TheTragedyofY

ADruryLaneMystery

ElleryQueen

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

PRINCIPALCHARACTERS

DRURYLANERetired Shakespearean actor;crime detection is his hobby.The N. Y. police once moreseek his aid in solving abafflingmurdermystery.

INSPECTOR

THUMMBluff, forthright Inspector ofNew York City’s HomicideSquad.

DR.SCHILLINGMedical Examiner of NewYorkCounty; short, fat,witha keen eye for spotting cluesoncorpses.

THEHATTERFAMILY

YORK—father of the brood,chemist,would-benovelist.

EMILY—York’s tyrannicalwife.Rules familywithanironhand.

BARBARA—eldestdaughter.

CONRAD—a son,weak anddissipated through softliving.

MARTHA—hiswife,ignoredby him and dominated byhermother-in-law.

JACKIE and BILLY—Conrad’s children; wild,willfulandprecocious.

JILL—York’sotherdaughter.LiveslifewithacapitalL.

LOUISA—deaf, dumb andblind. She is the only oneforwhomEmilyshowsanylove.

DR.MERRIAMFamily physician to theHatters. Has full knowledgeof the special skeleton in thefamilycloset.

CAPTAINTRIVETTRetired sea captain with astrange affinity for certainmembersoftheHatterfamily.

PROLOGUE

“Playsare like suppers…theprologueisthegrace.”

Scene1

THEMORGUE.FEBRUARY2.9:30P.M.

Ugly bulldog of a deep-seatrawler,theLaviniaDheaded

in from the long Atlanticswells on that interestingFebruary afternoon, swampast Sandy Hook, snarled atFt. Hancock, and pushed herway into the Lower Bay,foaming at the mouth andwithhertailstuckstraightoutbehindher.Therewasapoorseaman’s catch in the hold,the dirty deck was ashambles, the raw Atlanticwindsupsetherstomach,and

the crew cursed the captain,the sea, the fish, thegraphitesky, and the barren shore ofStaten Island to larboard. Abottle passed from hand tohand. Men shivered underspray-stungslickers.Abigfellowleaningonthe

rail disconsolately studyingthe flecked green swellsstiffened all at once, eyespopping from a sea-red face,andyelled.Thecrewstaredin

thedirectionofhisforefinger.A hundred yards awaysomething small, somethingblack, somethingunmistakably human andunmistakably dead wasfloatinginthebay.Thecrewjumped.“Harda-

port!” the man at the wheelleaned and swore. TheLavinia D began a clumsyswingtolarboard,creakinginall her joints. She circled the

thinglikethecautiousanimalshewas,drawingnearerwitheverynarrowingof her stalk.Thecrew,excitedandhappy,pawed the salt air withboathooks,eagertogetatthisqueerest fish of the day’scatch.Fifteenminutes later it lay

in a puddle of stinking sea-water on the sloshy deck,limp and tattered andshapeless, but aman.Aman

who, from the ravishedcondition of his corpse, hadbeenwashedinthesea’sdeepvatsforlongweeks.Thecrewwere silent now, standingwith hands on hips, bootsastride the deck. No onetouchedthebody.

So, with the smell of fishand salt wind in his deadnostrils, York Hatter beganhis last journey.Hisbierwas

a dirty trawler, his pall-bearers rough,unshavenmenwith scales clinging to theirdungarees, his requiem thesoft curses of sailors and thewhistlingofthewindthroughthe Narrows. The Lavinia Dnudgedherwetnose throughthescummywaterandtiedupat a small slip near theBattery. Home withunpredicted cargo from thesea. Men leaped, the captain

shouted himself hoarse, portofficials nodded and lookedbriefly at the slick deck,telephones jangled in littleBattery offices. And YorkHatter lay quietly under atarpaulin. Not for long. Anambulance scurried up. Meninwhite took up the soppingburden. The dead march leftthe sea; and the dirge wasmadeofclangingsirens.YorkHatter was borne up lower

BroadwaytotheMorgue.Hishadbeenacurious,and

until now mysterious, fate.On the twenty-first ofDecember, four days beforeChristmas of the previousyear, old Emily Hatter hadreportedherhusbandmissingfrom their house onWashington Square North inNew York City. He hadsimplywalkedoutofthered-bricked reliquary of the

Hatter fortunes that morningunattended,sayingfarewelltonoone,andhadvanished.No trace of the old man’s

movements could be found.OldMrs.Hattercouldgivenoreason for her husband’sdisappearance. The MissingPersons Bureau offered thetheory that Hatter had beenkidnapedandwasbeingheldfor ransom. This waseffectually disproved when

nowordwas receivedby theold man’s wealthy familyfrom the hypotheticalabductors. Other theorieswere offered by thenewspapers: he had beenmurdered, said one—anything was possible wherethe Hatters were concerned.The family denied thisstubbornly; York Hatter hadbeen an inoffensive littleman, a quiet creature with

few friends and, so far ascould be discovered, noenemies. Another paper,perhapsonthestrengthofthecurious and hectic history oftheHatter tribe, ventured theopinion that he had simplyrun away—away from hisiron-jawedwife,hiseccentricandtryingchildren,hisnerve-shattering household. Thistheory, too, went beggingwhen the police pointed out

that his personal bankaccount had been leftuntouched. It was from thisfact also that the desperatesurmise of a “mysteriouswoman in the case” diedaborning. And old EmilyHatter, furious at thesuggestion, snapped that herhusband was sixty-sevenyearsold—hardlythetimeoflifewhenamanleaveshome,family,andfortuneinpursuit

of the amorous will-o’-the-wisp. Throughout the fiveweeks of unremitting searchthe police had held to onetheory—suicide. And foronce, it appeared the policewereright.

Inspector Thumm of theNew York PoliceDepartment, HomicideSquad,wasfittingchaplaintoYork Hatter’s rude funerary

rites.Hewasbigandugly ineverything: a hard gargoyleface, broken nose, smashedears,bighandsand feetonabig body. You would havesupposed hewas an old-timeheavyweightprize-fighter;hisknuckles were gnarled andbroken from solid blows oncrime.Hisheadwasgrayandred: gray hair, slate eyes,sandstone face. He gave youthe feeling of substance and

dependability.Hehadabrainin his head. He was, aspolicemen go, forthright andhonest. He had grown old inanallbuthopelessfight.This,now,wasdifferent.A

disappearance, anunsuccessful search, thediscovery of the fish-nibbledcorpse.And plentiful hints toidentification. All open andabove-board, but there hadbeen talk of murder and it

was his duty, the Inspectorfelt, to settle thequestion foralltime.Dr. Schilling, the Medical

Examiner of New YorkCounty, motioned to anassistant, and the nude bodywas lifted from the autopsy-table and restored to thewheel-table. Schilling’s shortfat Teuton body madeobeisance before a marblesink; he washed his hands,

disinfectedthem,wipedthemthoroughly.Whenhisfatlittlepaws were dried to hissatisfaction, he produced amuch-bitten ivory toothpickand began thoughtfully toexplore his teeth. TheInspectorsighed; the jobwasdone. When Dr. Schillingbegan to grope for cavities,thetimehadcomefortalk.They walked together

behind thewheel-table to the

corpse depository of theMorgue.Neithersaidaword.York Hatter’s body wasdumped on a slab. Theassistant turned inquiringly;into the niche? Dr. Schillingshookhishead.“Well,Doc?”TheMedicalExaminerput

away his toothpick. “Plaincase, Thumm. The man diedalmost immediately afterstriking the water. Lungs

showthat.”“You mean he drowned

rightaway?”“Nein. He did not drown.

Hediedofpoisoning.”Inspector Thumm scowled

at the slab. “Then it wasmurder, Doc, and we werewrong. The note might havebeenaplant.”Dr. Schilling’s little eyes

gleamed behind old-fashioned gold-rimmed

spectacles. His dinky grayclothhatstoodinagrotesquepeak on his bald head.“Thumm, you’re ingenuous.Poisoning is not necessarilymurder.…Ja,therearetracesofprussicacid inhis system.Then what? I say this manstood at the rail of a boat,swallowed prussic acid, andfellorjumpedintothewater.Salt water, mind you. Is thatmurder? Suicide, Thumm,

andyouwereright.”The Inspector looked

vindicated. “Great! Then hedied just about as he hit thewater—prussic acid killedhim,eh?Swell.”Dr. Schilling leaned

against the slab; his eyesfluttered sleepily. He wasalways sleepy. “Murder isimprobable. There are nomarks which might beascribedtofoulplay.Thefew

bonebruisesandscrapingsofthe flesh—salt water is apreservative, or don’t youknow,youignoramus?—wereundoubtedly caused by thecorpse colliding withundersearefuse.Plainbumps.Thefishhadafeast.”“Uh-huh. His face is

unrecognizable,that’safact.”Theman’s clothing, lyingona chair nearby, was in rags,ripped andworried. “How is

it we haven’t found himbefore this? A body won’tfloatfiveweeks,willit?”“Itissimple,childish.You

blind men!” The MedicalExaminerpickeduparaggedwet overcoat, taken from thecorpse,andpointedtoalargerent in thefabricat theback.“Fish bite? Pah! This holewas made by something bigandsharp.Thebodyhadbeencaughtbyasnagunderwater,

Thumm.Tidalactionorsomeotherdisturbancefinallyfreedit;maybe thestormtwodaysago. No wonder you didn’tfindhimforfiveweeks.”“Thenfromthelocationof

the body when found,” saidthe Inspector thoughtfully,“it’seasyenoughtopiecethestory together.He swallowedpoison, jumped overboardfrom, say, a Staten Islandferryboat, and floated out

through the Narrows.…Where’s the stuff from thebody? Iwant to take anotherlook.”Thumm and Schilling

sauntered over to a table. Anumber of articles lay there:some papers so pulpy andshredded that nothing couldbemadeofthem;abrierpipe;a sodden box of matches; akey-ring; a sea-stainedwalletcontaining paper money; a

handful of miscellaneouscoins.Toonesidelayaheavysignet-ring taken from theannularis, or ring finger, ofthe deadman’s left hand; onthe signet were the silver-etchedinitialsYH.But the Inspector was

interested in only onesalvaged object—a tobaccopouch. It was made of fish-skin andwaswaterproof; thetobaccowas dry. Inside, safe

from the salt water, a foldedsheet of paper had beenfound.Thummunfoldeditforthe second time; a messagehad been written in indelibleinkinanalmostmechanicallyperfect script, neat and cleanas type. The messageconsistedofonesentence:

Dec.21,19—ToWHOMITMAYCONCERN:Iamcommittingsuicide in

full possession of myfaculties.

YORKHATTER“Short and to the point,”

observed Dr. Schilling. “Amanaftermyownheart.Iamcommitting suicide. I amsane. Nothing more isrequired. A novel in onesentence,Thumm.”“Aw, stop, or I’ll bust out

crying,” growled theInspector. “Here comes the

oldlady.Notifiedhertocomeupandidentifythebody.”Hesnatched a heavy sheet lyingat the foot of the slab andflungithastilyoverthebody.Dr. Schilling uttered aGermanic guttural and stoodaside,hiseyesgleaming.Intothemortuarytroopeda

silentcompany:awomanandthree men. It was notnecessary towonderwhy thewomanshouldbe inadvance

of themen; thiswoman, youfelt, would always take thelead,holdthereins,press thecharge.Shewasold, old andhard as petrified wood. Hernosewasapirate’shook;herhair white, and her eyesdipped in ice, blue, andunwinking as a buzzard’s.Thatchunkyjawwouldneverwaggle in surrender.… Thiswas Mrs. Emily Hatter,familiartotwogenerationsof

newspaper readers as the“fabulously rich,” the“eccentric,” the “iron-willedbeldame” of WashingtonSquare. She was sixty-three,and looked ten years older.She wore clothes that wereoutmoded when WoodrowWilson took oath of office.Shehadeyes fornothingbutthe slab with its drapedburden. Her approach fromthe door was a stalk, a

judgment, a Fate. Someonebehind her—InspectorThumm noted that it was atall, nervous, blond manstrikingly in features likeMrs. Hatter—expostulatedweakly; but she wadedthrough the protest withoutpausing and, coming to theslab, raised the sheet andstared down at the torn,unrecognizablefacewitheyesthatdidnotevenflicker.

Inspector Thummpermitted her to indulge heremotionless fancy withoutinterference. He watched herface for a moment, and thenhe turned to study the menwhohoveredbyherside.Thetallnervousblond—amanofthirty-two or so—herecognized asConradHatter,only son of York and EmilyHatter. Conrad’s face waspredatory, like his mother’s;

but it was also weak, anddissipated, and in anintangible way world-weary.He seemed ill; one quickglanceatthedeadfaceandhelookeddownat the floor, hisrightshoebeginningtodance.By his side stood two old

men, whom Thummrecognized from his originalinvestigationofYorkHatter’sdisappearance. One was thefamily physician, tall and

gray, a man easily seventy,with thin sloping shoulders:Dr. Merriam. Dr. Merriambetrayednosqueamishnessashe scrutinized the dead face;but he looked distinctlyuncomfortable, a reaction theInspectorascribedtohislongacquaintance with thedeceased.Hiscompanionwasexternally thequeerestof thelot—anerectandsaltyfigure,very lanky and attenuated.

This was Captain Trivett, aretired ship’s master and anold friend of the Hatters.InspectorThummsawwithasenseofshockeddiscovery—he had never noticed itbefore! he thought withmortification—that whereCaptain Trivett’s right legshouldhavebeentherewasaleather-tipped peglegprotruding from the blue ofhis trouser. Trivett was

making a great commotionover some obstruction in thedepths of his throat. Heplaced his oldweatherpounded hand onMrs. Hatter’s arm in adeprecatory way. The oldwomanshookitoff—asingleflickofherrigidarm;CaptainTrivett reddened and took abackwardstep.For the first time she tore

hergaze from thecorpse.“Is

this…?Ican’ttell,InspectorThumm.”Thumm took his hands

from his overcoat pockets,cleared his throat. “No.Naturally you can’t. Prettymuchbangedup,Mrs.Hatter.…Here! Have a look at theclothesandthings.”The old woman nodded

curtly; shebetrayedonlyonesign of emotion as shefollowedThummtothechair

on which the wet clothingwas heaped—she licked herthinredlips likeacatafterafeast. Dr.Merriamwithout aword took her place by theslab,motionedConradHatterandCaptainTrivettawayandlifted the sheet from thecorpse.Dr.Schillingwatchedhim with professionalskepticism.“The clothing is York’s.

Hewas wearing these things

the dayhedisappeared.”Hervoice, like her mouth, wastightandstubborn.“And now, Mrs. Hatter,

these personal items.” TheInspectorledhertothetable.Shepickedupthesignet-ringwith slow claws; her frostyoldeyessweptover thepipe,thewallet,thekey-ring.…“And this is his,” she said

dryly.“This ring. Igave it tohim——What’s this?” She

became excited all at once,snatched up the note, andencompasseditsmessageinaglance. Then she was coldagain, and nodded almostindifferently. “York’shandwriting, beyond adoubt.”Conrad Hatter slouched

over, his eyes shifting fromobject to object as if theycouldnotfindaresting-place.Hetoo,seemedexcitedbythe

dead man’s message; hefumbled in an inner pocketandproducedsomepapersashe muttered: “So it wassuicide all the time. I didn’tthink he’d have the nerve.Theoldfool——”“Samples of his

handwriting?” snapped theInspector all at once.He hadfor no apparent reasonsuddenlydevelopedatemper.The blond son handed the

papers to Thumm. TheInspector, peevishly, bentover them. Mrs. Hatter,without another glance ateither the corpse or herhusband’s effects, began toadjusther fur scarfaboutherscrawnythroat.“This is his fist, all right,”

growledtheInspector.“Okay.I guess that settles it.”Nevertheless, he tucked boththe message and the other

handwriting specimens intohis pocket. He glanced overat the slab.Dr.Merriamwasjust replacing the sheet.“What do you say, Doctor?You know what he lookedlike.IsthisYorkHatter?”The old physician said,

withoutlookingatThumm:“Ishouldsayyes.Yes.”“Man of over sixty,” said

Dr. Schilling unexpectedly.“Small hands and feet. Very

old appendix stump.Operation, probablygallstones, somesixor sevenyears ago. Does that check,Doctor?”“Yes. I removed his

appendix myself eighteenyearsago.Theother—biliarycalculus of thehepatic ducts.Notaseriouscase.RobinsofJohns Hopkins operated.…ThisisYorkHatter.”The old woman said:

“Conrad, make arrangementsfor the funeral. Private. Ashort announcement to thepapers. No flowers. Do it atonce.” She began to walktoward the door. CaptainTrivett looked uneasy andstumped after her. ConradHatter mumbled somethingthat may have beenacquiescence.“Just a minute, Mrs.

Hatter,” said Inspector

Thumm. She stopped andglared back at him. “Not sofast. Why did your husbandkillhimself?”“I say, now—” began

Conradweakly.“Conrad!”Heretreatedlike

abeatendog.Theoldwomanretraced her steps until shestoodsoclosetotheInspectorthathecouldsensethefaintlysourexhalationofherbreath.“What do you want?” she

said in a clear acid voice.“Are you satisfied that myhusbandtookhisownlife?”Thumm was astonished.

“Why—yes.Ofcourse.”“Thenthematter isclosed.

Iwantnoneofyoubotheringme again.” And with a lastmalignant glance she wentaway.CaptainTrivettseemedrelieved and clumped after.Conrad gulped, looked sick,and followed. Dr. Merriam’s

thin shoulders sagged lower;and he, too, left without aword.“Well, sir,” said Dr.

Schilling as the door closedbehind them, “that puts youinyour place!”He chuckled.“Gott, what a woman!” Hepushed the slab into theniche.Inspector Thumm snarled

helplessly and thundered tothe door. Outside a bright-

eyed young man grasped histhick arm and began towalkwith him. “Inspector!Howdy-do, hi-de-hi, and agood evening. What’s this Ihear—you’ve found Hatter’sbody?”“The devil,” growled

Thumm.“Yes,” said the reporter

cheerfully. “I just saw herstomping out. What a jaw!Like Dempsey’s.… Listen,

Inspector, you’re here for nogood reason, I know thatWhat’sinthewind?”“Nothing. Leggo my arm,

youyoungbaboon.”“Nasty old temper,

Inspector dear.… Shall I saysuspicionoffoulplay?”Thumm jammed his hands

into his pockets and glareddownathisinquisitor.“Ifyoudo,”hesaid,“I’llbreakeverybone in your body. Aren’t

you pests ever satisfied? It’ssuicide,damnit!”“Methinks the Inspector

dothprotest—”“Scram! Positive

identification,Itellyou.Nowbeatit,kid,beforeIkickyouinthepants.”He strode down the steps

of the Morgue and hailed ataxi-cab. The reporterwatched him speculatively,thegringone.

Amancame running fromSecond Avenue, breathless.“Hey, Jack!” he shouted.“Anything new on theHatters? See the old she-devil?”Thumm’s assailant

shrugged, eying theInspector’s cab as it rolledawayfromthecurb.“Maybe.Second question—yes, butnothing.Anyway, itmakes aswell follow-up story.…”He

sighed. “Well, murder or nomurder, all I can say is—thank God for the MadHatters!”

Scene2

THEHATTERHOUSE.SUNDAY,APRIL10.2:30P.M.

The mad hatters … Yearsbefore, during a period

unusuallyfullofHatternews,an imaginative reporter,recalling his Alice inWonderland, had sochristened them. It wasperhaps an unfortunatehyperbole.Theywerenotonehalf so mad as the immortalHatter, nor one quintillionthso delightful. Theywere—astheir neighbors on the fadingSquarewerepronetowhisper—“nasty people.” And,

althoughtheywereoneoftheSquare’soldestfamilies,theynever achieved the air ofaltogether belonging; alwaystheywerejustaninchoutsidethe pale of GreenwichVillage’srespectables.The name took root and

grew. One of them wasalways in thenews. If itwasnot blond Conrad attemptingto wreck a speakeasy in hisconstantcups, itwasbrilliant

Barbaraleadinganewpoetrycotillion, or holding leveeunder the lavish endearmentsof the literary critics. Or itwasJill,youngestofthethreeHatter children; beautiful,perverse, sniffing sensationwithavidnostrils.Oncetherehad been the faint rumor ofan excursion into the land ofopium; occasionally the taleof a carousing week-end inthe Adirondacks; always,

with bimonthly monotony,there was the announcementofher“engagement”tosomesonofwealth…never,itwassignificant,toasonoffamily.They were not only good

copy, all of them, but queercopy. Weird, orgiastic,eccentric, unpredictable asthey were, no one of them,however, surpassed thenotorious achievements oftheir mother. Having spent

her maidenhood moreriotously than even heryoungerdaughterJill,shehadplungedtowardmiddleageasdomineering, as iron-boned,as irresistible as a Borgia.There was no “movement”beyond her social capacities,no market manipulation toointricate or perilous for hershrewd,hot,gamblingblood.Several times it waswhispered that shehadbadly

burnt her fingers in the firesof Wall Street; that herimmense personal fortune,inherited from a long line ofrich and canny Dutchburghers, had dwindled likebutterunder the flameofherspeculations. No one, noteven her attorneys, knew theexactextentofherestate;andas the tabloidera sprang intobeing inpost-warNewYork,she was constantly being

referred to as “the richestwoman in America”—astatement palpably untrue;and others accused her inprintofbeingonthebrinkofpenury, which was also purefabrication.From all of which—her

family, her personal exploits,her background, her luridhistory—old Emily Hatterwasatonce thebaneand thedelight of newspapermen.

They disliked her, becauseshe was a thoroughlydisagreeable old witch; theyloved her, because, as theeditor of a great newspaperoncesaid,“Ifit’sMrs.Hatter,it’snews.”Before York Hatter’s

plunge into the chilly watersoftheLowerBay,ithadbeenfreely predicted that somedayhewouldcommitsuicide.Flesh,theysaid—suchhonest

flesh as clothed York Hatter—could stand so much, andnomore.Themanforalmostfour decades had beenwhipped like a hound anddrivenlikeahorse.Underthelashing whipcord of hiswife’s tongue he had shrunkinto himself, lost hispersonality, become thespecter of a man haunted inall his waking hours first byfear,thenbydesperation,and

finally by hopelessness. Histragedywasthathe,anormalhuman being with sensitivityand intelligence,waschaineddown in a lustful,unreasonable, vitriolic,lunaticenvironment.He had always been

“Emily Hatter’s husband”—at least since their nuptialsthirty-seven years before, infurbelowedNewYork,whengriffinswere the lastword in

ornament and antimacassarswere indispensable drawing-room accessories. From theday of their return to theWashington Square house—her house, of course—YorkHatter knew his doom. Hewasyoung then, andperhapshe struggled against herstranglingwill,herrages,hermastery.Perhapsheremindedher that she had beendivorced from her first

husband, sober TomCampion, under rathermysterious circumstances;that, in all good faith, sheowed him, her secondhusband, a modicum ofconsideration and anabatement of that zigzagconduct which had beenshockingNewYorksinceherdebutante days. If he had, itsealed his fate; for EmilyHatter, who brooked no

rebellion against her owncommands, could not herselfbe commanded withimpunity. It sealed his fateand ruined what promised tobearemarkablecareer.York Hatter had been a

chemist—young, poor, ascientific fledgling—but aresearch worker of whomearth-shaking things werepredicted. At the time of hismarriage he was

experimenting with colloids,in a direction undreamed ofby late-Victorian chemistry.Colloids, career, reputationwitheredundertheassaultsofhis wife’s fiery personality.The years dragged by; hebecame more and moremorose; content finallymerely todawdle in thepoormakeshift of a laboratoryEmily permitted him to playwith in his own quarters.He

evolvedintoanallbuthollowshell, piteously dependent onhis rich wife’s bounty (andreligiously reminded of thefact), the fatherofhererraticbroodbutwithnotighterreinover their archingnecks thanthefamilyhousemaid.Barbara was the eldest of

the Hatter children, and themost nearly human ofEmily’s leaping blood. Aspinster of thirty-six, tall,

thin, faintly golden, she wasthe only one of the brood inwhomthehereditarymilkhadnot soured; she possessed arichfundofloveforallthingsalive and an extraordinarysympathy for nature whichsether apart from theothers.Of the three Hatter childrenshe alone inherited thequalitiesofher father.At thesame time she had notescaped the taint of

abnormality which followedthestepsofhermotherlikeamusk-scented trail; exceptthat in her case abnormalitybordered on genius and gavevent to itself in poetry. Shewas already considered theforemostpoetessofthetimes—apoeticanarchist, shewascalled in literary circleswithout opprobrium, abohemianwith a Prometheansoul, an intellectual with a

divinegiftofsong.Authorofnumerous volumes ofenigmatic if coruscatingverse, she had become withher sad, wise green eyes theDelphic oracle of NewYork’sintelligentsia.Barbara’s younger brother

Conrad had no such artisticweight to counterbalance hisabnormality. He was hismother in trousers, a typicalHatterrunwild.Hehadbeen

the Peck’s Bad Boy of threeuniversities, thrown out ofeach in turn for recklessescapades as vicious as theywere inane. Twice he hadbeen dragged into thespotlight of the courts forbreach of promise. Once hehad run over and killed apedestrian with his recklessroadster and had been savedonly by the hasty and lavishbribes of his mother’s

attorneys. Innumerable timeshe had vented his Hatterspleenonpeacefulbartenderswhen his strange bloodbecameheatedwithliquor;hehad in his time suffered abroken nose (carefullyremodeled by a plasticsurgeon), a cracked collar-bone, and welts and bruisesuncountable.But he, too, met the

immovable barrier of his

mother’s will. The old ladyhauled him out of the muckby the scruffofhisneckandsethimupinbusinesswithasober, conscientious, andthoroughly praiseworthyyoung man named JohnGormly. It had not keptConrad away from thefleshpots;hereturnedoftentowallow among them,depending upon Gormly’ssteadying hand for the

preservation of theirbrokerageenterprise.Somewhat in a

comparatively sane momentConrad hadmet andmarriedanunfortunateyoungwoman.Marriage, of course, did notcheckhismadcareer.Martha,hiswife,ameeklittlewomanofhisownage,soonrealizedthe extent of her misfortune.Compelled to live in theHatter house dominated by

the oldwoman, despised andignored by her husband, herpiquant face quickly grew apermanent expression offright. Like York Hatter, herfather-in-law, she was a lostsoulintheInferno.Poor Martha could have

expected little joy from herunionwith the quicksilverishConrad; and what little shederived came from their twochildren, thirteen-year-old

Jackieandfour-year-oldBilly… not an unmixed blessing,forJackiewasawild,willful,and precocious youngster, arampageouschildwithawilybrain andan inspiredgift forinventing cruelties, who wasa source of incessant troublenotonly tohismotherbut tohisauntsandgrandparentsaswell. The tot, Billy, wasinevitably imitative; andbeaten Martha’s thwarted

existence became a grimbattle to save them from thewreckage.As for Jill Hatter … as

Barbara said: “She’s theeternal debutante. She livesonly for sensation, Jill is themost vicious woman I haveever known—doubly viciousbecauseshedoesn’tfulfillthepromise of her beautiful lipsand lecherous postures.” Jillwas twenty-five. “She’s

Calypsowithouttheglamour,a thoroughly despicablecreature.” She experimentedwithmen.Andwithwhatsheconstantlyreferredtoas“Lifewith a capitalL.” In aword,Jill was a worthy youngereditionofhermother.

One would have said thatthis household was quitecomplete in itsmadness as itstood—the granite old witch

at its head, haggard littleYork driven to suicide, thegenius Barbara, the playboyConrad, the wickedly paganJill, the cowed Martha, thetwo unhappy children. But itwas not. For it housed onemore, one so unusual, sotragically, giganticallypathetic that the vagaries ofthe others paled intonormality beside her. ThiswasLouisa.

She called herself LouisaCampion because, while shewas the daughter of Emily,her father was not YorkHatter but Emily’s firsthusband, TomCampion. Shewas forty. She was small,plumpish, gently imperviousto the bedlam about her.Mentallyshewassound;ofadocile temperament, patient,uncomplaining, a sweetgoodwoman. Yet, surrounded by

the notorious Hatters, farfrom being pushed into thebackground she was morethan all of them the mostwidely known of the Hatterhousehold. So much so thatfrom the instant of her birthshebecametheinstrumentofa notoriety so deafening thatrepercussions of it hadfollowed her resistlesslythrough all her dreary,fantasticlife.

For, born of Emily andTom Campion, Louisa hadcome into the worldhopelessly blind and dumb,and with an incipientdeafness which physicianssaid would grow morepronounced as she matured,and which would eventuallyleaveherstone-deaf.Themedicalprofessionhad

been mercilessly prophetic.Onher eighteenthbirthday—

asasortofbirthdaygiftfromthedarkgodswhoseemedtorule her destiny—LouisaCampion suffered the finalhumiliationoftotaldeafness.Toonelesssturdilyrooted,

this action might well haveproved fatal. For at thatengrossingageinwhichothergirls were discovering thepassionate world, Louisafound herself stranded on alonely planet of her own—a

world without sound, image,orcolor;aworldunexpressedand inexpressible. Hearing,her last strong bridge to life,laybehindher; thedarkgodseffectively burned it. Therewas no returning, and shefacedanegation,alack,alifesucked dry. As far as theprimary senses wereconcerned, she might havebeendead.Yet clinging, timid,

bewildered, all but helpless,something iron in her nature—perhaps the one beneficentheritage from her evil-dispensing mother—fortifiedher, so that she faced herhopeless world withequanimity born of amagnificent courage. If sheunderstoodwhyshehadbeenso afflicted, she neverindicatedit;andcertainlyherrelationship with the

authoress of her misfortunewas all that could be desiredeven between normalmotheranddaughter.It was monstrously clear

that the daughter’s afflictionlayatthedoorofthemother.It had beenwhispered at herbirth that the father, TomCampion, was at fault; thatthere was something evil inhisbloodwhichhadtakentollof the child. But when

Campion and the incredibleEmily were divorced andEmily had remarried only tobear her owndevil’s litter ofMad Hatters, the world wasassured that the fault hadbeen the woman’s. This wasstrengthened by the fact, itwas there-upon recalled, thatCampionhadhad a sonby apreviousmarriagewhowasinall ways normal. The pressforgot Campion, who died a

few years after his divorcefromEmilyundermysteriouscircumstances; the sondisappeared; and Emily,clutching the unfortunateYorkHattertoherirresistiblebosom, took the stunted fruitof her first marriage to theancestral house onWashington Square … ahouse which, after ageneration of notoriety, wasdestined to be plunged into

tragedy so stinging andmordantthatallthathadgonebefore might have beenmerelyaweakprelude to thedrama.Thebitterplaybegan little

more than two months afterYorkHatter’sbodyhadbeenfishedoutofthebay.Itbeganinnocentlyenough.Itwasthecustom of Mrs. Arbuckle,Mrs. Hatter’s housekeeperand cook, to prepare an

eggnog for Louisa Campioneachday after luncheon.Thenog was pure swank on thepart of the old lady; Louisa,aside from a rather weakheart, was in good physicalhealth, and certainly at theage of forty, plump and soft,required few proteins in herdiet. But Mrs. Hatter’sinsistence was not to bedenied;Mrs.Arbucklewas amenial, and was incessantly

being reminded of the fact;andLouisa,plasticenoughinher mother’s steel fingers,dutifullywent each day afterluncheon to the dining-roomon the ground floor andsippedthematernalnectar.Acustomoflongstanding,this,as it was important to notelater. Mrs. Arbuckle, whowouldnotdreamofdeviatingfrom the old lady’scommands by so much as a

hair’s breadth, always placedthetallglassonthesouthwestcorner of the dining-roomtable, two inches from theedge—where Louisa wouldinvariably find it, pick it up,and drain it each afternoonwith as unhesitatingassuranceasifshecouldsee.On the day of the tragedy,

ornear-tragedyasitproved,amild Sunday in April,everything proceeded

normally … up to a certainpoint. At 2:20—InspectorThumm later was careful toestablish the precise time—Mrs. Arbuckle prepared theconcoction in her kitchen atthe back of the house (fromingredients which shedefiantlyproducedduringthepolice investigation), carriedit herself on its accustomedtraytothedining-room,setitdown on the table in the

southwest corner, two inchesfrom the edge, and—chorecompleted—left the dining-room and returned to thekitchen.Noone,shetestified,had been in the room whenshe entered, nor had anyonecomeinwhileshewassettingthe eggnog down. So much,then,wasclear.Itwasalittlemoredifficult

to establish exactly whatoccurred thereafter; the

testimony was not entirelysharp.Ithadbeenaperiodofexcitement and no one’sperceptions had beensufficientlyobjectivetocatchandfixthepreciseimpressionof positions, words, andevents. It was approximately2:30, Inspector Thummdetermined ratherunsatisfactorily,when Louisacame downstairs from herbedroomaccompaniedby the

militant old lady bound forthedining-roomand theegg-nog. They paused in thedoorway. BarbaraHatter, thepoetess, who had followedthem downstairs, pressedclose on their heels andlooked, too; why, she couldnotafterwardsay,exceptthatshesensedthevaguestfeelingof something wrong. At thesame moment Martha,Conrad’s meek little wife,

trudged wearily down thehall,comingfromsomewherein the rear. Martha wassaying in her lifeless voice:“Where’s Jackie? He’s beentrampling the flowers in thegarden again.” She, too,stopped and craned in thatsplit second of indecision inthedoorway.Coincidentally, a fifth

personlookedintothedining-room, eyes focused on the

central figure. This was theone-legged old mariner,Captain Trivett, the Hatters’neighbor, who hadaccompaniedtheoldladyandConrad on the sadidentification trip to theMorgue two months before.Trivett appeared in thesecond of the two doorwaysto the dining-room—adoorway looking not outupon the main corridor but

upontheroomadjacenttothedining-room,alibrary.What met their eyes was

not in itself disturbing. Theysaw, alone in the room, theundersized figure of thethirteen-year-old JackieHatter, Martha’s elder son.He was holding the glass ofeggnogandlookingatit.Theold lady’s harsh eyes grewharsher; she opened hermouth to say something.

Jackie turned his headguiltily,allatonceconsciousof his audience; his gnomishface screwed up, a look ofmischievous determinationleapedintohiswildeyes,andraisingtheglasstohislipshequickly gulped down amouthful of the creamyliquid.What followed was

blurred. Instantly—andat thesame moment as his

grandmother darted forwardand slapped the boy’s handviciously, screaming: “Youknow that’s Aunt Louisa’s,you filthy rascal!Howmanytimes has Grandma Emilytold you not to steal herthings!”—Jackie dropped theglass, a look of immenseastonishment on his sharplittle gamin face. The glassshattered on the floor,contents splashing far over

the dining-room bricklinoleum. Then, clapping hisgarden-grimedhandsoverhismouth, he began to screamhoarsely. Paralyzed as theyall were, they somehowrealized that it was not apeevish cry, but the result ofgenuine, burning pain.Jackie’sthinwirybodybegantojerk,hishandstwitched,hedoubled up in agony, hisbreathcamesnorting,andhis

face turned a peculiar duskyhue. He sank, still shrieking,to the floor. There was ananswering shriek from thedoorway;Marthaflewin,herfacebloodless,thuddedtoherknees, caught one horrifiedglimpse of the boy’scontorted features, andfaintedaway.The screams had roused

thehouse:Mrs.Arbuckle ranin,andGeorgeArbuckle,her

husband—the houseman andchauffeur; Virginia, the tallbony old housemaid; ConradHatter, disheveled and red-faced from early Sundaylibations. Louisa, theafflicted, was forgotten; shestood helplessly in thedoorway, pushed aside,bewildered. She seemed torecognize through a sixthsense that something waswrong, for she stumbled

forward,hernostrilsworking,felt for hermother, and thenbegan to pluck at the oldlady’s arm in a desperateway.Mrs.Hatter,asmighthave

been expected, was the firstto recover from the shock ofthe boy’s seizure andMartha’scollapse.Sheleapedto his side, shoved theunconsciousfigureofMarthaoutoftheway,tookJackieby

theneck—hisfacewasdarklypurplenow—and, forcinghisstiffening jaws open, thrustherbonyoldfingerdownhisthroat. He gagged andvomitedimmediately.Thoseagate eyes sparkled.

“Arbuckle! ’Phone Dr.Merriam at once!” sheshrilled.GeorgeArbuckleranhastilyfromthedining-room.Mrs. Hatter’s eyes becamegrimmer;withouttheslightest

squeamishness she repeatedthefirst-aidtreatment,andtheboyrespondedagain.Therestofthem,withtheexceptionofCaptain Trivett, seemedincapableofmovement.Theyjustgapedattheoldladyandthe squirming boy. ButCaptain Trivett, noddingapprovingly at Mrs. Hatter’sspartan measures, stumpedaround the room and soughtout the deaf-dumb-and-blind

woman.Louisa felthis touchon her soft shoulder, seemedto recognize him; and herhandcrept intohisandclungthere.But the most significant

part of the drama was goingon without being at themoment observed. For,unnoticed by anyone, awaddlingspot-earedpuppy—he was little Billy’s—hadwandered into the dining-

room. Seeing the splatteredeggnog on the linoleum, heyapped joyfully andscampered forward, buryinghis tiny nose in the liquid.Suddenly Virginia, the maid,began to scream. She waspointingatthepuppy.Hewasthreshingweaklyonthefloor.He shuddered, twitched alittle. And then his fourabsurdlegsbecamerigid.Hisbelly heaved convulsively,

once, and he lay still. It wasevident that here was onepuppy who would never lapeggnogagain.Dr. Merriam who lived in

the neighborhood, arrived infive minutes. He wasted notime on the dazed Hatters,scarcely paid attention tothem. The aged physicianapparently knewhis patients.He tookone lookat thedeadanimal and at the retching,

shuddering boy, and his lipscompressed. “Upstairs atonce. You, Conrad, help meupwithhim.”BlondConrad,a scared look in his nowsobereyes,pickeduphissonand carried him out of theroom,Dr.Merriamfollowingquickly, already opening hismedicalbag.Mechanically, Barbara

Hatter dropped to her kneesand began to chafeMartha’s

limp hands.Mrs. Hatter saidnothing; the wrinkles on herfacewerehardasstone.JillHatter,asleepylookin

her eyes, flounced into theroom wrapped in a kimono.“What the devil’s the matternow?”sheyawned.“SawoldSawbonesgoingupstairswithConnie and the pest…”Hereyeswidenedandshestoppedabruptly: she had spied thestiff puppy on the floor, the

splashedeggnog,unconsciousMartha. “What …?” No onenoticed her; no onevouchsafeda reply.She sankinto a chair, staring at thecolorlessfaceofhersister-in-law.A tall, stout middle-aged

womanincrispwhitecamein—Miss Smith, Louisa’snurse,whohadbeenreading,she later told InspectorThumm, in her bedroom

upstairs. She took in thesituation in a glance, andsomething likefright invadedher honest features. ShelookedfromMrs.Hatter,whostood like granite, to Louisa,who was trembling byCaptain Trivett’s side; thenshe sighed and shooingBarbaraaway,kneltandwithprofessional bruskness begantoministertotheunconsciouswoman.

No one uttered a syllable.Together, as if moved by acommonimpulse,theyturnedtheir heads and regarded theold lady uneasily. But Mrs.Hatter’sfacewasinscrutable;shehadplacedherarmaboutthe quivering shoulders ofLouisa and was watchingMissSmith’sdeftmovementsover Martha withoutexpression. After a centurythey stirred. They could hear

Dr. Merriam’s heavy treaddescending the stairs. Hecame in slowly, setdownhisbag, glanced atMartha, whowas beginning to reviveunder Miss Smith’sministrations, nodded, andturnedtoMrs.Hatter.“Jackieisoutofdanger,Mrs.Hatter,”he said in a quiet voice.“Thanks to you. Finepresence of mind. He didn’tswallow enough to kill him,

but the prompt vomitingundoubtedly prevented aserious illness. He’ll be allright.”Mrs. Hatter nodded

manorially; then she jerkedher head back and transfixedthe old physician with frigidinterest. She had caughtsomethingdeadlyinhistone.But Dr. Merriam turnedaway,andexaminedthedeadpuppy, and sniffed at the

liquidonthefloor,andfinallyscooped some of it into alittle vial from his bag,stoppered the vial, andstowed it away. He rose andwhispered something intoMiss Smith’s ear. The nursenodded and left the room;they could hear her ploddingupstairstothenursery,whereJackie lay moaning on hisbed.Then Dr. Merriam bent

over Martha, helped her toher feet, reassured her in asteady voice—all with thesurrounding silence of thetomb—and the meek littlewoman, a strange expressiondistinctly not meek on herface,totteredfromthedining-room and followed MissSmithupstairstothenursery.She passed her husband onthe way up; neither said aword.Conradlurchedintothe

roomandsatdown.Asifshehad been awaiting this, as ifConrad’sentrancehadbeenasignal, old Mrs. Hatterpounded on the table. Itstartled them all, all exceptLouisa,whocreptdeeperintothe curve of the old lady’sarm. “Now!” cried Mrs.Hatter. “ByHeaven, nowwecanget to thebottomof this.Dr. Merriam, what was it inthat eggnog that made the

whelpsick?”Dr. Merriam murmured:

“Strychnine.”“Poison, eh? I thought so,

from the dog.” Mrs. Hatterseemed to rise incheshigher;she glared about at herhousehold. “I’ll get to thebottomofthis,youungratefuldevils!” Barbara sighedfaintly; she placed her longdelicatefingersonthebackofachairandleanedherweight

on it. Her mother spokeacidly, in freezing tones.“That eggnog was Louisa’s.Louisa drinks a glass everyday at the same time in thesameplace.All ofyouknowthis.”WhoeverpouredpoisoninthatdrinkbetweenthetimeMrs. Arbuckle placed it onthedining-roomtableandthetimethatrascalofayoungstercame in and snatched up theglass, knew that Louisa

woulddrinkit!”“Mother,” said Barbara,

“please.”“Keepquiet!Jackie’sgreed

saved Louisa’s life andalmosttookhisown.MypoorLouisa’s safe, but the factremainsthatsomeonetriedtopoison her.” Mrs. Hatterclutched the deaf-dumb-and-blind woman to her breast;Louisa was making littlewhimpering,formlesssounds.

“There, there, darling,” theold lady said in a soothingvoice,asifLouisacouldhear;shestrokedthewoman’shair.Then her voice rose inanother piercing screech.“Who poisoned thateggnog?”Jill sniffled. “Don’t be so

melodramatic,mother.”Conrad said weakly:

“You’re talking nonsense,mother. Who of us would

dreamof——?”“Who?Allofyou!Youall

hatetheverysightofher!Mypoor afflicted Lou …” Herarms tightened about Louisa.“Well?” she snarled, her oldframevibratingwithpassion.“Speakup!Whodidit?”Dr. Merriam said: “Mrs.

Hatter.”Her rage drained off

instantly; suspicion spranginto her eyes. “When I want

your opinion, Merriam, I’llaskforit.Keepoutofthis!”“That,” said Dr. Merriam

coldly, “I’m afraid isimpossible.”Her eyes narrowed. “Just

whatdoyoumean?”“I mean,” replied Dr.

Merriam, “that my dutycomesfirst.Thisisacriminalcase,Mrs.Hatter; and Ihavenochoice.”Hewalkedslowlytoacorneroftheroomwhere

an extension telephone stoodonacabinet.Theoldwomangasped,her

face becoming as purple asJackie’s had been. Throwingoff Louisa, she dartedforward and, grasping Dr.Merriam’sshoulder,begantoshakehimviolently.“No,youdon’t!”sheshouted.“Oh,no,you don’t, you infernalmeddler! Make this public,will you? More publicity,

more——Don’t touch that,Merriam!I’ll——”Heedless of the old

woman’s frenzied clutch onhis arm, the imprecationsrattling about his gray head,Dr. Merriam calmly pickedup the telephone.And calledPoliceHeadquarters.

ACTI“For murder, though ithaveno tongue,will speakWith most miraculousorgan.”

Scene1

THEHAMLET,SUNDAY,APRIL17,12:30P.M.

In the beginning, musedInspector Thumm, Godcreated the heaven and theearth, andamightygood jobHemadeofit,too,especiallywhenHecametotheHudsonRiver, some miles from themetropolis, in WestchesterCounty.The good Inspector was

scarcely in either a religiousoranaestheticmood,sincehewas perforce supporting on

his broad shoulders aparticularlyweightyOldManof official responsibility; buteven he, occupied as he waswith mundane thoughts,could not long remaininsensibletothebeautyofhissurroundings.His car was toiling up a

narrowwindingroad,straightup, up to the sky, it seemed,with an intricate faery visionahead of battlements,

ramparts, spires framed ingreen foliage and topped byblue-and-white clouds; andfor contrast, the scintillanttrickle of the Hudson, bluewrinkles studded with thewhitedotsofpigmyboats,farbelow. The air that theInspector sucked into thebellows of his lungs wassprinkled with wood andpine-needles and flowers andsweetdust, thenoonsunwas

shining powerfully, and anice-tingedAprilbreezeriffledhis gray hair. Itmade amangladtobealive,reflectedtheInspector sententiously as hewrestled with an unexpectedangleintheroad,crimeornocrime. This was his half-dozenth visit to The Hamlet,incredible residence of Mr.Drury Lane, he thought, andthe damned place snuggledunder your skin more and

moreeachtime.Hesnortedtoastopbefore

the familiar little bridge, theoutpost ofMr. Drury Lane’sestate, and waved ratherboyishly at its sentinel, aruddylittleoldmanwreathedin smiles who pulled at hisancient forelock. “Hi!”shouted Thumm. “Mr. LanehomethisfineSunday?”“Yes, sir,” piped the

bridgemaster. “Yes, sir. Go

right on through, Inspector.Mr.Drurysaysyou’realwaysto be admitted. Right thisway!” He scampered to thebridge, tugged at a creakygate, swung it back, andbobbed the Inspector’s caracross the quaint littlewoodentrestle.The Inspector sighed for

sheer content and stepped onthe accelerator.Damned niceday,byGod!

Thiswasfamiliarterrain—this perfect gravel road, thiswild greening copse, andsuddenly, with the impact ofafancifuldream,thisclearingbefore the castle. The castlewas the pinnacle not only ofthesteepcliffsthatthunderedhundredsof feetdown to theHudson, but also of Mr.Drury Lane’s aspirations. Itsconception had been howleddownbycriticsofthemodern

age; itsarchitecturehadbeensniffed at by young menfreshly out of theMassachusetts Institute ofTechnology, whose drawing-boards supported mile-highsteelspiresandsolidconcretefastnesses; its author hadbeenvariouslyderidedas“anold fogy,” “ananachronism,”“a strutting mummer”—thislast fromabitter-keenfellowofthenewschoolofdramatic

criticism, to whom anyplaywright earlier thanEugeneO’Neillandanyactorantedating Leslie Howardwere “punk,”“Wienerschnitzel,”“archaic,”and“bellywash.”Yet—there itwas,with its

sprawling cultivated gardens,its precise yew trees, itsElizabethan village of gabledcottages, cobbles, side lanes,itsmoatanddraw-bridge,and

aboveallthebuttressedstoneimmensityofthecastleitself.Itwasasuetysegmentslicedoutofthesixteenthcentury,achunk of old England,somethingoutofShakespeare… the inevitable setting foran old gentleman livingquietly among the relics ofhis fruity past. A past whichnot even his harshest criticscould deny had beengenerously dedicated to the

perpetuation of the immortaldramas, dedicated withsomethingverylikegeniustoaserviceinthetheaterwhichhad brought him greatfortune, great fame, andprivately an immeasurablehappiness.This then was the native

habitat of Mr. Drury Lane,retired emperor of thespians.And no matter how thosebusy fools in the City chose

toregardit,InspectorThummobserved to himself, asanother oldman swungopenthe massive iron door in thehigh stone wall surroundingtheestate,thiswaspeace,andit was pretty, and it was arelief from the dizzyingatmosphereofNewYork.He slammed on his foot-

brake suddenly, and his carsquealed to a stop. Twentyfeet to his left there was an

astonishing apparition. Atulip garden in the center ofwhich grinned a stone Arielspoutingwater… but it wasthe creature whose browngnarled hand splashed in thefountainbasin that fascinatedhim. The Inspector neverovercame, in all the monthsof his acquaintanceship withMr. Drury Lane and hisestablishment, a feeling ofquaintunrealitywhenhesaw

this gnome of an old man.The splasher was tiny, andbrown,andwrinkly,andbald,and bewhiskered, and on hiselfinbacktherewasaknobbyhump—the entireunbelievable creatureswathed in a leather apron,like the caricature of ablacksmith. The ancienthunchbacklookedup,andhissmall brilliant eyes sparkled.“Hey, there,Quacey!” yelled

the Inspector. “What youdoing?”Quacey,whowasthechief

memento out of Mr. DruryLane’s past—his wig-makerand make-up man for fortyyears—placed tiny hands oncrooked little hips. “I amobservingagoldfish,”hesaidgravely, in the clipped andcreaking tones of advancedage. “You’re a stranger here,InspectorThumm!”

Thummheavedhimselfoutof the car and stretchedwithyawning arms. “Guess I am.How’stheoldman?”Quacey’shanddartedforth

like a snake and came updripping from thewaterwithawigglinglittlething.“Prettycolors,” he observed,smacking his leathery lips.“YoumeanMr.Drury?Well,very well.” He startedsuddenly, and looked

aggrieved. “Old man? He’syounger than you, InspectorThumm, and you know it.He’s sixty, isMr.Drury, buthe couldoutrunyou like a—like a rabbit, and he swamfour solidmiles in that—brr!—ice-cold lake back yonderthis morning. Could you dothat?”“Well, maybe not,” said

the Inspector with a grin,carefully skirting the tulip-

bed in his path. “Where ishe?”The goldfish lost his

courage, and of a sudden hissquirmings decreasedalarmingly. Almost withregret the hunchback threwhim back into the fountain.“Behind the privets. They’reclipping’em.Greatoneheisfor prettiness; Mr. Drury, Imean. These gardeners love——”

But the Inspector,chuckling,strodepast theoldman—not without caressingthat grotesque hump,however, in passing, forInspector Thumm was aneminently practical man.Quaceyguffawed,anddippedboth fists of talons into thewater.Thumm parted a

mathematically clippedprivet, from behind which

came a busy snicking andsnipping and the deeppleasant tones of Lane’sunusual voice. He steppedthrough,andgrinnedata tallslender man in corduroyssurrounded by a bevy ofgardeners. “Mr. Drury Lanehimself, in person,”announced the Inspector,extendinganenormouspalm.“Well, well! Don’t you evergetolder?”

“Inspector!” cried Lane ina delighted voice. “A nicesurprise.Heavens,I’mgladtoseeyou!”Hedroppedaheavyshears and gripped Thumm’shand.“Howdidyoufindme?People generally wanderabout The Hamlet for hoursbefore coming upon the lordandmaster.”“Quacey,” said the

Inspector, dropping hungrilyto the brilliant grass. “Ah-h!

This is good! He’s back awaythereatthefountain.”“Tormenting the goldfish,

I’ll warrant,” chuckled Lane.He doubled up like a leanspring and sat down by theInspector’s side, “Inspector,you’re getting heavier,” hesaid critically, eyingThumm’sbulgingbulk.“Youshould exercise more. Ishouldsayyou’veputon tenpoundssinceIlastsawyou.”

“I should say you weredamned right,” grumbledThumm.“SorryIcan’treturnthecompliment.You look fitasafiddle.”He eyed his companion

with something suspiciouslylike affection. Lane was talland spare and, somehow,vibrant.Exceptforthematofpurewhite hairworn low ontheneck,hemighthavebeenforty rather than sixty: his

severely classical featureswere utterly unlined andyouthful. In his gray-greeneyes,sosharpanddeep,therewas certainly no trace of oldage. His throat, revealed bythe laid-back collar of hiswhite shirt, was sturdy andmuscular and bronzed. Hisface,sosereneandimmobile,yet so capable of suddenmobility, was the face of astrongmaninhisprime.Even

hisvoice,powerful,resonant,andyetaflickingrapierunderthe necessities of expression—the voice that had rungalmostsensuallyintheearsofmultitudes of audiences—belied his lightly carriedyears. He was in theensemble altogether anextraordinaryfigure.“Something,” remarked

Mr. Drury Lane with atwinkle, “something not

entirely social inspired thatlong journey from the City,Inspector. An elementarydeduction, since you’veneglected me all winter—infact, ever since theculminationoftheLongstreetaffair.1 What’s buzzing inthatbusybrainofyours?”Hispenetrating eyes were fixedon the Inspector’s lips. Theactor was stone-deaf, a latedevelopment which had

forcedhisretirementfromthetheater. With his uncannyability to adapt himself tonew situations, he hadpromptly taught himself theartoflip-reading,inwhichhehadbecomesoproficientthatmost persons with whom hecame in contact remainedunawareofhisaffliction.Thumm looked sheepish.

“I wouldn’t say that. Iwouldn’tsaythatexactly,Mr.

Lane.… But it’s a fact thatthere’s a little somethinggoingoninNewYorkwhichhas us buffaloed. Thoughtyou might want to try yourhandatit,sortof.”“A crime,” said the actor

thoughtfully. “Not thisbusinessoftheHatters?”The Inspector brightened.

“Then you’ve been readingthe papers about it! Yes, it’sthese nutty Hatters.

Attempted poisoning of theold lady’s daughter by herfirst marriage—this LouisaCampion.”“The woman who is deaf,

dumb, and blind.” Lanelooked grave. “She interestsme particularly, Inspector. Aremarkableexampleofman’scapacity for rising abovemere physical handicaps.…And, of course, you’ve beenunsuccessful.”

“Yup,” said the Inspectorgrumpily, wrestling a fistfulof grass from the sod. Thegentle beauty of hissurroundings seemed all atoncetohavelostitssavorforhim. “Absolutely stymied.Notaleadtoworkon.”Lane eyed him keenly.

“I’ve read everything thenewspapers reported,” hesaid, “although probablydetailshavebeengarbledand

the entire story has not beentold. Nevertheless, I knowsomething about the family,the affair of the poisonedeggnog, the child’s nearlytragic greed—all thesuperficial facts.” He sprangto his feet. “Have you hadluncheon,Inspector?”Thumm scratched his blue

jaws. “Well… I’m not veryhungry.…”“Nonsense!” Lane grasped

Thumm’s beefy arm andheaved. To his astonishmentthe Inspector found himselfhalf-lifted from the grass.“Comealonganddon’tbeanass. We’ll have a bite ofsomething and discuss yourproblem over a mug of coldbeer. You like beer, ofcourse?”Thumm scrambled to his

feet and looked thirsty. “Iwouldn’t say I like it, but I

wouldn’tsayIdon’t.…”“I thought so. You’re all

alike.Cautiousbutwilling.Itmight also be possible topersuade Falstaff, my littlemajor-domo, to serve a dropor two of, let us say, Three-StarMartel.…”“No!” said the Inspector

enthusiastically. “Now, byGod, you’re talking, Mr.Lane!”Mr. Drury Lane sauntered

along the bulb-bordered pathand observedwith an inwardchuckle that his guest’s eyeswere beginning to pop.Theywereapproachingthroughthetrees the feudal villagesurroundingthecastle.Itslowred roofs and cobbled street,its narrow walks, its peaksand gables, were utterlycharming. The Inspectorblinkedratherdazedly.Itwasonly when he saw several

men and women dressed intwentieth-century garmentsthat he began to feel easier.Although he had visited TheHamlet a number of times,this was his introduction tothe village. They pausedoutsidealowbrownstructurewithmullionedwindows anda swinging sign outside.“You’ve heard of theMermaid Tavern, thatrendezvous of Shakespeare,

Ben Jonson,Raleigh, FrancisBeaumont,andtherest?”“SeemstomeIhave,”said

the Inspector wonderingly.“In London, where the boysused to hang out and throwparties.”“Precisely.InBreadStreet,

Cheapside—near FridayStreet.Andthere’sasquaintacollection of names as you’llfind in a world of Sundays.This,” continued Mr. Drury

Lane, with a polite bow, “isan honest replica of thatimperishable tavern,Inspector.Let’sgoin.”Inspector Thumm grinned.

The beam-ceilinged roomwas filled with smoke,chattering,andsmeltofgoodstrong ale. He noddedapprovingly. “If this is thesort of thing the boys ofthree-four hundred years agowentinfor,Mr.Lane,mefor

it.Ummm!”An astonishingly rubicund

and pot-bellied little man,swathed in a spotless whiteapron tied high around thebarrel of his waist, bustledforwardtogreetthem.“You remember Falstaff,

my matchless Falstaff?”asked Lane, patting the littleoldman’sbaldpate.“IndeedIdo!”Falstaff—Falstaff!—

bowedandgrinned.“Thebigmug,Mr.Drury?”“Yes, and another for

Inspector Thumm, and abottle of brandy. Andsomethinggoodtoeat.Comealong, Inspector.”He led theway through the crowdedroom,noddingandsmilingatthe noisy diners. They foundan unoccupied corner andseated themselves at a long,pewlike settle. Falstaff,more

the innkeeper than ever,supervised the preparation ofasavoryluncheon,andservedit himself. The Inspectorheaved a huge sigh andburied his ugly nose in afoamingmug.“Now, Inspector,” said the

actor, when Thumm hadmasticated his last mouthfuland paid a last visit to thebrandy bottle, “tell mesomething about your

problem.”“That’s the trouble,”

complained the Inspector.“There’spreciouslittletotell.Ifyou’vereadthepapersyouknowdarnednearasmuchasI do. You’ve read about theold lady’s husbandcommitting suicide a coupleofmonthsago,too?”“Yes. The newspapers

were naturally full of YorkHatter’s defection. Tell me

what happened when youarrivedonthescene.”“Well,” said Thumm,

slumping against the highwalnutbackofthesettle,“thefirstthingIdidwastrytofixthe exact time when thestrychnine must have beenslipped into the eggnog. Thecook and housekeeper, Mrs.Arbuckle,hadsettheglassonthe dining-room table atabout 2:25, and it was

betweenfiveandtenminuteslater,asnearasIcanfigureit,thatMrs.Hattercameinwiththe deaf-dumb-and-blindwoman to find that littlehellion, Jackie, swigging thedrink intended for his aunt.Notmuchthere,hey?”“No,”saidLane.“Fromthe

surroundingcircumstances,asI believe you pointed out tothe reporters, any number ofpeople had opportunity to

poison the drink. Have youquestioned the child todetermine exactly when hecameintothedining-room?”“Sure, but you know kids.

What could you expect? Hesaid he’d gone in there justbefore his grandmother andhisAuntLouisapoppedinonhim. And we haven’t beenable to establish who mighthavesneakedintothedining-roombeforethekid.”

“I see. Has the child fullyrecovered?”Inspector Thumm snorted.

“Andhow!Takemorethanaswig of poison to kill him.Whatakid!Thekindofbratyou feel like choking todeath.’Coursehedidn’twantto steal the eggnog—oh no,of course not! He doesn’tknowwhy he drank it. Said:‘Gran’ma Em’ly scared me,and I just swallowed it.’ Just

like that. Too bad he didn’tswallowalittlemore,Isay.”“I’ll wager you weren’t

exactly a Little LordFauntleroyyourselfwhenyouwere a child, Inspector,”chuckled Lane. “What wasthe disposition physically ofthe others during theapproximate periodwhen theeggnog must have beenpoisoned?Thepapersweren’tclear.”

“Well, sir, in a mess, asyou might expect. This sea-captain, Trivett—he’d beenright in the next room, thelibrary, reading a newspaper.But he didn’t hear anything,hesays.ThenJillHatter—shewas in her bedroomupstairs,half awake, in bed. At half-pasttwo,mindyou!”“The young lady was

probably out the nightbefore,”observedLanedryly,

“on what is professionallyknown,Ibelieve,asabender.Ratherapagan,Igather.Theothers?”Thumm enveloped his

brandy glass in a glance fullof gloom. “Well, this Louisawoman—the queer one—generally takes a nap afterlunch. She and her old ladyoccupy the same bedroomupstairs. Anyway, Mrs.Hatter, who’d be out in the

garden making it miserableforsomebody,wentup,wokeLouisa, and just at half-pasttwo they came downstairstogether, bound for theeggnog. The skirt-chaser,Conrad—thekid’soldman—he’d been wandering up anddown the alley on the eastside of the house, smoking.Had a bad headache—hangover, most likely—andwanted a breath of air, he

says. The gal who writespoetry,BarbaraHatter—she’sa big shot, I understand, andthe only human one of thebunch,Mr. Lane, just a niceyoung lady with brains—she’d been writing in herworkroom upstairs. MissSmith,Louisa’snurse,whosebedroom is next door toLouisa’s, overlooking thealleyontheeast—she’dbeeninherroom,shesays,reading

theSundaynewspapers.”“Andtheothers?”“Small fry. There’s this

Mrs. Arbuckle, thehousekeeper—shewas in thekitchen at the back, cleaningup after lunchwith themaidVirginia. George Arbuckle,Mrs. Arbuckle’s husband,wasin thegarageat thebackshiningupthecar.Andthat’sabout all. Sort of hopeless,isn’tit?”

Lane nodded; his eyeswerefixedimmovablyontheInspector’s lips. “Your one-legged Captain Trivett,” hesaid finally. “An interestingcharacter.Justwheredoeshefit into thepuzzle, Inspector?What was he doing in thehouse at two-thirty of aSunday?”“Oh, him,” grunted

Thumm. “He’s an ex-sea-captain.Beenlivingnextdoor

to the Hatters for a goodmany years—bought theplace on his retirement.We’ve looked him up, don’tworry. Got plenty of jack—he’dbeentoseawithhisownfreighting vessel for thirtyyears.Forced to retireafterabad storm in the SouthAtlantic. Big sea came overand swept himoff his feet—busted his leg in a couple ofplaces.Firstmatedidarotten

job,andwhentheymadeportthey had to amputate.He’s arathersaltyoldguy.”“Butyouhaven’tanswered

myquestion, Inspector,” saidLane gently. “How did hehappentobeinthehouse?”“Give me a chance, can’t

you?” growled Thumm.“Excuse me. I was feelinggranduntilyou remindedmeof this business.… Trivett’salwayscomingintotheHatter

house. They say he was theonly real friend York Hatterhad—two pretty lonesomeoldcodgersbrought together,I suppose, by their mutualloneliness. Trivett tookHatter’s disappearance andsuicide pretty hard, Iunderstand.Buthedidn’tstophisvisits.Yousee,hesortofshines up to this LouisaCampion—maybe becauseshe’s such a sweet

uncomplaining sort with aterrible affliction, and himwithaleggone.”“Very likely. Physical

deficiencies do bring peopletogether. Then the goodCaptain was merely waitingto pay his respects to LouisaCampion?”“That’stheticket.Callson

hereveryday.Theygetalongfine, and even that old she-devil approves—only too

glad there’s someone whopays attention to the deaf-mute—Godknows theothersdon’t much. He came inaround two o’clock; Mrs.Arbuckle told him Louisawasupstairs,napping,andhewent into the library to waitforher.”“How do they

communicate, Inspector?After all, the poor womancan’thear,see,orspeak.”

“Oh,they’veworkeditoutsome way,” grumbled theInspector. “She didn’t getdeaf,youknow,untilshewaseighteen,andinthemeantimetheytaughtherlotsofthings.Mostly, though, CaptainTrivett sits and holds herhand.Shelikeshimalot.”“Pitiful business! Now,

Inspector, the poison itself.Have you attempted to trackdown the source of the

strychnine?”Thumm grinned sourly.

“No luck. We grabbed thatlead right from the start.Naturally. But it stacks upthis way. You see, this birdYorkHatter never really losthis love for chemistry—bigpumpkins as a chemicalresearchworker inhisyoungdays, I understand. He’drigged up a laboratory in hisbedroom. Used to spend

wholedaysupthere.”“His personal escape from

a distasteful environment.Quite so.And the strychninecamefromthatlaboratory?”Thummshrugged.“I’dsay

so. Even there, though, wegot into trouble. Ever sinceHatter’s fade-out the oldlady’s kept the laboratorylocked. Strict orders; no onewas to go in there. Sort ofmonument tohismemory,or

something. She wanted topreserve it in exactly thesame condition that Hatterleftit—especiallytwomonthsagowhenhisbodywasfoundand it was definitely knownthat he was dead. See?Onlyonekey,andshehaditallthetime. No other entrances tothe lab—windows barredwith iron.Well, as soon as Iheardaboutthelab,Iscootedup there for a look around,

and——”“You got the key from

Mrs.Hatter?”“Yes.”“She has had it in her

possession all the time,you’recertain?”“That’s what she claims.

Anyway,wefoundstrychninetablets there in a bottle on abunch of shelves Hatter hadbuilt. So we figured thepoison came from that bottle

—easier to drop a tablet intothe eggnog than to carryaround a powder or a liquid.But how in hell did he getintothelab?”Lanedidnotreplyatonce.

He crooked a long, palemuscular finger at Falstaff.“Fillthemugs.…Arhetoricalquestion,Inspector.Windowsbarred with iron—Hattermust have been inordinatelyjealous of his one avenue of

escape—doorlocked,andtheonly key constantly in Mrs.Hatter’spossession.Hmm…Not necessarily demanding afantastic explanation. Thereare such things as waximpressions.”“Sure,” snarled Thumm,

“and didn’twe think of that.Way I figure it, Mr. Lane,there are three possibleexplanations. First: thepoisonermayhavestolen the

strychnine from thelaboratory before YorkHatter’s disappearance,whenthe room was open andaccessible to anybody, andsaved the poison till lastSunday.…”“Ingenious,” commented

Lane.“Goon,Inspector.”“Second, someone took a

wax impression of the lock,as you suggest, had a keymade,andsogainedentrance

to the lab andgot thepoisonshortly before the attemptedcrime.”“Or longbefore, Inspector.

Yes?”“Or third, the poison was

secured from an outsidesource altogether.” Thummaccepted a brimming, spumymug from Falstaff’s hand,and drained it thirstily.“Swell,” he said in a gurglyvoice.“Imeanthebeer.Well,

we’ve done what we could.The key theory—followed itup—general search of alllocksmith and hardwarestores … nothing doing yet.Outside source—we’recheckinguponthat,alsowithnosuccesstodate.Andthat’showitstandstoday.”Lanedrummedreflectively

on the table. The room wasthinning; they were almostalone in the Mermaid. “And

has it occurred to you,” hesaid after a silence, “that theeggnog might have beenpoisoned before Mrs.Arbuckle carried it into thedining-room?”“HolyMotherofGod,Mr.

Lane,”growledtheInspector,“what do you think I am?Sure it occurred to me.Examined the kitchen, butthere wasn’t a sign of thestrychnine or poisoner. It’s

true, though, that Mrs.Arbuckle had left it on thekitchen table for a couple ofminutesandhadgoneintothepantry for something. Themaid Virginia had gone intothe drawing-room a minutebeforetodustit.Sosomeonemight have sneaked into thekitchen and poisoned thedrink while Mrs. Arbucklewasn’tlooking.”“Ibegintoappreciateyour

perplexity,” saidLanewith aruefulsmile.“Andtoshareinit, Inspector. There was noone else in the Hatter housethatSundayafternoon?”“Not a soul that I’ve been

abletodiscover.Butthefrontdoor was unlocked, andanyone might have slippedinto the house and outwithout being seen. Thatbusiness of the daily eggnogin the dining-room at half-

past two is known to all theacquaintancesoftheHatters.”“Iunderstandthatsomeone

of the household was not inthe house at the time of thepoisoning—Edgar Perry, theprivate tutor of ConradHatter’s two children. Haveyoucheckeduponhim?”“Absolutely. Perry has his

Sundaysoff;and lastSundaymorninghetookalongwalk,hesays,throughCentralPark

—spent the day by himself.Didn’t get back to the houseuntil late afternoon, when Iwasalreadythere.”“Howdidhetakethenews

oftheattemptedpoisoning?”“Seemed surprised and, I

think, kind of worried whenhe learned about it. Couldn’tofferanyexplanation.”“We seem,” observed Mr.

Drury Lane, the smile gonefrom his carved features, a

frown between his eyes, “tobe pushing farther into thefog.Andmotive?Thecruxofthesituationmayliethere.”Inspector Thumm groaned

unashamedly,asastrongmanwith his strength balkedmight groan. “Every damnedone of ’em might have hadmotive.TheHatterbuncharenuts—crazy as loons, thecaboodle of ’em, exceptingmaybe the poetess, Barbara,

andevenshe’s screwy inherownway,onlyherscrewinessis poetry. You see, Mrs.Hatter’s whole life iswrapped up in this deaf-dumb-and-blind daughter ofhers.Watchesoverher likeamama tiger. Sleeps in thesame room, practically feedsher,helpsherdress—devotesherlifetomakingLouisa’sasbearable as possible. Onlythingintheoldhell-catthat’s

human.”“And, of course, the other

children are jealous,”murmuredLanewithaflickerin his lamp-eyes. “Theywould be. Passionate, wildand with the instinct toviolence unrestrained by anymoralconsideration.…Yes.Ibegintoseethepossibilities.”“I’vebeenseeing’emfora

week,”snappedtheInspector.“The old lady’s attentions to

Louisa are so persistent thatherotherchildrenaredamnedsore,jealous.Notthatit’sanymatterofsweetnessand lightand ‘I love you, mummydear!’” The Inspector smiledwickedly.“Idoubtifit’slove.It’s just pride and a sort ofcussedness. And then, as farasLouisaisconcerned—well,remember that she isn’t theirsister, Mr. Lane, but theirhalf-sister.”

“It makes a considerabledifference,”agreedLane.“Itmakesallthedifference

in the world. For instance,Jill,theyoungest,won’thavea thing to do with Louisa,claims her presence is a pallover thehouse and thatnoneof her friends like to comethere, because Louisa makeseverybodyfeeluncomfortablewith her peculiar ways.Peculiarways!Shecan’thelp

it, but that doesn’t make aparticle of difference to Jill.Nother. Iwish sheweremydaughter.” Thumm’s handdescendedwithaswishonhisthigh.“Conradfeelsthesameway—constantly bickeringwith his mother to haveLouisa shipped off to someinstitutionwhereshe’llbeoutof the way. Claims sheprevents them from leadingnormal lives. Normal!”

sneered the Inspector. “Thatbird’sideaofnormallivingisa case of hooch under thetable and a Follies girl oneachknee.”“AndBarbaraHatter?”“Nowthat’ssomethingelse

again.” Inspector Thummseemed to have developed apassionforthepoetess,forheconsultedhis beer, lickedhischops, and replied in a verywarm tone after Lane’s

questioning glance: “What Imean—she’s a fine girl, Mr.Lane. Sensible. I won’t sayshe loves the deaf-mute, butfrom all I’ve fished out of’em Barbara pities her, triesto help her get some interestin life—what you’d expect areal woman with a heart inhertodo.”“MissHatter has evidently

madeaconquest,”saidLane,rising. “Come along,

Inspector,forabreathofair.”Thumm struggled to his

feet, loosened his belt, andpreceded his host into thequaint little street. Theystrolled back toward thegardens. Lane was sunk inthought, his eyes cloudy andhis mouth a tight line.Thummclumpedalongrathermorosely. “Conrad and hiswifedon’tgetonverywell,Itake it,” said Lane at last,

dropping on a rustic bench.“Sitdown,Inspector.”Thumm obeyed, limply,

like a man tired of thinking.“Theydon’t.Lead a cat-and-doglife.Shetoldmethatshewas going to take her twokidsoutof‘thisawfulhouse’assoonasshecould—gotallexcited,shedid.…Foundoutsomething interesting abouther from Miss Smith,Louisa’s nurse. Couple of

weeksagoMarthaandtheoldladyhadascrap.SeemsMrs.Hatter was slapping the kidsaround, and Martha got allworked up. Called hermother-in-law an ‘evil oldwitch,’ damned her for aninterferingoldbusybody,andsaid she wished the old ladywere dead—you know howwomen are when they getexcited. Anyway, itdeveloped intoalmostahair-

pulling match. Miss Smithgot the kids out of the room—both of ’em were scaredstiff.… Martha’s meek as alamb, you understand, butbadwhenshe’sriled.Isortoffeelsorryforher;she’slivingin a nut-factory. I wouldn’twant my kids growing up insuch an environment, I’ll tellyouthat.”“And Mrs. Hatter is a

wealthy woman,” mused

Lane,as ifhehadnotcaughttheimportofThumm’sstory.“Possibly amoneymotive inthe background.…” He wasgrowing gloomier with eachpassingmoment.They sat in silence. Itwas

cool in thegardens; from thelittle village came the soundof laughter. The Inspectorfolded his arms on his chest,watching Lane’s face. Whathe saw there evidently

dissatisfied him, for hegrowled: “Well, what’s theverdict, Mr. Lane? See anylight?”Mr. Drury Lane sighed,

smiled faintly, and shook hishead. “Unfortunately I’mnotasuperman,Inspector.”“Youmeanyou——?”“I mean I haven’t the

vaguestnotionoftheanswer.Who poisoned the eggnog?Not even a workable theory.

Facts, facts—insufficient foranexclusivehypothesis.”Thummlookedsad.Hehad

bothexpectedandfearedthis.“Anyrecommendations?”Lane shrugged. “Only one

warning. Once a poisoner,alwaysapoisoner.Therewillbe, beyond any doubt,another attempt on LouisaCampion’s life. Notimmediately, of course. Butsomeday,when thepoisoner

thinksheissafe.…”“We’ll do all we can to

preventit,”saidtheInspectorinanonetooconfidentvoice.The old actor rose

suddenly to his lean height,andThummlookedupathimin astonishment. Lane’s facewas expressionless—aninfallible sign that an ideawas shouting in his brain.“Inspector. I understand thatDr.Merriamtookasampleof

thepoisonedeggnogfromthepoolof itonthedining-roomlinoleum?” Thumm waggedhis head, eyeing his hostcuriously. “And did theMedical Examiner analyzethesample?”The Inspector relaxed.

“Oh,” he said. “That. Yes, Ihad Doc Schilling test it intheCitylaboratory.”“Did Dr. Schilling report

theresultofhisanalysis?”

“Here, here!” said theInspector. “What’s eatingyou? Nothing mysteriousabout it, Mr. Lane. Sure hereportedtheresult.”“Did he say whether the

amount of poison in theeggnogwasalethaldose?”The Inspector snorted.

“Lethal? You bet your bootsit was lethal. Enough in thatdrink,Docsaid, tokillhalfadozenpeople.”

The moment passed,Lane’s face resumed itsnormal pleasant expression,slightly tinged now withdisappointment; and theInspector read failure in thegray-green eyes. “Then all Ican suggest—a poor rewardfor your long hot journey,Inspector!” said Mr. DruryLane, “is that you watch theMad Hatters very closelyindeed.”

Scene2

LOUISA’SBEDROOM.SUNDAY,JUNE5.10A.M.

Itwill be observed that fromthebeginning theHattercasestruck a leisurely note. Thiswas no business of crimefollowing hotly on the heelsof crime, a swift series ofevents, a rapid pounding ofthefatalhammer.Itwasslow,

slow, almost indolent in itspace, andbecauseof its veryslownesstherewassomethingremorseless about it, like themarchofJagannath.In a way, this tardy

evolution of events seemedsignificant, although at thetime no one, including Mr.Drury Lane, came withinguessingdistanceofthetruth.York Hatter’s disappearanceinDecember,thediscoveryof

his dead body in February,the attempt to poison thedeaf-and-dumb-and-blindwoman in April, and then, avery little less than twomonths later, on a sunnySundaymorninginJune…Lane, snug and cloistered

in his castellated retreat uptheHudson,hadforgottentheHatter case and InspectorThumm’s visit. The papershad gradually dropped their

copious interest in thepoisoning attempt, untilfinallytheentireincidentwasomitted from the news.Despite Inspector Thumm’sbest efforts nothing furtherhadbeenuncoveredwhichintheslightestdegreepointedtoany single person as thepoisoner. The excitementsubsiding,thepolicesubsidedaswell.UntilJunethefifth.Mr. Drury Lane was

apprised of it by telephone.He had been lyingoutstretched on the barebattlements of the castle,sunninghisnudebody,whenold Quacey stumbled up thecurving turret stairs, hisgnome’s face purple withexertion. “InspectorThumm!” he wheezed. “Onthetelephone,Mr.Drury!He—he…”Lane sat up in alarm.

“Whatisit,Quacey?”“He says,” panted the

ancient, “something hashappened at the Hatterhouse!”Lane wriggled his brown

bodyforwardandsquattedonhis lean haunches. “So it’scomeatlast,”hesaidslowly.“When?Who?What did theInspectorsay?”Quaceywipedhisdripping

forehead. “He didn’t say.He

was excited, the Inspectorwas. He yelled at me. I wasneversoputoutinmywhole——”“Quacey!” Lane rose.

“Talkquickly.”“Yes, Mr. Drury. If you

want to look things over, hesays, come down to theHatterhouseatonce,hesays.Washington Square North.Everything will be held foryou.Buthurry,hesays!”

Lane had already boundeddowntheturretstairs.Twohourslater,pilotedby

that perpetually grinningyoung man whom Lanecalled Dromio—it was aconceit of his to rename hisfamiliars out of Shakespeare—Lane’s black Lincolnlimousinewasdodginginandoutofheavy trafficon lowerFifth Avenue. As they slidacrossthecar-tracksatEighth

Street, Lane could see afarflung crowd of peoplemassedinWashingtonSquarePark,belaboredbypoliceandobstructing the motorhighway beneath the Arch.Two motorcycle policemenstoppedDromio.“Nopassingthis way!” one of themyelled. “Turn around anddetour!”A fat, red-faced sergeant

ran up. “Mr. Lane’s car?

InspectorThummsaidtopassyou through the lines. Okay,boys. Official.” Dromiocrawled around the cornerinto Waverly Place. Policelines had been established,cutting off the entire northside of the Square betweenFifthAvenueandMacdougalStreet.Thewalks in theParkacrossthestreetwerejammedwithonlookers; reporters andcameramen were scurrying

about like ants. Police andheavy-footedplainclothesmenwereeverywhere.The vortex of the

disturbance was apparent atonce,andDromiobroughtthelimousine to a stop before it.It was a three-story box-likestructure of bright red brick,an old-fashioned house ofobvious antiquity—a relic oftheSquare’shorsydays,withwide windows heavily

curtained, a frieze of acorniceattheroof,andahighwhitestonestoopwithanironhandrail running up eachside;attheheadofwhich,onthe landing, were two cast-ironlionessesgreenwithage.The stoop was thicklypopulated by detectives. Thewide white-paneled doorstood open, disclosing fromthe sidewalk a smallvestibule.

Lane descended from hislimousine rather sadly. Hewas dressed in a cool linensuit, a leghorn hat, whiteshoes,andhecarriedarattanstick. He stared up at thelanding, sighed, and thenbegan to climb the stonesteps.Amanpoppedhisheadout of the vestibule. “Mr.Lane? Right this way.Inspector Thumm’s waitingforyou.”

TheInspectorhimself—hisface a study in crimsonsurliness—metLaneinside.Itwasahushed interior: a longcool hall, wide and deep,flanked by closed doors. Inthe center of the corridorthere was an old-fashionedwalnutstairwayleadingtotheupperfloors.And,incontrastto the swirling street, theinside of the house was asquiet as a tomb.No onewas

about—not even, so far asLanecouldsee,police.“Well,” said Thumm in a

tragicvoice,“it’scome.”Foronce he seemed at a loss forwords;“it’scome”seemedtorepresent the ultimateboundaryofcomment.“Louisa Campion?” asked

Lane. It seemed a futilequestion. How could it beanyone but Louisa Campion,when an attempt on her life

had been made two monthsbefore?InspectorThummgrowled:

“No.”Lane’s astonishment was

almost comical. “Not LouisaCampion!” he exclaimed.“Thenwho…?”“Theoldlady.Murdered!”

Theyfacedeachothertherein the cool hall, eye to eye,and saw no consolation in

each other’s features. “Mrs.Hatter,”repeatedLaneforthethird time. “That’s strange,Inspector. Almost as ifsomeone has murderousintentions against theHattersas a family, rather thanagainstanindividual.”Thummmovedimpatiently

toward the staircase. “Youthinkso?”“I was merely thinking

aloud,” said Lane a little

stiffly. “Evidently you don’tagree with me.” They beganto mount the stairs side byside.The Inspector plodded

upward,asifinpain.“Idon’tdisagree either. I just don’tknow what the devil tothink.”“Poison?”“No. At least it doesn’t

look thatway.Butyou’ll seeforyourself.”

At the head of the stairsthey paused. Lane’s glancesharpened. They stood in along corridor. On all sideswerecloseddoors,andbeforeeachdoorstoodapoliceman.“Bedrooms,Inspector?”Thummgruntedandbegan

toskirt thewoodenrailingofthe stairhead. He stoppedshort, tensing, and Lanecollided with him. For achunky officer leaning

against a door at thenorthwest corner of thecorridor suddenly said:“Ouf!” and staggeredbackwardsasthedoorbehindhimwasyankedopen.The Inspector relaxed.

“Theregothosedamnedkidsagain,” he snarled. “Hogan,forGod’ssake,can’tyouseethat the brats stay in thenursery?”“Yes, sir,” panted Hogan,

who was having hisdifficulties. A small boy,shouting and whooping, hadshot between the officer’smeaty legs and wasscrambling down the hallwith earnest determination.Hogan regained his balanceonly to be upset again by aneven smaller boy, no morethan a toddler, who scurriedbetweentheinvitinglegsandshouted and whooped in

gleeful imitation of the first.The officer dashed forward,followed by a harassed-looking woman whoshrieked: “Jackie! Billy! Oh,you children—you know youmustn’t!”“Martha Hatter?”

whispered Lane. She wasrather a pretty woman, buttherewerecrow’s-feetaroundher eyes and her freshnesshadbeenwashedout.Thumm

nodded, grimly watching themêlée.Hogan valiantly grappled

withJackie,thethirteen-year-old boy; Jackie, from hisyells,wantedtoobservewhatwasgoingon,itappeared;hescreamed and kicked at theofficer’s legs, to thatgentleman’s painfulembarrassment. MarthaHattersnatchedupthetoddlerwho, following his brother’s

example, was directing wildbut energetic kicks atHogan’s ankles; and in aflurryofarms,legs,redfaces,and disheveled hair all fourcombatants disappeared intothenursery.Fromthescreamsripping through the door, itwasevident that the sceneofthe battle had merely beentransferred. “And that,” saidInspectorThummbitterly,“isa sample of this combination

nut-and-charnelhouse.Thoselittledevilshavebeenmakingour lives one long hell.…Hereweare,Mr.Lane.”Directly opposite the head

of the stairway there was adoor, not five feet from anangle in the corridor walltoward the east. This doorstood slightly a jar. Thummswungitopensoberlyenoughand stepped aside. Lanepaused in the doorway, the

glitter of the manhunt in hiseyes. The room was almostsquare: a bedroom. Therewere two oriel-windowsopposite the door across theroom,overlookingthegardenwhich lay at the north, orrear,of thehouse.Adooronthe eastern wall near thewindows led to a privatebathroom,Thummexplained.The hall doorway in whichLane and Thumm stood was

at the left side of thebedroom’s corridor wall; attherightside,Laneobserved,therewas a longdeepcloset,which explained why thecorridornarrowedattheheadof the staircase outside, forthe extra space consumed bytheclosetcontinuedalongtherestofthecorridortowardtheeast,wheretherewasanotherroom.FromwhereLanestoodhe

could see two beds—of thetwin-bed variety—set withtheir backs to the right-handwall,andseparatedfromeachother by a large night-tablewith two feet of leeway oneither side. The nearer bedsported a small bed light,attached to the headboard;there was no lamp on thefarther bed. On the left-handwall, toward the center anddirectly opposite the beds,

there was a vast old-fashioned stone fireplace,withalookofdisuseaboutitdespite the set of fire-ironshanging on a rack nearby.These observations wereinstinctive and instantaneous.For Lane, after one quickglance about at the generaldisposition of the furniture,brought his eyes back to thebeds.“Deader than a last year’s

mackerel,” grunted InspectorThumm, leaning against thejamb. “Take a good look.Pretty,ain’tshe?”Onthebednearerthedoor

—the bed with the attachedlamp—lay Mrs. Hatter.Thumm’s cynical commentwas scarcely necessary; theold lady, lying inacontortedposition amid a helter-skelterofbedclothes,herglassyeyeswide open, her face suffused

andropy-veinedandpurplish,was the least lifelike objectimaginable.Thereweresomeextremely peculiar markingson her forehead—bloodymarks reaching up into herwildstraw-grayhair.Lane squinted at them,

looked puzzled, and thenturned his attention to theother bed. It was empty, atumbled pile of cleanbedclothes. “Louisa

Campion’s?”Thumm nodded. “That’s

where the deaf-dumb-and-blindwomansleeps,butshe’sbeen removed from thisroom.Shewasfoundhereonthe floor early this morning,unconscious.”Lane’s silky white brows

wentup.“Attacked?”“I don’t think so.Tell you

allabout it later.She’s in thenext room—Miss Smith’s

room. The nurse is takingcareofher.”“ThenMissCampionisall

right?”Thumm grinned owlishly.

“Funny, hey?You’d supposethatwhoever’sonabenderinthis house would go for her,judging from pastperformances. But she’sokay, and it’s the old ladywhogotit.”There was a step in the

corridor behind them, andboth men turned quickly.Lane’s face brightened. “Mr.Bruno!Thisisapleasure.”Theyshookhandswarmly.

Walter Bruno, DistrictAttorney of New YorkCounty,wasasturdy,ascetic-faced man of middle heightwearing rimless eyeglasses.Helookedtired.“Gladtoseeyou, Mr. Lane. We don’tseem to meet except when

somebody’sbeenyankedintohell.”“Your fault entirely. Like

Inspector Thumm, you’veneglectedmeallwinter.Haveyoubeenherelong?”“Ahalfhour.Whatdoyou

thinkofit?”“Nothing yet.”The actor’s

eyes kept roving about thedeath-room. “What happenedexactly?”The District Attorney

slumped against the jamb.“I’ve just seen the Campionwoman. Pitiful thing. Thebodywasfoundatsixo’clockthis morning by Miss Smith—she’s in the room nextdoor, overlooking both thegarden at the rear and thealleytotheeast.…”“Geography, Mr. Bruno?”

murmuredLane.Bruno shrugged. “It may

be important. Anyway,

Louisa is a pretty early riser,and Miss Smith generallygetsupatsixtocomeinhereandseeifshewantsanything.She discovered Mrs. Hatterexactlyasyounowseeher,inbed;butLouisawas lyingonthe floor, roughly betweenherownbedandthefireplacethere, her head toward thefireplace and her feet justabout in the space betweenthetwinbeds.Here,I’llshow

you.”Hestartedforwardintothe room, but Lane placed ahandonhisarm.“I thinkIcanvisualizeit,”

he said. “I rather think, too,thatthelesswewalkaboutonthe floor the better off we’llbe.Pleasecontinue.”Bruno regarded him

curiously. “Oh, you meanthese footprints! Well, MissSmithsawatoncethattheoldwoman was dead, and she

thoughtLouisawasdead,too.So she screamed, being awoman after all, and herscreams arousedBarbara andConrad Hatter. They ran in,took in the situation at aglance, andwithout touchinganything—”“You’repositiveofthat?”“Well,theywereallchecks

oneachother,sowe’vegottobelieve them.—Withouttouching anything they

ascertained that Mrs. Hatterwas dead. She was alreadystiff,infact.Louisa,however,they discovered to bemerelyunconscious; theycarriedherfrom this room into MissSmith’s. Conrad telephonedDr. Merriam, the familyphysician,andthepolice;andnoonewaspermittedtocomeinhere.”“MerriampronouncedMrs.

Hatter dead, and then went

intothenurse’sroom,”addedThumm, “to look after thedeaf-mute.He’sstill inthere.Wehaven’t beenable to talktoheryet.”Lane nodded thoughtfully.

“Just exactly how was MissCampion found? Even moreexactlythanyou’veindicated,Mr.Bruno?”“She was found stretched

out, her face down. Thedoctor says she fainted.

There’s a bump on herforehead, and Merriam’stheory is that in fainting shestruck her forehead againstthe floor, which didn’t helpany. She’s conscious now,but sort of dazed. It’s aquestion whether she knowswhat’s happened to hermother, because Merriamwon’tpermitustoinformheryet.”“Has the corpse been

examined?”“Except for Merriam’s

original examination, whichwas superficial, Iunderstand,” saidBruno, andThumm nodded, “no. We’rewaiting for the MedicalExaminer. Schilling’snotoriouslyslow.”Lane sighed. Then he

turned with decision to faceinto the room again, lookingdown.Hiseyeswerefixedon

the short-cropped green rugwhichcoveredtheentirefloorof the bedroom. Fromwherehestoodhesawanumberofwhitish, powdery heel-and-toe marks, widely separated.Theyseemedtoproceedfromthe region between the twobeds, although this was notvisible to Lane in hisposition.The toemarkswerepointed toward thehall door,and were most clearly

impressed on the solid greenof the rug just beyond thefoot of the dead woman’sbed, fading out as theyapproachedthedoor.Lanewalkedintotheroom,

circling the lineofprints.Hepaused opposite the spacebetweenthetwobeds,sothathe could examine that area.The footprints, he now saw,led from a thickly scatteredcloud of a white powder

which dusted the green rugbetweenthebeds.Thesourceof the powder did not longremain a mystery. A largecircular cardboard box ofwhite talcum powder, nowalmost empty, lay near thefootofLouisaCampion’sbed—bath powder, from theinscriptiononthecarton.Theentire stretch of carpetingbetween the beds wasgenerously dusted with the

talcum.Carefully avoiding the

footmarks and the powder,Lane edged between the twobedsforaclearerviewofthenight-table and the floor. Itwasapparentatonce that theboxoftalcumhadbeenlyingontheedgeofthenight-table,fortherewerewhitesmudgesand traces of dusty film onthetable’s top,andacircularringofpowder inone corner

indicatedwheretheboxmusthavebeen lyingbefore it fellfrom the table.A few inchesbehind thecircular ring therewasa freshdent in thewoodofthetable,asifasharpedgehadstruckitwithforce.“I should say,” Lane

commented, “that the boxwas rather loosely covered,andthelidfelloffastheboxwas overturned.”He stoopedandpickedup from the floor

atthefootofthenight-tableapowder-box lid. “You’veseen all this, of course?”Thumm and Bruno noddedwearily. On the whitecardboard top near the rimwere several thin parallellines. The lines were red.Lanelookedupinquiringly.“Blood,” said the

Inspector.Where the blood lines

were, the top was crumpled,

asiftheobjectwhichhadleftthe lines had struck forciblyandsmashedthelid’sedgeaswell. Lane nodded. “Nodoubtabout this,gentlemen,”he said. “Obviously thepowder-box was swept fromthe table by a blow, whichleft itsmark on the table topandthelid,andlandedontherug near the foot of MissCampion’sbed,scatteringthetalcum as the cover dropped

off.” He replaced thecrumpled top where he hadfound it, eyes restless. Thereweresomanythingstosee.He chose to examine the

footprintsfirst.Inthethickestmass of strewn powderbetweenthebedstherewasanumber of toemarks aboutfour inches apart, leadingfrom the head of the deadwoman’sbedroughlyparallelto the bed and toward the

foot, in the general directionof the fireplacewall. Almostat the edge of the powder-splotchedareathereweretwoprints of shoe-toes clearlydefined in the heavy talcum;from this point the directionveeredaround thefootof thedead woman’s bed headingfor the door, heels and toesplainly markedthenceforward; and the steps,fromthedistancebetweenthe

prints, considerablylengthened. “Provingbasically,” murmured Lane,“that whoever left thefootprints began to run as heroundedthebed.”Therunningfootstepswere

made only on theunpowdered rug—made bythe powder clinging to thesoles of the runner’s shoes.“Superficially, Inspector,”observedLane,lookingup,“I

shouldsayyouareplayinginluck. These are a man’sfootprints.”“Maybeweare,andmaybe

we aren’t,” grunted Thumm.“Somehow I don’t like thelook of these prints. Toodamned easy! Anyway,we’vebeenable to take theirmeasure from several of theclearerprints,andthey’resize7½, 8, or 8½, narrow-toed,wornheelsonbothshoes.My

men are searching the housenowforjustsuchapair.”“It may be quite simple,

afterall,”remarkedLane.Heturned back to the spacebetween the feet of the beds.“I take it, then, that MissCampion was found lyingnearthefootofherbed,attheedge of the powdered area,almoston the spotwhere theman’s prints changedirection?”

“That’s right. She’s leftsomeofherownprintsinthepowder,too,you’llnotice.”Lanenodded;inthetalcum

leading up to the spot whereLouisa Campion had fallenwere a woman’s barefootprints.Thenudeprintsbeganat thepoint to thesideof thedeaf-mute’s bed where thecovershadbeenthrownback,and hugged the side of herbedgoingtowardthefoot.

“No doubt about it, Isuppose?”“Not the slightest,” replied

Bruno. “They’ve beenpositively identified as hers.Easy enough to reconstructthat part of it. She evidentlycrept out of bed and stolealong the side toward thefoot. And there somethinghappened that caused her tofaint.”Mr. Drury Lane’s brow

was furrowed; somethingseemed to disturb him. Hewalkedcautiouslytotheheadof Mrs. Hatter’s bed andleaned over for a closescrutiny of the dead woman.Thepeculiarmarkingsonherforehead which he hadnoticed before held hisattentionforsometime.Theywere composed of a numberof deep thin vertical lines,varying in length, parallel,

and slightly scraped towardone side—in the direction ofthenight-table.Themarksdidnotextendtheentiredepthofthe forehead; theycommencedhalfwaybetweeneyebrows and hairline, risingintothestiffgrayhair.Bloodhadoozedoutof thesequeerlines. Lane’s eyes strayed asif for confirmation to thecarpet beneath the night-table; and he nodded. There,

lying on the floor half underthe table, string-side up, wasabatteredoldmandolin.He stooped for a closer

view—and turned to regardhis two colleagues. DistrictAttorney Bruno was smilingsourly.“You’vefoundit,”hesaid.“Theweapon.”“Yes,” said Lane in a low

voice. “So it is.You can seethebloodonthelowerpartofthe steel strings.”One of the

strings had snapped and allwererusty,asiftheyhadnotbeen played on for a longtime; but the scarlet tinge offresh blood wasunmistakable.Lane picked up the

mandolin,observingashedidso that it had been lying onthe fallen talcum powder:there were distinctimpressions in the powderwhere themandolinhad lain.

Onexamination,hesaw, too,that there was a freshabrasion on one edge at thelower portion of theinstrument, an abrasionsuspiciously like the dent inthetabletop.“Now,isn’tthatoneluluof

amurderweapon,Mr.Lane?”asked Inspector Thumm insnarling tones. “A mandolin,byGod!”He shook his headasiftoaskwhatintheworld

crime was coming to.“They’llbeusingliliesnext.”“Quaint, very quaint,”

observedLanedryly.“So theubiquitous Mrs. Hatter wasbashedovertheforeheadwiththefaceofamandolin.…Thesignificant part of the affair,gentlemen,isnotsomuchthechoice ofweapon as the factthatitwasscarcelysufficient,Ishouldsay,judgingfromthedepths of themarks, to have

caused death of itself. Yes,very quaint indeed.… WecoulduseDr.Schillingatthemoment.”He replaced the mandolin

on the rug exactly where hehad found it, and turned hisattention to the night-tableagain. He saw nothing verysinister:abowloffruit(attheside nearer the deaf-dumb-and-blind woman’s bed), aclock, the marks of the

overturned powder-box, twoheavybookendsenclosinganold Bible, and a vase ofwiltingflowers.In the fruit-bowl were an

apple, a banana, a bunch ofearly grapes, an orange, andthreepears.

Dr. Leo Schilling, ChiefMedical Examiner of NewYork County, was hardly anemotional man. The

multitudinous array ofcorpses which dotted hisofficialcareer likemarkers—thebodiesofsuicides,murdervictims, unidentified dead,experimental cadavers, drugaddicts, and of all thoseothers who met, wereovercomeby,orplungedintodeath under suspiciouscircumstances—had naturallyrather calloused him. Hedespised the word

“squeamish” and his nerveswere as tough as his scalpel-wielding fingers. Hisassociates often suspectedthat beneath the chitinousshell of his official exteriorbeat a gentle heart; no one,however,hadeverprovedit.He marched into Mrs.

Emily Hatter’s last resting-place,noddedabsently to theDistrict Attorney, grunted atThumm, chirped something

indistinguishable to Mr.Drury Lane, flashed acomprehensivelookaboutthebedroom, duly noted thewhitish footprintson the rug,and threwhisbagon thebed—where,toMr.DruryLane’shorror, it landed with ahollow thud on the oldwoman’sstiffdeadlegs.“Walk over the

footprints?” snapped Dr.Schilling.

“Yes,” said the Inspector,“everything’s beenphotographed.Andletmetellyou, Doc, you might try tomakea littlebetter timeafterthis. It’s a good two and ahalf hours since I sent word——”“Es ist eine alte

Geschichte, doch bleibt sieimmer neu,” grinned thetubby doctor. “It’s an oldstory,asHeinedoesn’tsayso

inelegantly, yet it’s alwaysnew.… Keep your shirt on,Inspector. These dead ladieshave a lot of patience.” Hepulled down the front of hisclothhat—hewasasbaldasahen’seggandrathersensitiveabout it—potteredaround thebed, stepped all over thepowder marks withindifference, and went towork.Thegrinfadedfromhisfat

little face, and his eyesbecameintentbehindhisold-fashioned gold spectacles.Lane observed him screw uphis blubbery lips at theverticalmarkingsonthedeadwoman’s forehead, andnodded at his instant glancedown at the mandolin. Thenheverycarefullygrasped thegray head between his littlemuscularhandsandbegan topart the hair, feeling swiftly

about the skull. Somethingwaswrong,itwasevident,forhisfacesetlikeconcreteand,throwing back the tumbledcovers, he commenced aminute examination of thebody. They watched him insilence. The good MedicalExaminer was becomingmore andmore puzzled, thatmuch was apparent; hemuttered: “Der Teufel!”several times, wagged his

head, sucked his lips,hummed a little drinking-song.… Suddenly he swungaboutonthem.“Whereisthiswoman’s personalphysician?”Inspector Thumm left the

bedroom and two minuteslater returned, followed byDr. Merriam. The twophysicians saluted each otherformally, like duelists, Dr.Merriam in his stately way

roundedthebed,andtogetherthey bent over the corpse,pulling up the thinnightgown, talking in lowtones as they examined thebody. Meanwhile stout MissSmith, Louisa Campion’snurse, had hurried into theroom, snatched up the bowlof fruit from the night-table,and hurried out again.Thumm, Bruno, and Lanewatched without speaking.

The doctors straightened upat last, and Merriam’s fineold face betrayed a certainemotional disquietude. TheMedical Examiner jerked hiscloth hat lower over hisbeadedforehead.“What’stheverdict, Doc?” asked theDistrictAttorney.Dr. Schilling grimaced.

“This woman did not diefromtheactualconcussionofthe blow.” Mr. Drury Lane

noddedinapleasedway.“Dr.Merriam and I agree that theblow itselfwasnot sufficienttodomorethanstunher.”“Well then,” growled

Inspector Thumm, “what thehelldidkillher?”“Ach, Inspector, you

always anticipate,” said Dr.Schilling irritably. “What areyou worried about? Themandolin caused her death,althoughindirectly.Ja.How?

By giving her a severenervous shock. Why?Because she was old—sixty-three—andDr.Merriamsaysshewas a bad cardiac.Nichtwahr,HerrDoktor?”“Oh,” said the Inspector,

looking relieved. “I get it.Somebody socked her overthe head, the shock of theblowmadeherbumheart goblooey, and she died.According to that, shemight

actually have died in hersleep!”“I think not,” said Mr.

Drury Lane. “On thecontrary, Inspector, far frombeing asleep, she was verywideawakeindeed.”Thetwophysicians nodded together.“On three counts. The first:please observe that her eyesare open, wide, staring,horrified. Consciousness,Inspector…Thesecond:you

will note that there is amostunique expression on herface.” The term was mild;Emily Hatter’s dead oldfeatures were contorted withan extraordinary pain and anintense astonishment. “Eventhe hands are half-clenched,clawing…Third, a bitmoresubtle.” Lane went to thebedside and pointed at thebloodmarks of themandolinstrings on the cold forehead.

“The position of thesemarksdefinitely proves that Mrs.Hatter was sitting up in bedwhenshewasstruck!”“Howdoyoufigure that?”

demandedInspectorThumm.“Why, very simply. Had

shebeenasleepwhenshewasstruck—that is, lying downand, from her generalposition, lying flat on herback besides—the marks ofthe steel strings would show

not only at the top of herforehead but at the bottomalso, and on the nose, andperhaps even on the lips.Since themarksareconfinedtothetop,shemusthavebeeneither in a sitting or a semi-sitting position. But if that’sthe case, the immediateconclusion is that she wasawakeaswell.”“Veryclever,sir,”saidDr.

Merriam; he was standing

rigid, and his long whitefingers were nervouslyintertwining.“Really elementary. At

what time, Dr. Schilling, doyou estimate Mrs. Hatterdied?”Dr. Schilling plucked his

ivory toothpick from a vestpocket and began to worrythe crevices between histeeth. “Dead six hours. Thatis, she died just about four

o’clockthismorning.”Lane nodded. “It may be

important, Doctor, to knowexactly where the murdererwas standingwhen he struckMrs.Hatter.Canyoumakeadefinite statement on thatpoint?”Dr. Schilling squinted

reflectively at the bed. “Ibelieve I can. The murdererstood between the two beds—not on the far side of the

old woman’s bed. From theposition of the body and theslantoftheblood-linesonherforehead.Eh,Dr.Merriam?”The old physician started.

“Ah—I quite agree,” he saidhastily.Inspector Thumm scraped

his heavy jawwith irritation.“This blasted business of themandolin … Disturbs me,somehow.Thepointis,rottenheartornorottenheart,could

a wallop from a mandolinhave killed her? I mean—afterall, ifaman’s intendingtocommitmurder,evenifhepicks a funny weapon he’llpickonethat’lldothetrick.”“Ja, no doubt about the

possibilities, Thumm,” saidthe Medical Examiner. “Ablow of great force from socomparativelylightaweaponas a mandolin could kill awoman of Mrs. Hatter’s

physical condition andadvanced age. But the blowherewasratherfeeble.”“There are no othermarks

of violence on the body?”askedLane.“No.”“How about poison?”

demanded the DistrictAttorney.“Anysigns?”“There are no signs,”

replied Dr. Schillingcarefully.“On theotherhand

—yes, I shall perform anautopsy.Atonce.”“YoucanbetyourGerman

boots you will,” retortedInspector Thumm. “Just tomake sure nobody’s slingingpoison around here again. Idon’t figure this case at all.First somebody tries topoison the deaf-mute, andnowsomebodybumpsofftheold she-devil. I’m going totake a look around for signs

ofpoison.”Bruno’s sharp eyes

glittered. “This is murder, ofcourse,eveniftheblowitselfwasn’t the direct cause ofdeath—but merely the shockof the blow. One thing issure:therewasintenttokill.”“Then why such a light

blow, Mr. Bruno?” askedLane dryly. The DistrictAttorney shrugged. “Andwhy,” continued the old

actor, “this perfectly insanechoice of a weapon?—amandolin! If it was themurderer’s purpose to killMrs.Hatterbyablowonthehead, why did he select amandolin when here in thisvery room there are severalheavierweapons?”“By God, I never thought

ofthat,”mutteredThumm,asLane pointed to the rack offire-irons hanging by the

fireplace, and to themassivebookends on the night-tablebesidethebed.Lane took a short turn

about the room, handsclasped loosely behind hisback. Dr. Schilling wasbeginning to show signs ofimpatience;Dr.Merriamstillstoodstiffly,likeasoldieroninspection; the DistrictAttorney and Thumm lookedmore and more disturbed.

“Andbytheway,”murmuredLane at last, “did themandolin come from thebedroomhere?”“No,”repliedtheInspector.

“From a glass case in thelibrary downstairs. The oldlady preserved it that wayafterYorkHatter’s suicide—another one of her widow’sbouquets. It belonged toHatter…Say, come to thinkofit——”

Mr.DruryLane’shandhadshot up in peremptorycommandforsilence,hiseyesnarrowing. Dr. Schilling wasdrawing the bedclothes backoverthedeadwoman.And,inpulling them taut, a smallobject, which glittered in therays of the sun spearingthrough the windows, fellfromafoldofthebedcovertothe powdered rug. Lanedarted forward and snatched

it from the floor. It was anemptyhypodermic.They pressed about him,

keenly alive to thesignificanceof thediscovery.Lane,holdingthehypodermiccarefully by the tip of theplunger, sniffed the stainedneedle, then held theinstrumentuptothelight.Dr. Schilling

unceremoniously took thehypodermic from Lane’s

handandretiredtooneofthewindowswithDr.Merriam.“Empty syringe,”muttered

the Medical Examiner.“What’s thisnumber6on it?That sediment in the barrelmightbe—mightbe…”“Yes?” asked Lane

eagerly.Dr. Schilling shrugged.

“I’llhavetoanalyze.”“No hypodermicmarks on

thebody?”persistedLane.

“No.”Andsuddenly,asifhehad

been shot,Lane straightened,his eyes flashed gray-green.… Thumm’s jaw dropped.ForMr.DruryLane,his faceworking with intenseexcitement, had dashed forthe door, shouting: “Thenurse—the room——” Theystreamedafter.Miss Smith’s bedroom

adjoined the death-chamber.

A placid enough sight mettheireyesastheyplungedin.On a bed, her blind eyesopen,herplumpbodyatrest,lay Louisa Campion. Andsittingonachairbyherside,smoothing the deaf-mute’sforehead, was the stoutelderly nurse. Louisa wasmechanicallypluckinggrapesfromaclusterinherhandandmunching them withoutappetite. On a table near the

bedlaythebowloffruitMissSmith had taken from thedeath-room only a fewmomentsbefore.Mr.DruryLanewastedno

words. He hurled himselfacross the room and tore thegrapes fromLouisa’s hand—a rapaciousmovementwhichcausedMissSmithtojumptoher feet with a squeal offright, and the deaf-dumb-and-blind woman to jerk

upright in bed, her lipswrithing, an expression ofcurdled fear on her usuallyblank features. She began towhimperinahorriblyanimalway, her hand groping forMissSmith’s,andclutchingitquickly. Her shivering skinwas alivewith apprehension;her arms had instantlybecome covered with gooseflesh. “How many did sheeat?”snappedLane.

Thenursewaspale. “Howyou startled me! A—ahandful.”“Dr. Merriam! Dr.

Schilling! Is she all right?”demandedLane.Dr.Merriamhurried to the

bed; the moment the womanfelthistouchonherforeheadshe stopped whimpering. Hesaid slowly: “She seemsperfectlywell.”Mr.Drury Lane dabbed at

his forehead with ahandkerchief; his fingerswerenoticeably trembling.“Iwas afraid we should be toolate,”hesaidalittlehoarsely.Inspector Thumm doubled

up his mallets of fists andstrode forward, glaring downat the fruit-bowl. “Poison,hey?” They all looked at thebowl. Lying innocentlybefore them were the apple,the banana, the orange, and

thethreepears.“Yes,”saidLane.Hisdeep

voicewasquiet.“I’msureofit. And the facts being whatthey are, gentlemen, theentirecomplexionofthecasehas…altered.”“Just what——” began

Bruno inbewilderment.Lanewavedhishandabsently,asifhedidnotcare toexpandhisstatement at the moment; hewas studying Louisa

Campion. She had quietedunderDr.Merriam’sstrokingfingers and lay there limply.Fortyyearsofthwartedlivinghad left little impress on hersmoothfeatures.Inawayshewas almost attractive: hernose was tiny and tilted; herlipsweredelicatelycurved.“Poor creature,” muttered

Lane. “I wonder what she’sthinking.…” His eyessharpenedasheturnedtothe

nurse. “A few moments agoyou took this bowl of fruitfrom the night-table in thenext room,”he said. “Is fruitcustomarily kept in thatroom?”“Yes, sir,” replied Miss

Smith nervously. “Louisa isimmensely fond of fruit.There’s always a bowl of itonthenight-tableinthere.”“Has Miss Campion a

specialpreferenceinfruits?”

“Well, no. She likes themallinseason.”“I see.” Lane seemed

puzzled by something; hebegan to speak, changed hismind, bit his lips, and thenhung his head in thought.“And Mrs. Hatter?” he saidfinally.“Didsheevereatfruitfromthatbowl?”“Justonceinawhile.”“Notregularly?”“No,sir.”

“And did Mrs. Hatter likeall kinds of fruit, too, MissSmith?”Heputthequestionsquietly, but Bruno andThumm caught the note ofimportinhisvoice.Miss Smith also caught it;

shesaidslowly:“Now,that’squeer, that question. No, sir,Mrs. Hatter had one petaversioninfruit;shedetestedpears—hadn’t eaten them inyears.”

“Ah,”saidMr.DruryLane.“Splendid.And did everyoneinthehouseholdknowofthisaversion,MissSmith?”“Oh,yes.It’sbeenafamily

jokeforyears.”Mr. Drury Lane seemed

content. He nodded severaltimes, favored Miss Smithwith a friendly glance, andthen, going to the table nearthenurse’sbed, lookeddownat thefruit-bowlfromLouisa

Campion’sroom.“She detested pears,” he

murmured. “Observe that,Inspector. I daresay a closerscrutinyofthepearsiscalledfor.”Two of the three pears in

thebowlwereperfect fruit—golden, mellow, firm. Thethird … Lane turned itcuriously in his fingers. Itwasmarredbydecay;itsrindwasbrowninspots;andeach

spot was soft, squashy. Laneuttered a little exclamationandbroughtthepeartowithinthreeinchesofhisrighteye.“As I thought,” he

muttered. He turned to Dr.Schillingwith a little gestureof triumph. “Here you are,Doctor,”hesaid,handingtheMedical Examiner the threepears. “You’ll find the prickofaneedle in theskinof thespoiledpear, unless I’mvery

muchmistaken.”“Poisoned!” exclaimed

ThummandBrunotogether.“It’s unwise to anticipate,

but—I think so. Yes … Tomake sure, Doctor, analyzeallthree.Letmeknow,whenyouascertainthenatureofthepoison, if the decay in thespoiled pear was caused bythe presence of poison, or ifthe pear decayed before thepoisonwasinjected.”

“Jawohl,” said Dr.Schilling,andhetrundledoutof theroombearingthethreepiecesoffruitasiftheywereprecious.InspectorThummdrawled:

“There’s something screwy…Imean,ifthere’spoisoninthe pear, and the old ladydidn’teatpears——”“Then the murder of Mrs.

Hatter was probably anaccident,neverplannedatall

—and the poisoned pearwasmeant for thispoorwoman!”concludedBruno.“Right, right!” cried the

Inspector.“Right,Bruno!Themurderer sneaked in, jabbedthe hypo into the pear, andthen the old ladywoke up—see?Maybe even recognizedthe poisoner—remember thatlook on her face. So what?Wham! She gets it on thehead with the mandolin, and

it’scurtainsforher.”“Yes, and now we’re

getting somewhere. Thepoisonedpear isundoubtedlytheworkofthesameonewhopoisoned the eggnog twomonthsago.”Mr. Drury Lane said

nothing. There was a faintperplexitybetweenhisbrows.Miss Smith seemedbewildered. As for LouisaCampion,ignorantofthefact

that the lawhad just decidedthat for the second time shehad been the victim of anattackagainstherlife—asforLouisaCampion,sheclungtoDr.Merriam’s fingerswith atenacitybornofdarknessanddesperation.

Scene3

THELIBRARY,SUNDAY,JUNE5.

11:10A.M.

Therewas an interlude.Menprowledabout,someonewitha preoccupied air reported toInspector Thumm that nofingerprintswere tobefoundon either the hypodermicsyringe or themandolin, andDr. Schilling fussed about,superintendingtheremovalofthebody.In all the bustle of

tramping Morgue attendants,Mr. Drury Lane stood quietand thoughtful, for the mostpart searching the blank faceofLouisaCampionasifforasolution to the riddle. HebarelyheardDistrictAttorneyBruno’s comment that, sinceno fingerprints had beendiscovered anywhere, themurderer must have worngloves.Finally something like

order was restored, Dr.Schilling departed with hiscorpse,andtheInspectorshutthe door of Miss Smith’sroom.Mr.DruryLanesaidatonce: “Has Miss Campionbeentold?”Miss Smith shook her

head, and Dr. Merriam said:“Ithoughtitbesttowaituntil——”“There is nodanger toher

healthnow?”

Dr. Merriam pursed histhin lips. “Itwill be a shock.She has a weak heart. Butmost of the excitement hassubsided, and since shemustbetoldeventually…”“How does one

communicatewithher?”Silently Miss Smith went

tothebed,rummagedunderapillow, and straightened upholding a queer apparatus. Itconsisted of a flat grooved

board, resembling remotelyan abacus, and a large box.She removed the lid of thebox; it contained a greatnumber of small metalblocks, like dominoes, eachof which had a projectingpiece at the back whichslipped into the grooves ofthe board. The faces of theblocks themselves werestudded with raised dots,rather large, arranged in

peculiar and varying patternsonthemetal.“Braille?”askedLane.“Yes,” sighedMiss Smith.

“Each block represents adifferentletterofthealphabetinBraille.Theapparatuswasespecially constructed forLouisa.… She takes it withhereverywhereshegoes.”To assist the uninitiated in

reading this “written”language of the blind, each

dothadpaintedonitssurface,inadditiontotheraiseddots,a flat white English letter—thetranslationfromBrailleofthe letter represented by theblock.“Ingenious,” remarked

Lane. “If you don’t mind,Miss Smith …” He pushedthe nurse gently aside, tookup the board and pieces, andlooked down at LouisaCampion.

It was, they all felt, afateful moment.What wouldthisblighted,unusualcreaturereveal? That she alreadysensed the prevailing tensionwas apparent. Her whitebeautiful fingers were inconstant motion—she hadslipped her hand out of Dr.Merriam’s a moment before—and Lane with a littleshiver realized that thosewaving fingers were like the

antennaeofabug,oscillatingwith intelligence, clamoringfor enlightenment. Her headwas jerkingfromside tosideanxiously, quickly,heightening the insectivorousresemblance.Herpupilswerelarge, but dull and glazed—blind eyes. In this moment,whenallattentionwasrivetedupon her, one forgot thatexternally she presented aplain, if pleasant, appearance

—she was rather plump, nomore than four inches abovefive feet in height, withluxuriant brown hair and ahealthy complexion. It wasthe odd features thatimpressed them—the piscineeyes, the still, blank, almostlifelessfeatures,thequiveringfingers.…“Shelooksallworkedup,”

muttered Inspector Thumm.“Watch her fingers go. They

givemethewillies.”Miss Smith shook her

head. “That—that’s notnervousness. She’s talking,askingquestions.”“Talking!” exclaimed the

DistrictAttorney.“Of course,” said Lane.

“The manual deaf-and-dumblanguage,Mr.Bruno.Whatisshe signaling so frantically,MissSmith?”The stout nurse collapsed

in her chair suddenly. “I—this is beginning to getme,”she said in a hoarse voice.“She’ssaying,overandover:“What is thematter?What isthematter?Whereismother?Why do you not answer?Whatis thematter?Whereismother?’”Mr. Drury Lane sighed in

the hush that followed, andtook the woman’s hands inhis own strong ones. They

struggled wildly; and thenthey went limp and hernostrils quivered, as if shewere trying to scent him. Itwas weird. Something inLane’s touch must havereassured her, or perhaps inthe faint aura common to allanimals and to which mosthuman beings are insensible;for she relaxed, slipped herfingersoutofhis…What is thematter.Where

ismother.Whoareyou.Lane, swiftly selecting

pieces from the box ofblocks, arranged a series ofwords;heplacedtheboardinLouisa’s lap and her handsclutched it eagerly. Herfingers fluttered over themetalblocks.“Iamafriend,”readLane’smessage.“Iwanttohelpyou.Ihavesomethingunpleasant to tell you. Youmustbebrave.”

Shemadeagurglingsoundin her throat, piteous,wrenching; InspectorThummwincedandhalfturnedaway.Dr. Merriam was turned tostone behind her. ThenLouisaCampiondrewadeepbreathandherhandsbegantoflow again. Miss Smithwearilytranslated.Yes.Yes. Iambrave.Whatisthematter.Lane’sfingersdippinginto

the box, rearranging letters,

constructing new words.…Therewas a palpable silencein the room. “Your life is anepic of bravery. Keep it so.There has been a greattragedy. Your mother wasmurderedduringthenight.”The flashing hands made

one convulsive movementover the board. It fell fromher lap,scattering littlemetalblocksoverthefloor.Shehadfainted.

“Oh, get out, all of you!”shoutedDr.Merriam as theyall started forward with eyesfullofpity.“MissSmithandIwillhandlethis.”They stopped andwatched

him lift her limp body fromthechairwithaneffortofhisold muscles. They hurrieduneasily to the door. “I holdyou responsible for MissCampion,” mutteredInspector Thumm to the

physician. “Don’t leave herevenforamoment.”“Iwon’tberesponsiblefor

anything if you don’t getout!”They obeyed, Lane going

last. He shut the door softlyandstood thinkingfora longmoment. Then he placed hisfingers on his temples in acurious gesture of fatigue,shook his head, dropped hishands, and followed the

District Attorney andInspectorThummdownstairs.

The Hatter librarydownstairs adjoined thedining-room. It was old andredolent of leather. It wascomposedchieflyofbooksonscience and poetry. It had awell-used air and housedwell-worn furniture. It was amost comfortable room, andLane sank into an armchair

with a sigh of approval.ThummandBrunosatdown,too,andthethreemenlookedat each other withoutspeaking. The house wasquiet; only the Inspector’sstertorous breathing wasaudible.“Well,boys,”hesaidfinally,“it’sapuzzler.”“An interesting puzzler at

any rate, Inspector,” saidLane. He burrowed deeperinto the armchair and

stretched his long legs. “Bythe way,” he murmured,“does Louisa Campion knowthattwomonthsagosomeoneattemptedtoendherlife?”“No. No sense in telling

her.It’stoughenoughforherasitis.”“Yes, of course.” Lane

mused for a moment. “Itwould be cruel,” he agreed.Herosesuddenlyandcrossedthe room to examine a

pedestal-likeaffairsupportinga glass case. The case wasempty. “This, I suppose, isthe case in which themandoliniskept.”Thummnodded.“And,”he

saidgrimly,“nofingerprints.”“You know,” said District

Attorney Bruno, “thisbusinessofthepoisonedpear—if it is poisoned—simplifies mattersenormously.”

“Sticking to the pear, eh?At leastweknow it’sLouisahe’s after,” growled Thumm.“Well, let’s get going.” Herose and went to the doorleading out into the corridor.“Hey, Mosher,” he called.“Get Barbara Hatter downhereforatalk.”Lanestrolledbacktothearmchair.

Barbara Hatter wasinfinitely more pleasing in

appearance than herpublished photographsindicated. The naturalsharpness of etching in thephotographs accentuated herthin features; in life, whilethin,theywerewomanlysoft,with a purely physicalhandsomeness which Kurt,thewell-knownphotographer,chose to disregard in hisinterpretation of her moreethereal qualities. She was

verytallandregal;franklyinher thirties. She moved withgrace, almost with rhythm.And she gave the impressionofaninnerglow,afirewhichfaintly illuminated herexterior and gave warmth toeverygesture.BarbaraHatter,thepoetess,one felt,wasnotonlyawomanofintellectbutan unusual creature ofdelicatepassionsaswell.She nodded to Inspector

Thumm and bowed to theDistrict Attorney. Her fineeyes widened at sight ofLane.“Mr.Lane!”shesaidinher deep calm voice. “Areyouprobingintothecesspoolofourprivatelives,too?”Lane blushed. “I am

rebuked, Miss Hatter.Unfortunately, I’m of acurious disposition.” Heshrugged. “Won’t you sitdown? There are some

questions.” He did not seemsurprised thatshehadknownhis face and called him bynameat firstmeeting;peopleweredoingthatcontinually.She sat down, her full

eyebrows quizzically arched,and looked about at theinquisition. “Well,” she saidwith a little sigh, “I’m readyifyouare.Fireaway.”“Miss Hatter,” began the

Inspector abruptly, “tell me

what you know about lastnight.”“Very little, Inspector. I

came inatabout twoo’clockin the morning—I had beenattending a dull party at thehome of my publisher. Thegentlemenpresentforgottheirmanners, or the liquor wasslightlytoomuchforthem;atany rate, I camehomealone.Everything was quiet. Myroom, as youknow, is to the

front, overlooking the Park,across the hall from—frommother’s. I can positivelyassure you that all bedroomdoors on the floor upstairswere closed.… I was tired,and went to bed at once. Islept until six this morning,when I was awakened byMissSmith’sscreams.That’sreallyall.”“Hmm,”saidtheInspector,

frowning.

“I agree,” said Barbarawith a tired smile, “that therecital isn’t particularlybrilliant.”She turned her head to

glanceatMr.DruryLane,asif expecting a question fromhim.Itcame,butitseemedtoastonish her, for her eyesnarrowedandshestaredhardathim.Hesaid:“MissHatter,when you and your brotherConrad ran into your

mother’s bedroom thismorning did either of youwalkbetweenthetwobeds?”“No, Mr. Lane,” she

replied evenly. “We saw atoncethatmotherwasdead.Inlifting Louisa from the floorwe skirted the footprintsleading to the door andavoided going between thebeds.”“You’re positive your

brotherdidn’t?”

“Quite.”DistrictAttorneyBrunogot

tohisfeet,flexedthearchingmuscles of his thighs, andbegan to pace up and downbefore her. She waitedpatiently. “Miss Hatter, I’llspeak frankly. You’re awoman of far more thanaverage intelligence, andcertainly you must be awareof the—ah—abnormalities ofcertain members of your

family.Beingawareofit,youmust also deplore it.… I’masking you to cast aside forthemomentanyconsiderationoffamilyloyalty.”Hepausedat the calm unwinkingexpression on her face. Hemust have felt the futility ofthe question, because heresumed hastily: “Naturally,you don’t have to answer ifyoudon’twantto.Butifyouhave any explanation for the

attempted poisoning twomonths ago and last night’smurder, we’re anxious, ofcourse,tohearit.”“MydearMr.Bruno,”said

Barbara,“whatdoyoumean?Are you insinuating that Iknow who murdered mymother?”“No, no—just a theory,

some attempt to clear theatmosphere…”“I have no theory

whatever.” She stared downatherlongwhitefingers.“It’scommon knowledge, Mr.Bruno, that in her own waymy mother was aninsufferable tyrant. I supposemany people at one time oranotherhavehadtheimpulseto do her violence. Butmurder …” She shivered. “Idon’t know. It seemsincredible. The taking ofhumanlife——”

“Oh,” said InspectorThummquietly, “thenyou’reconvinced somebody wantedtokillyourmother?”She was startled, and

lookedupathimwithaflashof her eyes. “Whatever areyou driving at, Inspector?NaturallyIassumethatifshewas murdered it wassomeone’s intention to …Oh!” She stopped short andgrasped the seatofher chair.

“You don’t mean it was—itwasaghastlymistake?”“That’s just what the

Inspector does mean, MissHatter,” said Bruno. “We’reconvinced that your motherwas killed by accident—onthe impulse of the moment.We feel sure that themurderer’s purpose in goinginto that bedroomwasnot todo away with your mother,but with your half-sister

Louisa!”“And why,” put in Mr.

Drury Lane in gentle tonesbefore she could recover hercomposure, “why shouldanyone want to harm thatpoor afflicted creatureupstairs,MissHatter?”Barbaraputherhandtoher

eyes suddenly and shadedthem.Shesatstill.Whenshetookherhandaway,theysawthat her face was haggard.

“Poor Louisa,” shemurmured. “Poor Louisa.”She stared unseeingly at thepedestal across the room.“Her empty, cruel life.Always the victim.”Her lipscompressedand she regardedthem with a fierce intensity.“Asyousaid,Mr.Bruno,tiesof family—my family—should be put aside. No onewho could dream of hurtingthat helpless creature

deserves a grain ofconsideration.Imusttellyou,Mr. Lane,” she continued,turning her earnest eyes hisway,“thatwiththeexceptionofmymotherandmyself,myfamily has always hatedLouisa.Hatedher.”Hervoiceburned.“Theessentialcrueltyof humanity. The impulse tostep on a crippled insect.…Oh,it’stoohideous.”“Yes, yes,” said the

District Attorney, watchingher keenly. “Is it true thateverythingbelongingtoYorkHatter was taboo in thishouse?”She cupped her chin.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Mymother respectedmy father’smemory much moreassiduously than sherespectedmyfather.”Shefellsilent,thinkingoverperhapsawealth of unpleasant

recollections, for herexpression was sad andslightly bitter. “Mother triedto make up for a lifetime oftyranny after father’s deathbymaking us all bow to hismemory. Consecratedeverything that belonged tohim. I think that in the pastfew months she came torealize…”Shedidnotfinish,butbroodedatthefloor.InspectorThummpounded

up and down. “We’re notgetting anywhere. Why didyourfathercommitsuicide?”Pain passed over her face.

“Why?” she repeatedtonelessly. “Why does anyman commit suicide whoseonly interest in life has beenstolen from him, smothered,leaving him spiritually apariah?” Something resentfuland spirited and at the sametimehurtcreptintohervoice.

“Poor father was dominatedallhislife.Itwasn’thisown;he had nothing to say in hisown house. His childrendisobeyed him, disregardedhim. Cruel … and yet—people are so queer—motherhadasoftspotinherheartforhim. I understand he was arather handsome man whenthey met. I think shedominated him because sheconsidered he needed

stiffening. Everyone weakerthan’ herself, she thought,needed stiffening.” Shesighed. “Instead of bracinghimup,itbrokehisback.Hebecame a recluse, almost ahaunt. Except for that quaintolddarlingnextdoor,CaptainTrivett,fatherhadnofriends.Andeven theCaptainwasn’table to shake him out of hisapathy.I’mrambling…”“On the contrary, Miss

Hatter,” said Lane softly,“you’re intelligentlydiscussing very essentialmatters. Was Mrs. Hatter’staboo on your father’smandolin and laboratoryrespected?”“One always respected

mother’s commands, Mr.Lane,” replied Barbara in alow voice. “I can swear thatno one even dreamed oftouching that mandolin or

going into the laboratory.…No, that’s inane. Someonedid.Oh——”“Whendidyoulastseethe

mandolin in the glass caseover there?” demanded theInspector.“Yesterdayafternoon.”“Isit,”askedBrunowitha

flicker of eagerness, as if hehad just had an inspiration,“the onlymusical instrumentinthehouse?”

Lane glanced at himsharply, and Barbara lookedsurprised.“Yes, so it is,” shereplied. “Although whatsignificance…Isuppose it’snone of my business. We’renot a musical family.Mother’s favorite composerwas Sousa, and father’smandolin was a relic of hisuniversitydays.…Thereusedto be a grand piano—one ofthose ornate affairs, all

scrollyandgilt,oftherococo’nineties—but mother had itthrownoutseveralyearsago.Shebecameresentful——”“Resentful?” Bruno was

puzzled.“You see, Louisa couldn’t

enjoyit.”Bruno frowned. Inspector

Thumm’s big hand scrabbledabout in his pocket andemerged holding a key.“Recognizethis?”

She studied it obediently.“It’s a Yale key, isn’t it? Ican’t say I do. They all looksomuchalike,youknow.…”“Well,” grumbledThumm,

“it’s the key to your father’slaboratory. Found it in yourmother’seffects.”“Oh,yes.”“Doyouknowifthisisthe

onlykeytothatroom?”“I believe so. I know that

mother had it in her

possession ever since thenewsoffather’ssuicide.”Thummreturnedthekeyto

hispocket.“Thatcheckswithwhat I’ve been told. We’llhave to look into thatlaboratory.”“Were you a frequent

visitor to your father’slaboratory, Miss Hatter?”askedBrunocuriously.Animation possessed her

face. “Indeed I was, Mr.

Bruno. I was one of theworshipers at the shrine offather’s scientific gods. Hisexperiments fascinated me,although I could neverunderstand them. I oftenspent an hour with himupstairs. He was happiest atthose times—he lived mostintensely then.” She lookedthoughtful. “Martha—mysister-in-law,youknow—alsowas sympathetic to father;

she sometimes watched him,too. And, of course, CaptainTrivett.Theothers——”“So you don’t know

anything about chemistry,”asserted the Inspector in adisagreeablevoice.She smiled. “Come, come,

Inspector. Poison? Anyonecan read labels, you know.No, I’m hardly a student ofchemistry.”“From all I hear,”

remarked Mr. Drury Lane,with what the Inspectorirritably consideredirrelevance,“whatyoulackinscientificabilityyoumakeupfor in poetic genius, MissHatter. You present aninteresting picture, you andMr.Hatter:Euterpe seated atthefeetofScientia.…”“Horsefeathers,” said

InspectorThummdistinctly.“Oh, no doubt,” replied

Lane, smiling. “At the sametime my remark is actuatedbymorethanadesiretoshowoff my classical knowledge,Inspector.… What I wasgettingatisthis.MissHatter:didScientiaeversitatthefeetofEuterpe?”“I’d like to have that

translatedintoUnitedStates,”growled the Inspector. “Iwant to know the question,too.”

“Mr. Lane means to ask,”said Barbara with a dab ofcolorinhercheeks,“whetherfather took as much interestin my work as I did in his.Theanswer,Mr.Lane,isyes.Father always had the mostpassionate admiration—not,I’m afraid, so much for mypoetry as for my materialsuccess. He often puzzledovermyverse.…”“As I have, Miss Hatter,”

said Lane with a little bow.“Did Mr. Hatter ever try towrite?”She made a moue of

dismissal.“Hardly.Hedidtryhishandatfictiononce,butIdon’t believe anything cameof it. He could never applyhimself to anything for verylong—except, of course, hiseternal experiments withretorts and burners andchemicals.”

“Well,” said the Inspectorbelligerently, “if that’s over,I’d like to get back tobusiness.Wehaven’tallday,Mr. Lane.… Were you thelast one in last night, MissHatter?”“I really can’t say. I’d

forgottenmy house key—weallhaveapersonalkey—andsoIrangthenightbellinthevestibule. The night bellcommunicates directly with

the Arbuckles’ rooms on theattic floor, and GeorgeArbuckle pottereddownstairsafterfiveminutesorsoto letmein.Iwentupstairsatonce.Arbuckleremainedbehind.…So I can’t saywhether Iwasthelastoneinornot.PerhapsArbuckleknows.”“How’d ithappen thatyou

didn’t have your key?Mislaid?Lost?”“You’re so transparent,

Inspector,” said Barbara,sighing. “No, it was notmislaid, not lost, not stolen.I’d merely forgotten it, as Isaid. It was in another purseinmy room; I looked beforeretiring.”“Canyouthinkofanything

else?” the Inspectordemanded of Bruno after alittlesilence.The District Attorney

shookhishead.

“You,Mr.Lane?”“After the way you

squelched me, Inspector,”replied Lane with a ruefulgrin,“no.”Thumm clucked what

mighthavebeenapology,andsaid: “Then that’s all, MissHatter.Pleasedon’t leavethehouse.”“No,” said Barbara Hatter

wearily.“Ofcoursenot.”Sheroseandlefttheroom.

Thummheldthedooropenand watched her retreat.“There,” he muttered, “nomatterhowImay’vetalkedtoher, goes a damned finewoman. Well,” he said,squaring his shoulders, “wemay as well tackle thelunatics. Mosher, get thoseArbuckles down here for agabfest.”The detective tramped off.

Thumm closed the door,

hooked his thumb in a beltloop,andsatdown.“Lunatics?” repeated

Bruno.“TheArbucklesstruckmeasnormal.”“Hell, no,” snarled the

Inspector. “That’s just theway they look. Inside they’recrazy. They must be crazy.”He ground his molars.“Anybody who lives in thishouse must be crazy. I’mbeginning to feel crazy

myself.”

The Arbuckles were tall,strong people ofmiddle age;theylookedmorelikebrotherand sister than husband andwife. Both had coarsefeatures and pebble-grainedskinsinwhichtheporeswerelargeandoily:peasants,bothof them, with generations ofthick blood and stolid brainsbehind them—and both of

them dour and unsmiling, asif the pervading spirit of thishousehadcrushedthem.Mrs. Arbuckle was

nervous. “I went to bed lastnight at eleven o’clock,” shesaid.“WithGeorgehere—myhusband. We’re peaceablepeople; we don’t knowanythingaboutthis.”The Inspector grunted.

“Slept till morning, both ofyou?”

“No,” said the woman.“About two o’clock in themorning the night bell rang.George got up, put on hispants and shirt, and wentdownstairs.” The Inspectornodded gloomily; he had,perhaps, expected a lie. “Hecame back upstairs in aboutten minutes, and he said:‘Barbara—she forgot herkey.’”Mrs.Arbucklesniffed.“And then we went back to

bed and didn’t know a thingelsetillmorning.”George Arbuckle’s shaggy

head bobbed slowly. “That’sright,” he said. “God’s truth.Wedon’tknowathingaboutthis.”“You speak when you’re

spoken to,” said Thumm.“Now——”“Mrs.Arbuckle,”saidLane

unexpectedly. She surveyedhim with feminine curiosity

—this female with amustache.“Canyoutellus iffruit was left on the night-table in Mrs. Hatter’s roomeveryday?”“I can. Louisa Campion

loves it. Yes,” said Mrs.Arbuckle.“There is a bowl of fruit

upstairs now. When was itpurchased?”“Yesterday. I always keep

the bowl full of fresh fruit.

Mrs. Hatter wanted it thatway.”“Miss Campion is fond of

allvarietiesoffruit?”“Yes.She——”“Sir,” said Inspector

Thummgrimly.“Yes,sir.”“Mrs.Hatteralso?”“Well … so-so. She did

hate pears. Never ate ’em.Folks in the house used tomakefunofheraboutit.”

Mr. Drury Lane glancedsignificantly at InspectorThumm and the DistrictAttorney. “Now, Mrs.Arbuckle,” he continued in agenial tone, “where do youbuyyourfruit?”“AtSutton’sonUniversity

Place. Delivered fresh everyday.”“And does anyone except

MissCampioneatthisfruit?”Mrs. Arbuckle reared her

square head and stared.“What kind of a question isthat?Suretheotherseatfruit.I always take some off theorderforthefamily.”“Hmm. Did anyone eat a

pearfromthebatchdeliveredyesterday?”The housekeeper’s face

became dark with suspicion;this harping on fruit, itappeared,was getting on hernerves. “Yes!” she flared.

“Yes!Yes…”“Sir,”saidtheInspector.“Yes … sir. I ate one

myself, Idid,andwhatof it?——”“Nothing,Mrs.Arbuckle,I

assure you,” said Lane in asoothingvoice. “Youateoneof the pears. No one elsedid?”“The br—the children,

Jackie and Billy, had a pearapiece,” she muttered,

mollified.“Andabanana,too—theyeatlikefury.”“And no ill effects,”

remarked the DistrictAttorney. “That’s something,anyway.”“When was yesterday’s

fruit brought to MissCampion’s room?” askedLane in the same soothingtone.“In the afternoon. After

lunch—sir.”

“Allthefruitwasfreshandnew?”“Yes.Yes,sir.Acoupleof

pieceswereinthebowlfromday before yesterday, but Itook those out,” said Mrs.Arbuckle, “and put in freshones. Louisa is very fussyaboutherfoodanddrink,sheis.Fruitespecially.Shewon’teat fruit at all that’s overripeor,youknow,touched.”Mr.DruryLanestarted;he

began to say something,gulped it down, and becamevery still. The woman stareddully at him; her husband,shufflinghisfeetbyherside,scratched his jaw and lookeduncomfortable.TheInspectorandBrunoseemedpuzzledbyLane’sreaction;theywatchedhimclosely.“You’recertainofthat?”“SureasI’malive,Iam.”Lane sighed. “How many

pears did you put into thefruit-bowl yesterdayafternoon,Mrs.Arbuckle?”“Two.”“What!” exclaimed the

Inspector. “Why, we found—!”HelookedatBruno,andBrunolookedatLane.“You know,”muttered the

District Attorney, “that’sdownrightqueer,Mr.Lane.”Lane’s voice rolled on

imperturbably. “You would

swear to that, Mrs.Arbuckle?”“Swear? What for? There

were two, I say. I ought toknow.”“Certainlyyoushould.Did

you take the bowl upstairsyourself?”“Ialwaysdo.”Lane smiled, looked

thoughtful,andsatdownwithalittlewaveofthehand.“Here, you, Arbuckle,”

growled the Inspector. “WasBarbaraHatterthelastoneinlastnight?”The chauffeur-houseman

quivered perceptibly at beingdirectlyaddressed.Hewethislips.“Uh—uh—Idon’tknow,sir.AfterIletMissHatterin,I just stayed downstairs longenough to sort of make myrounds—seethatallthedoorsand windows were locked. Ilocked the frontdoormyself,

and then went back upstairsto bed. So I can’t say whocameinandwhodidn’t.”“How about the

basement?”“That ain’t used,” replied

Arbuckle with moreassurance. “It’s been shutdown and boarded up backandfrontforyears.”“So,” said the Inspector.

Hewenttothedoor,stuckhishead out, and yelled:

“Pinkussohn!”A detective said hoarsely:

“Yes,Chief?”“Downstairs to the

basement. Have a lookaround.”The Inspector closed the

door and came back.DistrictAttorney Bruno was askingArbuckle:“Whywereyousocareful to check up on thedoors and windows at twoo’clockinthemorning?”

Arbuckle grinnedapologetically. “Habit ofmine, sir. Mrs. Hatter wasalways tellin’ me to becareful about that, becauseMiss Campion—she’s afraidofburglars.I’ddoneitbeforegoin’tobed,butIthoughtI’ddoitagaintomakesure.”“Were they all closed and

locked at two a.m.?”demandedThumm.“Yes, sir. Tighter’n a

drum.”“How long have you

peoplebeenworkinghere?”“Eight years,” said Mrs.

Arbuckle, “come this pastLent.”“Well,”gruntedThumm,“I

guess that’s all. Anythingelse,Mr.Lane?”The actorwas sprawled in

the armchair, eyes fixed onthe housekeeper and herhusband.“Mr.Arbuckle,Mrs.

Arbuckle,” he said. “Haveyou found the Hatters adifficultfamilytoworkfor?”George Arbuckle became

almost animated. “Difficult,you say?” He snorted. “I’lltelltheworld,sir.Batty,theyare,allof’em.”“It’s hard pleasing ’em,”

saidMrs.Arbuckledarkly.“Thenwhy,”askedLanein

a pleasant voice, “have youpeople persisted in working

forthemforeightyears?”“Oh, that!” replied Mrs.

Arbuckle, in the tone of onewho considers the questionirrelevant. “Nothingmysterious about that. Thepay is good—verygood, andthat’swhywe’vestuck.Whowouldn’t?”Laneseemeddisappointed.

“Do either of you recallyesterday seeing themandolin in the glass case

yonder?”Mr. and Mrs. Arbuckle

lookedateachother,andbothshook their heads. “Can’tremember,”saidArbuckle.“Thank you,” said Mr.

Drury Lane, and theArbuckles were sent packingbytheInspector.Thehousemaid,Virginia—

noone thoughtof askingherlast name—was a tall bonyspinster with a horsy face.

She was wringing her handsandonthevergeoftears.Shehad worked for the Hattersfor five years. She liked herjob. She loved her job. Thepay…Oh,sir, Iwent tobedsoearlylastnight.…Shehadheard nothing, she had seennothing, and she knewnothing. So she wasperemptorilyexcused.Pinkussohn, the detective,

lounged in with disgust

written all over his big face.“Nothing doin’ in thebasement, Chief. Looks as ifit hasn’t been entered foryears—dust an inch thick all——”“An inch?” echoed the

Inspectordisagreeably.“Well, maybe less. Doors

andwindowsnottouched.Nofootprints anywhere in themuck.”“Get out of the habit of

exaggerating,” growled theInspector. “Some day you’regoing tomake a damned bigmountain out of a damnedsmallmolehill,andit’sgoingto be serious. Okay, Pink.”As the detective disappearedthrough the doorway apoliceman came in andsaluted. “Well,” snappedThumm, “what do youwant?”“Two men outside,” said

theofficer.“Wanttocomein.Saythey’rethefamilylawyerandoneof’emthepartnerorsomething of this hereConrad Hatter. Let ’em in,Inspector?”“You dope,” snarled the

Inspector. “I’vebeen lookingfor those birds all morning.Sure!”Drama, and something of

comedy, entered the librarywith the two newcomers.

Alone together, althoughrichly contrasting types, theymighthavebeenfriends;withthe presence of Jill Hatter,however, all possibility ofamicability fled. Jill,beautiful, keen, her facealready touched beneath theeyes and in the lines aroundher nose andmouthwith thebrush of high living, hadevidently encountered themen in the hall; she came in

with them, between them,clinging to a masculine armtorightandleft,gazingsadlyat them, turning from one tothe other, accepting theirhasty fragments ofcondolence with a liftingbreastanddroopinglips.…Lane, Thumm, Bruno

watched the tableau silently.This young woman was theessence of coquetry, thatmuch was apparent at a

glance. There was in everysubtlemovementofherbodythe suggestion of sex, and ahalf-promise of delight. Shewas using the two men likefoils, one against the other,playing them off, makingthem clash unconsciously,utilizing the tragedy of hermother’s death with a coldfixity of purpose to drawthem closer to her and inopposition to each other.

Altogether, Mr. Drury Lanedecided grimly, a female tobewaryof.AtthesametimeJillHatter

wasfrightened.Hermasterfulhandlingof the twomenwasaccomplished more by habitthanmomentarydesign.Tall,full-figured, almostJunoesque—and frightened.Her eyes were red withsleeplessness and fear.…Suddenly, as if for the first

time conscious of heraudience, she released hermen’s arms with a pout andbegan to powder her nose.The first time.… Her eyeshadseeneverythingfromtheinstant she stepped over thethreshold.Frightened…The men came to

themselves, too, and theirfaces stiffened into formallines. Two men couldscarcely have been more

different. Chester Bigelow,the family attorney, was aman of good height, but bythe side of John Gormly,Conrad Hatter’s businesspartner, he seemed puny.Bigelow was dark, with asmall black mustache andblue-black jaws;Gormlywasfair, with straw-colored hairand reddish bristles beneaththehastilyshavenskinofhisface. Bigelow was brisk,

gleaming, rapid in hismovements; Gormly wasslow and deliberate. Therewas something shrewd,almost sly, in the lawyer’sintelligent features; whereasGormly was earnest andsober-faced. And the tallblond man was young—tenyearsyoungerthanhisrivalattheveryleast.“Youwantedtotalktome,

InspectorThumm?”askedJill

inasmallhelplessvoice.“Not right now I didn’t,”

saidThumm, “but as long asyou’rehere…Sitdown,youmen.” He introduced Jill,Bigelow, and Gormly to theDistrict Attorney and DruryLane.Jillcollapsedinachairandcontrivedtolookassmalland helpless as her voicesounded. Lawyer and brokerpreferred to stand, rathernervously. “Now, Miss

Hatter, where were you lastnight?”She turned to look up at

JohnGormly, slowly. “IwasoutwithJohn—Mr.Gormly.”“Details.”“We went to theater, and

then to a midnight partysomewhere.”“What time did you get

home?”“Very early, Inspector …

fivethismorning.”

John Gormly flushed, andChester Bigelow made animpatient, instantly checkedmovementwithhisrightfoot.Hispreciselittleteethshowedinasmile.“Did Gormly take you

home?Eh,Gormly?”Thebrokerbegantospeak,

but Jill interruptedplaintively: “Oh, no,Inspector. It was—well,rather embarrassing.” She

lookeddemurelydownat therug. “You see, I’d got pie-eyedaboutoneo’clockinthemorning. I’d quarreled withMr.Gormlythen—hethoughtheoughttoconstitutehimselfa Committeee of One onMoralTurpitude,yousee…”“Jill—” said Gormly. He

wasasredashiscravat.“So Mr. Gormly left me

flat.Actually! Imean to say,he was in the most beastly

rage,” continued Jill in asweetvoice,“andthen—well,I don’t remember anythingafter that except drinkingsomerottenginandhavingahigholdtimewithsomebodyfat and sweaty. I dorememberwalking thestreetsinmyeveningthings,singingatthetopofmyvoice.”“Goon,”saidtheInspector

grimly.“A policeman stopped me

and put me in a cab. Thenicest young man! Big andstrong and with crinklybrownhair.…”“Iknowtheforce,”saidthe

Inspector.“Goon!”“I was sober when I got

home; it was dawning. Sonice and fresh in the Square,Inspector—I love the dawn.…”“Idon’tdoubtyou’veseen

many of ’em. Go on, Miss

Hatter. We can’t waste allday.”John Gormly’s face

threatened to burst. Hestormed in his throat,clenched his fists, and begantotraversetherug.Bigelow’sexpressionwasenigmatic.“And that’sall, Inspector,”

saidJill,droppinghereyes.“Is it?” Thumm’s muscles

swelled his coat sleeves; hewas mighty in his contempt.

“All right, Miss Hatter.Answersomequestions.Wasthe front door locked whenyougothome?”“Letmesee.…Ibelieve it

was. Yes! It took me a fewminutes to manipulate thedamnedkey.”“Did you hear or see

anything off-color when yougot to your bedroomupstairs?”“Off-color? Inspector, I’m

shocked.”“You knowwhat Imean,”

snarledtheInspector.“Funny.Peculiar. Something thatattractedyourattention.”“Oh!No,Inspector.”“Did you notice whether

the door to your mother’sbedroom was open orclosed?”“Itwas closed. Iwent into

myroom, toremythingsoff,and dropped off to sleep. I

didn’t awaken until the fussthismorning.”“That’s enough. All right,

Gormly. Where’d you gowhenyouleftMissHatterflatatoneinthemorning?”Avoiding Jill’s innocently

inquiring gaze, Gormlymuttered: “I walkeddowntown.ThepartywasonSeventy-sixth Street. Walkedfor hours. I live at SeventhAvenue and Fifteenth Street,

and I got home—I don’tknow.Itwasgrowinglight.”“Hmm.Howlonghaveyou

andHatterbeenpartners?”“Threeyears.”“How long have you

knowntheHatters?”“Ever since my college

days. Conrad and I wereroommates,andIgottoknowhisfamilythen.”“IrememberthefirsttimeI

saw you, John,” volunteered

Jill softly. “I was the littlestgirl.Were you nice, or wereyounice?”“None of that blarney,”

growled the Inspector. “Stepaside, Gormly. Bigelow, Iunderstand your firm hasbeen handling all of Mrs.Hatter’s legal business. Didthe old lady have anybusinessenemies?”The lawyer replied

politely: “You know as well

as I do, Inspector, that Mrs.Hatterwasahmm!—aratherpeculiar woman. Unorthodoxin every way. Enemies?Certainly. All Wall Streetoperatorshaveenemies.ButIshouldn’t go so far as to say—no, decidedly not—thatanyone hated her enough tocommitmurder.”“That’s a help. Then

what’s your idea about thisbusiness?”

“Sad, very sad,” saidBigelow, pursing his lips.“Very sad. And, do youknow, I haven’t the faintestnotion about it. Not thefaintest.” He paused, andadded hastily, “Nor of whomight have tried to poisonMiss Campion two monthsago, as I think I told youthen.”The District Attorney

stirred impatiently. “Come,

Inspector, we’re gettingnowhere. Mr. Bigelow, isthereawill?”“Certainly.”“Anything unusual about

it?”“Yesandno.I——”Theyall turnedata tapon

thedoor.TheInspectorstrodeheavily across the room andopened the door two inches.“Oh,Mosher,”hesaid.“Whatisit?”

Big Mosher’s voicetouched rumbling bassundertones. The Inspectorsaid: “No!” in a veryaffirmative voice. Hechuckled suddenly andslammed the door inMosher’s face.Thenhewentto District Attorney Bruno’sside, whispered something;and Bruno’s face became astudyinself-control.“Ah—Mr. Bigelow,” said

Bruno, “when do you intendformally to read the will toMrs.Hatter’sheirs?”“Tuesday at two o’clock,

afterthefuneral.”“Good. We’ll hear the

details then. I think that’s allfor——”“Onemoment,Mr.Bruno,”

said Mr. Drury Lane in apeacefulvoice.“Ofcourse.”Lane turned to Jill Hatter.

“When did you last see themandolin that is usually keptinthisroom,MissHatter?”“Mandolin? Last night

afterdinner—justbeforeIleftthehousewithJohn.”“And when were you last

inyourfather’slaboratory?”“York’s smellery?” Jill

shrugged her prettyshoulders.“Monthsago.Yes,a good many months ago.Neverdid like theplace, and

York didn’t like to have methere, either. You know—father and daughterrespecting each other’sprivacy, and all that sort ofbunk.”“Quite so,” said Lane,

unsmiling. “And have youvisitedthelaboratoryupstairssince the disappearance ofMr.Hatter?”“No.”He bowed—the tiniest

ghostofabow.“Thankyou.”“That’s all,” snapped

InspectorThumm.The two men and the girl

left the room with alacrity.Outside in the corridorChesterBigelowcaughtJill’selbow persuasively, and shesmiled up at him. JohnGormly, scowling, watchedthem saunter into thedrawing-room. He stoodhesitating a moment, then

began rather uncertainly toparadeupanddown thehall,followed by the indifferenteyes of several loungingdetectives. The three men inthe library looked at eachother. Words seemedunnecessary. InspectorThummwenttothedoorandsent a detective to fetchLouisaCampion’snurse.

Miss Smith’s examination,

with total unexpectedness,developed a number ofinterestingpoints.Thebuxomnurse had subdued herfeminine frailties under themantleofherprofession,andwas very brisk, very official,in her early replies. Had sheseenthemandolininthecasethe day before? She did notrecall.Shewas,with the lateMrs. Hatter, the mostfrequent visitor to Louisa

Campion’s bedroom? Yes.Did she recall the mandolinever having been inLouisa’sroom for any reasonwhatsoever?—this was Mr.DruryLane’squestion.No;ithad been in the case eversince York Hatter’sdisappearance and so far asshe knew had never beenremovedforanyreasonatall.Lane:“Didanyonebesides

Mrs. Hatter ever eat fruit

fromMissCampion’sbowl?”Miss Smith: “Oh, no.

Louisa’s room is shunnedbytherestofthefamily,sir,andnone of them would dream,after Mrs. Hatter forbade it,of takinganything belongingto Louisa … poor creature.Of course, occasionally thechildren would sneak in andsteal an apple or so, but thisdoesn’thappenoften,becauseMrs Hatter was very stern

withthechildren,andthelasttime ithappened,about threeweeks ago, she whippedJackieandscoldedBilly,andthere was a fuss, and Jackiescreamed his young head offas usual, and hismother hadanother of the usual quarrelsaboutMrs.Hatterstrikingthechild;anditwasratherawful.It wasn’t the first time;Mrs.Hatter—that’s Martha, Imean—Martha is meek as

anything usually, but she’sfierce when her mother-instinct is aroused, and sheandMrs.Hatter—that is, hermother-in-law—werecontinually quarreling aboutthe right to disciplineMartha’schildren.…Oh, I’msorry,sir.Idogoon.”“No,no,MissSmith,we’re

vitallyinterested.”District Attorney Bruno:

“The fruit, Mr. Lane, the

fruit. Miss Smith, did younotice the fruit-bowl on thenight-tablelastnight?”MissSmith:“Yes,sir.”“Did it contain exactly the

samefruititcontainstoday?”“Ithinkso,sir.”Inspector Thumm: “When

didyoulastseeMrs.Hatter?”Miss Smith (beginning to

show nervousness): “Lastnightatabouteleven-thirty.”“Tellusallaboutit.”

“Mrs. Hatter generallyattended to Louisa’s before-bedwantsherself,but Iwentin for a last look about andfound Louisa already in herbed. I patted her cheek andused the board to ask her ifshewantedanythingbefore Iturned in. She said no—Imean, she toldme shedidn’tbythesign-language.”“We understand all that.

Goon.”

“Then I asked her if shewantedanyfruit,andIturnedto the fruit-bowl. She saidno.”Lane (slowly): “Then you

didobservethefruit?”“Oh,yes.”“How many pears were

there?”Miss Smith (her piggish

eyesfillingwithalarm):“Oh!There were only two therelast night, and this morning

there were three! I didn’trecallbefore…”“You’re positive, Miss

Smith? This is of vitalimportance.”Miss Smith (eagerly):

“Yes,sir.Thereweretwo.I’llsweartoit.”“Was one of the pears

spoiled?”“Spoiled? No, sir. Both

wereripeandfresh-looking.”“Ah! Thank you, Miss

Smith.”Inspector Thumm

(grumpily):“Whathasthisto—All right, Miss Smith.What wasMrs. Hatter doingallthistime?”“Shewasdressedinanold

wrapperandwasabout togoto bed. She just—well, youknowwhatwomendobeforetheygotobed.”“You bet I do. I’m a

marriedman.Howdidtheold

ladyact?”“Snappy, grumpy—but

nothing unusual. She’d justtaken a bath, and in factseemed in better spirits—forher,Imean—thanusual.”“Then that was how the

boxofbathpowderhappenedtobeonthetable!”“No, sir. The powder-box

isalwaysonthetable.Louisa,poorthing, lovesnicesmells,and she likes the odor of

talcum—she’s alwayspowderingherself.”“Didyounoticetheboxon

thetable?”“Yes,sir.”“Wasitopen?”“No,sir,thelidwason.”“Tight?”“Well, no, as I recall; it

wasonsortofloose.”Mr. Drury Lane nodded

and smiled very agreeably,and Inspector Thumm

acknowledged this minorvictorywithasurlybobofhishead.District Attprney Bruno:

“Miss Smith, are you aregisterednurse?”“Yes,sir.”“How long have you been

inMrs.Hatter’semploy?”“Four years. Oh, I know

it’s an unheard-of time to beononecase,butIwasgettingolder, the salary was

tempting, and I didn’t likeknocking about—it’s an easyjob, sir, and besides I’vegrown very fond of Louisa,poorsoul—shehassolittletolivefor.Actually,mynursingtalentsaren’tusedmuchhere.I’ve beenmore a companionto Louisa than a nurse. Igenerallystaywithher in thedaytime, while Mrs. Hattertookcareofheratnight.”“Please be a little less

verbose, Miss Smith. Afteryou left the bedroom lastnight,whatdidyoudo?”“I went to my own room

nextdoorandretired.”“Did you hear anything

duringthenight?”Miss Smith (blushing):

“No, sir. I—I’m a heavysleeper.”Inspector Thumm (eyeing

Miss Smith’s figurecritically): “That’s the word,

allright.Anyideawhomighthave wanted to poison thisdeaf-mute patient of yours,MissSmith?”Miss Smith (blinking

rapidly):“No.Oh,no!”“Did you know York

Hatterwell?”Miss Smith (with relief):

“Yes,sir.Hewasaquietlittleman, andhenpeckedbyMrs.Hatter.”“Are you familiarwith his

chemicalresearchwork?”“A bit. He seemed to feel

that my being a nurse—youknow—linked us in someway.”“Were you ever in his

laboratory?”“A few times. Once he

invited me in to watch himexperimentwithaserumonabunch of guinea-pigs—injected them, he did. Veryinteresting and educational. I

rememberabigdoctorIonce——”Lane: “I suppose your

nursing-kit includes ahypodermicsyringe?”“Yes,sir,twoofthem.One

for large injections and oneforsmallinjections.”“Areyoustillinpossession

of both of them? Onecouldn’t have been stolenfromyourkit?”“No, sir! Just a few

minutesagoIlookedintomykit, because I saw that thehypo was found in Louisa’sroom—Dr. Schilling, is hisname?—he was carrying itwhen he came into the room—and I thought maybesomeone had stolen one ofmine. But both were in mykit.”“Have you any notion

where the syringe found inMrs. Hatter’s room might

havecomefrom?”“Well, I know there are a

number of them in thelaboratoryupstairs.…”Inspector Thumm and

District Attorney Bruno(together):“Ah!”“… because Mr. Hatter

used them in hisexperiments.”“Howmanydidhehave?”“I really don’t know. But

he kept a card index of

everything in his laboratoryin a steel cabinet there, andyoumay finda recordof thenumber of hypos still in thecabinet.”

“Comein,Mr.Perry,”saidInspector Thumm, in thecajoling tone of a hungryspider.“Comein.Wewanttotalktoyou.”Edgar Perry hesitated in

thedoorway.Hewas,onefelt

instantly, the type of manwho would always hesitatebeforetakingaction.Tallandslender—a man in his mid-forties—he was every inchthestudent.Theface,closelyshaven and bluish, wasascetic, sensitive, fine. Helooked rather younger thanhis age; an illusion created,Mr. Drury Lane noted,chiefly by the brilliance anddepthofhiseyes.Hecamein

slowly and sat down in thechairtheInspectorindicated.“This is the children’s

tutor, I gather?” inquiredLane, smiling pleasantly atPerry.“Yes.Yes,”saidPerryina

husky voice. “Er—what wasit you wanted of me,InspectorThumm?”“Just a little talk,” replied

the Inspector. “Nothingspecial.”

They all sat down andstared at each other. Perrywas nervous; he keptmoistening his lips and, forthemost part, examining therug at his feet when herealized the accusing natureoftheglancesdirectedtowardhim.… Yes, he knew themandolin was never to betouched. No, he had neverbeen in York Hatter’slaboratory. He had no

particular bent for science,and besides Mrs. Hatter’scommand was strict. He hadassumed his duties in theHatterhouseholdintheweekafter the preceding NewYear’s; the former tutor ofConradHatter’s children hadresigned after an argumentwith Martha, for she hadprotested strenuously whenshehadcaughthimwhippingthe boy Jackie one day for

havingtriedtodrownacatinthebathtub.“Anddoyougetalongwith

the brats?” asked theInspectorsternly.“Oh, quite. Yes. I manage

very nicely,” murmuredPerry. “Although they aredifficultat timesI’veworkedout a system”—he smiledapologetically—“one ofrewards and punishments,and it has been fairly

successful.”“You find this a pretty

toughplacetowork,I’llbet,”said the Inspector, not verysubtly.“Sometimes,” confessed

Perry with a trace ofanimation. “The youngstershave a tendency to runwild,and I’m afraid—this is in nosense a criticism, pleaseunderstand!—I’m afraid thattheirparentsaren’tthebestof

disciplinarians.”“Especially the kids’ old

man,”remarkedThumm.“Well—perhaps he is not

the best example for hischildren,” said Perry. “I dofind it trying at times, but Ineedthe—themoney,andthesalary is excellent. Severaltimes,”hewenton inaburstof confidence, “I’ll confessI’ve been tempted to resign,but—”

He stopped in confusion,startled,itseemed,athisowntemerity.“But what, Mr. Perry?”

askedLaneencouragingly.“The household, while

hectic, has itscompensations,” he replied,clearinghisthroat.“Imean—there’s Miss Hatter—MissBarbaraHatter, I should say.ForwhomIhave—forwhosereally remarkable poetry I

have the most profoundadmiration.”“Ah,” said Lane. “An

academic reverence. What isyour idea, Mr. Perry, abouttheoddthingsthathavebeenoccurringinthishouse?”Perryflushed,buthisvoice

grew firmer. “I have noexplanation, sir. But onethingIammorallycertainof:Barbara Hatter, no matterhow the others may be

involved, would never stooptotheignominyof—ofcrime.She’stoofine,toosplendidaperson, too sane, too sweet…”“It’sniceofyoutosayso,”

remarked the DistrictAttorney gravely, “I’m sureshe’d be pleased. Now, Mr.Perry, how often are youaway from the house—ofcourse,youlivein?”“Yes. In a room on the

third floor—the attic floor. Irarely takeanextended leavefrommyduties;Ihadashortvacation,infact,onlyonce—fivedays inApril.OtherwiseSundays are my own, andgenerally I spend them bymyselfawayfromthehouse.”“Alwaysbyyourself?”Perry bit his lip. “Perhaps

that’s not strictly true. MissHatterseveral timeshasbeenkind enough to—to go out

withme.”“Isee.Wherewereyoulast

night?”“I retired early tomyown

room and read for an hour.ThenIwenttosleep.Imightsay,” he added, “that I wasentirely unaware of anythingwronguntilthismorning.”“Naturally.”Therewas a silence. Perry

wriggled in his chair.Grimness flared in the

Inspector’s eye.… Does heknow that Louisa Campionloves fruit and always has abowlofitonhernight-table?He looked bewildered—yes,butwhatofit?Doesheknowwhether Mrs. Hatter hadpreferences in fruits—Blankness—a shrug. Andagainasilence.Mr.DruryLane’stonewas

friendly. “You say you firstcame to this house early in

January,Mr.Perry.ThenyounevermetYorkHatter,Itakeit?”“No. I’ve heard very little

about him, and what I knowI’velearnedchieflyfromBar—fromMissHatter.”“Doyou recall theattempt

topoisonMissCampion twomonthsago?”“Yes,yes.Aghastlything.

The house was in an uproarwhen I returned that

afternoon. I was naturallyshocked.”“How well do you know

MissCampion?”Perry’svoicelifted,andhis

eyes brightened. “Ratherwell, sir. Rather well!Altogether a remarkableperson.Ofcourse,myinterestin her is purely objective—she’s an extraordinaryproblemineducation.Shehaslearnedtoknowme,andtrust

me,I’msure.”Lanewasthoughtful.“You

said a moment ago thatyou’re not interested inscience,Mr.Perry. I assume,then, that you haven’t muchof a scientific education.You’re unfamiliar, forexample,withpathology?”Thumm and Bruno

exchanged puzzled glances.But Perry nodded in a frigidway. “I see clearly what

you’re driving at. It is yourtheory, I suppose, that theremust be some fundamentalpathological condition in thebackground of the Hatterfamily to account for theiraberrations?”“Bravo,Mr.Perry!”smiled

Lane. “And do you agreewithme?”Thetutorsaidstiffly:“Iam

neither a physician nor apsychologist. They’re—

abnormal,Iadmit;but that isasfarasIcaretogo.”Thumm heaved himself to

his feet. “Let’s get this overwith. How’d you get thejob?”“Mr. Conrad Hatter had

advertised for a tutor. Ipresented myself with anumber of others, and wasfortunate enough to beselected.”“Oh, then you had

references?”“Yes,” said Perry. “Yes.

Yes,indeed.”“Stillgot’em?”“Yes…yes.”“Iwanttoseethem.”Perry blinked, then rose

andquicklyleftthelibrary.“There’s something

doing,”saidtheInspectortheinstantthedoorclosedbehindPerry.“Somethingbigatlast.This is justgoin’ through the

motions,Bruno!”“What on earth are you

talking about, Inspector?”askedLane,smiling.“Doyoumean Perry? I confess thataside from certain infallibleindications of romance, Ican’t——”“No, I don’t mean Perry.

Waitandsee.”Perry returnedwith a long

envelope. The Inspectorextracted a sheet of heavy

paper from the envelope andhastilylookeditover.Itwasashort letter ofrecommendation, stating thatMr. Edgar Perry hadsatisfactorily performed hisduties as private tutor to theundersigned’s children, andhad left for no reason ofincompetence. The note wassigned James Liggett andboreaParkAvenueaddress.“Okay,” said Thumm a

little absently, returning theletter. “Just keep available,Mr. Perry. That’s all fornow.” Perry sighed withrelief, stuffed the letter intohispocket,andhurriedoutofthe library. “Now,” said theInspector, rubbing his hugepalms together, “now for thedirty work.” He went to thedoor. “Pink! Get ConradHatterinhere.”

All the longconversations,all the tedious questions, allthe fog and doubt anduncertainty seemed pointedtoward this. Actually, it wasnot so;but it seemed so, andeven Mr. Drury Lane felt aquickeningofthepulseattheexultation in InspectorThumm’svoice.The incident of the male

Hatter, however, began withas little fanfare as had the

others.ConradHattercameinquietly—a tall and fidgetingman with harsh featuresdeeply stamped. He washolding his emotions incheck,itappeared;hewalkedcarefully, like a blind mantreadingoneggs,andheheldhis head stiffly, with theunnaturalness of a paralytic.Hisforeheadwaswet.Hehadnosoonersatdown,however,when the illusion of peace

was violently shattered. Thelibrary door banged open,there was a scuffle in thecorridor, and Jackie Hattercamebounding in,yelping inhissmall-boy’sconceptionofthe Indian call, and herdingthe diminutive figure of histoddling brother Billy beforehim.Jackie’sdirtyrighthandgrippeda toy tomahawk,andBilly’s hands were tightly ifinexpertly tied behind his

proudly stiff back. InspectorThummgawped.The whirlwind came at

theirheels.MarthaHatter,hertired face drawn and harried,flew into the libraryafter thetwo children. None of thethree paid the least attentionto the room’soccupants.Shecaught Jackie behind Lane’schair and slapped his facewith vigor. The boy droppedhis tomahawk, which had

been swishing dangerouslyclose to little Billy’s skulland, throwing back his head,began to howl. “Jackie! Youterrible child!” she criedstridently. “I’ll teach you toplaythatwaywithBilly!”Billy promptly began to

cry.“Here, for God’s sake,”

snarled the Inspector, “can’tyou take care of yourchildren, Mrs. Hatter? Keep

’emoutofhere!”Mrs. Arbuckle, the

housekeeper, puffed into theroomat the tailof thechase.Hogan, the unfortunatepoliceman, lumbered behindher. Jackie had one wildglimpse of his persecutorsbeforetheyclosedinonhim.He kicked Hogan’s legalmost with pleasure. For amoment nothing could beseen but flying arms and red

faces.ConradHatterhalfrosefrom his chair, self-controlshattered.Hate burned in hispale eyes. “Take the damnbrats out of here, you fool!”hesaidinaquiveringvoicetohiswife.Shestarted,droppedBilly’s arm, flushed to herhair, and looked aroundwithconscious, frightened eyes.Mrs. Arbuckle and Hoganmanaged toget the twoboysoutoftheroom.

“Well!” said the DistrictAttorney, lighting a cigarettewith shaking fingers. “Isincerely hope there’s nomoreof that.…Might’swellallowMrs. Hatter to remain,Inspector.”Thumm hesitated. Lane

rose unexpectedly with pityin his eyes. “Here, Mrs.Hatter,” he said gently. “Sitdown, and calm yourself.There is no need for fright.

Wedon’t intend to hurt you,mydear.”Shesankintothechair,her

face drained of color, staringatherhusband’scoldprofile.Conrad seemed to haveregretted his outburst; hishead was lowered now, andhe wasmuttering to himself.Lane retired quietly to acorner.A point of valuable

informationcameoutatonce.

Both husband and wife hadnoticed the mandolin in itsglasscasetheeveningbefore.But Conrad was able toestablishtheessentialfact:hehad got home past midnight,at 1:30 a.m., to be exact.Hehad stopped in the librarydownstairs to get a nightcap.“There’s a well-stockedcabinet of liquor in thisroom,” he explained calmly,pointing to a boule cellaret

nearby.Itwasatthistimethathe had noticed the mandolinin its case, quite as it hadbeenformonths.Inspector Thumm nodded

with satisfaction: “Swell,”heremarked to Bruno. “Thathelps us fix the layout.Whoever took the mandolinout of the case probably didsojustbeforecommittingthemurder.Wherewereyou lastnight,Mr.Hatter?”

“Oh,” he replied, “out.Business.”Martha Hatter’s pale lips

tightened; she kept her eyessteadily on her husband’sface.Hedidnotlookather.“Outonbusinessatone in

the morning,” said theInspector judiciously. “Well,I don’t blame you. Wha’d’you do when you left thelibrary?”“Look here!” shouted

Conrad so suddenly that theInspector’s eyes narrowedand his teeth stuck out in afightinggrin.Theman’sneckwas knotty with passion.“Whatthehellareyoutryingto hint at? I said ‘out onbusiness,’ damn you, and Imeantoutonbusiness!”Thumm was still; then he

relaxed and said genially:“Sure you mean it. Well,where’d you go from here,

Mr.Hatter?”“Upstairs to bed,”

mumbled Conrad, his ragesubsidingasquicklyasithadcome. “My wife wassleeping. I heard nothing allnight.Tankedup—Isleptlikeadeadone.”Thumm was very

solicitous: it was “Yes, Mr.Hatter,”and“Thankyou,Mr.Hatter,” in the sweetest ofvoices.TheDistrictAttorney

repressedachuckleandLanelooked at the Inspector withamused curiosity. The spideragain, he thought—a ratherobvious spider, and Thummturned to Martha. Her storywas brief: She had put thechildrentobedinthenurseryat ten o’clock, and had goneout for a walk through thePark.Shehadreturnedalittlebefore eleven, and soon afterhadgonetobed.No,shehad

not heard her husband comein; they occupied twin beds,andshehadsleptthesleepofthe dead, for the children’santics during the day hadwornherout.TheInspectorproceededin

leisurely fashion now; hisimpatience of the previousinterviews had quitedisappeared.Nowhe seemedcontent to ask routinequestions and receive

uninformative replies in themostgenerousspirit.Neither,it seemed, had entered thelaboratorysinceitssealingbyMrs. Hatter. Both were wellacquainted with thehouseholdcustomofthedailyfruitbowl on Louisa’s night-table, and with old Mrs.Hatter’saversiontopears.But the virus in Conrad

Hatter’sbloodcouldnotlongbe denied. The Inspector

asked some inconsequentialquestion concerning YorkHatter. Conrad lookeddisturbed,but shrugged. “Myoldman?Aqueerduck.Halfnutty.Nothingmuchtohim.”Martha sucked in her

breath and flashed a balefullook at her husband. “Thepoorsoulwasjusthoundedtohisdeath,ConradHatter,andyoudidn’tliftafingertosavehim!”

That strange rage grippedhim again; it puffed into hotlife on the instant, the cordsof his neck swelling likehoods. “Keep out of this!This is my affair, you rottenslut!”There was a stunned

silence. Even the Inspectorwas shocked, and growleddeep in his throat. DistrictAttorney Bruno said withcold emphasis: “You’ll do

well to moderate yourlanguage, Hatter. It’s rathermy affair, and the affair ofInspectorThumm.Sitdown!”he said sharply, and Conrad,blinking, sat down. “Now,”continuedBruno, “talk to us,Hatter. Have you anyexplanation for the attemptsto take the life of your half-sister,LouisaCampion?”“Attempts? Wha’ d’ya

mean?”

“Yes,attempts.Themurderof your mother was anaccident, we’re convinced.Therealobjectoflastnight’svisit was to poison a pearintendedforMissCampion!”Conrad’s mouth opened

stupidly. Martha rubbed herwearyeyes,asifthiswerethecrowning tragedy. When shedropped her hand, her faceglowered with loathing andhorror. “Louisa…”muttered

Conrad.“Anaccident…I—Idon’t know what to … Ireallydon’tknow.”Mr.DruryLanesighed.The moment had come.

Inspector Thumm made forthe library door so suddenlythat Martha Hatter clutchedher breast. He halted at thedoorandturnedtosay:“Youwereoneofthefirsttoseethebodyandyourmother’sroomthis morning—you, your

sister Barbara, and MissSmith.”“Yes,”saidConradslowly.“Did you notice themarks

of footprintsmadeby talcumpowderonthegreenrug?”“Dimly.Iwasexcited.”“Excited, hey?” Inspector

Thumm teetered on his toes.“So you noticed thefootprints. Well, well. Holdeverything.” He yanked thedoor open and yelled:

“Mosher!”Thebigdetectivewhohad

whispered to Thumm duringtheexaminationofJillHatter,Bigelow, and Gormlytramped obediently into theroom.Hewasbreathinghard,and holding his left-handbehindhisback.“You say,” remarked

Inspector Thumm, carefullyshutting the door, “that youdimlynoticedthefootprints?”

Suspicion, fear, and thatinstantaneous anger suffusedConrad’s face. He leaped tohis feet, shouting: “Yes, Isaid!”“Swell,” replied Thumm,

grinning. “Mosher, my lad,showthegentlemanwhat theboyshavefound.”DetectiveMosherwhipped

his left hand into view withthe dexterity of aprestidigitator. Lane nodded

sadly—it was as he hadsupposed. In Mosher’s handwasapairofshoes…apairof white canvas oxfords,obviouslyaman’sdespitethepointed toes.The shoesweregrimy, yellowed, worn withage.Conradremainedstaring;Martha had risen, clutchingthe arm of her chair, whiteand drawn. “Ever see thesebefore?” asked Thummjovially.

“I—Yes.That’sanoldpairof my shoes,” stammeredConrad.“Where d’ye keep them,

Mr.Hatter?”“Why—in the clothes

closet in my bedroomupstairs.”“When did you last wear

’em?”“Last summer.” Conrad

turned slowly to his wife. “Ithought,” he said in a

strangledvoice,“Itoldyoutothrowthemout,Martha.”Martha moistened her

whitelips.“Iforgot.”“Now, now, Mr. Hatter,”

said the Inspector, “don’t begoing into one of yourtantrums again. Pay attention… Do you know why I’mshowing you these shoes ofyours?”“I—No.”“You don’t? Then I’ll tell

you.” Thumm steppedforward and all the assumedfriendliness left his face. “Itmight interest you to know,Hatter, that the soles andheels of this pair of yourshoes fit exactly into thefootprints of your mother’smurderer left on the rugupstairs!”Martha uttered aweak cry

andput thebackofherhandtohermouthatonce,asifshe

had been indiscreet. Conradblinked—a habit of his,thought Lane; he wasgrowing befuddled;whateverintelligence he might oncehave had was dying ofalcoholism.… “What of it?”whispered Conrad. “That’snot the only pair of shoes inthe world of that size andshape——”“True,” growled Thumm,

“but it’s the only pair in this

house, Hatter, that not onlyexactly fits the murderer’sfootprints, but that also hasgrainsof thesamepowderaswas spilled upstairs stuck toitssolesandheels!”

Scene4

LOUISA’SBEDROOM.SUNDAY,JUNE5.12:50P.M.

“Do you really think …?”began the District AttorneydoubtfullywhentheInspectorhad packed Conrad Hatter,moving like a man in adream,off tohis roomunderguard.“I’m going to quit

thinking,” snapped Thumm,“and go into action. Theseshoes, now—prettyconclusive,I’dsay!”“Ah—Inspector,” said Mr.

DruryLane.Hecameforwardand took the dirty whitecanvas shoes from Thumm’shand. “Please.”He examinedthe shoes. They were rundown at the heel, old andworn.Therewasasmallholein the sole of the left shoe.“Doesthisshoematchtheleftfootprintsontherug?”“Sure,” grinned the

Inspector. “When Moshertoldmewhat the boys found

in Hatter’s closet, I had ’emcheckupontheprint.”“But surely,” said Lane,

“youdon’t intend to let it goatthat?”“What do you mean?”

demandedThumm.“Well, Inspector,” replied

Lane,weighingtherightshoethoughtfully, “it seems tomethatyouwillhavetohavethisoneanalyzed.”“Hey?Analyzed?”

“Lookhere.”Laneheldupthe right shoe. At the front,on the toecap, there weresplattered stains, as of someliquid.“Hmm,” muttered the

Inspector.“Youthink…?”Lane smiled broadly. “I

don’t think, Inspector, in thiscase—I, too, suggest action.If I were you I should sendthis shoe to Dr. Schilling atonce for an examination of

the stains. It’s possible thattheyweremade by the sameliquid that filled thehypodermic. If so …” Heshrugged. “Confirmation thatthe poisoner wore the shoes,inwhichcaseitwilllookbadforMr.Hatter,I’mafraid.”There was the merest

suggestion of mockery inLane’s tone, and Thummlooked at him sharply. ButLane’sfacewassober.

“Mr. Lane’s right,” saidBruno.The Inspector hesitated,

then took the shoes fromLane and, going to the door,beckoned a detective.“Schilling. Pronto,” he said.The detective nodded andtooktheshoesaway.It was precisely at this

moment that the stout figureofMissSmithappearedinthedoorway.“Louisa feelsmuch

better now, Inspector,” shesaid shrilly. “Dr. Merriamsaysitwillbeallrighttoseeher. She has something shewantstotellyou.”On the way upstairs to

Louisa Campion’s bedroom,District Attorney Brunomuttered:“Whatthedevilcanshehavetotellus?”The Inspector grunted.

“Some queer notion, Isuppose. After all, she’s a

lousywitness.Whatacase!Amurder with a live witness,by God, and she has to bedeaf-dumb-and-blind.Might’swell have been deadlastnightforallthegoodhertestimonywilldo.”“I shouldn’t be sopositive

about that, Inspector,”murmured Lane, trotting upthe stairs. “Miss Campionisn’t a total loss. There arefivesenses,youknow.”

“Yes, but …” Thumm’slipsmovedsilentlyandLane,able to read them, wasamused to see that he wascataloguing the five sensesandhaving,forthemoment,ahardtimeofit.The District Attorney said

thoughtfully: “Of course, itmight be something. If shecan tag it onto this Conradchap … After all, she musthave been awake in the

approximate period of thecrime—her bare footprints inthepowder tend toshowthat—it’sevenprobablefromthespot where she fainted andthe criminal’s footprintsfacing it that shemight havetou—”“An excellent point, Mr.

Bruno,”saidLanedryly.The door to the bedroom,

across the corridor from thestairhead, now stood open.

Thethreemenwentin.The removal of the dead

body had done something totheroom,despitethefactthatthe whitish footprints stillshowed on the rug and thebedclotheswerestilltumbled.There was an air ofcheerfulnessabout it; thesunstreamed in, and motesdanced in its shafts. LouisaCampion sat in a rockingchair on the farther side of

her own bed, her face blankas usual, her head cocked,however, in a peculiarposition—as if she werestraining her dead ears tohear. She rocked with slowrhythm. Dr. Merriam wasthere, hands clasped behindhis back, looking out of awindow into the gardenbelow. Miss Smith stood atthe other window in adefensive attitude. And,

leaning over Louisa’s chairpattinghercheekgently,wasCaptain Trivett, theneighborly mariner, his redbristly face grave withconcern.Theystraightenedupatthe

entranceofthethreemen;allexcept Louisa, who ceasedhersteadyrockingtheinstantCaptain Trivett’s corrugatedhandstoppedpattingherface.Louisa’s head instinctively

jerked toward the doorway;herlargeblindeyesremainedexpressionless, but a look ofintelligence, almosteagerness, captured the plainpleasant features, and herfingersbegantowriggle.“Hello, Captain,” said the

Inspector.“Sorrytomeetyouagain under suchcircumstances. Hmm!Captain Trivett—DistrictAttorneyBruno,Mr.Lane.”

“Gladtomeetye,”saidtheCaptain, inahoarsedeep-seavoice. “This is the mosthorrible thing I’ve—I justheard th’ news, and I comeover to see if—if—Louisawasallshipshape.”“Sure,she’sallright,”said

Thummheartily.“Bravelittlewoman,sheis.”Hepattedhercheek. She shrank back withthe lightning recoil of aninsect. Her fingers twirled

dizzily.Who.Who.Miss Smith sighed and,

bending over the board withits domino-like pieces inLouisa’s lap, spelled out:“Thepolice.”Louisa’s head nodded

slowly, and her soft bodystiffened. There were deepcircles under her eyes. Herfingers moved again. I havesomething to tell thatmaybe

important.“She looks serious

enough,” muttered Thumm.Hearrangedthepiecesontheboard to read: “Tell us thestory. Tell us everything.Nomatterhowslight.”Louisa Campion nodded

againasherfingersflewoverthemetaldots,andastartlingexpression of grimnesstouched her lips. She raisedherhandsandbegan.

The story Louisa toldthrough the medium ofMissSmith was as follows: SheandMrs.Hatterhadretiredtotheir bedroom the nightbeforeathalf-pastten.Louisahadundressedandhermotherhad tucked her into bed. Shehad crept into bed at fifteenminutes to eleven; she knewthe exact time because shehad asked her mother withher fingerswhat hour itwas.

With Louisa propped up onherpillow,kneeshighandtheBraille board resting uponthem, Mrs. Hatter hadinformed her that she meanttotakeabath.Louisadidnotcommunicatewithhermotheragainforaboutthree-quartersof an hour, she estimated; atwhich time Mrs. Hatterreturned from the bathroom(she supposed) and began toconduct another little

conversationbymeansoftheBraille pieces. Despite thefactthattheconversationwasinconsequential—mother anddaughter discussed theproblem of new summerclothes for Louisa—she hadfeltuneasy.…(At this point Mr. Drury

Lane gently interrupted theflowof thewoman’sstory tospellouton theboard:“Whydidyoufeeluneasy?”

She shook her head in apiteously troubled way, andherfingersquivered.Idonotknow.Itwasjustafeeling.Lane pressed her arm

softly,inreply.)During this amiable little

conversationabout a summerwardrobe, it appeared, Mrs.Hatterwaspowderingherself,the result ofherbath.Louisaknew because she hadsmelled the powder, which

sheandhermotherbothusedandwhichalwaysstoodreadyon the night-table betweenthe twin beds. It was at thistime that Miss Smith hadentered the bedroom. Sheknew, because she had feltMiss Smith’s touch on herbrow, and because MissSmith had asked her if shewanted any fruit. She hadsignaledno.(Lane stopped Louisa’s

storybyengagingherfingers.“Miss Smith, when youentered the bedroom, wasMrs. Hatter still powderingherself?”MissSmith:“No,sir,she’d

just finished, I imagine,because she was getting intoher nightgown, and thepowder-box with its lidloosely on, as I said before,was on the table. I saw thestreaks of talcum on her

body.”Lane: “Did you notice

whether talcumhadfallenontherugbetweenthesebeds?”Miss Smith: “The rugwas

clean.”)Louisa went on. It was

onlyafewminutesafterMissSmith left—although Louisadid not know the exact time—that Mrs. Hatter went tobed, after bidding herdaughter good-night in the

customary way. Louisa wascertain that her mother hadactually got into bed, for amoment later, moved by aninexplicableimpulse,shehadcreptoutofherownbedandkissed her mother again, theold lady patting her cheekfondly in reassurance. ThenLouisa had returned to herbedandcomposedherselfforsleep.(Inspector Thumm

interrupted:“Didyourmothertell you anything last nightthatshowedshewasafraidofsomething?”No.Sheseemedgentleand

calm,asalwayswithme.“What happened then?”

Thummspelledout.Louisa shuddered and her

hands began to tremble. Dr.Merriam watched heranxiously. “Perhaps you’dbetter wait a moment,

Inspector. She’s a littleupset.”Captain Trivett patted her

head, and she reached upquicklytograsphishandandsqueeze it. The old manreddened, withdrawing hishand after amoment. Louisaseemed comforted, however,and resumed with a rapidrhythm and a compressedmouth that indicated thestrain she was under and the

iron determination toproceed.)She slept fitfully, having

always been a poor sleeper,nightanddaybeingthesameto her. She had no idea howmuch time elapsed. Butsuddenly—it was hours, ofcourse—she found herselfwide awake, wrapped in hersmotheringmantleofsilence,but straining with all hersenses. What awakened her

she did not know, but sheknew that something waswrong,feltsomethingalienintheroom,verynear,nearherbed.…(“What was it more

exactly?” inquired DistrictAttorneyBruno.Her fingers fluttered. I do

notknow.Icannotexplain.Dr.Merriambracedhistall

figureandsighed.“Perhaps Ishould explain that Louisa

has always been slightlypsychic, a naturaldevelopment from herfrustrated sensory condition.Her intuitive faculty, somesixth sense, has always beenabnormally active. I’ve nodoubt this is a result of hercompletelythwartedsensesofsightandhearing.”“I think we understand,”

saidMr.DruryLanesoftly.Dr. Merriam nodded. “It

mayhavebeennomore thana vibration, the aura of amoving body, the feel offootstepsattackingthealwaysalert sixth sense of thisunfortunatewoman.”)The deaf-dumb-and-blind

womanwent onwith a rush.…Shewas awake.Whoeverit was near the bed, she felthad no right to be there. Shehadexperiencedoncemoreaqueer formless emotion that

at rare intervals stirred her—the convulsive desire to givevoice,toscream.…(She opened her pretty

mouth and emitted a chokedmewing sound, so utterlyalien to any normal humansound that they all feltsuddenlychilled.Itwasratherhorrible—the spectacle ofthat plump little woman, soquiet and plain, giving voiceto a distorted cry of animal

fright.)She closed her mouth and

proceeded as if nothing hadhappened.Naturally,shewenton,she

couldhearnothing, since shehad lived in a soundlessworldsinceshewaseighteen;buttheintuitionofsomethingwrong persisted. And then,striking her remaining senseswith the shock of a physicalblow, she smelled the bath

powder again. This was sostrange, so unforeseen, soseemingly causeless that shefelt more alarmed thanbefore. The talcum! Could itpossibly bemother?And yet—no,sheknewitwasnothermother; her aroused instinctof fear told her that. It wassomeone—someonedangerous.She made up her mind in

thatwhirling instant to creep

outofbed, togetasfarfromthemenaceasshecould.Theimpulsetofleewashotwithinher.…(Lane grasped her fingers

gently.Shestopped.Hewentto thebed,Louisa’sbed,andtested it with one hand. Thespring squeaked in protest,and he nodded. “Noisy,” hesaid. “Undoubtedly, themarauder heard MissCampiongetoutofbed.”)

He pressed her arm, andshecontinued.Shehad slippedoffon the

side to her mother’s bed.Bare-footed on the rug, shehad crept along her bedtowarditsfoot.Near thefootshe had straightened up andextendedherarm.Suddenlysherosefromthe

rocking chair, her faceworking, andwith sure stepswent around her bed. She

evidentlyfelt thatherpowersof description wereinadequate, and thatillustration would make herstory clearer. Withremarkable gravity—like achild engrossed in a game—shelaydownfullyclothedasshewason thebed,and thenbegantoenactindumb-showher movements of that earlydark morning. She sat upnoiselessly, a look of

immenseconcentrationonherface, head cocked in thatpeculiar and deceptivelistening attitude. Then sheswung her legs to the floor,the bed spring creaking,slippedoffthebed,andbeganto creep along its sidedoubled over, one handfeeling its way along themattress. Almost at thefootboard she straightenedup, turned so that her back

was towardherownbedandshe was facing her mother’ssquarely,andputoutherrighthand.…(They watched in a

palpable silence. She wasliving over that horriblemoment, and something ofthestrainand fearof it cameto them dimly through hermute absorption. Lane wasscarcely breathing; his eyeswere almost shut, and what

was visible glittered; theywerefixedonLouisa.…Her right arm was

stretchedrigidlybeforeherinthe familiar blindman’sgesture, as unbending as asteel bar and exactly parallelto the floor. Lane’s glancedropped sharply to the spoton the rugdirectlybelow thetipsofherextendedfingers.)Louisasighed,relaxed,and

her arm dropped heavily to

her side. Then she began tospeak with her hands again,Miss Smith breathlesslyinterpreting.AmomentafterLouisahad

stretched out her right arm,something brushed herfingertips. Brushed by—shehad felt a nose, and then aface…acheek,really,astheface moved by her stifffingers….(“A nose and cheek!”

exclaimed the Inspector.“God, what luck! Here—letmetalktoher——”Lane said: “Now,

Inspector,there’snoreasontobecome excited. If you’llpardon me, I’d like to haveMiss Campion repeat whatshe has just illustrated forus.”Hegottheboardandmade

her understand what hewanted.Shepassedherhand’

wearily across her forehead,butnoddedandwentback tothe bed. They watched moreintentlythanbefore.Theresultwasuncanny.In

every movement, in everyinclinationofheadandbody,in every gesture of her arms,hersecondillustrationwasanexactrepetitionofherfirst!“Oh, splendid!” murmured

Lane. “This is fortunate,gentlemen.MissCampion, in

common with other blindpeople, has a photographicmemory for physicalmovements.Ithelps—ithelpsconsiderably.Considerably.”They were puzzled—what

helped considerably? He didnotenlightenthem,butitwasapparent from theextraordinary expression onhis face that an all butoverwhelming thought hadstruck him—something so

clearly remarkable that evenhe, trained as he was by alifetime in the theater tocontrol his facial muscles,couldnotconcealhisreactiontothementaldiscovery.“I don’t see …” began

District Attorney Bruno in atroubledway.Lane’s features ironed

themselves out magically,and he said in a smoothvoice: “I fear I’ve been

melodramatic.PleaseobserveMiss Campion’s restingposition.Shestandspreciselywhere she stood in the earlyhours this morning—hershoesfitalmosttotheinchinthe bare prints near the footof her bed. What do we seeopposite her position, facingher? The arrested marks ofthe murderer’s shoes.Obviously,then,themurderermust have stood in the thick

of the talcum-strewn area atthe instant of contact withMiss Campion’s fingers—foron this spot the two shoe-toemarks are clearest, as if themurderer momentarily frozetothespotwhenhefeltthoseghostly fingers out of thedarkness.”Inspector Thumm

scratchedhisheavyjaw.“Allright, but what’s somarvelous about that? That’s

the waywe’ve been figuringit all along. I don’t see…Asecondagoyouseemed——”“Isuggest,”saidMr.Drury

Lane quickly, “that MissCampionproceed.”“Here, here, wait a

minute,” said the Inspector.“Not so fast, Mr. Lane. Ithink I seewhat struckyou.”Hewheeled on Bruno. “Youknow, Bruno, from theposition of this woman’s

arms when she touched themurderer’s cheek we’ll beable to establish themurderer’s height!” HeglaredtriumphantlyatLane.The District Attorney’s

face darkened. “A goodstunt,” he said incisively, “ifyoucandoit.Butyoucan’t.”“Whynot?”“Come,come,gentlemen,”

said Lane impatiently, “let’sgeton.…”

“Just a moment, Mr.Lane,” said Bruno in coldtones. “Look here, Thumm.You say we can reconstructthe murderer’s height fromthe fact thatMissCampion’sarmwasoutstretchedandthatshe touched the murderer’scheek. Yes, certainly—if themurderer was standing erectwhenshetouchedhim!”“Well,but…”“As a matter of fact,”

continuedBrunobriskly,“wehave every reason to assumethat,farfrombeingerect,themurderer was crouchingwhenMissCampion touchedhim. From the trail offootprints it’s evident that hehadjust left theheadofMrs.Hatter’s bed after killing herandwasonhiswayoutoftheroom.Hemayhaveheard,asMr. Lane suggested, thecreaking of Miss Campion’s

bed. Hewould, therefore, bein a hurry—the instinct tostoop, to crouch wouldoperate instantaneously.” Hesmiled faintly. “So there’syour problem, Thumm. Howare you ever going todetermine the extent of ourmurderer’s crouch? For youwould have to know exactlybefore you could figure hisheight.”“All right, all right,” said

Thumm,flushing.“Don’t rubitin.”HecockedasoureyeatLane. “But if I know Mr.Lane, something just hit himlikeatonofbricks.If it isn’tthe murderer’s height, whatthedevilisit?”“Really, Inspector,”

murmured Lane, “you makeme blush for my art. Did Iactually give you thatimpression?” He squeezedLouisa’sarm,andatonceshe

proceededwithherstory.)Things had happened in a

flashing instant. The shock,the materialization out ofeternal darkness of a solidbody, the flesh-and-bloodreality of her formless fears,hadmade her feel faint. Sherealized with horror that hersenses were deserting her,andshefeltherkneesbuckleunder her. She was stillslightlyconsciousasshefell;

butshemusthavefallenwithmore force than she realized,for her head struck the floorhard and she rememberednothing more until she wasbeing revived in the earlymorning.…Her fingers stilled, her

arms dropped, and withsagging shoulders shereturned to the rockingchair.Captain Trivett once morebegan to pat her cheek. She

rested it against his hand,wearily.Mr. Drury Lane looked at

his two companions,with aninquiring eye. Both menseemed puzzled. He sighedand went to Louisa’s chair.“You have omittedsomething. What kind ofcheekwasitthatyourfingersfelt?”Something like

astonishment banished the

weariness for a moment. Asplainly as if she had spoken,they read in her features:“Why, I mentioned that,didn’t I?” And then herfingers flew, andMissSmithtranslatedwithatremorinhervoice. It was a smooth softcheek.If a bombshell had

exploded behind him,Inspector Thumm could nothave acted with more

stupefaction. His big jawhung loose, and his eyesgoggledat the still fingersofLouisa Campion as if hecould not believe his eyes—or his ears. District AttorneyBruno remained staringincredulouslyatthenurse.“Areyousure,MissSmith,

that you’ve translatedcorrectly?”askedBrunowithdifficulty.“That’s just what—what

she said, sir,” replied MissSmithnervously.Inspector Thumm shook

his head like a prize-fightershaking off the effects of ahard blow—his habitualreaction to surprise—andglared down at Louisa.“Smooth and soft,” he cried.“Impossible. Why, ConradHatter’scheek——”“Then it wasn’t Conrad

Hatter’s cheek,” said Mr.

Drury Lane softly. “Whyproceed on preconceptions?After all, if Miss Campion’stestimony is credible, wemust rearrange our data.Weknow that Conrad’s shoeswere worn by the marauderlast night, but it is fallaciousto assume, as you and Mr.Bruno did, that merelybecause Hatter’s shoes wereworn,Hatterworethem.”“You’re perfectly right, as

usual,” muttered Bruno.“Thumm——”But Thumm, like the

human bulldog he was,refused to discard a solutionso readily. He ground histeeth and snarled at MissSmith: “Use those damneddominoesandaskherifshe’ssure,andhowsmoothitwas.Goahead!”Miss Smith, frightened,

obeyed. Louisa eagerly ran

her fingers over the board.Shenoddedimmediately,andherhandsspokeoncemore.Avery smooth soft cheek. I amnotmistaken.“Well, she seems positive

enough,” muttered theInspector.“Askher,you,ifitcouldn’t have been her half-brotherConrad’scheek.”No. Impossible. It was not

aman’scheek,Iamcertain.“All right,” said the

Inspector. “That settles that.After all, we’ve got to takeher word for it. So it wasn’tConrad,and itwasn’taman.That makes it a woman, byGod.Atleastwe’vemadeupourmindsonthat!”“She must have worn

Conrad Hatter’s shoes toleave a false trail,” remarkedthe District Attorney. “Thatmeans the powder was upseton the rug deliberately.

Whoever it was knew theshoeswouldleaveprints,andthat we would look for thepairwhichmatchedexactly.”“You think so, Mr.

Bruno?” asked Lane. TheDistrict Attorney scowled.“No,Iamnotbeingfacetiousor smart,”Lanewenton inaworried tone. “There issomething preposterouslypeculiaraboutallthis.”“What’speculiaraboutit?”

demanded Thumm. “Openand shut, asBruno explainedit,seemstome.”“Still open, Inspector, I’m

sorry to say, and far fromshut.” Lane manipulated themetal Braille letters, spellingout themessage: “Could thatcheekyoufeltbyanychancehavebeenyourmother’s?”The reply flashed in

protest: No. No. No. Motherhad a wrinkled face.

Wrinkled. This was smooth.Smooth.Lane smiled sadly. There

wasthefeelingofundistortedtruth in everything thisamazing creaturecommunicated. Thumm waspacing the floor withelephantine strides, andBruno looked thoughtful.CaptainTrivett,Dr.Merriam,Miss Smith stood quite still.Decision came into Lane’s

face. He arranged the piecesagain. “Think hard. Do yourecall anything—anything—else?”Shehesitatedwhenshehad

read themessage, and restedher head against the backsupport of the rocker. Herheadmovedfromsidetoside—a slow and grudgingnegative, as if somethingtottered on the brink ofremembrance, something

whichrefusedtofall.“There is something,”

murmured Lane with a traceof excitement, as he studiedthat blank face. “It needsprompting!”“But what, for God’s

sake?”criedThumm.“We’velearnedasmuchaswecouldpossiblyhopefor.…”“No,”saidLane.“Wehave

not.” He paused, and thencontinued slowly: “We are

dealingwithahumanwitnesstwoofwhose five senses areatrophied. The only contactsthis witness makes with theouter world are taste, touch,and smell.Any reactions thiswitness may have hadthroughthesethreeremainingsenses are our only possibleclues.”“I never thought of it in

that way,” said Brunothoughtfully. “And, to be

sure, she’s already providedonecluethroughhersenseoftouch.Maybe——”“Exactly, Mr. Bruno. To

hope for a clue from hersense of taste is, of course,futile. But smell! We haveevery reason to believe.… Ifshewereananimal,adog,forexample, with the ability tocommunicate sensoryimpressions, how simple itwould be! Yet something of

such a strange conditionexists. Her olfactory nervesare probably hypersensitive.…”“You are,” said Dr.

Merriam in a low voice,“perfectly correct, Mr. Lane.Therehasbeenmuchdisputein the medical professionabout the problem ofcompensatory senseimpressionism. But LouisaCampion is a remarkable

answer to the argument. Thenerves at the tips of herfingers, the taste-buds in hertongue, the olfactories in hernoseareacutelydeveloped.”“Very pretty,” said the

Inspector,“butI——”“Patience,”saidLane.“We

may be on the track ofsomething extraordinary. Wearediscussingsmell.Alreadyshehastestifiedtotheodorofthe talcumwhen itwasupset

—certainly not a normalsensitivity. It’s barelypossible …” He stoopedswiftly and rearranged themetal pieces on the Brailleboard.“Smell.Didyousmellanything aside frompowder?Think.Smell.”Slowly, as her fingers

traversed the dots on theboard, something bothtriumphantandpuzzledcameintoherface,andhernostrils

flared wildly. That she wasstrugglingwitha recollectionwas apparent; that therecollection was tugging,tugging … Then the lightdawned over her, and sheuttered another of thosethrilling animal cries whichseemed to break from herspontaneously when she wasaroused. Her fingers rippledintomotion.Miss Smith’s mouth

droppedopenasshestaredatthose intelligent digits. “It’shard to believe she knowswhatshe’ssaying.…”“Yes?” exclaimed the

DistrictAttorneywithashrillexcitement.“Why, do you know,”

continued the nurse in thesame stupefied voice, “shesays that in the instant shetouched the face, and as shefellfainting,shesmelled…”

“Come, come!” cried Mr.Drury Lane, his eyesglittering, fixed on MissSmith’sfatlipsasshepaused.“Whatdidshesmell?”Miss Smith giggled

nervously.“Well—somethinglikeicecream,orcake!”For a moment they stared

at the nurse, and she staredback. EvenDr.Merriam andCaptain Trivett seemedastounded. The District

Attorney repeated the wordsmutely, as if he could notbelievehisears.AndThummscowledaterrifyingscowl.ThetensesmileleftLane’s

face. He was plainlynonplused. “Ice cream orcake,” he repeated slowly.“Strange,verystrange.”TheInspectorbrokeintoan

ugly laugh. “There you are,”hesaid.“Notonlyisshedeaf-dumb-and-blind, byGod, but

she’s inherited the nuttinessofhermama’sfamilyaswell.Ice cream or cake! Hell anddamnation.Thisisafarce.”“PleaseInspector…Itmay

notbesoinsaneasitsounds.Why should she think of icecream or cake? There ishardly anything in commonbetween the two except acertain pleasantness of odor.It may be—yes, I believe itmaybemuch saner thanyou

think.”Hemovedthemetalletters.

“You say ice cream or cake.Hardtobelieve.Perhapsfacepowder,coldcream.”A pause, as her fingers

searchedtheboard.No.Notawoman’s face powder, orcoldcream.Itwas—well,likecake or ice cream, onlystronger.“Not definite enough. It

was a sweet scent, was it

not?”Yes.Sweet.Piercingsweet.“Piercing sweet,”muttered

Lane. “Piercing sweet.” Heshook his head and formedanother question. “Perhapsfromaflower?”Perhaps … She hesitated,

andhernosewrinkledas shebentherwilltorecapturethathours-oldodor.Yes.Onekindof flower. An orchid, a rarevariety. Captain Trivett gave

ittome.ButIamnotsure.…Captain Trivett’s old eyes

blinked; they were a sharpblue, but they werebewildered now. Hisweatherbeatenfaceturnedthecolorofold saddle leatherastheireyesfocuseduponhim.“Well, Captain?”

demandedThumm.“Canyoulendahand?”Captain Trivett’s rusty

voice cracked. “She

remembers, bedad! Lemmesee, now …’Twas nigh onseven year’ ago. Friend o’mine—Cap Corcoran of th’freighter Trinidad—hauled itup with him from SouthAmerica.…”“Seven years ago!”

exclaimed the DistrictAttorney.“That’salongtimetorememberoneodor.”“Louisa’s a mighty

remark’ble little lady,” said

theCaptain,blinkingagain.“Orchid,” mused Lane. “It

grows stranger.What varietywas it, Captain, do yourecall?”The old seaman’s hulking

bony shoulders twitched.“Never did know,” he said,with the tonal charm of arusty old winch. “Somethin’rare.”“Hmm.”Laneturnedtothe

board again. “Just that one

varietyoforchid,noother?”Yes. I love flowers and

never forget the odor of ablossom. That was the onlytime I had ever smelled suchanorchid.“The great horticultural

mystery,” remarked Lane,with an effort at lightness.But his eyes were humorlessandhekept tapping the floorwith one foot. Theywatchedhimwithaspeciesofhelpless

fatigue. And suddenly hebrightened, and smacked hisforehead. “Of course! Ineglected the most obviousquestion!” and became busyonce more with the littlemetal letters. The messagespelled out: “You say ‘icecream.’ What kind of icecream? Chocolate?Strawberry? Banana?Walnut?”That at last the right note

had been struck was soapparent that even InspectorThumm, whose temper wasfar from friendly, glanced atLanewithadmiration.Forthemoment Louisa discoveredthrough the medium of herfingertips what Lane wasasking, her face lighted up,shenoddedbrightlyasabird,several times, and replied atonce in the sign language: Iknow now. Not strawberry,

not chocolate, not banana,not walnut. Vanilla! Vanilla!Vanilla!She was sitting pertly on

the edge of the rocker, herblindeyesveiled,butherfacebegging for commendation.Captain Trivett furtivelysmoothedherhair.“Vanilla!” they exclaimed

together.The fingers flew on.

Vanilla. Not necessarily ice

cream or cake or orchids oranything else definite. Justvanilla. I am positive.Positive.Lanesighed,andthefrown

between his eyes deepened.Louisa’sfingersweremovingso rapidly now that MissSmith had a difficult timetranslating;shewasforcedtomake Louisa repeat thefinger-motions. Somethingsoft came into the nurse’s

eyes as she turned to theothers.Please. Does that help. I

want to help. I must help.Doesit,doesithelp.“Lady,” said the Inspector

grimly, as he strode to thedoor of the bedroom, “youbetyoursweetlifeithelps.”Dr. Merriam bent over

Louisa, who was trembling,andputhishandonherwrist.Henodded,pattedhercheek,

andstoodbackagain.CaptainTrivett, for no conceivablereason,lookedproud.Thumm opened the door

and yelled: “Pink! Mosher!Somebody! Get thathousekeeper up here rightaway!”Mrs. Arbuckle was

inclined at first to betruculent.Theinitialshockofhavingherhouseholdoverrunbypolicehadpassedoff.She

puffed up the stairs graspingher skirts with both hands,rested on the landing,muttering rebelliously toherself; and then she bargedinto the death-room with afrank glare for the Inspector.“Well! What d’you want ofmenow?”shedemanded.The Inspector wasted no

time. “What did you bakeyesterday?”“Bake? For goodness’

sake!”Theyfacedeachotherlike two bantams. “Whatd’youwanttoknowfor?”“Ha!” said Thumm

fiercely. “Evading thequestion, eh? Did you bakeyesterdayordidn’tyou?”Mrs. Arbuckle sniffed. “I

can’tsee…No,Ididnot.”“You did not. Hmm.” He

thrust his jaw two inchescloser.“Doyouusevanillainyourkitchen?”

Mrs. Arbuckle stared athim as if he were demented.“Vanilla? Of all things!Certainly I use vanilla.WhatkindofpantrydoyouthinkIkeep,anyway?”“You use vanilla,” said

Thumm judiciously. Heturned to the DistrictAttorney and winked. “Sheuses vanilla, Bruno.… Allright,Mrs.Arbuckle.Didyouuseanyof it foranypurpose

at all—yesterday?” Herubbedhishands.Mrs.Arbuckle flounced to

thedoor. “Iwon’t standhereandbemadeafoolof,I’lltellyou that,” she snapped. “I’mgoing downstairs where Idon’t have to answer crazyquestions.”“Mrs. Arbuckle!”

thunderedtheInspector.She halted uncertainly and

lookedaround.Theywereall

staring very seriously indeedin her direction. “Well …no.” She added with a weakrecurrence of temper: “Say,areyoutryingtotellmehowtorunmyhouse?”“Pipe down,” saidThumm

pleasantly. “Don’t get nasty.Haveyougotvanilla inyourpantryorkitchennow?”“Ye-es. A brand-new

bottle. I ran out of it threedaysago, so Iorderedanew

bottle from Sutton’s. Ihaven’t had time to open ityet.”“But how is that possible,

Mrs. Arbuckle?” asked Lanegently. “According to myinformation you prepare anegg-nog for Miss Campioneveryday.”“What’sthatgottodowith

it?”“Eggnogs, when I was a

boy, Mrs. Arbuckle,

containedvanilla.”Thumm started forward,

surprised. Mrs. Arbuckletossed her head. “And whatdoes thatprove,pray?You’llfindgratednutmeginmine.Isthatacrime,too?”Thummstuckhisheadinto

thehall.“Pink!”“Yep.”“Goondownstairswiththe

housekeeper. Bring upeverything that smells

vanilla.” Thumm jerked histhumb toward the door. “Getgoing, Mrs. Arbuckle, andmakeitsnappy.”Noonesaidanythingwhile

theywaited.Thummwhistleda hideous tune and strolledabout,handsbehindhisback.Bruno’s thoughts were faraway; he seemed bored.Louisasatquietly,andbehindher stood the motionlessfigures of Miss Smith, Dr.

Merriam,andCaptainTrivett.Lanelookedoutofawindowatthedesertedgarden.Ten minutes later Mrs.

Arbuckle and her escortplodded up the stairs.Pinkussohn was carrying asmall flat bottle wrapped inpaper. “There’s a lot ofsmellsdownthere, fancyandassorted,” grinned thedetective, “but nothin’besides this bottle of vanilla

smellsvanilla.Didn’topenit,Chief.”Thumm took the bottle

from Pinkussohn. It waslabeledVANILLAEXTRACT,andits seal and wrapper wereintact.Hepassedit toBruno,who examined, itindifferently, and returned it.Lane did not move from thewindow.“Wha’d you do with the

old bottle, Mrs. Arbuckle?”

askedThumm.“Threw it out in the

garbage three days ago,” thehousekeeperrepliedshortly.“Itwasemptythen?”“Yes.”“Did you ever find any of

it missing while the bottlestillhadvanillainit?”“How on earth should I

know? Do you think I counteverydrop?”“I wouldn’t be surprised,”

retortedtheInspector.Hetoreoff the wrapper and seal,uncorked thebottle, andheldit up to his nose. A strongodor of vanilla slowlypermeated the air in thebedroom; there could be nodoubt of the authenticity ofthis bottle. It was full andquiteuntamperedwith.Louisa Campion stirred,

her nostrils dilating. Shesniffed aloud, and turned her

head toward thebottleacrossthe room, like abee scentinghoney from afar.Her fingerssprangintolife.“She says that’s it—that

smell” cried Miss Smithexcitedly.“Does she indeed?”

murmured Mr. Drury Lane,who had wheeled and waswatching thenurse’s lips.Hestrodeforwardandarrangedamessage on the board. “As

strongly as you smell itnow?”Not quite. Fainter last

night.Lane nodded rather

hopelessly. “Is there any icecream in the house, Mrs.Arbuckle?”“No,sir.”“Wasthereyesterday?”“No,sir.Noneallweek.”“Utterly

incomprehensible,” said

Lane. His eyes were asbrilliantly thoughtful as ever,his face as young and fresh,but there was somethingweary about him, as if hewere exhausted fromthinking. “Inspector, itmightbe wise to have everyone inthe house assembled hereimmediately. In themeantime, Mrs. Arbuckle, ifyou will be so gracious,please collect and bring to

this room all the cake andcandyinthehouse.”“Pink,” growled Inspector

Thumm,“yougoalong—justincase.”The room filled up.

Everyone was there—Barbara,Jill,Conrad,Martha,George Arbuckle, Virginiathe housemaid, Edgar Perry,even Chester Bigelow andJohn Gormly, both of whomhad doggedly remained on

thepremises.Conrad seemeddazed, and kept glancingstupidly at the policeman byhis side. The others had anexpectant air.… InspectorThumm hesitated, and thensteppedback out of theway.He and District AttorneyBruno looked on gloomily.Lanestoodstill,waiting.Thechildren, as usual, hadpounced in with their elders.They were noisy and ran

whooping about the room.For once no one paidattentiontotheirantics.Mrs. Arbuckle and

Pinkussohn staggered inunderamountainofcakeandcandy-boxes. Everyonelooked astonished. Mrs.Arbuckle deposited her loadon Louisa’s bed and wipedher scrawny neck with ahandkerchief. Pinkussohn,with an expression of

profounddisgust,dumpedhisarmfulonachairandwalkedout.“Have any of you ladies

andgentlemencakeorcandyin your personal quarters?”inquiredLanegravely.Jill Hatter said: “I have. I

alwayshave.”“Will you please fetch it,

MissHatter.”Jill went soberly enough

fromtheroomandreturneda

moment later with a largerectangularbox,onwhichthewords: “Five pounds,” couldbe detected. At the sight ofthis gargantuan packet ofsweets John Gormly’s fairskinturnedthecolorofbrick.He grinned feebly andshuffledhisfeet.Under their wondering

eyes Mr. Drury Laneproceeded about a curiousbusiness.Hecollectedall the

boxes of candy in a pile onthe chair, and opened themone by one. There were five—one of peanut brittle, oneof fruit-filled chocolates, oneof hard candy, one of hard-centeredchocolates,andJill’swhich, opened, presented adelectable array of expensiveglacédnutsandfruits.Lane selected pieces at

random from all five boxes,nibbled thoughtfully at

several, and then fed samplepieces to Louisa Campion.The sturdy youngster, Billy,looked on with hungry eyes;and Jackie, subdued by thismysterious procedure, stoodon one leg and stared withfascination.LouisaCampionshookher

head.No.Notanyofthis.Notcandy,Iwaswrong.Vanilla!“Either these confections

are made without vanilla,”

observedLane,“orthevanillacontent is so slight that itmakes no differenceappreciable to the taste.” HesaidtoMrs.Arbuckle:“Thesecakes,Mrs.Arbuckle.Whichof these did you bakeyourself?”Haughtily she pointed to

three.“Did you use vanilla in

them?”“Ididnot.”

“The others werepurchased?”“Yes,sir.”Lane fed small pieces of

eachboughtcaketothedeaf-dumb-and-blind woman. Sheshook her head again,emphatically.Miss Smith sighed and

watchedLouisa’sfingers.No. I do not smell the

vanilla.Lanetossedthecakesback

on thebedand stoodmusingin desperation. “Er—what’sall this rigmarole about?”asked Bigelow, the lawyer,withatraceofamusement.“‘I’m sorry.” Lane turned

absently.“MissCampionwasface to face last night withMrs. Hatter’s murderer. Sheispositivethatatthemomentof contact she detected apronounced odor of vanilla,presumably emanating from

the person or vicinity of themurderer. Naturally, we’retrying to solve this minormystery—whichmay lead toa major discovery andultimatesuccess.”“Vanilla!” repeated

Barbara Hatter withamazement. “Scarcelycredible, Mr. Lane. And yetLouisa is uncanny in hersensory memories. I’m sure——”

“She’s daffy,” said Jilldistinctly. “Shemakes thingsup half the time. Too muchimagination.”“Jill,”saidBarbara.Jilltossedherhead,butfell

silent.They might have known.

There was the confusedsoundofscramblingfeet,andthey wheeled in some alarmto see Jackie Hatter, hisundersizedlittlebodyagileas

a monkey’s, diving intoLouisa’s bed, his handsscrabbling for the candy-boxes. Little Billy squealedwith delight and dived after.Theybeganwithfrantichasteto stuff their mouths withcandy.Martha pounced on them,

crying hysterically: “Jackie!Good heavens, you’ll cramyourself sick.… Billy! Stopthat this instant, or mother

will spank you hard!” Sheshook them and slappedsticky candy out of theirclawingfingers.Billy looked defiant, even

as he dropped his handful.“Want candy likeUnka Johngimme yest’day!” hescreamed.“What’s this?” roared

Inspector Thumm, dartingforward. He tilted Billy’sdetermined little chin

roughly, andgrowled: “Whatcandy did Unka John giveyouyesterday?”Thumm, even in his

pleasant moments, wasscarcely a gentleman toinspire confidence in littleboys; and when he scowled,as he did now, he waspositively terrifying. Billystaredupatthesmashednoseforonefascinatedinstant,andthen, wriggling out of the

Inspector’s grasp, he buriedhis tiny head in hismother’sskirtandhowled.“Very diplomatic, I must

say, Inspector,” remarkedLane,pushingThummoutofthe way. “You’d frighten aSergeant of Marines withthose tactics.… Here, son,”he said, squatting down byBilly’ssideandsqueezinghisshoulder reassuringly, “don’ttakeonso.Nooneisgoingto

hurtyou.”Thummsnorted.Butintwo

minutes Billy was in Lane’sarms, smiling through histears, and Lane wasconducting a conversationwith him anent the relativedelights of candy, toys,worms, and cowboys-’n’-Indians. Billy grew veryconfidential; this was a niceman.Unka Johnhadbroughtcandy for Billy. When?

Yest’day.“For me, too!” shouted

Jackie, tugging at Lane’scoat.“Indeed. What kind of

candywasit,Billy?”“Licorice!”shoutedJackie.“Lic’rish,” lisped Billy.

“Bigbags.”Lanesettheboydownand

looked at John Gormly.Gormlywasfretfully rubbingthebackofhisneck. “Is this

true,Mr.Gormly?”“Of course, it’s true!” said

Gormly with irritation.“You’re not suggesting thecandywas poisoned, I hope?I was calling onMiss Hatter—I brought her that five-pound box there—and,knowing how fond the boysare of licorice, I broughtsomeforthem.That’sall.”“I’m suggesting nothing,

Mr. Gormly,” replied Lane

mildly. “And it meansnothing, for licorice hasn’t avanilla odor. At the sametime one cannot be toocareful.Whymustyoupeoplespring to thedefensiveat thesimplest questions?” Hestooped over Billy again.“Did anyone else give youcandy,yesterday,Billy?”Billy stared; this question

was a trifle beyond hiscomprehension. Jackie

plantedhis thin legssquarelyon the rug and said shrilly:“Why don’t you ask me? Icantellyou.”“Verywell,Master Jackie,

Iaskyou.”“No. Nobody did. Only

UncleJohn.”“Fine.” Lane pressed a

handful of chocolates intoeach child’s grimy fist andsent them off with theirmother. “That’s all,

Inspector,”hesaid.Thumm waved the

companyoutofthebedroom.Lane observed that Edgar

Perry, the tutor, managedfurtively to slip into stepbeside Barbara: the twobegan to converse in lowvoices as they descended thestairs.Thumm was restless;

undecided; and at the lastmoment, as Conrad Hatter

wascrossing the threshold incustody of the policeman,Thummsaid:“Hatter!Waitaminute.”Conradnervouslyreturned.

“Whatisit—whatisitnow?”Themanwasinafunk;allhisformer belligerence haddeserted him; he seemedanxioustoplease.“Let Miss Campion feel

yourface.”“Feelmyface…!”

“Oh, I say,” objectedBruno, “you know, Thumm,whatshe——”“I don’t give two hoots in

hell,” saidThummdoggedly.“I want to make sure. MissSmith, tell her to feel Mr.Hatter’scheek.”The nurse silently obeyed.

Louisa looked expectant.Conrad, pale and tense,leaned over her rocker andMiss Smith placed Louisa’s

hand on his clean-shaven,almost beardless face. Shedrewitswiftlydown,up,anddown again; and shook herhead.Her fingers flew. Miss

Smith said: “She says it wasmuch softer than that. Awoman’s, she says. Not Mr.Hatter’s.”Conrad straightened up,

utterly bewildered. Thummshook his head. “Okay,” he

said in deep disgruntlement.“Youmaygoanywhereinthehouse,Hatter,butdon’tleaveit. You, officer, stay withhim.” Conrad trudged out,followed by the policeman.Thumm said: “Well, Mr.Lane, it’sagrandmess, isn’tit?”andlookedaroundfortheactor.Lanehaddisappeared.The magic, however, was

catholic.Lanehadslippedoutof the bedroom with a fixed

purpose; a simple errand, itwould seem—the merepursuit of an odor. Hewanderedfromroomtoroom,from floor to floor, goingthrough bedrooms,bathrooms, empty rooms, thestorerooms—he omittednothing. His chiseled nosewas on the alert. He smelledeverythinghecouldlayhandson; perfumes, cosmetics,vases of flowers, even

women’s scentedundergarments. Finally, hewent downstairs and into thegarden,wherehespentfifteenminutes in olfactorycontemplation of its manyflowers. Thewhole affair, assomehow he had known itwould be, proved entirelyvain. Nowhere did he sniffanythingwhichmightpossessthe “piercing sweet” vanillaodor Louisa Campion had

smelled. When he rejoinedThumm and Bruno in thedeath-room upstairs, Dr.Merriam had gone, andCaptain Trivett was holdingmute communication withLouisa by means of theBraille pieces. The twoinvestigatorsweredejected.“Where you been?” asked

Thumm.“Following the tail of a

scent.”

“Didn’t know scents hadtails.Haw!”Noone laughed,andThummscratchedhisjawsheepishly,“Nothingdoing,Isuppose?”Laneshookhishead.“Well, I’m not surprised.

There’s nothing anywhere.Thehousewassearchedfromtop to bottom anyway thismorning, and we haven’tfound a solitary thing thatmightbeimportant.”

“It’s beginning to look,”remarked the DistrictAttorney, “as if we hadanotherwhiteelephantonourhands.”“Maybe, maybe,” said

Thumm. “But I’m going totake a lookat that laboratorynextdoorafterlunch.Iwasinthere two months ago, andit’sjustpossiblethat…”“Ah yes, the laboratory,”

said Mr. Drury Lane

morosely.

Scene5

THELABORATORY.SUNDAY,JUNE5.2:30P.M.

Mrs. Arbuckle, still in thetruculent mood, servedInspector Thumm, DistrictAttorney Bruno, and Mr.Drury Lane a hazardous

luncheon downstairs in thedining-room. The meal wasfor the most part silent andpermeated with the odor ofgloom. The prevailing moodwas punctuated by Mrs.Arbuckle’s heavy shoesclumping in and out of thedining-room, and the clumsythumpsofdishesonthetable,set there by the rawbonedmaid, Virginia. Theconversation was desultory.

Atonepointitwasdominatedby Mrs. Arbuckle, who wasbitterlycomplainingaloud,tonooneinparticular,aboutthemessherkitchenwasin.…Itseemed that numerousgentlemenof thepolicewereeating their heads off at theback of the house. But noteven Inspector Thummbridled at her tone; he wastoo absorbed in chewing aleathery chop and an even

tougherthought.“All right,” said Bruno

after a silence of fiveminutes, and à propos ofnothing, “it’s Louisa thewoman is after—we’ll saywoman, since that cheekbusiness could hardly bemore conclusive. Murder oftheold ladywasn’t intended.She was battered over thehead in themurderer’s panicwhen she awakened during

the poisoning period. Butwho? I can’t see a streak oflightinthatdirection.”“And what the hell does

this vanilla business mean?”growled Thumm, throwingdown knife and fork indisgust.“Yes… Queer I have the

feeling that once we solvethat problem, we’ll be closetothetruth.”“Hmm,” said Mr. Drury

Lanechewingpowerfully.“Conrad Hatter.” muttered

the Inspector. “If it weren’tforthatcheektestimony…”“Forget it,’ said Bruno.

“Someone’s trying to framehim.”A detective strolled in

bearing a sealed envelope.“Messenger from Dr.Schilling just brought this,Chief.”“Ah!” said Lane dropping

knife and fork. “The report.Readitaloud,Inspector.”Thumm tore open the

envelope. “Let’s see. On thepoisonbusiness.Hesays:

DEARTHUMM:The spoiledpear contains considerablymore than a lethal dose ofliquefied bichloride ofmercury.Onebiteofthepearwouldhavecauseddeath.In answer to Mr. Lane’s

question: No, decay in thispear was not caused by thepoison; the pear was alreadyinarottenconditionwhenthepoisonwasinjected.The other two pears are

freefrompoison.The empty hypodermic

found on the bed containedthesamepoison.Ishouldsay,fromtheamountofbichloridefound in the pear and fromthe estimated bichloride

content in the hypo, that itwasfromthesyringethat thepearwaspoisoned.There is a minor

difference; I think Imay sayitismadeupbythestainsonthewhiteshoeyousentover.Thesplattersareofbichlorideof mercury. Probably somedripped and splashed on theshoe tip during injection ofthe pear. The stains are ofrecentorigin.

Autopsy report on thecadaver will be forthcominglate tonight or tomorrowmorning. But frompreliminaryexaminationIamcertain the post-mortemresultswill showno signs ofpoisoning whatsoever andwill confirm original opiniononcauseofdeath.SCHILLING

All of which checks,”mutteredThumm.“Well,that

clarifies the shoe businessandthepoisoned-peartheory.Bichloride of mercury, hey?Seems tome…Let’s go onuptothatlaboratory.”Mr. Drury Lane was

content to pull a long faceand remain silent. The threemen left their coffee halffinished, scraped their chairsback, and quit the room. Astheywent out theymetMrs.Arbuckle, grim and

unsmiling, bearing a tray onwhichstoodaglassofyellowcreamy fluid.Lane consultedhis wrist-watch; it was two-thirtyexactly.On the way upstairs Lane

took the letter from theInspector’s hand andpainstakingly read it. Hereturneditwithoutcomment.The bedroom floor was

quiet. For a moment theystoodattheheadofthestairs.

Then the door of MissSmith’sroomopened,andthenurse appeared leadingLouisaCampion—despitethetragedy, despite thedisruption of the household,custom remained, and thedeaf-dumb-and-blindwoman,made her way past the threemen down the stairs, boundfor the dining-room and thedaily eggnog. None of thethree said anything. It had

been arranged that LouisawastostayandsleepinMissSmith’s room until furthernotice.…CaptainTrivett andDr. Merriam had left thehouse longbefore.Theburlyform of Mosher, Thumm’sman,wasproppedagainsttheclosetwallofthedeath-room.Mosher, smokingquietly,yetonthealert,hadaclearviewof the doors leading into alltheroomsonthefloor.

TheInspectoryelleddown:“Pink!”DetectivePinkussohncame running up the stairs.“YouandMosherareondutyat this floor,getme?Relieveeach other. Nobody’s to gointo the old lady’s bedroom.Otherwise don’t botheranybody; justkeepyoureyespeeled.” Pinkussohn noddedandwentdownstairsagain.TheInspector fished inhis

vest pocket and produced a

Yale key. It was the key toYork Hatter’s laboratorywhich he had found in theeffects of the dead woman.He hefted it thoughtfully inhis hand, then rounded thestairhead and made for thelaboratory door, followed byBrunoandLane.Hedidnotunlockthedoor

at once. Instead, he squattedonhishamsandsquintedintothe small keyhole. He

grunted, took a tiny wireprobe from one of hisinexhaustible pockets, andinserted it into the hole. Hescraped it through, andthrough again, and began arotary motion. Finally,satisfied, he withdrew theprobeandexaminedit.Itwasclean.Hegottohisfeet,putaway

thewire,andlookedpuzzled.“Funny,” he said. “Thought

sure we’d find signs of waxin this lock. Would confirmtheideathatsomeonemadeawax impression of thekeyhole and had a duplicatekeywhittled out. But there’snowax.”“It’s not so important,”

said Bruno. “Either a waximpressionwasmadeandthekeyhole cleaned out, or elseMrs. Hatter’s key was‘borrowed’ temporarily by

the poisoner, a duplicatemade, and the originalreturned without herknowledge. In any event,we’ll never know, now thattheoldwomanisdead.”“Come, come, Inspector,”

said Lane impatiently. “Thisis getting us nowhere. Openthedoor.”Thummjabbedthekeyinto

the hole. It fitted snugly, buthe had difficulty turning it

over; the mechanism wasrusty, as if it had not beenused for a long time. Hedashedadropofperspirationfrom the tip of his nose andtwisted hard. With a squeakthe lock surrendered;something clicked; andThumm, grasping the handleof the door, pushed. Itsquealedprotest,likethelock—rustydoorhingesaswell.As the door swung open,

and the Inspector began tocross the threshold, Lane puthis hand on the big man’sarm.“Well?”saidThumm.Lane pointed to the floor

just inside the room. It wasuncovered hardwood, and itwascoatedwithanevenlayerofdust.Hestoopedandranafingeralongthefloor;itcameupsmudged.“Nosignofthisentrancehavingbeenusedby

yourmarauder,Inspector,”hesaid. “The dust isundisturbed, and from itsthickness must be manyweeksold.”“Wasn’t that way when I

saw it two months ago—notso much, anyhow,” saidThumm, lookinguncomfortable. “Couldn’thave jumped it, either.There’s a good six feetbetween the door and the

disturbedarea.Funny!”They stood sideby side in

the doorway and examinedtheroomwithoutgoingin.Asthe Inspector had said, theentire space before the doorwas untrampled; the dust laylikedun-coloredvelvet.Somesix feet from the doorhowever, the dust was in astate of confusion. Feet hadmade their marks there, andas far into the room as they

could see. But the feet hadalso been most careful toscuff out every clear print.Theconditionofthedustwasas remarkable: hundreds ofsteps, evidently, and not asingleidentifiableprint!“Damned careful, whoever

itwas,” saidThumm.“Justaminute. Iwant tosee if thereisn’t one print, anyway,around the tables there thatwe can photograph.” He

trampedin,callouslyplantinghis own Number Twelves inthe unviolated dust, andbegan to snoop around thetrampledareas.Hisfacegrewblack as he peered intoshadowy places. “Simplyunbelievable!” he grumbled.“Not a clear footprint. Well,come in—you can’t do anyharmtothisfloor.”The District Attorney

stepped inquisitively into the

laboratory, but Lane stoodstill on the threshold andexamined the room fromwhere he was. The doorwayin which he stood was theonly one to the room. Theroomwasofsimilarshape tothedeath-roomnextdoor,onthe east. Two windows, likethe windows of the death-room, were on the wallopposite the corridor wall,overlookingthegardenat the

rear.But,unlikethewindowsof the adjoining room, thesewere barred with thick solidstanchions of iron, no morethan three inches of daylightbetweenthem.Betweenthewindowsthere

was a white iron bedstead,simple and severe; in theangle made by the west andgarden walls, near the westwindow, therewas a dresser.Both articles of furniture

were made up, but dusty.Immediately to the right ofthehalldoortherewasanoldbattered rolltop desk and inthecornerasmallsteelfilingcabinet; to the left a clothescloset. On the west walls,extending for fully half thewall-space, Lane saw asturdilybuiltseriesofshelvesholding an army of bottlesand jars. The shelves restedflushonafloorclosetastheir

base, and the floor closet’swide low doors were closed.At right angles to theseshelveswere two rectangularworktables, scarred andmassive, covered with dustyretorts, racks of test-tubes,Bunsen burners, water-taps,electrical apparatus ofunfamiliar design—acollection of chemicalequipment which even toLane’s inexperienced eye

seemed very complete. Thetwo tables were parallel toeach other, with a spacebetweenthemwideenoughtohavepermittedthescientisttowork on either table bymerelyswingingabout.On the east wall, directly

acrossfromtheshelvesandatright angles to the tables,there was a large fireplaceexactly like the fireplace inthe death-room next door.

And at the rear of thelaboratory, on the east wallbetween bed and fireplace,stood a small rough work-bench pitted and burned bychemicals.Afewchairsstooduntidilyabout;a three-leggedstool with a circular seatstooddirectlybeforethefloorcloset beneath the middleshelves.Mr.DruryLanesteppedin,

closed the door, and crossed

the room. Everywhere hestepped beyond the sixfootspaceofunmarkeddust therewere signs of the scuffedfootprints.That someonehadbeen frequenting thelaboratory since YorkHatter’s death and InspectorThumm’s first investigationimmediately thereafter wasself-evident. And even moreplain, from the condition ofthe dust and the absence of

evenone clear footprint,wasthat the marauder haddeliberately erased withscrapings of the feet everywell-definedprint.“This is the result ofmore

thanonevisit,”ejaculatedtheInspector.“Buthow’dshegetin?”Hewenttothewindows,grasped the bars, and tuggedwith all his strength. Theywere immovable, imbeddedinconcrete.Thummcarefully

examined the concrete andthe bars themselves, on thelorn hope that several mightbefalsewithsomedeviceforunlocking. But this, too,proved fruitless, and heexamined the sill and theledge outside the windows.The ledge, however, whichwas wide enough to permitpassage to an agile person,showednosignoffootprints;nor was the dust on the sills

in the least degree disturbed.Thummshookhishead.He left the windows and

walked over to the fireplace,in front of which—as in therest of the room—manyscuffed footprints werevisible. He regarded thefireplace thoughtfully. It wasreal enough, although in acomparatively cleancondition. He hesitated, thendoubled his bulky figure and

stoopedtopokehisheadintothe fireplace. Growling withsatisfaction, he quicklywithdrewhishead.“What is it? What’s up

there?”askedBruno.“Dumbnottohavethought

of it before!” cried theInspector.“Why,youcanseetheskywhenyoulookupthatchimney! And there are oldspikesstuckintothebrickforfootholds—probably a

hangover from the days ofchimneysweeps. I’ll bet adollarthisistheway…”Hisfacefell.“Our lady entered the

laboratory, Inspector?”inquired Lane gently. “Yourface is toohonest todisguiseyour thoughts. You weregoing to say that ourhypothetical female poisonerentered via the chimney.Rather farfetched, Inspector.

Although, it’s true, a maleaccomplice might have usedthismeansofentry.”“Thegalsnowadayscando

anything men do,” saidThumm. “At the same time,that’sanidea.Theremightbetwoof’eminonthisthing,atthat.”HestaredatBruno.“ByGod, that would let ConradHatter in on it again! LouisaCampionmayhavetouchedawoman’s face, but it was

Conrad Hatter who smashedMrs.Hatteronthenoodleandleftthosefootprints!”“And that,” said the

District Attorney, “ispreciselywhatIhadinmind,Thumm,theinstantMr.Lanesuggested an accomplice.Yes, I think we’re gettingsomewhere.…”“Gentlemen, gentlemen,”

said Lane, “don’t put wordsinto my mouth, please. I

suggested nothing. I merelypointed out a logicalpossibility.Ah—Inspector, isthe chimney wide enough topermit a male adult todescendfromtheroof?”“D’you think I—Say, take

a look at it yourself, Mr.Lane. You’re no cripple,”saidThumminadisagreeablevoice.“Inspector, I’ll take your

wordforit.”

“Sure, it’s wide enough! Icould do it myself, and myshoulders aren’t exactlywhatyou’dcallskimpy.”Lane nodded, and in

leisurely fashion strolled tothe west wall for anexamination of the shelves.There were five, one underanother; and each of the fivewidths of shelving had beensubdivided by partitions intothreesections,makingfifteen

separate sections in all. NorwasthistheonlysignofYorkHatter’sneatmind.Forallthebottlesandjarsontheshelveswere of uniform size, thebottles were of the samewidthasthejars,andallboreuniform labels. The labelswere precisely hand-letteredin indelible ink with thenames of the container’scontents, many bearing anadditional strip of red paper

marked POISON; and eachdescriptive label showed,besides the name of thechemical and in some casesits chemical symbol, anumber.“An orderly mind,”

observedLane.“Yes,” said Bruno, “but it

doesn’tmeanathing.”Lane shrugged. “Perhaps

not.”It was apparent, as he

scrutinized the shelves, thatall the containers werearranged instrictlynumericalorder, Bottle #1 standing atthe extreme upper left of thetopmost left-hand section,Bottle#2 next to #1, Jar #3next toBottle #2, and so on.The shelves were full—therewere no gaping spaces;obviously, the shelves’ fullcomplementofchemicalswasdisplayedbefore them.There

were twenty containers toeach section of shelving,threehundredinall.“Ah,” said Lane. “Here’s

something interesting.” Hepointed to a bottle almost inthe center of the first sectionof the top shelf. It wasmarked:

#9:C21H22N2O2(STRYCHNIN)POISON

and bore the red POISON tab.This bottle contained whitetablets of a crystallinecomposition, and was onlyhalf full. But it was not thebottle itself in which Laneseemed interested; it was thedustat thebaseof thebottle.The dust had been disturbed,anditseemedcertainthatthebottleof strychninehadbeenremoved from the shelfrecently. “Wasn’t strychnine

the poison in the eggnog?”Laneasked.“Sure,” said Thumm. “I

told you we’d foundstrychnine here in ourinvestigation of the lab afterthat attempt a couple ofmonthsago.”“The bottle was standing

exactly where we see itnow?”“Yes.”“Had the dust of the shelf

where the bottle stands beendisturbed,asitisnow?”Thumm pushed forward

andlookedatthepresseddustwith a scowl. “Yep. Just thatway. Wasn’t so much dust,but enough to make meremember it. Iwascareful toput the bottle back, afterlooking at it, in the identicalspotwhereIfoundit.”Lane turned back to the

shelf.Hiseyesdroppedtothe

shelf below the topmost one.On the lower part of theshelf’s edge directly belowbottle #69, there was acurious oval smudge, as of adirty or dusty fingertip. Thelabelonthisbottleread:

#69:HNO3(NITRIC

ACID)POISON

and contained a colorless

liquid.“Queer,” said Lane to

himself in a surprised voice.“Do you remember thissmudge below the nitric acidbottle,Inspector?”Thumm squinted. “Yes.

Certainlydo.Itwastheretwomonthsago.”“Mmm.Fingerprintsonthe

nitricacidbottle?”“No.Whoeveruseditwore

gloves.Althoughit’struethat

we haven’t found traces ofnitricacidbeingused.MaybeHatter used it in anexperiment while he waswearingrubbergloves.”“Which fails,” said Lane

dryly, “to explain thesmudge.”Helethiseyetravelalongtheshelves.“Bichloride of mercury?”

asked the District Attorney.“If we can find some of ithere—and with Schilling’s

report that itwas in the pear…”“A well-stocked

laboratory, I must say,”observed Lane. “Here it is,Mr.Bruno.”Hepointedoutabottleonthecentral,orthird,shelf in the right-handsection. It was the eighthcontainer in that section; anditslabelread:

#168:BICHLORIDEOF

MERCURY—POISON

The bottle was not quitefull of the liquefied poison.The dust rimming it on theshelf had been disturbed.Thumm plucked the bottleoutbytheneckandlookeditover minutely. “Nofingerprints. Gloves again.”Heshookthebottle,scowled,and replaced it on the shelf.“Here’s where the bichloride

in the pear came from, allright. What a set-up for apoisoner!Alltheammunitionin the world just for thetaking.”“Mm,” said Bruno. “What

wasthatpoisonSchillingsaidwas in Hatter’s vitals whenthey fished him out of theLowerBay?”“Prussic acid,” replied

Lane. “And here it is.” Thepoison which York Hatter

had swallowed just beforejumping overboard was inBottle #57, on the top shelf,in the right-hand section. Itwas, like the others they hadexamined, plainly markedPOISON. A considerablequantityofthecolorlessfluidwasmissing;andontheglassInspectorThummpointedoutseveral fingerprints.Thedustinwhich thebottlestoodhadnotbeendisturbed.

“The fingerprints areYorkHatter’s.Wecheckedtheminthe original investigation ofthe first poisoning attemptagainst the Campionwoman.”“But how,” inquired Lane

mildly, “did you securesamples of Hatter’s prints,Inspector? Hewas buried bythattime,andIdon’tsupposeyou were able to ink hisfingerswhenyouhadhim in

theMorgue.”“Youdon’tmissatrick,do

you?” said Thumm with agrin. “No, we didn’t have arecord of his prints from thebody itself, because the fleshof his fingers was so eatenaway that the loops andwhorlsweregone.Wehadtocome up here and dust thefurniture, looking for prints.We found plenty, and theycheckedwiththeprintsonthe

prussicacidbottle.”“On the furniture, eh?”

murmuredLane. “Quite so. Iasked a stupid question,Inspector.”“UndoubtedlyHatter filled

a vial from this prussic, orhydrocyanic acid—asSchilling calls it—fromBottle#57,”saidBruno,“andthen went out to poison anddrown himself. The bottlehasn’tbeentouchedsince.”

Mr. Drury Lane seemedfascinatedby the shelves.Helooked and looked. Heretreated and surveyed thefifteen sections for a longtime. Twice his glancereturned to the smudgemarkon the edge of the shelf onwhichBottle#69—nitricacid—stood. He moved nearerand ran his eye along all theedges. His face brightenedvery soon: therewas another

oval smudge, similar to thefirst, on the edge of thesecond shelf, central section,under Bottle #90,whichwasmarked Sulphuric Acid.“Two smudges,” he saidthoughtfully, but therewas agleam in the gray-green eyesthat had not been therebefore. “Inspector, was thissecond smudge here whenyou first examined thelaboratory?”

“That?” Thumm peered.“No.Whatthedeuceofit?”“Ishouldthink,Inspector,”

remarked Lane withoutrancor, “that anything herenowwhichwasnothere twomonths ago would be ofinterest.” He lifted the bottlefrom its place with care,observingthattheringofdustin which it stood was sharpand clean in outline. Hisglance raised instantly, and

the exultation left his face.Worry, a look of doubt,replaced it;he stood in silentindecisionforamoment,thenshruggedandturnedaway.Heroamedabouttheroom

for a while, disconsolate, hisgloom deepening with everystep.Asiftheshelvingwereamagnet drawing him,eventually, however, hefoundhimself backbefore it.He looked down at the floor

closet on which the fivelengths of triple shelvingrested. Then he opened thetwo low wide doors andpeered inside.… Nothing ofinterest;cartons, tins,packetsofchemicals,test-tubes,tube-racks, a small electricrefrigerator, various scatteredelectrical equipment,innumerable miscellaneouschemicalsupplies.Hebangedthe closet doors shut with a

little mutter of impatience athisownuncertainty.Finally he crossed over to

look at the rolltop desk nearthe door.The topwas drawndown,andhetriedit.Itbeganto roll up. “You might havethis looked into, Inspector,”hesuggested.Thumm snorted. “Was

looked into, Mr. Lane. Weopened it and examined it atthe time Hatter’s body was

foundoffSandyHook.Notathing in there that mightinterest us in this case. It’sfullofpersonalandscientificpapers and books, and someof Hatter’s chemical notes—experiments,Iguess.”Lane rolled the topupand

looked about. The interior ofthedeskwasinconfusion.“JustthewayIleftit,”said

theInspector.WithashrugLaneshutthe

desk and went to the nearbysteel filing cabinet. “That’sbeen looked into, too,” saidThumm patiently; but Lane,pullingopen the steeldrawerwhich was unlocked,rummaged about until hefound a small card index,placed neatly behind folderscontaining bulky sheafs ofexperimentaldata.“Oh, yes, that hypo,”

muttered the District

Attorney.Lane nodded. “The index

records twelve hypodermicsyringes, Mr. Bruno. Iwonder…Heretheyare.”Hedropped the indexandseizeda large leather case lying attherearof thedrawer.Brunoand Thumm craned over hisshoulders. In the lid of thecase, stamped in gold, werethe letters YH. Lane openedthecase.Inside,neatlyranged

in grooves on a field ofpurple velvet, lay elevenhypodermics of assortedsizes.Oneofthegrooveswasempty.“Damn it,” said Thumm,

“Schilling’sgotthathypo.”“I scarcely think,” said

Lane, “that it’s necessary tosend for it, Inspector. Youremember there was anumber,6,onthehypodermicwe found in Mrs. Hatter’s

bed? Another example ofYork Hatter’s methodicalmind.”He touched the empty

groove with his fingernail.All the grooves bore littlestrips of black linen, eachstrip containing a printedwhite number. Thehypodermics were markedwitha6.“And the size of the

groove,” he went on, “if I

recall correctly, correspondswith the size of the syringe.Yes,itwasfromthiscasethatthe hypodermic later filledwith bichloride of mercurycame. And here,” heconcluded, stooping andstraighteningupwitha smallleather case, “if I’m notmistaken, is a case full ofneedles.…Yes.Oneneedleismissing, for the index listseighteen, and there are only

seventeen here. Well!” Hesighed,returnedbothcasestothe rear of the drawer, andrather listlessly rummagedthrough the folders. Notes,experiments, data recordedfor the future.… One folderin a separate compartmentwasempty.He closed the cabinet

drawer. Thumm, somewherebehindhim,exclaimedaloud,and Bruno’s immediate

movement in the Inspector’sdirection caused Lane towheel quickly. Thumm waskneeling in the dust, almostinvisible behind one of theheavy work-tables. “What isit?” cried Bruno, as he andLaneroundedthetable.“Findsomething?”“Well,” grunted Thumm,

standingup,“it looked likeamystery for amoment, but itisn’t any more. Look here.”

Their eyes followed hispointingfingers,andtheysawwhat had caused him toexclaim. Between the twowork-tables, nearer thefireplace than the shelves,there were three neat roundlittle spots imprinted in thedust of the floor. They werearranged in a triangle,equidistant from each other.Lanesaw,bycloserscrutiny,that the spots themselves

weredusty,butmerelyafilmcomparedwith the thickdustsurrounding them. “Simple.Thought at first it might besomething important.But it’sonlythestool.”“Ah, yes,” said Lane

reflectively. “I’d forgotten.Thestool.”The Inspector plucked the

little tri-legged stool whichstood before the middlesections from the floor, and

set it down so that its legsexactly covered the dustspots. “There you are. Assimple as that. Stooloriginallystoodhere,butwasmoved,that’sall.”“Nothing there,” said

Bruno,disappointed.“Notathing.”But Lane seemed pleased

inadarkfashion,andheeyedthe seat of the stool withfamiliarity, as if he had

examined it before when hehad stoodbefore the shelves.The stool toowas dusty, butits seat was scratched andsmudged, the dust gone inspotsandnotinothers.“Ah—Inspector,”

murmured Lane. “When youinvestigated the laboratorytwo months ago, was thestoolwhereitisnow?Imean,hasitbeenhandledormovedsince the time of the first

investigation?”“I’llbedamnedifIknow.”“Ithink,”saidLanemildly,

turningaway,“that’sall.”“I’mgladyou’resatisfied,”

gruntedtheDistrictAttorney.“I can’tmake head or tail ofit.”Mr. Drury Lane did not

reply. He shook handsabsently with Bruno andThumm, murmuredsomethingaboutgettingback

to The Hamlet, and left thelaboratory.Hisfacewastiredand his shoulders sagged alittle as he descended thestairs, retrieved his hat andstick from the foyer, andwalkedoutofthehouse.The Inspector muttered:

“He looks asmuchup in theair about this thingas I am,”sentadetectiveuptotheroofto guard the entrance to thechimney, locked the door of

the laboratory, bade farewellto theDistrictAttorney (whowith a hopeless air left thehouse to return to hisclamoring office), andhimselfstampeddownstairs.Detective Pinkussohn was

standing on the first floorjuggling a dejected thumb astheInspectorwentdown.

Scene6

THEHATTERHOUSE.MONDAY,JUNE6.2A.M.

With the departure of DruryLane and Bruno, InspectorThumm lost much of hisnastiness. Became, in fact,almost humanly lonely. Thegeneral feeling of defeatwhich filled him, therecollection of Lane’sworried face and Bruno’sdespairing one, were not

conducivetoamerryspirit—a state of being rare inThummevenatthejolliestoftimes. He sighed repeatedly,lolled in a big easy-chairsmokingacigarhefoundinahumidor in the library,received negative reportsperiodically from his men,watched the spiritlesswanderings of the Hattersabout the house; in a word,disported himself like a very

busymanwhosuddenlyfindsthathehasnothingtodo.The house preserved its

unusual quiet, a conditionaccentuated sporadically bytheshrillshoutsofJackieandBilly, who were playing inthe nursery upstairs. OnceJohn Gormly, who had beenrestlessly pacing the gardenwalk at the rear, came insearch of the Inspector; thetallblondyoungmanwasina

temper,andhewantedtotalkto Conrad Hatter, and thedamnedcopupstairswouldn’tlethimintoHatter’sroom,byGeorge, and what wasInspectorThummgoingtodoabout it? Inspector Thummdrooped one eyelidcautiously, inspected the tipof his cigar, and saidviciouslythathewasgoingtodo nothing about it, byGod;Hatter was confined to his

room, and he was going tostay there; and for all theInspector cared, Mr. Gormlycouldgotohell.Mr.Gormlygrewproperly

red and was about to uttersome hotly indiscreetrejoinderwhenJillHatterandAttorney Bigelow strolledinto the library. Gormly bithis tongue. Jill and Bigelowwerespeaking inconfidentialtones; they were at the

moment evidently on themost delightfully intimateterms. Mr. Gormly’s eyesflashed fire, and withoutwaiting for the Inspector’spermission he dashed out ofthe room and out of thehouse, striking Bigelow’sshoulderenroutewithhisbighand—a farewell salutehardly calculated to pleaseBigelow, who stopped shortin the middle of a tender

sentence and said: “Ouf!”veryearnestly.Jill cried: “Why, the—the

dismal brute!” in a surprisedvoice, and Inspector Thummgrunted to himself. Fiveminutes later Bigelow, hisardor dampened, took hisleave of Jill, who seemedsuddenly peevish; reiteratedto the Inspector his intentiontoreadMrs.Hatter’slastwilland testament to the

assembled heirs on Tuesdayafter the funeral; and hastilyleftthehouse.Jillsniffedandsmoothedherfrock.Thenshecaught the Inspector’s eye,smiled devastatingly, andswishedoutofthelibraryandupstairs.The day passed drearily.

Mrs. Arbuckle furnished arespite from the business ofdoing nothing by becominginvolved in a wordy

altercation with one of thedetectivesonduty.Jackieraninwhoopingsome time later,haltedabruptlyatsightoftheInspector, looked mildlyabashed, and whooped outagain. Once Barbara Hatterpassed like a lovely wraith,accompaniedbythetallgravefigure of Edgar Perry, thetutor. They were deep inconversation.Thumm sighed and sighed

and wished he were dead.The telephone rang. Heansweredit.DistrictAttorneyBruno…Anything?Nothing.He hung up and chewed ontheremainsofthecigar.Afterawhilehejammedhishatonhis head, got to his feet, andstrodeoutofthelibrarytothevestibule door. “Going,Chief?” asked a detective.Thummconsidered this, thenshook his head and returned

to the library to wait—forwhat,hehadnottheslightestidea. He went to the boulecellaret and took out a flatbrownbottle. Something likepleasureovercame thegloomashepulledout thecorkandraisedthebottletohislips.Itgurgled long andsatisfactorily. Finally he putthebottleon the tablebesidehim, closed the cellaret, andsatdownwithasigh.

At five o’clock in theafternoon the telephone belltrilled again. It was Dr.Schilling, the MedicalExaminer, this time, and theInspector’s jaundiced eyebrightened.Well,well,Doc?“Finishedthejob,”croaked

Dr. Schilling, in a voicedripping with fatigue.“Original cause of death stillstands. Gott sei dank! Theblow on the forehead from

the mandolin was notsufficienttokillher,althoughit probably stunned her.Shock gripped the heart and,pfui! out. Probably also apreliminary moment ofintense excitement, HerrInspektor, contributed to thecardiac collapse. Good-by,damnyou.”Thumm flung the receiver

backonitshookandsulked.At seven a dull meal was

served in the dining-roomnextdoor.TheInspector,stillgrimly hanging on, dinedwith theHatters.Conradwassilent and flushed—he hadbeen drinking heavily allafternoon;hekepthiseyesonhis plate, chewed vaguely,and rose to return to histemporary cell long beforethe end of the meal, apoliceman doggedlyfollowing. Martha was

subdued; the Inspector sawthe anguish inher tired eyes,thehorrorwhenshelookedather husband, the love anddetermination when sheturned to the two children,who squirmed and madenoise quite as usual, and hadto be reprimanded for theirmanners every two minutes.Barbarakeptupalow-voicedconversation with EdgarPerry, who seemed a new

man: his eyes were shining,and he talked contemporarypoetry with the poetess as ifversmoderne were the chiefpassion of his life. Jillcontented herself withstabbing at her food andbeing sullen. Mrs. Arbucklepresidedovertheserving,likea sour-faced watchwoman;Virginia, the maid, bangeddishes and stamped about.Over all brooded Thumm,

who watched them withimpartial suspicion. He wasthelasttoleavethetable.After dinner old Captain

Trivett, thumping along onhis wooden leg, came in; hegreeted Thumm politely andatoncewentupstairs toMissSmith’s room, where thenursewassupervisingLouisaCampion’s lonely dinner.Captain Trivett remainedthere for half an hour. Then

he came down and quietlywentaway.The evening dragged on,

and then the night. Conradstaggered into the library,glared at the Inspector, anddevoted himself to a solitaryorgy of drinking. MarthaHatter tucked the twochildren into bed in thenurseryandshutherselfupinher bedroom. Jill haddisappeared into her room,

since she was forbidden toleave the house. BarbaraHatter was writing upstairs.AfterawhilePerrycameintothe library and asked if hewaswantedfurtherthatnight;hewas tired, he said, and, ifhe might be excused, heshould like to retire. Thummwavedgloomily,andthetutorwentupstairstohisattic-floorbedroom.Gradually, even the small

sounds died away. Thummsankdeeperanddeeperintoalethargyofdespair;hedidnoteven come to life whenConrad lurched out of thelibraryandstumbledupstairs.At 11:30 one of theInspector’smen came in andsat down wearily. “Well?”Thummyawnedcavernously.“Nothingdoingonthekey.

Boys’ve been trying to tracethat duplicate you said

might’ve been made. Not asign in any locksmith’s orhardware store. We’vecoveredtheCity.”“Oh!” Thumm blinked.

“That’s out, anyway. I knowhow she got in. Go home,Frank,andgetsomesleep.”The detective went away.

Promptly at midnight, theInspector heaved his bulkybodyoutof thearmchairandwent upstairs. Detective

Pinkussohnwas still jugglinghis thumb, as if he had notstopped all day. “Anythingdoing,Pink?”“Nope.”“Goonhome.Mosher just

cameintorelieveyou.”Detective Pinkussohn

obeyed with something lessthan reluctance. In fact, hescrambled downstairs andalmost upset DetectiveMosher, who was plodding

up.Mosher saluted and tookPinkussohn’s place on thebedroomfloor.The Inspector pounded up

to the attic floor. Everythingwas quiet; all doors wereclosed; there was a light intheArbuckles’ rooms,whichsuddenly went out as theInspector stood there. Thenheclimbeduptheatticstairs,opened the trapdoor, andstepped out on the roof. A

pinpoint of fire near thecenter of the black roofvanished instantly. Thummheardastealthystepandsaid,wearily: “It’s all right,Johnny.Anythingstirring?”Amanmaterializedby the

Inspector’s side. “Hell, no.This isaswelldetailyouputmeon,Inspector.Notasoul’sbeenuphereallday.”“Stickitforanothercouple

of minutes. I’ll send Krause

up to relieve you. Be backhereinthemorning.”The Inspector lifted the

trapdoorandwentdownstairsagain. He sent a man up.Then he trudged into thelibrary, groaned hisway intothe armchair, ruefully eyedthe empty brown bottle, putout the lamp on the table,hunghishatonhisnose,andwenttosleep.

The Inspector never quiteknewwhenhewasfirstawareof something wrong. Herememberedshiftinguneasilyin his sleep, easing a legwhichhadgonetosleep,andwrigglingdeeperintothesofacushions of the armchair. Atwhat time this occurred hehad no idea. It might havebeen one o’clock in themorning.But of one thing he was

certain.Promptlyattwo,asifaclockhadstruck inhisear,he jerked awake, his hatfalling from his nose to thefloor,andsatupinanintense,strained, quivering attitude.Something had awakenedhim, but he did not knowwhatitwas.Asound,afall,acry? He sat like listeningstone. And then it cameagain, a faraway,hoarse, andexcitedcry inaman’svoice:

“FIRE!”TheInspectorsprangoutof

the chair as if it had beencushioned with pins, anddashed out into the corridor.There was a small nightlightburning,andinitsfeeblerayshecouldseecurlingwispsofsmoke drifting down thestairs. Detective Moshercrouched at the head of thestaircase,yellingatthetopofhis voice. The whole house

waspermeatedwiththeacridodorofsmokyfire.The Inspector did not

pause to ask questions. Hescrambled up the paddedstaircase and flung himselfaround the landing upstairs.Thick yellow smoke waspouring out of the cracks ofthe door leading to YorkHatter’s laboratory. “Turn inthe fire alarm, Mosher!”screamed Thumm, and

fumbled frantically for thekey. Mosher stumbled downthe stairs, pushing threedetectives, who had been ondutyaroundthehouse,outofhis way. The Inspector,cursing steadily, jabbed thekeyintothekeyhole,twisted,tore open the door—andslammeditshutinstantlyasaburst of evil-smelling greasysmoke and tongues of flamelicked out at him. His face

was working; he stooduncertainly for a moment,lookingfromsidetosidelikeatrappedanimal.Headswerepopping out of doorways;frightwas on every face; hisears were besieged withcoughed and tremblingquestions.“Fire extinguisher! Where

thehellisit?”roaredThumm.BarbaraHatterhurriedinto

the corridor. “Good heavens!

…There isn’t any, Inspector…Martha—thechildren!”The hall became a smoky

inferno filled with scurryingfigures. The flames werebeginning to show at thecracksofthelaboratorydoor.Martha Hatter in a silknightgown screamed and ranfor the nursery, emerging amoment later with the twoboys, Billy shrieking withfear and Jackie, for once

cowed, clinging to hismother’s hand. They alldisappeared down thestaircase.“Everybody out! out!”

thundered Thumm. “Don’tstop for anything! Thosechemicals—explosion—”Hisvoice was drowned inansweringscreams;JillHatterscrambled by, her facewhiteand pinched; Conrad Hatterpushedheroutofhiswayand

stumbled down the stairs;Edgar Perry, in pajamas,dashed down from the atticfloor and caught Barbara asshe sank, overcome by thefumes, to the floor. Heavinghertohisshoulder,hecarriedherdownstairs.Everyonewasgasping and coughing; eyesstreamed bitter tears. Thedetective Thumm hadstationed on the roof camepounding down, herding the

Arbuckles and Virginiabefore him. Faintly, as in adream, the Inspector,coughing, choking, crying,flinging buckets of water atthe closed door, heard thewailofsirens.…It was hot close work.

Screaming brakes heraldedthe arrival of the engines;firemenbegantoattachhose-lines and to haul themthrough the alley alongside

thehousetothegardenintherear. Flames were streakingout of the iron-barredwindows; ladders weretelescoped upward; axessmashed in what glass hadnot melted, and streams ofwater were directed throughthebarsintotheroom.…Thumm, disheveled,

blackened, gory-eyed, stoodon the sidewalk outside thehouse as firemen lurched by

dragging hoselines upstairs,and took count of theshivering, flimsily cladpeoplebesidehim.Theywereallthere.No…theyweren’t!The Inspector’s face

became a gargoyle of painand horror. He ran up thestairs, into the house, dashedupward, made for thebedroom floor, stumbled allthe way over wet hose.Upstairs he went directly to

MissSmith’sroom,DetectiveMosher at his heels. Hekicked open the door andburst into the nurse’s room.Miss Smith in a billowynightgown, like awhite hillylandscape, lay unconsciouson the floor; and LouisaCampion, with the look of awild animal at bay,bewildered, shuddering;crouched over her, nostrilsoscillating with the acrid

unpleasantness of the fumes.With difficulty Thumm andMosher managed to get thetwowomenoutof thehouse.…Just,itseemed,intime.For

as they stumbled down thestone steps outside, frombehind, from above, came adull blare—a flash like thedetonationofacannonstruckout at the rear, out of thelaboratory windows. There

was the appalling thunder ofan explosion, an instant ofstunned silence, and then thehoarse screams of firemencaughtintheblast.…The inevitable had

happened. Some chemical inthe laboratory, lickedbyfire,had exploded. The huddledgroup shivering on thesidewalk stared stupidly atthe house. An ambulanceclanged. A stretcher went in

and out of the house. Afiremanhadbeeninjured.Two hours later the fire

wasout.The falsedawnwasjust breaking as the lastengine snorted away. TheHattersandothermembersofthehousehold,whohadbeentaken into Captain Trivett’sbrick house next door,climbedwearilybackintothesinged old mansion. TheCaptain himself, in dressing

gown and pajamas, his peg-leg striking hollowly againstthe pavement, assisted arevivedMissSmith in takingcareofLouisaCampion,whowas in her helpless waydumbly terrified, oddlyhysterical. Dr. Merriam,roused by telephone, hadappeared and was busysupplyingsedatives.Thelaboratoryupstairswas

a shambles. The door had

been blown out by the blast;the iron bars of thewindowshad been loosened in theirsockets. Most of the bottleson the shelves had beensmashed and broken, andstrewed the wet floor. Thebed, dresser, and desk hadbeen badly burned, andmostof the glass of retorts, test-tubes, and electricalequipmenthadfused.Therestof the floor had suffered,

strangely enough, littledamage.Thumm, red-eyed,his face

anirongraymask,assembledthe occupants of the housedownstairs in the library andsitting-room. Detectiveseverywhere were on guard.Therewasnojestingnow,notolerance of temperament orrebellion. For the most partthey sat subdued, thewomeneven quieter than the men,

and watched each otherdumbly.The Inspector went to the

telephone. He called PoliceHeadquarters. He spoke toDistrict Attorney Bruno. Heengaged in a grimconversation with PoliceCommissionerBurbage.Thenheput ina long-distancecallfor The Hamlet, Lanecliff,N.Y.Therewassometroublewith the connection. Thumm

waited with, for him,remarkable patience. Whenfinally he heard the peevishquavering of old Quacey,Drury Lane’s humpbackedfamiliar, he related in crispdetail theeventsof thenight.Lane, prevented by hisdeafness from personallyconversing over thetelephone,stoodbyQuacey’sside and heard the story, bitbybit, fromQuacey’s lipsas

the Inspector transmitted itoverthewire.“Mr. Drury says,”

squeaked the ancienthunchbackwhenThummhadfinished, “do you know howthefirestarted.”“No.Tellhimthechimney

exit on the roof was underobservationeverysecond,thewindowswere locked on theinsideandnottamperedwith,andthedoortothelaboratory

wasundermymanMosher’seyeallnight.”The Inspector heard

Quacey’s shrill repetition ofthe message, and the deepfaraway tones of Lane’svoice.“Hesaysareyousure,Inspector?”“My God, of course I’m

sure!That’swhatpuzzlesmesomuch.Howthehelldidthefirebug get in to start thefire?”

There was a silence afterQuaceyrepeatedthis;andtheInspector, waiting, strainedhis ears. Then Quacey said:“Mr.Drurywants toknow ifanyone tried to get into thelaboratory after the fire andtheexplosion.”“No,” snarled Thumm. “I

wasonthewatchforthat.”“Then he says to station

somebody in the room rightaway,” shrilled Quacey,

“besides the fireman who’llbe there. Mr. Drury will bedown in the morning. He’ssure now that he knowshowitwasdone,hesays…”“Oh,heis,ishe?”saidthe

Inspector fretfully. “Thenhe’s a betterman than I am.—Say! Ask him if heexpectedthisfire!”An interlude. And Quacey

reported: “No, he says. No,he didn’t. It’s absolutely a

surprise to him. He can’tunderstandit.”“Thank goodness there’s

something stumps him,”growledThumm.“Allright—tellhimtobeearly.”And as he was about to

hang up the receiver, heheard, very clearly, Lane’svoice muttering—muttering—to Quacey: “It must be.Everything points to it.…And yet, Quacey, it’s

impossible!”

1 Reference to the murderof Harley Longstreet, thecrime which instituted theinvestigation pursued byInspector Thumm and Mr.DruryLaneinTheTragedyofX (Stokes, 1940).—THEEDITOR.

ACTII“Ihaveshotminearrowo’erthehouse.Andhurtmybrother.”

Scene1

THELABORATORY.MONDAY,JUNE6.9:20A.M.

MR.DruryLanestoodinthecenter of the wreckedlaboratory, his sharp eyesroving.InspectorThummhadmanagedtowashthesootandgrime from his face and tobrush his wrinkled suit; buthis eyes were sleepy andbloodshot, and he was in abearish mood. DetectiveMosher had been relieved;theshamblingPinkussohnsaton a salvaged chair amiably

conversingwithafireman.The shelves still clung to

thewall,buttheyweresoggyandsmoke-blackened.Exceptfor a scattering ofmiraculously unbrokenbottles on the lower shelves,the sections were denuded;andtheirsmashedfreighthadlittered the filthy floor inthousands of tiny glasspieces. Their contents hadbeencarefullydisposedof.

“Chemical Squad cleanedup thedangerouschemicals,”said Thumm. “The firstfiremen on the scene werebawled out plenty by theDeputy Chief. Seems likesome chemicals feed onwater, or something, whenthey’re burning, and theremight have been a bad timehere—worse than actuallyhappened. As it is, it wasdamned lucky the fire was

checked when it was. Eventhough Hatter had speciallyreinforced walls built in thelaboratory, the whole housemighthavegoneup.”“Well,thereitis,”growled

the Inspector. “We’ve beentaken over like a bunch ofamateurs. Quacey said overthe ‘phone that you knowhowthefirebuggotin.How?I’ll admit it’s a mystery tome.”

“No,”saidMr.DruryLane.“Nothalfsosubtle,Inspector.I believe the answer isludicrouslysimple.Lookhere—could the incendiary haveentered the laboratorythroughtheonedoorhere?”“Of course not. Mosher—

oneofmymost reliablemen—swears that no one evencamenearitalllastnight.”“I believe him. The door,

then, is clearly eliminated as

ameansof ingress.Now, thewindows. They are iron-barred; and the bars, as youyourself pointed outyesterdaywhenweexaminedtheroom,arequitegenuine.Itis logically conceivable that,despite the bars, theincendiary by creeping alongtheledgeoutsideandopeningawindow,couldhavethrownapieceofburningwaste intothe room and so started the

fire.…”“I told you that’s

impossible,” said theInspector tartly. “Thewindowswere locked on theinside.Nosignsofjimmying,and the glass of both wasunshatteredwhenthefiremengot here, before theexplosion. So the windowsareout.”“Precisely. I was merely

presenting every possible

theory. Then thewindows asan avenue of ingress areeliminated.Whatisleft?”“The chimney,” said

Thumm, “but that’s out.Oneofmymenwasparkeduponthe roofalldayyesterday, sothat no one could havesneakedintothechimneyandstayed there until the night-time. And then he wasrelieved about midnight byanotherofmymen,whosays

not a soul came up to theroof.Sothereyouare.”“AndthereIam,”chuckled

Lane. “You think you haveme. Three known modes ofentry, all three guarded.Andyet the incendiary managednot only to get in. Inspector,buttogetoutaswell.…Nowlet me ask you a question.Have you had these wallsexamined?”“Ah,” said Thumm

instantly.“Sothat’swhatyouhad in mind! Sliding panelstuff.” He grinned, and thenscowled.“Nothingdoing,Mr.Lane. The walls and floorsand ceiling are as solid asGibraltar.I’veseentothat.”“Mmm,”repliedLanewith

atwinkleinthegray-greenofhis eyes. “That’s excellent,Inspector, excellent! Itbanishes the last doubt frommymind.”

Thumm stared. “Why,you’re talking through yourhat!Thatmakes it just aboutimpossible!”“No,”smiledLane.“Notat

all.Sinceneitherthedoornorthewindowsbyanystretchofthe imagination could haveafforded entrance to theincendiary, and since walls,floor, and ceiling are solid—only one possibility remains,and therefore that possibility

becomescertainty.”Thumm’s eyebrows

screwed down over hiseyelids. “You mean thechimney?ButIcan’t——”“Not the chimney,

Inspector.” Lane becamegrave. “You forget that therearetwomajorpartstosuchanapparatus: the chimney stackand the fireplace itself. YouseewhatImean?”“No, I don’t. Sure the

fireplace opens out into thisroom.Buthowareyougoingtogetintothefireplaceunlessyoushinnydownthestack?”“Precisely what I asked

myself.”Lanestrolledovertothe fireplace. “And, unlessyour men are lying, unlessthere is a sliding panel ofsome sort in this room, thenwithout even examining thisfireplace I can tell you itssecret.”

“Secret?”“Do you recall what room

adjoins this on the fireplacewall?”“Why, the Campion

woman’s room, where themurderwascommitted.”“Exactly. And do you

recall what lies on the otherside of this fireplace inMissCampion’sroom?”The Inspector’s jaw

dropped. He stared at Lane

foraninstantandthendartedforward. “The otherfireplace!”hecried.“ByGod,another opening exactlybehindthisone!”He bent low and scuttled

beneaththemanteltotherearwall of the fireplace. Hestraightened up inside, hishead and shouldersdisappearingfromview.Laneheardhisheavybreathing,thesounds of a scraping hand,

and then a muffledexclamation. “Cripes, yes!”shouted Thumm. “Bothfireplacesusethesamestack!This brick wall here doesn’tgo all the way up—it endsaboutsixfeetfromthefloor!”Mr. Drury Lane sighed. It

had not been necessary eventosoilhisclothes.TheInspectorwaskeenon

the scent now, his wholedemeanor transformed. He

clapped Lane on the back,grinnedalloverhisuglyface,roared orders to his men,kickedPinkussohnoutof thechair,andgaveacigar to thefireman.“Sure!”hebellowed,his hands dirty and his eyesshining, “that’s the answer—acinch!”The secret of the fireplace

was simplicity itself. Thefireplaceinthelaboratoryandthe fireplace in Louisa

Campion’sroombackedeachother up—fireplace tofireplaceonoppositesidesofthe same wall. Not only didthesamechimneyserveboth,but there was only onedividing wall between—athick structure of hardenedfirebrick about six feet high,its top therefore invisiblefrom the interior of eitherroom, since the mantels ofbothfireplaceswereonlyfour

feetfromthefloor.Abovethesix-foot dividing wall thechimneyorificesmerged intoone, forming a large ventthrough which the smoke ofboth fireplaces ascended tothe roof. “Clear, clearenough,” said the Inspectorgleefully. “This meansanybody could have got intothe lab at any time—eitherfrom the inside of the housebyclimbingoverthedividing

wall from thedeath-room,orfrom the outside by comingdown from the roof, usingthosehand-andfoot-holdsonthe inside of the chimney.Last night it must have beenthrough Louisa’s room. Nowonder Mosher didn’t seeanyone go into the lab fromthehall,ormymanfromtheroof!”“True,” said Lane. “And

your visitor escaped by the

same route, of course. Haveyou considered, Inspector,how our mysteriousincendiary got into MissCampion’sroom,however,inthe first place, in order to beable to go through thefireplace into the laboratory?Mosher had that door underobservation all night aswell,youknow.”Thumm’sfacefell.“Didn’t

think of that. There must be

—Sure!Theledgeoutside,orthefire-escapes!”Theywent to the shattered

windows and looked out. Atwo-footledgeranoutsidethewindows of the entirebedroom floor at the rear; itwould obviously providepassage for a daring creeperfrom or to any room on thegardensideofthehouse.Twofire-escapes,longandnarrow,had landings outside the

bedroom floor.Oneprovidedegress from the laboratoryandthenursery,andtheotherfrom the death-room andMissSmith’sroom.Bothfireescapes ran past windowsfrom the attic floor down tothe ground of the gardenbelow. Lane glanced atThumm,andtheyshooktheirheadstogether.The two men left the

laboratory and went into the

death-room. They tried thewindows;theywereunlockedand slid up easily. TheyreturnedtothelaboratoryandPinkussohn produced a chairfrom somewhere. Lane satdown, crossed his legs, andsighed. “The story is plain,Inspector,asIseeyou’vealsosurmised. Virtually everyonecould have entered thelaboratory last nightproviding he knew the secret

ofthedoublefireplace.”Thumm nodded without

enthusiasm.“Anybody,insideorout.”“So itwould appear.Have

youquestionedthemovementofyourlittlecast,Inspector?”“Uh-huh. But what good

does it do? You don’t thinkfor a moment the firebugwouldgivehimself away, doyou?” The Inspector chewedsavagely on a filched cigar.

“Anybody on the attic floorcouldhavedoneit,nomatterwhat the pack of ’emtestified. And as far as thefirst floor here is concerned,withtheexceptionofJillandBarbaraHattereverybodyhadaccess to the ledge and fire-escapes. And though Conradandhiswifeareatthefrontofthe floor, either one of themhadaccesstothefire-escapesand the ledge at the rear by

going through the nurserypast the sleeping kids. Andtheywouldn’thave togooutinto the corridor to be spiedon by Mosher, because theycan get from their bedroominto the nursery through thatconnectingbathroombetweenthe two rooms. So there youare.”“Whathavetheytosayfor

themselves?”“Well,they’vegotnoalibis

for each other. Conrad sayshe went upstairs abouteleven-thirty. That’s trueenough,becauseImyselfsawhim leave the library aroundthattimeandMoshersayshesaw him, too, going into hisbedroom. Says he went tosleep. Martha Hatter was inherroomallevening,butshesaysshedroppedoff tosleepand didn’t hear her husbandcomein.”

“AndtheMissesHatter?”“They’re clear—couldn’t

havedoneit,anyway.”“Indeed?”murmuredLane.

“Butwhatdotheysay?”“Jillwanderedout into the

garden, and returned to herownroomaboutoneo’clock;Mosher confirms this.Barbara retired early, abouteleven. Neither woman wasseen leaving her room.…Mosher saw no suspicious

activity of any kind; no oneopened a door or left abedroom as far as Mosherremembers—and he’s got agood memory. Trained himmyself.”“Of course,” remarked

Lane slyly, “we may becompletely wrong in ouranalysis. The fire may havestarted through spontaneouscombustion,youknow.”“I wish I could believe

that,”repliedThummglumly.“But the experts of the FireDepartment looked over thelabafter thefireandcame tothe conclusion that the fire’dbeen started by humanagency.Yes,sir.Somebody’dstruck matches and ignitedsomething between the bedandthework-tablenearerthewindows. Found thematches—ordinary house matches,they are, like the ones in the

kitchendownstairs.”“Andtheexplosion?”“That wasn’t an accident,

either,” said the Inspectorgrimly. “The chem guysfound the remains of ashatteredbottleononeof thework-tables—abottleofstufftheycalledcarbonbisulphide.It’s highly explosive, theysay, when it’s exposed toheat.Ofcourse,itmighthavebeen there all the time—left

by York Hatter, maybe,before he disappeared—but Idon’t remember a bottle onthetables,doyou?”“No.Diditcomefromone

oftheshelves?”“Uh-huh—scrap of glass

with part of the regular labelwasfound.”“Obviously, then, your

conjecture cannot be true.York Hatter could not haveleft the bottle of carbon

bisulphide on the table,because it was one of theregulationbottles,asyousay,andIdistinctlyrecallthatthefullcomplementofcontainerswasontheshelves;therewasnotanemptyspaceanywhere.No, someone deliberatelytookthebottlefromasectionof the shelving and placed iton the table, knowing thateventuallyitwouldexplode.”“Well,” said Thumm,

“that’s something. At leastwhoever we’re battling’scome out in the open. Let’sgo downstairs, Mr. Lane.…I’vegotanidea.”They descended to the

ground floor and theInspector sent for Mrs.Arbuckle.Thehousekeeper,itwastobeobservedtheinstantshe appeared in the library,had quite surrendered herbellicosity. The fire seemed

to have unnerved her andburnedoutmuchofthestarchin her Amazonian make-up.“You want me, InspectorThumm?” she asked in anuncertainvoice.“Yes. Who takes care of

thelaundryinthehouse?”“Laundry?I—Ido.Isortit

out each week into separatebundlesandsendittoahand-laundryonEighthStreet.”“Good! Now listen

carefully. Do you rememberin the past few monthsanybody’s linen being in aspecially dirty condition?You know—grimy, full ofsoot or coal dust? Alsoscraped, maybe scratched ortorn?”Lane said: “Permit me to

congratulate you, Inspector.Aninspiredthought!”“Thanks,” said Thumm

dryly. “I get ’em sometimes

—mostly when you’re notaround. You take somethingout of me.… Well, Mrs.Arbuckle?”She said in a frightened

way:“No,sir—no.”“Funny,” muttered

Thumm.“Perhaps not,” remarked

Lane “How long is it sincethere have been fires in thefireplaces upstairs, Mrs.Arbuckle?”

“I—I don’t know. I neverheardofanybeingmade.”Thumm beckoned a

detective: “Get that nurse inhere.”Miss Smith, it appeared,

was in the garden tenderlycaring forher shakencharge.She came in, smilingnervously. The fireplaces inthe laboratory and Louisa’sroom?“Mrs. Hatter never used

hers,” said Miss Smith, “atleastsinceI’vebeenhere.Mr.Hatter didn’t use his, either,as far as I know. It’s beenyears, I suppose.… In thewintertimeacoverisputoverthe chimney opening on therooftokeepoutthedraft,andit’stakenoffinthesummer.”“Lucky break for her,”

grunted the Inspector withdark subtlety. “Didn’t get aspot of coal dust on her

clothes—if there was dust,shebrusheditofforitwasn’tenough to attract attention.…What are you looking at,MissSmith?That’sall!”MissSmithgaspedandbeatahastyretreat, wabbling her jellybreastslikeafatoldcow.“You’re constantly

referring to our quarry,Inspector,” said Lane, “as‘she.’Doesn’titstrikeyouasincongruous that a woman

shouldcomedownachimneyorclimboverasix-footbrickwall—as I think I suggestedbefore?”“Listen,Mr.Lane,”replied

Thumm in desperation. “Idon’t know what strikes meand what doesn’t. I thoughtmaybewe’dgetsomethingonsomebody by tracing dirtyclothes. Now that’s out. Sowhat?”“Butyouhaven’tanswered

my objection, Inspector,”smiledLane.“Well, then, it was an

accomplice! A maleaccomplice. Hell, I don’tknow,” said Thummdisconsolately.“Butthatisn’twhat’sbotheringmerightthisminute.” Cunning crept intohis tired eyes. “Why the fireat all? Eh, Mr. Lane? Haveyouthoughtofthat?”“My dear Inspector,” said

Mr.Drury Lane abruptly, “ifwe knew that, we shouldprobably know everything.That problem agitated mefrom the moment youtelephonedTheHamlet.”“Whatdoyouthink?”“I think this.” Lane rose

and began to stride up anddown the library. “Was thefire planned in order todestroy something in thelaboratory?” He shrugged.

“But the laboratory hadalready been looked over bythepolice,andtheincendiarymusthaveknownthis.Wasitsomething that we missed inour examination yesterday?Was it something toobig fortheincendiarytohavecarriedawaywith him, and that hadto be destroyed inconsequence?” He shruggedagain. “I confess that I’mentirely at sea on the point.

Somehow,itdoesn’tringtrue—any one of thepossibilities.”“Sounds flukey, all right,”

confessed the Inspector.“Might have been a blind,Mr.Lane,hey?”“But, my dear fellow,”

cried Lane, “why? Why ablind?Ifitwasablind,itwasto divert attention fromsomething else that wasscheduled to happen—a

divertissement, a ruse deguerre, a feint attack. Butnothingdidhappen,sofaraswe know!” He shook hishead. “Logic reminds me,strictly speaking, that it’spossible the fire-setter waspreventedatthelastmoment,after igniting the laboratory,from carrying out hishypothetical design. Perhapsthefiretookholdtooquickly.Perhaps last-minute funk

overcame him.… I don’tknow Inspector, I reallydon’t.”Thumm sucked at his

protrudinglipforalongtime,deep in thought, as Lanecontinued the incessantpatrol. “I have it!” said theInspector,jumpingtohisfeet.“Thefireandexplosionwereplanned to cover up the theftofmorepoison!”“Don’t excite yourself,

Inspector,”saidLanewearily.“I thought of that anddiscarded it some time ago.How could the poisonerexpect the police to haveinventoried every dram ofchemicalinthelaboratory?Avial of anything might havebeen stolen last night and noone would have been thewiser. Certainly a fire andexplosion would have beenunnecessary. Besides, the

poisoner has frequented thelaboratory in the past, tojudge from the myriadfootprints in the dust. If hehad foresight—and he musthave, for the crimes so farhave been uncanny in somerespects—hewouldhave laidup a supply of poison at atimewhenhehadunhinderedaccess to the laboratory,obviating the necessity ofmaking dangerous and

superfluous trips to it at atimewhen itwasunderstrictobservation.…No, Inspector,it’s not that. It’s somethingutterly different, so utterlydifferentthatittranscendsthebounds of common sense.”He paused. “Almost,” hecontinued slowly, “almost asiftherewerenoreason.…”“Nuts,” agreed Thumm

with a scowl. “That’s whatcomes of investigating a

crime in which all thesuspects are daffy. Reason!Motive!Logic!”Hethrewuphis hands. “Bah!” he said. “Ialmost wish theCommissionerwouldtakemeoffthisassignment.”They sauntered into the

hall, and Lane accepted hishat and stick from GeorgeArbuckle,thehouseman,whohovered by with a pitifuleagerness toplease strikingly

similartohiswife’snewself-abasement.“There is one thing,

Inspector, before I go,”remarked Lane as theypaused in thevestibule, “thatI should like to warn youagainst.Thatisthepossibilityof another poisoningattempt.”Thumm nodded. “I’ve

thoughtofthat.”“Good. After all, we’re

dealing with a poisoner whotwice has been unsuccessful.Wemust expect—and thwart—athirdattempt.”“I’ll get somebody from

Doc Schilling’s office downhere to test all the food anddrinkbeforeit’sserved,”saidThumm. “There’s one fellowdown there Schilling uses onjobs like this—smart youngdoctorbythenameofDubin.Nothing’ll get by him. I’ll

station him in the kitchen,where he’ll be at the source.Well”—hestuckouthishand—“good-by,Mr.Lane.”Lane took his hand.

“Good-by,Inspector.”He half turned away, and

then turned back. Theylooked at each other withquestions in their eyes.Finally Lane said, withpainful distinctness: “By theway, Inspector, I think Iowe

ittoyouandtoMr.Brunotopresent my views of certainaspects…”“Yes?” said the Inspector

eagerly,hisfacebrightening.Lane waved his stick in a

negative. “After the will-reading tomorrow, I think,will be the best time. Good-by. Luck!” Turning sharplyonhisheel,heleftthehouse.

Scene2

THEGARDEN.MONDAY,JUNE6.4P.M.

HadInspectorThummbeenapsychologist,or evenhadhismind been less occupied, theMad Hatters might haveafforded him a fascinatingstudy that day. Since theywere forbidden to leave thehouse, they wandered about

like lost souls, restlesslypickingupthingsandputtingthemdown, flashing looksofhatredateachother,avoidingeachotherwheneverpossible.Jill andConradwere at eachother’s throats all day,squabbling over trifles,clashing at the leastprovocation, saying bitingthings in deadly cold voicesthathadnoteventhemeritofquicktempertoexcusethem.

Martha kept her childrenaboutherskirts,scoldingandslappingthemalmoststolidly,awakening in every nerveonly when Conrad Hatterlurched by; and then sendingsuchfierceglancestowardhispale pinched face that evenher children took notice andaskedquestions.The Inspector grew more

irritablethelongerhethoughtover the remarkable

indecisivenessofallhisclues.The feeling that Drury Lanehad something tangible inmind,andthewonderastoitspossible nature, irked him.And yet Lane had seemedoddlydisturbed,uncertain, ina peculiarway apprehensive.The Inspector could notunderstand it. Twice duringthe afternoon he started forthe telephone to call TheHamlet, and each time he

stoppedwithhishandon theinstrument, aware at the lastmoment that he had nothingto ask, and certainly nothingtosay.The odd chimney

passageway gradually tookhold of his imagination, andhe forgot Lane. He wentupstairs to the laboratoryandhimself scaled the dividingfirebrickwall,toprovetohisown satisfaction that it was

possible for a grown man topassfromtheoneroomtotheother by means of thefireplaces withoutextraordinary effort.… Yes,even his own mammothshoulders negotiated thechimney space easily. Hecrawled back into thelaboratory and sentPinkussohntogathertheclan.They straggled in one by

one, scarcely exhibiting

interest in this freshinquisition. The rapidity ofevents and the shock of thefirehaddulledtheircapacitiesfor a surprise. When theywere all assembled theInspector launched into aseries of general questions,the point of which no oneapparently foresaw. Theyreplied mechanically and, asfar as Thumm could tell,truthfully. When he came to

the matter of the chimneypassageway,subtlybroachingit without revealing itsexistence, he was convincedthat either the culprit was aremarkable actor or that theywere all telling the truth. Hehadhopedtotrapsomeoneina web of lies; he had evenanticipated someone elseinadvertentlyrevealingtheliefrom some untapped sourceof recollection.Butwhen the

Inspector had finished, heknew littlemore than he hadknownbefore.Thetribetroopedoutwhen

he dismissed them; andThummsankpuffingintothelibraryarmchairtothinkoverhissins.“Inspector.”He looked up to find the

tall tutor, Perry, before him.“Well, what d’ya want,Mister?”growledThumm.

Perry said quickly:“Permission to take the dayoff. I—these events havemade me slightly—well,Inspector, yesterday was theday Iusuallyhave tomyself,and since I wasn’t permittedto leave the house and feeltheneedoffreshair…”Thumm let the little burst

oftalkdieaway.Perryshifteduneasily,butasparkappearedfar within his deep eyes and

the tart retort on Thumm’slips was never uttered.Instead he said in a kindliertone: “I’m sorry, Perry, butthat’simpossible.Untilwe’vetouched bottom heresomewhere, everyone willhave to stay close to thehouse.”The spark died, Perry’s

shoulders drooped, andwithout a word he wentwearily out of the library,

through the corridor to therear, andout into thegarden.The sky threatened, and hehesitated. Then he caughtsightofBarbaraHattersittingunder a large gardenumbrella,readingquietly,andwith springy steps headvancedacrossthegrass…

Itwasremarkablehowthiscase dawdled along, theInspector thought, as the

afternoon dragged on.Something electric occurred,a touch of drama, anexplosive event—and thennothing,absolutelynothing;acomplete absence of positiveaction. There was somethingunnatural about the wholething; it induced a feeling ofhelplessness and the wincingimpression of a criminalinevitability,asifallthishadbeen planned far in advance

and was proceedinginexorably toward aninavertible climax. But—what?Whatwastheend?During the afternoon

Captain Trivett called,stumping along in hiscustomary quietmanner, andmounted the stairs foroneofhis quaint visits to the deaf-dumb-and-blindwoman,whowas upstairs inMiss Smith’sroom resting in the complete

vacuity of her isolation. Amancameintoannouncethatthe lawyer, Bigelow, was inthe house; calling,presumably, on Jill Hatter.Gormlydidnotappear.At four o’clock, while

Thummsatbitinghisnailsinthe library, one of his mosttrusted men entered quickly.There was somethingportentous in the man’smanner, and the Inspector

came alive on the instant.They whispered brieflytogether, and Thumm’s eyeswent brighter at each word.Finally he sprang to his feet,commanded the detective tostation himself at the foot ofthe staircase, and lumberedup the twoflights to theatticfloor.He knew his way about.

The two doors at the rear,overlookingthegarden,ledto

the bedrooms of the maidVirginia and of Edgar Perry.The room at the northeastcorner was empty, andconnected with it by abathroom there was astoreroom at the southeastcorner.Themainroomatthesouth was a large storeroomwith adjoining bath—astoreroom now, but in thedays of the Hatter house’sVictorian glory, a guest

bedroom. The entire westernside of the attic floor wasoccupiedbytheArbuckles.The Inspector did not

hesitate. He crossed the halland tried the door of EdgarPerry’s bedroom. It wasunlocked. Quickly theInspectorwentin,closingthedoor behind him. He ran toone of the windowsoverlookingthegarden.Perrywas seated beneath the

umbrella, engaged in earnestconversation with Barbara.The Inspector scowled withsatisfactionandwenttowork.Itwasabareneatchamber

—peculiarlylikeitstenant.Ahigh bed, a dresser, a rug, achair, and a large fullbookcase.Everythingseemedpreciselyinitsplace.Very carefully and

methodically InspectorThumm searched the room.

Heseemedmostinterestedinthe contents of Perry’sdresser. But this provedbarren,andhetackledasmallwardrobe closet, withoutshame going through thepockets of each article ofclothing inside.… He raisedthe rug. He riffled the pagesof books. He explored theemptyspacesbehindthetiersof books. He raised themattress of the bed. The net

result of this expert andthorough investigation wasnothing.Thoughtfully he restored

each touched article to itsoriginalplaceandwenttothewindow.Perrywasasdeeplyengrossed inhisconversationwith Barbara as before. JillHatterwas now seated undera tree, idly ogling ChesterBigelow.The Inspector went

downstairs.Hemadehiswaythrough the rear anddescended by the short flightof wooden steps into thegarden. There was a roll ofthunder, and rain began topatter on the top of theumbrella.NeitherBarbaranorPerry seemed aware of it.Bigelow and Jill, however,whose soft conversation hadabruptly terminated with theappearance of Thumm,

seemedgladof theelementalinterruptionandtooktherainas an excuse to rise hastilyand go back into the house.Bigelownoddednervouslyashe passed the Inspector; andJilldarteda furiousglanceathim.Thumm placed his hands

together behind his back,grinned benevolently at thedark gray sky; and ambledacross the grass toward the

umbrella. Barbara wassaying, in her deep voice:“ButmydearMr.Perry,afterall…”“I insist that metaphysics

hasnoplaceinpoetry,”Perrysaid tensely. His thin handslapped the black cover of athinbookonthegardentablebetween them; its title,Thumm saw, was FeebleConcert, and it bore theauthor’s name of Barbara

Hatter. “Oh, I grant you thatyou do it very well—there’sthe gloss of poetic delicacyand a strong imaginativequality——”She laughed. “Gloss? Oh,

thanks.At least that’s honestcriticism. It’s refreshing totalk to someonewho doesn’tlapyourfeet.”“Well!” he blushed like a

schoolboy and for themoment seemed at a loss for

words. Neither of themnoticed Inspector Thummpensively studying them inthe rain. “Now you take thatthird stanza in your poem,‘Pitchblende’; the one thatbegins: Mural mountainshungin——”“Ah,” said Inspector

Thumm,“excuseme.”They turned, startled, and

the intensity drained out ofPerry’s face. He rose

awkwardly, his hand still onBarbara’s book. Barbarasmiled and said: “Why,Inspector, it’s raining! Dojoinusundertheumbrella.”“I think,” said Perry

abruptly,“I’llgoin.”“No hurry, Mr. Perry,”

grinned the Inspector, sittingdown with a gentleman’slusty sigh. “As a matter offact, I was thinking I mightliketotalktoyou.”

“Oh!” saidBarbara, “ThenIthinkI’llgoin.”“No, no,” said the

Inspectorgenerously.“Notatall. This is just a littlenothing. Nothing at all.Matter of form. Sit down,Perry, sit down. Dreary day,ain’tit?”The spirit of poesy,which

hadlighteduptheman’sfacea moment before, slunk offwith drooping wings. Perry

tautened.Helookedsuddenlyold, and Barbara steadfastlykepthereyesavertedfromhisface. The dark andwet creptinundertheumbrellawhereithadnotbeenbefore.“Now, this business of

your former employer,”continuedtheInspectorinthesamegenialvoice.Perry stiffened. “Yes?” he

saidinaharshtone.“How well did you know

this James Liggett, whosigned your letter ofrecommendation?”A slow flush. “How well

…?”faltered the tutor.“Why—what you might expect—underthecircumstances.”“I see.” Thumm smiled.

“Ofcourse.Thatwasadumbquestion. How long did youwork for him, teaching hischildren?”Perry was silent after a

singleconvulsivestart.Hesatin his chair rigidly, like aninexperienced rider. Then hesaid in a colorless voice: “Iseeyou’vefoundout.”“Yes, sir, we certainly

have,” replied Thumm, stillsmiling. “You see, Perry,there’s never any use tryingtoput somethingoveron thepolice. It was child’s play tofindoutthatthere’snoJamesLiggett and never was a

James Liggett at the ParkAvenue address in yourreferences. Honestly, I feelhurtthatyoushouldthinkI’dbe fooled by a dodge likethat.…”“Oh,forGod’ssake,stop!”

cried Perry. “What do youwant todo—arrestme?Thendo so, and don’t torture methisway!”The grin faded from the

Inspector’s lipsandhesatup

verysolidly.“Spillit,Perry.Iwantthetruth.”Barbara Hatter did not

evenblink;shewasstaringatthecoverofherbook.“Verywell,” said the tutor

wearily. “It was foolish ofme, I know. And my badfortunetobecomeinvolvedina murder investigation whileworking under falsepretenses. Yes, Imanufactured the references,

Inspector.”“We,” said Barbara Hatter

sweetly.Perryjumpedasifhecould

not believe his ears. TheInspector’s gaze narrowed.“What do youmean by that,MissHatter?Thisisaseriousoffense under thecircumstances.”“I mean,” replied Barbara

in her deep clear voice,“preciselywhatIsay.Iknew

Mr. Perry before he camehere. He needed a job badlyand—and would not acceptfinancial assistance. Ipersuaded him, knowing mybrother Conrad, to write thereferences,sincehehadnoneof his own. It’s really myfault.”“Hmm,”saidtheInspector,

wagging his head like theRabbit. “I see, I see. Verynice, Miss Hatter. And very

fortunate for you,Mr. Perry,to have such a loyal friend.”Perry was as pale asBarbara’s gown; he pluckedat the lapel of his coatdazedly. “So you had nolegitimate references of yourown?”The tutor cleared his dry

throat. “I—well, I had no‘big’ name to present. I didneed the position, Inspector.… The—the salary was so

generous, and then theopportunity to be nearMiss”—he choked—“MissHatter, whose poetry hasalwaysbeenan inspiration tome … I—the ruse worked,that’sall.”Thumm glanced from

Perry to Barbara and backagain; Barbara was very stilland Perry’s confusion wasembarrassing. “Okay,” saidThumm. “Now, if you didn’t

have any high-tonedreferences—that’sunderstandable, and I’m areasonableman,Perry—whatreferences did you have?Whocanvouchforyou?”Barbara rose suddenly.

“Isn’t my recommendationsufficient, InspectorThumm?” There was ice inher voice and in her greeneyes.“Sure, sure, Miss Hatter.

But I’ve got my job to do.Well?”Perry fumbled with the

book. “To tell the truth,” hesaidslowly,“Ineverdidtutorbefore, so I haven’t anyprofessional references togiveyou.”“Ah,” said the Inspector.

“Veryinteresting.Howaboutpersonal references—asidefromMissHatter,Imean?”“I—nobody,” stammered

Perry. “I haven’t anyfriends.”“By God,” grinned

Thumm,“you’reaqueerone,Perry. Imagine living outyour life and not having twopeople who can vouch foryou!Remindsmeofthestoryof the feller who applied totheNaturalizationBureau forhis first citizenship papersafter five years’ residence inthe U. S. When he was told

he needed two Americancitizens as characterwitnesseshetoldthejudgehedidn’t know two Americancitizens thatwell.Haw,haw!Judge refused his application—saidifhecouldliveinthiscountry for five years …”Thummshookhisheadsadly.“Well, I won’t bore you.What college did you go to,Mr. Perry? Who’re yourfamily?Where do you come

from? How long have youbeeninNewYork?”“I believe,” said Barbara

Hatter coldly, “that you’rereducing this toanabsurdity,Inspector Thumm.Mr. Perryhas committed no crime. Orhas he?Thenwhy don’t youaccuse him of it? Mr. Perry,you—you refuse toanswer. Iforbidyouto.Ithinkthishasgone farenough!”She sweptout fromunder the umbrella,

placedherhandonthetutor’sarmand,obliviousoftherain,ledhimbackacross the lawntothehouse.Hemovedlikeamaninadream;andsheheldherheadhigh.Neitherlookedback.The Inspector sat there in

the rain for a long time,smoking.Hiseyeswerefixedonthedoorthroughwhichthepoetess and Perry haddisappeared. There was a

malicious little grin in them.He got to his feet, trampedacrossthelawn,wentintothehouse, and bellowedimperiouslyforadetective.

Scene3

THELIBRARY.TUESDAY,JUNE7.1P.M.

On Tuesday, the seventh of

June, the New Yorknewspapers had a field day.There were two reportorialevents—the first the funeralof the murdered woman,Emily Hatter; the second thereadingofthewill.Mrs. Hatter’s body was

released from the Morgue,sent to a funeral parlor,embalmed, and hurried to itslast resting-place. This alloccurred between Monday

night and Tuesday morning;and by 10:30 Tuesdaymorning the funeral coacheswere on theirway to aLongIslandcemetery.TheHatters,asmighthavebeenexpected,seemed not top muchimpressedbythesolemnityoftheproceedings;theirslightlyunbalancedviewson lifeanddeathprecluded tearsand thecustomary outward signs ofmourning.Withtheexception

of Barbara they weresuspiciousof eachother, andwrangledallthewaytoLongIsland. To the children, whorefused to remain at home, itseemed a picnic; they had tobe subdued by their motherconstantly en route, and bythetimethepartyreachedthecemetery Martha Hatter washot,tired,andirritable.Mr. Drury Lane, for

reasons of his own, was in

attendance. He devoted hisattention to the Hattersthemselves, leaving the taskof holding down the fort tothe Inspector and DistrictAttorney Bruno, whoremainedintheHatterhouse.Lane was a silent observer,engrossed more and morewitheachpassingmoment intheHatters,theirhistory,theiridiosyncrasies,theirbehavior,their gestures, their speech,

and the nuances of theirinterrelationships.A pack of reporters trailed

the coaches, and poured outon the cemetery grounds.Cameras clicked, pencilsscribbled, perspiring youngmen made earnest efforts toreach the family, who weresurrounded by a cordon ofpolice from themoment theyset foot outside the cemeterygates until they reached the

redpitintheearthintowhichMrs. Hatter’s bones were tobe laid. Conrad Hatterbecame drunkenly officious,and tottered from group togroup swearing, yelling,ordering people about.…Ultimately,Barbara tookhimbythearmandledhimaway.Itwasaqueerceremony.A

coterie of the intelligentsia,friends and acquaintances ofthepoetess, hadcomeouten

masse to pay their respectsnotsomuchtothememoryofthe dead woman as to thegriefof the living.Thegravewas surrounded by men andwomen famous in theartisticworld.Jill Hatter, on the other

hand, was represented by anunruly mob of young andoldishgentlemen-about-town,alldressedverycorrectly,andall more concerned with

catching Jill’s eye orsqueezingherhandthanwithobserving the funeralceremony.Itwas, as has been said, a

field day for the press. Theyignored Edgar Perry, theArbuckles, the maid. Theysnapped pictures of LouisaCampionandhernurse,MissSmith.Specialfemalewriterswrote of “the tragicblankness” of Louisa’s face,

“her pitiful bewilderment,”her “tears when the clodsbegan to thump upon hermother’s coffin, as if shecould hear and each thumpresoundedinherheart.”Mr. Drury Lane observed

everything with a kind butkeen expression, like aphysician listening to theheartofasickpatient.The pack pursued the

Hatters back to the City. In

the Hatter cars there was agrowing tension—a snappingof nerves, a feeling ofexcitement that had nothingtodowiththeclayleftinthesoil of Long Island. ChesterBigelowhadbeenmysteriousallmorning;Conradhadtriedwith drunken subtlety topump him. But Bigelow,basking in the warm sun ofcentral interest, shook hishead.“Ican’tsayathinguntil

the formal reading, Mr.Hatter.” John Gormly,Conrad’s partner, lookedpeaked this morning; hepulledConradawayroughly.Captain Trivett, who had

attendedthefuneralattiredinblack, got out of the coachbefore the Hatter house,assisted Louisa to thesidewalk, pressed her hand,and turned away to go intohis own house next door.

Astonishingly, ChesterBigelow shouted to him toremain;andtheoldman,withan air of bewilderment,returned to Louisa’s side.Gormly remained withoutinvitation; there was astubborn look about him ashiseyesfollowedJill.A half hour after their

return they were summonedby the lawyer’s brisk youngassistant to the library. Lane,

standing with InspectorThumm and Bruno at oneside,watchedthegatheringoftheclanswithabsorption.Thechildrenhadbeenpackedoffto play in the garden,remandedtothecustodyofanunhappy detective; andMartha Hatter, stiff andstraight, sat there, hands inher lap. Miss Smith, theBraille board and piecesready, stood by Louisa

Campion’schair.Lane observed the others

assemble,andmorethaneverwas impressed by theirabnormalities. The Hatterswere all healthy enoughappearing specimens; theywere tall and sturdy; in factMartha, not really a Hatter,was with Louisa—they wereboth of exactly the sameheight—the shortest of themall. But Lane noted

everything—their nervousdeportment, the slightly wildeyes of Jill and Conrad, thestrange delicateintellectualism of Barbara—the utter callousness of thefirsttwo,atanyrate,andtheiropenrelishtohearthewilloftheir murdered mother read… all a vivid contrast to thesemi-outsiders—Martha thecrushed, and Louisa thehumantomb.

Bigelow began crisply. “Iwantno interruptions,please.The will is peculiar in somerespects,andtheremustbenocomment until I haveconcluded the reading.”Therewasnosound.“Imightexplain before reading thistestamentthatallbequestsarebased on an arbitrarily fixedestate of one million dollarsafter payment of legal debts.Actually, the estate will run

to more than a million, butthe arbitrary figure isnecessaryinordertosimplifythe distribution of thebequests, as will be seen indue course.” He took a longdocument from the hand ofhis assistant, threw back hisshoulders,andcommencedina sonorous voice to readaloud the last will andtestamentofEmilyHatter.Fromthefirstsentence the

will struck an ominous note.After affirming that she wasof sound mind, Mrs. Hatterproceededincoldlanguagetostatethattheprimarypurposebehind all provisions was toguarantee the future care ofLouisa Campion, herdaughter, after the demise ofthe testatrix,providedLouisaCampion was alive at thetimeofthewill’sreading.Barbara Hatter, as the

eldest child of Emily Hatterand York Hatter, was to begiven initial choice ofaccepting responsibility forthefuturecareandwelfareofthe helpless woman. ShouldBarbaraconsenttoacceptthisresponsibility, signifying herwillingness to tend to thephysical, mental, and moralwell-being of Louisa for therest of her natural life, theestate was to be apportioned

asfollows:

LOUISA(intrustwithBarbara) $300,000

BARBARA(asherowninheritance) $300,000

CONRAD $300,000JILL $100,000

Under this arrangement,BarbarawastoholdLouisa’sinheritance in trust. OnLouisa’s death this estate-in-

trust was to be dividedequally among the threeHatter children, $100,000going to each. Thiscontingency did not in anyway affect the originalbequests to Barbara, Conrad,orJill.Bigelowpausedforbreath,

andJill,herfacetwistedwithrage, shrilled: “I like that!Whyshouldshegive—”The lawyer was flustered,

buthesummonedareserveofdignity and said hurriedly:“Please, Miss Hatter, please!Please don’t interrupt. Itwillexpedite matters—ah—considerably.” She flungherselfbackwithalittlesniff,glaring about her, andBigelowwith a sighof reliefcontinued.ShouldBarbara refuse, the

will went on, to assume theresponsibility of caring for

Louisa, Conrad, as next inline of seniority, was to begiven the privilege ofaccepting the burden. In thisevent—that is, shouldBarbara refuse and Conradconsent, the apportionmentwastobeasfollows:

LOUISA(intrustwithConrad) $300,000

CONRAD(ashisowninheritance) $300,000

JILL $100,000BARBARA(forherrefusal) $50,000

The remainder of the estate,$250,000—deductedfromtheinheritance ofBarbaraHatter—was to be used for theestablishmentofaninstitutionto be named The LouisaCampion Deaf-Dumb-and-Blind Home. There followedlong details pursuant to the

foundationofthisinstitution.And, under this

arrangement, on Louisa’sdeathher$300,000wastobedivided between Conrad andJill, Conrad receiving$200,000 of the whole, Jill$100,000.Nothingwas togotoBarbara.…There was a little silence,

during which all eyes turnedtoward the poetess. She wasrelaxed in her chair, gazing

steadily atChesterBigelow’slips; she did not changeexpression. Conrad wasstaringatherwithallhiswildweaksoulinhiseyes.“There’sapictureforyou,”

whispered Bruno to Lane;and although Bruno’s voicewasinaudibletoThummnextto him, Lane read the wordson his lips and smiled sadly.“People’s true colors alwaysappearduringthereadingofa

will. Watch Hatter; there’smurderinhiseyes.Nomatterwhat happens, Mr. Lane,there will be a contest, I’msure.It’sacrazytestament.”Bigelowlickedhislipsand

went on. Should Conrad inhis turn refuse to accept theresponsibility of caring forLouisa, the apportionmentwastobeasfollows:

BARBARA(forher

refusal) $50,000

CONRAD(forhisrefusal) $50,000

JILL(asbefore) $100,000THELOUISACAMPIONDEAF-DUMB-AND-BLINDHOME(asbefore) $250,000

LOUISA $500,000

There was a chorus ofgasps.Fivehundredthousand

dollars!Theylookedfurtivelyat the potential recipient ofthis fortune; theysawmerelya plump littlewoman staringquietlyatthewall.Bigelow’s voice jerked

them back. What was hesaying?“…and toLouisa the sum

of five hundred thousanddollars,asstatedabove,tobeheld in trust for her byCaptain Eli Trivett, who, I

know, will be willing toaccept the responsibility ofcaring for my unfortunatedaughter, Louisa Campion.Forhis trouble,Ibequeathtosaid Captain Trivett also anoutrightsumoffiftythousanddollars, should Barbara andConrad refuse, and shouldCaptain Trivett consent tocare forLouisa.MydaughterJillhasnochoice.”In this last event, the

lawyer continued, onLouisa’s death, $100,000 ofLouisa’s half-million was togo to Jill as an additionalinheritance; and theremainder, $400,000, was tobe added to the $250,000created for the Home’sfoundationfund.…The silence was so thick

that Bigelow hurried onwithoutevenlookingupfromthetestamenthewasreading.

To Mr. and Mrs. GeorgeArbuckle, irrespective ofother circumstances, thelawyercontinuedinaslightlyshaking voice, the sum of$2500 in reward of faithfulservice. To Miss AngelaSmith, nurse, the sum of$2500 in reward of faithfulservice. And should MissAngela Smith consent toremain as Louisa Campion’snurse and companion after

the death of the testatrix afundwastobeestablishedoutofwhich a salary of $75 perweek was to be paid to thenurse for the duration of theservice. Finally, to the maidVirginia,thesumof$500.…Bigelow dropped the will

and sat down. His assistantrose briskly and distributedcopiesof the testament.Eachheir received the copy insilence.

No one spoke for someminutes. Conrad Hatter wasturning the document overandoverbetweenhisfingers,staring at the typewrittenwordswithblearyeyes.Jill’sprettymouthwaswrithing inagrimaceofpurehatred;herbeautiful eyes slyly rolledtoward Louisa Campion.MissSmithinsensiblymovednearhercharge.Then Conrad exploded

with a scream of rage. Hesprang from his chair, flungthewillonthefloor,grounditunderhisheelinanecstasyofhysteria. He babbled in acracked voice, featurescrimsoned, advancing onChester Bigelow somenacingly that the lawyerrose inalarm.Thummhurledhimself across the room andgraspedtheravingman’sarmwith granite fingers. “You

fool!” he roared. “Controlyourself!”The red faded into pink,

and the pink into dirty gray.Conrad shook his headslowly, likeaman inadaze,as his insane fury drainedaway.Reasoncamebackintohis eyes. He turned to hissisterBarbaraandwhispered:“You—whatareyougoingtodoabout—her,Babs?”Everyone sighed with

relief. Barbara rose withoutreplying, glided past herbrotheras ifhedidnotexist,stooped over Louisa’s chairto pat the deaf-dumb-and-blindwoman’s cheek, turnedand said in her sweet deepvoice: “Please excuse me,”and departed. Conrad staredafterher,imbecile-fingered.ThenitwasJill’sturn,and

shemadethemostofit.“Leftoutinthecold!”sheshrieked.

“Damn my mother’s soul!”With the leap of a cat shecrouched before Louisa’schair. “You unspeakablething!” she spat, andwhirledtorunoutofthelibrary.MarthaHattersateyingthe

Hatters with quiet contempt.Miss Smith was nervouslymanipulating the pieces onthe Braille board for theinformation of Louisa; shewas transferring themessage

of thewillword forwordbythemetalpieces.

When the room had beenclearedofallexceptBigelowand his assistant, DistrictAttorneyBrunosaidtoLane:“And what do you think ofthemnow?”“They’re not only mad,

Mr. Bruno, but vicious. Sovicious, in fact,” Lanecontinued quietly, “that I

suspectitisn’ttheirfault.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Imeanthatthereisanevil

stream in their blood.Undoubtedly a congenitalweakness in the strain. Theroot of the evil must havebeen Mrs. Hatter—witnessLouisa Campion, the mostunfortunatevictimofall.”“Victim and victor

combined,” said Brunogrimly. “No matter what

happens, she stands to losenothing.A tidy fortune for ahelplesswoman,Mr.Lane.”“Too damned tidy,”

growledtheInspector.“She’llhave to be watched like theU.S.Mint.”Bigelow was fumbling

withthelockofhisbriefcase,and his assistant was fussingabout the desk. Lane said:“Mr. Bigelow, how recent isthiswill?”

“Mrs. Hatter told me todraw up her newwill on theday after the discovery ofYork Hatter’s body in theBay.”“Whatwere the provisions

oftheoldwill?”“York Hatter was left the

entire estate, with the soleprovision that he care forLouisa Campion for the restof her life.On his death, hisestate was to be apportioned

according to his owntestamentary judgment.”Bigelow picked up hisbriefcase. “It was a simpledocument compared withthis. She registered herconfidence that her husbandwouldmakeproperprovisionfor the future of Louisa, ifLouisaoutlivedhim.”“And the family knew the

provisionsofthisfirstwill?”“Oh, yes!Mrs.Hatter also

told me that, should Louisadiebeforesheherselfdid,shemeant to divide her estateequally among Barbara, Jill,andConrad.”“Thankyou.”With a sigh of relief

Bigelow hastily left thelibrary, his assistant taggingafterlikeapuppy.“Louisa, Louisa,” said

Thumm irritably. “AlwaysLouisa. She’s the storm

center of the whole mess.She’ll be bumped off if wearen’tcareful.”“Justwhatisyouropinion,

Mr.Lane,ofthecase?”askedtheDistrictAttorneycasually.“Thumm tells me you saidyesterday that youwanted togive us some of your ideastoday.”Mr. Drury Lane clutched

his rattan stick firmly, andwaved it ina littlearcbefore

him. “So I did,” hemurmured;hisfacewasgraveand strained. “And yet—Iprefer not to say now, onsecond thought. I can’t thinkhere—the atmosphere is toodisturbing.”The Inspector made an

impolite sound; his temperwasnearthebreakingpoint.“I’m sorry, Inspector. I’m

beginning to feel quite likeHector in Troilus and

Cressida—you know, theShakespearean ‘lame andimpotent conclusion,’ asShakespeare himself said—although not about his ownbadplay!—whichthePlayersare putting on in the City.Hectorsays:‘Modestdoubtiscall’dthebeaconofthewise,’andIfearIshallhavetoechohim today.” He sighed. “I’mgoingback toTheHamlet toresolvemydoubts,ifIcan.…

How long do you intend tobesiege this unhappy Troy,Inspector?”“Until I get me a nice

wooden horse,” gruntedThumm, with surprisingerudition.“I’llbedamnedifIknow what to do. They’rebeginning toaskquestions inCityHall.All Iknow is this:I’vegotonelead.”“Really?”“Perry.”

Lane’s eyes narrowed.“Perry?WhataboutPerry?”“Nothing yet. But—”

Thumm added slyly, “maybealotsoon.Mr.EdgarPerry—andI’llbetadollarthat’snothis real name—forged hisreferences to get in here—that’swhat!”Lane seemed genuinely

disturbed. The DistrictAttorney leaned forwardquickly. “If it’s a real lead,

Thumm,” he said, “we canholdhimon that charge, youknow.”“Not so fast. Barbara

Hatter stepped out anddefended him—said she’dengineered the thing becauseConrad wanted high-tonedreferences and Perry didn’thave any. Boloney! Butwe’ve got to take her wordfor it. The interesting part ofit is—he hasn’t any

references, by God, and hewon’t say anything about hispast.”“So you are investigating

him,” said Lane slowly.“Well, that’swise, Inspector.Evidently you. think MissHatter knows as little abouthimaswedo.”“Evidently.” Thumm

grinned. “Nice gal, and allthat, but I think she likes theguy—andthey’lldoanything

whenthey’reinlove.”The District Attorney was

thoughtful. “Then you’veabandoned the Conradtheory?”Thumm shrugged.

“Nothing to abandon. Thoseshoeprintsontherugupstairs—too pat, unless he wassome woman’s accomplice.And that business of thewoman’s cheek.… The hellwith that. I’m going towork

on Perry. I think I’ll havesomething for youtomorrow.”“That will be splendid,

Inspector.”Lanebuttonedhislinen coat. “Perhaps you hadbetter pay a visit to TheHamlet tomorrow afternoon.Youcantellmeallabout thePerryaffair,andI…”“Goallthewayoutthere?”

mutteredThumm.“Just a suggestion,

Inspector,” murmured Lane.“You’llcome?”“We’ll come,” said the

DistrictAttorneyquickly.“Excellent. You aren’t

relaxing vigilance, of course.Inspector?Bemostcarefultowatch the house, andparticularlythelaboratory.”“And I’m keeping the

poison expert Doc Shillingsent over on duty in thekitchen,”saidThummgrimly.

“Yes, I know all that.Sometimes, Mr. Lane, I getthe feeling that you don’t——” Whatever theInspector, in the generaldissatisfaction of his temperat themoment, was about tosay, was lost on Mr. DruryLane. For with a set smileLane hadwaved, turned, andgone.Thumm cracked his

knuckles in despair. There

was no use talking to amanwho became deaf as soon ashisbackwasturned.

Scene4

THEHAMLET.WEDNESDAY,JUNE8.3P.M.

Wednesday turned clear, butcold. The Hudson countrywas like a winter’s sea; the

swish andwashof thewindsthroughthedensefoliagewasoceanic in its sound. Therewas June in the trees, andNovemberintheair.The police car negotiated

the steep grades, the ironbridge, the gravel road, theclearing, the garden road insilence. Neither DistrictAttorneyBrunonorInspectorThumm felt inclined to talk.Old Quacey, his upthrust

hump as grotesque as ever,met them at the iron-haspedouter doors and conductedthem through the main hall,with its rush-strewn floor, itsvastcandelabra,itsknightsinarmor and mammoth masksof Comedy and Tragedy, tothelittleelevatorconcealedinthe farther wall. A shortascent and they stepped outintoMr.DruryLane’sprivateapartments.

The old actor, in a brownvelveteen jacket, wasstanding straight as a spearbefore the leaping flames ofhis fireplace. Even in thelight, with its momentarychanges of accent and itsfluid running shadows, theysawtheworrystampedonhisface. He looked haggard,decidedly not himself. Hegreeted them, however, withhis customary courtesy,

pulledabell-cordandorderedlittle Falstaff to serve coffeeand liqueurs, sent Quacey—who was sniffing about likean old hound—out of theroom, and settled himselfbefore the fire. “First,” hesaid quietly, “your news,Inspector,ifthereisany.”“Plenty. We’ve tracked

downthisPerry’srecord.”“Record?” Lane’s

eyebrowsarched.

“Not a police record. Imean his past. You’ll neverguess who he is—what hisrealnameis.”“I’m scarcely a seer,

Inspector,” said Lane with afaint smile. “He isn’t the lostDauphin,Itrust?”“The who? Listen, Mr.

Lane, this is serious,”growledtheInspector.“EdgarPerry’s real name is EdgarCampion!”

Lane was quite still for afleeting moment. “EdgarCampion,” he said after awhile.“Indeed.NotthesonofMrs.Hatter’sfirsthusband?”“Yes!Thelowdownisthis:

when Emily Hatter wasEmily Campion, married toTom Campion, who’s deadnow,Campion already had asonbyaformerwife.Thesonis Edgar Campion. He’stherefore a half-brother to

Louisa Campion—samefather,differentmothers.”“Hmm.”“What gets me,” said the

District Attorney in vastdiscontent,“iswhyCampion,or Perry, should pose as atutor and come to live in theHatter house. Thumm saysthat Barbara Hatter helpedhimgetthejob——”“That’s hooey,” said the

Inspector. “I knew it the

minuteshesaidit.Shedidn’tknow him before he got thejob—I found that out. Andwhat’smore, it’s a cinch shedoesn’t know who he reallyis.She’sinlove.Love!”“DidMrs.Hatterknowthat

EdgarPerrywasher stepson,EdgarCampion?”askedLanethoughtfully.“Nan—how could she,

unless he told her? The trailshowed that Perry was only

six or seven years old whenhis father and Emily weredivorced. She couldn’t haverecognized him as a man offorty-four.”“Have you spoken to

him?”“He won’t open his yap,

damnhim.”“Thumm’s placed him

under arrest,” remarkedBruno.Lane stiffened, and then

relaxed with a shake of hishead.“MydearInspector,”hesaid, “that was rash, veryrash. On what grounds canyouholdhim?”“Don’t like the idea, eh,

Mr.Lane?”saidThummwitha grim smile. “Don’t youworryaboutgrounds;I’vegothim on a technical charge.No, sir, he’smuch too hot aprospect to leave runningaroundfree.”

“You think he murderedMrs. Hatter?” asked Lanedryly.The Inspector shrugged.

“Maybe,maybenot.Probablynot,becauseIcan’tfigureoutamotive and,of course, I’veno evidence. But he knowssomething, mark my words.A man doesn’t disguise hisidentity and get a job in ahouse where murder iscommitted just like”—he

snapped his fingers—“justlikethat,byGod.”“And the smooth soft

cheek,Inspector?”“Pie. We’ve never

eliminated the possibility ofan accomplice, have we? Orelse the deaf-mute wasmistaken.”“Come, come,” said the

DistrictAttorney impatiently.“We haven’t made that longtrip up from theCity to hear

your views, Thumm. Justwhat is it you had in mind,Mr.Lane?”Lane did not speak for a

long time. In the interimFalstaff plumped in bearinglargesse, and Thummdrowned some of his ill-temper in a cup of steamingblack coffee. When Falstaffhadgone,Lanespoke.“I have been reflecting on

this problem, gentlemen,” he

said in the rich baritone thathe handled so deftly, “eversince Sunday, and the resultof my reflections has beenrather—what shall I say—disconcerting.”“What do you mean?”

demandedThumm.“Certain issues are clear-

cut—as clear-cut as certainissueswere in theLongstreetaffair,forexample——”“Youmeanyou’vegotit?”

saidBruno.“No.No.”Lanewas silent

again for a moment. “Don’tmisunderstandme.Iamfar—far from a solution. Becausecertain other issues aredoubtful; and not onlydoubtful, gentlemen, butpeculiar.” His voice droppedto a whisper. “Peculiar,” hesaid, and they stared at himnervously.Heroseandbegantopatrol

his rug before the fire. “Ican’ttellyouhowdisturbedIam.Disturbed!I’mbeginningto doubt the evidence of mysenses—thefour Ihave left.”The twomen looked at eachother in bewilderment. “Butenough of this,” said Laneabruptly. “I can tell younowthat I have reached adecision. There are twodefinitely marked lines ofinvestigationopentome,and

I intend to follow them.Neither has yet beentouched.”“Leads?” broke in the

Inspector irritably. “There hegoes again! What the devilkind of leads that haven’tbeentouched,asyousay?”Lanedidnotsmileorcease

his pacing. “The odor,” hemuttered, “the vanilla odor.That’sone.Extraordinary—ithas me baffled. I have a

theoryabout itandImeantofollowitthrough.Ifitshouldplease the gods to smile onme …” He shrugged. “Theother I prefer not even tomention at this time.But it’sso amazing, so incredible,and yet so logical …” Hewentonwithoutgivingeitherman a chance to interruptwith the questions he sawhovering on their lips.“Inspector, tell me what you

believe,ingeneral,aboutthiscase. We may as well befrank with each other, andsometimes a meeting ofminds accomplishes morethanindependentthinking.”“Nowyou’retalking,”said

Thumm briskly. “Let’s gettogether.Tomeit’splain;thepoisoner sneaked into thebedroom last Saturday night,orratherintheearlyhoursofSunday morning, with the

intention of poisoning thepear.ThepearwasmeantforLouisa; the poisoner knewshe would eat it in themorning. While the poisonerwas in the room,Mrs.Hatterwokeup,madeadisturbanceorcriedout,andthepoisonerlambasted her over the headin a panic. Probably didn’tmean to kill her at all; justquiet her. The death of thatoldshe-devil, I think,wasan

accident. Bruno agrees withme, and I don’t see anyreasontodoubtit.”“In other words,”

murmured Mr. Drury Lane,“you and Mr. Bruno believethemurder ofMrs.Hatter tohave been unpremeditated, acrime of the moment underunforeseencircumstances?”“Right,”saidThumm.“I thoroughly agree,” said

Bruno.

“Then, gentlemen,” saidLane softly, “you are bothwrong.”“I—what do you mean?”

demanded Bruno, takenaback.“I mean this. There is no

question inmymindbut thatthe murder of Mrs. Hatterwas premeditated, that shewasintendedtobethevictimbefore the murderer evenstepped into that bedroom,

and, furthermore, thatLouisaCampionwasnevermeant tobepoisonedatall!”Theysilentlychewedupon

this morsel, and there wasconfusioninbothmen’seyes,asuspensionofjudgmentthatcalled for explanation. Laneprovided it in his calm,deliberate way. “We begin,”he said, after seating himselfbeforethefireandmoisteninghis lipswitha liqueur,“from

Louisa Campion herself.What are the surface facts?Fromthehypodermicandthepoisonedpearitwouldsurelyseem that the bichloride ofmercurywasaimedatLouisa—she loved fruit, whereasMrs. Hatter, the only otherperson who ate fruithabituallyfromthatbowl,didnot care for fruit generallyand detested pearsparticularly. A pear was

poisoned. Then it wouldappear that the poisonerdeliberately chose a fruitwhichheknewLouisawouldeat and Mrs. Hatter wouldnot. This apparently makesthe attempt on Louisa’s lifethe primary, motivatingpurpose, as you gentlemenmaintain—in fact, the theoryis strengthened by thecircumstance that, twomonths before the second

attempt, a first attempt hadbeenmadeonherlife,onlytobe frustrated at the lastmoment.”“Yes, sir,” said the

Inspector, “that’s the way itlooks tome. And if you canprove it’s the other wayaround, you’re a better manthanIam.”“Icanprove it, Inspector,”

replied Lane calmly. “Pleasefollow me closely. If the

poisoner expected LouisaCampiontoeat thatpoisonedpear, thenyouarebothright.But did he expect her to eatthatpoisonedpear?”“Why, of course.” said

Brunoinbewilderment.“I am sorry to contradict

you, but he did not. For thefollowing reasons: We mayassume from the outset thatthe poisoner, whether amember of the household or

not, at least is familiar withits intimate details. Theassumption is soundly based,he knew, for example, thatLouisa drinks an eggnog attwo-thirty every afternoon inthe dining-room. He knew,for example, the house wellenough to have discoveredsomething that apparently nooneelseknows—thesecretofthe chimney and fireplacesconnecting laboratory and

bedroom. He knew, forexample, exactly where themandolin was kept. He wasfamiliar, surely, with thelaboratory and its contents.Certainly these are sufficientto establish the contentionthat the culprit is thoroughlyconversant with all detailsnecessarytohisplan.Now,ifhe knew these things, hecertainly knew as well thatLouisaisfastidiousabouther

food and drink, and wouldtherefore be aware that shedoes not eat spoiled or over-ripe fruit. Few people will,anyway—particularly whenthere are ripe, fresh,unspoiled pieces of theidentical fruit in the verybowl which contains thespoiled one. And Dr.Schilling’s analysis reportedthat the pear was spoiledbefore the injection of

bichloride of mercury.Therefore, the poisonerdeliberately poisoned aspoiledpear.”They were listening with

critical fascination. Lanesmiled faintly. “Didn’t thatfact strike you as odd,gentlemen? To me it wasextraordinary.“Now, you may demur,

youmaysay that thiswasanaccident—in the darkness of

the bedroom he mightinadvertentlyhavepickedoutof the bowl a rotting pearwithoutrealizingit.Eventhisisnotentirelytenable,foritiseasytotellaspoiledpieceoffruit even by touch; thefingerswillslipon therottedrind.Butsupposeweworkonthistheory—thattheselectionof thespoiledpearwassheeraccident. I can prove that itwasn’t.

“How? By the fact thatMrs. Arbuckle testified thatshehadputonlytwopearsinthe daily bowl the afternoonof the night the murder wascommitted; that Miss Smithhad actually, at eleven-thirtythat night, seen only twopears in that very bowl, andbothofthemwereripe,fresh,and unspoiled. Yet themorning after the crime wefind three pears in the bowl.

Conclusion: it was thepoisoner who must havefurnished the third—andspoiled—pear, since the twooriginal pears we know bygood testimony were fresh.Proof, then, that thepoisoning of a spoiled pearwas deliberate; so much so,thatthepoisonerprovidedhisown spoiled pear, broughtfromoutside.“But why should a

poisonerdeliberatelybring tothe scene of his crime aspoiledpieceoffruitwhenheknows that his intendedvictim will not eat a spoiledpiece of fruit, fresh ones ofthe samevarietybeing in thebowl? The only possibleanswer is:Henever intendedher toeat itatall,andIwillstake my reputation on theinfallible logic of theargument.”

Neither listener saidanything.“In other words,”

continued Lane, “you areboth wrong in assuming thatthe poisoner believed thatLouisa Campion would eatthe poisoned pear. He knewshe would not; and since healso must have known thatMrs. Hatter, the only otherpartaker fromthat fruit-bowl,would not eat pears at all…

thentheentireincidentofthepoisoned pear must in alllogic be considered a pureblind,adeviceon thepartofthe murderer to make thepolicebelieveLouisawastheintendedvictim.”“Just a moment,” said the

Inspectorquickly.“If,asyousay, this Campion womanwouldn’t eat the fruit, howthe devil did the poisonerexpect tohave thispretended

poisoningofhisdiscoveredatall?”“Good question, Thumm,”

saidtheDistrictAttorney.“Because, no matter what

his motive was,” Thummwent on, “his trick wasuseless unless somebodyfound it out. See what Imean?”“I do,” replied Lane,

undisturbed. “A cannyinterpolation, Inspector. You

say that unless the plotter’spearwerefoundbythepoliceto have been poisoned, therewasnopointinhispoisoningit at all. If no one found thepear to have been poisoned,no one would know thatsomeone was apparentlytrying to poison Louisa—theeffect the poisoner wasattemptingtoachieve.“Verywell.Therearethree

possible ways by which the

poisonermighthaveexpectedtohavehispoisoningattemptbecome police knowledge—provided the murder ofMrs.Hatterwasnotforeseen,mindyou,butanaccident.First:byleavingthehypodermicintheroom, as he did. This wouldarouse suspicion, of course,and cause an investigation,since there had been aprevious poisoning attempttwo months before. A

possible hypothesis, but it’smuch more likely that thepoisoner dropped thehypodermicinfrightorpanic.Second: by intentionallyadding a pear—the poisonedpear—and not taking oneaway, making three in all,when several people knewthere were supposed to beonly two. But this is alsoimprobable; it would be atbest a long chance andmost

likelynoonewouldnoticeanextra pear. Third: by himselfcalling attention, in someway, on some pretext, to thespoiled pear. This is by farthemostlikelyofthethree.”ThummandBrunonodded.Lane shookhis head. “But

when I show you that themurder of Mrs. Hatter wasnot an accident, that it wasdeliberately schemed out tooccursimultaneouslywiththe

false poisoning attempt, thenyouwill see that noneof thethree possibilities I havegivenisnecessary;thatIhavebeen setting up straw-menmerelytoknockthemdown.“For, when our quarry

planned to become not apoisonerbutamurderer,thenhe knew in advance that thepoisoned pear would befound. He could let matterstake their natural course,

could figure and depend onthe official murderinvestigation discovering thepoisoned pear. No longer achance, then, but almost acertainty. The poisoningwould be accidentallydiscovered, the police wouldsay that the primary purposeof the crime was to poisonLouisa, that Mrs. Hatter hadbeenkilledbysheeraccident;and the murderer would in

this way have accomplishedhis real purpose: to kill Mrs.Hatter and make the policesearch for someone withmotive to kill Louisa,discounting the old lady’smurderaltogether.”“I’ll be eternallydamned,”

muttered the Inspector.“That’sclever,ifit’strue.”“But it is true, Inspector.

You remember that, evenbefore we found the

hypodermic syringe on thebed, you remarked that youwould scout around to makesure nothing, was poisoned,working on the basis of thetwo-months’-old poisoningprecedent.Whichproves thatthe murderer had anticipatedthepolicereactiontoanicety.Even had we not discoveredthe hypodermic—which Imaintain from all the factswas left by accident—even,

in fact, ifonly twopearshadbeen found, you wouldprobably have worked on apoison theoryanddiscoveredthepoisonedpear.”“That’s right, Thumm,”

saidtheDistrictAttorney.Lane drew up his long

thighsandstaredintothefire.“Now, to prove that Mrs.Hatter’s murder was plannedin advance, was not anaccidentofthemoment.

“One point is immediatelyapparent. Themandolin usedas the death-weaponwas notpart of the bedroom’sequipment; its proper placewas downstairs in the libraryunderaglasscase,whichwastaboo to everyone and wasnever touched. In fact, itwasactuallyseeninitsglasscasedownstairs by Conrad Hatteratone-thirtyinthemorning—twoandahalfhoursbeforeit

snuffedoutMrs.Hatter’slife;and had been seen that sameeveningbyothers.“Thenthismuchiscertain:

the murderer, of thehousehold or not, wascompelled to make a specialtrip to get hold of themandolin, or else must havehadtopreparehimselfwithitin advance of his visit to thebedroom.…”“Here, here,” interrupted

Bruno, drawing his browstogether, “howdoyou figurethat?”Lane sighed. “If the

murderer was one of thehousehold, he had to comedown from either the firstfloor or the attic floor to getit. If he was not of thehousehold,hecouldnotenterthehousethroughthegroundfloor, because all doors andwindows were locked;

therefore he had to enter viathe fire-escape to at least thefirst floor; or just as likely,climbedthefire-escapetotheroof and entered via thechimney. In anyevent, a tripdownstairs for the mandolinwasnecessary.…”“That follows,” conceded

Bruno, “but suppose it wassomebody of the householdwho picked up the mandolinon his way upstairs, as he

came in late from outside?Therewereacouplewhodid,youknow.”“Very well,” smiled Lane.

“Suppose one of the latehomecomers did armhimselfwith the mandolin on his orher way upstairs? Wouldn’tthatdistinctlymeanaplan, apreconceived purpose, adeliberately thought-out useforthemandolin?”“Okay,” said Thumm.

“Shoot.”“Then the mandolin was

brought into the bedroom bythemurdererdeliberately, foraspecialpurpose.Whatcouldthat purpose have been,gentlemen?Let’sanalyzeandeliminate.“First: the battered old

mandolin might have beenbrought into thebedroomforanindigenouspurpose,whichistosay,foruseinitsproper

field,asamusicalinstrument.…” The Inspector snickered,and Bruno shook his head.“Naturally. Ridiculous, anddoesn’t even requirediscussion. Second: it mighthave been brought into thebedroom for the purpose ofleaving a planted trail, adeliberately false clueimplicating someone. Butwhom? There is only oneperson exclusively associated

with the mandolin, thediscovery of which wouldimplicatehimandhimalone;that is, its owner, YorkHatter. But York Hatter isdead. So our second surmiseiswrong.”“Hold on, hold on,” said

theInspectorslowly.“Notsofast.GrantedthatYorkHatteris dead, it’s not impossiblethat whoever’s committingthese crimes isn’t sure of it;

or, if he is sure of it, he’stryingtomakeusbelievethatYork Hatter isn’t deadbecause of the unsatisfactorycircumstances surroundingtheidentificationofthebody.Whatd’yesaytothat?”“I say bravo, Inspector,”

chuckled Lane. “An intricateand ingenious thought. But IbelieveIcanrefuteeven thatremote possibility. It wouldbe a silly gesture on the

plotter’spartfortworeasons:One, if the police are to bedeluded into thinking thatYorkHatter is alive and thathe accidentally left his ownmandolinon the sceneofhiscrime, then the deceptionmust be acceptable to thepolice. But could the policebe led to believe that Hatterwouldleavesoobviousacluetohimself?Ofcoursenot;hewould be the last person in

the world to leave such anopen and glaring trail tohimself, and certainly thepolice would realize that itwas a deception, not agenuine clue. Second: whysuch a weird object as amandolinatall?Itistheleastconceivable object oneassociateswiththespillingofblood. The police, knowingthat Hatter would not in allseriousness leave his own—

peculiar!—property on thescene of his own crime,would reason that it was leftby someoneelse to implicateHatter, and therefore theplotter’s purpose would bedefeated.No,Inspector,therewas no such ulterior purposein our murderer’s mind. Theemploymentofthemandolin,strange as it appears, waslegitimately connected withthemurderer’sownplot.”

“Go on, Mr. Lane,” saidtheDistrictAttorneywith anirritated glance at hiscolleague. “Thumm, youthink of the most ridiculousthings!”“Don’tscoldtheInspector,

Mr.Bruno,”saidLane.“Heisperfectlyrighttobringupfar-fetched possibilities, or evenimpossibilities. Logic knowsnolawbutitsown.“So, if the mandolin was

notbroughtintothebedroomasamusicalinstrument,orasa false clue to York Hatter,what other conceivablepurpose could the murdererhavehad? I challengeyou tofind more than onereasonable remainingmotive:that is, to use it as aweapon.”“Damned funny weapon,”

muttered Thumm. “That’sstuck in my craw since the

beginning.”“I hardly blame you,

Inspector,” sighed Lane, “foradopting that attitude orposing that question. It is aqueer weapon, as you say,andwhenwestrikebottominthis case…”Hepaused, andsomething remarkably sadcame into his eyes. Then hesat up straighter, and forgedahead in his deep voice.“Sincewe cannot answer the

question now, let us forget itforthepresent.Butcertainly,whatever the reason is, themandolin was brought to thebedroomforuseasaweapon,andat themoment that is thenuclearconsideration.”“Of course,” said Bruno

wearily, “if the mandolinwas,asyousay,broughtasaweapon, then its purposefrom the beginning wasoffensive; that is, it was

luggedalongasaninstrumentofoffense,ormurder.”“Not by a long shot,”

growledThummbeforeLanecould reply. “How do youknowitwasbroughtalongasan offensive weapon? Howdo you know it wasn’tbrought as a defensiveweapon—no intention at allto assault the old witch, buttaken along just in case itshouldbeneeded?”

“That’s right, too,”mutteredBruno.“No,” said Lane, “that’s

wrong. Here! Suppose,Inspector, as you say, themurderer merely anticipatedthe possibility of having tosilence Mrs. Hatter, or evenLouisa while he waspoisoning the fruit; that is,that there was no originalpurpose to attack, but todefend. Now, we know that

the marauder was wellacquaintedwiththebedroom,andthatinthatbedroomthereare half a dozen objectsinfinitely to be preferred asweapons—the iron fire-toolshanging at the fireplace; infact, two heavy bookendslyingon thenight-table itselfnexttothevictim’sbed—anyone of which would havestruck amore effective blowthan the comparatively light

mandolin. Now, if themurderermade a special tripdownstairs to get a weaponwhose use was purelyhypothetical,hewasgoingtoan extraordinary amount oftrouble without cause, whenthere were even betterbludgeons ready to his handon the scene of his projectedcrime.“Then logic dictates that

the mandolin was not taken

alongasaweaponofdefense;it was taken along as aweapon of offense. Notmerely to be available ifneeded,buttobedeliberatelyused. And no other weaponwould do, please observe—onlythemandolin.”“I see it now,” confessed

Thumm. “Go ahead, Mr.Lane.”“Verywell.Now, if itwas

carriedbythemurderer tobe

deliberatelyusedinoffense—against whom was it to beused? Against LouisaCampion? Surely not; I havepointedoutthatthepoisoningwasnotmeant to take effect,that the murderer did notwanttopoisonher.Andifhedid not want to take her lifewith a poisoned pear, whyshould he want to take herlife by striking her on thehead with his strange

weapon? No, the mandolincertainlycouldnothavebeenmeant for Louisa Campion.Then for whom else? OnlyMrs.Hatter.Which iswhat Iset out to prove, gentlemen:that it was never themurderer’s intention topoison Louisa Campion, andthat it was always hisintention to murder EmilyHatter.”Theactorstretchedhislegs

and toasted his toes. “Mythroat! Retirement hassoftened me … Look here.When you consider theinterrelationship of thefundamentalsIshallmention,you will see that this entireline of reasoning is clarifiedand strengthened. First, ablind, a feint, a fakedmove,isgenerallyasmokescreentoconceal a real purpose.Second: the poisoning

attemptonLouisawas,asjustshown,ablind.Third:despitethe fact that itwasablind, aweapon was deliberatelybrought along by thecriminal. Fourth:Mrs.Hatterwastheonlyindividualunderthe circumstances againstwhom the deliberatelybrought weapon could havehadareal,orlethal,purpose.”In the silence that ensued

the District Attorney and

Inspector Thumm regardedeach other with mingledexpressionsofadmirationandmental turmoil. In Bruno’scase theexpressionwasevenmore subtle. Somethinginsistent was struggling forrecognition behind that keenmask; he took one look atThummandthendroppedhisglance to the floor,where hestubbornly kept it for a longtime.

The Inspector was lessupset.“Itsuresoundsliketheright dope, Mr. Lane, muchas I hate to admit it. We’vebeenon thewrong tack fromthe start. This changes thewhole complexion of theinvestigation. We’ve got tokeep our eyes peeled for adifferent motive now—notmotive against the Campionwoman, but motive againstMrs.Hatter!”

Lanenodded;therewasnosatisfactionortriumphonhisface. Despite theconclusiveness of hisargument, he seemeddisturbed by a sproutingemotional canker. Gloomsettleduponhimnowthattheglow of oration was fading;and from under his silkybrows he kept watchingDistrictAttorneyBruno.The Inspector was

oblivious to this byplay; hewas busy thinking aloud.“Motiveagainst theold lady.That will business … Hell,they all stood to gainsomething by bumping offthe old crow.… And wheredoes that get you? Nowhere.For that matter, everybodystood to gain something bykilling Louisa too—eithermoney or the satisfaction ofpersonal hatred.… Maybe

we’ll get somewhere whenwe see what Barbara HatterdoesaboutLouisa.”“Ah—yes,yes,”murmured

Lane. “I beg your pardon,Inspector; I’m afraid thatwhile my eyes registeredwhat you said, my brainwasn’t particularly attentive.…Amorepressingproblem.With the will’s contentspublished and the testatrixdead, the previous pretenses

at the poisoning of Louisamay very well turn into realattempts, now that the deaf-dumb-and-blind woman’sdeathwillbenefitthemall.”Thumm sat up, startled.

“ByGod, I never thought ofthat! And there’s anotherthing.” He groaned. “Wehaven’t any way of knowingwho’swho. If Louisa shouldbe bumped off, it wouldn’tnecessarilymeanthatshewas

killed by the same one whokilled her mother. Anybody,having nothing to do witheither the first poisoningattemptorthesecondplusthemurder, would be in a swellposition now to attemptLouisa’s life, since he or shecould be sure the policewould pin it on the originalpoisoner and killer. What amess!”“Hmm. I agree with you,

Inspector. Not only mustMiss Campion be guardednight and day, but everysingle one of the Hatterhousehold must be underconstantsurveillance,andthepoison supply in thelaboratoryshouldberemovedatonce.”“You think so?” said

Thummslyly.“Notbyalongshot.Oh,we’llwatchthelab,all right,but thepoisons stay

there,what’sleftof’em—andmaybe somebody’ll comesnooping around for abottleful!”District Attorney Bruno

raised his eyes toMr. DruryLane’s. A spark kindled inthem, and Lane croucheddeeperinhischair,tensioninallhismuscles,as ifheweresetting himself for a blow.There was quizzical triumphon Bruno’s face. “Well!” he

said. “I’ve been thinkingthingsover,Mr.Lane.”“And you have concluded

—?” asked Lane withoutexpression.Bruno grinned. “I hate to

upset that beautiful analysisof yours, but I’m afraid Imust. All through yourreasoning you’ve assumedthat the poisoner andmurdererarethesameperson…” The tension dropped

away from Lane, and herelaxed with a sigh. “Now,oncebeforewediscussed thepossibility that poisoner andmurderer were two people,not one, and that they didtheir separate jobs on themurder night at differenttimes.…”“Yes,yes.”“True,” continued Bruno

withawaveofhishand,“thisleaves unexplained the

motive of the poisoner,provided there was anentirely separate murderer.But suppose his motive wasmerely to frighten the deaf-dumb-and-blind woman,scareheroutof thehousebythesefakeattacksonherlife?Several have such motive,who might not stoop tomurder. So, I say that youhaven’ttakenintoaccountthepossibility of two separate

criminals, a theory in whichwhoever killed Mrs. Hatterhad nothing to do with thepoisoningatall!”“That night,” added

Thumm, with a look ofastonishment at Bruno’sperspicacity, “or two monthsago, either. And man, howthat jabs a needle into youranalysis,Mr.Lane!”Lane sat silent for a

moment; and then his two

guests were startled to hearhim utter a cavernouschuckle. “Why, Mr. Bruno,”he said, “I thought that wasobvious.”“Obvious?” exclaimed

bothmen.“Ofcourse.Isn’tit?”“Isn’twhat?”“Oh, very well,” chuckled

Lane again. “Evidently myerror in neglecting to pointout what I thought was so

perfectly apparent all thetime.It’slikeyou,Mr.Bruno,with your confoundedlytortuous legal mind, topropoundaquestionlikethat.Poppedatme,eh,asasortoflast-minuterebuttal?”“I’d like to hear your

explanation, anyway,” saidBrunocalmly.“You shall.” Lane

composed himself and staredat his fire. “So you want to

know why I assume that thepoisoner and murderer areone and the same …? Theansweris:Idonotassumeit,I know it. I can providemathematicalproof.”“That’s a tall order,” said

InspectorThumm.“I’m open to conviction,”

saidtheDistrictAttorney.“Perhaps, like ‘the

unanswerable tear inwoman’s eye,’” said Lane

with a smile, “my argumentwill be too convincing.… Imight begin by saying thatmostof thestorywaswrittenonthefloorofthebedroom.”“Floor of the bedroom?”

echoed Thumm. “Showedoneperson,not?—”“Pshaw, Inspector! I’m

surprised at your lack ofperspicacity. You will agree,won’tyou, that, if thereweretwopeopleinvolved,notone,

certainlythentheymusthavecome in at different times—since they admittedly haddifferent purposes, one topoison the pear directedagainst Louisa, the other tomurderMrs.Hatter?”Bothmennodded.“Very well, then. In what

order did they visit theroom?”Thumm and Bruno looked

at each other. Bruno

shrugged. “I don’t see howyoucansaypositively.”Lane shook his head.

“Lack of coherent thought,Mr. Bruno. To place thepoisoned pear on the night-table where we found it, thepoisoner had to standbetween the beds; that muchis indubitable. To murderMrs.Hatterthemurdereralsohad to stand between thebeds,asDr.Schillingpointed

out. Therefore, both, if therewere two, walked over thesame stretch of carpet—therug between the beds. Yetthere was only one set offootprints in the scatteredpowder on the rug at thatplace—we may discountLouisaCampion’s,ofcourse;for, if her testimony is to beimpugned, we may as wellsurrenderrightnow.“Now, if the first invader

had upset the powder, therewould be two sets offootprints: the first set madeby the first invader after heupset the powder, and thesecond set by the secondinvader inadvertently whenhe visited the room after thefirst was gone. But there isonly one set of footprints.This means, plainly, that thepowdermusthavebeenupsetby the secondvisitor,not the

first,whichwouldaccountforthe fact that one visitor,necessarily the first, left nofootprintsatall.Fundamental.“The problem logically set

for us, then, is to discoverwhose prints we found—thatis, who was the secondvisitor. The footprints in thepowder were made by shoeswhich we found. On thetoecapof therightshoetherewassplatteredliquid,asserted

by the Medical Examiner tobebichlorideofmercury, thesamepoisonthatwasinjectedinto the pear and that wasfound in the hypodermic.Obviously, then, the visitorwho left the footprints in thepowder—thesecondvisitor—wasthepoisoner.Thismeansthat Number Two, havingupset the box and walked inthe talcum,was thepoisoner;and, always provided there

were two individualsinvolved, that Number Onewas the murderer. Do youfollowsofar?”Theynodded.“Now, what does the

mandolin, the weapon usedby the murderer, or NumberOne, tell us about him, thefirst visitor? It tells this: Itwas the mandolin thatknocked the powder-box offthe night-table. How? There

werebloodlinesonthecoverof the powder box whichcould only have been placedthere by contact with thebloody strings of themandolin.Behindthespotonthe table where the box hadlain, before it was knockedover, we found a fresh dentmade by some sharp edge.This dent, from its positionandnature,we established tohave been caused by the

mandolin’s edge striking thetable; the mandolin, inconfirmation,showingononeof itsownedgesat the lowerend an abrasioncorresponding to the tabledent. Then the mandolinstruck the table at that point,its strings touched thepowder-box top, and hurledtheboxoffthetable.“The mandolin could not

wield itself. It was used to

batter the old lady’s head.Then the blowwhich causedtheboxtofallmusthavebeena result of the latter half ofthe swing exerted in strikingMrs. Hatter over the headrightbeside the table.This isreally repetition; at the timeweexaminedthesceneofthecrime we established thesepointsbeyonddoubt.”Lane leaned forward and

brandished a muscular

forefinger. “Now, we provedbefore that it was thepoisoner—Number Two—who upset the powder-box.Yetatthismomentitappearsthat Number One, themurderer, upset the powder-box. An insurmountablecontradiction!” The actorsmiled. “Another way ofstatingit:Wediscoveredthatthemandolin layon top of afilm of fallen powder. That

means that the mandolin fellwhenthepowderwasalreadyonthefloor.Andsinceinthefirst analysis the poisonerupset thepowder, thatmeansthat the murderer must havecomesecond.But ifhecamesecond, where in Heaven’snamearehisfootprints,sincethe only footprints found arethepoisoner’s?“And so if we have no

murderer’s footprints, there

were not two people thereafterthepowderfell;inotherwords, the murderer as aseparate entity did not exist.WhichiswhyI‘assumed,’asyou say, from the beginningthat both poisoner andmurderer were one and thesameindividual!”

Scene5

THEMORGUE.THURSDAY,JUNE9.10:30A.M.

Mr.DruryLanemounted thesteps of the grimy old CityMorgue, a rather expectantexpressiononhisface.Insidehe inquired for Dr. LeoSchilling, the MedicalExaminer. After a shortdelay, he was conducted byan attendant to an autopsy-room. His nose wrinkled at

the strong odor ofdisinfectant,andhepausedatthe door. Dr. Schilling’schubby little figure was bentover an autopsy table, intenton exploring the vitals of adesiccated corpse. Lolling ina chair, watching theproceedings with a whollyindifferent air, was a shortblondish man of middle agewith fat features. “Come in,Mr.Lane,”saidDr.Schilling,

without looking up from hisgruesome work.“Wunderlich, Ingalls, howwell preserved this pancreasis.… Sit down, Mr. Lane.Meet Dr. Ingalls, ourtoxicologist. I’ll be throughwith this cadaver in amoment.”“Toxicologist?” asked

Lane,shakinghandswith theshort middle-aged man. “Aremarkablecoincidence.”

“How?”saidDr.Ingalls.“He’s the City man,” said

the Medical Examiner, busywith thevitals. “You’ve seenhis name in the papers. Agreat one for publicity,Ingalls.”“Umm,”saidDr.Ingalls.Dr. Schilling yelled

something unintelligible, andtwomen came in and cartedoff the corpse. “Well,” hesaid, “now we can talk.” He

strippedoffhisrubberglovesand went to a basin. “Whatbrings you to the Morgue,Mr.Lane?”“Amostunusualandfutile

errand, Doctor. I’mendeavoring to track down asmell.”Dr. Ingalls raised an

eyebrow. “A smell, my dearsir?”The Medical Examiner

chuckled as he washed his

hands. “You’ve come to theright place, Mr. Lane. TheMorgue provides some veryfancysmellsindeed.”“Scarcely the kind of odor

I’m after, Dr. Schilling,”smiled Lane. “This is sweetandpleasant.Itseeminglyhasno connection with crime,and yet it may be of majorimportance in the solution ofamurder.”“Whatodorisit?”inquired

Dr. Ingalls. “Perhaps I canhelpyou.”“It’stheodorofvanilla.”“Vanilla!” repeated both

physicians. Dr. Schillingstared. “You’ve run across avanilla odor in the Hattercase, Mr. Lane. That isstrange,Imustsay.”“Yes, Louisa Campion

maintains that in the instantofcontactwiththemurderer,”explained Lane patiently,

“shedetectedanaromawhichat first she described as‘piercing sweet,’ and lateridentifiedthroughexperimentas that of vanilla. Have youanysuggestions?”“Cosmetics, pastry,

perfumes, cookery,” saidIngalls rapidly. “A horde ofothers, none of themparticularlyinteresting.”Lane waved his hand.

“Naturally we’ve exhausted

those. I tried to corral thecommonsources.Asidefromthose you have justmentioned. I got nowherewithsuchthingsasicecream,candy, extracts, and so on.Nothing in that direction I’mafraid.”“Flowers?” hazarded the

MedicalExaminer.Laneshookhishead.“The

only trace in that connectionis that there is a variety of

orchidwhichexudesavanillaodor. But that doesn’t makesense, and we can find notraceof such a variety in thecontemporary history of thecase. I thought that you, Dr.Schilling, out of yourknowledge of such things,might be able to suggestanothersource,perhapsmoredirectly connected with thegeneralconceptofcrime.”Thetwodoctorsexchanged

glances, and Dr. Ingallsshrugged. “How aboutchemicals?” ventured Dr.Schilling. “It seems to me——”“My dear Doctor,” said

Lane with a faint smile,“that’swhyI’mhere.Ifinallythoughtof theelusivevanillaasapossiblechemical.Itwasnaturalformenottoconsidervanilla in relation tochemistry at first, since the

twoconceptionsaresoutterlyopposed in spirit, and myknowledge of the sciences issoabysmallysmallbesides.Isthere a poison, Dr. Ingalls,whichsmellslikevanilla?”The toxicologist shook his

head. “I can’t recall any offhand. Certainly it’s nocommon toxin, or eventoxicoid.”“You know,” said Dr.

Schilling thoughtfully,

“vanillaitselfhasvirtuallynomedicinal value. Oh yes,sometimes it’s used as anaromaticstimulantincasesofhysteriaorlowfever,but…”Lane cocked a suddenly

interested eye. Dr. Ingallslooked startled, burst into alaugh, slapped his fat thigh,androsetogotoadeskinthecorner. He scribbled a note,chucklingall thewhile.Thenhe went to the door.

“McMurty!” he cried. Anattendant ran up. “Take thisto Scott’s.” Theman hurriedoff. “Just wait,” grinned thetoxicologist.“I thinkI’vegotsomething.”The Medical Examiner

looked piqued. Lane satquietly. “Do you know, Dr.Schilling,” he said in a calmvoice, as if the result of Dr.Ingalls’s inspiration were ofnointeresttohim.“I’vebeen

kickingmyself fromone endofTheHamlettotheotherfornothavingthoughtofsniffingevery bottle inYorkHatter’slaboratory.”“Ach, yes, the laboratory.

You might have found itthere.”“At least it was a chance.

When I did think of it, themoment had passed, the firehad destroyed the room andmost of the bottles had been

smashed.” He sighed.“However, Hatter’s index isstillintact,andImayaskyou,Dr.Ingalls,togooveritwithme and check every detailitemized in the man’s files.You might get a lead there.I’museless,naturally,forthatkindofwork.”“I don’t believe,” replied

the toxicologist, “that such aprocedure will be at allnecessary,Mr.Lane.”

“Isincerelyhopenot.”When the messenger

returned, he was carrying asmall white jar. Lane stoodup abruptly as Dr. Ingallsunscrewedthealuminumcap,sniffed,smiled,andprofferedthe jar. Lane seized it.… Itwas filled with a harmless-looking substance of thegeneralcolorandconsistencyof honey. He raised it to hisnostrils.…

“I think,” he said quietly,lettinghisarmfall, “thatyouhavedoneus agreat service,Dr. Ingalls. Unmistakably avanilla odor. What is thisstuff?”The toxicologist lighted a

cigarette. “It’s called Balsamof Peru, Mr. Lane, and theastonishing part of thisbusiness is that you can findit in any pharmacy and inthousandsofhomes.”

“BalsamofPeru…”“Yes.Awidelyusedviscid

liquid, as you can see,employed chiefly in lotionsand salves. Perfectlyharmless,bytheway.”“Lotion? Salve? For what

purpose,Doctor?”Dr. Schilling smote his

forehead a mighty blow.“Himmel!” he cried in deepdisgust.“WhatajackassIam.I should have remembered,

although it’s years since I’vehad occasion to think of it.Balsam of Peru is used as abase for lotions or salvesapplied in certain skintroubles. Very common, Mr.Lane.”Lane frowned. “Skin

troubles…Strange.Isitusedinitspurestate?”“Ja, sometimes. Although

mostly with otheringredients.”

“Howdoesthathelpyou?”askedDr.Ingallscuriously.“I confess that at the

moment…”Mr.DruryLanesat down and spent twominutesinprotractedthought.When he looked up, therewas doubt in his eyes. “Dr.Schilling, was anythingwrong with Mrs. Hatter’sskin? You performed theautopsy, and you must havenoticed.”

“The wrong tree,” repliedthe Medical Examineremphatically. “Absolutely.Mrs. Hatter’s epidermis wasas sound as her internalorgans,asidefromherheart.”“Oh, then she showed no

evidences of diseaseinternally?” asked Laneslowly, as if Schilling’sresponse had awakened aforgottenchordinhim.Dr. Schilling looked

puzzled. “I can’t see… No.Autopsy revealed nopathologicalcondition.Didn’trun across anything … Justwhatdoyoumean?”Lane regarded him

steadily. A thoughtful squintcame into the MedicalExaminer’s eye. “I see. No,Mr. Lane, nothing like thatsuperficially.But,ofcourse,Iwasn’t looking for suchthings. I wonder …” Mr.

DruryLaneshookhandswithboth physicians and left theautopsy-room. Dr. Schillingstared after him. Then heshrugged and said to thetoxicologist:“Aqueerfellow,hey,Ingalls?”

Scene6

DR.MERRIAM’SOFFICE.THURSDAY,JUNE9.11:45A.M.

The car drew up twentyminutes later before an oldsandstone three-story houseon 11th Street between Fifthand Sixth Avenues—a quietaristocratic old neighborhoodafewblocksfromtheSquare.Mr. Drury Lane descended,looked up, caught the neatblack-and-white placard inthefirst-floorwindow:

Y.MERRIAM,M.D.

VISITINGHOURS11–12A.M.6–7P.M.

and slowly ascended thestonestoop.Herangtheouterbell and a colored maid inuniformopenedthedoor.“Dr.Merriam?”“This way, sir.” The maid

led him into a half-filledwaiting-room directly off thefront hall. The waiting-roomcontained half a dozen

patients, and Lane took hisplace in a chair by the frontwindow, patiently awaitinghisturn.After an empty hour of

waiting a trim nurse openedtheslidingdoorsattherearofthe room and approachedhim. “You haven’t anappointment,haveyou?”Lane fumbled for his card

case. “No. But I think Dr.Merriamwillseeme.”

He handed her one of hisunpretentious personal cards,and her eyes widened. Shehurried through the slidingdoorsandreturnedamomentlater followed by old Dr.Merriam himself, spotless inalongsurgicalgown.“Mr. Lane!” said the

physician, hurrying forward.“Why didn’t you announceyourself before? My nurseinforms me you’ve been

sittinghereforanhour.Comein,comein.”Lane murmured: “No

matter,” and followed Dr.Merriam into a large office,from which an examining-room could be seen. Theoffice was like the waiting-room—neat and clean andold-fashioned.“Sitdown,Mr.Lane.What

bringsyouhere?Ah—you’renotfeelingwell?”

Lane chuckled. “Not apersonal call, Doctor. I’malways in disgustingly robusthealth. The only sign ofsenilityIbetrayisthatIinsiston boasting about how far Icanswim.…”“All right, Miss Fulton,”

said Dr. Merriam abruptly,and the nurse went out,closingtheslidingdoorstightbehindher.“Now,Mr.Lane.”Hemanaged,despitethetinge

of amiability in his voice, toconvey the impression thatafterallhewasaprofessionalman, whose every momentwasprecious.“Yes.” Lane clasped his

hands on the head of hisrattan. “Dr. Merriam, haveyoueverprescribedforanyofthe Hatter family, or foranyone connected with theHatter family, a vanillapreparation?”

“Hmm,”saidthephysician.Heleanedbackinhisswivel-chair.“Stillonthetrailofthatvanillaodor,Isee.No,Ihavenot.”“You’re sure, Doctor?

Perhapsyoudon’tremember.Perhaps it was a case ofhysteria, or of what Iunderstand is called lowfever.”“No!” Dr. Merriam’s

fingers tracedpatternson the

blotterbeforehim.“Thensupposeyouanswer

this question. Which of theHatters received from you,probably within recentmonths, a prescription for askinailmentwhichcontainedthepharmaceutical ingredientofBalsamofPeru?”Merriam started

convulsively, red dyeing hisface. Then he sank backagain,wonderinhisoldblue

eyes. “It’s absolutely imposs——”hebegan,andstopped.He stood up suddenly andsaid with anger: “I refuse toanswer questions concerningmy patients, Mr. Lane, andit’suselessforyou——”“Butyouhaveanswered it

already, Doctor,” said Lanegently.“ItwasYorkHatter,Isuppose?”The old physician stood

stillbyhisdesk,staringdown

athisblotter.“Verywell,”hesaid in a low forced voice.“Yes, it was York. Aboutninemonthsago.Hecametome with a rash on his arms,above the wrists. It was atrifle, although he seemedvery conscious of it. Iprescribed a salve whichcontained Balsam of Peru—blackbalsam,it’salsocalled.For some reason he insistedon my preserving secrecy—

he was sensitive about it, hesaid, andaskedme to tellnoone, not even his family …BalsamofPeru.Ishouldhavethoughtofit…”“Yes,” said Lane dryly.

“So you should; we shouldhavebeensavedconsiderabletrouble. He never came toyouagain?”“Notforthat.Heconsulted

me about—other things. Ionceaskedhimhowhis skin

was getting along.He said itrecurred periodically, and heapplied the salve I hadprescribed. Made his ownprescriptions,Ithink—hehada pharmacy degree. Andbandaged his arms himself,too.”“Himself?”Dr. Merriam looked

annoyed. “Well, he said thathis daughter-in-law, Martha,had once walked in on him

while he was applying thesalve; and he was forced totell her what was the matterwith his arms. She wassympathetic, it seems, andafter that she helped himbandage his arms once in awhile.”“Interesting,” murmured

Lane. “There was no in-lawproblem as far as Hatter andMartha were concerned,then.”

“I don’t believe so. Hedidn’t care if she knew, hetoldme;shewastheonlyonein the house, he said, thathe’d trust with a secretanyway.”“Hmm…Martha.He and

she were really the onlyoutsiders,inasense,livinginthehouse at that time.”Lanestopped, and then saidswiftly: “What caused YorkHatter’s skin ailment,

Doctor?”The physician blinked.

“Bloodcondition.Really,Mr.Lane——”“Would you mind giving

meaduplicateoftheoriginalprescription?”“Not at all,” replied

Merriam with relief. Hereached for a pad ofprescriptionblanksandwrotelaboriouslywithalargebluntpen as old-fashioned as his

office.Whenhehadfinished,Lane took the scribbled notefromhimandglancedoverit.“Nothing poisonous, Ifancy?”“Ofcoursenot!”“Merely a precautionary

question,Doctor,”murmuredLane,placingtheprescriptionin his wallet. “And now, ifyou will let me see yourrecord card on York Hatter…”

“Eh?”Dr.Merriamblinkedagain,veryrapidly,andatideof red surged into hiswaxenears. “My record card?” heshouted. “This isoutrageous!Asking me to discloseintimate details about mypatients.… Why, I neverheard of such a thing! I sh——”“Dr. Merriam, let’s

understand each other. Ithoroughly appreciate and

commend your attitude. Still,you are aware that I’m hereas an accreditedrepresentativeofthelaw,thatmy purpose is only toapprehendamurderer.”“Yes,butIcan’t——”“There may be other

murders. It is within yourprovince to assist the police,and you may have valuablefactsatyourcommandwhichweasyetdonotknow.Then

where is your professionalsecrecy?”“Can’tdo it,”muttered the

physician.“Againsttheethicsofthemedicalprofession.”“Hang the ethics of the

medical profession.” Lane’ssmile dropped from him.“Shall I tell you why youcan’t tell me? Professionalethics! Do you think I’m asblindasI’mdeaf?”Something like alarm

scurried into the old man’seyes and was hidden by theinstantdroppingofhisveinedlids. “What on earth …” hefaltered. “What do youmean?”“Imeanpreciselythis.You

refusetoopentheHattercasehistories to me becauseyou’re afraid I will discoverthe pathological skeleton intheHattercloset.”Dr. Merriam did not raise

hiseyelids.Lane relaxedandthefaintsmilereturned;notasmile of triumph, but ofsadness.“Really,Doctor,itisall so hideously plain. WhyLouisa Campion was bornblind and dumb, and with adisposition toward deafness.…”Dr.Merriampaled.“WhyBarbaraHatter is agenius.…WhyConradHatterissubjectto maniacal rages, why hedrinks and wastes his life

away.… Why Jill Hatter isreckless and beautiful, butinnatelyvicious,aharpy.…”“Oh,stop,forGod’ssake,”

cried Dr. Merriam. “I’veknown them so long—seenthem grow up—fought forthem,fortheirrighttoliveasdecenthumanbeings.…”“I know, Doctor,” said

Lane softly. “You’veapotheosized the mostSpartan virtues of your

profession.Atthesametime,humanityitselfdictatesheroicmeasures.‘Diseasesdesperategrown,’asClaudiussays,‘bydesperate appliance arereliev’d.’”Dr. Merriam shrank into

hischair.“It didn’t take much,”

continued Lane in the samegentle voice. “I saw whythey’re half mad, wild,eccentric; why poor York

Hatter committed suicide.Ofcourse,therootofthetroublewas Emily Hatter. I have nodoubtnowthatshecausedthedeath of her first husband,Thomas Campion, byinfecting him before hegrasped his danger; that sheinfected her second husband,Hatter, and transmitted theinvidious germ to herchildren,andtoherchildren’schildren.… It’s horribly

essential that we see eye toeye in this matter, Doctor,and forget for the period ofthe emergency allconsiderationofethics.”“Yes.”Lanesighed.“Dr.Schilling

found no traces of it in hisautopsy, so I presume youapproximatedacure?”“When it was too late to

save the others,” mutteredMerriam. He rose to his feet

without another word andwalked heavily to a lockedcabinet in a corner of theoffice. Unlocking it, hesearched a file and broughtout a number of index cardsof large size. These hehanded silently to Lane andsat down again, shaken andpale; and during the entireperiod in which Lane readthrough the various cards hedidnotutterasound.

The notes werevoluminous,andallcontainedstrikinglysimilarfeatures.AsLane read, he nodded fromtime to time, the expressionof sadness deepening on hissmooth young face. Mrs.Hatter’s case history tracedher condition from the timewhenDr.Merriamtookherincharge, thirty years before,when Louisa Campion,Barbara, and Conrad Hatter

had already been born, untilthe time of her death. Therecord was depressing, andLane put it aside with afrown. He riffled the cardsuntil he came to YorkHatter’s.Therecordherewaslessdetailed,andafterahastyglancethroughthebulkofthenotes, Lane concentrated onthe last entry, dated amonthbeforeHatter’sdisappearancethepreviousyear:

Age 67 … Wght 155, good… Hght 5' 5"… Blood-pressure 190.… Cardiaccond. poor … Skin clear …Wassermann—1plus.Louisa Campion’s card,

which Lane consulted next,bore the date of Mayfourteenthofthecurrentyearatthelastnotation:Age 40…Wght 148 (over)… Hght 5' 4"… Incipientpectoris…Eyes,ears,larynx

—no hope?… Increasingneurosis … Wass.—neg.Watch heart … Diet # 114prescr.ConradHatter’slastvisitto

Dr. Merriam had been,according to his card, onApril eighteenth of thepreviousyear:Age31…Wght175(bad)…Hght 5' 10"… Gen. Cond.poor … Liver bad … Heartfatty … Pronounced

alcoholism…Wassermann—neg.… Worse than last visit… Quiet life prescr, althouseless.Barbara Hatter, from the

last entry on her card, hadvisited Dr. Merriam early inDecemberlast:Age36…Wght127(under)… Hght 5' 7" … Anaemiaworse … Prescr. liver …Gen. cond. fair … Good ifliv. relieves anae …

Wassermann—neg …Marriagewouldhelp.Jill Hatter, February

twenty-fourth,currentyear:Age 25 … Wght 135 (sl.under) … Hght 5' 5½" …Conddef. rundown … Trynerve tonic … Incipientpalpitation?…Slightalcoh…Wisdom tooth abscess lowerjaw, right—attend … Wass.—neg.Jackie Hatter May first,

currentyear:Age13…Wght80…Hght4' 8" … Watch carefully …Late puberty … Subnor.physic…Wass.—neg.Billy Hatter, May first,

currentyear:Age4…Wght32…Hght2'10"…Heart, lungs splendid… Seems normal, robust inallrespects.…Watch.“Rather sad,” remarked

Mr.DruryLaneasheplaced

the cards together again andreturned them to Dr.Merriam.“IseethatyouhavenorecordofMarthaHatter.”“No,” replied Merriam

dully.“Shewasconfinedbothtimes by another physician,and somehow never callsupon me, although it’s trueshebrings thechildren tomeforperiodicexamination.”“Thensheknows?”“Yes.Isitanywonderthat

she hates and despises herhusband?”Herose;evidentlythe interview had beendistasteful to him, and therewas something determinednowinthesetofhisoldchinthat caused Lane to rise alsoandpickuphishat.“Have you any theory

concerning the attemptedpoisonings of LouisaCampion and the murder ofMrs.Hatter,Doctor?”

“I should not be surprisedif you discovered themurderer and poisoner to beanyoneoftheHatterfamily,”Merriam said in a tonelessvoice.Heploddedaroundhisdesk and placed his hand onthedoor.“Youmaybeabletocatch, try, and convict theguilty one,Mr.Lane.But letmetellyouthis.”Theystaredintoeachother’seyes for thespaceofaheartbeat.“Noman

of science or common sensewould for an instant hold asingle one of the Hattersmorally responsible for thecrime.Theirbrainshavebeentwistedbyahorriblephysicalinheritance. And they’ll allcometoabadend.”“Isincerelytrustnot,”said

Mr.DruryLane,andtookhisleave.

Scene7

THEHATTERHOUSE.THURSDAY,JUNE9.3:00P.M.

Lanespentthenexttwohoursalone. He felt the need ofsolitude.Hewasirritatedwithhimself.Why should he takethis remarkable case sopersonally? he demanded ofhimself.Afterall,hisduty,ifhe had a duty, was to the

cause of law. Or was it?Perhaps justice demandedmoreofhimthan…He heckled himself

constantly as Dromio drovehim uptown to the Friars’Club. His conscience wouldnotlethimalone.Eveninthepeaceofhisfavoritecorneratthe Club, lunching byhimself, mechanicallyacknowledging thesalutations of friends,

acquaintances, and ex-colleagues of the theater hecould not bring himself to astateofmentalease.Hisfacegrewcontinuallylongerashetoyedwithhisfood.NotevenEnglish mutton tasted goodtoday. After luncheon, as amoth is drawn to fire, Mr.Drury Lane commandedDromio to drive himdowntown to the Hatterhouse.

The house was quiet, forwhich he gave silent thanks.The loutish face of GeorgeArbuckle, the houseman,gloweredathimashesteppedthroughthevestibuleintothehall. “Is Inspector Thummhere?”“Upstairs in Mr. Perry’s

room.”“Ask him to come to the

laboratory.”Lane thoughtfully climbed

the stairs. The door to thelaboratory was open, andDetectiveMosherwas sittinglimply on the work-benchnearthewindows.Inspector Thumm’s

squashed nose appeared, andhegruntedagreeting.Mosherjumped to his feet, butThummwavedhimasideandstood restless-eyed watchingLane, who was busyrummaging in the filing

cabinet.Hestraightenedupinamomentwith the index filewhich contained theinventory of the laboratory’ssupplies.“Ah,” he said. “Here we

are.Onemoment,Inspector.”He sat down in the half-

charred swivel-chair by theoldrolltopdeskandbegantoexamine the index cards. Hegave each one a casualglance,andpassedtothenext

with scarcely apause.At thethirtieth card, however, heexclaimedsoftlyandstopped.Thumm leaned over hisshoulder to see what hadpleasedhimso.Thecardborethe characters: #30; andbeneath the numbers thewordsAGAR-AGAR.ButLaneseemed interested in the factthat through AGAR-AGAR aneatpen-linehadbeendrawn,and beneath it the words

BALSAM OF PERU had beensubstituted.“Whatthedevil’sthat?”demandedThumm.“Patience, Inspector.” He

roseandwenttothecornerofthe room where the glassdébris had been swepttogether after the explosion.He rooted about in thefragments, seeming absorbedin examining the bottles andjars which had been leastdamaged.Unsuccessfulinhis

search, he proceeded to theflame-licked shelves andlooked up at the middlesection of the top one.Not asingle bottle or jar remainedstanding there. He nodded,returned to the pile, selectedseveralbottlesandjarswhichwere intact, and carefullyarrangedtheminthecenterofthe middle top section.“Excellent,”hesaid,brushinghis hands, “excellent. And

now, Inspector, may I sendMosheronanerrand?”“Sure.”“Mosher, fetch Martha

Hatter.”Mosher bobbed up, all a-

grin,andlumberedoutofthelaboratory. He returnedpromptly, preceded byMartha, closed the doorbehind him, and set his backagainst it in the approvedsergeant-at-armsposture.

Martha Hatter stoodhesitatingbeforeThummandLane, searching both men’sfaces. She looked morewretched than ever, deeppurple shadows under hereyes, her nose pinched, herlips tight, her complexionpaleandpasty.“Please sit down, Mrs.

Hatter,”saidLanepleasantly.“Amatterofinformation…Iunderstand that your father-

in-law was afflicted with acertainskinailment?”She paused in the act of

seating herself, startled.“Why—”Thenshe sank intothe swivel-chair. “Yes, that’strue. But how did you findout?Ithoughtnobody——”“You thought nobody but

yourself,YorkHatter,andDr.Merriam knew. A simplematter … You helped Mr.Hatter secretly to apply his

salveandbandagehisarms?”“What the devil is this?”

mutteredThumm.“I beg your pardon,

Inspector.… Yes, Mrs.Hatter?”“Yes, I did. Sometimes he

calledmeintohelphim.”“Whatwasthenameofthe

salve,Mrs.Hatter?”“I really don’t recall the

name.”“Do you know where Mr.

Hatterkeptit?”“Oh, yes! Itwas in one of

theregularjarsoverthere.…”Sheroseandwentquickly tothe shelving.Standingbeforethe middle section shereached on tiptoes and justmanagedtotakedownoneofthe jars which Lane had seton that part of the shelf notlongbefore.Lane’seyeswerefixedonher;heobservedthatshehadtakenthejarfromthe

exactcenterofthesection.Shehandedhimthejar,but

he shook his head. “Pleaseunscrewthecapandsmellthecontents of the jar, Mrs.Hatter.”She obeyed wonderingly.

“Oh, no,” she cried at once,asshesniffed.“Thisisn’tthesalve. It looked like loosehoney, for one thing, and itsmelled like——”Therewasdead instantaneous silence as

she chopped the sentence inhalf. Her teeth appeared andbit deeply into her lower lip.An expression of appallingfearspreadoverhercarewornface,andshedroppedthejar.Itshatteredonthefloor.Thummwas staring at her

intently. “Well, well?” hesaid hoarsely. “What did itsmelllike,Mrs.Hatter?”“Yes, Mrs. Hatter?” said

Lanesoftly.

She shook her head like amechanical doll. “I don’t …remember.”“Like vanilla, Mrs.

Hatter?”She began to back out of

the room, keeping herfascinated gaze on Lane. Hesighed, straightened up,patted her arm in a fatherlyway, waved Mosher aside,and held the door open forher. Shewalked outwith the

slowstepofasomnambulist.“Jeeze!” shouted Thumm,

leaping into motion. “Skinstuff—vanilla! This is hot,man,hot!”Mr.DruryLanewenttothe

fireplace and stood in astooped attitude, his back tothe empty grate. “Yes,” hesaid thoughtfully, “I believewe have finally discoveredthe source of the odor MissCampion testified to,

Inspector.”Thumm was excited; he

paced up and down, talkingmoretohimselfthantoLane.“Great! What a break …Cometothinkofit,thisPerrybusiness … Good God!Vanilla—and the salve …What doyou thinkof it,Mr.Lane?”“I think you were ill-

advised to put Mr. Perry inprison, Inspector,” smiled

Lane.“Oh, that! Yep, I’m

beginning to think so, too.Yes, sir,” Thumm went onwithacraftylookinhiseyes,“I’m beginning to seedaylight.”“Eh?” said Lane sharply.

“What’sthat?”“Oh, no, you don’t,”

grinned the Inspector.“You’vehadyourinning,Mr.Lane,andIthinkI’mentitled

to mine. Not givin’ awayanythingyet.Butforthefirsttime in this blasted case I’vegotsomethingrealtodo.”Lane considered him

steadily. “You’ve formulatedatheory?”“In a way, in a way,”

chuckled Thumm. “Just hitme.Oneofthoseinspirationsyou read about, Mr. Lane.Swell! Cripes, if it’s onlypossible…”He lumbered to

the door. “Mosher,” he saidsternly, “you and Pink areresponsible for this room.Understand?” He cast aglance at the windows; theyhadbeenboardedup. “Don’tleave it for a second.Remember!”“Okay,Inspector.”“I’ll have your badge if

you slip up. Going my way,Mr.Lane?”“Not knowing which way

yours is, Inspector, I thinknot.… By the way, beforeyou go—have you atapemeasure?”Thumm stopped short at

the door and stared. “Tape-measure?What the deuce doyou want that for?” Heproduced a folding pocket-rulefromhisvestandhandedittoLane.Smiling, Lane took it and

once more approached the

shelves. He flipped the ruleopen and measured thedistance between the loweredgeof the top shelf and theupper edge of the secondshelf. “Hmm,”hemurmured.“Six inches … Good, good!Andaninchforthethicknessof the shelf…” He caressedhis jaw, nodded, and then,with a peculiar expression ofmingled gloom andsatisfaction, folded the rule

andreturnedittoThumm.Thumm’s glee seemed to

have departed all at once.“Come to think of it,” hegrowled, “you said you hadtwo leads yesterday. Vanillastink was one—is this thesecond?”“Eh? Oh, you mean this

measuring? Scarcely.” Laneshookhisheadabsently.“I’vestilltoinvestigatetheother.”The Inspector hesitated,

tottering on the brink of aquestion, then, shaking hishead like a man who hasdecided to let well enoughalone, he took his departure.Mosher looked onindifferently.Lane with lagging steps

left the laboratory inThumm’s wake. He peeredinto Miss Smith’s bedroomnext door; it was empty.Saunteringfartherupthehall,

he paused at a door in thesoutheast corner andknocked;noone came to thedoor.Hedescendedthestairs,met no one, and proceededthroughthereartothegardencourt.Despite thechill in theair, Miss Smith was seatedthere reading a book underthe large umbrella besideLouisaCampion,wholayinadeck-chair,apparentlyasleep.Nearby,squattinginthegrass

and peering intently down,were Jackie and Billy, foronce playing quietly; theywerewatchinganantcolony,and both seemed fascinatedby thebusyscurryingsof theinsects.“Miss Smith,” said Lane,

“canyoutellmewhereImayfindMissBarbaraHatter?”“Oh!” gaspedMiss Smith,

dropping her book. “I’msorry;youstartledme.Ithink

MissHatterwentoutwiththeInspector’s permission, but Idon’t know where, or whenshe’llgetback.”“Isee.”Helookeddownat

a tug on his trousers; Billy,his fresh little face rosy,wascraning up, shouting:“Gimme candy, gimmecandy!”“Hello, Billy,” said Lane

gravely.“Babs went to the jail,

Babs went to the jail to seeMr. Perry!” cried thirteen-year-old Jackie, pullingexperimentallyattherattan.“It’s possible,” said Miss

Smithwithasniff.Lane gently disengaged

himself from the clutches ofthe boys—he seemed in nomoodforplay—andmadehiswaythroughthealleyaroundthe house to Waverly Place.Atthecurb,wherehiscarand

Dromio waited, he turnedaboutwith a sick look in hiseyes. Then he climbedheavilyintothecar.

Scene8

BARBARA’SWORKROOM.FRIDAY,JUNE10.11:00A.M.

The dangerous calmprevailing in the Mad

Hatters’ hutch still prevailedthe next morning, when Mr.Drury Lane returned to thehouse.TheInspectorwasnotthere; he had not been there,itseemed,sincehisdeparturethe previous afternoon,according to the Arbuckles.Yes, Miss Barbara was athome.“She’s had breakfast

served in her room,” saidMrs. Arbuckle sourly.

“Hasn’t been down yet, andhereitiseleveno’clock.”“PleaseaskherifImaysee

her.”Mrs. Arbuckle lifted an

expressive eyebrow, buttramped upstairs obediently.When she returned, she said:“It’s all right, she says. Gorightup.”Lane found the poetess in

the room at which he hadknocked the previous

afternoon.Shewassmokingacigarette in a long jadeholder; with legs drawn upshe was perched on awindow-seat overlooking thePark. “Come in, and pleasepardonmydéshabille.”“It’scharming.”Barbara was dressed in a

silken mandarin robe, herfaintly golden hair streamingover her shoulders. “Don’tmind the condition of my

room, Mr. Lane,” she saidsmiling. “I’m a notoriouslysloppy person, and it’s notbeentidiedyet.Perhapswe’dbettergointomyworkroom.”She led the way through

half-open draperies to a tinywing of the bedroom. It waseremitic in its furnishings—alarge flat-topped desk,bookshelves helter-skelterabout thewalls, a typewriter,and a chair. “I’ve been

scribbling all morning,” sheexplained. “Do sit down inthat chair, Mr. Lane. I’llperchonthedesk.”“Thank you. A delightful

room,MissHatter, and quitewhatIimagined.”“Really?” She laughed.

“People say the mostoutrageous things about thishouse—and me. I’ve heardthat my bedroom hasmirrored walls, floor, and

ceiling—a voluptuary’srefinement, you see! That Itakeanewlovereveryweek;that I’m sexless; that I drinkthree quarts of black coffeeand a gallon of gin a day.…Actually, as your very keeneyes can discern, Mr. Lane,I’m amostmediocre person.A poetess without a vice,despitetherumors.”Lane sighed. “MissHatter,

I’ve come to put a very

peculiarquestiontoyou.”“Indeed?” The pleasure

and serenity disappeared.“And what is that, Mr.Lane?” She picked up anenormouspencilsharpenedtoanenormouspointandbeganto scribble meaninglessly onthedesk.“When I first met you, at

the time of your little talkwith Inspector Thumm,District Attorney Bruno, and

myself, you mentionedsomething which haspersisted in my brain almostwithout reason. For a longtime now I have beenintending to ask you moreaboutit,MissHatter.”“Yes?” she said in a low

voice.Lane looked earnestly into

her eyes. “Did your fathereverwriteadetectivestory?”She stared at himwith the

utmost astonishment, thecigarette drooping from herlips. The astonishment wasgenuine, he saw at once; itwas as if she had expectedalmostwithdreadanentirelydifferent question. “Why…”She laughed. “How amazing,Mr. Lane! You are like thatlovable old Sherlock inwhose adventures I used towallowwhenIwasachild.…Yes, father did. But how on

earthdidyouknow?”Mr. Drury Lane stared a

moment longer, and then herelaxed with a sibilant sigh.“So,” he said slowly. “I wasright.” A world ofinexplicable woe filled hiseyes, and he dropped themquickly to conceal what wasin them. She looked at himwith a fading smile. “Yousaid at that time that yourfather haddabbled in fiction.

Asfortheparticularityofmyquestion—certain factspointedtoitasaratherfatefulpossibility.”She crushed her cigarette.

“I’m afraid I don’t quiteunderstand,” she said. “But I—I trust you, Mr. Lane.…Some time ago—in the earlyfalloflastyear—fathercameto me rather sheepishly andinquired if I couldrecommend a good literary

agent. I suggestedmyown. Iwas rather astonished—washewritingsomething?”She paused, and Lane

muttered:“Goon,please.”“At first father was shy.

But I urged him, and finally,when I promised to keep itsecret,heconfessedthathe’dbeen trying his hand atplanningadetectivestory.”“Planning?” asked Lane

quickly.

“That’s what he said, as Irecall. He had prepared hisideas in outline form. Hethought he had concoctedsomething clever, and hewantedtoconsultsomeoneinthebookfieldtoseewhatthechanceswereofdisposingofitwhenitwasfinished.”“Yes, yes. I understand;

everything clarifies. Did hesay anything else, MissHatter?”

“No.Really,Iwasn’ttoo—toointerested,Mr.Lane,”shemurmured,“andI’mashamedof it now.” She stared at herpencil. “Although I wasratheramusedat. this suddencreative urge on the part offather,who always of coursewas severely scientific in hisinclinations.ThatwasthelastIheardofit.”“Haveyouevermentioned

thistoanyone?”

She shook her head. “Thematter had entirely slippedmymind until you askedmethequestionamomentago.”“Your father enjoined

secrecy,” remarked Lane. “Isit possible that he told yourmother or the others aboutit?”“I’msurehedidnot. Ifhe

had, I should have heardabout it.” She sighed. “Jill,who is rather a rattle-brain,

would have made it the buttof all her conversation, Iknow, if she knew. Conradwould have sneered at it totherestofus;andfather,I’mcertain,didnottellmother.”“Whyareyousocertain?”She clenched her fist and

stared at it. “Because fatherand mother hadn’t been onmorethanspeakingtermsforyears,Mr.Lane,” she said inalowtone.

“I see. Pardon…Did youever actually see amanuscript?”“No. I don’t believe there

was one—merely a centralidea in outline form, as Isaid.”“Have you a notionwhere

he might have kept theoutline?”She shrugged helplessly.

“Not the faintest, unlesssomewhere in that

Paracelsian laboratory ofhis.”“And the idea itself—you

say he remarked that it wasclever. What was the idea,MissHatter?”“I can’t say. He told me

nothingofthestory.”“And did Mr. Hatter

consult your agent about thedetectivestory?”“I’msurehedidnot.”“Howcanyoubesure?”

“Iaskedmyagentiffatherhad visited him, and he saidno.”Mr. Drury Lane rose.

“You’ve been of greatassistance, Miss Hatter.Thankyou.”

Scene9

THELABORATORY.FRIDAY,JUNE10.3:30P.M.

Hours later, when the housewas deserted, Mr. Lanequietly mounted the stairs tothe attic floor, climbed thesmall flight leading to thetrapdoor, pushed it up, andstepped out onto the slipperyroof.Adetective,wrappedina slicker and holding anumbrella over his head, wasmiserablyproppedagainstthechimney. Lane greeted himpleasantly and, ignoring the

rain on his clothes, peeredinto the darkness of thechimneyorifice.Hecouldseenothing, although he knewthat with a flashlight heshouldbeabletoobservethetop of the dividing wallbetween death-room andlaboratory. He stood therethoughtfully for a moment,then waved farewell to thedetective, and descendedthrough the trapdoor by

whichhehadcome.Onthefirstfloorhepaused

to look about. The doors tothebedroomswereallclosed;the corridor was deserted.With a quick movement ofhis wrist he twisted thedoorknob and entered thelaboratory. DetectiveMosherlooked up from thenewspaper he was reading.“Well, well!” said Mosherheartily.“Ifitain’tMr.Lane.

Glad you came. This is thelousiest job I’ve ever beendetailedto.”“No doubt,” murmured

Lane;hiseyeswereroving.“It’s good to see a decent

human face, is what I say,”went on Mosherconfidentially. “It’s beenquietasthegravehere—haw,haw!”“Indeed … Mosher, you

maydosomethingforme.Or

rather for your colleague ontheroof.”“Who—Krause?”

demandedMosher,mystified.“Ibelievethatishisname.

Please join him on the roof.He seems sadly in need ofcompanionship.”“Oh.”Mosher shuffled his

feet. “Well, now, I don’tknow, Mr. Lane. Chief’sorderswerestrict—I’mnottoleavethisroom.”

“I’ll relieve you of allresponsibility, Mosher,” saidLane with a trace ofimpatience. “Please now!And you might beparticularly watchful upthere. For the next fewminutes I want nointerruption of any kind. Ifanyone attempts to explorethe roof, scare him off. Nohostilemove,remember.”“Well,” said Mosher

doubtfully, “all right, Mr.Lane.”He trudgedoutof thelaboratory.Lane’s gray-green eyes

glittered. He followedMosher out into the corridor,waited until the man haddisappeared upstairs, thenopenedthedoortothedeath-room adjoining and went in.The room was empty. Hecrossed swiftly to thewindows overlooking the

garden, saw that they wereclosed and latched, returnedto thedoor, set thebolt fromthe inside, ran out into thecorridor, slammed the doorshut and tried it. It waslocked. Then he sprang backintothelaboratory,boltedthedoor from the inside, peeledoff his coat, rolled up hissleeves,andsettowork.At first the fireplace

seemed to fascinate him. He

touchedthemantel,pokedhishead under the stone arch,withdrew, retreated.… Hehesitated for a moment, andlooked around. The rolltopdesk was badly burnt. Thesteel filing cabinet he hadexamined before. The half-consumed dresser?Improbable.His chin set, he stooped

andwithouthesitationpassedunder the outer wall of the

fireplace, straightening upinsidebetweentheouterwalland the firebrick wall whichserved as the back of thefireplace. This partition ofancient brick, black andsmooth to the touch, endedalmostonalevelwithLane’shead, and Lane was a trifleover six feet tall. He took asmall pencil-flashlight fromhis vest pocket and sprayeditstinyrayaboutthebricksof

the dividing wall. Whateverhe hoped to discover by thiscursory examination wasfated to remain unfound; thebricks were divided all overthe wall by sturdy lines.Nevertheless, he tapped andprodded each brick, lookingfor signs of a loose one. Atlast, satisfied that on thelaboratory side of the brickwall at least there wasnothing to be found, he

straightenedupandmeasuredthe dividing wall with hiseye.Not insurmountable, he

reflected, even to an aginggentleman. Whereupon heplacedthepencil-flashontopofthewall,grippedtheedge,and heaved himself up. Theagility with which heclambered up and over toland on the bedroom side ofthe firebrick wall was

remarkable. For all his sixtyyears, his muscles were asresilientasayoungman’s.…As he passed over the wall,he felt on his bare head andcheeks the soft rain comingdownthechimney.On the bedroom side he

repeatedhissearchforaloosebrick, with as little success.By this time a frown hadappeared to crease the skinbetweenhis eyes.Hehoisted

himselfagaintothetopofthefirebrick wall; but this timehe sat there astraddle, like aman on a horse, and flashedhislightabout.Almost at once he

stiffened, and the frownvanished. For there, about afootabovethetopofthewall,in the side of the chimneyitself, was one brickobviously loose: the mortarwaschippedaround it, and it

projected from its neighborsslightly. Lane’s fingersclamped on the smallprojection like iron, and hebegan topull.Healmost losthisbalanceandtoppledtothefloor; for the brick gaveeasily, emerging with a faintscrapingsound.Heplacedthebrick carefully on the top ofthewallbetweenhislegsandfocused his light inside thedark rectangular orifice left

by the brick. In the hole,which had been painfullychopped out and enlarged atits innermost end, somethingwhiteglowed!Lane’s fingers dipped in.

When they reappeared, therewasawadofsooty,smudged,and yellow-white paper,folded many times, betweenthem.Onerapidglanceatthepaper,andLanehadstoweditinhishippocketandstooped

to explore the interior of theholeagain.Somethingglintedintherayoftheflashlight.Heprobed,andinanextraorificechipped into the brick at therearof the cache,he foundatinytest-tubetightlycorked.His eyes were dark as he

took it out of the hole andexamined it more closely. Itwas unlabeled and full of awhitish liquid. In the hole,too, as he was careful to

ascertain,layarubber-cappedliquid-dropper as well. Butthishedidnottouch.Instead,without returning the loosebrick to its place, he easedhimself off the firebrickwallonto the laboratory floor ofthe fireplace, reached for thevial of white liquid and,stooping, crawled out in thelaboratory.Hiseyeswerecoldlygreen,

moregreenthangraynow,as

if he were suffering pain.Gloomy, grimed, he droppedthe vial into one of thepocketsofhisdiscardedcoat,went to one of the charredwork-tables, took thewad ofsooty paper out of his hippocket and slowly unfoldedit.… Unfolded, it turned outto be several sheets of thincheap typewriter paper,covered with meticulouschirography. He began to

read.

ItwasanotablemomentintheinvestigationoftheHatterproblem,asLanewaswonttopointoutlongafter.Butfromthe expression on his face ashe read the document, onewould have said that he wasmore depressed than elatedby his discovery. Certainly,ashe readhis facedarkened;he nodded his head glumly

from time to time, as if inconfirmationofsomealreadyheldconclusion; inoneplacean expression of pureamazement swept over hisfeatures.But these temporarymanifestations passedquickly, and when he hadfinished he seemed reluctanttomakeamovementas ifbysitting utterly still he couldcheattimeandeventsandtheinevitable tragedy which

loomed ahead of him. Butthen he blinked and, findingpencil and paper in the litterabout him, began a swiftwriting. He wrote for a longtime, painstakingly copyingthewordsofthedocumenthehad found. When he hadconcluded his task, he rose,tuckedbothcopyandoriginalinhishippockets,putonhiscoat, brushed the dirt off histrousers,and thenopened the

laboratory door. He lookedout into the corridor. It wasstillsilentandempty.He stood waiting for long

moments, quiet as death.Finally he heard movementsdownstairs. He stirred andwent to the railing of thestaircase. Mrs. Arbuckle, heobserved by peering betweenbanister and floor, waswaddling toward the kitchen.“Mrs.Arbuckle,”hecalledin

asoftvoice.She started and looked up

with a jerk. “Who—Oh, it’syou! I didn’t knowyouwerestillhere.Yes,sir?”“Would you be kind

enough to fetch a bun and—yes, a glass of milk for mefrom your kitchen?” Laneaskedpleasantly.She stood stock-still,

staring up at him. Then shenodded sulkily and waddled

onoutof sight.Hewaited inthe same unnaturalmotionlessness. She returnedshortlywith a tray, onwhichwereajelly-bunandacupofmilk. She trudged up thestairs and handed the tray tohimovertherailing.“Milk’s getting low,” she

snapped. “Can’t spare but adrop.”“It’squitesufficient, thank

you.” He picked up the cup

and began to sip the milkslowly as she grunted downthe stairs with the samebelligerentair.Buttheinstantshereachedthebottomofthestaircase and disappeared inthecorridorgoingtowardtherear,Lane ceasedhis sippingand darted back into thelaboratory, bolting the doorsecurelybehindhimagain.Nowheknewexactlywhat

he wanted. He set the tray

down on the work-table andsearched in the floor closetbeneaththeshelves.Herelessdamage had been done, duetotheprotectionofthecloseddoors and the nearness ofcloset to floor; and he verysoon found what he wasseeking. He straightened upwithatinytest-tubeandcork,the duplicate of the one hehad discovered in the hole.Afterwashingitunderthetap

of one of the laboratorytables, he poured into theempty vial, with the utmostcautiousness, a quantity ofmilk from the cup equal to aminim to the quantity ofwhite liquid in the test-tubefromthehole.Whenhewassatisfiedthat

thetwovialslookedalike,hestoppered thevialfulofmilk,pouredtherestofthecontentsofthecupintothetablesink,

climbed back to straddle thefirebrickwallinthefireplace,and thrust the vial of milkinto the spot where he hadfound the original vial. Hedidnotdisturbthedropperinthe hole. The yellowish,refolded, wad of paper hethen restored to its formerposition, replaced the loosebrickashehad found it, anddescendedfromhisperch.Hebrushed his hands together,

distastefully. His featuresweresetinetching-lines.Suddenly, as if recalling

something temporarilyforgotten, he unlatched thelaboratorydoor,returned,andclimbed over the dividingwall of the fireplace again,dropping into the bedroom.Here he unlatched thebedroom door and went intothehall and through thenowunlocked door back into the

laboratory. “Mosher!” hecalled guardedly up thechimney.“Mosher!”Therainfeltcoolonhishotface.“Yes, Mr. Lane?” came

Mosher’s muffled voice.Lane looked up and saw ablobdimlyframedinthegrayofthechimneyopening.“Come down at once.

Krause is to remain on theroof.”“Sure!” said Mosher

heartily, and his facedisappeared.Themanhimselfbarged into the laboratory afew moments later. “Here Iam,” he said with anexpansivesmile.Hissuitwassoakedwithtinybeadsoffinerain, but he did not seem tomind. “Get what you wereafter?”“Ah—never mind that,

Mosher,” said Lane. He wasstanding in the center of the

floor, feet solidly planted.“Didanyone try toget to theroof,thechimney?”“Notalivingsoul.Nothin’

stirring,Mr.Lane.”Mosher’seyes goggled. For Lane’sright hand appeared frombehind his back and carriedsomething tohismouth…Itwas, as Mosher perceivedwithastonishment,abun,andLane was thoughtfullymunchingonitjustasifthere

werenosuch thingaspoisoninthisBorgianhousehold.His lefthandhidden inhis

coat pocket, however, tightlyclutched the vial of whiteliquid.

ACTIII“Letmeembracethee,souradversity,Forwisemensayitisthewisestcourse.”

Scene1

POLICEHEADQUARTERS.

FRIDAY,JUNE10.5P.M.

Mr. Drury Lane emergedfrom the Hatter house thatcold rain-washed Juneafternoon looking ten yearsolder thanwhenhehadgonein. Had Inspector Thummbeen present, he doubtlesswould have wondered whyLane,apparentlyonthevergeofsuccess,shouldseemmoreupset than if he had met

failure at every turn. It wasnotlikehim.Hepresentedtheappearanceofamanof fortyonlybecausehehadmasteredhimself early in life andsublimated the tendency toworry until it disappeared.Yet now he looked like onewhoseserenity, the faithofalong lifetime, had beenirremediably shattered. Heclimbed into his car an oldman. Wearily he said to

Dromio: “PoliceHeadquarters,”andsankbackagainst the cushions.And allthe way to the big graybuilding onCentre Street theexpression of sadness andresponsibility and a tragicrealization of somethingimmensely important did notleavehisface.Yet, because he was what

hewas,whenhemountedthesteps of PoliceHeadquarters,

he appeared the old DruryLane, pleasant, gentle,unruffled,andquiteconfidentand springy in his bearing.The lieutenantonduty at thedeskrecognizedhimandsentasergeantwithhimasescorttoInspectorThumm’soffice.It seemed to be a day for

the doldrums, for he foundthe Inspector, ugly as life,sulking in his swivel-chairand regarding a dead cigar

between his thick fingers.Something like pleasureilluminated the Inspector’sface when he saw Lane. Hesqueezed Lane’s handsearnestly. “I’m damned gladto see you. What’s up, Mr.Lane?”Lanewavedonehandand sat down with a sigh.“Any news? This place isdeaderthantheMorgue.”Lane nodded. “News that

should interest you and Mr.

Brunoenormously.”“No kidding!” exclaimed

Thumm. “Don’t tell meyou’ve found out that——”He stopped to eye Lanesuspiciously. “You haven’trundownthePerrytrail,haveyou?”“Perry trail?” Lane

frowned. “I’m afraid I don’tquiteunderstand.”“That’s a relief.” The

Inspector shoved the dead

cigar into his mouth andchewed contemplatively.“We’veuncoveredsomethinglive this time. You know IhadPerry releasedyesterday.Barbara Hatter was raising afuss—she’d engaged a biglawyer—and after all … Itdidn’t hurt, because he’sbeingwatched.”“Forwhatreason?Areyou

stillundertheimpressionthatEdgarPerryisconnectedwith

thesecrimes,Inspector?”“What would you think?

What would anyone think?Remember the set-up—Perry’s real name isCampion, he’sLouisa’s half-brother, and his father wasEmilyHatter’s first husband.Allright.WhenIspilledwhatIknewabouthimtothemug,headmittedit,butheshutuplike a clam. That’s where Istood.ButIdidn’tstop.Idug

a little deeper. And what doyousupposeIfoundout,Mr.Lane?”“I haven’t the faintest

notion,”smiledLane.“That Tom Campion,

Perry’sfatherandtheoldshe-devil’s first husband, died of——”He stopped abruptly. Mr.

Drury Lane’s smile hadfaded, and a glint hadappeared in the gray-green

eyes.“Then you knew,”

grumbledThumm.“Not from investigation,

Inspector. But I wasmorallycertain.”Lanerestedhisheadon the back of the chair. “Isee your point. Mr. EdgarPerryCampionisnowaveryliveissue,eh?”“Well, why not?” said

Thumminanaggrievedtone.“That’s the story, ain’t it?

Emily was responsible forPerry’s dad’s death—indirectly, sure, andprobablynotonpurpose.Butshekilledhim just as surelyas if she’dstuckaknife intohim.Nastybusiness all around.But nowwe’ve got motive, Mr. Lane—something we didn’t havebefore.”“Anditis…?”“Listen. You’re a man of

the world. When a man’s

father dies from an infectioncaused by a stepmother …well, I can understand thatman wanting to get revengeon her if it takes the rest ofhislifetodoit.”“Elementary psychology,

Inspector,especiallywhensobrutal a thing as this isinvolved. Of course.” Lanesat musing. “I completelygrasp your uneasiness. Theman had motive and

opportunity. And theintelligence to carry out aclever plan. But there’s noproof.”“That’s what we’re up

against.”“At the same time,”

remarkedLane,“Ican’tbringmyself to think of EdgarPerry as a man of action. Amanofplan,yes.Butitseemsto me that he would weakenand shrink from violence at

thelastmoment.”“Toodeepforme,”scoffed

the Inspector. “Listen, Mr.Lane. Down here wherewe’re just cops we don’tworry about what a manwould do. We’re moreconcernedwithwhatthefactsshowhediddo.”“I must insist, Inspector,”

said Lane with calmemphasis.“Humanconductismerely the outgrowth of

humanpsychology.Haveyoucaught Mr. Edgar PerryCampion attempting tocommitsuicide?”“Suicide, did you say?

Hell,no!Whyshouldhedoafool thing like that? Yes, ifhe’s caught with the goods…”Laneshookhishead. “No,

Inspector. Had Edgar Perrycommittedmurder, being theman he is he would at once

have takenhisown life.YourememberHamlet?Amanofindecision, of fluctuatingemotions. Yet with theintelligence to conceive aplan. Hamlet wavers, tornbetween self-torment andself-incrimination, whileviolence and intrigue rageabout him. But rememberthis:vacillatingasheis,whenhedoesgointoactionherunsamok, and afterwards

promptlykillshimself.”Lanesmiled sadly. “There I goagain. But really, Inspector,examine into this suspect ofyours.He’s a sort ofHamletwhoplaysthedramaoutuntilthe end of the fourth act. Inthefifth—theactionchanges,andsodoesthecomparison.”Thumm shifted restlessly.

“Well, all right. Let it go atthat. The point is—what doyou think about the whole

business?”“I think,” chuckled Lane

suddenly, “that you’replaying deep and dark,Inspector. How is it thatyou’ve taken up the Perrytheory again? I thought youhad discarded the tutor infavorofaninspiration,whichyou were careful not todivulgetome.”Thumm looked sheepish.

“Make believe I never said

anythingaboutaninspiration.I did make some inquiries,but nothing doing.” Heregarded Lane shrewdly.“You haven’t answered myquestion,Mr.Lane.”ItwasLane’s turn todraw

into his shell. A glimmer oftheoldwearinesstouchedhisface, and he quite lost hissmile. “To tell the truth… Idon’t know what to think,Inspector.”

“Youmeanyou’resunk?”“Imeanthat this isnot the

time to takeanydrasticstepswhatever.”“Oh…Well, we’ve got a

lotofconfidence inyou,Mr.Lane. You certainly provedyour ability to get down tocases in the Longstreetbusiness last year.” TheInspector scrubbed his chin.“In a way,” he said in someembarrassment,“BrunoandI

arerelyingonyou.”Laneleapedfromhischair

and began to pace the floor.“Please.Don’t.Don’trelyonme for anything.”Hewas soopenly upset that theInspector’s jaw dropped.“Proceed as if I hadn’tappeared in the case at all,Inspector.Workoutyourowntheories,please…”Thumm’s face darkened.

“If that’s the way you feel

aboutit,damnitall…”“Yesterday—that

inspirationofyours—sotherewasnoluck,eh?”Thumm’s suspicious

glance did not waver.“Followed it up. SawMerriam.”“Ah!” said Lane quickly.

“That was good. Very good.Andhetoldyou…?”“OnlywhatIalreadyknew

from you,” replied Thumm

rather stiffly. “That vanillastuffYorkHatterusedonhisarms.Soyouwent tosee thedoc,too,hey?”“Er—yes.Yes, of course.”

Lane subsided suddenly inthechairandshadedhiseyeswithhishand.Thummlookedathimfora

long time, puzzled, halfangry. Then he shrugged.“Well,”hesaidwithaneffortat geniality, “you said you

had news for Bruno andme.Whatisit?”Laneraisedhishead.“Iam

going to give you a veryimportant bit of information,Inspector. I must exact onepromise—that you refrainfrom asking me where I gotit.”“Well,whatisit?”growled

Thumm.“This.” He was speaking

with superlative care,

choosing each word as if itwere precious. “Before YorkHatter disappeared he wasengaged in concocting theplotofanovel.”“Anovel?”Thummstared.

“Whatofit?”“But this was not a mere

novel, Inspector,” said Lanein barely audible tones. “Itwas a story which he washopingsomedaytowriteandhave published. A detective

story.”For a moment Thumm sat

glaring at Lane with amesmeric stare, the cigarbalancedonhislowerlip,thevein in his right templetwitching like a live thing.Then he shot from his chairlike a catapult, shouting: “Adetective story!” The cigarfelltothefloor.“Jeeze,thatisnews!”“Yes,” replied Lane

heavily. “The outline of astoryofmurderanddetection.…There isone thingmore Ishouldtellyou.”Thumm was hardly

listening; his eyes wereglazed, and now he jerkedthem toward Lane with aneffortatconcentration.“Andthatis…”“Huh!” Thumm became

keenandwatchfulagain,aftershakinghisheadfromsideto

side in the familiar way.“What?”“The background and

characters of York Hatter’splotarereal.”“Real?” muttered the

Inspector. “Just how do youmean?”“York Hatter took them

directly from his ownfamily.”The Inspector’s big body

twitched once, as if an

electric current had streakedthrough it. “No,” he saidhoarsely.“No,itcan’tbe.It’stoo damned good.… I’ll be——”“Yes,Inspector,”Lanesaid

wearily. “Does that interestyou?Itshould.Aremarkablecircumstance. A man createsa fiction story dealing withpoisoning and murder. Thenevents begin to occur in hisownhousehold,inreallife…

events coinciding in virtuallyevery respectwith the purelyfictitious scenario of thenovel.”Thumm drew a whistling

breath, his piston of a chestfallingand risingpowerfully.“Doyoumeantotellme,”hesaid in his rich bass, “thateverything that’s beenhappeningintheHatterhouse—the two attempts to poisonLouisa, the murder of Mrs.

Hatter, the fireandexplosion—are all written down onpaper, made up out ofHatter’sheadandintendedasa story? Cripes, it’sunbelievable!Ineverheardofsuch,athing!”“Therearemorethings…”

sighed Lane. “At any rate,there you are, Inspector. Thesum and substance of mynews.” He rose and grippedtheknobofhisstickinasort

of desperation, clinging to it.Therewasahelplessdefeatinhis eyes. Thumm paced thefloor like a wild animal,exulting, muttering tohimself, his brain buzzing,speculating, discarding,deciding.…Lanewent to thedoor and paused. There waseven a lack of the usualyouthful coordination in hismovements.He plodded, andhis back—so straight and

strong—wascurved,sloped.The Inspector stopped

short. “Just a minute! Yousaid you didn’t want me toaskquestions.Well,ifyou’rekeeping something back, Isuppose there’s a goodreason,andIwon’tbenosey.But tell me this. In everydetective story there’s acriminal. Whom did YorkHattermake his criminal—inthe story—if he was using

characters out of his ownfamily? Because it’s a cinchthatwhoeverwasthecriminalin the story can’t be thecriminal in real life—toodangerous.Well?”Lane silently considered

this, his hand on the door.“Yes,” he said at last in adeadvoice.“Certainlyyou’reentitledtoknowthat.…YorkHatter’s criminal in YorkHatter’s story ofmurderwas

—YorkHatter.”

Scene2

THEHAMLET.FRIDAY,JUNE10.9P.M.

Even The Hamlet, ordinarilythe serenest and most soul-soothing of cloisters, wasdesolate that evening. Therain persisted, and with it

came a creeping chill thatpenetratedclothingandraisedgooseflesh. Perched highabove the Hudson, rooted inthe solid cliff-tops, TheHamlet took on theforbidding quality of aPoesque ruin, muffled as itwasingrayfoldsoffog,withnothing below and theghostlyskyswirlingaboutitshead.Itwasanightforfires,and

old Quacey had prepared aTitan’s conflagration in thehuge fireplace in Lane’sprivatequarters. Itwaswarmthere, toe-toasting, and Laneafter a simple dinner flunghimself on the raw-furryhearthrugandclosedhiseyes.The flames beat against hiseyelids. The ancienthunchback pottered in andout of the room, anxiously,timidly. He was frightened

halfoutofhissharpoldwits.He kept watching his masterwith screwed-up eyes, andblinked at every leap of thefire. Once he crept to thehearthrug and touched hismaster’sarm.Thegray-greeneyes, sleepless, full, filledwith thought, instantlyopened upon him. “Isanything the matter, Mr.Drury?Don’tyoufeelwell?”“I’mquiteallright.”

AfterthatQuaceyretiredtoa chair in the corner andcrouchedmotionless,hiseyesnever leaving the still figureoutstretched before theflames.Atnineo’clock,afteran hour of absolute stillness,the figure stirred and rose.“Quacey.”“Yes,Mr.Drury!”Theold

man was on his feet in aninstant, eager, tongue-lolling,like a hound fawning upon

hismaster.“Iamgoingintothestudy.

Iamnottobedisturbed.Youunderstand?”“Yes,Mr.Drury.”“If FritzHof orKropotkin

should ask for me, I haveretired. There is a play theyareworriedabout.Nomatter.I will see them in themorning.”“Yes,Mr.Drury.”Lane patted the

hunchback’s bald pate,slapped his hump, andnudged him to the door.OldQuacey trudged outreluctantly. Lane locked thedoor behind him and withsteady steps went into theadjoiningroom,hisstudy.Hewenttothecarvedoldwalnutdesk, switched on a desk-lamp, and then opened adrawer.Hedrewout thewadof paper on which he had

copied the contents of theyellowed manuscript he hadfound in the Hatter chimneycache. Sinking into theleather chair before thedesk,he spread the sheets outbeforehim,hiseyesdull,hisfacedark.Then,slowly,withintense concentration,mulling over each word, hebegan to read over the copyof the outline he hadscribbled so hastily in the

afternoon. In the silence andthe darkness, the wordsseemed to take on freshsignificance. He absorbedthem,bathedhimselfinthem.…OutlineforDetectiveStoryTitle (tentative): “The

VanillaMurderMystery.”Author: Get pen-name.

Miss Terry? H. York? LewisPastor?Scene: N. Y. C.Gramercy

Park?Houselikemyown.Time:Present.Device: Written in first

person.Myselfascriminal.Characters

York(myself).Y.Criminal.Husbandofvictim.Emily.Victim.Oldwoman.

Tyrant.(Asis.)Louisa. Deaf-dumb-blind

daughter. (Not step-daughterofY—helpsmotive.)

Conrad.MarriedsonMartha.Hiswife.

{nochildren,notnecessary

Barbara. Daughter. Eldestof Y and Emily. Keep her awriter. Psychologicalsuspect?Jill. Youngest of Y and

Emily.Daughter.

Trivett. One-leggedneighbor. Love interest forLouisa.(Toofar-fetched?)Gormly. Son’s business

partner.StockCharacters

Nurse for Louisa,housekeeper,chauffeur,maid,family physician, familyattorney,suitorforJill?Note!!! Get Fiction names

forAllabove!!!FirstCrime

Attempted poisoning ofLouisa. Fact:Household hasestablished custom;housekeeper makes up glassof egg-nog for Louisa andleaves it standing on dining-room table at 2:30 eachafternoon.Details:On certain day, Y

(criminal) waits untilhousekeeper puts egg-nog ondining-room table: then,when no one is looking, Y

sneaks into dining-room anddrops Strychnin poison intoegg-nog glass and hurriesbacktolibrary,whichisnexttodining-room.Y has got the Strychnin

poison from Bottle No. 9 onhis chemical laboratoryshelves in his laboratoryupstairs, taking three of thetablets from this bottle. Nooneknowsthis.After putting poison into

egg-nog, Y stays in librarywaitingforLouisatocometodrinkegg-nog.Just as Louisa is coming

along,headed for thedining-room,Ycomesoutoflibrary.Before Louisa can drinkpoisoned egg-nog, Y comesinto dining-room, takes glassofegg-nog,sayssomethingiswrongwithit,takessip.Immediately gets sick. (Y

contrives to have others in

immediate vicinity forsuspects.)Note:Thismakeseveryone

think somebodyelse is tryingto poison Louisa; certainlynot Y, because would apoisonersiphisownpoison?AndthisalsopreventsLouisafrom being really poisoned—veryimportanttoplot.

SecondCrimeSecond “attempt” to

poison Louisa, during which

the old woman, Emily, Y’swife is murdered. Time 7weeks after first poisoningattempt,totheday.Details: During the night,

about 4 o’clock in themorning, while everyone isasleep,andwhileLouisaandEmily are sleeping in theirbedroom (mother anddaughter sleep in the sameroom, twin beds), Y commitsthe2ndcrime.

The idea this time is topoisonapearandputitinthefruit-bowl on the night-tablebetweenLouisa’sbedandtheold woman’s bed. A pear isusedbecauseeveryoneknowsthat old Emily never eatspears.PoisoningthepearwillmakeitlookasifLouisawasintended to be poisonedagain,butLouisawillnoteatthe pear either, because Y,knowing she never eats

spoiled or spotted fruit,purposely picks out (maybesteals one from kitchen) andbrings into room a squashypear, which he poisons byjabbingpearwithhypodermicfilled with Bichloride ofMercury poison, taken frombottle in laboratory—BottleNo.168.Y has got the hypodermic

fromhissteelfilingcabinetinlaboratory, where he has a

casefullofthem.Also before Y goes to

Louisa’s bedroom he hasstolenapairofConrad’soldwhite summer shoes. And atthe time he fills up thehypodermic with BichlorideofMercury in the laboratory(just before he goes toLouisa’s room in the middleof the night), he purposelypours some of the poison(Bottle No. 168) on one of

Conrad’swhiteshoes.Action: Y sneaks into

Louisa’s and Emily’sbedroom.Goes tonight-tableandputsspoiledpearinfruit-bowl. Hits Emily over headwith blunt instrument, killingher, (This is theRealPartofthePlot,but itwill lookas ifEmily was killed by mistake,as if she woke up in themiddle of the night and themurderer had to kill her to

keepherquiet.)Note: The killing of Emily

is the main purpose behindthe entire plot. The attemptsto poison Louisa are just tomake police think Louisa isthe intended victim. So thepolicewillsuspectonlythosewho would want to killLouisa, not Emily. In thestory Y will be very friendlywith Louisa, so that he willnotbesuspected.

ExplanationofFalseTrail:Y purposely spills bichlorideon Conrad’s shoe. He putsshoeback inConrad’sclosetafter he has come frombedroom. Police find shoewith poison on it, and thiswill make them suspectConradas thepoisoner,whohates Louisa as everyoneknows.CluewhichleadsPoliceto

Correct Solution: Louisa is

deaf-dumb-and-blind. Idea isthat whie Y is killing Emily,Louisa awakens and smellsthevanillaofBalsamofPeruonY’sarms—smellbeingthebest sense she has to furnishclue for police. She latertestifiestovanillaodor,maindetective follows trail, etc.,etc., until he discovers truth,Y being the only characterfittingvanillaodor.

TheFire

In the middle of the nextnight after themurderY setsfire to the laboratory (wherehe sleeps also). He firstleaves on one of his biglaboratory tables a bottle ofCarbon Bisulphide (fromBottle No. 256), which willexplode at proximity of heat.He then strikes match andsetsfiretohisbed.Purpose of Fire: Fire and

subsequent explosion will

seemlikesomeoneattemptingto takeY’s life, too.Thiswilladd still another false trail,making Y at least lookinnocent.

ThirdCrimeTwoweeksaftermurder,Y

makes another “attempt” to“poison” Louisa. This timehe uses poison calledPhysostigmin, a white liquidfrom Bottle No. 220 on hislaboratory shelves. Puts 15

drops with eye-dropper inLouisa’s glass of buttermilk,which she drinks an hourafterdinnereachnight.AgainY either calls attention tosomething wrong with thebuttermilk, or in some wayPrevents Louisa fromDrinking the PoisonedButtermilk.Purpose:Theplotdoesnot

callforthedeathofLouisaatany time. This third attempt

after the death of the oldwoman is just to continuemakingthepolicebelievethatthe murderer still wants tokillLouisa,sothat thepolicewill look for those withmotives against Louisa, notEmily.

GeneralNotes(1) Keep in mind that Y

wears gloves all the time sothat he never leavesfingerprints on anything in

anyofthecrimes.(2)Workoutbyplots.(3) Work out how main

detective finally reachessolution.(4) Y’s motive: Hatred of

Emily—sheruinedhiscareer—hishealth—dominatedandcrushed him.… Real enoughforarealcrime!This last comment,

irrelevantandbitter,hadbeenheavily penciled out of the

manuscript (for Lane hadexactly copied what was inthe original); but it had beenlegible. The outlineconcluded with two othernotes.

(5) Be sure disguisecharactersinbookenoughtomake it look like fiction. Ifpen-name is used, goodcharacter names, no reasonwhy public should recognize

family. Perhaps changebackground to some othercity, like Chicago or SanFrancisco.(6) What is character of

main detective? Doctor,because of vanilla andchemical stuff; Friend of Y?Notaregulardetective.Makemodus operandi deductive—intellectual detective;perhaps physical appearanceof Sh. H., color of Poir.,

deductivemethodsofE.Q.…Bring laboratoryprominentlyintoinvestigation.…Workouta clue by means of numbersonbottles.Thisshouldnotbedifficult(?).

WearilyLane,hisleanfacetaut, dropped the copy ofYork Hatter’s amorphousdetective story plot outline.He buried his head in hishands, thinkingdeeply in the

strong silence. Fifteenminutes passed in this way,unbroken by any sound savethe scarcely audible one ofhisownbreathing.Finallyhesat up straight and staredacrosshisdeskatacalendar.His lips moved. Two weeks.…Hepickedupapencilandringed the date June 18withheavy, almost desperate,strokes.

Scene3

THEMORGUE.SATURDAY,JUNE11.11A.M.

Something drove him on.Accustomed as he was tointense introspection and asharp analysis of the worldabout him, he wasnevertheless helpless in thegripof theviciousmood thatenveloped him. Helpless

eithertoanalyzeitcompletelyor explain it away.Rationalizationfledbefore it.It pressed on the nape of hisnecklikealeadweight.Andyethecouldnotstop.

This thing must be searchedouttotheend—howbitteranend only he knew. Whatwould happen then …Inwardly he shrank together,feeling his stomach contractinaspasmofpainandfear.

It was Saturday, and thesun shone hotly on the river,and here he was descendingfromtheLincoln,crossingthesidewalk, toiling up thebattered stone steps of theMorgue. Why? Why notconfess that he had enteredupon an enterprise tooconscienceless for a man ofsensitive nature? At theheight of his career on thestage he had met as much

vituperationaspraise.Hehadbeen called everything from“the world’s foremost actor”to “an old has-beenmumming a moth-eatenShakespeare in the age ofmiracles.” These he hadaccepted equably, meetingthe sneers and the applausewith dignity, as befitted anartistwhoknewtherightwayand the high place. Nothingthe critics were able to say,

out of the venomof the newyoung art, could shake hisinvincible purpose or thequiet conviction that he wasfulfilling a worthy destiny.Why had he not stoppedthere, at the peak of a fullcareer?Whymeddle? It wasfor the Thumms and theBrunos to ferret out andpunish evil. Evil? There wasnoevilinthepurestate;evenSatan had been an angel.

There were just ignorant ortwisted people, or victims ofamaliciousfate.Yet his lean legs carried

him up the steps of theMorgue, bound on a newmission of exploration andconfirmation, stubbornlyrefusing to heed the turmoilinhisbrain.He found Dr. Ingalls, the

City toxicologist, on thesecond floor of the building

ina laboratory, lecturingtoaclass of young medicalstudents. He waited dumbly,looking at the neat duplicateapparatus of glass and metalwithout really seeing it, lip-reading Ingalls’s incisivewords and watching thepracticed movements of hishands without a quiver ofsensoryreaction.When the class had been

dismissed,Ingallsstrippedoff

his rubber gloves and shookhands cordially. “Glad to seeyou,Mr.Lane.Another littleproblem in olfactoryevidence?”Mr. Drury Lane, shrunken

within himself, looked aboutthe deserted laboratory. Thisworld of science, with itsretorts and electrodes andglass jars full of chemicals!Whatwashedoinghere,afterall,anoutsider,aninterloper,

abungler?Hecouldnothopeto cleanse the earth … Hesighed and said: “Can yougive me any informationabout a poison calledphysostigmin,Doctor?”“Physostigmin?Certainly!”

beamed the toxicologist.“Right up our alley. It’s awhite,tasteless,toxicalkaloid—deadly poison, one of thepapas of the alkaloid family.Chemically it’s C15H21N302

—derived from the Calabarbean.”“Calabar bean?” echoed

Lanedully.“Physostigma venenosum.

Calabar bean’s the highlypoisonousseedofanAfricanclimbing vine of the beanfamily,” explained Dr.Ingalls. “It’s used medicallyin the treatment of certainnervous disorders, tetanus,epilepsy, and so on. The

physostigmin isderived fromthis bean, and it’s death onratsandjustabouteverythingelse.Wouldyoulike toseeasample?”“Scarcely necessary,

Doctor.” Lane took from hispocket a carefully wrappedand padded object. Hestrippedoffthewrappingandpadding.Itwasthestopperedvial of white fluid he haddiscovered in the chimney

cache. “Is thisphysostigmin?”“Hmm,” said Ingalls,

holding the vial up to thelight.“Lookslikeit,allright.Justamoment,Mr.Lane.I’llmakeacoupleoftests.”He worked intently, in

silence; and Lane watchedhim without interrupting.“Certainly is,” said thetoxicologist at last.“Undoubtedly physostigmin,

Mr. Lane, full strength.Where’dyougetit?”“In the Hatter house,”

replied Lane vaguely. Heproduced his wallet andfumbledinsideuntilhefoundasmallfoldedsheetofpaper.“This,” he said, “is theduplicate of a prescription,Dr. Ingalls. Will you look itover,please?”The toxicologist took the

prescription. “Hmm …

Balsam of Peru … I see!.What do you want to knowabout this prescription, Mr.Lane?”“Isitlegitimate?”“Oh! Certainly.

Compounded salve used inthe treatment of a skin ai——”“Thank you,” said Lane

wearily.Hedidnotbother totake back the prescription.“And now—will you do

somethingforme,Doctor?”“Justsaytheword.”“Seethatthisvialissentto

Police Headquarters in myname, to be filed with theother exhibits of the Hattercase.”“It’sdone.”“Itshould,”explainedLane

heavily, “be preserved as amatterofofficial record. It isfatally important in the case.… Thank you for your

courtesy,Doctor.”He shook Ingalls’s hand

and turned to the door. Thetoxicologistwatchedhisslowdeparturewithbewilderment.

Scene4

INSPECTORTHUMM’SOFFICE.THURSDAY,JUNE16.10A.M.

Andthere, itseemed,matters

were fated to rest. From acasewhich had been born inattemptedviolence,sweepingtheMadHattersinitspathasit developed, darting fromonemanifestationofcriminalactivity to another withoutreason and yetwith purpose,it suddenly came to a deadstop, as if gatheringmomentum over a longstretch it had unexpectedlycrashed into an immovable

barrier and fallen, shattered,toearth,nevertomoveagain.Itwas a trying period. For

six days after Lane’s visit tothe laboratory of Dr. Ingallsnothing whatever occurred.Inspector Thumm hadblundered into a blind alley,and was going round andround on his heels in afrenzied activity that gotnowhere. The Hatter househad returned to a semblance

of routine, which is to saythat its tenants resumed theireccentric mode of living,scarcely restrained further bythe helpless police. Thenewspapers all week hadbeen full of negative reports;theMadHatters,asonepaperexpressed it, seemed to becoming out of “this latestescapade” unscathed. “Justanother sickening example,”darkly asserted an editorial,

“of the growing tendency inAmerican crime. Gettingaway with murder, amongprivatecitizensasamong theracketeers, seems to bebecoming fashionable—andsafe.”Matters, then, were at an

impasse until Thursdaymorning,alittlelessthantwoweeks after the murder ofMrs.Hatter,whenMr.DruryLane chose to pay a visit to

PoliceHeadquarters.Inspector Thumm showed

the strain of the past week.He greetedLane almostwithdoggy hope. “Greetings,brother!” he bellowed.“Where in God’s name haveyoubeen?I’veneverbeensoglad to see anyone in mywhole life! What’s the goodword?”Laneshrugged.Therewere

lines of resolution about his

mouth, but he was stillgloomy. “I’m singularlylacking in good words thesedays,Inspector.”“Huh!Theold story,” said

Thumm, lapsing intosaturninecontemplationofanold scar on the back of hishand. “Nobody knowsanything.”“You’ve accomplished

little,Iunderstand.”“You’re telling me?”

snarled Thumm. “I’ve beenplaying that detective storyangle to a fare-thee-well.Seemed to be just about themost important lead in thecase. And where did it getme?” It was a rhetoricalquestion that required noanswer, but the Inspectorsupplied it nevertheless.“Nowhere,that’swhere!”“Wheredidyouexpectitto

get you, Inspector?” asked

Lanequietly.“Certainly I had a right to

think it might lead to themurderer!” cried Thumm,rage boiling behind his eyes.“But I’ll be damned if I canmake head or tail of it. I’msick and tired of the wholerotten mess. Well!” Hecalmed. “No use getting allhopped up about it.… Lookhere. Let me tell you how Ifigureit…”

“Do.”“York Hatter writes a

detectivestory,orasyousaytheoutlineofone.Basesitoncharacters in his own family,the same house, and so on.Notmuchoriginality,eh?ButI’ll admit he had damnedgoodmaterialtoworkwith;itwasanatural.”“I’m afraid I must charge

Mr.Hatterwithundervaluinghis material,” murmured

Lane.“Hedidn’thalfbegintosuspect the possibilities,Inspector. If he had known…”“Yeah, but he didn’t,”

growled Thumm. “So he sitsthereplayingaroundwiththisfictionideaofhis,andthinks:‘Swell!I’llbesmart.I’llwritethis thing myself—authortelling the story, and all thatsortofhooey—and I’llmakemyself the criminal.’ In the

story,mindyou…”“Clever,Inspector.”“Well,ifyougoinforthat

sort of thing,” gruntedThumm. “Now, look. Afterhe’s kicked the buckethimself—somethinghedidn’tfigure when he set out towriteamysterystory,I’llbet!—somebody comes along,finds his plot, and uses theplotofthestorytoguidehimin the commission of a real

murder.…”“Precisely.”“Precisely your hat!” cried

Thumm. “Damn it all,although that looks as if itmeans something, it doesn’tmeananythingatall!Allyoucan squeeze out of it is thatsomeone’s been using YorkHatter’sideaasasteer.Mightbeanybody!”“I believe you’re

understating the

potentialities,”saidLane.“Whatd’yemean?”“Nevermind.”“Well, maybe you’re

smarterthanIam,”grumbledthe Inspector. “I claim that’swhy this is such a cockeyedcrime. Following a detectivestory outline!” He whippedout a big handkerchief andhonked his nose three times,violently. “It’s a lousydetective story, I’ll tell you

that.But ithelps inoneway.Therearelotsofthingsintherealcrimethatjustwon’tbearexplanation. So I supposewhateverwecan’texplainwecan blame on Hatter’s punkplotting.”Lanesaidnothing.Thumm added grumpily.

“There’ssomethingelse.”Heexamined a fingernailminutely.“Y’know,lastweekwhen you toldme about this

outline business, I sort ofrespected your request not toask questions. I don’t mindtellingyouBrunoandI thinka lot of your ability, Mr.Lane, get me straight—you’vegotsomething,Idon’tknow what in hell it is, thatneither Bruno nor I’ve got,and we know it. Otherwisewe wouldn’t let an outsiderhavehisownwaysomuch.”“I’m grateful, Inspector,”

murmuredLane.“Yeah.ButI’mnotentirely

dumb,”wentontheInspectorslowly. “And you can’texpect my patience to lastforever, either. Only one ofthree ways you could havefound out about that outline.One is that you dug it upsomewhere, and that doesn’tseem likely, because wesearched the house from topto bottom before you did.

Two is—you got theinformation from themurdererhimself.That’sout,of course, for obviousreasons. Three—you’re justguessing, following a hunch.Butifthat’sthecase,howdoyouknowso exactly that theplotcalledforYorkHattertobethecriminal?Sothat’sout,too. I’ll admit I’m stumpedand, byGod, I don’t like thefeeling!”

Mr. Drury Lane stirred,andsighed,andthetortureinhiseyesbeliedtheimpatiencewith which he spoke. “Poorlogic, Inspector, I’m sorry tosay. But I simply cannotdiscuss itwith you.”Hewassilentforamoment,andthenhesaid:“At thesame time, Idooweyouanexplanation.”He rose as Thumm’s eyes

narrowed,andbegantopatrolthe floorwithhungry strides.

“Inspector, this is the mostuniquecrimeinthehistoryofyour calling.When I becameinterested in criminologyearly last year, I readvoluminously records of oldcases, kept up with currentones, saturatedmyself in thesubject. Believe me when Itellyouthatthewholehistoryof criminal investigation hasneverrecordedamore—whatshall I say?—difficult,

complex, and extraordinarycrime.”“Maybe,” growled

Thumm.“All Iknow is—it’stough.”“You can’t begin to

comprehend its complexity,”muttered Lane. “It concernsitselfnotonlywithmattersofcrime and punishment,Inspector.Inthevortexof itselements are pathology,abnormal psychology,

problems of sociology andethics.…”Hestopped,andbithis lip. “But let’s stop thisaimlesstalk.Havetherebeenany developments at theHatterhouse?”“Everything’s the same.

Looks as if it’s just peteredout.”“Don’tbedeceived,” cried

Lane harshly. “It has notpeteredout.Thisisahiatus,alull in thehostilities.…Have

therebeenfurtherattemptsatpoisoning?”“No.Dr.Dubin, theexpert

stationed in the house, iswatching every drop of foodand drink. Not a chance ofthatagain.”“Louisa Campion.… Has

BarbaraHatterdecided?”“Not yet. Conrad’s

showinghiscolors.He’sbeenegging the poor girl on topass up her chance—

transparentashell,he is,andof course Barbara seesthroughhim.Knowwhatthatson-of-a-gunhadthenervetosuggest?”“Well?”“He’s propositioning

Barbara! Says that if she’llrefusetotakecareofLouisa,he will, too, and then they’llbothcontestthewillwhenoldCap Trivett takes over thejob! Just a big-hearted

brother. If she consented,he’d double-cross her andtake the woman in himself.After all, control of threehundred grand isn’t to besneezedat.”“Theothers?”“Jill Hatter’s gone back to

her old round of parties.Keepson talkingnastyabouther old lady. Taken Gormlyback on the string again andditched Bigelow; which,”

said Thumm grimly, “is onesweet break for Bigelow.Hedoesn’t think so, though—he’s sore as a pup—hasn’tbeennearthehouseallweek.And that’s all. Hopeful, isn’tit?”Lane’s eyes flickered. “Is

LouisaCampionstillsleepinginMissSmith’sroom?”“No, she’s been sensible

about it. Went back to herownbedroom.Placehasbeen

cleaned up. Miss Smith issleeping there with her,occupyingtheoldlady’sbed.Didn’t think she had theguts.”Lane ceased his pacing,

confronting the Inspectorsquarely. “I have beenendeavoring to mustersufficient courage, Inspector,tomake still anotherdemandon your patience and goodnature.”

Thumm rose, and theystood face to face—the largebroad ugly man, and the tallslender muscular one. “Idon’tgetyou,”saidThumm.“Imustaskyouoncemore

to do something for mewithoutlearningwhy.”“Depends,”saidThumm.“Very well. Yourmen are

stillstationedaboutandintheHatterhouse?”“Yes.Whatofit?”

Lanedidnotreplyatonce.He searched the Inspector’seyes, and in his own therewas somethingchild-likeandpleading. “I want you,” hesaid slowly, “to withdrawevery policeman anddetectiveondutyattheHatterhouse.”Inspector Thumm,

accustomedashewas toMr.Drury Lane’s vagaries, wasscarcelypreparedforsuchan

astounding request as this.“What!” he roared. “Leavethe place absolutelyunguarded?”“Yes,” said Lane in a low

voice. “Absolutelyunguarded, as you say. It’surgent,necessary.”“Dr. Dubin, too? Why,

man, you don’t know whatyou’reasking.Thatwillleavethepoisoneraclearfield!”“Precisely what I aim to

achieve.”“But my God,” cried

Thumm, “we can’t do that!We’re practically invitinganotherattack!”Lane nodded quietly.

“You’ve grasped the essenceoftheidea,Inspector.”“But,” spluttered Thumm,

“somebody’sgottobeonthepremisestoprotectthefamilyandnabthebastard!”“Somebodywillbethere.”

Thumm looked startled, asif he had suddenly begun tosuspecttheoldactor’ssanity.“But I thought you just saidyoudidn’twantusthere.”“Correct.”“Eh?”“Ishallbetheremyself.”“Oh!” said Thumm in an

altered tone. He becamethoughtful instantly, andlookedatLanehardandlong.“I get it. The old stunt, hey?

Theyknowyou’reoneofus,though,unless——”“Exactly what I intend to

do,” said Lane in a lifelesstone. “I shall not go asmyself,butassomeoneelse.”“Somebodytheyknow,eh,

and take for granted,”muttered Thumm. “Not bad,nothalfbad,Mr.Lane.Ifyoucan fool ’em. After all, thisisn’tthestage.Oradetectivestory. Do you think you can

make up—I mean, so wellthat…?”“A chance I shall have to

take,”saidLane.“Quaceyisagenius. His art is brilliantbecause it is restrained. Asformyself.… Itwon’t be thefirst timeI’veplayedapart,”he said bitterly. He checkedhimself. “Come, Inspector,we’re losing valuable time.Willyougrantmyrequestornot?”

“Well, all right,” saidThumm doubtfully. “Can’thurt, I guess, if you’re extracareful. We’d have to betaking the boys away soonanyway.…Okay.What’s thelay?”Lane spoke crisply:

“WhereisEdgarPerry?”“Back at theHatter house.

Releasedhimandtoldhimtostay there until we cleanedup.”

“Call Mr. Perry at onceand, on the pretext ofquestioning him again, havehimcomedownhereassoonashecan.”

A half hour later EdgarPerrywassittinginThumm’sbestchair,nervouslyglancingfrom Lane to the Inspector.Theactor’smantleofdistresshad been cast off: he wasquiet, but alert.He appraised

the tutor with photographiceyes, measuring him, takingineverydetailofgestureandappearance. Thumm sat by,fidgeting and scowling. “Mr.Perry,”saidLaneatlast,“youcanbeof inestimable servicetothepolice.”“Ah—yes,” said Perry

vaguely,hisstudent’sdreamyeyesfilledwithapprehension.“It is necessary to

withdraw thepolice from the

Hatterhouse.”Perry looked startled and

eager.“Really?”hecried.“Yes.Atthesametimewe

must have someone on thepremises prepared fortrouble.” The tutor’seagerness fled, and theapprehension returned.“Someone, of course, whowill have the freedom of thehouse and yet, whilewatchingtheoccupantsofthe

house,willmoveunsuspectedamong them. Do youunderstand?”“Quite—quite.”“Itgoeswithoutsayingthat

a member of the police,”continuedLanebriskly, “willnot do. I propose with yourpermission,Mr.Perry,totakeyour place in the Hatterhouse.”Perry blinked. “Take my

place?Idon’tquitesee…”

“I employ one of thegreatest artistsofmake-up inthe world. I select youbecause you are the onlymemberofthehouseholditisphysically possible forme toimpersonate with the leastdangerofunmasking.Weareabout the same physique andheight, and we have notdissimilar features. At leastthere is nothing about youwhich Quacey’s art cannot

duplicateonme.”“Oh,yes.You’reanactor,”

mumbledPerry.“Doyouagree?”Perrydidnotreplyatonce.

“Well…”“You’d better,” put in

Inspector Thumm darkly.“Your pants aren’t exactlyclean in this business,Campion.”Anger flared into the soft

eyes, and drained out. The

tutor’s shoulders sagged.“Very well,” he muttered. “Iconsent.”

Scene5

THEHAMLET.FRIDAY,JUNE17.AFTERNOON.

In the morning InspectorThumm arrived at TheHamlet in a small black car

withPerry,explainedthattheHatters were under theimpression Perry was in foran all-day grilling, andimmediatelydroveaway.Lane, now that he was on

old ground, familiar withevery step of the terrain, didnot rush matters. Hewandered about the estatewith the tutor, chattingpleasantly of his theater, hisbooks, his gardens—

everything but the Hatters.Perry expanded under thespell of his extraordinarilybeautiful surroundings,breathed deeply of the winyair, entered the recreatedMermaid Tavern withglistening eyes, reverentlyexamined a glass-incasedFirst Folio of Shakespeare inthe sprawling quiet library,met Lane’s incumbents,inspected his theater,

discussed the modern dramawith Kropotkin, Lane’sRussian director—losthimselfentirely.Heseemedanewman.Quietly Lane led him

about, and his eyes were onthe man’s face, figure, andhands every minute of themorning. He studied theshape of Perry’s mouth andthewayhemovedhislips,hisposture, his walk, every

nuance of gesture. Atluncheon,hewatchedPerry’seating mannerisms. Quaceytagged along, studying thetutor’s head like a deformedlittle hawk, and vanishedsomewhere in the middle ofthe afternoon, mumblingexcitedlytohimself.In the afternoon they

continued theirperambulationsaboutthevastgrounds; but now Lane

adroitly led the conversationto Perry himself. In a littlewhile it became personal.Lane discovered the man’stastes, prejudices, ideas, thepith and core of hisintellectual intercourse withBarbara Hatter, hisrelationships with the othermembers of the household,the extent of his tutoring ofthe two children. Here againPerry became animated, and

told him where to find thebooks, and his methods ofteaching each boy, and theroutineofhisdailylifeintheHatterhouse.In theeveningafterdinner

the two men repaired toQuacey’s little laboratory. Itwas a weird place, utterlyunlike anything Perry hadever seen before. Despite itsmodernappurtenancesitgaveoff an odor of antiquity. It

looked like a medievaltorture-room. On one wallhung a shelf on which werepropped a row of heads—modelsofall racesand types—Mongoloid, Caucasian,Negroid—in all expressionspossible to the humancountenance. Wigs—gray,black, brown, red, fuzzy,frilly, straight, dull, oily,curly—strewed the walls.Work-benches held a

puzzling assortment ofpigments, powders, creams,dyes,pastes, and smallmetaltools. An instrument like asewing-machine, a hugemany-faceted mirror, anenormous bulb-lamp, blackshades.… From the momenthe stepped across itsthreshold Perry’s animationvanished,andhisoldfearandhesitating manner returned.The room seemed to depress

him and bring him back toreality, for he became silentand moved about nervously.Lane watched him withsudden anxiety. Perrywanderedaboutuneasily.Hisshadow, grotesquelyelongated,keptpacewithhimontheblankwall.“Mr. Perry, please

undress,” squeaked Quacey.He was busily propped upoverawoodenmodel,putting

the last touches to aremarkable wig of humanhair.Silently and slowly Perry

obeyed.Lanestrippedoffhisown clothes quickly, andredressed in Perry’s. Theyfitted;thetwomenwerewellmatchedphysically.Perry draped a dressing-

gownabouthimandshivered.Quacey fluttered about.

The necessities of facial

makeup, fortunately, werefew. Lane seated himself inan oddly shaped chair beforethe mirrors and the oldhunchback set to work. Hisgnarled fingers seemedimbued with uncannyintelligence. A slightadjustment to the nose andeyebrows,somewadstoalterthe shape of the cheeks andjawline; the eyes swiftly,deftly touched up, and the

eyebrows dyed. Perry lookedon in silence. A glitter ofdetermination crept into hiseyes. Quacey brisklymotionedPerry to thebench,studiedhishairlineandhead-shape, adjusted the wig toLane’s head, producedscissors.…In two hours the

transformationwascomplete.Mr.DruryLanestoodup,andPerry’s eyes widened with

horror! He was experiencingthe remarkable, incrediblesensation of gazing athimself. Lane opened hismouth, and out of it camePerry’s own voice—theidentical movements of thelips.…“Oh, God!” cried Perry

suddenly, his face contortedandcrimson,“no!No,Isay!Ican’tletyou!”The mask dropped, and it

wasLane again, alarm in hiseyes. “What do you mean?”heaskedquietly.“You’re too perfect! The

deception is too … I won’tpermit it, I tell you!” Perrysank to the bench, hisshoulders quivering. “I—Barbara…Todeceiveherso…”“You thought Imightgive

myself away?” said Lane,with a pitying look in his

eyes.“Yes,yes.Shewouldknow

Iwasforced.…Butthisway.No!” The tutor sprang to hisfeet, his jaw set. “If youattempt to impersonate me,Mr. Lane, I shall becompelled to resort toviolence. I shall not permityou to impose on thewoman”—he paused andsquared his chin—“thewoman I love. Let me have

myclothes,please.”He stripped off the

dressing-gown and advancedone step toward Lane,defiance and the fire ofdetermination in his eyes.Quacey, who had beenlooking on open-mouthedscreamedawarning,grabbeda heavy shears from thework-bench, and sprangforwardlikeamonkey.Lane stepped in his path

and patted his shouldergently. “No, Quacey.…You’re right, Mr. Perry,perfectly right. Will you bemyguesttonight?”Perry stammered: “I’m

sorry—I didn’t mean tothreaten.”“Ihavepermittedmysense

ofvaluestobecomewarped.”said Lane steadily. “Unlesswe tookMissHatter intoourconfidence.… No, it’s better

this way. Quacey, stopstaring.”He tookoff thewigwith some difficulty andplaced it in the oldhunchback’sastonishedhand.“Keep this as a memento ofmystupidityandthegallantryofagentleman.…”Andthen,before Perry’s eyes, aremarkable transformationcame over Lane. The actorhad stiffened, and blinkedtwice, and then smiled.

“Would you care to visitmytheater,Mr.Perry?Kropotkinisholdingadressrehearsalofournewestplay.”

When Perry had redressedandgone,escortedbyFalstaffto Lane’s theater, the actordropped his mask ofinsouciance.“Quick,Quacey!Get InspectorThummon thewire!” Quacey, alarmed,pattered to the wall and

grasped a concealedtelephone in his skinnytalons. Lane paced behindhim impatiently. “Fast, oldman.Fast.There’snotimetolose.”There was difficulty

locating the Inspector. Hewas not at PoliceHeadquarters.“Tryhishome.”The Inspector’s wife

answered the telephone.

Quacey squealed urgently.The good lady was doubtful… the Inspectorwas snoringin an easy-chair, it seemed,and she hesitated to wakehim. “But it’s Mr. Lane!”criedQuacey, in desperation.“Important!”“Oh!” Peculiar sounds

which had assailed Quacey’soldearswiththeregularityofa drumbeat suddenly ceased,andamomentlaterThumm’s

familiargrowlcameover thewire.“Ask him if his men have

alreadylefttheHatterhouse!”Quacey stuttered the

question, listened dutifully.“He says not yet. Theywereto go off as soon as you gottheretonight.”“Luck! Tell the Inspector

I’ve changed my mind. Noimpersonation of Perry. Hismen are to remain at the

houseuntiltomorrow.WhenIarrive some time during theforenoon,theyaretoleaveatonce.”Thumm’s roar of inquiry

made the receiver vibratehoarsely. “Hewants to knowwhy, he says. He says hewants to know damned wellwhy,” reported the oldhunchback.“Can’t explain now. Give

the Inspector my undying

affection and hang up onhim.”Unconscious of the fact

thathewasstridingabouttheroom clad only in athleticunderwear, Mr. Drury Lanegesticulated wildly at theancient and cried: “Now callthe house of Dr. Merriam!You’ll find him in the NewYorkCitydirectory.”Quacey wet a spatulate

thumb and began to riffle

pages. “Mer … Mer … Y.Merriam,M.D.Thatit?”“Yes.Hurry!”Quacey gave the number.

After a moment a femininevoice answered. “Dr.Merriam, please,” he said inhis rusty squeak. “Mr.DruryLanecalling.”As he listened to the

strident reply, his brownwrinkled face lookeddisappointed. “He’s not

home, she says.Went out oftown this afternoon for theweek-end,shesays.”“Ah,”saidMr.DruryLane,

sobering. “Week-end, eh?Perhaps it’s just as well.…Hang up, Caliban. Hang up.This is growing complicated.Thanktheladyandhangup.”“What now?” asked

Quacey querulously, glaringathismaster.“Idobelieve,” repliedMr.

DruryLanewithathoughtfulsmile, “that I have an evenbetteridea.”

Scene6

THEDEATH-ROOM.SATURDAY,JUNE18.8:20P.M.

At a fewminutes tonoononSaturdaymorning,Mr.DruryLane’slimousinerolledupto

the curb before the Hatterhouse and deposited EdgarPerry and his host on thesidewalk.Perrywaspale,butdetermined;all theway fromLanecliff he had been silent.Lanehadnotdisturbedhim.A detective answered the

bell. “Mornin’,Mr. Lane. Soyou’re back, Perry?” andwinked to Lane as the tutor,without replying, rapidlywalkeddownthecorridorand

disappearedupthestairs.Lane strolled through the

hall to the rear. He paused,then went into the kitchen.When he reappeared a fewmoments later he made forthe library. Conrad Hatterwas there, writing at a desk.“Well,Mr.Hatter,”saidLaneheartily,“Ihearyourtroublesareover.”“How? What’s that?”

exclaimedHatter, looking up

instantly. There were heavyringsunderhiseyes.“I have been informed,”

went on Lane, sitting down,“that the ban is to be liftedthis morning. The police arefinallyleaving.”Hatter muttered: “Oh! It’s

high time, too. Didn’taccomplish anything worth acurse anyway. Just as farfrom finding out who killedmymothernowas theywere

twoweeksago.”Lanegrimaced.“We’renot

infallible, you know.… Yes,heretheyare.Goodmorning,Mosher.”“Morning, Mr. Lane,”

boomed Detective Mosher,advancing with elephantinetread into the library. “Well,sir, we’re quitting, Mr.Hatter!”“SoMr.Lanejustsaid.”“Inspector’s orders. Me

and the boys are leaving—stroke of noon. Sorry, Mr.Hatter.”“Sorry?”echoedHatter.He

rose and stretched his armsvoraciously. “Good riddance,damn all of you! Now we’llhave some peace aroundhere.”“And privacy,” added a

pettish voice. Jill Hattersteppedintotheroom.“Ofallthe breaks, Connie. We’re

actuallygoing tobe letaloneforachange.”The four men who had

beenstationedinthehouse—Mosher, Pinkussohn, Krause,and a dark young man, Dr.Dubin, the poison expertassigned to test theedibles—congregated in the doorway.“Well, boys,” saidPinkussohn,“let’sbegoin’. Igotta date. Haw, haw!” Hebegan a long rolling laugh

that shook the room. Andthen, in the midst of itsreverberationshechokedandthe sound stopped as if bymagic.Hewas staring at thechairinwhichLanesat.Theyall looked. Mr. Drury Lanewas slumped on the back ofhisneck,hiseyesclosed,facedrained of blood—unconscious.Dr. Dubin sprang forward

after that instant of

stupefaction.Pinkussohnwasgasping:“Hestiffenedupjustlikethat!Gotredin theface,chokedalittlebit,andpassedout!”The poison expert bumped

tohiskneesbeside the chair,tore open Lane’s collar, benttoplacehisearagainstLane’schest, felt hispulse.His facewas grave. “Water,” he saidinalowvoice.“Andwhisky.Atonce.”

Jillwaspressedagainstthewall, staring. Conrad Hattermumbled something, andproduced a bottle of whiskyfrom the cellaret. One of thedetectives ran to the kitchenand returned quickly with atumbler of water. Dr. Dubinforced Lane’s mouth openand poured a generousamount of liquor down histhroat. The detective,overzealous, flung the

contents of the tumbler fullinto Lane’s face. The effectwas electric.Lane spluttered,showed the whites of hiseyes, rolled them wildly,coughed as the burningwhisky coursed through hisveins. “You fool!” cried Dr.Dubin savagely. “What doyou want to do—kill him?Here—lend a hand.… Mr.Hatter, where can we puthim? I’ve got to get him to

bedatonce.Heartattack.…”“You’re sure it isn’t

poison?”gaspedJill.Barbara,Martha,thetwochildren,andMrs.Arbuckleranin,arousedbythecommotion.“Good heavens,” said

Barbara in a shocked voice.“What’s happened to Mr.Lane?”“Will somebody please

lendahandhere?”pantedDr.Dubin, struggling to raise

Lane’s limp body from thechair.There was a bellow from

thehall,andthosestandinginthedoorwaywerescatteredasred-haired Dromio plungedin.…Within fifteen minutes the

housewasquietagain.Lane’sstillformhadbeencarriedbyDr. Dubin and Dromioupstairs to theguest-roomonthe first floor. The three

detectives had stood about,staring, uneasy, doubtful ofthe proper course to follow.Finally, in the absence ofcountermanding orders, theymarchedoutofthehouseinabody, leaving Lane and theHatterstotheirfate.Afterall,heart attacks did not comeunder the heading ofhomicide. The othersthronged about the closeddoorof theguestroom.There

was no sound to be heardfrom behind the door.Suddenly it opened andDromio’s flaming head stuckout. “Doctor says you’re allto get away from here andstopmakingnoise!”Thedoorclickedshut.So they slowly dispersed.

A half hour later Dr. Dubinemerged and wentdownstairs. “Absolute quietand rest,” he informed them.

“It’s not serious. But hepositively cannot be movedfor a day or so. Please don’tdisturb him.His chauffeur iswithhimandwilltakecareofhimuntilhecanleave.I’llbeback tomorrow—he’ll feelbetterthen.”

At seven-thirty thatevening Mr. Prury Lane setout to accomplish what his“heart-attack” had made

possible. In obedience to theworthyDr.Dubin’sordersnoone had approached the“sick-room.” True, BarbaraHatterhadquietlytelephonedthe office of Dr.Merriam toenlist his services—disturbedperhaps by some vaguefeeling of uneasiness—but,when she learned that thephysician was out of town,shemadeno further effort tointerfere. Dromio, ensconced

behindthecloseddoorwithacigar and a magazine whichhe had with foresight tuckedinto his pocket, found theafternoon not unenjoyable;more enjoyable than hisemployer found it, to judgefrom the tension on Lane’sface.At six o’clock Barbara

commandedMrs.Arbuckletomakeupalighttrayandtakeit to the guest-room.Dromio

accepted it with Gaelicgallantry, reported that Mr.Lane was restingcomfortably, and shut thedoorinMrs.Arbuckle’sbitterface. Shortly thereafter MissSmith, conscious that herprofession demanded it,knocked on the door andasked whether she might beof service.Dromio discussedthe matter with her for fiveminutes, at the end ofwhich

she found herself staring atthe panels of the door,vaguely pleased, butnonethelessrefused.Shewentawayshakingherhead.At seven-thirty Mr. Drury

Lanerosefromhisbed,spokequietly toDromio, and stoodbehind the door. Dromioopeneditandlookedoutintothe corridor. It was empty.Closing thedoorbehindhim,hestrolleddownthehall.The

door to Miss Smith’s roomwas open; the room wasunoccupied. The laboratoryand nursery doors wereclosed. The door to LouisaCampion’s room stood open;andDromio,makingsurethatno one was inside, swiftlyreturnedtotheguest-room.AmomentlaterMr.DruryLanetiptoeddownthecorridorandhurried into the death-room.Withouthesitationheopened

thedoorof theclothesclosetand slipped inside. Hebrought the door to beforehim,andmadesurethattherewas a crack wide enough topermit him to see into theroom.Thecorridor,thewholefloor, the room itself wereentirely soundless. The roomwas rapidly growing dark,and the air in the closet wasstifling. Nevertheless Laneburrowed more deeply into

the nest of feminine clothingbehindhim,drewwhatbreathhe could, and composedhimselfforalongvigil.The minutes passed. At

times Dromio, crouchedbehind thedoorof theguest-room, heard voices from thecorridorandfainteronesfromdownstairs; Lane had noteven this awareness of theoutside world. He was incomplete darkness. No one

enteredtheroominwhichhelaybidden.At 7:50, as Lane saw by

the radium-dial of his wrist-watch, there came the firsthint of action. He stiffened,put on guard by someprimitive instinct. Withoutwarning the room wasflooded with light; hereflected that the electricswitch was to the left of thecloset, right by the door and

therefore out of sight, whichwaswhyhehadnot seen thefigure of the visitor. But hewas not long kept in doubt.The portly figure of MissSmith crossed his line ofvision.With her heavy treadshewalkedacrosstherugandturnedintothespacebetweenthe twin beds. The room,Lanenowsawinthebrilliantlight, had been thoroughlyswept up, aired, and tidied;

andalltracesofthecrimehadbeenremoved.Miss Smith went to the

night-tableandpickedup theboardandBraillepiecesusedby Louisa Campion. As sheturned, Lane saw her face.She looked tired, and herlarge bosom heaved a sigh.Without touching anythingfurther, she walked out ofLane’s line of vision, goingtoward the door. A moment

laterthelightdisappearedandLane was left in envelopingdarkness. He relaxed, andwiped his perspiringforehead.At 8:05 the death-room

received a second visitor.Againthelightflaredon,andLane saw the tall droopingfigure of Mrs. Arbuckleshuffleacrossthecarpet.Thewomanwasbreathingrapidlyfrom the exertion, Lane

judged,ofclimbingthestairs.She carried a tray on whichstood a tall glass ofbuttermilk and a platter oftiny cakes. Depositing thetray on the night-table, shescowled, rubbed the back ofherneck, turned, and left theroom. This time, however—and Lane uttered a formlesslittleprayertoallthegodsofall the ages for thecarelessness which had

inspired Mrs. Arbuckle—thelightremainedon.Almost at once things

happened.Itwasexactlyfourminutes later, at 8:09, thatLane tensed with theconsciousness that the blindofoneofthewindowsacrossthe room, which until thatmomenthadbeencompletelystill, had fluttered. Hecrouched lower, set himselffirmly, widened the crack in

his door a trifle, and rivetedhis eyes on thewindow.Thedrawn blind flew up verysuddenly, and he made outthe figure he had beenawaitingperchedontheledgeoutsidethewindowwhichranaround the first-floor outerwall overlooking the garden.It poised there for severalseconds, then sprang lightlyto the floor inside the room.The window, Lane saw, was

now open, where before ithadbeenclosed.Instantly the figure leaped

across the room in thedirectionof thedoor,passingbeyondLane’svision.Buthewas certain that the visitorhad closed the door of theroom, since the figurereturned in a twinkling andthe lights remained on. Thefigure made at once for thefireplace, which Lane could

barely see. It stooped a bitand disappeared, legs jerkingupwards, out of sight. Lanewaitedwithapoundingheart.Several seconds later thefigurereappearedcarryingthevialfulofwhiteliquidandthedropper which Lane had leftin thecachebehind the loosebrick. The visitor ran acrossthe room to the night-table.Eyes glistening, handoutstretched toward the glass

of buttermilk.… Laneshivered in his hiding-place.A moment’s hesitation.…Then, as if making up itsmind,thefigureuncorkedthevial and dashed the entirecontents into the glass ofbuttermilkMrs.Arbucklehadleft.It moved so quickly.… A

leap back to the window, arapid look out into thegarden,ascrambleacrossthe

sill—and window and shadecame down. The visitor hadleft the blind a little higher,Lanenoticed,thanithadbeenbefore.… He sighed andstretched his legs in thecloset; his face was set hardasmortar.Theentireincidenthad not consumedmore thanthree minutes. It was now,Lane saw on consulting hiswristwatch,exactly8:12.Interlude.… Nothing

happened. The shade did noteven flutter. Again Laneswabbed his forehead; theperspiration was tricklingdown his body beneath hisclothing.At 8:15 Lane was aroused

once more. Two figuresblotted out the lightmomentarily as they passedhis line of sight—LouisaCampion, walking in slowlybut confidently, as she

walked all about the houseand its premises, and MissSmithlaggingbehind.Louisaproceeded without hesitationto her own bed, sat down,crossed her legs, andmechanically, as if it were anightly routine, reachedforwardtothenight-tableandgrasped the glass ofbuttermilk. Miss Smithsmiled rather wanly, pattedher cheek, and went to the

right—into the bathroom,Laneknew, remembering thegeographyof the room.Lanewas intent on watching, notLouisa, but the windowthrough which the intruderhadmadeexit.AndasLouisaraised the glass to her lips,Lanesawacautiousshadowyblob, the specter of a facepressed hard against thewindow-pane in the spacewhich the shade did not

shield. The face was tenseandpale,almostghastlyinitsearnestness.And Louisa, calmly, with

the blank and sweetexpression on her face neverchanging,drainedtheglassofbuttermilk,put itdown, rose,and began to unbutton herdress.Thiswas themoment, and

Lane’s eyes pained with theintensityofhisgaze.Theface

atthewindow,hewaswillingto swear, showed anincredible astonishment for amoment, followed by anexpression of horribledisappointment. And then itpopped out of sight, like atoy.WhileMissSmithwasstill

splashing in the bathroom,Lane cautiously stepped outoftheclosetandtiptoedfromthe room. Louisa Campion

didnoteven turnherhead inhisdirection.

Scene7

THELABORATORY.SUNDAY,JUNE19.AFTERNOON.

Mr. Drury Lane felt muchbetterSundaymorning—verymuch better. Nevertheless,Dromio reported to Barbara

Hatter, the only member ofthe household who seemedconcerned, that Mr. Drurywould spend most of themorning and part of theafternoon in the guest-roomresting, and would MissHatterbekindenough to seethathewasnotdisturbed?Miss Hatter would, and

Mr. Drury Lane was notdisturbed.At11:00o’clockDr.Dubin

presented himself, closetedhimself with the “patient,”reappeared ten minutes later,reported the “patient” wasvirtually recovered from theattack,anddeparted.Not long past noon Lane

repeated his secretinvestigationoftheprecedingnight. Had he really beentaken ill he could not havelooked worse. His face washaggard; he had passed a

sleepless night.Dromio gavehimthesignal,andheslippedinto the corridor withhurrying feet and bentshoulders. This Sunday tourof reconnaissance, however,did not have the death-roomforitsobject.Instead,hewentquickly into the laboratory.Hemoved with the speed ofpredetermined plan, makingat once for the clothes closetto the left of the door and

leaving the door open in acrack which permittedexcellent visibility. Andagain, grimly, he composedhimselftowait.It was on the surface so

inane,sofutile.Thismatterofcrouching in a dark,suffocating cubicle, barelybreathing, dead ears helplessto catch the loudest sound,tiringeyesconstantlyondutyat the crack—waiting,

waiting endlessly, for hours.Hours in which nothingwhatever occurred, in whichnooneenteredthelaboratory,in which not the slightestmovementcametohiseyes.The day lengthened,

interminably. Whatever histhoughtswere,andtheymusthavebeenfuriousandboilingand desperate, he did notallow his vigilance to relaxforan instant.Andfinally,at

4:00o’clockintheafternoon,hisvigilended.Thefirstheknewofitwas

a flashing figure dartingacross his line of vision,coming from the direction oftheonedoor,which fromhisposition could not be seen.Lane had not heard the dooropenorclose,ofcourse.Theweariness of hours droppedfrom him at once, and heglued his eye to the crack. It

was the intruder of the nightbefore.Thefiguredidnothesitate.

It made at once for the leftside of the room, near theshelving, pausing so closelyto Lane that Lane could seethe panting exhalations ofbreath. A hand shot up to alower shelf—and took downone of the few remainingbottles. As the bottledescended Lane saw the red

label with its white letters:POISON, prominentlydisplayed. The intruderpausednow,quietlyeyingthebooty; and then, after a slowsurvey of the room,proceeded to the pile ofdebrislyingwhereithadbeensweptintheleftcorneroftheroom near the window, anddug out a little emptyunbroken bottle. Withoutstopping tocleanse thebottle

under the tap, the intruderfilled it from the bottle ofpoison, stoppered it, replacedthepoisonbottleontheshelf,andcautiouslytiptoedtowardLane.… For an instant Lanelookedfullintothoseburningeyes…thentheypassedhim,goingtowardthedoor.Lane sat crouched in his

fatiguing position for a longmoment, and then, rising,quickly stepped out into the

laboratory. The door wasclosed;theintruderwasgone.He did not even go to theshelves to seewhat poison itwas that the marauder hadstolen.He stood still, like anoldmanpresseddownbytheweight of a graveresponsibility, dullyconsidering the door. Thenthe pain passed, and he wasthe old Lane, a little wan, alittle bowed, as was

consistent with a gentlemanrecovering from a heartattack.Leavingtheroom,andproceeding confidently if atrifleweakly,hefollowedthetrailofitsvisitor.

POLICEHEADQUARTERS.

EVENING.Headquarters was quiet. It

was past the working day,

and except for the police onnightduty thecorridorsweredeserted. District AttorneyBrunopoundeddownthehallandburstintotheroomonthedoor of which was letteredInspector Thumm’s name.Thumm was sitting at hisdesk contemplating by thesingle light of a desk-lamp aset of Rogues’ Galleryphotographs. “Well,Thumm?”criedBruno.

Thumm did not raise hiseyes.“Well—what?”“Lane! Have you heard

fromhim?”“Notaword.”“I’m worried.” Bruno

scowled.“Itwasacrazythingforyou topermit,Thumm.Itmay have tragicconsequences. Taking thosepeople’s protection awayfromthem.…”“Aw, go peddle your

habeas corpuses,” growledThumm. “What the devilhave we got to lose? Laneseems to know what he’sdoing, and we’re absolutelywithout an idea.” He flungthe photographs aside andyawned. “You know how heis—keeps hismouth shut tillhe’ssure.Lethimalone.”Bruno shook his head. “I

still think it was unwise. Ifanything should go wrong

…”“Hey, look here!” roared

Thumm. His small eyesgleamed fiercely. “Haven’t Igot enough to worry aboutwithout listening to a lot ofoldwoman’schat—?”Hebithis lip, startled. One of thetelephones on his desk wasringing insistently. Brunostiffened. Thumm snatcheduptheinstrument.“Hello,”hesaidhoarsely.

An excited buzzing.… AsThumm listened, dark bloodcongested the tiny blood-vessels of his face. Then,without a word, he bangedthe receiver down andplunged for the door. Ratherhelpless,Brunoranafter.

Scene8

THEDINING-ROOM.SUNDAY,

JUNE19.7P.M.

Itwas an afternoon inwhichMr. Drury Lane totteredabout the house, smilingfeebly and engaging variousmembersof thehousehold inconversation. Gormly hadcalled early, and for a timeLanehadconversedwithhimonmatters of no importance.Captain Trivett had whiledaway the entire afternoon in

the garden with LouisaCampion and Miss Smith.The others had wanderedabout, listless, seemingunable to concentrate on anynormalcourseofdeportment,halfafraidofeachotherstill.Itwasnotablethatnotonce

didLanesitdown.Hemovedconstantly, eyes restless anddesperately intent, following,watching.…Ataquartertoseveninthe

eveninghemanagedtosignalunseen to Dromio, hischauffeur.Dromio slipped tohis side, and they conversedin murmurs. Then Dromiodrifted out of the house. Hereturned five minutes later,grinning.Seven o’clock found Lane

sittinginthedining-roominacorner, smiling benevolently.The tablewas set for dinner,and the household were

straggling into the room inthe same weary, deadlyfashion.Itwasatthismomentthat Inspector Thumm,accompanied by DistrictAttorney Bruno and a squadof detectives, burst into thehouse.The smile faded as Lane

rose to greet Thumm andBruno.For an instant no onemoved: Louisa and MissSmith were seated at the

table; Martha Hatter and thechildren were just sittingdown;Barbarawascominginfrom the other doorway asThumm entered; Conradwasin the library next door,Thumm saw, at his usualbusiness of pouring liquordown his throat. Jill wasabsent, but Captain Trivettand John Gormly werepresent, standing at themoment behind Louisa’s

chair.Nooneutteredaworduntil

Lane murmured: “Ah,Inspector.” Then the startledlooks faded away, andindifferently they proceededtoseatthemselves.Thumm growled a

greeting. With Bruno at hisheels he strode over to Laneandnoddedgrimly.Thethreemenretreatedtoacorner.Noone paid attention to them;

those at the dinner tableunfolded napkins; Mrs.Arbuckle appeared; the maidVirginia came in staggeringunderaheavytray.…The haggard look returned

to Lane’s face. “Well,Inspector.” That was all hesaid,andforthemomenttheyweresilent.Then the Inspector

growled:“Yourman—hejustcalledme—toldme you said

youwerethrough,allwashedup.”Bruno said hoarsely:

“You’vefailed?”“Yes,” whispered Lane,

“I’ve failed. I’m giving up,gentlemen. The experiment…wasnotasuccess.”NeitherThummnorBruno

uttered a word; they merelystared at him. “I can’t doanything more,” continuedLane, his eyes fixed on

something beyond Thumm’sshoulderalmostwithpain. “Iwanted you to knowbecauseI’m returning toTheHamlet.AtthesametimeIdidn’tcareto leave before you stationedyourmen in the house again—for the protection of theHatters.…”“Well,” said Thumm

harshly, for the second time.“Soit’slickedyou,too.”“I’m afraid so. This

afternoon I had high hopes.Now …” Lane shrugged. “Iam beginning to believe,Inspector,” he added with awry smile, “that Ioverestimated my talents. IntheLongstreetcaselastyearIsupposeIwaslucky.”Bruno sighed. “No use

crying over spilt milk, Mr.Lane. After all, we haven’tdone any better. You’ve noreason to feel sobadly about

it.”Thumm wagged his head

ponderously, “Bruno’s right.Don’t take it so much toheart.You’ve thesatisfactionof knowing that you’ve gotcompany…”He stopped suddenly,

wheeling like an overgrowncat. Lane was staring atsomething behind Thumm’sback with a world of sickhorrorinhiseyes.Itoccurred

so rapidly, so unpreventably,thatbeforetheycouldreleasetheirsucked-inbreathsitwasover. The thing was purelightning,paralyzing, like thestrikeofasnake.The petrified Hatters were

seated at the table,with theirguests. The boy, Jackie,whohad been hammering on thetable demandingmore bread,had raised a glass of milkbefore him—there were

several on the table: onebefore Jackie, one beforeBilly, and one before Louisa—and drained half the glassin a greedy gulp. And theglass fell from his fingers,suddenly nerveless.Shudderingonce,ashemadeagurglingsoundinhisthroat,Jackie stiffened convulsively… and slumped in his chair,todropaninstantlaterwithathudtothefloor.

And then the paralysispassed, and they sprangforward—Thumm and Lanetogether, with Bruno behindthem. The others werestricken dumb with fear,sittingstillwithopenmouths,forks poised betweentablecloth and lips, handsoutstretched for salt.… Mrs.Hatter shrieked and fell onherkneesbesidethestilllittlefigure. “He’s poisoned! He’s

poisoned! Oh, my God—Jackie,speaktome—speaktomother!”Thumm shoved her

roughly aside, grasped theboy’s jaws, squeezedpowerfully until they cameapart, and stuck his fingerdown the boy’s throat. Aweak rattling sound …“Don’t move, any of you!”shouted Thumm. “Call thedoctor, Mosher! He’s——”

The order died on his lips.The little figure in his armsleaped upward, once, andthen relaxed quite like asodden bundle of clothes. Itwas apparent even to thedistended eyes of hismotherthattheboyhadexpired.

THESAME.8P.M.

Upstairs, in the nursery, Dr.Merriampacedthefloor—Dr.

Merriam,whofortunatelyhadreturned from his weekendtrip only an hour before thetragedy. Mrs. Hatter wepthysterically, half demented,clutchingthetremblingfigureofBilly,theyoungster,toher.Billy was crying for hisbrother—frightened, clingingto his mother. The Hattersweregroupedaroundthestifflittle figureon thebed, silentand grim and not looking at

one another. In the doorwaystooddetectives.…Downstairs in the dining-

room there were two people—Inspector Thumm andDrury Lane, his eyes filledwith pain. He lookedstartlingly ill—an illnesswhich not even his art coulddisguise. They said nothing.Lane sat limply at the table,staring at the fallen glass ofmilkfromwhichthedeadboy

had drained his last Socraticportion.Thummthunderedupand down, his face parboiledwith rage, muttering tohimself.The door opened and the

DistrictAttorneystumbledin.“Justamess,”hewassaying.“Just a mess. Just a mess.”Thummshotafuriousglanceat Lane, who did not evenlook up, but sat plucking atthe cloth. “We’ll never live

thisdown,Thumm,”groanedBruno.“The hell with that!”

snarled the Inspector. “Whatriles me is that he wants togive up now. Now. Why,man,youcan’tgiveupnow!”“Imust,”saidLanesimply.

“I must, Inspector.” He roseandstoodstifflybythetable.“I no longer have a right tointerfere. The death of theboy …” He licked his dry

lips.“No.Ishouldneverhavejoined you at all. Please letmego.”“But Mr. Lane …” began

Brunotonelessly.“ThereisnothingIcansay

now in self-justification. I’vemade the most horrible hashof things. The boy’s death ismyfault,andminealone.No…”“All right,” muttered

Thumm; the anger had left

him. “It’s your privilege toretire, Mr. Lane. If there’sany blame attached to thisthing, it will come down onme. If you want to duck outthisway,without explaining,without giving us a hint ofwhatyou’vebeenworkingon…”“But I’ve told you,” said

Lane in a dead voice. “I’vetold you. I was wrong, thatwasall.Wrong.”

“No,” said Bruno. “Youcan’tgetoffaseasilyasthat,Mr.Lane.There’s somethingdeeper going on here. WhenyouaskedThummtotakehismen away and leave a clearfield for you, you hadsomething definite in mind.…”“So I did.” Lane’s eyes

were rimmed with purple,Bruno noticed suddenly withasenseofshock.“IthoughtI

was capable of preventing afurtherattempt.IfoundIwasnot.”“All this hocus-pocus,”

growled Thumm. “You wereso damned sure the poisonbusinesswas a blind.Wasn’treallymeant.Notmuch!”Hegroaned and cupped his facein his hands. “I tell you thisthing proves it’s a wholesalebutchery. The bunch of ’em,duetobewipedout.…”

Lane bowed his headmiserably, began to saysomething, choked it back,andwent to thedoor.Hedidnoteventakehishat.Outsidehe paused for a moment,hesitating as if he desired tolook back; then, squaring hisshoulders,hewentoutof thehouse. Dromio was waitingfor him at the curb. In thesemi-darkness, a group ofreporters sprang for him. He

shook them off, stepped intohiscar,andburiedhisfaceinhis hands as the car shotaway.

EPILOGUE

“Den Bösen sind sie los,dieBösensindgeblieben.”

Twomonthspass.TheexitofMr. Drury Lane from theHatter house terminates hisconnection with the case.From The Hamlet there hasbeen silence. Neither

InspectorThummnorDistrictAttorney Bruno has madefurtherapproachtoLane.Newspapercriticismof the

police has been excoriating.A passingmention ofLane’sconnection with the case hasdied of its own anæmia offacts. At the end of twomonthstheinquiryisnomoreadvanced than before.Despite Inspector Thumm’sprediction,therehavebeenno

further developments of acriminal nature. There hasbeen,behindthecloseddoorsof officialdom, aninvestigation. And while theInspector has emerged fromthe mêlée scarred andbruised, the threat ofdemotion and disgrace hasnotmaterialized.And so the police have

been compelled to withdrawfinally,andforalltime,from

the Hatter house—outwitted,as the press sarcasticallycommented, by the clevermurderer.… It is not longafter the burial of JackieHatter that the Hatters, heldtogetherforyearsbytheironhandof theold lady, falloutand separate.… Jill Hatterdisappears, leaving Gormly,Bigelow, her latest fiancé,and a horde of maleworshippers at a loss to

account for her desertion.…Martha, summoning the lastvestigesofherself-respectina pitiful determination, hasleft Conrad and lives withfour-year-oldBillyinacheapapartment, pending asettlement.… Edgar Perry,under observation forweeks,has been released; he toodisappears,onlytobobupnotlong after as the husband ofBarbara Hatter in amarriage

that furnishes a journalisticand literaryflurrywhichdiesdownquicklyas the twoquitAmerica for England.… Nooneisleft;theHatterhouseisboarded up and offered forsale. Captain Trivett pottersabouthisgarden, lookingoldand shrunken. Dr. Merriamcontinues his quiet, tight-lippedpractice.The case slips into limbo.

Another unsolved crime

addedtothepolicerecords—one of New York’s annualscores.A single fact stands out, a

circumstance which providesthenewspaperswiththeirlastfull measure of Hatterism.Three days before themarriage of Barbara Hatterand Edgar Perry, LouisaCampion has passed away inthe middle of a siesta. TheMedical Examiner agrees

withDr.Merriamthatshehasdiedofheartfailure.

BEHINDTHESCENES

“View the whole scene,withcriticjudgmentscanAndthendenyhimmeritifyoucan.”

Mr.DruryLanewassprawledon thegrass leaningover thestone lip of a pond, feeding

breadcrumbs to his blackswans, when old Quaceyappeared in the path withInspectorThummandDistrictAttorney Bruno behind him.Both men looked sheepishand hung back. Quaceytouched Lane’s shoulder;Lane turned his head. Hesprangtohisfeetatoncewitha look of immense surprise.“Inspector! Mr. Bruno!” hecried.

“Glad to see you,”muttered Thumm, shufflingforward like a schoolboy.“Comecalling,BrunoandI.”“Er—hrrumph!—yes,”said

Bruno.They stood as if they did

not know what to do withthemselves. Lane studiedthem keenly. “You mighthelpme sit on the grass,” hesaidatlast.Hewasdressedinshorts and a turtle-neck

sweater, and his muscularbrownlegswerestainedwiththe green of the grass. Hefoldedhislegsunderhimandsank into a squat, like anIndian.Bruno shed his coat,

unbuttonedhiscollar,andsatdown with a grateful sigh.The Inspector hesitated, andthen flung himself earthwardwiththethunderofOlympus.They remained silent for a

long moment. Lane wasintent on his pond, and theamazing swoop of a longblack swan’s neck toward acrumbbobbingonthewater.“Well,” said Thumm at

last, “might’s … Hey!” Hereached forward and tappedLane’s arm; Lane looked athim. “I was talking, Mr.Lane!”“Indeed,”murmured Lane.

“Byallmeansproceed.”

“Imight aswell tell you,”said Thumm, blinking, “thatwe—thatBrunoandI, that is—we’re wanting to ask yousomething.”“IfLouisaCampiondieda

naturaldeath?”They were startled, and

looked at each other. ThenBrunoleanedforward.“Yes,”hesaideagerly.“You’vebeenreadingthenewspapers,Isee.We’re thinking of reopening

the case.… What do youthink?”Thumm said nothing; he

watched Lane from beneathhis thick brows. “I thought,”murmured Lane, “that Dr.Schilling agreed with Dr.Merriam’s verdict of heartfailure.”“Yeah,” said the Inspector

slowly. “So he did.Merriam’s always claimedthe deaf-mute had a bum

heart, anyway. His recordsbearitout,too.Butwe’renotsosure.…”“We think,” said the

DistrictAttorney, “that somepoison may have been usedwhichleavesnotrace,orelsesome form of injection thatmight have caused deathwithoutbeingsuspicious.”“But I told you gentlemen

two months ago,” repliedLane mildly, tossing another

handful of crumbs on thewater,“thatIwasthrough.”“We know,” said Bruno

hastily, before Thumm couldgrowl a retort, “butwe can’thelp feeling that you werealways in possession of factsthat——”He stopped. Lane had

turned his head aside. Thegentle smile remained fixedonhislips,buthisgray-greeneyes brooded on the swans

without seeing them. After along time he sighed andturned back to his guests.“Youwerecorrect,”hesaid.Thumm tore a fistful of

grass from the sward andhurled it at his large feet. “Iknew it!” he roared. “Bruno,whatdid I tellyou?He’sgotsomething that we can usetowarda——”“The case is solved,

Inspector,”saidLanequietly.

They both started at that,and Thumm gripped Lane’sarm so hard that Lanewinced. “Solved?” he criedhoarsely. “Who? What?When?When,forGod’ssake—inthelastweek?”“It was solved more than

twomonthsago.”For a moment they could

not find breath enough tospeak. Then Bruno gaspedaloud and went pale; and

Thumm’s upper lip trembledlikeachild’s.“Andyoumeantosay,”whisperedThummatlast, “that for two monthsyou’vekept yourmouth shutwhile themurderer’s been atlarge?”“The murderer is not at

large.”They jumped to their feet

liketwopuppetsjoinedbythesame pulleys. “You mean—?”

“Imean,” saidLane in thesaddest voice imaginable,“that the murderer is …dead.”One of the swans flapped

sable wings, and sparklingwatersplashedoverthem.“Sit down, please, both of

you,”saidLane.Theyobeyedmechanically. “In a way I’mgladyoucametoday,andinaway I’m not. I don’t at thismoment know whether I am

doingrighttotellyou.…”Thummgroaned.“No, Inspector, I’m not

tantalizingyououtofsadisticdelight in seeingyousuffer,”continued Lane somberly.“It’saveryrealproblem.”“Butwhydon’tyoutellus,

man, for the love ofHeaven?”criedBruno.“Because,”saidLane,“you

won’tbelieveme.”Abeadofsweat trickled down the

Inspector’s nose and drippedoffhismassivechin.“Itissoincredible,” continued Lanequietly, “that I wouldn’tblame either of you if, onhearing what I am about tosay, you kicked me into thepond as a posturing liar, aromancer, a lunatic asmad”—his voice shook—“asmadastheMadHatters.”“ItwasLouisaCampion,”

said the District Attorney

slowly.Lane’seyesboredintohis.

“No,”hesaid.Inspector Thumm waved

his arm at the blue sky. “Itwas York Hatter,” he saidharshly. “I knew it all thetime.”“No.” Mr. Drury Lane

sighedandturnedbacktohisswans. He tossed anotherhandful of bread into thepond before they heard his

voice again—low and clearand infinitely sorrowful.“No,” he repeated. “Itwas—Jackie.”It seemed as if all the

world stood still. The breezedied down suddenly, and theswans glided away, the onlymoving things in their sight.ThenoldQuacey,somewherefar behind them, shouted ingleeashepursuedagoldfishin theAriel fountain,and the

spellwasbroken.Lane turned back. “You

don’tbelieveme,”hesaid.Thumm cleared his throat,

tried to speak, failed, andcleareditagain.“No,”hesaidatlast.“Idon’tbelieveyou.Ican’t.…”“It’s impossible, Mr.

Lane!” cried Bruno.“Absolutemadness!”Lane sighed. “Neither of

you would be sane if you

reacted otherwise,” hemurmured.“Andyet,beforeIhave finished, I shall haveconvincedbothofyou that itwas thirteen-year-old JackieHatter—a child, a merestripling touching on thefringeof adolescence, almostaninfantassuchthingsgo—whothreetimessetpoisonforLouisa Campion, who struckMrs.Hatterovertheheadandcausedherdeath,who…”

“Jackie Hatter,” mutteredThumm.“JackieHatter,”asifby repetition of the name hecouldgarnersomesensefromtheentireaffair. “Buthow inthe name of all that’s holycould a skinny little mutt ofthirteenyearsmakeupaplotlike that and carry it off?Why, it’s—it’snuts!Nobodywouldbelieveit!”District Attorney Bruno

thoughtfully shook his head.

“Don’t fly off the handle,Thumm. You’re excited, oryou’d know at least theanswer to that one. It’s notinconceivable for a boy ofthirteen to follow the outlineof a crime all prepared forhim.”Lane nodded lightly, and

broodedatthegrass.The Inspector floundered

like a dying fish. “YorkHatter’soutline!”hecried.“I

see it all now. ByGod, yes!Thatdevilofabrat…AndIthoughtitwasYorkHatter—thathewasn’tdead—tried togetonadeadman’s trail.…”He shook with laughter thatwas made of bitterness andshame.“It could never have been

York Hatter,” said Lane,“deadoralive,for,ofcourse,there was always thepossibility that hewas alive,

identificationnothavingbeenabsolute.…No,gentlemen, itwas Jackie Hatter and fromthe beginning could onlyhavebeenJackieHatter.ShallItellyouhow—andwhy?”They nodded dumbly. Mr.

Drury Lane lay back on thegrass, folded his handsbeneath his head, andaddressed his extraordinarystorytothecloudlesssky.“I shall commence,” he

said, “at the investigation ofthe second crime—themurder of Emily Hatter.Remember, please, that Iknew no more at the outsetthan either of you. I enteredvirgin territory with nopreconceptions. What I saw,what I came to believe werepurely the result ofobservation and analysis. Letme trace for you myreasoning from the facts—

reasoning which convincedmethattheboywastheprimemover in all the events, andwhichinturnledmetoYorkHatter’stragicoutline.…“The crime from the

beginning presentedextraordinarydifficulties.Wewere faced with a murder towhichtherehadactuallybeenawitness, yet awitnesswhoon the face of it might havebeen dead for all the

assistance she promised. Adeaf-dumb-and-blind woman… one who could not hearnor see and who, tocomplicate matters further,could not speak. Yet theproblem was notinsurmountable, for she didpossess other senses whichwere alive. Taste, for one;touch, for another; and smellforathird.“Tastedidnotfigureatall;

wecouldnotexpectitto.Buttouch and smell did, and itwas chiefly on the basis ofclues derived from Louisa’shaving touched the murdererand smelled something abouthimthatIgottothetruth.“I’vealreadyprovedtoyou

that the attempted poisoningof the pear in LouisaCampion’sfruit-bowlandthemurder ofMrs.Hatter in thenext bed were the acts of a

single person. I’ve alsoproved to you in formeranalysesthatthepoisoningofLouisawasneverintendedtobe consummated, the onlypurposeof theplot being thedeath of Mrs. Hatter. Verywell. Since poisoner andmurdererwerethesame,thenwhomever Louisa touchedthat night in the darkness ofthe bedroom—the touch thatcaused her to faint—was our

quarry. You will recall thatLouisa had touched the noseand cheek of the murdererwhile she stood upright, herarmextendedexactlyparallelto the floor, shoulder high.You, Inspector,actuallywereonthetrack.”The Inspectorblinked, and

reddened.“I don’t see …” began

Brunoslowly.Lane,lyingonhisback,his

eyes on the sky, did not seethe movement of Bruno’slips. He continued quietly:“Yousaidatonce, Inspector,that the height of themurderercouldbeascertainedbyfiguringhowtallapersonwould be if his nose andcheek were touched by awitness whose own heightwas known. Splendid! Ithought then and there thatyou had got your teeth into

the salient fact, and that thetruthwouldsooncomeout,orwhatappearedtobethetruth.But Mr. Bruno voiced anobjection;he said: ‘Andhowwill you ever know that themurderer was not crouchingat the time?“—a cannyobjection, to be sure, for ifthemurdererwerecrouching,hisheightdependedupontheextent of his crouch, whichnaturally would be

indeterminable. So, withoutexamining into the factsfurther, both you and Mr.Brunodroppedthistrail.Hadyoucontinuedit—infact,hadyou merely glanced down atthe floor—you would havehadthetruthatonce,asIhadit.”Bruno frowned, and Lane

smiledsadlyashesatupandturned to face them.“Inspector,standup.”

“Eh?” said Thumm withbewilderment.“Standup,please.”Thumm obeyed

wonderingly.“Now,getonyourtiptoes.”Awkwardly Thumm’s

heels left the grass, and heswayedonthetipsofhistoes.“Now, still standing on

tiptoe, crouch—and try towalk.”The Inspector bent at the

knees clumsily, heels off theearth,andattemptedtofollowdirections. He succeededmerelyinwaddlingtwostepsand then lost his balance.Bruno chuckled—he lookedlikeanovergrownduck.Lane smiled again. “And

what does your attemptprove,Inspector?”Thumm bit off a blade of

grass and scowled at Bruno.“Stop laughing, you hyena!”

he growled. “Proves that it’sdamned hard to tiptoe in acrouchingposition.”“Very good!” said Lane

crisply. “It is physicallypossible, of course, but wecan certainly discard thepossibility of a crouchingwalk on tiptoes when amurderer is leaving theimmediatesceneofhiscrime.Tiptoes, yes; but not tiptoesand a crouch. It is awkward,

unnatural for a humanbeing,and serves no purpose; infact,retardsspeed.…Inotherwords, if themurderer at themoment Louisa Campiontouched him was tiptoeingfrom the room, we coulddiscardatoncethepossibilitythathewasalsocrouching.“The floor told a plain

story. The footprints in thescattered talcumpowder,youwill recall, were only

toemarks from thebed to thespot where Louisa touchedthe murderer—the spot, bytheway,where themurdererchanged direction and ranfrom the room, all thesubsequent footprintsrevealing not only toemarksbut heelmarks as well, andmuch more widely spaced…”“Toe marks,” muttered

Bruno. “Is it possible? But

thenI’madubatthesethings.I can’t remember thingsphotographically. Were theytoemarks…?”“They were toemarks all

right,” growled Thumm.“Shutup,Bruno.”“Here,” continued Lane

calmly, “where there wereonly toemarks, therewas theadded fact that each toemarkwas only about four inchesfrom the next one. Only one

possible explanation—themurderer after turning fromthebedat thepointwherehehad bashed Mrs. Hatter’shead,wasleavingonhistoesno heelmarks.Was tiptoeing,further, because thesuccessive marks were onlyfour inches apart, the normaldistance between steps whiletiptoeing in a restricted area.… Then when LouisaCampion touched the

murderer, he was standingerect—no crouch, remember—andonhistiptoes!“But now,” said Lane

rapidly, “wehave a basis onwhich to compute themurderer’s height. Let medigress for a moment. Wecould see, of course, thatLouisa Campion was of acertainheight.At the timeofthe will-reading, when theentirefamilyweretogether,it

wasalsoapparentthatLouisaandMarthaHatterwere bothof the same height and,moreover, that theywere theshortest adults in thehousehold. The height ofLouisa I later establishedexactly when I visited Dr.Merriam and consulted hercasecardinhisfiles:shewasfivefeetfourinchesinheight.But I myself did not requirethat exactheight; I could see

and approximate her heightwhile she was telling herstory.Iestimatedhowtallshewas at that time—as againstmy own height—andmade arapid calculation. Nowfollow,please,closely.”Theywatchedhimintently.“Howfarfromthetopofa

person’sheadisthetopofhisshoulder?Eh,Mr.Bruno?”“Er—I haven’t any idea,”

saidBruno. “Idon’t seehow

you can say exactly,anyhow.”“But you can,” smiled

Lane. “The measurementsvary from individual toindividual, and of coursediffer as between men andwomen. I happen to knowvicariously; it is an item ofinformationIpickedupfromQuacey, who knows moreabout the physicalcomposition of the human

head than anyone I’ve evermet.… The distance amongwomen from top of head totop of shoulders is betweennineandeleven inches—let’ssay ten inches for allwomenofaverageheight,asyoucanverify by looking at anynormal woman andestimatingevenwith theeye.Very well, then! The tips ofLouisa’s fingers touching thecheek at a level with the

murderer’s nose told onething at once—that themurderer was shorter thanLouisa. For were he of thesameheightasshe,shewouldhave touched him at the topof his shoulder. Since shetouched his nose and cheek,however, he must have beenshorterthanshe.“CouldIgetthemurderer’s

height more exactly? Yes.Louisawasfivefeetfour—64

inchestall.Thedistancefromher outstretched arm to thefloor being ten inches lessthan her full height, then themurderer’s cheek whereLouisatoucheditwasalsoteninches less than her fullheight,or54 inches from thefloor.Ifthemurderer’scheeknear thenosewere54 inchesfrom the floor, we merelyhave to estimate theproportionate distance from

themurderer’snosetothetopof his head to get hiscomplete height. In the caseof a person shorter thanLouisa, roughly six inches.Total height of murderer,then, about 60 inches, or aflat five feet tall. But themurderer was standing ontiptoes, so to get his realheight you must subtract thedistance a person rises instandingontiptoe.Ithinkyou

willfindthistobeaboutthreeinches. In other words, ourmurderer was roughly fourfeetnineinchestall!”Bruno and Thumm looked

dazed. “My God,” groanedThumm, “do we have to bemathematicians,too?”Lane proceeded evenly.

“Another way of computingthe murderer’s height: HadthemurdererandLouisabeenthe same height, as I said a

momentago,shewouldhavetouched him shoulder-high,since her arm was rigidlyoutstretched shoulder-high.But she touched him at thenose and cheek. This meansthat his height equals herheight minus the distancebetween his shoulder andnose. About four inchesnormally. Add three inchesfor being on the tips of histoes—seven in all. Then the

murderer is seven inchesshorter than Louisa, I said,who is five feet four. Thatmadethemurdereraboutfourfeet nine—a definiteconfirmation of my originalcalculations.”“Whew!” said Bruno.

“That’s going some. Gettingsuch exact figures from aseries of estimations by theeye!”Laneshrugged.“Youmake

it sound difficult, and nodoubt my figures sounddifficult, too. Yet it wasridiculouslysimple.…Letmegive my argument leeway.Suppose Louisa’s arm whenextended was not exactlyparallel to the floor—was alittlelowerthanhershoulder,ora littlehigher.Itcouldnotbe much either way,remember, for she is a blindperson whose most

accustomed gesture is thestiffly extended arm whenwalking; butwe’ll allow twoinches higher or lower,certainly a liberal concessionto the facts. That makes ourmurderer between four-sevenand four-eleven. Still a verysmall person.… You mayfurther object—I see thebattle kindling in theInspector’s eye—that myestimationsofdistances from

the nose to the top of thehead, or to the shoulder, aretooexact.Theseyoucan testforyourself.But inanycase,the very fact that Louisatouched the murderer’s nosewhen he stood on tiptoeshowed that he wasconsiderably shorter than she—which in itselfwouldhavebeensufficientformetohavesaid:ItmusthavebeenJackieHattershetouched.”

Hestopped forbreath, andThummsighed. It all seemedso simple when Laneexplainedit.“Why Jackie Hatter?”

continued Lane after amoment. “An elementaryexplanation enough. SinceLouisa and Martha were theshortest adults in the family—she and Martha havingbeenalsoof the samestature—aswasapparentwhenthey

were all assembled togetherduringthereadingofthewill,thentheoneshetouchedwasno adult in the family. Allother adults in the householdareexcludedtoo:EdgarPerryistall,Mr.andMrs.Arbuckleare tall, and so is Virginia.Outsiders,ifthiswasacrimecommittedbysomeonenotofthehousehold?Well,CaptainTrivett, John Gormly, Dr.Merriam—all tall. Chester

Bigelowisofmediumheight,butmediumheightforamaniscertainlynotseveralinchesless than five feet! Themurderercouldnothavebeenarankoutsider,becausefromthe other elements of thecrimes the murderer provedhimself to be on terms offamiliaritywiththehouse,theeating habits of its varioustenants, topography, etcetera.”

“I get it, I get it,” said theInspector glumly. “Rightunderournosesallthetime.”“For once I must agree

with you,” said Lane with achuckle. “Then the murderercould only have been JackieHatter, who my eye told mewas just about theheightmyfigures indicated—and thiswas confirmed withexactitude when I read hiscase card at Dr. Merriam’s

and discovered that he wasfour feet eight inches tall—Iwasoutoneinch,thatwasall.…Naturally,itcouldn’thavebeen little Billy, his brother,aside from the palpableabsurdity of the thought,because he is a tot, less thanthree feet tall.Anotherpoint:Louisasaidshefeltasmoothsoft cheek. One thinks of awoman at once in thisconnection—as you did. But

a boy of thirteen has asmoothsoftcheek,too.”“I’ll be damned,” said the

Inspector.“So, standing there in the

bedroom learning Louisa’stestimony, seeing her gothroughtheexperienceofthenight before—rapidcomputation—and there Iwas.JackieHatter,itseemed,was the prowler of theprevious night, who had

poisoned the pear intendedforhisauntandhadstruckhisgrandmother over the head,causingherdeath.”Lanestoppedforamoment

tosighandregardhisswans.“Letme sayatonce that thisseemed so absurd aconclusion that I discarded itimmediately. That child theconcoctor of an intricate plotrequiring adult intelligence—and a murderer to boot?

Ridiculous! I had preciselythesamereactionthenasyouhadamomentago,Inspector;I laughed at myself. It wasimpossible. I must be wrongsomewhere,orelsetherewasan adult in the backgroundwhowasdirectingthechild.Ieven thought of an adult,whom I had never seen,lurking in the background—someone almost a midget—four feet eight or nine. But

this was silly. I didn’t knowwhattothink.“Ikeptmyowncounsel,of

course. It would have beenfolly at the moment to havedisclosed the result of mycalculations to you. HowcouldIexpectyou tobelievewhen I myself did notbelieve?”“I’m beginning to see—a

lot of things,” mutteredBruno.

“Indeed?”murmuredLane.“Idon’t thinkyouseehalf—onequarter—Mr.Bruno,withall respect for yourperspicacity.… Whathappened? Louisa Campionclaimed she smelled vanillaon the murderer. Vanilla! Isaid to myself; notincompatible with a child. Itried all the vanillainterpretations I could thinkof—candy,cake,flowers,and

the rest, as you know. Noprogress.Isearchedthehousealone for a possibleconnection, a clue. Stillnothing. So ultimately Idiscarded the child theory inconnection with vanilla andthought of vanilla as achemical.“I discovered from Dr.

Ingalls thatacertainbaseforsalves used in various skindisorders,BalsamPeru,hasa

distinct vanilla odor. FromDr.MerriamIdiscoveredthatYork Hatter had had a skindisorderonhisarmsandhadactuallyusedBalsamPeruasa healing agent. In thelaboratoryIfoundarecordofa jar of this balsam…YorkHatter! A dead man. Was itpossiblehewasnotdead?”“That’swhere Iwent off,”

saidThummgloomily.Lane paid no attention.

“Yes, it was possible.Identification had not beenabsolute. It was merelysupposedthatitwashisbodywhichhadbeenpickedup.…But—how about height?Your original account tome,Inspector, of the finding ofthe body did not mention itsheight; even if it were notYork Hatter’s body and hewereplanningadeception,hewould have picked a corpse

abouthisownstature,sothatthe height of the corpsewouldhavehelpedme.But Idid know York Hatter’sheightfromhisrecordcardatMerriam’s. It was five feetfive inches. So it couldn’thavebeenYorkHatterLouisatouched—themurdererwasagood deal shorter thanLouisa,attheveryleastunderfivefeet.…“Then why that vanilla

scent? The Balsam Perulogicallymust have been thesource of the vanilla odorduring the murder night; itwasachemical, itwas in thelaboratory where themurderer selected hispoisons, it was accessible onthe shelves, and I had foundtraces of no other source ofthevanillaodor.…Therefore,despite the fact that I feltHatter could not have been

responsible for the BalsamPeruodoron thenightof themurder, I followed the trailhoping to uncover a reasonwhy the balsam should havebeen used by someone else.The only reason I couldascribe to its use on themurder night was that themurderer deliberately left thetrail hoping the policewouldfindout thatYorkHatterhadusedBalsamPeruinthepast.

But this too seemed silly—York Hatter was dead. Orwashe?Theissueatthattimewasquiteconfused.”Lane sighed. “The next

stopwas the laboratory.Yourecall the disposition of thebottles and jars on theshelves? There were fiveshelves, each divided intothree compartments, eachcompartment containingtwenty receptacles, each

receptaclenumberedinorder;Number One starting at theleftsideofthetopmostshelf,firstcompartment.Yourecall,Inspector, that I pointed outthestrychninebottle,Number9, as being almost in thecenter of the first section ofthe top shelf. And we foundthe prussic acid in BottleNumber 57, also on the topshelf, but in the third, orright-hand, partition. Had I

notbeenpresent,andhadyoudescribedthistome,Ishouldhaveknown that theorderofthecontainersranfromlefttoright across the entire shelf,from first compartment tosecondtothird.ForNumbers9 and 57 could not possiblybe where they were unlessthis were the rotation.… Sofar,sogood.“Balsam Peru, by index,

was in Jar Number 30—the

jarwasmissing after the fireandexplosion,butIcouldtellexactly where it had beenstanding frommyknowledgeof the order of containers.Sincetwentycontainersfilledone compartment, and therewere no blank spaces,Number 30 must have stoodvirtuallyindeadcenterofthetopmostmiddleshelf.…IhaddiscoveredthatMarthaHatterwas the only member of the

household besides Yorkhimself who knew that theman suffered from a skinailment. I called her and sheconfirmed this: yes, she hadknown he used a salve—shedidn’t recall the name—butshe knew it smelled vanilla.When I asked her where thejar habitually stood—I hadplaced dummy bottles andjars in the centralcompartment of the top shelf

—she walked over to themiddlecompartmentandtookdown the jar which wasstanding where Number 30,the Balsam Peru, must havestood.… But then Idiscovered somethingimportant—something whichhad nothing to do with thenatureoftheodoratall!”“What was that?”

demanded Inspector Thumm.“Iwasthere,andIdidn’tsee

anythingremarkablehappen.”“No?” smiled Lane. “But

then you hadn’t myadvantages, Inspector. Forhow did Martha Hatter takedownthejar?Bystandingontiptoe;shebarelyreachedthecontainer. What did thatmean? Simply that MarthaHatter, who was one of thetwo shortest adults in thehousehold,had tostretchandstand on her toes in order to

reach a jar on the top shelf.Butthepointwas—shecouldreach the top shelf whilestandingonthefloor!”“Butwhat’ssoilluminating

about that, Mr. Lane?”frownedBruno.“You shall see.” Lane’s

teeth flashed. “Do you recallthat in our preliminaryinvestigationofthelaboratory—before the fire—wediscovered two smudges on

the edge of the shelving?Both were oval—obviouslysmudges left by fingertips.The first of themwas on theedge of the second shelfdirectlyunderBottleNumber69, the other on the edge ofthe second shelf directlyunderBottleNumber90.Thesmudges furthermore did notextendtheentiredepthoftheedge,butonlyhalfwayuptheedge. Now neither Bottle

Number 90 nor BottleNumber 69 had anyconnectionwiththecase—thefirstcontainedsulphuricacid,the second nitric acid. Butthere was anothersignificancetothelocationofthe smudges—Number 69,just above the first smudge,was directly under BottleNumber9,oneshelfbelowinotherwords;andNumber90,just above the second

smudge, was directly underJar Number 30—again oneshelf below. And bothNumber 9 and Number 30had figured in the case—9containing the strychnine,which was used in the firstpoisoning attempt, inLouisa’s eggnog; 30containing Balsam Peru,whoseodorthemurdererhadgiven off the night of Mrs.Hatter’sdeath.Thiscouldnot

have been a merecoincidence, obviously.…Somy mind leaped to anothercircumstance at once. Thethree-legged stool, which byevidence of the threedustmarks stood normallybetweenthework-tables,wasactually found beneath themiddle sections of the shelf.Andthestoolshowedsignsofdisturbance—scratches anduneven dust smudges on its

top. Certainly mere sittingcould not have caused suchan uneven dust effect, forsittingwould have left eithera smooth impression orwouldhavewipedoffmostofthe dust altogether. It couldnot cause scratches.… Nowthis stool, out of place,remember,wasdirectlyunderContainers 30 and 90 in themiddle section of theshelving.What could all this

mean? Why had the stoolbeen used? If not for sitting,then forwhat?Obviously forstanding, which wouldexplainboththenatureofthescratchesandtheunevendustsmudges. But why standing?Andthenthestorywasplain.“The finger smudges on

the edge of the second shelfindicated that someone hadtried to reach ContainersNumber9and30ontheshelf

abovebuthadbeenunableto,the tips of the fingersreaching only to the edge ofthe second shelf. To get thebottles this person had tostand on something, andtherefore used the stool.Presumably, of course, thislatter attemptwas successful,for we know the containerswere used. Where did thistake me? To this point: Ifsomeone had left a

fingermarkjustbelowBottlesNumber 69 and 90, then thedistance from the shelf onwhich the smudges were tothe floor must represent thisperson’s height—not his realheight, of course, but theheightofhisstretch,orreach.For if you try to getsomething which is justbeyond your reach, youstretch to your full height,standing on your toes

automatically, and extendyour arm to its greatestverticalreach.”“I see,” said the District

Attorneyslowly.“Yes. For Martha Hatter

had been able, standing notonthestool,butonthefloor,to take a jar from the topshelf! This meant that everyadult in the case could havereached the Balsam of Peruonthetopshelfwithoutusing

the stool, while standing onthe floor, since Martha andLouisa were the shortestadults in the case. So theperson who left thefingermarks on the edge ofthesecondshelfandwhothenstoodonthestooltoreachthecontainers was that muchshorter thanMartha,andalsowas not an adult.… Howmuch shorter? It was simpleto compute. I borrowed your

ruler, Inspector, andmeasured the distancebetween the shelves,discovering that from the topshelftotheshelfbelowwherethe smudges were wasexactly six inches. I alsomeasured the depth of theshelfboard itself; it was oneinch deep. Approximately,then, the smudge-maker wassix inchesplusone inchplusan added inch (for Martha

reached an inch up the frontof the jar)—which is to say,about eight inches shorterthan Martha. But sinceMartha is the sameheight asLouisa, and Louisa is fivefeet four, then the smudge-maker was about four feeteight inches tall! Aremarkable and conclusiveconfirmation of my originaldeduction—again the trail ofa fifty-six-inch murderer.

Jackieoncemore!”There was a little silence.

“Ican’tgetoverit,”mutteredtheInspector.“Ijustcan’t.”“I scarcely blame you,”

repliedLanegravely.“Igrewgloomier than before—damning confirmation of atheory I could not bringmyself to believe. But thiswas too much. I could nolonger shut my eyes to thetruth. Jackie Hatter was not

only the person who hadpoisoned the pear and hitMrs.Hatteroverthehead,buthewasalso theonewhohadtaken the strychnine for theegg-nog poisoning and hadreachedfor thejarofBalsamPeru … all attributes of themurderer.”Lane paused and drew a

deep breath. “I took stock. Ihad no doubt now that, madas it seemed, thirteen-year-

old Jackie was our activecriminal. Fantastic, butunquestionable! Yet his plotwas a complicated one—in away clever, and undeniablymatureand intelligent. Itwasabsolutely inconceivable thatthis child of thirteen hadthought it out himself, nomatter how precocious. SothismuchIcouldsaywithoutfurther ado: There could beonly two possible

explanations.Onewasthathewasmerely the instrumentofanadultintelligencewhohadworked out the plot andsomehow got the child tocarry it through.… But thiswas patently wrong. Wouldanadultuseashistoolachild—the most undependable ofcreatures? Possible but notlikely—the adult would runthe enormous risk of thechild’s either disclosing his

secret out of a juvenile lackof values or from sheermischief and bravado; or thechild would crack under thefirst pressure of officialinterrogation and spill thewholestory.Ofcourse,itwaspossible that the child wasbeingkeptsilentbythreatsofpersonal violence. But thisdid not seem likely either;children are transparent, andJackie’s behavior throughout

wasnot that of a child beingdrivenbyfear.”“Noargument frommeon

that point,” grunted theInspector.“No,” smiledLane. “Now,

even granting that an adultmighthavemade theboyhistool, there were certainglaring inconsistencies in theexecutionoftheplottowhichan adult would never havesubscribed—which an adult

would never have permittedto occur—which were, as Ishall point out in a moment,all indicativeofachild-mindratherthanamaturemind.Onthe basis of theseinconsistencies I discardedthe theory that an adult wasdirecting Jackie’s activities.Yet I could not but believethat the plot in its inceptionhad been the product of anadult mind. So I was faced

withthisproblem:Howcouldan adult have conceived theplotandachildcarrieditout—andyetwithnocomplicitybetween them? There wasonly one possible answer—myalternative—thatthechildwas following a written planwhichhadbeencreatedbyanadult,andthattheadultknewnothing of the child’sfollowing of the plan(otherwise he would have

revealedtheplantothepoliceatonce).”“So that’s how you got to

the outline,” said theDistrictAttorneythoughtfully.“Yes.IfeltnowthatIwas

on the right track.Was thereany indication of the adultcreator of the plot? Yes. Forone thing, the free andintelligent use of poisonscertainly pointed to thechemist of the cast, York

Hatter. For another, BarbaraHatter had in her originaltestimonymentioned that herfather haddabbled in fiction.This came back to me withforce.Fiction!Andthentherewas the Balsam Peru, whichhadbeenusedexclusivelybyYork Hatter.… The signspointed to him, dead oralive.”Lane sighed, and stretched

his arms. “You remember at

one point I said I had twoleads to follow, Inspector—andyouweresoamazed?Thefirst was the vanilla odor,which I’ve described; thesecond was my visit toBarbaraHatteron the trailofthe adult plotter. I waspleasedtolearnfromherthatmy surmise that he had beenworking on a detective storywas correct. For fictiondealing with crime is

detective fiction, and I knewit must be that. She knewnothing more, except thatHatter had said he wasoutlining it. An outline thenwas possibly in existence! Iwas convinced that YorkHatter, having at the veryleast outlined a murder plotwith fictive intent hadinadvertently after his deathfurnished young Jackie withthe blueprint instructions for

areal-lifecrime.“Jackie was following the

outline.Had he destroyed it?Probably not; childpsychologywould dictate hishiding rather than destroyingit. At least it was worthlooking for. If hehadhiddenit, where could it be?Somewhere in the house, ofcourse. Yet the house hadbeensearchedpreviouslyandnothingofthesortuncovered.

Besides, I felt sure that athirteen-year-old boy—in thepirate, cow-boy-and-Indian,blood-and-thunder, Nick-Carter age—would choose avery romantic hiding placefor the outline. I had alreadydiscovered the boy’s methodof entry to the laboratory—the chimney and fireplaces.Onthechancethatthishighlyromantic method of ingresshad dictated an equally

romantic hiding-place for theoutline,andsinceitseemedalikely place, I searched theinterior of the chimney andfireplaces and found abovethe dividing brick wall aloose brick, behind whichwas the outline. This wasreasonable on another count,also; Jackiewould be certainno one else knew of thisfantastically appealingmethod of communication

between the two rooms, andhidingtheoutlinetherewouldassure him that it would notbediscoveredbyanyone.“As far as the chimney is

concerned, undoubtedly thechild—mischievous,perverse, disobedient—inprowlingaboutthehousehaddeliberately tried to gainentrancetothelaboratoryjustbecause he was forbidden togo there by his Gorgonish

grandmother. As childrenwill, amazing sometimes, hemust have ferreted in thefireplace on the bedroomside, seen that the wall didnot extend all the way up,clamberedup,andinthiswayfound that he could get intothelaboratorywithouthavingtousethedoor.Thenhemusthave prowled about; and inthe filing cabinet, in the onecompartment we found

empty, I suppose, hediscovered the manuscriptwhereHatterhadputitbeforecommitting suicide. Sometime after, probablywhen hemadeuphismindtobringthefiction crime to life, heloosened the brick in thechimney—perhaps one wasalready loose and he merelytook advantage of it as ahiding-place.… Anotherthing:Remember thathehad

a long time between thediscovery of the outline andthe first poisoning to mullover that fascinating murderplot, spelling out the hardwords, getting the drift of it,no doubt not understandinghalf of it, but graspingenoughtorealizewhat todo.Remember, then, that thisdiscovery of the outline wasmade before the firstpoisoning attempt but after

thedeathofYorkHatter.”“Just a kid,” muttered the

Inspector. “And all that …”Heshookhishead. “I—Hell,Idon’tknowwhattosay.”“Togetbacktotheoutline

itself,” continued Lane,unsmiling now. “I could nottake itawaywhenI found it;Jackiewould discover it wasgone, and it suited mypurposetohavehimthinkhewasgloriouslysuccessfulasa

plotter. So I copied it on thespot and replaced it. I foundalso a vial full of a whiteliquidIwassurewaspoison,and substitutedmilk for it tobe on the safe side—and foranother reasonwhichwill beapparent when you read themanuscript itself.”Therewasan old jacket lying on thegrass nearby, and Lanereached for it. “I’ve beencarrying it with me for

weeks,” he said quietly. “Anamazing document. SupposeyougentlemenreaditbeforeIcontinue.”He produced from one of

the jacket pockets the pencilcopyofYorkHatter’soutline,and handed it to Bruno. Thetwo visitors read it together,avidly.Lanewaitedinsilenceuntil they finished. Dawningintelligencewasonbothfacesas theyhanded it back in the

samesilence.“I said a moment ago,”

Lane went on when he hadput the copy carefully away,“that there were certainglaring and childishinconsistencies in theexecution of an otherwisematurely planned plot. I’lldiscussthemastheycameupduringtheinvestigation.“First, the poisoned pear.

Forget for the moment that

the intention was not to killLouisa.At least the poisonerwasgoingtopoisonthepear,no matter what his motive.Now we found thehypodermicusedtoinjectthepoisonintheroomitself.Thepear,weknew,wasnotintheroom to begin with: it hadbeen brought in by thepoisoner. In otherwords, thepoisoner brought in anunpoisoned pear and

proceeded topoison iton thescene of his crime. Howridiculous! In fact, howchildish!Wouldanadulthavedone this? A crimepresupposes haste, thepossibility of discovery orinterruption. An adultintending to poison the pearwouldhavepoisoneditontheoutside before coming intothe room where he meant toleave it, so that there would

be no necessity of standingand jabbing the needle intothe piece of fruit at a timewhen every second wasprecious,whendiscoverywasimminentatanymoment.“True, if themurderer had

left the hypodermic in theroompurposely,thenIwouldnot be able to conclude thatthereasonitwasbroughtwasto poison the pear in theroom, for then I should not

know whether the pear hadbeen poisoned inside theroomorout.Butsupposeforthe moment I discuss thetheory that the hypo wasbroughttobeleftintheroompurposely. Why? Only onereasonable possibility: tobringattentiontothefactthatthe pear was poisoned. Butthis was unnecessary; themurder of Mrs. Hatter,proved to be a premeditated

crime, not an accident, andespecially since it followedaprevious attempt, wouldcause the discovery that thepear was poisoned, for thepolicewouldlookforsignsofpoisoning—as, in fact,Inspector Thumm began todo. Then the probabilitiespointed to the hypodermic’shaving been left by accident,and this meant that the onlypossible reason for bringing

thehypodermicintotheroomat all was to use it inpoisoning the pear in thatroom.… And this wasconfirmed when I read theoutline.”He took the outline from

the jacket pocket again andunfolded it. “Exactly whatdoes theoutline say? It says:‘The idea this time is topoison a pear and put it in afruitbowl,’ and so on. Then

lateritsays:‘Y…bringsintoroom a squashy pear, whichis poisoned by jabbing pearwith hypodermic,’ et cetera.Toachild’smind,”continuedLane, tossing the sheets onthe grass, “the outline wasambiguous, did notspecifically statewhether thepear should be poisonedbefore coming into the roomor after. Also it did notspecify leaving the

hypodermic in the room.Hatter took for granted, asanyadultwould,thatthepearwould be poisoned before itwas brought to the scene ofthe crime. Therefore,whoever interpreted theoutline’s instructionsinterpreted them literally,poisoning the pear in thedeath-room.… I saw at oncethat this was a sign of thejuvenile mind. In other

words, thesituationhadbeenconceived by an adult butexecuted by a child—theexecution showing how thejuvenilemind operatedwhenthere were no specificorders.”“Damned if it isn’t true,”

mutteredtheInspector.“Second inconsistency.

Yourecallthatthedustofthefloor in the laboratory hadmany footprints, none of

themwholeorclear?Nowthedust could not have hadanything to do with Hatter’soriginal plot. Obviously—since in that plot he himselfwould be living in thelaboratoryandtherewouldn’tbe any dust at all. So thefootmarks and anything elsewe derived from studyingthem applied to real-lifeevents exclusively. We sawevidencesthat theuserof the

laboratory had scuffed awaythe outlines of all clearfootprints—ingenious, in away,foraboy.Yettherewasnotasinglefootprint,scuffedor unscuffed, near the onlydoor of the room! Now, anadult would not haveneglected to leave traces offootprints near the door,because the real method ofentry was through thechimney,and thatwasmeant

tobekepta secret.Footstepsnear the door would havemade the police believe theintruder had entered throughthe door, probably with aduplicate key. The lack offootprints near the doorpositively invited aninvestigationof the fireplace.Again,asIsay,thesignofanimmature mind, overlookinga most obvious loophole inhis actions—a loophole

which, since he did think ofscuffingoutthefootprints,anadult would certainly nothaveleftopen.”“And that, too,” said

Thumm hoarsely. “God, I’mdumb!”“Third inconsistency, and

perhaps the most interestingof all.” Lane’s eyes sparkledmomentarily.“Youwerebothbaffled—as I was—by theincredible weapon which

killed Mrs. Hatter. Of allthings, a mandolin! Why?Frankly, until I read theoutline I hadn’t the faintestidea why Jackie should haveselected the mandolin as hisweapon. I naturally assumedthatwhomever’s plot hewasfollowing, the mandolin wasspecified for some peculiarreason. I evenconsidered thepossibility that it was usedmerelytoimplicateitsowner,

York. But that didn’t makesense,either.”He picked up the outline

again. “Consult the outline.Whatdoesitsay?Notawordaboutamandolin!Itsaysjustthis: ‘Hits Emily over headwithbluntinstrument.’”Thumm’s eyes widened,

andLane nodded. “I see youget the inference. Perfectindication of a childishinterpretation. Ask the first

thirteen-year-old child youmeet what is meant by a‘blunt’ instrument. Thechancesareathousandtooneagainst his knowing. Notanother word in the outlinereferstothisbluntinstrumentof murder, York Hatterhaving put the phrase downautomatically, knowing whatany adult would know—ablunt instrument is a dullheavy weapon of some sort.

Jackie reads it, and it ismeaninglesstohim.Hehastosecure some outlandish thingcalled a ‘blunt instrument’andhithishatedgrandmotherover the head with it. Howdoes a child’s mind work?Instrument—it means onlyone thing to a child:musicalinstrument. Blunt—well, helet it go at that; perhaps hadneverheardtheword,orifhehad, he didn’t know what it

meant. Or he may havelooked it up in a dictionaryand discovered that it wassomethingbroad,notpointed;dull rather than sharp. Hemustatoncehave thoughtofthe mandolin—the only‘instrument’ in the house, asBarbara Hatter said, havingbelonged besides to YorkHatter, the criminal of theplot! Thiswas positive proofofachild;onlyanadultidiot

would have construed ‘bluntinstrument’thatway.”“Amazing, amazing,” was

allBrunocouldfindtosay.“In a generalway, I knew

that Jackie had found themanuscript in the laboratoryandwas following it step forstep to commit a real crime.Now consider the outlineitself: it specifically statesthatYorkHatter himself—ofcourse, Hatter meant the

character in his fiction storywho represented himself—thatYorkHatterwasmeanttobe themurderer. Suppose anadult found the outline andconceived the plan offollowing it in the executionofarealcrime.HereadsthatYork is to be the criminal inthe story. But York is dead.Wouldn’t an adult thereforediscardanypartofthewrittenplot which leaves a trail to

York? Naturally. Yet whatdidourmurdererdo?Heusedthe business of the BalsamPeru,whichwastoleadbacktoYorkHatter as the outlinestated.YorkHatter’suseofitwasclever: itwashis‘smell’clue to lead back to thestory’smurderer, the clue bywhich he himself would becaught at the end of the tale.In real life, however, withHatter dead, utilizing the

vanilla odor to lead back toYork Hatter is infantile.…Again what do we find? Amind blindly followingprinted instructions—animmatureintelligence.“Afourthinconsistency,or

isitafifth?InHatter’sstory,itisallrightforhimtobethecriminal and to plant a cluewhich leads back to himself—the vanilla odor. In hisstory that is a real clue. But

the clue of the shoes—Conrad’s shoes—is a falseclue,meanttobeafalseclue;as if the murderer weredeliberately implicatingConrad to lead thepoliceofftherighttrail.“The situation changes,

however,whenitisnolongera story, but real life—someonefollowingthefictionplotasamodelforagenuinecrime.Theclueofthevanilla

leading to York in this casebecomes a false clue also!Because York is dead, not afactor in the plot now at all.Thenwhyusetwofalsecluesleading to two differentpeople, as the murderer did?Any adult in Jackie’s placewouldhavechosen the shoesofConradashisproper falsetrailanddiscardedthevanillasmellleadingtothedeadman—atleast,wouldhavechosen

one of the two, not bothindiscriminately. If he hadchosen the shoes, he wouldnothave felt thenecessityofwearing them, too, as Jackiedid.Itwasenoughtosplatterpoisonononeofthetoecaps,then leave the shoes inConrad’s closet. But againJackie, not being able toapplymatureinterpretationtothe implied and specifiedinstructions, actually wears

the shoes when the outlinedidn’t mean to have themworn at all.… The upsettingof the powder, not beingcalledforbytheoutline,wassheer accident, proving thatthe shoes were not meant tobe worn for the purpose ofleaving footprints—the onlypossible excuse for wearingthem.… All indications of amurderer without a sense ofvalues,whenconfrontedbya

situationwhich requires onlyordinary adult intelligence.Again,as Isay, theearmarksofachild.“And finally, the business

of the fire. Iwas puzzled bythe fire before I read theoutline. Incidentally, too,beforeIreadtheoutlinemanythings puzzledme, because Iwastryingtofindreasonsforeverything, and there werenone! things having been

done blindly.… In theoutline, the purpose of thefire is stated: to make itappear that York Hatter wasbeing attacked by someoutsider, and was thereforeinnocent. But with Hatterdead, the fire incidentcentering about his privateroom became purposeless,and any adult would eitherhave discarded it entirely, oradapted it to his own use—

that is, begun a fire in hisown room or centered it insome way about himself.Probablyanadultwouldhavediscarded it, because even inYork’s fiction story it is apoordevice;notaparticularlyclever detective-storyelement.“Whathavewe, then?The

outline of a fiction crimebeing followed with stupidblindness to the last detail—

the follower showing byevery action that calls fororiginal or selective thinkingthat he is immature, a child.These things confirmed mybelief that Jackie was themurderer, and will convinceyou, as they convinced me,that Jackie understood notonesubtletyof theoutlinehewas following so faithfully;that the only things hegrasped were the clearly

specified statements of whatwas to be done. The reasonsfor them he did notunderstand. The only mentalhiatus his brain made wasthis: he saw by the outlinethat York was the criminal.HeknewYorkwasdead.Hegot the ideaofhimself beingYork, or the criminal. SowherevertheoutlinesaidthatYork, or Y, had to dosomething, Jackie placed

himself in York’s positionanddidit.Evento theextentof following thoseinstructions which York inhis outline intendeddeliberatelytobetheundoingofhimself, thecriminal!Andwherever Jackie didsomethingonhisown,orhadto interpret something thatwasnot specifically clear, hereacted characteristically anddid the childish thing, giving

himselfaway.”“That damned first

poisoning attempt,” saidThumm, clearing his throat.“Ican’tsee…”“Patience, Inspector. Iwas

just coming to it.Wehadnoway of knowing at that timewhether the attempt wasmeant to be consummated ornot.Whenwe reasoned afterthemurder,however,thatthesecondpoisoningattemptwas

not meant to beconsummated, it was fair toassume that the first had notbeen, either. Before I knewthat the plot was York’s, atthetimewhenIfeltJackietobe the criminal, I said tomyself: ‘It was Jackie who,seemingly by accident,forestalled the poisoningattempt in the egg-nogincident.Isitpossiblethathisdrinkingofthepoisonedegg-

nogwas not an accident, butdone deliberately? If so,why?’ Well, if the secondattempt was not meant, andthe first attempt was notmeant, how would themurderer plan to forestallLouisa’s takingevena sipofthe egg-nog, and yet at thesame time bring to light thefact that the egg-nog waspoisoned? After all, merelydosing the drink and spilling

it as if by accident, forexample,wouldnotbringoutthe fact that it had beenpoisoned; the appearance ofthepuppycouldn’thavebeenanythingbutanaccident.So,ifLouisawasnot todrink it,andyetitmustbeknownthatitwaspoisoned,themurdererhadtoadoptheroicmeasures.The fact that Jackie himselfdrank some was prima facieevidence that he was

following instructions ofsomesort—hecouldnothavepoisoned it himself and alsoconceived the idea ofdrinkingitandgettingsick—not child’s reasoning at all.Thefactthathewentthroughwith it at all confirmed myconviction that he wasfollowingaplotnothisown.“When I read the outline

everything became clear. Yhad intended in his story to

poisontheegg-nog,thensipabit himself, getting slightlysick.—accomplishing thetriple end of not harmingLouisa, yet making it appearthat someone was trying toharm her, and finally puttinghimself in the most innocentposition of all—for would apoisonerdeliberatelyfall intohisowntrap?AgoodplanonHatter’s part—for fiction;obviously, had he been

creatingamurderplot inreallife,hewouldhavebalkedatthe thought of taking poisonevenasablind.”Lane sighed. “Jackie reads

the outline and sees that Ypoisonstheegg-nogandthensips it himself. Jackie knowshe must do everything theoutline says Y does; so hegoesthroughwithitasfarashis courage—and thecircumstances—permit him.

The very fact that it wasJackiewhodranktheegg-noginthefirstpoisoningattempt,plus the fact that Jackiehimselfwas thepoisonerandmurderer in the second case,was strong confirmation ofhis uncomprehendingobedience to a fantastic andimprobable plot which hecertainly never understood inanyofitsimplications.”“How about motive?”

askedThummweakly.“Istillcan’t get it through my nutwhy a kid should want tomurderhisgrandmother.”“Baseball is one reason,”

saidBrunofacetiously.Thumm glared, andBruno

said:“Afterall,withafamilylike that it’s easy enough tounderstand, Thumm. Eh,Mr.Lane?”“Yes,” said Lane with a

sad smile. “You know the

answer already, Inspector.You yourself know what theevil strain in this familywascaused by. Although he wasonly thirteen, Jackie had inhis veins the diseased bloodof his father andgrandmother. Probably atbirth he was potentially amurderer—whichistosay,hehad the hereditary weaknessoftheHatterstrain,besidesapredisposition to willfulness,

mischief, and cruelty whichall children, in a measure,possess, but which hepossessedingreatmeasure.…Doyou rememberhisalmostfanatic persecution of thelittle fellow, Billy? Hisdelight in destruction—trampling flowers, trying todrown a cat—his absolutelack of discipline? CombinethiswithwhatImustvaguelyguess at, although it is

probablytrue:thereisnolovelost anywhere in the Hatterfamilyandintra-familyhatredis compatiblewith thewholeHattermores.Shewasalwaystanningtheboy’shide,infacthad whipped him only threeweeks before the crime forstealing a piece of Louisa’sfruit; the boy had overheardhis mother, Martha, say: ‘Iwish you were dead!’ orsomething of the sort to the

oldlady—anaccumulationofboyishhatreds,fedbytheevilinhisbrain,probablysparkedintopurposewhenhereadtheoutline and saw that, of allpeople, his most pestiferousdomestic enemy and theenemy of his mother,‘gran’ma Em’ly,’ wasscheduledtobemurdered.…”The old haggard look that

had so often appeared onLane’s face returned to

darkenitnow.“It isnothardto understand then how thisadolescent, warped byheredity and environment,came to fall in with a plotwhich had for its goal thedeath of his fancied enemy.And when he took the firststep—the attemptedpoisoning—and was notfound out, he saw no reasonwhy he should not continue;his criminal impulse fattened

on success.… Furthercomplications of theseconfused crimes wereintroduced,asinmostcrimes,by accidents not planned byYorkHatteroranticipatedbythe little criminal: Theupsetting of the powder-boxon the night-table. The factthat Jackie was touched byLouisa while he stood a-tiptoe. The fingerprintsmudgeswhichconfirmedthe

poisoner’sheight.”Lane paused for breath,

and Bruno hastened to ask:“Where does Perry, orCampion,fitin?”“The Inspector has

suggestedtheanswerbefore,”replied Lane. “Perry, stepsonof Emily, nursing a hatredagainst her because she hadbeen personally responsibleforhisfather’shorriddeath—no doubt had something

criminal in mind, else hewouldn’t have changed hisname and taken a job in thehousehold. Nebulous or not,he wanted in some way tomake Mrs. Hatter suffer.Whentheoldladywaskilled,however, he was in aprecarious position. Yet hecould not leave. Perhaps heabandoned his originalintention long before theactual murder—he seemed

much affected by Barbara’sproximity. His actual intentwill probably never beknown.”For some time Inspector

Thumm had been regardingLanewithaveryqueersortofreflective attention. “Why,”heasked,“wereyousocageyall through the investigation?You say yourself that afterthe lab business you knew itwasthekid.Why’dyoumake

suchamysteryof it?Wasn’tquitefairtous,Mr.Lane.”Lane did not reply for a

long time. When he did, itwasinasubduedtonesofullof unexpressed feeling thatThumm and Bruno werestartled. “Let me give you asketchy cross-section of myown emotions during theprogress of the investigation.… When I knew that thechild was the criminal,

confirmation afterconfirmation banishing mylast doubt, I was faced by ahideousproblem.“From every sociological

standpoint thatboycouldnotbe considered morallyresponsible for his crime.Hewas a victim of hisgrandmother’s sins. WhatwasItodo?Revealhisguilt?What would your attitudehavebeenifIhadrevealedit

—you, sworn to uphold thelaw?Yourhandswouldhavebeen tied. The child wouldhave been arrested. Perhapssenttoprisonuntilhebecamelegally of age, and then triedfor a murder which he hadcommittedatanagewhenhewas morally irresponsible.Suppose he were notconvicted of murder, whatthen?Thebesthecouldhopeforwouldbeacquittalonplea

of insanity, and he wouldspendtherestofhislifeinanasylum.”He sighed. “There I was,

not sworn to uphold literaljustice,andfeelingthat,sincethe original sin was not theboy’s, since neither plot norimpulsewashis,sincehewasin the broadest sense theterrible victim ofcircumstances…hedeservedhischance!”

Neithermansaidanything.Lane looked at the calmripples on the surface of thepond, and the black swansgliding about. “From thebeginning,evenbeforeIreadthe outline, and while Iworked on the assumptionthat the plot had beenconceived by an adult—Iforesaw the possibility ofanotherattemptonthelifeofLouisa.Why?Because, since

thefirsttwoattemptshadnotreallybeenmeant,sinceMrs.Hatter’s deathwas the primepurpose, it seemed logicalthattheplotterhadfiguredonone more ‘attempt’ againstLouisa to strengthen theillusion that the motiveapplied against her ratherthan her mother.… I couldnot be sure that perhaps thisthird attempt might even gothrough, providing the new

plotter really wanted to killLouisa. At any rate, I feltcertainanotherattemptwouldbemade.“This theory was

confirmed by the fact that inthecacheinthechimneywallI found a vialful ofphysostigmin,apoisonwhichhad not yet been used in theplot. I substituted milk, forthe physostigmin for tworeasons: to forestall a slip,

and to give Jackie hischance.”“I’m afraid I don’t quite

seehow—”beganBruno.“WhichwaswhyIcouldn’t

tell you where I found theoutline,” retortedLane. “Youwould never see until it wastoo late.Youwould have seta trap for him, caught himthere, and arrested him.… InwhatwaywasIgivinghimachance? In this way. The

manuscript, when I found it,statedinmorethanoneplacethat there was no intention,ever, to poison Louisa;repeated,asyouread,thatshewas not to be killed. Byplacingaharmlessfluidinthevial, I gave Jackie theopportunity of carrying outwith no harmful results thelast specific order of theoutline—which was to makea third false poisoning

attempt against Louisa. I feltsure he would follow theoutline’s instructions to thebitter end.… I askedmyself:Whatwill he do after he haspoisoned the buttermilk, asthe outline instructs him todo?Theoutlinehadnotbeenworked out fully in thisrespect—Y merely says thathewilleithercallattentiontosomething wrong with thebuttermilk, or in some other

way prevent Louisa fromdrinkingit.SoIwatched.”They were leaning

forward, tense. “What did hedo?” whispered the DistrictAttorney.“He slipped into the

bedroom from the ledge, gothis vial containing what hethought was poison. Theoutline, as I knew, called forfifteen drops in a glass ofbuttermilk.Jackiehesitated—

and then poured the entirecontents of the vial into theglass.” Lane stopped, andwinced at the sky. “Thislooked bad; it was the firsttime he had deliberatelydisobeyed the outline’sinstructions.”“And?” said Thumm

harshly.Lane looked at him with

weariness. “Despite the factthattheplotinstructedhimto

call attention to the poisonedmilk before Louisa coulddrink, he did not do so. Heallowed her to drink it; infact, he watched from theledgeoutside thewindow, asI saw; and there wasdisappointment on his facewhen she drank thebuttermilkandsufferednoilleffects.”“GoodGod,”saidBrunoin

ashockedvoice.

“Not a very good God,”said Lane heavily. “Not tothat poor young creature.…Nowmy problemwas:Whatwould Jackie do? True, hehaddisobeyedtheletteroftheoutline in several respects;but now that the outline wasfinished, would he let wellenough alone? If he stoppedthere, if he made no furtherattempt to poison Louisa oranyoneelse,Imeantfirmlyto

say nothing at all about hisguilt, to profess myselfdefeated, to step out of thedrama. The boy would havehis chance to correct the evilinhim.…”Inspector Thumm looked

uncomfortable, and Brunobusied himself watching themad pace of an ant hurryinghillwardwithaspeckofdriedleaf. “I watched thelaboratory,” came the lifeless

voice.“TheonlyplacewhereJackie could secure morepoison—if he wanted it.” Apause. “And he wanted it. Isaw him steal into the room,deliberately take down abottlemarkedPOISON,andfilla little bottle. Then he left.”Lane jumped to his feet andtoedaclumpofearth.“Jackiehad convicted himself,gentlemen.Thelustforbloodand murder had gone to his

head.… Now he was usinghis own initiative, goingbeyond the prepared andspecific instructions—in fact,disobeying the outline. Iknew then that he wasincorrigible, that if he livedonunsuspectedhewouldbealifelong menace to society.Hewasnot fit to live.At thesame time, if I denouncedhim, there would ensue theterrible spectacle of society

revengingitselfonathirteen-year-old child for a crimewhich, in the last analysis,was society’s own.…” Lanewassilent.When he spoke again, it

was in a different tone. “Thetragedyoftheentirepiece,asyou might say, was properlythe Tragedy of Y—as hecalled himself—York Hatterplanningacrime in the spiritof fiction, and creating a

Frankenstein monster in themind of his own grandson,who took it up and carried itout to its gruesomeconclusion—far beyondwhatY had intended even infiction.Whenthechilddied,Ichose to act a part, as if Iwere shocked by the tragedy—ratherthanrevealhisguilt.What good would it havedone anyone? It was betterfor all concerned that the

boy’s guilt never be madepublic. Had I revealed hisguilt then, at a time whenyour superiors and the presswereclamoringforasolution,you would have been onlyhuman to publish the facts.…”Thumm began to say

something, but Lane forgedon. “And there was Martha,Jackie’s mother, to considerand,moreimportant,thelittle

fellow, Billy, who after allmust have his chance, too.…Atthesametime,Inspector,Idid not mean to see yousuffer. Had you beendemoted, for example, as aresult of your failure to turnupthecriminal,Ishouldhavefelt constrained to come toyouwiththesolution,sothatyoucouldgetcreditforitandsave your position. Thatmuch I owed you, Inspector.

…”“Thanks,”saidThummina

dryvoice.“But when two months

went by and the storm ofprotest died away, and youwere as firmly entrenched asbefore,Inolongerhadreasonto withhold the facts fromeither of you—asmen,mindyou, not officers of the law.Myonehope is thatyouwillunderstand from the human

standpoint my motives in allthis nasty business—andcontinue to keep JackieHatter’s hideous story asecret.”BrunoandThummnodded

heavily; both men werethoughtful and subdued.Thummnoddedseveraltimestohimself.…Suddenlyhesatup in the grass and huggedhis meaty knees to his bigchest. “You know,” he said

casually, “there’s somethingabout the last phase of thisbusinessthatIdon’tget.”Heplucked a blade of grass andbegan to chew on it. “Howthe devil did it happen thatthekidmadeamistakeinthelast attempt, so that hedrankthepoisonedmilkheintendedfortheCampionwoman?Eh,Mr.Lane?”Lane did not reply. He

turned his face slightly away

from Thumm, and suddenlydipping his hand into hispocketandtakingoutafistfulof bread, he began to hurlpieces on the surface of thepond. The swans swamgracefully toward him andbegantopeckatthebread.Thumm leaned forward

and petulantly tapped Laneontheknee.“Hey,Mr.Lane?Didn’tyouhearwhatIsaid?”District Attorney Bruno

rose very suddenly. Hepunched Thumm’s shoulderroughly and the Inspector,startled, looked up at him.Bruno’s face was white, andhisjawlinewasrigid.Lane turned slowlyaround

and looked at the two menwithtorturedeyes.Brunosaidin a peculiar voice: “Come,Inspector. Mr. Lane is tired.We’d better be getting backtotheCity.”

CURTAIN

TurnthepagetocontinuereadingfromtheDruryLane

Mysteries

1.IMEETMR.DRURYLANE

Since my personalparticipation in the events ofthis history cannot evokemore than a polite andpassing interest from thosewho follow the fortunes ofMr. Drury Lane, I shalldismissmyselfwithasbriefa

dossier as the vanity ofwomanpermits.I am young; so much is

grantedbymysternestcritics.My eyes, which contrive tobelarge,blue,andliquid,are—Ihavebeentoldbyvariouspoetic gentlemen—stellar ingrandeur and empyrean inhue. A nice younggymnasium student inHeidelberg once comparedmy hair with honey, and a

vitrolicAmericanladyinCapd’Antibes with whom I hadhad somewords compared itwith rather brittle straw. IdiscoveredrecentlyasIstoodinClarisse’ssaloninParisbythesideofhermosttreasuredSize Sixteen that my figureindeed approximated thearithmetical charms of thatsuperciliousfemale.Ipossesshands, feet, the completephysicalquota,infact;and—

this on the authority of nolessanexpertthanMr.DruryLane himself—a brain inexcellent working order. Ithasbeensaid,too,thatoneofmy chief charms is “aningenuous lack of modesty”;a canard which I feel surewill be thoroughly blasted inthecourseofthiswriting.So much for the grosser

details.Asfortherest,Imayaptly term myself the

Wandering Nordic. I havebeen on the run, as it were,ever since my pig-tail-and-sailor days. My travels havebeen interspersed withoccasional stop-overs ofrespectable duration: I spenttwoyears, forexample,atanappalled finishing-school inLondon, and I tarried on theLeft Bank for fourteenmonths before I convincedmyself that the name of

PatienceThummwouldneverbe mentioned in the samebreath with Gauguin andMatisse. Like Marco Polo, Ivisited the East; likeHannibal,Istormedthegatesof Rome.Moreover, I am ofthe scientific spirit: I havetestedabsintheinTunis,ClosVougeot in Lyon, andaguardiente in Lisbon. Istubbed my toe climbing tothe Acropolis at Athens, and

withlustfulenjoymentgulpedin the enchanted air of theSapphicIsle.Allthis,needlesstoadd,on

a generous allowance, andaccompanied by the rarest ofmortal creatures—achaperonwith convenient astigmatismandasenseofhumor.Travel, like whipped

cream, is broadening; butafter repeated helpings it isalso nauseating, and the

traveler, like the glutton,returnswiththankfulnesstoasturdier diet. So withmaidenly firmness I tookleave of my poor preciousduenna in Algiers and sailedfor home. The good roastbeef of father’s greetingsettled my stomachbeautifully. True, he washorrified at my attempt tosmuggle into New York alovely and tattered French

edition of Lady Chatterley’sLover,overwhichIhadspentmany a purely aestheticevening in theprivacyofmyroom at the finishing-school;butwhenwe had settled thislittle problem to mysatisfaction he hustled methroughthecustomsand,twovery badly acquaintedhoming pigeons,wemade insedate silence for hisapartmentintheCity.

NowIfind,onreadingTheTragedy of X and TheTragedyofY, that this great,hulking, ugly old sire ofmine, Inspector Thumm,never once referred in thoseebullient pages to hisperegrinatingdaughter.Itwasnot from lack of affection: Iknow that from the ratherastonished adoration in hiseyes when we kissed at thepier. We had simply grown

up apart.Mother had packedmeofftotheContinentinthecare of a chaperon when Iwas tooyoung toprotest; thedearthinghadalwaysbeenofa sentimental turn, I suspect,and vicariously steepedherself in the drippingelegances of continental lifethroughmyletters.Butwhilepoor father never had achance, our growing aparthad not been entirely

mother’s fault. I recall dimlygetting under father’s feet asachild,pesteringhimfor thegoriest details of the crimeshewas investigating, readingallthecrimenewswithgusto,andinsistingonpoppinginathim in Centre Street withpreposterous suggestions. Hedenies the charge, but I amsure that it was with reliefthathesawmepackedoff toEurope.

At any rate, it took usweeks on my return tocultivateanormalfather-and-daughter relationship. Myflying visits to the Statesduring my period of errancyhadscarcelypreparedhimforthe experience of lunchingwith a young woman eachday, and kissing her good-night, and going through allthe delightful shams ofpaternalism. For a while he

wasactuallyhaggard;hewasmoreafraidofmethanhehadbeen of the countlessdesperadoes whose scalps hehadhuntedduringhislifetimeofdetectivework.

All this is necessaryprelude to my story of Mr.Drury Lane and theremarkable case of AaronDow, the convict ofAlgonquin Prison. For it

explains how such an erraticcreature as Patience Thummcame to be involved in amurdermystery.During the years of my

exile, incorrespondencewithmy father—particularly aftermother’s death—I had beenpiqued by his frequent andaffectionate allusions to thatstrange old genius, DruryLane, who had come sospectacularly into his life.

The old gentleman’s namewas,ofcourse,wellknowntome by reputation; for onething because I was an avidreader of real and imaginarydetective stories, and foranother because this retireddean of the drama wasconstantlybeingreferredtoinboth the continental andAmericanpress as somethingofasuperman.Hisexploitsasaninvestigatorofcrimesafter

his unfortunate deafness andconsequent desertion of thetheaterhadbeenheralded farandwide,andechoesofthemhad reached me in Europemanytimes.I suddenly realized,onmy

return to the fold, that therewasnothingIdesiredquitesomuch as to meet thisextraordinaryman,wholivedin state in a fantastic butenchantingcastleoverlooking

theHudson.But I had found father

immersedtohisearsinwork.Afterhisownretirementfromthe New York DetectiveBureau he had naturallyfound idle existence anintolerable bore; for most oftheyearsofhislifecrimehadbeen his meat and drink. Sohehad inevitablydrifted intothe private detective agencybusiness; and his personal

reputation had made theventure a success from thestart.As forme, having nothing

todo,andfeelingthatmylifeand training abroad hadscarcely fitted me for theserious business of living, itwas perhaps inevitable that Ishould take up where I hadleftoffsomanyyearsbefore.Ibegantospendmuchtimeatfather’s office, pestering him

as of old, to his grumblingdisapproval. He seemed tothink that a daughter shouldbe decorative, like aboutonnière. But nature hadendowed me with his owngrimchin,andmypersistencewore him down. On severaloccasions he even permittedme to pursue a modestinvestigation of my own. Inthis way I learned a little ofthe terminology and

psychology of modern crime—a sketchy training whichwastobesohelpfultomeinmyunderstandingoftheDowcase.But something else

happened which was evenmore helpful. To my ownastonishment as well asfather’s I found that Ipossessed an extraordinaryinstinct for observation anddeduction.Irealizedsuddenly

that I was equipped with avery special sort of talent,perhapsnurturedbymyearlyenvironment and my eternalinterestincriminalia.Father groaned. “Patty,

you’re a damn’ embarrassingwench to have around.You’re showin’ up the oldman. By God, it’s like oldtimeswithDruryLane!”And I said: “Inspector

darling, that’s a damn’ fine

compliment. When are yougoing to introduce me tohim?”The opportunity came

unexpectedly three monthsafter my return from abroad.It began innocently enough,and led—as those things sooften do—to an adventure asamazing as even the heart ofsuch a thirsty and voraciousfemale as myself coulddesire.

Onedayatall,gray-haired,elegantly dressed manappeared at father’s office,wearing the look of worrywhichIhadcometoassociatewith all those who soughtfather’s aid. His name, fromthe engraved card,wasElihuClay.Heeyedmesharply,satdown, clasped his hands onthe knob of his stick, andintroducedhimselfinthedry,precise manner of a French

banker.Hewas owner of theClay

Marble Quarries—mainquarries in Tilden County,upperNewYorkState;officeand residence in the town ofLeeds, N. Y. Theinvestigation he had come toaskfathertoconductwasofadelicate, confidential nature.It was his chief reason forcoming so far afield to seekaninvestigator.Heabsolutely

insisted on all possiblecaution.…“Igetyou,”grinnedfather.

“Have a cigar. Somebodystealin’cashoutofthesafe?”“No,indeed!Ihave—ah—

asilentpartner.”“Ha,” said father. “Let’s

haveit.”This silent partner—whose

silence, it appeared, nowworeamostunhealthyaspect—was one Fawcett, Dr. Ira

Fawcett.Dr.Fawcettwas thebrother of the more or lessHonorableJoelFawcett,StateSenator from Tilden County,who, from father’s frown, Itook to be a gentleman ofsomething less than probityand pure heart. Clay, whowithout flinchingcharacterized himself as “anhonest business man of theoldschool,”nowregretted, itseemed, his partnership with

Dr. Fawcett. I gathered thatDr. Fawcett was a rathersinister figure. He hadinvolvedthefirmincontractswhich Clay suspected hadmalodorous origins. Thebusiness was prosperous—too prosperous. Too manycounty and state contractswere coming the way of theClay Marble Quarries. Acanny but uncompromisingsurvey of the situation was

demanded.“Noproof?”askedfather.“Not a particle, Inspector.

He’stoodownrightcleverforthat. All I have aresuspicions.Will you take thecase?” And Elihu Clay laidthreebanknotesofformidabledenominationonthedesk.Fatherglancedatme.“Can

wetakethecase,Patty?”I looked doubtful. “We’re

busy. It means dropping

everythingelse.…”ElihuClaystaredatmefor

amoment.“AnIdea,”hesaidabruptly. “I don’t wantFawcett to suspect you,Inspector. At the same timeyou’llhavetoworkwithme.Why don’t you and MissThummcometoLeedsasmyhouse guests? Miss Thummmay come in—shall we sayhandy?”IinferredthatDr.IraFawcettwasnotinsensibleto

femininecharms.Myinterest,needless to say, was arousedatonce.“Wecanmanage,father,”I

said briskly; and so it wasarranged.

Wespentthenexttwodaysclearingthedecks,asitwere,and on a Sunday eveningpacked our bags for thejourney toLeeds. ElihuClayhad preceded us, returning

upstateonthesamedayofhisvisittoNewYork.I remember I was

stretchingmylegsbeforeourfireandsippingpeachbrandy—which I had alsomanagedto smuggle past the nicestyoung customs officer—when the telegram came. Itwas fromGovernor Bruno—that same Walter XavierBruno who had been districtattorneyofNewYorkCounty

when father was activeInspector of Detectives, andwho now was the popular,fighting Governor of NewYorkState.Father slapped his thigh

andchuckled. “The sameoldBruno!Well,Patty,here’sthechance you’ve been yowlin’for. I guess we can make it,hey?”He tossed the telegram to

me.Itread:

HELLO YOU OLD WARHORSE PLANNING TOSURPRISE THE OLDMAESTROATLANECLIFFTOMORROW ON HISSEVENTIETH BIRTHDAYBYMAKINGFLYINGTRIPI UNDERSTAND LANEHAS BEEN ILL ANDNEEDS CHEERING UP IFABUSYGOVERNORCANMAKE IT DARN YOU SOCAN YOU STOP I SHALL

EXPECT TO SEE YOUTHERE

BRUNO

“Oh, swell!” I cried,upsetting the brandy on mymost cherished Patoupajamas. “Do you—do youthinkhe’lllikeme?”“Drury Lane,” growled

father, “is a mis—mis—hehates women. But I supposeI’ll have to drag you along.

Go on to bed.” He grinned.“Now, Patty, I want you tolookyoursweetesttomorrow.We’ll sweep the oldscoundreloffhis feet.And—er—Pat, do you have todrink? Mind you,” he saidhastily, “I’m not being anold-fashioned father, but——”Ikissed the tipofhisugly

smashed nose. Poor father,Hetriedveryhard.

The approach to TheHamlet, Mr. Drury Lane’sestate in the Hudson hills,was all I had pictured fromfather’s descriptions—more.Itwas themostbreath-takingplace I had ever come upon;andmyitineraryhadincludedthestaplewondersoftheOldWorld. I had seen nothing inEurope—not even on theRhine—to compare with theexquisitepeaceandbeautyof

thesedensewarmwoods, theimmaculateroads,thefrowzycloudsabove, theserenebluerivercrawlingfarbelow.Andthe castle itself! It mightreally have been transportedon a magic carpet from theancienthillsofBritain.Itwasenormous, stately, beautiful,medieval.Ourjourneytookusovera

quaint wooden bridge,throughaprivatewoodwhich

might have been SherwoodForest—Ihalf-expectedtoseeFriarTuckpopoutatusfrombehind a tree—through themain gate of the castle, andintothegroundsoftheestate.Everywhere we say smilingpeople, most of them old,most of them living on thebounty of Drury Lane, whohadbuiltupinthisaccessiblefastnessaplaceof refuge fortime-batteredfolkof thearts.

Father assured me that therewere countless scores whoblessed the name of DruryLane and his unsparinglargess.Governor Brunomet us in

the gardens. He had not hadhimself announced to theoldgentleman, having chosen towaitforourarrival.Ithoughthim very jolly—a square-faced, stocky man with thehigh forehead and brilliant

eyes of the intellectual andthebonyjawofthefighter.Aretinue of state troopers, hisescort, hoveredwatchfully inthebackground.But I was too excited to

think ofmere governors. Forapproaching slowly throughtheprivets towardus, framedby yew trees, came an oldman—a very old man, Ithought, with a sensation ofsurprise.Father’sdescriptions

ofMr.Lanehadalwaysmademe think of a tall, youthfulman in the prime of life. Irealized now how unkindlythepast tenyearshad treatedhim. They had stooped hiswide shoulders, thinned hisheavy shock of white hair,lined his face, wrinkled hishands, and crushed thespringiness of his step. Buthis eyes were still young—coruscating eyes of

disconcerting clarity,wisdom, and humor. Hischeeks were flushed; at firsthe seemed not to notice me,grasped the hands of fatherand Governor Bruno andclung to them, muttering:“Oh, this is good of you,good of you!” I had alwaysconsidered myself amoderatelydesentimentalizedyoung woman; and now Ifound myself with a silly

lumpinmythroatandtearsinmyeyes.…Father blew his nose and

said gruffly: “Mr. Lane, Iwant you to meet my—mydaughter,byGod.”He took my hands in his

oldones,andlookedintomyeyes.“Mydear,”hesaidverygravely. “My dear.WelcometoTheHamlet.”And then I said something

that in retrospect always

makes me blush painfully.The plain truth is that Iwantedtoshowoff.Iwantedtodemonstratemymonstrouscleverness. I suppose mybeing of the genus Eve hadsomething todowith it. I doknow that I had lookedforward to thismeeting for along time, andsubconsciously had beensteeling myself for a testwhich, after all, was entirely

imaginary.At any rate, I babbled:

“I’m so happy, Mr. Lane.You don’t know how I’vewanted—I really—” Then itcameout.Ileered—Iamsureitwasaleer—andblurted;“Isee you’re contemplatingwritingyourmemoirs!”Of course, Iwas sorry the

moment the words wiggledout;itwasinane,andIbitmylipwithmortification.Iheard

father give vent to a gustygasp, and Governor Brunolooked positively stupefied.As for Mr. Lane, his oldbrows soared, his eyes grewkeen,andhestudiedmyfacefor a long moment beforereplying. Then he chuckled,rubbed his hands togtheer,and said: “My child, this isastonishing. Inspector, I shallnever forgive you for havingkeptthisyoungwomanoutof

sight during all these years.Whatisyourname?”“Patience,”Imumbled.“Ha, thePuritan influence,

Inspector! I daresay thatwasan inspirationofyours ratherthan of your wife’s.” Hechuckled again, grasping myarm with surprising strength,and said: “Come along, youfossils. We can talk aboutourselves later.…Astonishing,astonishing!”he

keptchuckling.Heledustoalovely arbor, bustled about,sent various rosy little oldmen on errands, served uswith his own hands, and allthe while kept stealingglances at my face. By thistimeIwasinthelowestpitofconfusion, and I keptupbraidingmyselfbitterlyforthe fatuous egotism whichhadinspiredmyremark.“Now then,” the old

gentlemansaid,whenwehadrefreshed ourselves, “nowthen, Patience, let’sinvestigate your remarkablestatement.” His voice lulledmy ears; it was ofextraordinary timbre, deep,mellow, rich as oldMoselle.“So I’m contemplating thewritingofmymemoirs,amI?Indeed! And what else dothoseprettyeyesofyourssee,mydear?”

“Oh, really,” I faltered,“I’m sorry for having saidthat.…Imean—itwasn’t…Idon’twanttomonopolizetheconversation, Mr. Lane. Youhaven’t seen the Governorandfatherforsolong.”“Nonsense, my child. We

old boys have learned, I’msure, to cultivate Patience.”He chuckled again. “Anothersign of senility. What else,Patience?”

“Well,” I said, drawing adeepbreath, “you’re learningtotypewrite,Mr.Lane.”“Eh!” He looked startled.

Fatherwasstaringatmeasifhehadneverseenmebefore.“And,”Icontinuedmeekly,

“you are teaching yourself,Mr.Lane.You’relearningthetouch system rather than thehit-or-misssystem.”“Good heavens! This is

retribution with a

vengeance.” He turned,smiling, to father.“Inspector,you’ve produced a veritablegiantess of intellect. Butperhaps you’ve been tellingtalesaboutmetoPatience?”“Hell! I’m as surprised as

youare.HowthedevilcouldI tell her? I didn’t knowmyself.Isittrue?”GovernorBrunorubbedhis

jaw. “I think I could use ayoung woman like you in

Albany,MissThumm——”“Here! No irrelevancies,”

murmured Drury Lane. Hiseyeswereexceedinglybright.“This is a challenge.Deduced, eh? Since Patiencehas done it, it’s obvious thatthethingcanbedone.Letmesee.… What has occurred,precisely,sincewemet?FirstI approached through thetrees. Then I greeted you,Inspector, and you, Bruno.

And then Patience and Ilooked at each other and—shook hands. Tchk! Thestartling deductions … Ha!The hands, of course!” Heexamined his own handsquickly, carefully; then hesmiled and nodded. “Mydear, this is perfectlyamazing.Yes,yes!Naturally!Learning to type, eh?Inspector, what does anexaminationofmyclaws tell

you?”He held his white-veined

handsupbeforefather’snose,andfatherblinked.“Tellme?What the deuce can they tellme? They’re clean, that’sall!”We laughed.

“Confirmation, Inspector, ofmyoften repeated convictionthat observation of minutiaeis of vast importance to thedetective. It appears that the

fingernails of four fingers oneach hand are broken,cracked. Whereas thethumbnails are unbroken, infact manicured. Obviouslythe only manual operationwhich would mar allfingernails except those onthe thumbs would betypewriting—learning totype, because the nails areunaccustomed to the impactsofthefinger-endsonthekeys

and have not yet healed.…Brava,Patience!”“Well—” began father

grumpily.“Oh, come now,

Inspector,” said the oldgentleman, grinning, “you’realways a skeptic. Yes, yes,Patience,excellent!Now,thisbusinessof the touchsystem.A shrewd inference. For inthe so-called hunt systembeginners use only two

fingers, therefore only twonails would be cracked. Thetouch system, on the otherhand, employs all the fingersexcept the thumbs.” Heclosed his eyes. “And thatI’mcontemplatingwritingmymemoirs! A broad jump,mydear, from the observedphenomena, but it illustratesthat you possess the gift ofintuition as well as ofobservation and deduction.

Bruno, have you any ideahow this charming youngdetective arrived at thatconclusion?”“Not the faintest,”

confessedtheGovernor.“It’s a dad-blamed trick,”

growled father; but I noticedthat his cigar had gone outand that his fingers weretrembling.Mr. Lane chuckled again.

“So simple! Why, says

Patience, should an oldcodger seventy years of agesuddenlyapplyhimselftotheproblem of learning how totypewrite? Surely anunreasonable action since heneglected,apparently,tolearnduring the preceding fiftyyears!Isthatright,Patience?”“Exactly, Mr. Lane. You

seem to understand soquickly—”“So,yousaid,whenaman

reaches his age and engagesin sucha frivolouspursuit, itcan only be because herealizesthathisbestdaysarebehind him, intends to writesomething personal and, ofcourse,lengthy—attheendoflife—memoirs, of course!Extraordinary.” His eyesclouded. “But what I fail tosee, Patience, is how youdeduce that I’m teachingmyself. It’s true, but for the

lifeofme…”“That,”Isaidweakly,“was

a little technical. Thedeductionwasbased, I think,onthefairpremisethatifyouwere being taught bysomeone else, you would betaught in the way that allbeginningtypistsaretaught—by touch. But to preventstudentsfromstealingglancesat the keys instead ofmemorizing the location of

each letter, the instructorplaces little rubber pads overthe keys to conceal thecharacters.Butifrubberpadshad been placed over yourkeys, Mr. Lane, your nailswould not be broken!Consequently, you areprobablyteachingyourself.”Father said: “I’ll be

damned,” and regarded memuch as if he had helpedbring into the world a Bird

Woman, the Zuzu Girl, orsome similar freak of nature.But my little silly display ofmental pyrotechnics sopleased Mr. Lane that fromthat moment on he acceptedme as a very special sort ofcolleague; a little, I fear, tothechagrinoffather,whohadalwaysbeenatdaggers’pointwiththeoldgentlemanonthesubject of comparativedetectivemethods.

We spent the afternoontogether strolling in thequietgardens, visiting the cobbledlittle village Mr. Lane haderected for his co-workers,drinkingbrownaleinhisownMermaid Tavern, seeing hisprivate theater, his enormouslibrary, his unique andthrilling collection ofShakespeariana. It was themostexcitingafternoonIhadever spent, and it passed all

tooquickly.In the evening a baronial

feast was served in themedieval banquet hall, anoisy and luxurious repastpartaken of by the entirepopulation of The Hamlet inhonorofMr.Lane’sbirthday.Later, we four retired to theold gentleman’s privateapartments and settled downto Turkish coffee andliqueurs.Anastonishinglittle

man with a hump on hisgnomish back popped in andout of the room; he seemedunbelievablyancient,andMr.Laneassuredme that hewaswell over a hundred yearsold. This was the admirableQuacey, his familiar, theCalibanofwhomIhadheardand read so many delightfulstories.The peace of leaping

flames and oak walls was

reliefaftertheclatterbelow.Iwas tired, and relaxed withthankfulness into amagnificent Tudor chair tolisten. Burly father, gray,craggy, broad-shouldered;Governor Bruno with hisfighter’s chin and slenderaggressiveness; the old actorwithhispatricianface…Itwasgoodtobethere.Mr. Lane was in high

spirits;hepliedtheGovernor

and fatherwith question, butofhimselfherefusedtospeakindetail.“I’ve come upon evil

days,” he said lightly at onepoint. “Fallen into the searand yellow leaf; and, asShakespearesaid,Ishouldbepatching upmyold body forheaven.Well, my physiciansare tryinghard tosendme tomyMaker in one piece. I’mold.” Then he laughed and

flickedashadowoffthewall.“But let’s not talk about adoddering gaffer. Didn’t yousayamomentago,Inspector,that you and Patience wereboundforthehinterland?”“Patty and I are going

upstateonacase.”“Ah,” said Mr. Lane; and

hisnostrilsquivered.“Acase.Iwish, Ialmostwish Icouldgo with you. What’s it allabout?”

Father shrugged. “Don’tknow much. It’s nothing inyour line anyway. Ought tointerestyou,though,Bruno.Ithink your old pal JoelFawcett of Tilden County ismixedupinit.”“Don’t be funny,” said the

Governor sharply. “JoelFawcett’s no friend of mine,andthefactthathebelongstomy party only irritates me.He’s a crook, and he’s built

up a mailed-fist organizationinTildenCounty.”“Glad to hear it,” grinned

father. “Looks like actionagain. What do you knowabout Dr. Ira Fawcett, hisbrother?”I fancied Governor Bruno

started. Then his eyesflickered and he stared intothe fire. “Senator Fawcett isthe worst kind of politicalcrook, but his brother Ira is

therealbossof theroost.Hedoesn’t hold office, but Idon’t think I’m telling taleswhen I say that he’s thepowerbehindhisbrother.”“That explains it,” said

fatherwithascowl.“Yousee,this Dr. Fawcett is silentpartner to a big marble manin Leeds, and Clay—that’sthe marble man—he wantsme to investigate somesmelly contracts he suspects

hispartner ishookingfor thefirm. It all looks cut-and-driedtome.Buttoproveitisadifferentstory.”“I don’t envy you. Dr.

Fawcett’saslickarticle.Clay,eh?Iknowhim.Seemstobequite all right.… I’mparticularly interestedbecause the Fawcetts face abattlethisfall.”Mr. Lane was sitting with

his eyes closed, smiling

faintly; I realized with ashock that he heard nothingnow. Father had oftenmentioned the old actor’sdeafness, and his ability toreadlips.Buthiseyelidsshutofftheworld.I shook my head

impatiently at theirrelevancies drifting throughmy thoughts and appliedmyself to listen. TheGovernorwasoutlininginhis

forceful way the situation inLeeds and Tilden County. Itappearedthatabitterpoliticalcampaign was anticipatedduring the coming months.The vigorous young districtattorney of the county, JohnHume,wasalreadyslatedforthe senatorial nomination onthe opposing ticket. He wasadmired and liked by thelocalelectorate,hadachieveda clean, forthright reputation

aspublicprosecutor,andwasseriously challenging thepower of the Fawcett ring.Backed by one of the mostastute politicians in the state,Rufus Cotton, young JohnHume was running on areform platform—aparticularly felicitousplatform, I gathered,considering the fact thatSenator Fawcett was sonotoriously dishonest—“the

chiefhogintheupstatepork-barrel,” as Mr. Brunoexpressed it—and that thecounty seat, Leeds, housedoneofthestatepenitentiaries,AlgonquinPrison.Mr. Lane had opened his

eyes and for some minuteshadbeenwatchingthelipsofthe Governor with a curiousintentness, for no reason Icould fathom. I sawhiskeenoldeyessparkleatmentionof

theprison.“Algonquin, eh?”hecried.

“That’s most interesting.Several years ago—beforeyour election to thegovernorship, Bruno—Lieutenant-Governor Mortonarranged with WardenMagnus to allow me insidethe walls on a tour ofinspection.Fascinatingplace.I met an old friend there—FatherMuir,thechaplain.I’d

knownhimintheolddays—beforeyourtime,Ifancy.Hewas the patron saint of theBowery when the Bowerywas bad. Give Father Muirmy sincerest regards,Inspector,ifyouseehim.”“Fat chance. My prison-

inspection days are over.…Goingalready,Bruno?”TheGovernorhadclimbed

reluctantly to his feet. “Imust.CapitolHill’scalling.I

sneaked off in the midst ofveryimportantbusiness.”Mr.Lane’ssmilevanished,

andtheage-linessprangbackto his worn face. “Oh, comenow,Bruno.Youcan’tdesertus this way. Why—we’veonly just begun, you know.…”“Sorry,old fellow, I really

must.Thumm,you’restayingon?”Father scratched his jaw,

and the old gentlemansnapped: “Of course theInspector and Patience willremain overnight. I’m surethere’snohurry.”“Oh, well, this Fawcett

bird’ll keep, I guess,” saidfather with a sigh as hestretchedhislegsluxuriously.AndInodded.Andyet,hadweproceeded

to Leeds that night, thingsmight have worked out very

differently. We shouldprobably have met Dr.Fawcettbeforehewentonhismysterioustrip,foronething.And much that was foggylatermighthavebeenclearedup.… As it was, wesuccumbed gratefully to themagic of The Hamlet andstayedon.GovernorBrunoregretfully

tookhisleaveinthemidstofhis troopers,andveryshortly

after his departure I wasrolling in an ecstasy offatigue between the softsheets of a gigantic Tudorbed, blissfully unaware ofwhatthefutureheldinstore.

2.IMEETADEADMAN

Leeds was a charming andbusy little town sprawled atthe foot of a conical hill. Itwas the center of a ruralcounty, surrounded on allsides by rolling farms and ahaze of blue uplands. Had itnot been for the frowning

fortressthatcrownedthehill,it would have been aparadise.Asitwas,theheavygray walls topped by sentry-boxes, the ugly stacks of theprison mills, the oppressivesolidity and menace of theimmense prison, hung overtheneatcountrysideandtownlike a shroud. Not even thegreen woody shanks of thehill softened the picture. Iwondered aloud how many

desperate men crushedbetween those unyieldingwallsthoughtlonginglyofthecoolwoodssoveryneartheirprison,andyetasremoteasaMartianforest.“You’ll get over that,

Patty,” said father as wetaxied from the railroadstation. “Most of the men inthereareprettybad. ItsnotaSunday school, kid. Don’twaste toomuchsympathyon

them.”Perhaps his lifelong

association with criminalshadhardenedhim;but tomeit didnot seem just thatmenshouldbeshutawayfromthegreenearthand thebluesky;and I could not think ofdepravity deep enough towarrantsuchwantoncruelty.Wewerebothsilentonthe

short ride to Elihu Clay’shouse.

TheClaymansion—itwasalargewhitepillaredhouseinthe richest Colonial tradition—lay halfway up the hill onthe outskirts of the town.Elihu Clay himself waswaiting for us at the portico.He was gracious and athoughtfulhost, and fromhismanner it would have beenimpossibletoperceivethatina sense we were hisemployees. He put us at our

ease at once, had hishousekeeper assign us topleasantbedrooms,andspentthe remainder of theafternoon chatting aboutLeeds and himself—quite asif we had been old friends.We found that he was awidower; he spoke with sadaffection of his dead wife,and remarked thatoneof thegreat regrets of his life wasthat he had no daughter to

replace his wife. It semed tomethatinhisownandpropersetting Elihu Clay was avastly different individualfrom the brusque businessman who had enlisted ourservicesinNewYork.Igrewto like him in the quiet daysthatfollowed.Father and Clay spent

manyhours closeted togetherin the study. One entire daythey spent at the quarries,

which were located a fewmiles out of Leeds near theChataharieRiver. Fatherwasscoutingtheenemy,andfromhis perpetual grouch the firstfew days I saw that heanticipated a long andprobably unsuccessfulstruggle.“Not a single bit of

documentaryproof,Patty,”hegrumbled to me. “This manFawcett must be the devil’s

ownkeeper.NowonderClayyelped forhelp.This thing istougherthanIthought.”But while I sympathized,

there was very little that Icould do to assist theinvestigation. Dr. Fawcettwasnot inevidence.Hehad,asithappened,leftLeedsthemorning of our arrival—while we were en route—bound for an unknowndestination. I gathered that

this was not unusual; heworked in mysterious wayshis wonders to perform, andhiscomingsandgoingswerealways dark andunpredictable. Had he beenavailable, I might have beenable to exercise whatevercharms nature had providedme.Idoubtthatfatherwouldhave fallen in with this planof campaign, and certainly Ishouldhavehadanarmfulof

troublewithhim.The situation was rather

agreeably complicated byanother factor. There was asecond Mr. Clay—a juniorMr. Clay of awesomeconstruction and toohandsome a smile for thegoodof thelocalbelles.Thisgentleman’s name wasJeremy, which matched hiscurly chestnut hair and acertain devil-may-care quirk

of his lips. With that name,anddressedintheappropriatecostume, he might havesteppedoutof thepagesofaFarnol novel. Jeremy wasfreshly out of Dartmouth inmorethanonesense,weighedone hundred and ninetypounds, had rowed stroke-oar, knew half a dozen All-America football heroes bytheir first names, ate nothingbut vegetables, and danced

like a cloud. He was, heassured me gravely at thedinner-table on the firsteveningofourstayinLeeds,about to make Americamarble-conscious. He hadhurled his diploma into arock-crusher and waslaboringathis father’sLeedsquarriesbythesideofsweatyItalian drillers, tossingexplosives about and gettinghishairfullofstone-dust.He

was sure, he saidenthusiastically,thathecouldlearntoproducemoremarbleof superior quality than …His father looked proud butskeptical.I found Jeremy a most

fascinatingyoungman.Forafew days, at any rate; hisambition to make Americamarble-conscious was puttenderly aside; for his fatherexcused him from work to

keep me company. YoungJeremypossessedasmallbutexcellent stable, and forseveral afternoons we wentriding.My education abroad,it soon developed, had beenneglected in one respect: Ihad never been thoroughlyschooledintheartofresistingthe love-making methods ofyoungAmericancollegians.“You’re just apup,” I told

him severely one day when

he had neatly pocketed ourhorses in a little gully fromwhich there was no escapeand had proceeded withoutpermissiontoseizemyhand.”“Let’s both be pups,” he

suggested with a grin, andswung sideways out of hissaddle. My riding-cropcaught him on the tip of hisnosejust in timetopreventaminorcatastrophe.“Ouch!” he said, jumping

back. “Is that nice? Pat,you’rebreathingfast.”“I’mnot!”“Youare.Youlikeit.”“Idon’t!”“All right,” he said

ominously.“Icanwait.”Andhegrinnedallthewayhome.After that, however, Mr.

Jeremy Clay went ridingalone. But he was adangerouslyniceboyjust thesame.Infact,Iwasnettledto

discover that I might haveliked it if Ihadpermitted thecatastrophetooccur.

It was in themidst of thisArcadian idyl that the blowfell.Itcame,assuch thingsdo,

with the unexpectedness of asummer thunderstorm. Wehadnowayof anticpating it.The news reached us at theend of a calm, sleepy day.

Jeremyhadbeensulky,andIhad spent two blissful hoursmussinghishair,ofwhichhewas unreasonably careful,and ragging him. Father hadgone off on a strictly privateexpedition, and Elihu Clayhad passed the day at hisoffice.He did not appear fordinner,nordidfather.Jeremy, incensedabouthis

hair, had become almostformalinhistreatmentofme.

It was “Miss Thumm” hereand“MissThumm”there;hewas coldly solicitous of mycomfort, insisted on fetchingcushions, ordered specialtitbitsfromthekitchenformydinner, lit my cigarettes andpoured my cocktails—allwith the pained, detached airof themanof theworldwhogoes through the motions ofpolitesocialintercoursewhilehis tired brain seethes with

thoughtsofsuicide.Father turned up, grumpy,

perspiring, and disgusted,afterdark;heshuthimselfupinhisbedroom,splashedinatub, and an hour later camedownforaquietcigarontheporch where Jeremy wasbitterly strumming a guitarand I was singing withmeekness a wicked dittywhich I had learned in aMarseilles café. It was

fortunate for me, I suppose,that fatherunderstoodFrenchnot at all; and even Jeremy,under his bitterness, lookedshocked. But there wassomething in the moon andthe air that drove me on. Ispeculated dreamily, Iremember, about how far Icould go with Mr. JeremyClay without burning myvirginialfingers.…Ihadbegunon the third—

andmostlurid—choruswhenElihu Clay drove up, rathertired,Ithought,andmutteringanapologyforhislatereturn.Something, it appeared, hadkepthimunavoidablybusyathis office. He had barelyseated himself and acceptedone of father’s vile cigarswhen the telephone in hisstudyrang.“Don’tbother,Martha,”he

called to the housekeeper.

“I’ll take it myself.” And heexcused himself and wentintothehouse.His study was at the front

of the house, its windowsoverlooking the porch; thewindows were open, and wecould not help overhearinghis conversation withsomeonewhose voice raspedurgentlyinthereceiver.His very first words were:

“Good God,” in a shocked

tone that brought father upsharply and stilled Jeremy’shand on the strings. Then:“Terrible, terrible … I can’timagine—No, I haven’t thefaintest ideawhere he is. Hesaid he would be back in afewdays.…Heavens,man, Ican’t—Ican’tbelieveit!”Jeremy ran into the house.

“What’sthematter,dad?”Mr. Clay waved him off

with a trembling hand.

“What’s that? … Well,naturally, I’m at yourcommand.… By the way!This is confidential, ofcourse,butI’mentertainingamanwhomaybeabletohelpyou.… Yes, InspectorThumm, of New York City.… Yes, that’s the man—retired a few years ago, butyou know his reputation.…Yes, yes! I’m horribly sorry,oldman.”

He hung up, and cameslowly out on the porchagain,wipinghisforehead.“Dad!What’sup?”Elihu Clay’s face was a

white mask against the graytint of the wall. “Inspector,it’safortunatethingIgotyouup here. Something’shappened that’s much moreserious than my—my littleaffair. That was John Hume,our district attorney. He

wanted to know where Dr.Fawcett, my partner, was.”He sank into a chair, smilingfeebly. “Senator Fawcett hasjust been found stabbed todeath in the study of hishouse on the other side oftown!”

District Attorney JohnHume, it appeared, was onlytoo eager to accept theservices of amanwhose life

had been spent in theinvestigation of murders.Everything, reported Mr.Clay wearily, was being leftuntouched for father’sinspection. The districtattorney urged that theInspector come to the sceneof the crime as soon aspossible.“I’ll drive you over,” said

Jeremy quickly. “Half aminute,” and he disappeared

in the darkness to bring thecararound.“Of course, I’m going

along,” I said. “You knowwhatMr.Lanesaid,father.”“Well, I wouldn’t blame

Hume for kicking you out,”grumbledfather.“Amurder’sno place for a young girl. Idon’tknow——”“Ready!”sangoutJeremy,

and the car slipped up in thedriveway. He seemed

surprisedtoseemejumpintotherearofthelimousinewithfather, but offered noobjection.Mr.Claywavedusoff; he had an aversion, hesaidtightly,toblood.Darkness engulfed us as

the car shot on to the road,and Jeremy sent it roaringdownthehill.Itwistedaboutand looked behind. Far up,against blackish clouds,shonethelightsofAlgonquin

Prison. Why I should havethought of the prison at thatmoment when we werespeeding toward the sceneofa crime which only a freemancouldhavecommitted, Idonotknow;butitdepressedme, and I shivered andsnuggled closer to father’sgreat shoulder. Jeremy saidnothing; his eyeswere intentontheroad.We accomplished the

journey in what must havebeen a phenomenally shorttime; but to me it wasinterminable. I wasexperiencing an unpleasantsenseofimpendingevents.…It seemed hours before wedashedthroughtwoirongatesandscreamedtoastopbeforea large ornate mansionblazingwithlights.Therewereautomobilesall

about, and the dark grounds

were crawling with troopersand police. The front doorgaped open. Leaning againstthe jamb stood a quiet manwithhishandsinhispockets.Everyonewas quiet, as quietas he; there was noconversation, no casualhuman noises of any kind.Crickets chirped cheerfullyaboutthehouse,andthatwasall.Every detail of that night

stands out in memory. Tofather it was the old uglystory, but to me it was rawwithhorrorand—Iconfess—amorbid interest.Howdid adead man look? I had neverseen a deadman. I had seenmymotherdead,but shehadbeen so peaceful, so amiablysmiling. This dead manwould be a monster, I wassure; he would be grimacingwith horror, and therewould

benightmaresofblood.…I foundmyself standing in

a large study, bright withmany lamps, and filled withmen.Igotavagueimpressionof men with cameras, menwith little camel’s-hairbrushes, men who pokedamong books, men who didnothing at all. But theactuality, the reality was asolitary figure. Of all thosepresent he was the most

serene, the least concerned.He was a big beefy fellowwith an unhandsomeobesity;hewasinhisshirtsleeves,andthe sleeves were rolled upabove his elbows leaving hispowerfulhairyforearmsbare.On his feet were old androomycarpet-slippers.Onhisbroad, coarse features sat arather annoyed, notunpleasantexpression.Someone’s heavy voice

growled: “Have a look athim,Inspector.”Through the dancing haze

beforemyeyesI looked,andlooked, and thought that itwasindecentforadeadman,a murdered man, to sit soquietly and uncernedlywhileall the world scuttled abouthis room, invading hisprivacy, raping his books,photographing his desk,smearing his furniture with

powderedaluminum,brutallysearching his papers.… ThiswasSenatorJoelFawcett,thelateSenatorFawcett.The haze wavered a little,

and my eyes riveted on thatwhite shirt-front. SenatorFawcett was seated behind acluttereddesk;histhicktorsowaspressedagainst theedge,andhisheadwascockedabitto one side in an inquiringway.Andjustabovetheedge

of the desk againstwhich hesat so closely, in the centerand to the rightof thepearlybuttonsofhisshirt,therewasa stain, a spread stain,outofthe heart of which protrudedthe haft of a slender paper-knife.Blood,I thoughtdully;it really looked like red inkthat had crusted.…And thena fussy little man, whom Idiscovered later to be Dr.Bull,themedicalexaminerof

Tilden County, slipped intomy lineofvisionandblottedout the corpse. I sighed andshook my head clear of asuddenvertigo. I felt father’spowerful grip on my elbow,and I stiffened, fighting forself-control.Voicesweresaying things.

Ilookedupintotheeyesofavery young man. Father wasbooming something—Icaught the name “Hume”—

and realized that he waspresenting the districtattorney of the county, thegentleman who—goodheavens!Ithought—whowasto have been the deadman’spolitical opponent in thecoming campaign.… JohnHumewas tall, almostas tallas Jeremy—where wasJeremy? Iwondered—andhehad very beautiful andintelligent dark eyes. The

guilty little thought that hadbeen trying to creep intomyconsciousness curled up anddiedof shame.Not thisman.And that lean, hungry lookabout him. Hunger for …what?Power?Truth?“Hullo, Miss Thumm,” he

said crisply; he had a deeppracticed voice. “TheInspector tells me you’resomething of a detectiveyourself. You’re sure you

wanttostay?”“Quite sure,” I said in the

most careless tone I couldmuster.Butmylipsweredry,the words came out cracked,andhiseyesgrewkeen.“Oh, very well.” He

shrugged. “Do you want toexamine the body,Inspector?”“Your bone-setter’ll tell

youmorethanIcan.Examinetheduds?”

“There’s nothing on thebodyofinterest.”“He wasn’t expecting a

woman,” muttered father.“Not that bird.With his lips,andthosesissyfingernails,hewouldn’t receive a dame inshirt-sleeves.…Ishemarried,Hume?“No.”“Girl-friend?”“Pluralize that, Inspector,

andyou’llbenearerthetruth.

Bad actor, and I have nodoubt there’smanyawomanwhowouldhavelikedtojabaknifeintohim.”“Got anyone special in

mind?”Theireyesmet.“No,”said

JohnHume,andturnedaway.He beckoned sharply, and asquat, burly, flop-eared manslouched across the roomtoward us. The districtattorney introduced him as

Chief Kenyon, of the localpolice department. The manhad the gelatinous eyes of afish; I disliked himimmediately.And I fancied Isaw malevolence in hisglanceatfather’sbroadback.The fussy little man, Dr.

Bull, who had been engagedin scribbling with anenormous fountain-penonanofficial slip of paper,straightened up and tucked

thepenawayinhispocket.“Well, Doc?” demanded

Kenyon. “What’s theverdict?”“Murder,” said Dr. Bull

briskly. “No question in mymind. Everything points thatway, and away from suicide.Aside from all otherconsiderations, the woundsthat caused death simplycouldn’t have been self-inflicted.”

“Therewasmore than oneblow,then?”askedfather.“Yes.Fawcettwasstabbed

in the chest twice. Bothwounds bled profusely, asyousee.Butthefirst,whileaserious wound, didn’t quitesend him west, and themurderer made sure byjabbingagain.”He flicked his finger

toward the letter-knifewhichhad been buried in the dead

man’s breast. He hadremoveditfromitsbedinthevictim’s body, and it lay onthe desk, dull with a clottedcrimson coating on its thinblade. A detective picked itupgingerlyandbegantodustitwithagrayishpowder.“You’re sure,” snapped

JohnHume, “that it couldn’tpossiblyhavebeensuicide?”“Dead certain. Angles and

directions of both wounds

make the conclusioninevitable.There’ssomethingelse, though, thatyou’llwanttosee.Damnedinteresting.”Dr. Bull pattered around

the desk and stood over thestill figure, like a lecturerover an objet d’art. Quiteimpersonally he raised thedeadman’s right arm,whichwas already stiffening inrigor mortis. The skin waspallid, and the long hairs of

the forearm were hideous intheir glossy luxuriance. Andthen I forgot that this was acorpse.…For on the forearm were

two peculiar marks. One ofthem was a sharp thin gashjust above the wrist, fromwhich blood had oozed. Theotherwas four inches fartherup the arm; a queer fuzzyraggedscratchwhichpuzzledme.

“Now,” said the medicalexaminer jovially, “this gashjust above the wrist. Noquestionbutthatitwasmadeby thepaper-knife.At least,”he added hastily, “bysomething as sharp as theletter-knife.”“And the other one?”

demandedfather,frowning.“Your guess is as good as

mine.There’s onlyone thingI’llsaypositively,andthat is

thattheraggedscratchwasn’tmade by the murder-weapon.”I moistened my lips; an

idea was whispering. “Haveyou any way of fixing thetimebothwoundsweremadeonthearm,Doctor?”They all turned sharply

towardme. Hume checked aremark, and father grewthoughtful. The medicalexaminer smiled. “That’s a

good question, young lady.Yes, I have. Both scratchesweremade very recently—inthe general period of themurder—and I should say atthesameapproximatetime.”The detective who had

been experimenting with thebloody weapon straightenedupwithalookofdisgust.“Nofingerprints on theknife,” heannounced.“Tough.”“Well,” said Dr. Bull

pleasantly, “that’s the end ofmy job. You’ll want anautopsy, of course, althoughI’m sure I’ll find nothing tocast doubt on the dope I’vealready given you. One ofyou men, get the PublicWelfare boys in here to cartthestiffaway.”He closed his medical kit.

Twomen inuniform troopedin. One of them wasmasticating something

vigorously,andothersniffled—hisnosewasdampandred.These details have alwaysstood out in my mind; itwouldbeimpossibletoforgetthe utter callousness of theproceedings. I turned awayslightly.… The two menapproached the desk,deposited a large basket-likecontrivancewithfourhandleson the floor, seized the deadman by the armpits, lifted

him with loud grunts out ofthe chair, dumped him intothecrate,shovedawickerlidover him, stooped, and—theonestillchewinghisgum,theother still sniffling—carriedtheirburdenaway.I found breathing less

difficult, and sighed withrelief; although it was someminutesbeforeIcouldmustercourage enough to approachthedeskandtheemptychair.

It was at this time that Iremarkedwith a little feelingof surprise the tall figure ofJeremy Clay in the hall,leaning by the side of apoliceman against the door-jamb. He was watching meintently.“By the way,” growled

father, as the medicalexaminer picked up his bagandtrottedtothedoor,“whenwas this bird killed?” There

wasdisapprovalinhiseyes;Igathered that there wassomething slipshod in theconduct of this murderinvestigation, and that hiscity-trained, orderly soulrebelled at the completeindifference of Kenyon, whowaswanderingidlyaboutthestudy,andDr.Bull,whowaswhistlingajoyouslittletune.“Oh!That’sright;Iforgot.

I can fix the time of death

prettyexactly,”saidDr.Bull.“Ten-twenty tonight, I’d say.Ten-twenty. Yes. Not aminute more or less. Ten-twenty …” He smacked hislips, bobbed his head, anddisappearedthroughthedoor.Father grunted and looked

at his watch. It was fiveminutes of midnight. “He’sdamn’ cocksure of himself,”hemuttered.JohnHumeshookhishead

impatiently and went to thedoor. “Get that fellowCarmichaelinhere.”“Who’sCarmichael?”“Senator Fawcett’s

secretary.Kenyonsayshehasalotofvaluabletestimonyforus. Well, we’ll know in amoment.”“Findanyprints,Kenyon?”

growled father, bestowing alook of Olympian contemptuponthechiefofpolice.

Kenyon started; he hadbeenpickinghisteethwithanivorygadget,eyesabstracted.He took the toothpick out ofhismouth, scowled, and saidtooneofhismen:“Findanyprints?”The man shook his head.

“Notofanoutsider.Plentyofthe Senator’s, and ofCarmichael’s. Whoeverpulled this job must ‘a’ readdetective stories. He wore

gloves.”“He wore gloves,” said

Kenyon, and put thetoothpick back into hismouth.John Hume, at the door,

snapped:“Hurrythatmanup,will you?” and fathershrugged and lit a cigar. Icould see that he wasdisgusted with the wholeaffair.Ifeltahardedgenudgethe

backs of my thighs, andturnedquickly.ItwasJeremyClay,smiling,withachair.“Squat, Sherlocka,” he

said.“Ifyouinsistonparkinghere,youmayaswelldoyourheavy thinking off thosebeautifullittlefeetofyours.”“Please!” I said angrily, in

a half-whisper. This wasscarcely the place for levity.He grinned and forced meinto the chair. No one paid

the least attention to us. Sowith a little feeling ofhelplessness I resignedmyself…andthenIcaughtaglimpseoffather’sface.He was holding the cigar

two inches fromhis lips,andstaringatthedoorway.

3.THEBLACKBOX

A man had halted in thedoorway and was looking atthe desk. There was surpriseon his lean face as his brainregistered the emptiness ofthe chair. Then his gazeshifted and met the districtattorney’s. He smiled sadly,

nodded, and advanced intothe room to stand in themiddle of the rug, quitemotionless, at perfect ease.Hewasnotallerthanmyself,compactlybuilt,andgavetheimpression subtly of ananimal co-ordination ofmuscles. There wassomethingoddlyunsecretary-likeinhisbearingandfigure.He might have been forty,although he possessed a

certain air of agelessnesswhichwasbaffling.I looked at father again.

The cigar had not advancedan inch toward his lips. Hewas scrutinizing thenewcomer with the mosthonestamazement.And the dead man’s

secretary was looking atfather, too. But intent as Iwas, on the alert for theslightestsignofrecognition,I

could detect not even themerest flicker in his boldeyes. His glance moved onandresteduponme.Ithoughtthen that he betrayed a mildastonishment, but no morethan any man in his presentpositionmightbetrayatsightof a woman in these grimsurroundings.My eyes went back to

father again. The cigar wasbetween his teeth, he was

smoking placidly, and hisfacewas expressionless oncemore.Nooneseemedtohavenoticedhisbriefstupefaction.But that he had recognizedthismanCarmichael I knew;and,althoughCarmichaelhadnot responded by anyoutward sign, I was alsocertain that he too hadsufferedasplit-secondshock.An individual with suchconsummate self-control, I

reflected, would bearwatching.“Carmichael,” said John

Hume abruptly, “ChiefKenyon says you havesomething important to tellus.”The secretary’s eyebrows

went up slightly. “It dependsupon what you mean by‘important,’ Mr. Hume. Ofcourse, I found the body——”

“Yes, yes.” The districtattorney’s tone wascosmically impersonal.Senator Fawcett’s secretary.… I fancied I grasped thenuances. “Tell us whathappenedtonight.”“After dinner this evening

the Senator called his threeservants—the cook, thebutler,andhisvalet—intothestudy here and told them totaketheeveningoff.He——”

“How do you know this?”askedHumesharply.Carmichael smiled. “Iwas

present.”Kenyon slouched forward.

“It’sallright,Hume.I’vehadachin-chinwiththeservants.They all got in about a half-hourago.Wenttoamovieintown.”“Goon,Carmichael.”“When the Senator

dismissed the servants, he

told me I might take theevening off as well. After Ifinished somecorrespondence for theSenator,Ileftthehouse.”“Wasn’t this command a

trifleunusual?”The secretary shrugged.

“Not at all.” His white teethglistenedinabriefsmile.“Heoften had—ah—privatebusiness to attend to; and itwasn’t at all uncommon for

him to ship us out of thehouse.Atanyrate,IreturnedearlierthanIhadexpectedto.I found the front door wideopen——”“Time,” said father in his

rumbling bass. The man’ssmilewavered, and returned;he waited for father’squestion with polite interest.His manner was perfect, Ireflected; and this struck meassignificant, for I couldnot

visualize a mere secretaryreacting toanexamination insuch circumstances with solittle loss of savoir-faire.“Whenyouleftthehouse,didyouclosethedoor?”“Oh, yes! The door, as

you’ve probably noticed, hasa spring lock, anyway. Andaside from the Senator andmyself, only the servantspossesskeys.SoItakeitthattheSenatoradmittedwhoever

cameherepersonally.”“Please, no conjectures,”

snapped Hume. “There issuchathingasmakingawaximpression, you know! Youreturned and found the frontdooropen.Andthen?”“The fact struck me as

suspicious,andwithafeelingthat something was wrong Iranintotheroom.IfoundtheSenator’s dead body at thedesk, in the chair, just as it

was when Chief Kenyonarrived. Of course, the firstthing I did on finding thebody was to telephone thepolice.”“You didn’t touch the

body?”“Naturallynot.”“Hmm. What time was

this,Carmichael?”“Exactly half-past ten.

When I saw that SenatorFawcetthadbeenmurdered,I

consultedmywatchatonce.Iknew such a detail might beimportant.”Hume looked at father.

“Interesting,eh?Hefoundthebodytenminutesafterthejobwas pulled off.… And youdidn’t see anyone leave thehouse?”“No, I’m afraid I was a

little preoccupied when Icame up the walk to thehouse. It was dark, too. It

would have been awfullysimple for the murderer tohave hidden in the busheswhen he heard me coming,andwaited forme to go intothe house before making hisgetaway.”“That’s right,Hume,” said

father unexpectedly. “Afteryou telephoned the police,Carmichael, what did youdo?”“Iremainedinthedoorway

there,waiting. ChiefKenyoncameveryquickly.Notmorethan ten minutes after mycall.”Fatherstumpedovertothe

door and peered out into thecorridor.Thenhecameback,nodding. “That’s hunk. Thenyou had the front door insightallthetime.Didyouseeorhearanybodytryingtogetoutofthehouse?”Carmichaelshookhishead

positively. “No one left, orattempted to leave. I’d foundthe door of the study open,and I didn’t close it. Evenwhile I telephoned I wasfacing it, and was in aposition to see if anyonepassed. I was alone in thehouse,I’msure.”“I’m afraid I don’t quite

see——” began John Humeinanettledtone.The piscine-eyed Kenyon

interrupted in his gratingbaritone. “Whoever pulledthis job beat it beforeCarmichaelgothere.Nobodytried a lam after we came.And we searched the dumpfromtoptobottom,too.”“How about other exits?”

askedfather.Kenyon spat into the

fireplace behind the deskbefore replying. “No go,” hesneered. “We found ’em all

locked on the inside, exceptfor the front door. And thatmeanswindows,too.”“Oh, come,” said Hume.

“We’re wasting time.” Hestepped to the desk andpicked up the blood-crustedletter-knife. “Do yourecognizethis,Carmichael?”“Yes, indeed. It’s the

Senator’s.It’salwaysbeenonhis desk, Mr. Hume.”Carmichael regarded the

weapon for an instant, thenturnedslightlyaside.“Isthereanything else? I’m a trifleupset,youknow.…”Upset! The man had no

morenervesthanamicrobe.The district attorney

dropped the knife on thedesk. “What do you knowabout this crime? Anysuggestions?”The man actually looked

grieved. “I haven’t the

remotest idea,Mr.Hume.Ofcourse, you know yourselfthat the Senator had mademany enemies during hispoliticalcareer.…”Hume said slowly: “Just

whatdoyoumeanbythat?”Carmichael looked pained.

“Mean? What I said, I’msure. The Senator was amuch-hated man, as youknow. There are probablyscores of men—and women,

too, for that matter—whomight be construed aspotentialmurderers.…”“I see,” murmured Hume.

“Well, that’s all for themoment. Wait outside,please.”Carmichael, nodding,

smiledandlefttheroom.Father drew the district

attorneyaside,andIheardhisbasso agitating Hume’s earswith questions about Senator

Fawcett, his intimates, theextent of his politicaldepredations, and a series ofvery innocent ones aboutCarmichael.ChiefKenyoncontinuedto

patrol the floor, gazingstupidly at the ceiling andwalls.The desk across the room

fascinated me. I wondered—had been wondering all thewhile Carmichael was being

questioned—ifIdaredgetoutof my chair and go to thedesk.Therewerethingstherewhich, it seemed to me,simplywept forexamination.I could not understand whyfather, the district attorney,Kenyon did not scrutinizewithminuteattentiontodetailthe various objects on thatwoodensurface.I looked around. No one

waswatching.

JeremygrinnedasIslippedout of my seat and quicklycrossedtheroom.Wastingnotime,dreadinginterruptionorsome stern masculinedisapproval, I bent over thedesk.Directly before the chair

whereSenatorFawcett’sdeadbody had sat, on top of thedesk, lay a green blotter.Lying on the blotter, whichcovered half the desk-top,

was a pad of heavy, creamystationery. Its topmost sheetwas clean, blank. Carefully Ilifted the pad and discoveredacuriousthing.The Senator had been

seatedclosetotheedgeofthedesk; he had been pressedagainst it. And his chest-wounds had spouted blood,notonhistrousers,Irecalled,not on the chair, as I nowobserved, but on the blotter.

Now, on picking up the padof stationery I found that acopious gush of blood hadsoaked into thegreenblotter.Yetthestainwasanoddone.It followed the shape of oneof the lower corners of thepad. That is, with the padliftedfromtheblotter,Isawablobofdarkstainonthefreshgreen absorbent sheet whichwas irregularly spherical; buttherewasarectangularchunk

of clean blotter at one placewhere the corner of the padhadrested.It was so clear! I looked

around. Father and Humewere still conversing inundertones.Kenyonwas stillpacing mechanically. ButJeremyandanumberofmeninuniformwerewatchingme,hard-eyed, and I hesitated.Perhapsitwasunwise.…Butthetheorycriedoutfortest.I

made up my mind and,bendingover thedesk,begancounting the sheets of thepad. Was it brand-new? Itsappearance seemed toindicate this. And yet …There were ninety-eightsheets in the pad. On thecover, unless I weremistaken, there should be arecord.…Yes!Iwasright.Thecover

ofthepadinformedmethata

full, unused pad shouldcontain exactly one hundredsheets.I replaced the pad on the

blotter in theprecisepositionin which I had found it, myheart thumping against mychest like a dog’s tail on thefloor.Iwonderedif,intestingandconfirmingthistheoryofmine, I had not stumbledupon something ofoverwhelmingimportance.At

the moment, true, it seemedtoleadnowhere.Yetasaclueitbroughtcertain inescapablepossibiltiestomind.…I felt father’s touchonmy

shoulder. “Snoopin’, Patty?”heaskedgruffly,buthiseyesshot to thepadIhad justputdown, and narrowed withspeculation. Hume looked atme with cursory interest,smiled slightly, and turnedaway.Ithought:“Sothat’sit,

Mr.Hume!Patronizing!”andresolvedtojolthimoutofhiscomplacence at the very firstopportunity.“Now let’s have a look at

that bit of nonsense,Kenyon,” he said briskly. “Iwant to see what InspectorThummthinksofit.”Kenyon grunted and dug

his hand into his pocket. Hebrought out a very curiousobject.

It looked like a part of atoy. A toy box. It wasmadeof cheap wood; soft wood,likepine. It hadbeen staineda rusty, mottled black, andhad little crudemetal stapleson its corners for decoration;quiteasifitweremeanttobea replica of a trunk, and themetal staples represented thebrasspieceswhichprotectthecorners. And yet I could notfeel that it was meant to

representatrunk;itwasmorelike a box, a chest, inminiature. It stood not morethanthreeincheshigh.Butthearrestingfeatureof

this object was that it wasonly part of a miniaturechest.Fortherightsideofthepiece had been neatly andcleanly sawed through, andwhat Kenyon held in hisgrimy, black-nailed fingerswas only two inches wide. I

made a rapid calculation.Roughly, the whole chestshouldbe,inproportiontoitsheight,somesixincheswide.Thiswas two: it represented,therefore, one-third of thewholepiece.“Put that in your pipe and

smoke it,” said Kenyonnastily to father. “What’s thebig-citybullgot to sayaboutthis,huh?”“Where’dyoufindit?”

“On the desk there,standin’ up, large as life,when we busted in here.Behind the pad, facin’ thestiff.”“Queer,allright,”muttered

father; and took it fromKenyon’s fingers foracloserexamination.The lid—or rather that

portion of the lid whichremained lying upon theportion of chest left after the

rest had been sawed away—was attached to the body ofthe chest by a single tinyhinge. There was nothinginside; the interior of thechest had not been stained,and its virgin woody surfacewasnotevendirty.And on the front of the

piece that father held,carefullypaintedingiltlettersover the rusty black stain,weretwocharacters:H-E.

“Now,what thedevildoesthatmean?” Father looked atmeblankly.“Who’s‘he’?”“Cryptic, isn’t it?” smiled

Hume,with the air of amanwho poses amerely pleasantlittleproblem.“Of course,” I said

thoughtfully, “it probablydoesn’tmean‘he’atall.”“Andwhatmakes you say

that,MissThumm?”“I should think, Mr.

Hume,” I said in my mostsugary voice, “that aman ofyour perceptions would seethe possibilities in the well-knownflash.Amerewoman,youknow——”“I can’t believe this is

important,” said Humeabruptly, his smile quitesmothered. “Nor doesKenyonthinkso.Atthesametime, we don’t want tooverlook a possible clue.

What do you think,Inspector?”“Mydaughter,”saidfather,

“called the turn. It may bejust part of aword—the firsttwoletters,andinthatcaseitwouldn’t mean ‘he.’ Or it’sthe first word of a shortsentence.Kenyon made a loud

derisivenoise.“Examined this for

fingerprints?”

Hume nodded; he seemedtroubled. “Fawcett’s printsarethere,butnooneelse’s.”“Found on the desk,”

muttered father. “Was it onthe desk when Carmichaelleftthehousetonight?”Humeraisedhiseyebrows.

“Asamatterof fact, Ididn’tthink it of sufficient value toask about. Let’s getCarmichael in here and findout.”

He sent a man for thesecretary, who appearedpromptly with a courteousand questioning look on hisbland face, and then rivetedhis eyes upon the litlewooden piece in father’shand.“Iseeyou’vefoundit,”he

murmured.“Interesting,eh?”Humestiffened. “You find

it so? What do you knowaboutit?”

“It’s a curious little story,Mr. Hume. I didn’t find theopportunity to tell you aboutit,orMr.Kenyon…”“Just a minute,” drawled

father. “Was this dingus onthe Senator’s desk tonightwhenyoulefttheroom?”Carmichaelsmiledhisthin,

evensmile.“Itwasnot.”“Then we can say,”

continued father, “that thisthingmeant enough either to

Fawcettor tohismurderer tomakeoneortheotherpropitup on the desk. Doesn’t thatstrike you as damn’important,Hume?”“Perhaps you’re right. I

hadn’t looked at it in thatlight.”“Of course we can’t say,

for instance, that the Senatordidn’ttakeitoutwhenhewasalone for apeepat it. In thatcasethemurderprobablyhad

nothing to do with it.Although I’ve found fromexperience that whensomebody who’s beenbumped off undercircumstances like these—sending everyone away—does something, mosttimes that something isrelated to his murder. Takeyourchoice.I’dsaythispieceofjunkneedslookinginto.”“Perhaps,” suggested

Carmichael mildly, “you’dbetterhearwhatIhavetosay,gentlemen, before coming toanyconclusions.Thatsectionof wooden box has been intheSenator’sdeskforweeks.In this drawer.” He circledthe desk and opened the topdrawer. Its contents were inconfusion.‘Somebody’sbeenatthis!”“What do you mean?”

asked the district attorney

quickly.“Senator Fawcett was a

fanatic on order. Lovedeverything neat. I happen toknow that yesterday, forinstance, this drawer was inperfectorder.Nowthepapersare disarranged. He’d neverhaveitthatway,I’mpositive.Somebody rummaged in thisdrawer,Itellyou!”Kenyonbawledathismen:

“Anyo’youlunksbeenatthe

desk?”Therewasachorusofnegatives. “Funny,” hemuttered. “I told ’emmyselfto leave the desk alone tilllater.Whoinhell——?”“Keep your shirt on,

Kenyon,” growled father.“We’re making progress.Offhand,lookslikethekiller.Now, Carmichael, what thedeuce is behind this tomfoolcontraption.What’sitmean?”“I wish I could tell you,

Inspector,” replied thesecretary rergetfully. Theireyesmetwithout expression.“But it’s as much a mysterytomeasitistoyou.Eventheway it got here wasmysterious.Afewweeksago—three weeks, I think—itcameina…No,perhapsI’dbetter start from thebeginning.”“Makeitsnappy.”Carmichael sighed. “The

Senator realized that he wasin for a hard pre-electionfight,Mr.Hume——”“Oh, he did, did he?” said

Humewithagrimnod.“Andwhathasthattodowithit?”“Well, Senator Fawcett

thought it might add to hispopularityasacandidateifheposed—I use the wordadvisedly—asdefenderofthelocal poor.He conceived theideaofputtingonabazaarat

which the products of prisonlabor—from AlgonquinPrison, of course—would besold for the unemployed ofthecounty.”“That was pretty well

exploded by the LeedsExaminer,”interruptedHumedryly. “Cut out the non-essentials.What’s the box todowiththebazaar?”“Well, theSenator secured

the consent of the State

Prison Board and WardenMagnus, and visitedAlgonquin on a tour ofinspection,” continuedCarmichael. “Thiswas abouta month ago. He arrangedwith the warden to havesamples of prisonmanufactures sent to him,here, to be used for advancepublicity.” Carmichaelpaused,andhiseyesgleamed.“Andinacartonoftoysmade

by the prison carpentry shopwasthislittlepieceofchest!”“So,” muttered father.

“How do you know this, bytheway?”“Iopenedthecartons.”“This thingamajigwas just

stuck in with the rest of thegewgaws?”“Not quite, Inspector. It

waswrappedinafilthypieceof paper addressed in pencilto theSenator, and therewas

a note inside the package inan envelope, also addressedtotheSenator.”“Note!” shrieked Hume.

“Why, man, that’s oftremendousimportance!Whydidn’t you tell us all thisbefore? Where is this note?Did you read it?What did itsay?”Carmichael looked sad.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hume, butsince theboxand letterwere

addressedtoSenatorFawcett,Icouldn’t…Yousee,whenIfound them, I turned themovertotheSenator,whowasat the desk examining thethings as I opened thecartons. I didn’t know whatwasinthepackageatalluntilhe opened it after I turned itovertohim.AllIcaughtwasaglimpseoftheaddress.TheSenator turned deathly palewhen he caught sight of the

boxandopened theenvelopewith shaking fingers. I’llsweartothat.Andatthesametime he toldme to get out—he’d open the other cartonshimself.”“Too bad, too bad,”

snapped Hume. “So you’venoideawheretheletteris,orifFawcettdestroyedit,eh?”“After I had transshipped

thetoysandtheothercartonsto the bazaar headquarters in

town,Inoticedthat thepieceof chest wasn’t in the toycarton. And then one day,about a week or so later, Ihappened tosee it in that topdrawerofthedesk.Asfortheletter,Ineversawitagain.”Hume said: “Wait a

minute, Carmichael,” andwhispered something toKenyon, who looked boredandgrowledanordertothreepolicemen. One of them

immediatelywenttothedesk,squatted on his hams, andbegan to rifle the drawers.Theothertwowentout.Fatherstudiedthetipofhis

cigarwithathoughtfulsquint.“Say, Carmichael, whodelivered thatcartonof toys?Did I hear you say anythingaboutthat?”“DidI?Prisontrusties,you

know, fromeachdepartment.Naturally, I don’t know the

men.”“Tellme this.Was the toy

cartonsealedwhenthistrustydeliveredittoyou?”Carmichael stared. “Oh, I

see.Youthinkthemessengermighthaveopenedthecartonandslippedthepackageinonhiswayto thehouse?Idon’tthink so, Inspector. The sealwas perfect, and I’m sure ifthere’d been signs oftampering I’d have detected

them.”“Ha,”saidfather,smacking

his lips. “Swell. That wouldtighten ’er up, Hume. Theprison,byGod.Ithoughtyousaid that little jigger wasn’timportant!”“I was wrong,” confessed

Hume; there was boyishexcitement in his dark eyes.“Andyou,MissThumm—doyou think it’s important,too?”

There was a smilingcondescensioninhistonethatmademeboil.Patronizingmeagain! I thrust my chinforward and said, withvenom:“MydearMr.Hume,surely it doesn’t make anydifferencewhatIthink?”“Oh, come now. I didn’t

meantooffendyou.Whatdoyou really think about thisbusiness of the woodenchest?”

“I think,” I snapped, “thatyou’reallabysmallyblind!”

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