned in Judson's sudden loquaciousness. "He's the same boy, Ezra Lewis, I'll take my oath. Ezra took back the countess' lingerie and got paid for his mother's work." "Indeed?" I buttoned up my overcoat, prepara- tory to leaving. "By the way, Inspector, did you ask the maid, Marie Bornot, if the countess used a Sterno set?" There was no doubting Judson's quickened in- terest as he accompanied me into the hall. "What are you driving at?" he asked. He laid a detaining hand on the revolving door at the en- trance. "Only the countess' fingerprint was on one of the cans," I reminded him. "Did she purchase them for her own use, or were they already in 13 Thir- teenth Street?" He looked up at me queerly. "Thanks for the tip"—a sudden smile parted his lips, showing his even white teeth. "In confidence, Colonel, had the cans been taken from your Aunt's dusty shelves, clean, round places would have shown where they stood." Nettled by his manner more than by his words, I started through the revolving door. 104 Sinister Shadows "It may interest you, Inspector, to know I am offering a reward of five thousand dollars for clews leading to the arrest of the countess' murderer," I announced. "You don't tell me!" Judson squeezed himself into the same door compartment with me. "I'll say this for you, Colonel, you've plenty of nerve," and before I could ask for an explanation, he was halfway up the street and joined by a brother officer. Slater had the motor running when I reached the car and we drove northward. It was good to be home again and I threw off my coat with a sense of well-being and hurried into the living room. Wolf sat before the blazing fire; he did not reply to my greeting. "Wolf!" I spoke imperatively. "What ails you?" He looked up dully. "Nothing." "But there is something." I laid my hand affec- tionately on his shoulder. "What can I do for you, Wolf? Give me a chance to help." His haggard cheeks turned a dull red. "I talked with the Minister." We both spoke in Hungarian, a language with which Moto was not familiar. "The legation is deeply stirred by Ilda's death and —and"—he stammered and stopped. "And you, too, are Hungarian; of course they are stirred by the tragedy." I moved over opposite 105 CHAPTER IX Theories versus Facts ILAID aside my check book. "Would you mind sitting down?" My request halted Wolf's everlasting tramp about the room. He had seemed unable to sit still and, ever since our belated dinner, had paced back and forth, back and forth, with maddening regu- larity. "Will you shut off that damn radio!" My request I had couched politely, but Wolf spoke in the tone which always proved an irritation. "There is some good music coming—a sym- phony." My effort to be conversational was re- ceived with a scowl. "Hello"—as the announcer's voice proclaimed another program—"late news flashes. Let's hear what he has to say," and I pushed a chair invitingly towards Wolf. Whether moved by physical weariness or a re- luctant willingness to listen in, Wolf sat down, but his indifferent pose changed with lightning rapidity to one of alertness as the news reporter's voice came over the air: "Important developments in the 'mystery man- 107 Thirteenth Street sion' murder case are promised by the police. The circumstances surrounding the killing of Countess Zichy in 13 Thirteenth Street are so extraordinary that all Washington is following the case. Theories and suggestions from amateur sleuths are received hourly at our newspaper office and at Police Head- quarters. These efforts to trace the criminal will undoubtedly receive an added incentive from the five thousand dollar cash reward for a clew leading to his arrest and conviction, offered by the owner of 13 Thirteenth Street, Colonel Wayne Campbell." "You!" Wolf was on his feet glaring down at me, his face white, distorted. "You offered a reward —a reward—you?" The agonized panic in his voice upset me com- pletely but before I could say a word he left the room. My impulse was to follow him but what explanation could I offer? I had unshaken faith in Wolf—Priska's son could never stoop to murder a defenseless woman. And yet—and yet— The strains of Schubert's "Unfinished Symphony" came over the radio as I sat motionless, struggling to decide upon a course of action. Should I call up Judson and tell him of finding Ezra hiding in the secret chamber? It would mean the boy's immediate arrest as a suspect. On the other hand, it might turn the thoughts of others from Wolf and his connection with the case. But it was thanks to Aunt 108 Theories versus Facts Polly that the clew of Wolf's missing stud was not known to the police. Her instinct had been to pro- tect my stepson—how could I, then, in honor shield Wolf still further by implicating her nineteen-year- old boy in the crime on circumstantial evidence alone? "Dad!" I looked up, surprised; Wolf had come in quietly and stood by me. He was in evening clothes. "I am going to the dance to-night and you are coming with me." "Me!" "Yes, you!" He spoke with feverish energy. "Why should we sit at home!" "Well, for one thing, I'm not invited"— "I've asked permission to bring you." Wolf met my glance with an inscrutable expression. "We have not been out together very much since you came, and I'd like my friends to know you." Wolf's solicitude caused me to regard him even more attentively. Why this sudden desire for my society? Was it to keep tabs on my whereabouts? Closing my desk drawer and shutting off the radio, I went to my room. Twenty minutes later I joined Wolf in the recep- tion hall. "We won't need Slater," he remarked, assisting me into my overcoat. "We'll go out in my car." It was still snowing lightly but the cold air was IOQ Thirteenth Street stimulating after the steam heat of the apartment, and I enjoyed the walk along Massachusetts Avenue and into the alley. It took Wolf only a minute or two to back his car out of the garage and, closing its doors, I jumped into the roadster. Neither of us felt inclined to talk; only enough snow had fallen to make the asphalt pavements slippery and Wolf appeared engrossed in driving his powerful sport car. Once on the old Georgetown road, it was better going and we made good time. Two machines, evidently headed our way, turned off the main road and up a lane, and we followed them to a large Colonial mansion. Numerous cars were parked in the wide driveway and from inside the house came the sound of dance music and the hum of many voices. It was a glamorous scene and standing on the threshold of the ballroom I watched with interest the beautifully gowned women. Army and Navy officers wore the uniforms of their re- spective countries while the court dress of the dip- lomats reminded me of similar occasions in the capitals of Europe. Evidently there had been some affair at the White House—a diplomatic reception perhaps—from which the guests had come on to this more informal party. I had neglected to ask Wolf the name of our hostess and was in the ballroom and shaking hands before I realized my predicament. The music had v 110 Theories versus Facts blared forth just as we were introduced and I failed to catch any name but mine. "You are late, Count Erdody," she chidefl gently, "but I'll forgive you as long as you brought Colonel Campbell with you." She turned and took my arm. "Come, let me introduce you to my guests. Ah"— as I bowed to a couple dancing by—"I see you al- ready know Mrs. Maury." There was meaning in her smile. Evidently Wolf's devotion to Ellen was no secret to the pretty, gray-haired woman by my side. "Yes," I responded. "We live in the same apart- ment house, you know." "I had forgotten." But I knew she lied. "Ellen looks very beautiful to-night, but not happy." The last comment slipped out before she thought, and I saw her bite her lip. "An unhappy married life?" I suggested blandly. "Oh, no indeed! Her marriage to Paul Maury was a boy and girl affair. He developed t.b. and died about three years ago. Since then Ellen has been self-supporting. I'm glad she got off"— She ended her remark abruptly as Ellen and her partner stopped beside us. "Ah, Marchesa Collato, you must have been very persuasive to induce Colonel Campbell to leave his own fireside," Ellen said, and my start did not es- cape her, but to my relief, she made no allusion to it. Ill Thirteenth Street So my hostess was Collato's wife. I had heard he had married a wealthy American some years be- fore. It was in Collato's car that Wolf had left the ill-fated supper party Sunday morning. "Is your husband here?" My eagerly put question interrupted the trio but the marchesa, in nowise ruffled by my abruptness, answered placidly, "Unfortunately, no. He flew to Mexico this morning. You will excuse me," and she moved on down the room, leaving me facing Ellen. "I have this dance with Colonel Campbell." Ellen smilingly dismissed the young chap she had been dancing with, and laid her hand on my arm. "You have accepted a poor substitute," I re- marked as we swung out on the floor, and with easy grace she fitted her step to mine. "Colonel Campbell!" Ellen's voice barely reached me above the strident notes of the saxo- phone, and I bent down so as not to miss what she said. As I encountered the witchery of her glance, I was conscious of an accelerated pulse. "Can you not induce Wolf to return to Hungary?" Had she slapped my face I could not have had my breath more completely taken away. It was the last advice in the world I had ever expected to hear from Ellen's lips. We circled the room again, and then I stopped close to an alcove. "Suppose we sit 112 Theories versus Facts down here," and giving her no opportunity to refuse, I piloted her into a chair. "What are you trying to insinuate?" I demanded hotly. "Nothing; you misunderstand." Ellen's shapely foot tapped the floor, a fit accompaniment to her angry tones. "You willfully misunderstand," and this time her foot came down in a regular stamp. "Don't look at me—look at him." Startled, I turned from her and gazed across the ballroom. Wolf was standing by the entrance. A fox trot had just started and he approached a pretty girl and evidently asked her to dance—a cool nod and she turned to welcome another partner. Twice, three times I saw Wolf go to other women. All de- clined his invitation to dance. Heartsick, yet inwardly raging, I realized the situation. Washington's social circles had read the papers, had judged for themselves, and Wolf was facing ostracism. It was one thing to make much of a good-looking, wealthy diplomat. It was quite an- other to dance with a man who, rumor had it, was involved in Ilda Zichy's death. Wolf's reception did not go unobserved. Mar- chesa Collato was by his side instantly, her fine breeding rising to the emergency. "You will take me in to supper," she said, and seeing us at her 113 Theories versus Facts "But you can't; I've lost the key to unlock the rumble seat." Wolf pulled his scarf close around his throat. "Sorry you have to ride through the storm in an open car, Dad." "After Russia, this is nothing," I remarked, sub- siding into the seat beside him. We drove back to town, each of us buried in our own thoughts. What could I say that would ease the pain of Wolf's ex- perience at the dance? What other assurance than that a fickle world would soon condone and forgive any indiscretion of conduct—save murder? After putting up the car, we took a short cut to the apartment house and went in through the trades- men's entrance. Not stopping to remove my wet overcoat, I headed for the living room, attracted there by the sound of subdued voices. Two men rose, but not quickly enough for me to miss seeing Moto scurry out of the farther door. "Hello, Campbell!" Peter Clemens, looking de- cidedly shamefaced, came forward. "I made a fool of myself this afternoon; let's forgive and forget." "It's all right with me," I agreed; one glance at the cellarette and the half-filled glasses showed me one cause of Peter's affability. "I'm glad Moto made you welcome in my absence—and you, too, Herr Flotow. Come in, Wolf," I called, "and see who's here." Theories versus Facts "Exactly," I agreed. "It is quite possible that the writer of those compromising letters dreaded ex- posure. He may have wished them back and Ilda refused to give them up." "On the other hand"—Flotow talked slowly, seriously; I had not believed him to be, from my glimpse on the witness stand, a man of such depth of feeling—"an outsider may have heard of those letters—Ilda sometimes spoke indiscreetly—and wished them for blackmail purposes." Wolf broke his long silence. "Where are these letters now?" "Ah, that's the question," and Peter eyed us with drunken gravity. "Do you know, Flotow?" The question brought a touch of color to the dancer's face. "I have no idea of their present whereabouts." He looked carefully at each of us and pulled his chair closer, then, with a cautious glance over his shoulder, he spoke in lowered tones: "On the steamer Ilda appeared nervous, depressed; in fact, so unlike herself that I joked her about what she termed her 'premonitions.' She did not always take what I said in good part. One moonlight night, however, she was in a somewhat expansive mood, and then she confided to me":—again he looked about and, satisfied we would not be overheard, ad- dressed his next remark directly to me—"she was coming to Washington to meet her husband." 117 Thirteenth Street I was the first to speak. "Did Ilda tell you his name?" I asked, and waited breathlessly for Flo- tow's answer. "She mentioned no name and gave me no clew to his identity." Flotow's emphatic manner precluded all doubt as to the truth of his statement. CHAPTER X The Eyewitness THE buzzer over the front door sounded as I walked down the hall from the servant's en- trance. Stopping long enough to toss the laundry package, which I had just taken in, on a chair in my bedroom, I went to see who was ringing the bell with such persistence. Wolf was at the legation, Slater I had sent on an errand, and Moto had taken himself off in my absence, leaving his kitchen in con- siderable disorder. Such untidiness was so unlike Moto's methodical cleanliness that surprise, mixed with irritation, had put me in an unamiable frame of mind. "Hello!" The force with which I jerked open the apartment door evidently took Inspector Judson by surprise. "What's wrong?" "Nothing—with you here; come in." My sar- casm was wasted for, with unabated good humor, Judson followed me to the living room, accepted my offer of a cigar and made himself comfortable in an easy chair. I did not at once follow his example, preferring to tramp about the room under pretext of straight- 119 13 Thirteenth Street ening the furniture. The only indication of the recent presence of Flotow and Peter Clemens were numerous unemptied ash trays and my annoyance increased. Why had Moto removed only the de- canters, empty White Rock bottles and highball glasses? That the ash trays did not escape Jud- son's roving glance was proven by his next remark. "Some smokers, you and your stepson." His casual tones belied his sudden keen scrutiny as I lighted another cigarette. "By the way, Colonel, you've not asked me what has brought me here." "A desire for my society, I presume," dryly. "Oh, that, of course"—Judson flicked the ashes from his cigar—"and a wish to know why you cabled Budapest and Vienna in code this morning." My fingers, idly fumbling with my watch fob, tightened their grip as I strove to keep all expres- sion but mild surprise from betraying my real feel- ings. The question itself was not as startling as the revelation that my movements were watched by the police. After a late breakfast, Slater had driven me to the bank and then to the main office of Western Union; from there I had come home, and not an hour had elapsed since then! I parried Judson's question with another. "Why are you prying into my affairs?" "It is obvious." The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "Your affairs and Count Erdody's very 120 The Eyewitness likely have some important bearing on each other, and possibly on"—he puffed a smoke ring upwards —"on the murder of Countess Zichy." I considered the inspector in silence for several seconds, then spoke in low, confidential tones: "I have connections in both those cities, connections which will furnish information I can rely upon"— "Information about what?" interrupted Judson with growing impatience. "Be more explicit, Colonel." "Information about Countess Zichy's night club life." I eyed him boldly. "I am convinced that in her past will be found the motive for the crime." "Oh, yeah?" he smiled skeptically. "But the criminal's right here in Washington; don't forget that!" "And you have yet to catch him?" "Give us time"; he crossed his legs. "The mur- der was discovered Sunday morning and this is only Tuesday. Now, with your aid"— "I am no detective," roughly. "No, but your impulse is to protect your stepson." He held up his hand as I started to interrupt. "You can't fool me; why, from the first, when you let me sit alone with Count Erdody on Sunday morning, you knew I'd go through his things, and I knew when I looked about you'd slicked up the place— and then you sprang that diplomatic immunity gag." 121 The Eyewitness "He's waiting for you to come and pay his fine, so the desk sergeant phoned me." "I'll go down at once." But at the door I hesi- tated. "Coming, Judson?" He turned from the fireplace with marked reluc- tance. "Handsome andirons," he commented. "In fact, Colonel, all your—or should I say Count Er- dody's—furniture is very fine. Heirlooms, per- haps?" "Some of them," indifferently. "Some picked up in Europe." I waited for Judson to precede me out of the apartment. At the curb I started to hail a taxi. "My car's here," and Judson led the way to a small sedan. "Do you drive?" "Yes," and before he could protest, I sat down behind the wheel. "Want a demonstration, Inspec- tor?" He laughed shortly as he got in beside me. "I'm driving without chains." The information was superfluous for the wheels spun around in the snow a second or two before we got traction, then we slid into traffic in a way which drew a startled grunt from my companion. But when he spoke he did not allude to my driving. "I was at the Hungarian Legation this morning," he volunteered. "The Minister said Count Erdody was thinking of resigning from the diplomatic service." 123 Thirteenth Street I drove the car past a signal light and was sworn at by startled drivers, who had the right of way. "My stepson has independent means," I said. "Which makes him quite a catch." The drawl in my companion's voice made me inclined to punch his head. "But don't you think, Colonel, that Count Erdody's going to the ball last night was in rotten taste—with his sweetie murdered only last Sunday?" It was fortunate for Judson that I brought the car to a standstill in front of the First Precinct and he got out of it without a hearty kick from me. Ignor- ing the inspector, I went inside the police station and Moto came forward, his face creased in smiles. "I bought car, old car, from Count Wolf," he ex- plained. "The p'lice say I can drive but that I do not answer their questions right." "Sure, he passed his driving test, but couldn't pass his oral examination," announced a good-natured young giant standing alongside the diminutive Jap. "When I asked him what was a safety zone, the little cuss answered 'Panama Canal Zone'—so now he's driving without a permit." "But what good a car to me unless I drive?" pro- tested Moto as I paid his fine and he led the way to his parked roadster. It was a good-looking car, although needing paint and showing signs of abuse in its bent fenders. Moto seemed relieved when I 124 The Eyewitness took the wheel, and for him proved quite chatty as we headed for home. "I spend time in teaching myself to drive after Count Wolf give me some lessons," he informed me, "and now Mrs. Maury let me drive her to market." "She has courage," I remarked dryly, one eye on the bent fenders. Wolf was too fine a driver ever to have had such accidents happen when he owned the car. "Don't drive again, Moto, until I have had you coached by a regular instructor." "You are very kind." I caught a peculiar flash in his eyes as he glanced upwards. "Slater will find time perhaps when he knows I have car." I smiled to myself; the old rivalry between Slater and Moto was still in existence. I always felt that it had had something to do with Moto leaving me to go to Wolf in Budapest. After parking and not waiting for Moto, who was fussing about his car, as pleased as a child over a new toy, I went upstairs to my apartment. The place felt cold to me. Crossing the living room, I threw some logs on the andirons and poked the hot embers beneath to a feeble blaze. What was there about the fireplace so to attract Inspector Judson? I had found him kneeling in front of it on Sunday morning, and he had most certainly desired to linger there before our departure for the police station. It was a wide, brick chimney with a high, 125 13 Thirteenth Street carved mantel, and I could see nothing unusual in its appearance. Wolf had kept up his custom of letting the ashes remain from fall until winter, as we had done in Vienna, and there was already a neat ac- cumulation of wood ash on the hearth. Turning away, I noticed for the first time a large manila en- velope lying on the chair where Judson had sat. Evidently he had tucked it behind him and, in our hasty exit, forgotten it. I picked up the envelope and, with some hesitancy, drew out its contents. There were six or more photographs and all of them were views of 13 Thirteenth Street and the immediate scene of Ilda's murder. Some were un- doubtedly enlargements, and I studied every pic- tured detail of the body and its surroundings. Ilda was very beautiful, even in death, and heavyhearted I examined the close-up view of her. It showed to the minutest particular her dress, her jewels—rob- bery had not been the motive, for she wore a small fortune on her fingers—the Sterno cans at her head and feet and a sinister, irregular blot on the floor to one side of her shoulder—she had bled, then, more profusely than I had imagined. Why were no drops of blood elsewhere in the room? On what had the murderer wiped his hands? I put aside the picture and took up the last view. Once, twice I looked before I realized it was a snap- shot the camera man had made of me—but was that - 126 The Eyewitness I—that horrible vampire creature standing with arms outflung? The logs had caught nicely and the flames were high when I tossed the ghastly photograph of myself among them. As I watched it burn to ashes, I warmed my chilled hands. Pshaw, I was a fool to be upset by a police snapshot! Turning back I put the remaining pictures in the envelope, sealed it and addressed it to Inspector Judson, then rang for Slater. As the chauffeur left the room a few minutes later, I took up the New York papers which he had brought in with him, but the printed words did not hold my interest, and throwing them down, I started out of the room. A stroll might clear my brain. I reached the sidewalk in time to help Ellen Maury out of a handsome limouisine with the Collato family crest on its panels. Her greeting was unsmiling, and I wondered at the seriousness of her manner. "Did you enjoy the party last night?" I asked, by way of conversation, as we walked up the steps to her apartment. "I hated it." Her vehemence made her voice harsh and unnatural. "I had promised Isabel Col- lato to spend the night there—otherwise I would have come back with you and Wolf." She stopped to control herself. "Oh, Colonel Campbell, all the 127 The Eyewitness I exclaimed, and she nodded assent. "Why did you ring off when / answered?" "You—you—sounded so savage." Ellen's at- tempt at playfulness was a palpable evasion. The door of her apartment flew open and a pleasant- faced, middle-aged woman looked out. "Miss Ellen," she called, "Count Erdody wishes to speak to you on the phone," and stepping back she waited as Ellen sped inside, then closed the door in my face. Turning on my heel, I went down the staircase, intent on having my walk. More than ever I felt the need of fresh air and clear thoughts. While I was Washington-born and had spent my childhood here in the city, I had been absent for so many years in Europe that I had few friends in the United States, and no one with whom I could discuss my affairs, except possibly Peter Clemens. "I beg your pardon, sir." At the words, I stopped on the landing of the stairs and looked at the man addressing me. "Can you tell me where to find Colonel Campbell's apartment?" "It's just above," and I pointed to the next land- ing, but as the newcomer thanked me and went up the steps, I hesitated—there was something odd about his manner. I turned back and gained the second floor simultaneously with him. "I'm Colonel Campbell," I introduced myself, at I2Q 13 Thirteenth Street the same time unlocking the door of my apartment, "won't you come inside?" Very much ill at ease, he followed me into the hall and unbuttoned his overcoat. Without his hat, he looked older than I had at first taken him to be. "Can I see you privately?" he asked. "Come this way." Pausing only long enough to look down the hall and draw the portieres across the living room door, I rejoined my caller. "Won't you make yourself comfortable and have a smoke." The man eyed me in uneasy silence as he lighted his cigarette. "It's kind of hard to begin," he said, a second or so later. "My name's Jim Hopkins and I'm a clerk in the Bureau of Internal Revenue." He cleared his throat of a slight huskiness. "I heard you had offered a reward for some news about the murderer of that Hungarian dancer." "I have made such an offer." He was so flustered that I spoke in the hope of giving him confidence. "Have you come to tell me something?" "Yes, sir. I suppose I should have gone to the police, but my wife and I hated to get mixed up in such a mess. It seemed kind of easier to come straight to you." He looked about in frank curi- osity and I did not hurry him, feeling I would gain more by letting him tell his story in his own way. "My wife and I went to the National Theater Saturday night. Then we had supper at Child's— 130 The Eyewitness 'tisn't often we have such a spree and we didn't hurry, taking our time to enjoy the food," he began, again facing me. "And instead of taking a taxi, we walked home." "Where is your home?" I broke in. "On Maryland Avenue, back of the Smithsonian." My interruption put him off the track for a min- ute. "It was a longish way to walk and we cut down back of Poli's, and so through the Mall. We had the streets to ourselves when suddenly a car, going slow, came along. We heard a woman's scream and a white arm waved at us out the car—then"— "Then?" I repeated involuntarily, following his halting story with bated breath. "Then the car passed us in a rush, going so fast I couldn't get the license number." He hesitated, then added: "My wife's near-sighted and my eyes ain't what they used to be." "What kind of car was it?" I demanded. "One of those long, low single seaters—roadster with the top up, or something like it—" "And what was the hour?" Hopkins cleared his throat again. "Between one- thirty and two Sunday morning—I looked at the clock just before leaving Child's and asked my wife if we hadn't better take a taxi. She wasn't tired and wanted to save money. What I'm telling you Thirteenth Street is gospel truth, Colonel Campbell. We saw a woman struggling with a man in that car." Turning, I paced up and down rapidly, then stopped in front of Hopkins. "What became of the car?" I almost shouted the question. "It turned into Thirteenth Street." v - CHAPTER XI Initials Only THE front door closed behind Jim Hopkins and I turned back—to find Moto coming rapidly towards me down the hall. I had heard the servant whistling in his pantry before Hopkins disclosed the reason for his call. Now the door of the narrow kitchen passageway was open and the savory odor of cooking drifted my way. "Please, sir"—the Jap's deferential manner only partially concealed his uneasiness—"may I speak aside with you?" "Surely," and I waited where I was, hat in hand. "Not here." Moto moved in the direction of the living room. "It is too airy in the hall; wind blow our words about," and he parted the por- tieres. "Please, Colonel Campbell"— Considerably puzzled, I went ahead of him. "Well, what is it?" I asked impatiently, chafing at the delay; Hopkins' story had put me on fire to see Judson. Moto was not to be hurried. "Please, sir, I like to leave." He could not complain about my inat- tention now. I stood in the center of the room and m 13 Thirteenth Street stared at him, doubting whether I had heard aright. "Leave!" I echoed. "Leave Count Erdody?" "I give notice"—stubbornly. "In Heaven's name, why?" Moto blinked, hesitated, and turning his back so he no longer faced the light, came close to me. "The p'lice laugh at my car driving, but they talk, talk about the Countess Zichy and Count Wolf. They say Moto this and Moto that, and Moto, when was Countess Zichy here?" "Here!" I interrupted. "Here? You mean in this apartment?" "Yes." The Jap lowered his voice. "But they not sure and I tell them nothing." I eyed him in bewilderment. "You infer Countess Zichy was here?" and as he showed no inclination to reply, I asked sharply: "Did she come here? An- swer my question at once!" Moto nodded reluctantly. "She come to see you." I gazed in speechless surprise at the little Jap. "When did she come?" "Saturday morning. I was back from market and stand by my car, when she drive up and ask for you." Moto showed his fine teeth in an expansive smile. "She remember me in Budapest. But never have I seen her so nervous. When she hear you are playing golf she seem uncertain—then ask to come in and telephone." m Initials Only "So you brought her up here?" "Right in here," and Moto, with a sense of the dramatic, pointed to the chair I was occupying. I got up hastily. "Why have you waited until now to tell me this?" I demanded peremptorily. "I thought you knew it." Exasperated, I could almost have kicked him. "I'm no mind reader, you idiot!" "But you read her note." "Her note!" I gazed at him wild-eyed. "I've seen no note." It was Moto's turn to stare at me in doubt. "But Countess Zichy write on this paper." He crossed to the desk and took up a sheet of stationery. "She fold it like so"—and he demonstrated with the sheet in his hand—"and put it so," tucking it under a corner of my blotting pad. I looked long and intently at the sheet of paper; it was identical in size and shape with the folded note I had seen Ellen Maury carry from the room. My mind reverted to Saturday. I had played golf at the Chevy Chase Club, lunched there, and played again in the afternoon, returning only in time to dress for the theater and snatch a hasty bite. I had no recollection of going near the desk that day or on Sunday. Certainly the note was so inconspicu- 135 13 Thirteenth Street ously placed that it could easily have escaped my attention unless I sat down to write a letter. "Did the countess stay long?" "Not so long." Moto again smiled. "She did not see Count Wolf." "Oh!" My ejaculation covered varied emotions. I studied the little Jap openly. How far was he to be trusted? "There is nothing in what you've told me that could not be repeated to the police." "Yes, sir." Moto did not seem convinced, how- ever. "But they no get news from me," and there was a certain pride in his voice which indicated pleasure in his clash of wits with the law. "They will learn of the countess' visit from her taxi driver," I pointed out^and this time Moto chuckled aloud. "She come with Marquis Collato." He cocked a quizzical eye at me. "The marquis no tell." I jammed my hands in my pockets and paced up and down. The Jap's shrewd comment opened up a train of thought. Collato's sudden departure for Mexico, thereby absenting himself from his wife's ball on Monday night, could have no bearing on the case unless—unless, as Ellen Maury had hinted earlier that morning, he wished to escape being called as a witness at the inquest. "I leave." Moto's words again centered my at- tention on him. 136 Initials Only "You stay," I ordered hotly. "Use a little sense, Moto; if you skip now, the police may think you killed Countess Zichy." Moto eyed me open-mouthed. Apparently this viewpoint was new to him. The front bell pealed forth in the quiet with im- perative insistence, and Moto jumped clear across the room to answer it. He returned in a moment with a couple of cablegrams and then disappeared into his own domain. I tore open the envelopes and read the messages. They were both from Lenin- grad and had no connection whatever with my busi- ness affairs in Washington. Tossing them on the desk, I left the room and the apartment. The same pleasant-faced maid opened the door of the apartment above mine and took my visiting card. "Tell Mrs. Maury it is imperative that I see her at once," and I walked by the servant into the re- ception hall. From the back of the apartment came a high, querulous voice, then a man's heavier tones. I could not catch a word that was said, but I could have sworn the man's voice had a familiar ring. Be- fore I could place it, Ellen Maury beckoned to me to enter a small room to the right. "What is it?" she demanded and closed the door. "What's wrong?" and there was pronounced fear in her manner. w Initials Only She recovered her poise and ignored my interrup- tion. "Not liking to turn them over to Moto, I went to write you a note and at your desk."—that the confession was growing more difficult was indi- cated in her halting speech—"my eyes caught sight of this paper with the word 'To' to the left and below it, towards the center the initials 'W.E.' I drew out the paper"— This time her voice dropped to a whisper. "See for yourself." I took the paper. The writing was small, indis- tinct, and obviously foreign. "Well, what then?" I asked. "You recognize the handwriting?" My sharply put question brought a negative shake of her head. "I only saw the countess' handwriting once be- fore"—simply—"but the upper fold of the sheet had caught beneath the blotter and exposed her sig- nature. My reason told me the police would look upon Wolf with suspicion—and—supposing a letter from Ilda might, oh, innocently"—there was loyalty to Wolf in word and look—"involve him further if your apartment were searched, I took the letter =—a foolish, insane impulse I have bitterly re- gretted." Genuinely moved, I put out my hand and grasped hers. "Your intention was to do Wolf a service. 139 13 Thirteenth Street I realize that, and thank you from the bottom of my heart." Her fingers were icy cold and I released them reluctantly; she looked so frail, so ill. "Tell me truly, Mrs. Maury, have you cause to think Wolf is seriously involved?" Her glance shifted from mine to the letter in my hand. "Can you translate it?" she asked, ignor- ing my question. Chilled by her deliberate evasion, I unfolded the paper. Once, twice, three times I read over the lines written in Hungarian. "It says," I trans- lated, " 'Once more I beg of you to cease your im- portunities. While I live, the letters will never leave my possession.'" Ellen's attitude of suspense relaxed. "Is that all?" she gasped. "Does she not mention Wolf by name?" "No." I held the paper towards her so that both of us might see it. "The only name given is her signature, 'Ilda.'" "Then"—Ellen studied the note from every angle—"it might be meant for any one and could not incriminate Wolf. What a fool I am!" Mor- tification brought the hot blood to her cheeks. "It has no significance in the circumstances surrounding her death." "On the contrary," I broke in roughly, "it con- firms the French maid's testimony that Ilda had 140 Initials Only possession of compromising letters, and possibly establishes a motive for the crime." Ellen's color receded as rapidly as it had come. "But," she cried, "Marie Bornot said Peter called up about the letters; she even inferred he threatened Ilda." Ellen turned the paper over feverishly. "The initials," she gasped, "are not his, surely. No," continuing her examination of Ilda's writing, "the 'W is plain—the 'E'—ah, can it be a 'C'?" "Hello, folks!" The abrupt interruption came from our left and turning simultaneously, we found Peter Clemens staring at us. How long he had been in the room I could not tell, for, absorbed in our conversation, I had been deaf to all else. "Don't let me butt in on the reading of your billet-doux, Ellen." "Why didn't you rustle your wings, Peter, and let us know you are around?" Ellen's saucy smile be- lied her apprehensive glance. "Colonel Campbell and I were discussing"— "I know, Ilda's death." Peter's temper was ob- viously on edge. "Confound it, Campbell, can you find no other topic of conversation?" "That I will leave to you and Mrs. Maury," and bowing, I left them together. On quitting the apart- ment, I took the elevator to the ground floor. I had walked a block before an empty taxi came by and stopped at my hail. The run to Police Head- quarters consumed but a short time, but there I met 141 Initials Only J. not of the warmest, and I felt sorry for my thought- less lingering in the garden. Aunt Polly appeared from a back room as we crowded into the tiny entrance. Her greeting was more subdued than usual and her first question sur- prised me. "Has yo' met Inspector Judson?" and at my nega- tive shake of the head, she brightened. "He's been hyar mo' dan two hours." "What for?" I inquired. We had followed Aunt Polly into a large kitchen. An ironing board on which was a neat array of folded clothes spoke elo- quently of her means of livelihood aside from her pay as caretaker. Ezra, I imagined, was not a wage- earner. Aunt Polly paid scant attention to him. "Cunnel"—she brushed off a chair with her apron, and offered it to me—"has yo' seen Mis' Maury?" Her question startled me, for my thoughts had seldom strayed from the beautiful young widow. Just what was her status in this affair? Peter had declared his wish to marry her. Wolf's statement that she was nothing to him was completely belied by his attitude towards her at the Collato's ball, and she—ah, it took no great intuition to fathom her devotion to Wolf. Why, otherwise, would she stoop to stealing a letter? "I've seen her; why, Aunt Polly?" My hopes of a direct reply were doomed to disappointment. 1 143 1j Thirteenth Street "Go down cellar, Ezra, an' git some wood." It was not until the darkey boy could be heard below, banging logs of wood about, that she turned to me. "Why fo' yo' s'pose Mis' Maury had me dust an' clean ole Miss Agatha's southwest chamber Satur- day afternoon?" she asked. "I haven't the faintest idea." I regarded Aunt Polly in puzzled silence. "Was anything the mat- ter with the room?" "Not as I could see; 'cept a"—she glanced fur- tively over her shoulder—"a lot o' ole cigarette stubs." "Women smoke," I pointed out, hoping she would get on with her story. "Sure, I knows dey does—ain't I got my own pipe?" She jerked her thumb to indicate a corncob pipe and a tin of tobacco. "But no ladies uses cigars and dem stubs was in Miss Agatha's room too—an' —an' "—her voice sank to a whisper, but whatever confidence was to follow was cut short by Inspector Judson's entrance. "One of my men saw you come in, Colonel, and —I just dropped around." He eyed us both keenly. "Anything up?" "Yes." My chance of an uninterrupted chat with Aunt Polly had gone with Judson's arrival. "I wish to talk with you, Inspector." I stopped long enough to lay some money on the table. "Get Ezra 144 Initials Only a winter coat, Aunt Polly," and followed by her loud-voiced thanks, Judson and I went into the gar- den. It was not my choice of a location for a lengthy interview, but I preferred its bleakness to the cold rooms of 13 Thirteenth Street. "Have you questioned taxi drivers about picking up Countess Zichy in front of the St. Regis?" I asked. Judson favored me with a scowl. "We've ran- sacked Washington and can't find any driver who admits taking her as a passenger." He looked at me shrewdly. "You've harped on that subject before." We were about in the center of the grounds, close to a lily pond, in summer the pride and glory of Aunt Agatha's garden, but in winter a desolate spot, filled with dead foliage and snow. In as few words as possible, I told my companion of my visit from Jim Hopkins and the latter's disclosure. The story was heard with rapt attention. At its conclusion the inspector drew a long breath. "That's getting us somewhere," he declared. "I'll see this bird Hopkins immediately," and suiting the action to the words, led the way into the street. "How will you get home, Colonel?" as we both stopped by his car. The grounds for his solicitude about my comfort were obvious; he did not wish to spend time taking me uptown, nor did he wish me present at his coming interview with Hopkins. I, 145 13 Thirteenth Street too, wished him on his way that I might return to Aunt Polly. "Don't bother about me. There are plenty of taxis cruising around." One turned the corner as I spoke and I started to hail it, then stopped, realiz- ing it was occupied. But the taxi did not go on. In- stead, it drew up to the curb and its passenger sprang out and approached us hurriedly. "Your assistant said you were hereabouts, Jud- son," and glancing more closely at the new arrival, whose chin was buried in a woolen muffler, I recog- nized Coroner Wilson. "Do you still wish me to hold off the inquest a few days longer?" "I sure do." Judson spoke emphatically, appar- ently forgetful that I still stood there. "Any new dope?" "Only this. We've received a request through the State Department that Countess Zichy's body, now in a receiving vault, be turned over to the proper officials for shipment back to Hungary." "Gosh!" Judson stared blankly at the coroner. "Suppose we want to hold another autopsy?" He thought a minute. "Who was behind that request, Wilson?" "Count Wolf Erdody." CHAPTER XII A Matched Pair IKNOCKED at Aunt Polly's door but echoes were my only answer. The shutters on the small win- dows overlooking Twelfth Street were drawn, and I could not see inside. Evidently the caretaker and her son were unwilling to admit more callers or, on my departure with Inspector Judson a half hour earlier, they had closed the cottage and gone down- town. They had not gone my way, for I had walked up Thirteenth Street expecting to meet a taxi; none had come in my direction, however, and I had al- most reached Pennsylvania Avenue when I turned about and retraced my footsteps to the cottage. Now was the time for Aunt Polly to complete her unfinished confidences; Inspector Judson and Cor- oner Wilson had gone their separate ways and there was little likelihood of interruptions from either quarter. But apparently my plans were doomed to disappointment. For a moment or so I stood be- fore the cottage and considered my next move. My watch showed the time as close to four o'clock, and my feeling of annoyance grew. I started hurriedly around the block, having in mind the corner store 147 Jj Thirteenth Street from which Ezra had seen me. From there I could telephone to Slater to bring my car to the Italian Embassy, and I could likewise secure a taxi and reach the chancellery before the ambassador left his office. At that hour and in that locality there were few people in the streets, so that a cloaked and hooded figure, a few feet in advance of me, attracted my at- tention. The woman's walk was first slow and then quickened, and I could see her head turn from side to side, giving me the impression that the locality was new to her. My idle interest in her, however, grew more personal when she turned down Thir- teenth Street and, walking still more rapidly, stopped in front of Number 13. Could it be Ellen Maury? The figure was about her height, but the enveloping cloak gave no indica- tion of whether the wearer was slim or stout. My curiosity fully aroused, I, too, went down the street. Just before I caught up to her she faced my way, but I did not fully recognize the woman until the hood slipped back because of the force of the wind, dis- closing the unmistakable features of Marie Bornot. Evidently taking me for a disinterested passer-by, she moved closer to the front door of the mansion, and I walked on down the street. Halfway to the end of the block I looked back. Marie had gone to the small garden gate, and from there she gazed 148 A Matched Pair into the grounds; then turned back and walked again to the entrance. More and more puzzled, I, too, re- turned to where she stood. What interest had Ilda Zichy's French maid in 13 Thirteenth Street? Stepping forward, I lifted my hat. "Pardon me, Mademoiselle Bornot, would you care to see the in- side of the house?" If I had struck her, she could not have recoiled more quickly. "M'sieu!" she gasped. "I am Colonel Campbell"—to reassure her, I spoke in French—"and the stepfather of Count Erdody." More composed, she peered up at me with faded, near-sighted eyes. "I have seen you somewhere," she said in rapid French, "but where—?" Then off at a tangent: "What makes you think, m'sieu, that I desire to go in?" "Your loitering here," I replied. "Obviously you are interested"— She did not allow me to finish the sentence. "Yes, yes, m'sieu, it is here that my dear countess came last. Ah, she was good to me; I am slow, half- blind, and I cannot find another such place." Her teeth clenched together and a fiery color stained her cheeks. "I would do much to help trace the one who killed her." "I quite understand," I said soothingly, fearing 149 13 Thirteenth Street hysterics, for that she was greatly moved was plain. "But what was your object in coming here?" She clutched the cloak more tightly over her thin breast, for the wind was searching. "Ah, m'sieu, a woman's intuition may serve to detect a clew a man might easily overlook. Will you let me go in?" "Come along." But when I had the small storm door open and the door of the mansion also, she did not at first heed my beckoning finger but stood, a shrinking figure, on the threshold. After that, she was never very far behind me as I went from room to room, waiting patiently in each for her to look at and examine any part she wished. Her scrutiny was thorough but, for all that, I noticed she touched nothing with her bare hand. Turning from the huge drawing-room and library and the equally large dining room, I led her up- stairs observing the same procedure everywhere, even in the garret. When we reached the first floor again, I turned and went to the storeroom. Whether she had anticipated our next destination, or whether her woman's instinct placed the room as the scene of the murder, I could not tell. That she had made an exhaustive study of the newspaper accounts of the crime, she had betrayed in our disjointed conversa- tion as we went through the house. "M'sieu"—she crept to my side and pointed an 150 A Matched Pair unsteady finger at the stained floor—"did the count- ess rest there?" "Yes." Subconsciously I took note of her thin and threadbare glove. "Countess Zichy lay there, fully clothed—all that was missing was her evening wrap." "Not all, m'sieu," she said, and peered up at me. "She had lost what every woman carries." I stared at her. "What do you mean? Lost what?" "Her handbag." Marie evidently took my si- lence as a tribute to her insight. "No one, m'sieu, not even that bothersome Herr Flotow told of her lovely beaded bag which she never left behind, and which I handed her as she left her dressing room that dreadful night." The woman's words opened up a new train of thought. "Why didn't you mention the bag when testifying at the inquest?" I demanded. "Nobody asked me about it," simply. "But, m'sieu, I have thought much since then; suppose— suppose the letters were in the bag?" I eyed my companion sharply. "Who wrote those letters?" I asked. Then, as she hesitated: "Surely, Marie, you realize that once knowing the identity of the writer of those letters might enable us to arrest the person who killed your mistress." Her expression grew troubled. "M'sieu, I swear 151 /J Thirteenth Street it either way. Stooping down, my groping fingers closed on something furry, and even as dread of the unknown crept over me, I realized I had hold of a fur glove. Its fingers had caught beneath the panel and prevented it from either closing or opening. With care and yet quickly, I drew out the glove, and had only time to slip it in my pocket before Marie's flashlight exposed the panel. Her excited exclama- tion echoed through the silent house. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she gasped. "What have we here?" "Let us see," and taking the flashlight from her, we went down the eerie passage, Marie clinging tight to my coat. The hidden chamber at the end of the passageway was vacant. Staring at it, wide-eyed, my companion at first did not move from my side; then, plucking up courage, she ransacked the few movable objects there, all the time muttering under her breath. "I can find nothing," she admitted and her lips, blue with cold, trembled. "Let us go from here. It is a place of evil spirits." Ten minutes later, we were trudging up Thir- teenth Street, but it was not until we came to Penn- sylvania Avenue that I succeeded in hailing a taxi. "If you discover anything—come to me at any time." I assisted her into the taxi. "I, too, wish only to find out who killed the countess," and taking 154 A Matched Pair out my wallet, I slipped twenty dollars into her hand. Her fervid thanks almost drowned out my directions to the taxi driver to take her to her room- ing house. She had entered the cab under a street light and as I watched it disappear in the traffic, a hand was laid on my shoulder. "Well, well." Judson's voice was becoming hate- ful to my ears. "You haven't made much progress towards home." I eyed the inspector askance. From which direc- tion had he come? "Did you see Jim Hopkins?" I inquired, ignoring his remark. "Yes; and in spite of the man's vagueness about some of the details, I believe his story," declared Judson. "I'm obliged to you, Colonel, for the tip." While we were speaking, we had joined the throng walking westward. Judson, it was, who broke the silence.. "Has your offer of a reward brought other results?" he asked. "Not one," I replied. We were caught in the stream of home-rushing office workers as we neared the District Building. Dodging two pretty women who persisted in walking arm-in-arm, I caught sight of a familiar face. For an instant I stood stock still. Why was Moto coming out of a side door of Police Headquarters? 155 13 Thirteenth Street A warning shout, a quick shove, and I raced out of the path of an oncoming car. "A close shave!" exclaimed Judson. "Next time, Colonel, don't stop in the middle of Fourteenth Street and fall in a trance." His advice was excel- lent, but it was not given in a tone that soothed my ruffled temper. To scamper in undignified haste through slush and snow at my age was bad enough without having it rubbed in. But Judson's next re- mark effectually drove all such considerations out of my head. He pulled me to one side. "Has Herr Flotow approached you for a touch?" he asked. My astonished "no" was not what he expected, judging from his frown. He eyed me keenly under his rakishly tilted derby. "Hardegg, the countess' manager, was in the office to-day. He said Flotow was anxious to pull out, but was short of cash." Judson's remarks were news to me and I listened with deep attention, for I had come to realize the in- spector seldom spoke without some ulterior mean- ing behind his words. "Flotow," he began, "is looking for a new dancing partner." "Very naturally," I commented sarcastically. "His profession is his only means of livelihood." A dry chuckle came from Judson. "Flotow's smart," he announced, "and his headpiece is most as 156 A Matched Pair good as his feet. But say, Colonel"—he took hold of the lapel of my coat in his earnestness—"so far we haven't been able to substantiate his story about hunting a taxi for Countess Zichy." Judson waited for some comment, but his informa- tion was too great a surprise for me to comprehend it at once. "How about the telephone operator in the St. Regis, whom he asked to call a taxi?" I inquired. "She swears she has no recollection of such a request from Flotow." Judson shrugged. "She may be lying. However, Colonel, doesn't it strike you as singular that as popular as Countess Zichy was, not one of her guests—and they were all men except Mrs. Maury—escorted her home?" "But one must have!" I regretted my hasty re- tort instantly. "Ah—but which one? That's the question." We had moved back along the path of the little triangle, close by the District Building, and had the place to ourselves. Judson continued speaking with increased earnestness. "We have checked up, as far as we can, the de- parture of every one who went to the Cafe St. Regis Saturday night. As to the Zichy party, the door- man said he had some difficulty in assisting Count Erdody into Marquis Collato's car." 157 jj Thirteenth Street "Why?" I asked. "Drunk," tersely. Judson waited for protest, per- haps, but I held my peace. "Herr Hardegg," he continued, "met friends in the lobby of the St. Regis and went back into the cafe with them. Mrs. Maury, the only other woman present, left early with Mr. Peter Clemens. Thus all are accounted for by reputable witnesses, except the countess and Flotow. No one," with emphasis, "saw them leave—either separately or together." My thoughts in a whirl, I continued to stare at my companion. He was telling me news indeed. "Do you mean seriously that you consider Flotow killed the countess?" I gasped. Judson's gestures were expressive, although his answer was evasive and in the form of a question. "What can I think when two of the party refuse to be questioned, claiming diplomatic immunity?" "Two?" My astonishment increased. "Yes—your stepson and Marquis Collato." I stepped back. "Collato's in Mexico," I blurted out. "When did you see him?" "Before he left," dryly. Judson turned towards Police Headquarters and after an instant's pause, I caught up with him. "Tell me, Inspector, have you found any trace of the weapon?" 758 A Matched Pair stern, "was there no one else at the legation but you to make such a request?" "Of course there was." Stung into a reply, Wolf spoke hurriedly, disjointedly. "What are you try- ing to imply? Why shouldn't I make the request?" "Well, considering"— I was casting about for the proper words when he broke in brusquely. "Oh, I know I'm under suspicion—any fool would realize that." His laugh was harsh, discordant. "As a matter of fact, I had a cable from Ilda's uncle in Kispest asking me to—to"—his voice broke unnaturally—"to attend to matters for him*." Giv- ing me no time for a rejoinder, if I had felt like making one, he held his hands before the blaze which had sprung up; they were purple with cold. "Why don't you drive with gloves?" "I do—when I have a pair." His gesture indi- cated the table on which he had thrown his hat. "Moto's in the kitchen. I'll go tell him to mix some cocktails." Almost without my own volition, I found myself by the table. Lying on it, by the hat, was a fur glove. I took the one I had found in 13 Thirteenth Street from my pocket. They were alike in size and with the Gunther label inside. I laid the right-hand glove alongside the other—Wolf had his pair of gloves again. 16l CHAPTER XIII The Coroner Grows Curious IGRAVITATED between my desk and the table on which lay Wolf's gloves. From the direction of the pantry came the murmur of voices and the sound of cracking ice. But the problem of the two gloves engrossed me to the exclusion of all else. Wolf inferred he had lost a glove, and I had found one similar to his in 13 Thirteenth Street— the matched pair lay on a table to my left. There- fore, it was clear he had been in the old mansion. But how did he get inside? The answer was plain —by the same means he might have secured entrance on Sunday morning. He had been in Peter Clemens' office Saturday afternoon when the keys of Number 13 were put in the latter's desk drawer, from which they were now missing; or he had bribed Aunt Polly to admit him. If Wolf still had Peter's keys, then Ellen Maury had told the truth when she returned to me what she claimed was her own set. But if Wolf had a criminal knowledge of Ilda's death or, far worse, a hand in her murder, why did he return again to 13 Thirteenth Street? Had he 162 The Coroner Grows Curious merely forgotten his glove, or was he in such haste to leave that he had not stopped to pick it up? The latter theory presupposed he had no wish to be caught in the mansion. The portieres parted and Moto came in, tray in hand. Setting it on the table, he poured out my cocktail, then replaced the shaker on the tray. "It will keep colder for Count Wolf," he announced and made for the hall. "Stop a moment," I called. "What were you doing this afternoon at Police Headquarters?" I had expected my question to confuse him. On the contrary, Moto beamed at me. "I go get my driver's permit," he said. "Slater tell me what to say and I pass test. No more trouble now." The phone rang and I turned to answer the call. It was Western Union, notifying me that one of my cables to Vienna could not be delivered because the person addressed had left Austria. It was the last news I had anticipated, and I hung up the receiver, much perturbed. On this person I had based my chief hope of learning certain events in Ilda's past. "Have you any orders for me, sir?" Slater's hoarse voice boomed out unexpectedly, and I turned to find the chauffeur waiting respectfully in the cen- ter of the room. "Nothing to-night—" 163 1j Thirteenth Street "That's what I told him." Wolf stepped from behind Slater's bulky figure. "This is his night off, anyway. Moto has to-morrow." "Fix it any way you like." I was decidedly hungry, not to mention tired. "Hello"— as I heard footsteps in the hall—"who's coming here at this hour?" Peter Clemens answered my query in person. "Surprised to see me?" he asked, with an attempt at joviality which grated. "Moto was at the door as I came down the stairs, and I thought I'd drop in." Wolf scowled at Peter. "Were you coming down the stairs"—with marked emphasis—"or were you on the way up?" Peter replied with unabated good humor. "Com- ing down." He linked his arm in mine. "Ellen asked me to stay on for dinner"— "She did!" Wolf stormed towards the door in ungovernable, jealous rage. "I'm going, Dad." "Here, wait," I called, and Wolf paused outside the door. "Don't forget your gloves." If Peter had infuriated him, my admonition brought the full storm of his wrath on me. "Oh, damn!" He stopped, choked back what he was about to say, and his manner underwent a complete change. "Certainly, Dad, but where are my gloves?" 164 The Coroner Grows Curious I turned from Peter to the table. Only the cock- tail tray was there. Wolf and I reached the recep- tion hall at the same time. His coat and hat were in their proper place—but no gloves lay on the con- sole, and before I could question further, he was out of the apartment and clattering down the steps. "Quite a firebrand." Peter had remained in the living room and was serenely pouring himself a cocktail, undisturbed apparently by Wolf's outburst. I helped Peter empty the shaker and then we went to the dining room. Nothing was said on the topic uppermost in my thoughts during the progress of the meal, which Moto served with more than his usual rapidity. But I was not destined to complete my dinner without interruption. We had reached the dessert when the front bell sounded and Moto came back, ushering in a small tatterdemalion with the dirtiest face imaginable. His misfit clothes were partially covered by a ragged overcoat, far too large for him. Peter laughed aloud, which completed the boy's discomfiture. "Whom have we here?" he asked, jovially. "Please, sir, I'm Jake," the small voice piped up. "I play in Wilson Alley and to-day I found this," and he displayed before my astonished gaze a hand- kerchief. In spite of the mud upon it, the linen was of the sheerest quality and the lace, even to my eyes inexperienced in such matters, was what I had 165 13 Thirteenth Street heard termed "rose point." In one corner, the em- broidered name Ilda proclaimed its owner. "You found it?" I repeated. "Whereabouts in the alley?" "In a bank of snow. I needed a wiper and took it home. Ma spelled out the name. She and pa heard on the radio 'bout you and the dead lady—'IT some- thing—and so I brung it to you." Peter and I considered each other and the hand- kerchief in a silence which lengthened into minutes. "Gee! What swell eats!" Jake's exclamation was called forth by Moto's lemon pie; and, at no suggestion from me, the Jap put down the dish, pushed a chair to the table, helped the small boy into it, and gave him an ample share of the dessert. "Jake," I asked, "where is Wilson Alley?" Jake tried manfully to swallow a large slice of pastry and answer at the same time. "It's back of the Post Office and close by Center Market—a swell place to play," he added, choking down the last crumb, " 'cause the market wagons park along there and sometimes we kin snitch apples." He slid out of his chair. "I'm obliged to you, Mister, for that feed. But pa's waitin'," and his glance strayed to the handkerchief on the table. "Shall I take it back again?" "No, indeed!" I reached inside my pocket and drew out a roll of bills. Then I looked at the boy. 166 The Coroner Grows Curious His age could not be more than twelve years; to place a suitable reward in his hand seemed most unwise. "Suppose we talk to your father," I sug- gested. But before leaving the dining room I picked up the handkerchief and drawing a large envelope from my pocket, emptied its contents; I then placed the handkerchief inside and returned it to my pocket. I had had enough of material objects disappearing from under my nose. Peter and the boy were halfway to the reception hall when I stopped at the dining room entrance to speak to the Jap. "Moto, what have you done with Count Erdody's gloves?" Moto looked up from clearing the table. "Gloves?" he said vaguely. "Yes. They were by the Count's hat, which you carried with his overcoat from the living room into the hall." Moto looked from me to the plate in his hand. "I took hat and coat," he said. "The gloves I do not move." "You damned liar." My exasperation found vent in the muttered abuse. Moto was too well- trained a servant to remove the hat and leave the gloves behind. A cold draught down the hallway gave evidence of the whereabouts of Peter and Jake, had I been 167 13 Thirteenth Street in any doubt. A man in working clothes, evidently an attendant at a gas filling station, was with them. His story, told in slightly broken English, cor- roborated that of his son, but he could add noth- ing to it, except to tell me that Wilson Alley was a short cut from the lower block of Thirteenth Street to the northeast, and that no cars were parked in the alley at night as most of the houses were tenantless. "Come inside." I had a feeling that our conver- sation was being overheard by some one on the stairs leading to the apartments above mine; a faint cough, smothered instantly, suggested the presence of an unseen listener, although when I went to the foot of the staircase and looked up—no one was to be seen. I shut the apartment door with a distinct slam and turned to the workman. "Take this for Jake," and put a number of Treasury bills in his willing grasp. "If your son finds anything else"—I sank my voice to a whisper— "a beaded bag, perhaps, let me have it immediately." "I will that"—his hearty tones carried conviction. "Come on, Jake," and the boy, who had distracted Peter's attention from us by trying on the latter's fur coat, went reluctantly with his father. "Well, well"—back once more in the living room, Peter picked up his demi-tasse which Moto had brought there in our absence—"the plot thickens." 168 13 Thirteenth Street Then the door slammed shut, as I stepped into the reception hall to see if I could assist him. "I am sorry to have driven your guest away," remarked Coroner Wilson, taking his coffee and sitting down opposite me. "Mr. Clemens appears to be of a very nervous temperament." I, too, had noticed Peter's eccentric behavior; he was always "hail fellow, well met" in his manner, but this time his effusiveness had seemed artificial. "I presume," went on Wilson, sipping his coffee with evident enjoyment, "you wonder why I've come to you." I looked at the coroner, tired of subterfuge. "The Zichy case brought you here, undoubtedly. What are the new developments, Doctor?" But Wilson was gazing about with undisguised interest, and I doubted if he took in what I said. "You've hunted a bit." He pointed to a stuffed elk's head over the desk and a gun rack above my mantel. "Is there plenty of game in Russia?" "There, and in the Balkans," shortly. "Ever been wounded?" "Any number of times." I considered my guest carefully. What was the coroner driving at? It behoved me to find out, for, despite the fact that his manner was that of a casual caller, I could not lose sight of his official position. Quickly I decided what 170 The Coroner Grows Curious course I would take. Confidences sometimes invited confidences. "These experiences of mine make me more sur- prised at the lack of blood in evidence on the cloth- ing and body of Countess Zichy," I began, and paused expectantly— Coroner Wilson put down his empty coffee cup and sat back. "You may recall," he said, "the deputy coroner stated that the countess died as the result of a stab in the back which penetrated a vital spot." "I do," I replied. "He called it a punctured wound." "That is entirely correct," agreed Wilson. "Such a wound is greater in depth than in length and causes little hemorrhage externally. Such a wound"—he looked steadfastly at me—"is made by a sharp- edged, pointed knife—a hunting knife"— I took up the challenge instantly. "Go over and look at the weapons on the gun rack." And I pointed to them. "There are several hunting knives there." Wilson did not move, however. "They were carefully examined by Inspector Judson on his first visit here and found"—he coughed slightly—"in- tact. No fingerprints would register on the rough bone handles and the blades were innocent of blood- stains or recent marks of any kind." 171 13 Thirteenth Street "You give us a clean bill of health," I remarked. I warmed to the coroner. His quiet, impersonal dis- cussion of the, to me, absorbing mystery was a relief. From my pocket I took out the envelope and exposed the handkerchief to view. Wilson listened silently to my description of Jake and his find. "May I keep it?" And leaning forward, he took the handkerchief and put it in his pocket. "We will look for fingerprints," he said, "but it is doubt- ful if we find any. The handkerchief has been handled too much." "But, Inspector Judson—?" "I will tell him and relieve you of all responsi- bility in the matter." His manner was final and I said no more. "How came the handkerchief in Wilson Alley?" I asked. "Can you hazard a guess, Doctor?" Wilson hesitated. "Is Count Erdody at home?" "No." "Then we're alone?" "Entirely so." I spoke with unintentional grim- ness and caught a surprised flash in his eyes. "Both my servants are out, and when in the pantry a few moments ago I bolted the service door. If either Slater or Moto come back, they must enter by the front door; especially Moto." The last slipped out, and the coroner caught me up quickly. "Why is Moto barred out especially?" he asked. 172 The Coroner Grows Curious "He has lately taken to going out without per- mission." I laughed, feeling I had given too much importance to Moto. "Owning a car has had a demoralizing effect upon him." "I see." Wilson stroked his beard reflectively. "Both servants have been in your employ in Europe also?" "Yes." I amplified the curt monosyllable quickly. "Slater was with me in Russia, but Moto has been with my stepson in Budapest." "I recall Slater; a big, red-headed chap, speaking very precise English." Wilson leaned forward. "Where does Moto keep his car?" "In the street, so far as I know." My interest in Moto as a topic of conversation evaporated. It came to me that Inspector Judson had told the coroner about Hopkins' story when we three met on Thirteenth Street around four o'clock. "Now, about that handkerchief—did Countess Zichy drop it when she screamed from the automobile and was heard by Hopkins?" "No; Wilson's Alley is to the east of Thirteenth Street." The coroner demonstrated his knowledge of direction by moving his foot over the rug. "If Hopkins' story of a woman and man fighting in a car is true, and the couple were the countess and the person who killed her—that handkerchief was never dropped by the dead woman." 173 13 Thirteenth Street "You think, then, her murderer threw it away to get rid of incriminating evidence?" I asked. "Obviously." For the first time Wilson waxed impatient. "But what puzzles me is why the death car was driven towards the northeast." "Less chance of observation that way, perhaps," I suggested. "Perhaps." His tone was dubious, however. "All streets are deserted, more or less, at that hour of a Sunday morning, and I take it the driver was going circumspectly, so as not to attract attention. There's a chance"— "Of what?" I asked, as he paused. "That some one picked up the handkerchief down by the Mall, then, hearing of the murder, feared to keep it any longer and pitched it in the alley." What he said was reasonable enough, and I could but agree with him. "Doctor"—in spite of know- ing we were alone I took the precaution of lower- ing my voice—"what motive do you ascribe for the murder of that unfortunate woman?" He scrutinized me keenly. "Unrequited love is as good as any, but"—as I shook my head in dissent —"perhaps in this case the crime was prompted by the need to be free of an old affair." I straightened up; my chair had ceased to be com- fortable, for the coroner's conclusions were too akin to my own to allow me any peace of mind. "How m The Coroner Grows Curious about the compromising letters?" I questioned. "A blackmailer stops at nothing." "Except murder," retorted Wilson. "No, no, Colonel Campbell, I don't take much stock in any such theory." "But her letters have disappeared." Coroner Wilson shrugged his shoulders. "The whole story may be a fabrication of the French maid. Marie Bornot is probably like many other domes- tics; when placed in such a situation, they let their imaginations run away with them. Anything to create a sensation." "But she isn't that type of woman," I objected, and drew a sharp look from my companion. "Do you know the woman?" he asked. "I've talked with her—oh, since the murder." I could have sworn Wilson's lips were twisted in a smile. "By the way, why didn't you question her further at the inquest?" Wilson rose. "I must be going," he said. "I'm obliged to you, Colonel, for giving me so much of your time," and he walked into the reception hall. I could not detain him by force, but, as I helped him on with his overcoat, I again brought up the subject of the French maid. "Why," I asked, "did you not have Marie Bornot go into details about the bag which the countess always carried with her?" w jj Thirteenth Street My words came as a surprise, for I felt Wilson's sudden start as I gave a final jerk to his coat. That start, however, was his only indication of hearing my remark. Hat in hand, he waited for me to open the front door. "Dr. Wilson, why did you adjourn the inquest with such abruptness?" "Because—because"—he spoke with slow impres- siveness—"because of my belief that the murderer was present in the inquest room. Good night, sir." CHAPTER XIV A Fatal Sequence THE chimes of the grandfather clock resounded through the apartment—midnight! I sprang up; high above the final stroke of twelve I had heard my own name. So strong was my conviction of another's presence that I called out: "Yes, I'm here! Who spoke?" Silence was my only answer. I rubbed my eyes, heavy with sleep, and looked about the living room; apparently I had it to myself and, recalling my action earlier in the evening of bolting the service entrance, I concluded I must be alone in the apartment—unless Wolf had returned. He and I, only, had keys to the front door. It took me but a moment or two to go through all the rooms'; neither Wolf nor the servants were in any of them. Back once more in the living room, I glanced about, fully awake at last; even so, the voice still rang in my ears: "Campbell." Although accented by a foreign pronunciation, my surname had sounded clear and distinct. Dozing in my easy-chair, since the departure of Coroner Wilson, my dreams had 177 jj Thirteenth Street centered on Ilda Zichy; vividly her beautiful figure had whirled before me in mad fantasy as on the stage of the theater, then had sunk prone on the floor of 13 Thirteenth Street. The calling ol my name must have been a part of the nightmare, but so realistic as to awaken me. The room was only partially lighted, as before making myself comfortable, I had switched off all but two of the lamps. Should I keep to my intention of sitting up until Wolf returned, or should I take my customary "constitutional" about the block and then turn in? A midnight stroll did not seem an in- viting prospect, but neither did staying alone in the apartment—my nightmare had been too oppressive to offset the dreary coldness of my surroundings at that hour. Once more going into the reception hall, I snatched up my hat and overcoat and went outdoors. The cold, biting air was not conducive to dawdling along Massachusetts Avenue, deserted at that hour, except for occasional cars carrying their owners either homeward or to further festivities, and I stepped out briskly. I must have covered a mile before I faced about and walked back down the avenue. My blood had warmed with the exercise and I felt inclined to a more optimistic view of the happenings of the past twenty-four hours. I had been a fool to take alarm at finding Wolf's glove 178 A Fatal Sequence in 13 Thirteenth Street; he could give an adequate explanation—he must. Other clews were developing; the discovery of Ilda's handkerchief, the motor car seen by Jim Hop- kins. He and his wife would be able to identify it —but here I hesitated in my reasoning—it was most unlikely that two near-sighted people on a dark night could distinguish one make of car from an- other. Still, my plan of offering a reward for infor- mation was bearing fruit, and there was Aunt Polly to question further. I was almost home when I stopped close by a parked car to light a cigarette. It had a familiar look and I laid my hand on the hood. The metal was hot to the touch; evidently the engine had only just been turned off. I scrutinized the long, graceful lines of the roadster, and stepping off the curb, read the license number, F 666, but it was the dented fenders that confirmed its identification. Moto, then, had returned. The heavy iron-grilled, glass door of my apart- ment house opened and closed, and at the noise I craned my neck around the car to see who was com- ing out of the building. A woman, closely muffled in a big coat, stood hesitating at the top of the short flight of steps leading to the sidewalk. From her frequent glances at the car, I gathered she was ex- pecting some one to come forward and meet her. 179 13 Thirteenth Street Fully a minute passed before she hurried across to the car and peered inside; then only was I absolutely certain of her identity. "Wolfgang!" Her rich, melodious tones were unmistakable. "Wolfgang?" I stepped into view. "Will I do, Mrs. Maury?" She rested her weight on the door of the car and looked up at me; fright had turned her cheeks an unnatural color. "Can I substitute for Wolf?" I spoke again, to give her time to recover her composure. "I"—Ellen's hand crept up to her throat and loosened her scarf—"you startled me, Colonel Campbell. Do you always spring at people out of the dark?" "Not always," dryly. I lowered my voice as a policeman, patrolling his beat, came abreast of us. "Isn't it a bit late for you to be out"—I waited until the bluecoat was out of hearing—"alone?" "I am with you," she countered swiftly; "the re- spectable Colonel Campbell." I winced at the mock- ery in her voice. "But I don't flatter myself you came out to be with me," I retorted tartly; it was not altogether pleasant to be reminded of my gray hairs and fifty years by a young and beautiful woman. "It's Wolf you wish." At his name her manner changed. "Yes," she 180 A Fatal Sequence admitted, with disarming frankness. "I was look- ing out of my window, recognized Wolf's car, and came down expecting to find him." "But this is Moto's car—not Wolf's." She stared up at me, her expression enigmatic. "Wolf sold this car to the Jap when he bought a new one." "Of course, I had forgotten." She brushed her hair off her forehead; the gesture was one of utter fatigue. "I cannot think clearly these days. Wolf is with you, then?" and she looked up the avenue expectantly. "No; I haven't seen him since before dinner." "But hasn't he come in?" "He hadn't up to half an hour ago, when I went out." I stopped, bewildered by her terrified ejacu- lation. "What's wrong?" She continued to stare at me; then, still maintain- ing silence, she returned to the apartment entrance. I reached her in time to swing open the heavy door, and prepared to follow her inside. "Colonel Campbell." I started at the touch of her icy fingers. "You know where he is—go and get him!" And before I could clutch her arm to detain her, much less formulate a question, she had turned and raced up the staircase. I was not slow in following, but, when halfway to her apartment, I heard a door slam overhead and stopped abruptly. I could not force an entrance. 18l /J Thirteenth Street Turning back, I went to my own door and opened it. A hasty tour of the apartment showed every- thing to be as I had left it. Wolf was not there. Going to the telephone, I looked through the directory. Ellen Maury's name was not listed, and from "Information" I gathered her number was a private one. After a moment's consideration, I called the Hungarian Legation and, one after the other, Wolf's clubs; only to receive the uniform answer that Count Erdody had not been there that evening—and it was now after one on Wednesday morning. Harassed with doubts, I again closed the apart- ment and went down to Moto's car. Ellen's cryptic words had implied that I was aware of Wolf's whereabouts. But my telephone calls had exhausted my knowledge of present-day Washington. A taxi driver could probably take me to the city's night clubs. That Wolf would seek distraction seemed reasonable. But Ellen's frenzied whisper had also implied I must get him home. Why? Was he in danger? The idea sent the hot blood coursing through my veins. I started down the avenue and came face to face with Moto as he appeared from the trades- men's entrance of my apartment house. Until that instant I had temporarily forgotten the Jap. He gave me no time to speak first. 182 13 Thirteenth Street life, or so it seemed to me an hour later when I turned the car around at the Jap's low-spoken direc- tion. He had been a help, also, at each night club by getting out and making inquiries for me. "Where to?" I asked. It had grown much colder and Moto sat burrowed down in his corner, occasion- ally blowing on his hands to warm them and shuf- fling his feet about to start circulation. "To the left"—and as I wheeled around—"no, no, my mistake; back out, Colonel." I put the gears in reverse, and as we made the turn, glanced at the light post. The sign, swinging crazily from it, caught my eye—"Wilson Alley." I put on the brakes with such force that Moto lunged forward in his seat. "Please, sir, have we hit something?" he asked, alarmed. "No. Tell me, Moto, that last night club we visited"—while speaking, I backed the car still farther until we came to the crossing—"was halfway up this block"—pointing along the street which ran at right angles—"was it not?" "Yes, sir." "Then the back of that clubhouse must come out on Wilson Alley." For reply, Moto scrambled out of the car. "I go see," and was off before I could say more. The houses in that quarter of the city still re- 184 A Fatal Sequence tained an air of more prosperous days; they were chiefly of brick, semidetached, and with yards en- closed by old iron fences. I judged, however, that the darkness camouflaged dingy yards, unpainted exteriors and curtainless windows; in some of the latter I could even detect the white card announc- ing "Rooms to Let." Before I had time to grow impatient, Moto was back. "Its yard goes to alley," he said, sitting down and slamming the car door at the same time. "But that not night club, Colonel; that gambling house." "Oh!" I put my foot on the starter. "Straight ahead, Moto?" "Yes, sir." Moto moved closer to me and spoke confidentially. "I know that house—lose plenty money there. Count Wolf say for me to stay away. But sometime he play there for big money." Moto evidently feared his voice would carry to other ears and almost whispered his words. "Now Count Wolf worried, I thought maybe he might go there." I nodded understandingly. "Tell me, Moto," and I strove to make my manner invite confidences, "did you help Count Wolf to his bedroom when he came in on Sunday morning?" "No, sir." The Jap seldom spoke with such di- rectness and decision. I could not but believe him, and yet— "How could Count Wolf, in the condition in which 185 Thirteenth Street I found him on Sunday morning, walk down the hall without assistance and not stumble over the rugs or the furniture?" I demanded. "He would have made enough noise to awaken—even me." I felt sure my hesitancy in completing my sentence, al- though of the slightest, had not escaped Moto, who sat watching me intently. We had gone several blocks before the Jap spoke. "Count Wolf drink after he get back," he said. "I find glass and empty bottle on his bedside table. He not so drunk when he come in.' The car swerved from side to side, due to my erratic driving, but I was too astounded to guide the wheel carefully. "I saw no such bottle or glass," I protested. "I take them out before you see Count Wolf." Moto laid a steadying hand on the wheel. "Please, sir, look where you go." Mechanically heeding his warning, I kept to my side of the road, but except to see that no car or pedestrian was ahead of us, I paid no attention to the direction in which we were driving. Wolf, not drunk when he reached home Sunday morning—but sober. Then what of his story of being so intoxi- cated when he left Marquis Collato "to have it out" with Ilda, that his mind was a blank as to what transpired after he and the Italian separated? 186 A Fatal Sequence Was he really sober? Was Ilda's death a case of cold, premeditated murder, and his drinking bout in his bedroom simply to drown recollection? Moto had opend up ghastly possibilities. "Where we go now?" The Jap put the question twice before I realized he was speaking. "Look— we on Thirteenth Street!" My startled glance swept up and down the street; true enough, the lamp post bore the numerals I was commencing to abominate, and there to my left, in the distance, loomed the old mansion. I slackened speed, intending to turn the car about, when Moto checked me. "Please, sir, drive by the house." He was lean- ing forward, peering ahead. "I like to see it close up. Much against my will, I drove on. Moto had shown a cheerful willingness to be of aid and, in spite of the lateness of the hour and the biting cold, it was only fair to humor him before driving home- ward. "You know the house?" I asked, turning to look at him. "Yes, sir; I take many notes from Count Wolf to Mrs. Maury before she come to live above us." Moto sat back in his corner again. "You think they marry?" The servant's question was put so respect- fully that I could not take offense; but Moto did I87 13 Thirteenth Street not await an answer. "Maybe yes, if Mr. Clemens"— What Peter Clemens had to do with it I never learned from Moto, for while he was still speaking, I caught sight of a tall, familiar figure emerging from the garden gate, still some distance away. Wolf never gained the sidewalk; instead, before I could call to him, he had slipped back into the garden of 13 Thirteenth Street. There was something so furtive in his bearing that it silenced my hail, and sent me on down the street with fast-beating pulse. Had Moto noticed Wolf? The Jap made no men- tion of it; and yet, as a general thing, there was little that escaped his beady, black eyes. I drove on by No. 13, and drew up on the opposite side of the street. "Let's see how big the house really looks, Moto," I exclaimed, speaking with intentional loudness. "Come along." For an instant I doubted if the Jap understood me, for he did not budge. "Please, sir, this is about the hour Countess Zichy died there." Moto pointed to the mansion stand- ing stark and lonely. "Please, I come another time." His reminder of the similarity of time did not tend to raise my spirits. But I was determined to find Wolf and take him home. Had Ellen Maury 188 A Fatal Sequence any real knowledge of his whereabouts, or had she simply jumped to the conclusion that he would return to the scene of Ilda's murder? Neither conjecture mattered just then, for had she not also impressed me with the belief that wherever he was, some dan- ger threatened? Had Wolf been hanging around Number 13 all night? Had the police seen him there? It behoved me to find out. "Stay where you are, Moto," I directed. "I'll be right back." His emphatic acquiescence implied strict obedience and I crossed the street, well pleased. I preferred to find Wolf without a witness present. In the east a faint glow gave promise of sunrise, but otherwise the sky and street presented a cheer- less prospect. I passed the mansion and continued to the garden gate. It was possible that Wolf had mistaken the roadster for a police car, but to dash back out of sight in such haste surely betokened a guilty conscience! As I laid my hand on the gate, I heard the unmistakable whir of a fast-moving motorcycle and stood hesitating; then I walked over to the curb. A siren sounded and a motorcycle, tak- ing the corner on one wheel, came racing down the street. Evidently I was observed, for the car drew up with a grinding of brakes, close at hand. In- spector Judson popped out from the side car and as I went to meet him, stopped and stared at me. 189 13 Thirteenth Street "You—Colonel Campbell! What are you doing here at this hour?" "I might ask the same," I parried swiftly. "What got you out of a warm bed?" "A phone call." Inspector Judson recovered his usual manner, a blending of bluff good-fellowship and alertness. "O'Brien, who patrols this beat to- night, called me to say he had seen lights go on and off in Number 13. O'Brien rapped at the door but no one responded, so he hung around and at last though it best to report to me." "Why not at an earlier hour?" I asked. Judson shrugged his stocky shoulders. "No brains," he grumbled, and turning, walked with me to the front door of the old mansion. The police- man who drove the motorcycle came just behind, a powerful flashlight swinging in his hand. We three mounted the steps and at the top, I hung back. I had previously denied having keys to Number 13, and I had not told Judson of the set given to me later on by Ellen Maury. But the In- spector was too impatient, apparently, to get inside to let other considerations divert him. Drawing out a bunch of keys which, from the file marks showing plainly in the full glare of the flashlight, had been struck off recently, he opened the small storm door and the larger one beyond. He was the first over 1QO A Fatal Sequence the threshold, and I brought up the rear, a position I retained during our inspection of the place. My first glance was towards the panel leading to the secret chamber in the hall. It was closed, and the one in the library likewise. If Judson had gained knowledge of the two secret passageways, he betrayed no suggestion of that fact. In the south- west chamber alone was there indication of some one else's presence since the French maid, Marie Bornot, and I had gone through the mansion that afternoon. Judson was the first to spot a small candlestick in which the wick had burned almost to the bottom. "Probably the intruder heard O'Brien knocking on the door, blew out his candle, and accidentally left it behind," he exclaimed. "But to find his way around these rooms without a light shows an amaz- ing familiarity with the architectural arrangements and that fact ought to narrow our search!" His glance shifted to me as we went down the staircase. "Clancy"—addressing the policeman—"throw your flashlight on the banisters—ah, as I thought, no signs of any one touching them for guidance down these stairs." Once more the inspector circled the first floor, Clancy and I in close attendance. From the pantry he led us down the winding staircase and into the big, old-fashioned kitchen. But it was the kitchen entry, rather than the room itself, which attracted IQI A Fatal Sequence With the breath knocked from me, I lay still as feet pounded down the path. "Lend a hand!" I gasped, and with Judson's assistance, struggled to my knees. "Who's under me r Clancy had reached us by this time. "A light, for God's sake !" Judson's voice cracked from excite- ment. As the flashlight played over the person beneath me, I pulled back the coat—and drew my hand away with lighting speed—blood. I stopped to stare stupidly at my fingers. "Here, let me"—Judson's voice came as from a great distance to my dulled understanding. Releas- ing his clutch on my shoulder, he pulled away the inert arm and exposed a face to view. "Aunt Polly!" and as I slumped back against him: "as dead as a doornail." CHAPTER XV The Arrest ARNED by Inspector Judson not to move V V about, I sat on a tumble-down garden bench close by the dead woman. Flashlights in the hands of members of the Homicide Squad resembled a swarm of fireflies as the detectives searched the grounds. Occasionally I caught a word, cautiously spoken, but mainly silence prevailed—an ominous silence. Now and again I glanced at Aunt Polly and each time bitter, blinding rage consumed me. Who would kill so harmless, so defenseless a creature? Under the merciless glare of high-powered, in- candescent lights, brought by Sergeant Meade and his fingerprint squad, the terror, aye and horror, be- trayed by her staring eyes and convulsed features left little doubt in my mind that Aunt Polly had, all too late, realized her peril. Some distance away Inspector Judson and Cor- oner Wilson were deep in conversation, finally stopping to question the searchers who came up to report. That these reports were not to the coroner's liking was evident from his dubious shakes of the head, and Judson's low-toned comments later seemed 1Q4 13 Thirteenth Street Of course that worthless son of hers might have swiped her money, but something told me Aunt Polly wouldn't leave the savings of a lifetime around loose. It suddenly came to me when we were in the cellar that maybe she had used this means of secreting her cash." "You used good reasoning," acknowledged Cor- oner Wilson, with an approving glance at Judson; "the amount of money totals close to three thousand dollars." Judson whistled. "Here, Meade," as the finger- print expert joined us, "take charge of this money and the stocking." Waiting only long enough to see Meade replace in the stocking Aunt Polly's accumulation from her years of toil, Judson turned to several men who, fol- lowing his directions, closed the old-fashioned blinds, bolted the windows, and banked the kitchen fire. "Padlock the cottage," he ordered, then turning to me: "This way, Colonel." Disregarding his imperative gesture towards the street door, I stood my ground. "How about Ezra?" I asked. "Have you found Aunt Polly's son?" "Not a trace of him here." The inspector held open the door as a further hint that I leave the room before him. "Ezra's description has already been broadcast, and it won't be long now before we run IQ8 The Arrest him in. Come, sir; why are you keeping us wait- ing?" With an effort, I smothered my anger at his per- emptory question. I must learn all that transpired and could only do so by keeping up a semblance of good feeling. Outside the cottage, a group of Ne- groes quickly dispersed as we three appeared in the doorway and walked towards them; that is, all but one, a man bent with years of outdoor toil. "Please, Mistah P'liceman," he began, baring a bald head, "I hears yo' done axed fo' young Ezry. De boy was ter go stay wid his gran'pap down Jop- lin way. 'Least dat's what Aunt Polly tole me las' night." "Ah !" Judson's exclamation was long- drawn out. "At what hour did you see Aunt Polly?" "'Bout six las' night." Evidently flattered by our concentrated attention, the Negro replaced his bat- tered felt hat. "I lives over to Wilson Alley an' she cum thar to ax me to do some diggin' fo' her." "Digging—where?" Coroner Wilson broke in ahead of Judson; he and I had both started at the mention of Wilson Alley. Taking out his notebook, he jotted down a word or two. "In de garden yonder," explained the Negro, with a vague wave of his hand toward Number 13. "But, laws, nobuddy kin git me in dat place now—ain't no nigger g'wine in thar." 199 13 Thirteenth Street "What part of the garden?" rapped out Judson; apparently he wished to keep the questioning ex- clusively in his hands, for he shot a glance of sharp rebuke at Wilson. "Tell the truth now, or go to Headquarters and tell it there." "Ain't no 'casion fo' me to lie," protested the Negro with considerable warmth. "'Deed, boss, Aunt Polly didn't 'zackly say whar I was to dig; but I done calc'lated she wanted some ole box dug up to sell in Center Market. De house is g'wine to be torn down and de garden broke up she said, and I calc'lates again it wouldn't hurt nobuddy to take a little piece ob de shrubbery." Not entering into the ethics of shrubbery stealing, Wilson again addressed the old man. "What's your name?" he demanded. "William Daingerfield, sah," and the Negro ducked his head by way of a bow. "I works in de Botanical Gardens but Aunt Polly an' de folks 'bout hyar has me do chores in off times." "I see":—i But before Judson could put in an- other word, I handed my visiting card to Dainger- field. "My name and address are on this," I told him. "If anything crops up which you think will aid the police in solving Aunt Polly's death, bring me the information. I am offering another five thousand 200 The Arrest dollars for clews which will lead to the arrest of her murderer." My statement produced results of a varied kind. Bowing and scraping himself off the scene, William Daingerfield rejoined his friends who had watched us from a respectful distance; Coroner Wilson re- turned his notebook to his pocket and stared fixedly at me, while Judson jammed his derby down over one temple and crammed both fists into his overcoat pocket. "Well, of all the gall!" he ejaculated. "How d'ye get that way? You pay for information—you want clews to Aunt Polly's murder—you! Say, boo, don't you know the jig's 'most up?" Too thunderstruck for speech, I returned his glare. "I—I f-fail to understand," I stuttered finally. Coroner Wilson took a firm grip on my arm and hurried with me down the street in time to avoid several local press reporters. At the corner of Thirteenth Street, he paused and I did likewise. "Colonel Campbell," he said, and the gravity of his manner tempered my hot rage against Judson, "you have not yet given us an explanation of your presence on this street when Inspector Judson ar- rived here." Still holding my arm, he started for Number 13. "And what is more, Judson has told me he saw you walk away from this gate as he drove 201 13 Thirteenth Street up." The coroner paused and added significantly: "Behind that gate we found Aunt Polly murdered." "Why, by , you dare to insinuate"—in blind fury I shook my fist in his face. Wilson backed against the brick wall. "Violence will get you nowhere, Colonel." His harsh, cutting tones brought me to my senses, and, ashamed of my outburst, I stepped back from him just as Inspector Judson came running up, the faith- ful Clancy trailing at his heels. "Come, sir, what explanation have you to offer?" I stared at the two officials and at the policeman —the question I dreaded had been put to me at last. If my proximity to the garden gate had cast sus- picion upon me, then my knowledge of Wolf being not only at the gate, but inside it, would convince them of his guilt—so much for circumstantial evi- dence! "I went out for my customary stroll before retir- ing":—I was acutely conscious that my words were stilted, but I wanted time to think—to reason—and that Inspector Judson and Coroner Wilson were rapidly losing patience was obvious. "At my apart- ment house door, Moto came up in his car, and after a word or two, I promised to give him a driving lesson." "At one A.M.?" Judson's skepticism made me wince. "Say, what do you take us for?" 202 The Arrest I ignored him and continued to address the cor- oner, who was favoring me with a scrutiny I found very trying. "There was little traffic and we went farther than I realized." I cleared my throat, hoping there- by to keep my voice natural. My mouth felt parched and dry. "Coming from Center Market, Moto got lost in the back streets and we turned up here." "We?" questioned Judson, not to be suppressed any longer. "We—I saw you—here and that was singular, you will admit!" He guffawed at his own wit and my anger rose. "Just where does that 'we' come into the picture?" I kept my temper with difficulty. "If you'd had your eyes and wits about you on your arrival, In- spector, you'd have seen Moto and his car where it is—over there," and I swung around dramatically and pointed down the street. With one accord, the three men followed my example. It was the irre- pressible Judson who broke the silence which had grown painful—to me at least. "'Tisn't anything but a patrol wagon over there, Colonel," he declared, and I realized my eyes had not played me false—Moto's car was not there! In spite of the uncertain light of early dawn, objects in the street were easily discernible. Not only was Moto's car missing from where I had left it, it was not anywhere in sight. 203 13 Thirteenth Street Like an idiot, I stood staring up and down Thir- teenth Street; my breath taken away by the Jap's disappearance. He had not joined the dozen or more men who had crowded into the garden, only to be herded together and hustled out upon the arrival of more police, who now guarded the old mansion and its grounds from intruders. Not seeing Moto, I had simply concluded he had obeyed my orders to remain in the car with the literalness which charac- terizes Oriental servants. "I presume Moto grew tired and cold and drove home." I offered the first explanation that popped into my head, but with little hope of its acceptance. "Oh, yeah! With a dead woman to look at in the garden!" Judson drew out a cigar and stuck it un- lighted into the corner of his mouth. "Colonel, human curiosity is the same under a yellow skin as under a white one. Just a sec' "—he raised his voice imperatively—"you've had your say—now, Clancy, what is it?" The motorcycle policeman saluted. "Inspector, when we first went inside, you asked me to hold my flash in the front parlor window of the house." Clancy swung around and walked towards the old mansion, the three of us keeping up with him. "There, at that boarded window"—and halting, he indicated the one he meant—-"I looked through the 204 The Arrest peephole in the board and there wasn't any car across the street even then, as this gentleman claims." "Well, that's that!" Judson's voice broke into my confused understanding. "I guess, maybe, Colo- nel, you'd best come along with us." "To my home, yes," I agreed harshly. "Come, gentlemen," as neither moved, "in all fairness, come with me and question Moto." It seemed an eternity before Judson spoke. "All right, Colonel; we'll take you home, but let me cau- tion you, sir, that what you say will be used against you." The trip to my apartment consumed less than twenty minutes—twenty minutes in which I seethed inwardly. In my endeavor to shield Wolf, I had made first one misstatement and then another. Con- fronted with Wilson and Judson, with no oppor- tunity for me to caution him, Moto would most certainly tell of our search for Wolf—and the fat would be in the fire. Conscious that Clancy, who had left his motor- cycle to come with us, was my shadow, I hurried up to my apartment, Wilson and Judson ahead of me. A second later, my latchkey rattled in the lock and I pushed open my front door with such energy that it flew back against the wall with a bang. Not stop- ping to remove either hat or overcoat, I started down the hall. - 205 Thirteenth Street "Stop a moment!" Inspector Judson tapped me on the shoulder. "We four will go into the living room and ring for Moto." "As you please." I pulled aside the portieres and, with my bodyguard, went forward into the room. "Motol" But it was Slater who rose from laying some logs on the andirons and faced us. With mouth agape and staring eyes, he regarded the four of us. "S-Sir—" he stammered, "C-Colonel Campbell, is it you, sir?" I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and the servant's question seemed not unreasonable in view of my disheveled appearance. I was stained with dirty snow and blood from my fall in the gar- den. "I have no time now for explanations, Slater; where is Moto?" At my question, the chauffeur stared again. "He's out, sir." "Out?" cut in Judson quickly. "When did he leave here?" Slater looked across at my desk clock. "About a half hour ago, sir," he said respectfully, and then glanced at me, evidently perplexed by my surprised ejaculation. "Moto came to my room and told me to bring up some wood for this fire—it's kept in the basement, you know, sir." 206 1j Thirteenth Street this warrant sworn for your arrest last Sunday is still out against you." "And that fact alone proves you have no case," I retorted, my anger finding vent at last. "Do you suppose for one instant that I would have been al- lowed my liberty otherwise?" "G'wan, we've been kidding you," exclaimed Jud- son derisively. "To the extent of giving me the opportunity to murder Aunt Polly—" My scorn stained Judson's weather-beaten cheeks a deep red. "Well, no, we didn't bargain on that," he ad- mitted. "You put over a hot one then." His words proved too much for my self-control. "Why, you damned little rati" I roared; "I never harmed a hair of Aunt Polly's head." "No, she was stabbed through the heart"—Jud- son's small, piggish eyes stared at me unwinkingly. "Whereas Countess Zichy got hers in the back." Evidently fearing I would strike the inspector, Coroner Wilson stepped between us. "Colonel Campbell," he began, "we have allowed you unusual latitude and"—he glanced warningly at his com- panion—"it may awaken you to a realization of your precarious position to learn some of the evi- dence against you." "This is most uncustomary," exploded Judson, rising also, "but, Doctor, what you say goes. Now 208 The Arrest then"—turning to me—"why were you up at six o'clock, fully dressed, and in this room when my po- liceman came here to serve you with this warrant after the discovery of Countess Zichy's murder?" "I rose early, decided to dress and came on in here to read in comfort until breakfast"— My explanation drew a derisive chuckle from Judson. "A poor, very poor alibi," he sneered, "and, of course, having no keys, as you told us, to Number 13, you've still been able to go back and forth into the mansion at will." He had touched me on the raw. Should I tell them that my set had been given to me by Ellen Maury? "The keys were given to me afterwards through —er—other channels—channels which have nothing to do with the case," I added hastily, and saw by their quick exchange of glances that I was not be- lieved. "We'll let that go for the present," said Judson. "But when I learned you were poking this fire"— crossing the room, he gave a vicious kick at the brass fender—"I thought I'd find out what you had been burning in it when the cop came." He drew out a leather wallet and opening it, displayed in a trans- parent envelope several burnt pieces of paper on which was writing. "I took these to the Hungarian 20Q 13 Thirteenth Street Legation. Here's the translation: 'See—to-night— lid—' Explain that away, if you can!" But I was in no condition to make any adequate reply—the familiar Hungarian language was un- mistakable even on the scraps of paper. As to the words—their meaning, in spite of the gaps, con- veyed all too plainly a message from Ilda Zichy. To whom addressed—ah, if I only knew thatl "Circumstantial evidence, all of it," I scoffed. "Slater has told you that he brought me back im- mediately after the theater Saturday night." "Ah, but he didn't put you to bed," snapped Jud- son, "and there was ample time for you to go down- town again, Colonel Campbell. Just as a clincher, Flotow, Countess Zichy's dancing partner, has ad- mitted under pressure that you resemble the man who talked with Ilda Zichy in the cafe lobby." I stared at him, too paralyzed to move, and in the stillness a heavy tread came down the hall, the portieres parted, and in walked Wolf. He eyed us with sleepy astonishment. "I thought I heard voices," he said, bowing to Wilson and Judson; "don't mind if I sit in, do you, Dad?" And without waiting for permission, he dropped in an armchair, and drew his dressing-gown over his pajamas. The morning sunlight filtered through the window and touched his hair. It was the color of his 210 The Arrest mother's. I looked at Wolf; not before had I no- ticed how strong was the resemblance between Priska and her son—Priska, the woman I had loved and lost. Suddenly I turned and faced Judson. "I'm tired of loafing around here," I said. "Sup- pose we go now to Police Headquarters." "O. K." Judson started to hand me my hat and overcoat but I checked him. "I've got to clean up," I said, and held out my soiled hands; "get fresh linen and all that." Wolf sprang up, his eyes glued on my hands. "What—what's that?" he stammered. "Where'd the blood come from?" "We found Aunt Polly murdered in the garden of Number 13," I explained, as no one spoke, and wait- ing for no comment I went to my room, to find, as I started to close the door, that Wolf and the two men were there almost at the same instant. "I—I—don't understand." With white lips that barely formed the words, Wolf faced me. "Who would kill Aunt Polly? And why?" Judson shot between us, possibly that he might see our faces more plainly. "The same person who killed the countess stabbed Aunt Polly," he blurted out with significant emphasis. "She may have been an involuntary accomplice—dead she is harmless." I threw off my coat and unloosened my tie. "In neither case," I said dryly, "have you found the 211 13 Thirteenth Street weapon," and as an oath slipped from Judson; "hand me that package of laundry. I want a clean shirt." Coroner Wilson was closest to the package which I had tossed on the chair Tuesday afternoon and forgotten. It took him but a second to tear off the outer wrapping. A shout broke from him—so charged with excitement that we all gathered about him. From out the paper rolled a woman's silk evening wrap. Wilson spread it out over the bed. Dark blue on the outside, it was reversible. The white lining bore sinister stains, and Wilson pointed to a long slit in the back. None of us spoke for a minute. Wilson laid down the wrap and took up the paper which he had re- moved from it. A label attracted his eye and he read aloud the memorandum it bore: "Your regular laundry will be ready Saturday. We never do dry cleaning." Wilson put down the paper. "It is addressed," he said, and in the stillness his voice boomed like a cannon, "to Count Wolf Erdody." For a long, long moment there was utter silence. Then Wolf stepped into the center of the room, his face drawn and haggard. "I no longer claim diplomatic immunity, Inspec- tor Judson," he announced. Had I not seen his lips move, I would never have recognized his voice: "I give myself up." 212 13 Thirteenth Street I sipped my steaming coffee with relish. It was now close to four on Wednesday afternoon and the hot stimulant revived me. It had been a night with- out sleep—and such a night! "Wait, Slater." The chauffeur came back to the desk. "Was Count Wolf here when you first entered the apartment this morning?" "Why—er—yes, sir. I heard him snoring and closed the door of his bedroom." Slater regarded me with lively interest. "I then came in here, sir, and supposed both you and the count were asleep. When you walked in, sir, with Inspector Judson and the coroner, you fair took my breath away." Slater lowered his voice, although we were alone. "Will they keep Count Wolf long at the jail?" It was a question to which I had vainly endeavored to wring an answer from Coroner Wilson. All he would say was that the inquest would continue at once and, with Wolf claiming no defense, he would be held for the Grand Jury, probably within a few hours. "Heaven only knows," I said. A loud ring at the front door interrupted us. To my surprise, Slater did not move from beside the desk. "Sir," he began, "Mr. Clemens telephoned while you were dressing to say he was coming over. Will you see him, sir?" "Surely." I spoke with some semblance of en- The Jury's Verdict thusiasm. In my present mood the devil himself would have been welcome. Slater shot out of the room and I heard Peter's high, excited voice almost drowned out by the chauffeur's husky tones. Peter was out of his over- coat and into the living room before I had an op- portunity to finish my coffee. It seared my throat as it went down, possibly accounting for my scowling expression which evidently surprised Peter. "Slater told me I was expected," he explained. "I hope, Campbell, I'm not intruding." "Sit down, sit down." I sprang up and pushed forward a chair. "Make yourself comfortable, Peter. Now"—as he drew up alongside the desk and I resumed my seat—"what's up?" "You ask me that? Why, man, don't you know there's the devil to pay. The news of Wolf's arrest is all over town. They do say"—he dragged his chair close to mine—"he has confessed to killing Ilda." "He has confessed to nothing!" I thundered, thor- oughly aroused. "Circumstantial evidence is all the police have against him." "But that's hung many a man before now." Peter's despondent look sent a chill through me. "It will not hang Wolf," I declared with finality. "Why, Peter, if the worst comes, we will claim Wolf insane—the victim of alcoholism." 215 13 Thirteenth Street "You won't get anywhere with an insanity plea," retorted Peter. "The police will claim Wolf tried to conceal his crime—by sending Ilda's evening wrap to be dry cleaned—and that indicates he is capable of distinguishing between right and wrong." "Bosh," I exclaimed; "no man in his right mind would try so transparent a ruse to get rid of in- criminating evidence." I eyed Peter warily. His usually florid complexion was a mottled gray. "How did you hear about the wrap, anyway?" "I've seen Judson." Peter settled back in his chair and lighted a cigarette. "The inspector said that the very sight of the wrap took all the fight out of Wolf. And listen here, Campbell, don't build too much on what you don't know; the police have other evidence up their sleeve." He looked around. "They searched this place, didn't they?" "Yes," glumly; "the moment Wolf waived his im- munity Judson and Clancy went through everything. So far as I know, they discovered nothing." "Well—" drawled Peter, "you can't expect them to confide in you—" "But you—you are a disinterested party, Peter," I interrupted hastily; "tell me, did they drop any hint?" "Nary a one." Peter blew smoke rings into the air. "Aunt Polly's murder is a ghastly affair—her death and Ilda's are of course linked together." 216 The Jury's Verdict "It would seem so," I agreed, and a sense of hopelessness possessed me in spite of my determina- tion not to be influenced by any outside opinion. Had the police gotten in touch with Moto, or had the little Jap gone voluntarily to them? Either conjecture, if true, would account for his prolonged absence. Even so, all he could tell them would be of our fruitless search for Wolf—I was banking fer- vidly on his not having glimpsed Wolf at the garden gate. If he had— I mopped beads of moisture off my forehead. "Beastly hot in here," I grumbled; "why not open a window?" But Peter did not stir; from his expression I doubted if he had heard my request. "See here"— he spoke hurriedly, disjointedly—"you'll need a criminal lawyer. I'm not that; otherwise I'd gladly represent Wolf." His manner was so odd that I stared at him. "Much obliged, Peter, but your legal advice won't be needed—I've already engaged counsel." He looked across at me with an expression I could not interpret. "Would it be presumptuous to ask whom?" "Not at all—Mallory and Mallory." Peter sat up. "Ah—then Ellen Maury aided you in your choice?" "On the contrary, I have not seen Mrs. Maury." 217 The Jury's Verdict I declined his suggestion and turning to the curb, waited with him. "I thought you drove your own car. "It's in the shop," shortly. "Dash it all, it's colder standing still than moving. Don't taxis ever come out to this part of the world?" "There's a stand down that street," and with Peter jogging at my side, I quickened my pace, walked to the corner and along California Street. But we had to continue up the hill to Phelps Place before a Yellow Cab showed up. "You are a bit out of condition," I commented, noticing his labored breathing. "About forty pounds overweight, I'd say." With an agility which surprised me, my companion sprang in the car and slammed the door, content- ing himself with a parting wave of the hand. I watched the taxi out of sight and turned homewards, but instead, attracted by a display of smoking para- phernalia in the window of a drug store, I went in- side. The place had numerous customers and my intended purchase of a box of matches seemed so trivial, I went to the back of the store and awaited my turn to be waited on. I was in no hurry. The apartment now without Wolf would seem too lonely. Idly I read the lurid advertising placards on the tables and walls. They were mostly descriptive of perfumes and cosmetics and, losing interest, I 2IQ 13 Thirteenth Street Campbell, have you seen the evening papers?" And without waiting for a rejoinder, she unrolled a late edition of one of the Washington dailies. Across the front page was heralded Wolf's arrest. Beneath it, in almost as large type, poor Aunt Polly was given such prominence as she never received during her lifetime. "It's a front page story, all right." At my callous tone, she glanced up, her eyes wide with horror. "It says such frightful things," she moaned. "It calls Wolf a murderer of two defenseless women; it pictures him a monster of depravity." I took the paper from her shaking hands and sit- ting down read it carefully. No new facts were re- vealed in the reporter's write-up. Stress was laid, however, on the motives for the double crime. Wolf, by surrendering to the police, had virtually confessed his guilt in killing a woman of whom he had tired; Aunt Polly he had killed to prevent her telling the police that she had admitted him to 13 Thirteenth Street that fatal Sunday morning. Again and even more carefully I went over the columns de- voted to the sensational news. In none did I find mention of the disappearance from Peter Clemens' desk of our keys to the ill-fated mansion. "Mrs. Maury"—I put down the paper and turned directly to her—"why did you go to Ilda Zichy's supper party last Saturday night?" 222 The Jury's Verdict "Because she asked me"— "By phone?" "No. By note." A little color crept up her pale cheeks. "Wolf brought me the invitation." I regarded my companion intently. Her beauty was undeniable, although she showed the effects of anxiety and loss of sleep. No cosmetics toned down the dark circles under her eyes and the haggard lines which in one less attractive would have proven disfiguring. "I must repeat my question, Mrs. Maury; why did you go to that party?" She hesitated palpably, rubbing one cold hand over the other. "I—I wanted to see the countess—oh, not on the stage but in closer contact—to study her." "For what purpose?" "To see—if she really loved Wolf." And this time her cheeks were dyed a deep crimson. "Peter led me to believe I was doing the countess a great injustice—that I had broken up a very beautiful romance." "Ah—so Peter turned adviser." I smiled grimly. "Did it occur to you that he was not altogether dis- interested—that perhaps he was trying to create dis- cord between you and—Wolf?" "Between Wolf and me?" she echoed. "Oh, that was not—possible." She stumbled in her quick effort 223 13 Thirteenth Street Maury"—I drew my chair closer to her and spoke so that my words did not carry across the room— "did Wolf give you the set of keys to 13 Thirteenth Street to return to me?" She met my eyes unwaveringly. "He did not," she said. "I told you the truth when I said they were the keys I used when I lived there with your aunt." "And why did you request Aunt Polly to clean Aunt Agatha's bedroom on Saturday?" I spoke at a venture, not sure that my aunt had occupied the southwest chamber. "It was my room I wanted cleaned," she corrected me quickly, too quickly, perhaps. "Peter and other real estate men when appraising the property used to sit up there and smoke." "I see." Her explanation was simple; evidently Aunt Polly had dwelt on Ilda's murder until she dis- torted the most ordinary of appearances into guilty acts. If only she had completed her confidences to me yesterday afternoon. That the old servant had some clew to the murder was testified to by her own tragic death. The telephone on my desk sent out its jangling call with startling suddenness. I hastily picked up the receiver. "What's that you say?" I called into the mouthpiece. "Yes, I hear. You wish Moto? Hold the line." Leaning over I pressed the buzzer 226 13 Thirteenth Street She looked up at me queerly. "A miser?" she repeated. "Perhaps that was the motive for her murder. Some one, maybe Ezra, wanted to steal her savings." It was a new idea and, with Ezra still unaccounted for, so far as I knew, presented another and more encouraging aspect. Suppose Aunt Polly had fallen a victim to greed and not been killed as a possible "police informer"! "Tell me"—I looked to see if Slater had left the room; he was not in sight and crossing to the por- tieres I drew them across the door—"what became of your miniature?" She gazed at me blankly. "My miniature?" She repeated the words in astonishment. "I never had one painted." It was my turn to look astonished. My recollec- tion of her miniature on Wolf's chest of drawers Sunday morning was too vivid to be dismissed so casually. "Wolf had one," I blurted out. She colored to the roots of her hair and her eyes sparkled like twin stars. "If so—it was painted without my knowledge. But, Colonel Campbell, what has the miniature to do with the present situation?" "Nothing, so far as I know," bluntly. The phone bell again rang out, and without rising, I tipped my chair and reached for the instrument. "Ah, yes, Judson"—I recognized his voice on the wire— s 228 CHAPTER XVII Blind Evidence AT first stunned by Ellen's words, I continued to J- \- stare at her while seeking some loophole by which to make her disclosure less damning to Wolf. "You purchased a Sterno set and two extra cans." I spoke more harshly than I intended, for she shrank away and I modified my severity. "Did you leave the set, as well as the cans, in the car?" "No, only the cans." Ellen thrust her fingers against her temples as if to stop their throbbing. "The drug clerk had wrapped up the set before I de- cided to buy the extra cans, and in order not to keep Wolf waiting, as he was parked double, I took the cans without waiting to have them wrapped." "And then?" "And then we drove up here. I had just time to keep another engagement and jumped out of the car when Peter Clemens came up to us unexpectedly. It was Peter who carried the Sterno set to my apart- ment." "Oh—always Peter!" Whatever significance was in my voluntary ejaculation, it brought more color to Ellen's cheeks. Again I looked at her with an 231 Blind Evidence "No, sir." Slater closed the doors and after I was seated in the limousine, took his place. "Where to, sir?" I looked again at the scrap of paper on which I had jotted a number. "The Laundry Shoppe," and I gave the street address. "Hurry, Slater. I wish to get there before it closes." In spite of our haste, we were held up by traffic lights, missing the green signal with maddening regu- larity, so that when I walked into the shop I was the only customer. The clerk, busily sorting out pack- ages in the rear, dropped her work and came for- ward with marked reluctance. She was tired and showed it very plainly by her indifferent manner, but my first words brought a swift change following her phlegmatic: "Yes, sir, what can I do for you?" "I have come for Count Erdody's laundry. I am" :—meeting her inquisitive stare—"his stepfather, Colonel Campbell." "Yes, sir." But she did not move toward the pile of laundry packages. "Inspector Judson called for the bundle about two hours ago." Observing my expression, she spoke with uneasy haste. "I hope I didn't do wrong, sir? It was here, but the clothes hadn't been laundered yet. Indeed, I meant no harm. You can get back the clothes, can't you, sir?" "Oh, surely," soothingly. "Tell me"—and I made my manner as ingratiating as possible—"who 235 13 Thirteenth Street a relief but a necessity. I ate my dinner with rel- ish and without haste. It was close to eight o'clock when the demi-tasse was put at my elbow, and a good cigar. Leaning back, I looked from my secluded corner into the main part of the brilliantly lighted cafe. It was rapidly filling with fashionable pleasure seekers. But their gay laughter and loud chatter, rising above the very excellent orchestra, brought a realization that a similar scene last Saturday night had been the setting of Ilda's party. With a sudden horror of the place, I signaled for my bill, paid it, and left at once. Outside, a new doorman approached me. The night shift of serv- ants had evidently gone on duty. My spirits rose. The real object of my trip to the cafe was, I judged, about to bear fruit. "Taxi, sir?" he inquired j "or shall I call your car?" "A moment." My imperative gesture stopped him from blowing his whistle. "Are you the door- man they call Jim Morris?" "Yes, sir." He looked at me inquiringly. "Any- thing wrong, sir?" "No, indeed," with reassuring emphasis. I slipped a Treasury note into his ready palm. "Just a little information, Morris, is all I require." 238 Blind Evidence "I'm at your service, sir." Morris cast a quick glance at the bill and smiled, well pleased, as he pocketed the money. "Tell me, who was the taxi driver who took Mr. Peter Clemens and Mrs. Maury away from here on Saturday night—the night of Countess Zichy's party?" "I don't have to be reminded of that," exploded Morris. "The police have never let up about who come and who left on that night. I'm thinking the man you want to see"—he paused and eyed me a little doubtfully—"you don't mean him no harm, do you?" "Most certainly not," warmly. "In fact, it will be to his advantage and yours, Morris, to tell me the truth." "It was Bowen, a cousin of me wife's, sir, who drove them away. You will find him at the taxi yards on Twentieth Street. He reports there for duty about this time every night." "Thanks." Slater had evidently seen me from across the street for he brought the car over to the cafe entrance, and as Morris held open its door, I slipped him more money. "Tell my chauffeur where to go to find the taxi yards." On reaching our destination, I sent Slater to in- quire for Bowen. He returned after a slight delay with a stout, elderly man. "Bowen, sir," and hav- 239 Thirteenth Street ing established the newcomer's identity, Slater moved on to the front of the car. "You drove Mr. Peter Clemens and Mrs. Maury from the Cafe St. Regis to her home on Saturday night?" I inquired, as the taxi driver leaned inside the car window. "I don't recall exactly," he said, with the evident intention of not committing himself. "What was the address?" I gave it to him and a handsome tip. Both seemed to stimulate his memory. "Oh, yes, sir," he said, quite cheerfully. "I recalls it now. The gentleman got back in my cab after leaving the lady, but he only drove to the corner." "Why?" I ejaculated, intensely interested. "He said he'd forgotten something." Bowen scratched his head, evidently .to quicken his mental process. "Anyway, the gentleman didn't forget to pay me well." "And in what direction did the gentleman go?" "I don't clearly remember, for to the best of my recollection, he stopped by a parked car." "What kind of a car?" Bowen did not answer at once. Instead, he scratched his head. "A good-looking car," he con- ceded a moment later. "I don't rightly know its make, but it looked like a roadster. Is that all, sir?" 240 13 Thirteenth Street ticipated but for all that, it took the starch out of me. For a few minutes I sat silent, staring at the chauffeur's back; then I came to a sudden decision. "Slater." As he turned about in his seat, I re- alized he was as cold as I, for his good-looking features appeared frost-bitten. We had driven for a longer time than I had supposed. "Drive to the station where Count Wolf has his car serviced." My manner must have implied impatience for Slater covered the distance more rapidly than the darkness of the side street, through which we passed, warranted in point of safety. The service station was a high-class affair, with numerous attendants to handle their patrons' needs at any hour. Leav- ing Slater at the filling tank as he had said we were about out of gas, I went in search of the night fore- man. The latter emerged from a small office after I had waited my turn to speak with him. He proved a chatty soul, for which fact I breathed a prayer of thanks. "You say you can't unlock the rumble seat of Count Erdody's car," he repeated after me. "Well, tell the count to bring the car around"—he hesi- tated and twirled his cap around in sheer embarrass- ment. "Excuse me, Colonel, I—er"—then in a burst of sympathetic candor—"we're all mighty sorry. Count Erdody is an open-handed young gentleman. He knows a car, too. There isn't a 242 Blind Evidence professional chauffeur who can beat him in driving —drunk or sober." The last slipped out before he thought, and the foreman turned a brick red. I brushed his somewhat incoherent apology aside. "By the way," I continued, offering him a cigar, "my friend, Mr. Peter Clemens, purchased a road- ster from your company—" "Sure he did." The foreman grinned. "He duplicated Count Erdody's order, and his car was delivered at the same time." "Is it here now for repairs?" I asked, and with difficulty smothered my eagerness. "It was," he corrected. "Mr. Clemens got it out about an hour ago. He burned out a bearing Satur- day and brought it in to us on Sunday morning." "Burned out a bearing?" I repeated, as we walked slowly towards my limousine. "I thought these new models could be driven at high speed without first running five hundred miles." "They claim they can." The foreman turned his cigar over in his mouth. "But to tell you the truth, Colonel, that special roadster, except for a few new so-called 'refinements' ain't any different from Count Erdody's old car which he sold to the Japanese feller." He grinned appreciatively at some recol- lection. "That Jap's a queer bug. He came in here only to-day to ask us to put new fenders on his roadster." 243 Blind Evidence sider the disgrace of his conviction—or far, far worse, the penalty for such a crime. "Ezra admitted being in the house at the time Aunt Polly found the body," I continued, ignoring Judson's comment. "You say he really has a crim- inal record." "Yes, in the Juvenile Court, but that don't make him a murderer," objected Judson obstinately. "That ain't saying I wouldn't like to lay my hands on Ezra." "Ah, so you haven't located the boy!" Judson scowled at me. "We will," he said with finality. "Now, is there any other part of this house you wish to go over?" "No." With one accord, we returned to the front door. Judson gave a few parting instructions to his assistants, but in too low a tone for me to catch what was said. Once out on the side walk, we proceeded in the direction of my car. We had almost reached it when a man detached himself from several policeman and ran over to us. Under the street lamp, I recognized Jim Hopkins. "Inspector"—he spoke with a kind of breathless excitement and fixed his attention entirely on Judson —"I was walking this way, and on the avenue a car went by me—sort of slowed up for traffic, and then whizzed on. It kind of acted like that car on Sun- 247 13 Thirteenth Street day morning and, Inspector, I swear it was the same appearing car." "Did you get the license number?" roared Judson, and in his impatience he almost shook Hopkins. "I did this time." The little man squinted in near-sighted fashion at the figures jotted on a slip of paper before he read them aloud: "666." 13 Thirteenth Street best of me. "I presume you refer to my stepson, Count Erdody. It so happens that his license num- ber is—'F-665'." I smiled grimly at the inspector's quickened interest. "And at present his car is locked up in my garage"— "Ah-h-h!" The long-drawn-out exclamation was indicative of Judson's mixed feelings. "What are you driving at?" suspiciously. "Trying to punc- ture the Count's only alibi—that he was taken home from the party by the Marquis Collato? Secondly, this here bird, Hopkins, declares the number on a similar car to that in which he saw a man and woman struggling was '666'." "A police car," dryly; "we'll exonerate that from complicity in the crime. But, Judson, very obviously Hopkins failed to observe the identifying letter in front of the number." "Which makes the information worthless," de- clared Judson. "Let's go home." But I refused to stir. "Moto's car is 'F-666'—" Judson came back to where I stood. "Are you trying to ring in the little Jap?" he asked, and his amusement nettled me. "With your foreign en- tanglements, you'll have me bringing on a war yet." Ignoring his facetiousness, I turned to the clerk, who was still patiently waiting to be of service. "Look up the license number of Mr. Peter Clemens." Judson was close at my elbow now, and he 250 Thirteenth Street Judson nodded. "True," he agreed reluctantly, "but where will it get us? Even if Hopkins and his wife did see a man and woman quarreling in an automobile—that's nothing remarkable in these days of bootleg liquor. And there is no real evi- dence that Countess Zichy was in the roadster which Hopkins saw." "But she must have been in some car; she could not vanish off the sidewalk into thin air." I pounded my knee to emphasize my words. "And you have not located any public vehicle used by her on Sunday morning." "No," he conceded; "but take Mr. Clemens—he left the St. Regis earlier than the other guests in a taxi with Mrs. Maury. We established these facts absolutely." "I'm not disputing them," quickly. "But Bowen, who drove his taxi, declares Clemens left it within a block of Mrs. Maury's apartment house, and when last seen by Bowen, Clemens was standing by a parked roadster"— "His own?" Judson shot the question at me. He was quick to catch my faint hesitancy. "Presumably so." "But you don't know it for a fact?" The inspec- tor sat forward in his eagerness. "If it wasn't his roadster, whose was it?" "It might have been"—I spoke slowly, cautiously 252 A Question of Ownership —"one of three—his own, or Count Erdody's, or Moto's. They were all out, so far as I can find out, parked within a radius of two blocks." "Are you sure?" Judson almost barked the words. "Reasonably sure. Mr. Clemens lives in our neigh- borhood, and my stepson is careless about leaving his car out for all night parking. Moto"—this time I spoke in doubt—"at least to my knowledge, has no garage." "So you think the three roadsters, more or less alike, with identical license numbers except for the last figures, were sitting in the street, waiting to be driven to the St. Regis?" Judson rumpled his hair until it stood upright. "I guess I'm cuckoo but, to test your theory, suppose we drop in on Mr. Peter Clemens." Neither one of us exchanged a word during our drive to Peter's house, a small, old-fashioned wooden affair, reconstructed to resemble Colonial architecture instead of its original mid-Victorian type. Peter, partly dressed, opened the door after a delay of nearly five minutes. His surprise at sight of us was as nothing to his profound amazement at Judson's opening remark. "Let's see your car, Mr. Clemens," the inspector suggested with cheerful assurance. "Is the garage 253 A Question of Ownership on Peter's rebellious figure just inside the door. "Colonel Campbell, here's my private phone num- ber," and he pressed a card into my hand; "just in case you have another brain storm." CHAPTER XIX The Missing Clew THE drive home took only a few moments. I do not know which of us looked the more weary, Slater or I, as we stood in the lighted vesti- bule of my apartment house. "Would you like me to use Moto's room to-night, sir?" the chauffeur asked. "You'll be there all by yourself, sir." "Thanks, Slater, but Moto may be back by this time. Get a good night's rest; you've had a hard day. Good night," and with his echo of my last word, I went upstairs. A look in Moto's room and about the rest of the apartment convinced me that he had not so far put in an appearance there. I stopped at the service entrance and debated a second, then shot home the bolt; if the Jap returned, he must come in by the front door, and this time his explanation of his lengthy absence and eccentric conduct would either be satisfactory, or he would be without a situation. I must have dropped asleep the minute my head touched the pillow, for I remembered nothing until awakened from my uneasy slumber by the crash of 258 The Mystery Deepens ing Bowen's taxi, but his car was in the service sta- tion on Tuesday night—the night Aunt Polly was stabbed to death." I paused for reflection before again addressing the inspector. "Did the policeman on the Thir- teenth Street beat see any parked car when he de- tected the candle lights burning inside the old mansion?" "He declares no car of any description was parked at that hour within a radius of four blocks of the place." Judson ran his fingers through his hair. "It wasn't humanly possible for him to be everywhere at once, but it is reasonable to conclude that whoever killed Aunt Polly did not park his own car in the immediate neighborhood." In silence I studied the pattern of the Oriental rug at my feet; its intricate design was not more closely interwoven than the problem of the two murders. I had actually seen Wolf near the garden gate on Tuesday night; I had not seen his car, how- ever, in the vicinity, and I also had Slater's word for it that his roadster was in my garage that night. If Wolf could get to Number 13 undetected and away from there before our discovery of Aunt Pol- ly's body, without using his own car, why could not Peter Clemens have done likewise? "Say, Colonel Campbell." Judson raised his voice to attract my attention. "What more likely 26Q /J Thirteenth Street than that this pocket comb belongs to Ezra, and he put it in the bag?" Taken aback by this suggestion, I looked first at the inspector and then at the comb. "I'll ask Ezra," I exclaimed; "let me have it." "Take the comb in your handkerchief, Colonel," warned Judson, and, as I did so, "I'll come with you." "Then stay in the background; I feel sure he'll tell the truth, but he is terrified at the very thought of police." Judson took my advice in good part and remained by the door; from there he had a clear view of Ezra and the bed, himself remaining unseen. It took some shaking to arouse the boy, but finally he opened his eyes and, startled by his unaccustomed surround- ings, he rose on his elbow. "Whar is I?" "With me—Colonel Campbell," and I switched on another light that he might see me more clearly. "You are quite safe, Ezra." "Yessah." Recollection came with a rush, but in spite of my reassuring words, Ezra clutched the bed- clothes, preparing to duck beneath them. "Wha- what is it, boss?" "Does this pocket comb belong to you?" and I held out the handkerchief on which lay the comb and its case. 270 The Mystery Deepens born idea, coupled with the highball, had fired me with impatience for immediate action. I looked at the clock. Was six in the morning too early an hour to call on Ellen Maury? Tarrying only long enough to wash my hands and brush my hair, I was out of my apartment and on the floor above before I could give myself time to reconsider my plans. A white-capped nurse answered my ring. She looked as startled as I felt. "Mrs. Maury—is she ill—?" I stammered incoherently. My voice car- ried farther than I realized; a door opened down the hall and Ellen came forward in lounging pajamas. "You—Colonel Campbell!" She surveyed me in growing alarm. "Is—is anything wrong?" "No, no." I spoke hurriedly, fearing to upset her. "But you are ill—you have a nurse"— "Not for me." Recovering her poise, Ellen went ahead of me into the same room where we had talked before. "My employer is ill." "Your—your what?" Had I heard aright? "Isn't this your apartment?" "Certainly not!" Ellen looked at me as if she thought I had taken leave of my senses. "It is rented by Mrs. Reginald McPherson, and I am here as her companion and confidential secretary. It was for her use I purchased the Sterno cans." 275 jj Thirteenth Street For an instant I was too bewildered to take in all that she said. "But your name is in the letter box in the vesti- bule!" I gasped. Her expression cleared. "Mrs. McPherson is known to be very wealthy and therefore is im- portuned to support this and that charity, and often annoyed by wildcat investment companies. She asked me to omit her name and put mine in its place in the letter box downstairs. Her friends know how to reach her and understand her desire for privacy." Ellen eyed me closely, evidently per- plexed by my astonishment. "Surely Wolf told you all this?" "Yes, but I've a miserable memory," lamely. I was most anxious to avoid discussing my lack of knowledge of Wolf's friends and mode of life, and went blundering along. "It seems to me Peter Clemens has the run of this apartment." "He is Mrs. McPherson's business representa- tive and is received here en famille." A faint twinkle in Ellen's lovely eyes lightened her tragic expres- sion. "Unfortunately, she has an antipathy for Wolf and has forbidden me to see him here, and this dislike extends to you as his relative. That is why I hurried you away when you first appeared so unexpectedly." "I'll only remain a minute now," I exclaimed, and 276 The Mystery Deepens crossing the room, closed the hall door. "Listen, Mrs. Maury"— Briefly I told her of the events which had taken place since our last hectic interview. When I described Ilda's bag and told her how it reached me, she sprang up. "Where did Aunt Polly get the bag?" she de- manded, not giving me an opportunity to say more. "I have no idea," grimly; "but I mean to find out if it's humanly possible. It's a safe bet Aunt Polly sent it to me because she knew her possession of it endangered her own life." "But she was killed anyway!" "I know—I know." My irritability made her the more nervous, and her eyes filled with tears. She came closer to me and again I realized her unusual beauty. "Colonel Campbell, you must do something— something. Wolf was in the garden about the time Aunt Polly was killed; you know that. Then why, if she saw him, did she not send the bag to you by Wolf instead of by Ezra?" I made no reply and she added with passionate indignation: "Are you so blind that you cannot see Aunt Polly feared the po- lice would consider it another piece of damning evi- dence against Wolf—or else she knew Wolf to be guilty of Ilda's murder?" "Calm yourself." Alarmed by her pallor, I grasped her hand. "Let me see Ilda's note inviting 277 CHAPTER XXI The Final Reckoning ELLEN'S words were still ringing in my ears when I reached my own apartment. A shrill whistle coming up the staircase stopped me as I unlocked my door. "Here you are, Mister," and a messenger boy thrust a receipt for my signature and a note into my hand. I signed the former and going inside, closed my front door. I turned up the hall light the bet- ter to read the contents of the envelope with "Royal Italian Embassy" engraved in one corner. The mes- sage inside, hastily scrawled by the ambassador him- self, said that a wire had been received from Collato stating that Wolf had left his car within a block of the apartment house, and that Wolf was under the influence of liquor and in a violent temper. Crushing the letter in my hand, I went into the living room and looked dully about. Whichever way I turned, the accusing finger pointed ever more di- rectly to Wolf's guilt. Even the girl he had grown to love so passionately had pleaded with me, thus betraying her own fears, to do something—some- thing to save him. 280 The Final Reckoning I stood for awhile, staring down at the fireplace. Then coming to a final and desperate decision, I went to a closet in my bedroom, where had been unpacked many of my engineering instruments. From a corner of the shelf I took down a box containing my mi-, croscope and returned to the living room with it. It took a very short time to assemble the parts and have it in working order. Then I walked down the hall to Moto's room; judging from the snores, Ezra was still sleeping soundly. A like noise coming through Judson's door gave proof that he also was a sound sleeper. Tiptoeing to a chair on which he had laid his trousers, I felt in his pocket, drew out the key to my desk drawer, and went noiselessly back to the living room. Unlocking the desk drawer, I took out the pocket comb and with the aid of a pair of small forceps, spread open the leatherette case. With infinite care, I used my forceps to lift up a tiny, tiny hair and put it under the microscope. The sight was not quite right and I adjusted the powerful lens with great exactitude, only to find more light was required. But at last I saw the hair greatly magnified—and my heart throbbed high. It was what I had anticipated. A breath of air fanned the back of my head and, as I straightened up, a hand gripped my throat while my eyes were blinded by the palm thrust across them. Backwards and forwards we swayed as I struggled 28l 13 Thirteenth Street to my feet. I was fighting no weakling, like Ezra. Unable to see, with my breath almost cut off by the iron grip on my windpipe, we collided against a table, sending it crashing to the floor. I strove vio- lently to free myself. Suddenly I was thrown against a chair and toppled forward. My desperate clutch on my assailant dragged him down on top of me. With senses reeling, I heard Ezra's shrill cry of terror as a revolver shot rang out. When I recovered consciousness, Ellen Maury was holding a glass to my lips. I pushed her away feebly, my eyes traveling to two men in a corner. "Did you get—Slater?" I asked weakly. "Yep!" Judson stood back and contemplated my chauffeur, who half sat, half lay in the big arm- chair. A bandage around his head showed where Judson's bullet had grazed his temple. "Now that you're both coming around, perhaps you'll tell me, Colonel Campbell, why you staged this fracas." "Get out your handcuffs, Judson." I felt my throat gingerly. Slater's powerful grip had made it red and swollen. "He's the man you want—the man who killed Countess Zichy and later Aunt Polly." Ellen and the inspector stared at me as if they thought I had suddenly lost my mind. "Slater"—I raised my voice so that the half- stunned man might understand me. "How did you 282 The Final Reckoning get into this apartment just now? The service en- trance was bolted on the inside, and you have no key to the front door." Slater found his voice at last. "When I couldn't get in the back door, I came up the fire escape," he said hoarsely, "noticed the broken windowpane and, pushing up the sash, came in. Tiptoeing in here, I found you looking at my pocket comb. I knew then you'd spotted me and"—his face contorted with rage—"realized the jig was up, unless I could kill you and get away." I pointed to the microscope. "Look there, In- spector, and you'll see a tiny hair found in the leath- erette case. The microscope shows it to be the same shade of red as Slater's." Judson looked through the instrument and nodded. "Why did you kill the countess?" he de- manded, turning to his prisoner. Slater avoided glancing at us, his fingers locking and interlocking in uncontrollable agitation. "She treated me like a hell-hound," he burst out violently. "Ten years ago, I had before me a promising future in grand opera. Ilda was then sixteen and attending a ballet class in the same opera house. Our court- ship was of the desperate variety and back in the hills of Hungary, we were married, and lived to- gether until my small inheritance was spent and my voice ruined. I was accidentally shot in the throat 283 Thirteenth Street as I was cleaning a gun. Ilda deserted me and after various efforts to live by my wits, I dropped down to the level of a chauffeur, and in Moscow ran across you, Colonel Campbell." "Your story varies greatly from the one you told me then," I exclaimed, "and your credentials were most excellent." "Well, but what about the present time?" inter- rupted Judson brusquely. "Why did you kill your wife?" "Because she would not give me young Erdody's love letters to her as my price for keeping silent about our marriage. She guessed correctly that I intended to blackmail both of them and—she must have destroyed the letters herself." Slater spoke almost as if it was a relief to unburden himself. "She left a note for me under the service door on Saturday morning." "This note?" I asked, with unconcealed eager- ness. He smiled maliciously. "I put it on that desk there and added Erdody's initials to further involve him in her murder. Another sheet of note paper with a postscript, saying she would not see me that evening, I tossed in this fireplace early Sunday morning." "And you stuck her evening wrap and the bloody handkerchief among the count's soiled clothes for 284 13 Thirteenth Street empty house." His voice, devoid of any decent feeling, conveyed the impression of relentless venge- ance. "I left her the lighted Sterno cans for com- pany." "And Aunt Polly?" I asked, as no one else spoke in the horrified silence. "I killed her too." He made the frank state- ment with callous brutality. "When I got back to the roadster after murdering Ilda, I found the bag on the floor and the contents spilled about. I wore gloves in order to leave no finger marks"—he looked at the inspector—"but all my precautions went for nothing when I inadvertently picked up my pocket comb, which had dropped out of my vest pocket, to- gether with the other articles and put them in the bag." "And where did you hide the bag?" "Inside the sundial in the garden," replied Slater. I could not decide whether it was braggadocio at having fooled Inspector Judson that was inducing Slater to talk, or a reckless disregard of conse- quences. "On our arrival in Washington, I drove Colonel Campbell to 13 Thirteenth Street to Took over the mansion," he continued his explanation; "and while waiting, I went into the garden. Time passed and having left my watch at home, I looked at the sun- dial to see if I could guess the hour. The metal disk 286 The Final Reckoning had loosened, and I noticed that what I had first taken for a solid piece of stone was hollow. It was an ideal hiding place but the opening was only large enough to jam in the bag but not Ilda's wrap. I pushed the disc back in place and arranged the ivy, so no one could tell it had been disturbed." "Except Aunt Polly," I broke in. "Her keen eyes must have seen some change in the sundial, for she got the bag and sent it to me." "And I got her!" burst out Slater with an oath. "I missed my comb Tuesday afternoon, then re- membered what I must have done and determined to return to the garden and remove so damning a piece of evidence from the bag. But it wasn't until close to two Wednesday morning that I dared risk going there. As I crept up the path Aunt Polly was peering at the sundial. She looked around, recog- nized me and—I had to kill her." Judson drew in his breath sharply. "Aunt Polly must have gone back to make sure the sundial looked undisturbed. Say"—his active brain shot off at a tangent—"what about Countess Zichy's handker- chief? Did you plant that in Wilson Alley, Slater?" The latter nodded sullenly, by way of answer. "I presume also you washed off any bloodstains from the leather upholstery of the count's roadster." "You've guessed right!" Slater's white lips 287 13 Thirteenth Street twisted themselves into a grimace. "When I left the garage Sunday morning, I was horrified to see a cop warming himself in the basement of this apart- ment house. I saw him first and came around the alley into the street, and up Massachusetts Avenue. To my surprise, I saw Erdody sitting in a car which I knew belonged to Mr. Clemens. He recognized me and seeing no way of avoiding him, I went up to him. He informed me, with drunken gravity, that he had gotten into the car some time before and couldn't make the damned thing go. Obviously Erdody thought it was his own car. With my assistance he got up the stairs to this apartment and I used his key to bring him in, put him on his bed and gave him more whiskey to further befuddle his brain. Then I slipped undetected into my own quarters." "And you afterwards gave Count Erdody a sleep- ing powder to prolong his stupor?" I questioned quickly. "Sure. It worked. I'll bet this minute Erdody still believes he killed Ilda. I went back Tuesday afternoon to 13 Thirteenth Street, and dropped one of his gloves by the secret panel. That evening I swiped both gloves out of this room right under Colonel Campbell's nose, so as to give the impres- sion Erdody had done away with that piece of evi- dence." 288 13 Thirteenth Street nor to the left, Slater walked between two police- men and so out of the apartment. Ellen, with a low cry, sank down on the sofa, but before I could go to her, a well-known voice chirped up from the doorway. "Please, sir, you want me?" and Moto sidled into the room, followed by an extremely pretty girl. "This my new wife—Helga Peterson." Profoundly astonished, I gazed at the pair. "Colonel Campbell"—Helga spoke with a decided Swedish accent—"I want to explain to you that I was in the lobby of the Cafe St. Regis on Sunday morning, where my cousin is telephone operator. She left her desk for twenty minutes and I took her place, and it was during that time that Herr Flotow came to ask me to phone for a taxi for the countess. When the police questioned my cousin, she feared to tell them she was away from the switchboard without permission and said, very truthfully, that she had never seen Herr Flotow or sent any phone message for him." "So that's cleared up!" I exclaimed; "and I pre- sume you left the Cafe St. Regis with Moto." "That right. When Helga and I marry I spend all time away from here with her for last few days." Moto beamed upon me; evidently connubial bliss had dispelled his unusual glumness. "Helga phone for me—you answer as I walk into her home; now" 2Q0 /J Thirteenth Street "That's easily explained. Aunt Polly used to launder my best evening shirts, and I accidently left my gold stud in one of them. She must have had it with her Sunday morning and realized, if she were searched, that it would be traced to me, so the dear old soul slipped it into your hand." Wolf spoke with marked emotion. "Aunt Polly had a black skin, but her soul was white." It took him a minute or two to continue. "I used a smaller stud of an old set and it must have fallen out when, I am told, Slater got me out of Peter's car and in here. Dad, I thought I had killed Ilda— and when I saw her evening wrap I was certain I had done it in a drunken frenzy." "And how did you get hold of the keys to 13 Thirteenth Street?" I asked, as he paused. "I saw them in Peter's office Saturday afternoon, and pocketed them, meaning to explain to Peter that I wanted to look over some of the valuable old his- tories of diplomacy in the library. But he was at the phone talking and when he stopped, I forgot all about it." "And the miniature which was on your chest of drawers Sunday morning? Why did you deny all knowledge of it, and what became of it?" "I had told Moto the night before to take the miniature back to the artist to be re-framed. So Moto carried it off just before he gave me the coffee. 2Q2 1- »