A physician had been hastily summoned, and Martin Carmody had been removed to one of the spare bedrooms in the house. It was not a serious seizure, the doctor had declared, merely a light heart attack. He added, however, that his patient must have absolute rest for several hours and that he could not be removed to his home until evening.
Harrington paced the library floor, casting an occasional glance at the coffin on the table. He had observed the tender solicitude with which Theresa had hovered about the stricken man, and he had seen Carmody’s looks of mute affection. Yet Carstairs had hinted that Carmody lied when he said Theresa was his daughter. He had even suggested that her life might be in danger. There was certainly a contradiction somewhere.
For several minutes not a word had been spoken in the library. Carstairs, with his brooding smile on his white face, occupied a negligent position in an armchair. Whittaker, a long, rangy, untidy figure except for his white vest, stood at the window smoking a cigar. Storm was consulting his notebook.
“Well,” said Whittaker, turning from the window and fixing his dour eyes on his assistant, “who was the guilty-looking one?”
Storm closed his notebook and methodically put it in his pocket.
“Mr. Carmody certainly looked guilty,” Storm declared, craftily emphasizing the last word but one.
Whittaker nodded approvingly in Harrington’s direction.
“Storm is deep. He says Mr. Carmody looked guilty. He doesn’t say he is actually guilty. Tell us what you mean, Storm.”
“Well, I was watching the whole room. Mr. Carmody looked guilty enough, but somebody else looked all-fired innocent. Too innocent,” Storm added sagaciously.
“See?” said Whittaker solemnly. “That’s Storm. He has eyes and a brain, and he uses both. Couldn’t get along without him.”
Harrington smiled. Whittaker was exhibiting his assistant’s talents with the air of one exhibiting a blue-ribboned bulldog.
“Well, Storm,” he now added, “who was the one that looked too innocent?”
“Oh, we won’t mention names just now. Anyhow, it wasn’t a fair test. Mr. Carstairs prepared them for what was coming.”
“Even so,” came Carstairs’ voice from the depths of the armchair, “the result seemed fairly conclusive.”
He chuckled agreeably. “Oh, come now, Storm. There were only six of us in the room, counting yourself and Mr. Whittaker. You two, by virtue of your official positions, are safely outside the range of suspicion. So the person you say looked too innocent must be either Miss Lanyard, Mr. Harrington or myself. Which one was it?”
Storm shook his head stubbornly and, walking up to the table, picked up the miniature coffin.
“Storm never says a thing unless he is absolutely sure,” Whittaker explained. “That’s a characteristic of a great mind.”
Harrington looked at him. There was a sly little twinkle in his dour eyes.
“You didn’t tell us anything new, Mr. Carstairs,” the prosecuting attorney went on. “Storm has suspected for some time that Mooreland was murdered. There was a rumpus between him and Carmody toward the last. Wasn’t there, Storm?”
“Yes, a bad one. Oh, I guess Carmody killed the old man. There are several things make me think so. Can’t prove it, though, so what’s the use talking? Anyhow, I don’t agree with you, Mr. Carstairs. I don’t think the same goof did for Mooreland and Marsh. That is to say, I think Carmody murdered Mooreland, but I don’t think he had anything to do with the Marsh murder.”
Carstairs shrugged as if Storm’s opinions were of no great importance. The detective was inspecting the little coffin.
“It’s locked,” he remarked. “Good, strong lock, too.”
“Yes,” said Carstairs, “and the key is still missing. I suppose, Mr. Whittaker, you will turn it over intact to the executor of the Mooreland estate? It’s just possible that he has the key.”
“I’ll look into it So Mooreland left an estate, did he? I never heard of it.”
“Few people have, but it’s so. He left a considerable estate. That coffin, by the way, contains a million dollars’ worth of precious stones.”
The box dropped with a loud crash from Storm’s fingers.
“It might be advisable,” Carstairs added casually, “to keep the box under lock and key until you can get in touch with the executor. Well, gentlemen, I trust I have given you a few valuable hints. Now, if I can’t assist you further, I shall take a little walk. Good morning.”
Storm’s astounded gaze was still riveted on the little coffin. Whittaker looked a trifle uncertain, but he said nothing. With a swagger that might have been unconscious, Carstairs left the room, and Harrington stared after him, brows puckering.
“Gosh!” Storm muttered thickly. “A million dollars!”
Whittaker stood at the window and watched Carstairs climb into his car and drive off.
“He said he was going to take a walk,” he remarked. “He didn’t walk far. Well, I suppose some men get their exercise at the wheel. What about you, Storm? Don’t you feel you need a bit of exercise, too?”
Storm lifted his heavy eyes from the little coffin.
“Exercise? Not me! I get enough of it.”
“But a little spin might do you good. My car is outside, you know. It isn’t much on looks, but I’ll bet it’s as fast as the one Carstairs drives.”
Storm gaped at him for a moment, and then a shrewd look came into his eyes.
“Right,” he said, grinning. “I need a little air.”
He walked out with his heavy tread, and in a few moments Harrington saw him drive off at a rather frantic speed. His eyes narrowed. He had been aware of a furtive interplay of glances between Storm and his superior.
“Where is Storm going?” he asked.
Whittaker pursed his lips mysteriously.
“You can never tell about Storm. He is deep. Now, it’s just possible that he’s decided to keep an eye on Carstairs.”
Harrington’s lips twitched. Unless he had been mistaken, the suggestion to keep an eye on Carstairs had come from Whittaker himself. In fact, Storm had been rather slow to grasp it.
“I see. It was Carstairs who looked too innocent.”
“Maybe so. You can never tell what Storm thinks. But I’m afraid he’s off on a wild goose chase this time. However, the fresh air will do him good.”
“What did you think of Carstairs’ surprise? Was the test conclusive?”
“H’m? Well, as far as it went, I suppose it was. Too bad that one or two other people weren’t present, though.”
“Luke Garbo, Stoddard, and Samuel Tarkin?”
Whittaker looked down at the coffin and did not answer directly.
“There was one queer thing I noticed,” he remarked. “Mr. Carstairs looked as if he wasn’t satisfied with the test. He seemed disappointed.”
Harrington nodded. He had conceived the same impression, though in a very vague form.
“But it all comes back to this,” said Whittaker gloomily. “No matter how innocent or guilty some people may look, there’s only one person who could have committed the crime, and that’s you, Mr. Harrington.”
Harrington started, though the idea was by no means a novel one, but in a moment a smile came to his lips.
“Want to place me under arrest, Mr. Whittaker?”
“We’ll wait for the inquest this afternoon. By the way, seen Luke Garbo lately?”
“Not since you patronized his cigar counter the other night.”
Whittaker lifted the box gingerly from the table.
“Too bad Carstairs didn’t tell us where he found it. I suppose he had his reasons. Speaking of Garbo, there’s a man playing in hard luck. Saw him this morning. He says business is so rotten that he hardly bothers to open his place any more.”
Harrington waited for more, but evidently Whittaker had finished.
“But all you had against Garbo was those queer tracks, and they have been explained.”
“Yes, so it seems. I must ask Storm what he thinks about that. Anyhow, as I said before, there’s only one man could have done that job, and that’s—“ He mumbled the rest, and his dour eyes slanted down to the articles on the table, the ice pick, Marsh’s hat, and the little coffin. “One thing is missing—the glove button,” he said with a somber grin.
“Oh, yes, the button.” Harrington’s thoughts suddenly took a different trend, but they were interrupted by footsteps outside the door, which had been left open a few inches. They paused, and the person approaching seemed to hesitate. Harrington looked around him and was surprised to discover that Whittaker was nowhere in sight.
The door was pushed wide, and in the opening stood Tarkin with his slippery gaze and his unwholesome grin that revealed a wealth of golden teeth.
“What do you want?” Harrington curtly inquired.
The blackmailer came forward with his mincing step.
“You haven’t forgotten that you owe me two grand?”
“Correct,” said Harrington frigidly, recalling the circumstances of the bargain. At that time a million, if he had had a million to pay, would not have seemed too high a price for Tarkin’s assistance. Well, he had promised, and a promise was a promise even when made to a disgusting creature like Tarkin. He viewed the man with curiosity, however. “What became of you after you cut me loose?”
“I beat it,” said Tarkin. “That place is none too healthy for me. Carstairs might have caught me, and that wouldn’t have been so good.”
Harrington regarded him steadily, a number of curious circumstances flashing through his mind.
“What would Carstairs have done to you if he had found you?”
“What wouldn’t he have done? He’d have given me the jujitsu treatment for one thing, and that’s not so good.”
Harrington knew from experience that it was not. “And he might have killed me besides,” Tarkin added, showing his golden molars in a crooked grin. “Well, do I get the two grand?”
“One moment.” Still wondering what might have become of Whittaker, Harrington picked up the ice pick from the table. “Ever see this before, Tarkin?” The blackmailer regarded the instrument attentively. His rheumy eyes narrowed.
“Couldn’t say. It might be the one, and again it might not.”
“Which one?”
“Well, one time Carstairs went after me with his bag of jujitsu tricks, and I went for him with an ice pick. He took it away from me and—Well, it wasn’t so good!” Tarkin’s thoughts seemed to run back over a painful scene.
Harrington considered. So that was the episode Carstairs had had in mind when he suggested that Tarkin could tell something about the ice pick. He remembered, too, that Carstairs had seemed puzzled that he, Harrington, should stress such a trifling point.
“When was that?” he asked.
“Oh, a couple of weeks ago. I’m not saying it was this particular ice pick, you understand. I don’t see that it cuts any ice, anyhow.” Tarkin laughed at his little joke.
“So Carstairs took the pick away from you. And kept it, of course?”
“I suppose so. Say, what has all this got to do with my two grand?”
Harrington gazed thoughtfully at the instrument If there had ever been any dark-red stains on it, they had been destroyed when Carstairs heated it in the stove. He put it down and reached for his checkbook.
“I’ll take it in cash,” Tarkin declared. “Checks aren’t so good. Anyhow,” with a shrewd grin, “you’d have to sign a name to it that isn’t known in these parts. No, I’ll take the cash.”
“Yes, and you will wait for it.” Harrington put the checkbook back In his pocket. “I don’t carry much cash around with me.”
“Look here,” surlily, “you aren’t going to welch?”
“You will get your two thousand, and I hope you choke on it. Now clear out.”
Whimpering, the blackmailer shuffled out of the room. As the door closed behind him, another door opened—a small closet door in a corner of the library. The long, rangy figure of Whittaker appeared in the opening.
“Wish Storm had been here,” he said. “He’d have learned a whole lot from that. So that little rat is blackmailing you?”
“Oh, not exactly.” Harrington explained. He had already given a brief account of last night’s happenings, but he had omitted Tarkin’s part in them. “So, you see, it isn’t a case of blackmail.”
“I see.” Whittaker came close up to him. “I wonder what name you would have signed to the check if you’d made it out.”
“Does it matter? You might not know it if I told you.”
“Maybe not That reminds me. I got a queer letter in the mail—a carbon copy of a letter, rather. A note in Marsh’s handwriting came with it. It said you would deliver the original.”
Harrington started. Two realizations flashed through his mind. So Marsh had mailed that amazing letter, after all. And the original was still in Harrington’s pocket. In the feverish rush of tragic events he had completely forgotten it.
“But you never did,” Whittaker added.
“I forgot.” With an embarrassed smile, Harrington pulled the letter from his pocket “Too much excitement Here it is.”
Whittaker regarded him closely as he took the letter. For the moment his eyes, usually so sluggish and melancholy, seemed strangely keen. Harrington felt his innermost thoughts were being read.
“Yes, one forgets,” Whittaker mumbled. “The letter will be introduced at the inquest, of course.” His Ores grew dull and heavy again. “Did you believe what Tarkin told you?”
“About the ice pick? Well, it didn’t occur to me to doubt him.”
Whittaker stuck his hands in his pockets and lowered his head.
“I don’t suppose he weighs more than a hundred pounds.” He appeared to be talking to himself. “And he hops around like a straw in the wind.”
“Yes? What of it?”
Whittaker seemed to come out of a reverie. He smiled somberly.
“For a man who may be arrested for murder before the day is over, you are awfully slow to see the drift in the other direction. Now, this is how Storm would look at it. If—and it’s a big if—somebody slipped into the car while you were driving it, it must have been a man as small and light as Tarkin.”
“No,” said Harrington, shaking his head, “Tarkin couldn’t have done it. It would have to be a man as small and light as a kitten, and even a kitten couldn’t have got in with three of the doors locked on the inside and all the windows closed.”
“I see you are going to be a good witness for the prosecution.”
“Can’t help it,” grimly. “Besides, there is still the mystery of how Marsh got into the car.”
“Yes,” said Whittaker, “there is—provided you told the truth.”