LITMIR.BIZ

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had been hidden in the place during his visit.”

      “Your man in the clothes-closet, I presume you mean.”

      “Yes—of course. . . . You know, Markham, it might have been the horrified Skeel, emerging from his hiding-place upon a scene of tragic wreckage, who let out that evangelical invocation.”

      “Except,” commented Markham, with sarcasm, “Skeel doesn’t impress me as particularly religious.”

      “Oh, that?” Vance shrugged. “A point in substantiation. Irreligious persons call on God much more than Christians. The only true and consistent theologians, don’t y’ know, are the atheists.”

      Heath, who had been sitting in gloomy meditation, took his cigar from his mouth and heaved a heavy sigh.

      “Yes,” he rumbled, “I’m willing to admit somebody besides Skeel got into Odell’s apartment, and that the Dude hid in the clothes-closet. But, if that’s so, then this other fellow didn’t see Skeel; and it’s not going to do us a whole lot of good even if we identify him.”

      “Don’t fret on that point, Sergeant,” Vance counselled him cheerfully. “When you’ve identified this other mysterious visitor you’ll be positively amazed how black care will desert you. You’ll rubricate the hour you find him. You’ll leap gladsomely in the air. You’ll sing a roundelay.”

      “The hell I will!” said Heath.

      Swaeker came in with a typewritten memorandum, and put it on the District Attorney’s desk.

      “The architect just phoned in this report.”

      Markham glanced it over: it was very brief.

      “No help here,” he said. “Walls solid. No waste space. No hidden entrances.”

      “Too bad, Sergeant,” sighed Vance. “You’ll have to drop the cinema idea. . . . Sad.”

      Heath grunted and looked disconsolate.

      “Even without no other way of getting in or out except that side door,” he said to Markham, “couldn’t we get an indictment against Skeel, now that we know the door was unlocked Monday night?”

      “We might, Sergeant. But our chief snag would be to show how it was originally unlocked and then rebolted after Skeel left. And Abe Rubin would concentrate on that point.—No, we’d better wait a while and see what develops.”

      Something “developed” at once. Swacker entered and informed the Sergeant that Snitkin wanted to see him immediately.

      Snitkin came in, visibly agitated, accompanied by a wizened, shabbily dressed little man of about sixty, who appeared awed and terrified. In the detective’s hand was a small parcel wrapped in newspaper, which he laid on the District Attorney’s desk with an air of triumph.

      “The Canary’s jewellery,” he announced. “I’ve checked it up from the list the maid gave me, and it’s all there.”

      Heath sprang forward, but Markham was already untying the package with nervous fingers. When the paper had been opened, there lay before us a small heap of dazzling trinkets—several rings of exquisite workmanship, three magnificent bracelets, a sparkling sunburst, and a delicately wrought lorgnette. The stones were all large and of unconventional cut.

      Markham looked up from them inquisitively, and Snitkin, not waiting for the inevitable question, explained.

      “This man Potts found ’em. He’s a street-cleaner, and he says they were in one of the D. S. C. cans at 23d Street near the Flatiron Building. He found ’em yesterday afternoon, so he says, and took ’em home. Then he got scared and brought ’em to Police Headquarters this morning.”

      Mr. Potts, the “white-wing,” was trembling visibly.

      “Thass right, sir—thass right,” he assured Markham, with frightened eagerness. “I allus look into any bundles I find. I didn’t mean no harm takin’ ’em home, sir. I wasn’t gonna keep ’em. I laid awake worryin’ all night, an’ this mornin’, as soon as I got a chance, I took ’em to the p’lice.” He shook so violently I was afraid he was going to break down completely.

      “That’s all right, Potts,” Markham told him in a kindly voice. Then to Snitkin: “Let the man go—only get his full name and address.”

      Vance had been studying the newspaper in which the jewels had been wrapped.

      “I say, my man,” he asked, “is this the original paper you found them in?”

      “Yes, sir—the same. I ain’t touched nothin’.”

      “Right-o.”

      Mr. Potts, greatly relieved, shambled out, followed by Snitkin.

      “The Flatiron Building is directly across Madison Square from the Stuyvesant Club,” observed Markham, frowning.

      “So it is.” Vance then pointed to the left-hand margin of the newspaper that held the jewels. “And you’ll notice that this Herald of yesterday has three punctures evidently made by the pins of a wooden holder such as is generally used in a club’s reading-room.”

      “You got a good eye, Mr. Vance,” nodded Heath, inspecting the newspaper.

      “I’ll see about this.” Markham viciously pressed a button. “They keep their papers on file for a week at the Stuyvesant Club.”

      When Swacker appeared, he asked that the club’s steward be got immediately on the telephone. After a short delay, the connection was made. At the end of five minutes’ conversation Markham hung up the receiver and gave Heath a baffled look.

      “The club takes two Heralds. Both of yesterday’s copies are there, on the rack.”

      “Didn’t Cleaver once tell us he read nothing but The Herald—that and some racing-sheet at night?” Vance put the question offhandedly.

      “I believe he did.” Markham considered the suggestion. “Still, both the club Heralds are accounted for.” He turned to Heath. “When you were checking up on Mannix, did you find out what clubs he belonged to?”

      “Sure.” The Sergeant took out his note-book and riffled the pages for a minute or two. “He’s a member of the Furriers’ and the Cosmopolis.”

      Markham pushed the telephone toward him.

      “See what you can find out.”

      Heath was fifteen minutes at the task.

      “A blank,” he announced finally. “The Furriers’ don’t use holders, and the Cosmopolis don’t keep any back numbers.”

      “What about Mr. Skeel’s clubs, Sergeant?” asked Vance, smiling.

      “Oh, I know the finding of that jewellery gums up my theory about Skeel,” said Heath, with surly ill nature. “But what’s the good of rubbing it in? Still, if you think I’m going to give that bird a clean bill of health just because the Odell swag was found in a trash-can, you’re mighty mistaken. Don’t forget we’re watching the Dude pretty close. He may have got leery, and tipped off some pal he’d cached the jewels with.”

      “I rather fancy the experienced Skeel would have turned his booty over to a professional receiver. But even had he passed it on to a friend, would this friend have been likely to throw it away because Skeel was worried?”

      “Maybe not. But there’s some explanation for those jewels being found, and when we get hold of it, it won’t eliminate Skeel.”

      “No; the explanation won’t eliminate Skeel,” said Vance; “but—my word!—how it’ll change his locus standi.”

      Heath contemplated him with shrewdly appraising eyes. Something in Vance’s tone had apparently piqued his curiosity and set him to wondering. Vance had too often been right in his diagnoses of persons and things for the Sergeant to ignore his opinions wholly.

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