LITMIR.BIZ

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what I’d like to know,’ Sewell declared; ‘can you explain, Ramsay? Who killed Mr Balfour? Is he dead?’

      ‘You called Headquarters, sir?’ and Inspector Manton looked at Ramsay.

      ‘I did.’

      ‘Will you please tell your story? Please explain the conditions we find here?’

      ‘I’m not sure that I can, but I’ll tell all I know.’

      ‘Go to it, my boy,’ Sewell urged. ‘How did you get in the shop? Has Gill been here? Who jammed that skewer in Balfour’s breast?’

      ‘Just a moment, Mr Sewell. Let me conduct the inquiry.’ Inspector Manton had a nice way with him, but his speech was a trifle dictatorial. ‘Tell me names, please. Who is the dead man, and who are you?’

      Keith began, slowly. ‘The man who is dead,’ he said, ‘is Mr Philip Balfour, who lived on Park Avenue, several blocks farther uptown. He was a wealthy man, retired, and devoted to the hobby of collecting old and rare books. I am—was—his librarian, and I had charge of the details of the library’s business affairs and kept it in order generally.’

      ‘And I can vouch for both of them,’ declared John Sewell, eager to vindicate his friends from any thought of wrong-doing. Mr Balfour was one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known and Mr Ramsay is an ideal librarian.

      ‘Facts we’re after,’ put in Captain Burnet of the Homicide Squad. ‘What are you two men doing here, and who killed Mr Balfour?’

      ‘Were you here when these men arrived, Mr Sewell?’ asked Manton, who thought he had heard Sewell come in just as he came in himself.

      ‘Well, no,’ Sewell returned, looking a little perplexed. ‘I just came in myself, as you did. Tell your story, Keith.’

      ‘I will,’ and Ramsay’s face grew stern and set, ‘but I am afraid you’ll find it hard to believe.’

      ‘Out with it,’ Sewell urged. ‘I know neither of you two did any wrong, whatever happened.’

      The Inspector nodded at Ramsay and he began.

      ‘It was the wish of Mr Balfour to come here tonight to see about some books. He bade me telephone Mr Sewell that we were coming, but I couldn’t get him on the telephone, so Mr Balfour said he was probably here at the shop and we would come along, anyhow.’

      ‘H’mm,’ observed Sewell, not with any seeming doubt, but expressing a mite of surprise.

      ‘So we came over soon after dinner and, as Mr Balfour wanted to find a couple of books, we both looked for them.’

      ‘What were the names of these books?’ asked Burnet.

      ‘They were two of Lewis Carroll’s less well-known volumes. One was Symbolic Logic and the other A Theory of Parallels. You know them, Mr Sewell?’

      ‘Yes, yes; oh, yes,’ he replied, but Captain Burnet shrewdly declared to himself that though the sagacious book-dealer doubtless knew the books, he did not know why Mr Balfour was over in his shop hunting for them.

      But he said nothing and Ramsay went on.

      ‘You may find this hard to believe,’ he hesitated a little, ‘but I swear I am speaking only the exact truth. I was looking along those shelves opposite the outside door and Mr Balfour was on the other side of the room, near the door. I heard no unusual sound, saw nothing unusual, when suddenly the lights went out and the room was in total darkness.

      ‘Then I heard a thud as if Mr Balfour might have fallen to the floor, and I tried to grope my way over toward him, when I was chloroformed. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about, for I do. Someone grasped me, held a saturated cloth against my nostrils and held me so firmly that I couldn’t move, until I became unconscious. The swivel chair, the desk chair, was nearest, and I assume my assailant seated me in that after I was entirely oblivious.’

      ‘Who was your assailant?’ asked John Sewell, gravely.

      ‘I’ve no idea. I can only assume the intruder was a swift worker, that he put me out of commission, then took that long silver skewer from the table there, drove it into Mr Balfour’s heart and departed.’

      ‘You think Mr Balfour put up no fight?’

      ‘I can’t say. But it’s quite possible that the killer chloroformed his victim and then stabbed him when he was helpless.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘I’ve little more to tell. After a time, I’ve no means of knowing how long, I began to come out of the stupor and even then it took some time to regain my full senses. When I was able to do so I went over and looked at Mr Balfour and saw him as you see him now. I looked hastily round, saw no intruder present, saw no definite or striking evidence that anyone had been here, yet there was the dead body of my employer and friend. I did the only possible thing, I called the police. Then I tried to get Mr Sewell. He was not at home, but Mrs Sewell told me he was probably even then at Mr Balfour’s house, and I called up and he was there. I asked him to come here without telling Mrs Balfour anything about it, and I assume he did so.’

      ‘I did,’ said Sewell, ‘and of course I believe your story, Keith. In fact, it’s the only thing that could have happened. How else could Philip Balfour have been killed?’

      ‘For my part,’ said the detective, ‘I don’t believe one single word of Mr Ramsay’s recital. We will investigate it, of course, but it doesn’t ring true to me.’

       CHAPTER II

       RAMSAY’S WORD IS DOUBTED

      DOCTOR JAMISON, the Medical Examiner, was what the novelists call a strong, silent man. Two not indispensable traits for one of his calling, for his strength was seldom needed and his silence was frequently exceedingly annoying.

      On his arrival, he gave a brief nod that seemed intended as a general greeting, and went straight to the body of Philip Balfour.

      The situation seemed to him quite apparent. Beyond doubt, Philip Balfour had been killed by the vigorous stab which had also felled him to the floor.

      ‘What’s this thing?’ the Examiner demanded, carefully drawing the long weapon out of the wound.

      ‘It’s an old silver skewer,’ Sewell told him. ‘Early English, Georgian, most likely. It is my property and was lying on that table beside you when last I saw it.’

      ‘Then it was handy for the murder,’ exclaimed the Inspector. ‘They often pick up a weapon on the spot. Eh, Jamison?’

      The doctor made no verbal reply nor did he look toward the speaker. Manton held out his hand for the skewer and took it gingerly on a sheet of cardboard he held ready.

      It was a beautiful piece. Twelve inches long, exactly, it tapered from the point to the ring at the top, which measured an inch across.

      The ring and the blade were all in one piece, the ring being not unlike a plain wedding ring.

      ‘There’s a hallmark on it,’ Manton observed, ‘you know, four little bits of squares under one another with designs in them. A lion and a sort of crown and a letter H and something I can’t make out. And above it all, some letters—’

      ‘Give it to me,’ said Burnet, ‘you’ll spoil the fingerprints—if any.’ The Captain took the skewer and laid it carefully aside.

      The finger-print man, who with the camera men had come at the time Jamison did, turned his attention to the weapon.

      ‘It served its purpose,’ he remarked; ‘in all the detective stories, the killer uses a dagger from foreign parts, masquerading as a paper-cutter. I’ll bet there’s

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