‘Yes, I tossed them there before I rushed to the telephone. Got that blood on the muffler when I bent over him.’
‘What time did you leave here this evening?’
‘Shortly before seven,’ replied Day.
‘Can you prove you were at the theater all evening?’ demanded Kelley.
‘Why, yes, I went with a friend.’
‘He’s been dead about six hours, Inspector,’ said the police surgeon, finishing his examination at this point. ‘A deep knife wound, below the heart.’
As Fordney picked up an earring from the floor, Day exclaimed: ‘Why, that belongs to his fiancée.’
‘Well, there’ll be no wedding bells for him,’ remarked Kelley, with a start as he discovered that Day’s cane was a sword-stick with a long, thin, shining blade.
‘Any blood, Inspector?’ asked Fordney.
‘None. Clean as a whistle.’
‘Well, Day, looks mighty bad for you,’ stated the Professor. ‘I don’t know yet whether you killed him with that cane, or whether you killed him at all, but I do know you were here a few minutes after he was stabbed.’
How did the Professor know?
35 _Speakeasy Stick-Up_
‘I had counted the cash, and as I was working the combination to open the wall safe I heard this guy in back of me say, “Get ’em up, Bo. This is a stick-up.” I reached for the ceiling as he says, “Make a move and I’ll drill you!” He didn’t sound like he was foolin’, so I kept quiet.
‘Well, he comes over, gives me a prod with his gun, pockets the dough, and asks me where the best liquor is, saying he don’t want no bar whiskey either. I told him and he poured himself a drink.
‘Then he got real sociable-like, but wouldn’t let me take my hands down. He kept on talkin’ and makin’ wise-cracks, but finally got tired, I guess.
‘With a warnin’ that, if I moved before I could count twenty, my wife would be a widow, he beat it,’ concluded Sullivan.
‘How much did he take?’ inquired Professor Fordney, who had entered the speakeasy after hearing the bartender’s call for help.
‘About five hundred dollars,’ Sullivan replied. ‘We had a good day.’
‘Haven’t you a gun here?’
‘Sure, but I didn’t have a chance. I ain’t exactly no boy scout, but this mug was too big and tough-lookin’ for me to tackle.’
‘How did you get that cut on your hand?’ inquired the Professor. ‘And that bruise on your finger?’
‘Opening a case of lemons,’ answered Sullivan.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘if your whiskey isn’t any better than your attempt at a fake hold-up, I’ll have ginger ale.’
You’re right. The bruise had nothing to do with it, but:
How did Fordney know the stick-up was a fake?
36 _Behind Time_
Professor Fordney, on his way to investigate a case of blackmail, was musing on the perversity of human nature when a jar threw him into the aisle as the train came to a sudden stop. Jumping off, he rushed ahead of the engine, where he found a small crowd gathered about the mutilated body of a man hit by the train. He was identified by a card in his pocket as John Nelson, an important figure in railroad labor circles.
‘How did it happen?’ inquired Fordney.
‘Well,’ replied Morton, the engineer, ‘I was running twelve minutes late when I hit him. There are several miles of straight-away along here and I was beating it along at sixty miles trying to make up time. Didn’t see him until we were about ten yards away, right on top of him. I jammed on the brakes, of course, but it was too late.’
‘Did you leave New York on time?’
‘Yes, sir. One-thirty exactly.’
‘Why were you running late?’
‘We were held in a block for about fifteen minutes outside of New Haven.’
‘What was your fireman doing when you hit this man?’
‘Stoking the boiler.’
‘You say it was just a few seconds after four-ten when you hit him?’ demanded the Professor.
‘That’s right,’ agreed Morton.
‘Did you know this man by any chance?’
‘Yes, slightly—he was an officer in my union,’ replied the engineer, with a worried look.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘I don’t know your object in telling such a story, or how you hoped to get away with it—you won’t.’
What justified Fordney in recommending Morton’s arrest?
37 _A Broken Engagement_
‘Peculiar,’ murmured Fordney, as he examined the desk on which lay seven letters ready for mailing, three gray, one lavender, two pink, and one lemon-colored.
As he idly shaped the wax of the candle standing on the desk, he continued to ponder this unusual choice of color in stationery.
One of the letters was addressed to Dot Dalton, who had been murdered between eleven-forty and eleven-fifty. She was one of the guests at this house party in the Adirondacks.
All the letters were closed with black sealing wax stamped with the letter ‘F.’
At midnight, Fordney began his questioning.
‘What time did you retire?’ he asked Molly Fleming, in whose bedroom he was seated.
‘About ten,’ she replied.
‘Was your door locked?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hear any disturbance?’
‘No; I was tired, fell asleep almost immediately, and didn’t awaken until you knocked on my door a few minutes ago and told me of the tragedy.’
‘Why did you write to Dot?’
‘I didn’t see her last night and knew she intended leaving early this morning. Jack Fahey broke our engagement yesterday and told me he was going to marry Dot. My letter was to tell her just how despicable I thought she was in luring him away from me. He didn’t love her. Of course, I’m sorry she’s dead, but a lot of wives will feel safer.’
‘Why the various colors of stationery?’ inquired the Professor.
‘Oh, I always write in a color that seems to reflect the personality of my correspondent.’
‘I see,’ said Fordney; ‘but unless you have a better alibi you’ll be held under serious suspicion.’
Why was the Professor practically certain Molly was involved in this horrible murder?
38 _The Holden Road Murder_
‘What a night!’ sighed Professor Fordney as he hung up the telephone receiver. Half an hour later, still grumbling, he splashed his way through the mud and rain to the door of 27 Holden Road. Removing his rubbers in the spotless vestibule, he stepped into a large, well-furnished living-room running the entire width of the house. Introducing himself and explaining he would question everyone later, he asked to be left alone.
In the far corner of the room he found a man lying on the floor, his throat cut. As he bent over, his attention was attracted to a dime lying about five feet from the head of the dead man. He picked it up, regarded it curiously, and, with a thoughtful look, put it in his pocket.
The Professor began his questioning with the butler.
‘You found the dead man?’
‘Yes, sir, I was returning from posting a letter about thirty minutes ago and, just as I was coming up the path of the front door, I heard a scream, dashed in, and found Mr. White here gasping his last breath.’
‘Lose a dime?’ inquired Fordney mildly.
‘Why, I don’t think so, sir,’ replied the butler nervously.
‘I heard the scream from upstairs,’ volunteered Cannon, owner of the house, ‘and ran in here right behind Wilkins.’
‘Did either of you leave this room before I arrived?’
‘No,’ replied Cannon; ‘we stayed here until you came.’
‘Did you, Mr. Cannon, lose a dime? No? Well,’ remarked Fordney, ‘it looks like collusion to me and I can tell you Inspector Kelley won’t swallow this story.’
What was wrong with the story?
39 _Fishermen’s Luck_
‘Having these stones in my possession, Professor Fordney, isn’t proof that I had any part in the Morris robbery.’
‘I know all about your story, Holmes. Found the jewels yesterday at three o’clock in the lake, tied up in a chamois bag, didn’t you? But what were you doing out in an open boat in the cloudburst that lasted all yesterday afternoon?’
‘It was because of that cloudburst that I sallied forth,’ explained Holmes confidently. ‘Perfect fishing weather, so I jumped into my boat and went across the lake for some minnows. I had rowed back to within a few yards of shore when I just happened to notice the bag lying on the bottom of the lake, so I landed, tipped my boat over to keep the rain out, and waded in. Curious, you know. The water at that point was over my waist and cold, but when I opened the bag—my courage and curiosity were rewarded.’
‘On which side of the dock did you find it?’ asked Fordney.
Holmes pointed to a spot on the sandy bottom at the left.
‘Think I’ll talk with the minnow man,’ declared the Professor as he got into Holmes’s boat. He rowed furiously for about fifty yards, suddenly dropped the oars and, after glancing from the crystal-clear water to the bottom of the boat, emitted a victorious chuckle.
‘Stupid of me not to have thought of that before,’ he mused. ‘Wonder if Holmes is a better fisherman than he is a liar?’
Clever fellow, Holmes. Did his story fool you?
40 _The Unlucky Elephant_