“What you didn’t tell Colby was that when he was tying you, your wife was dead in the adjoining room, strangled by your own hands. The drug that was to have been administered to Margy Marigold, to keep her asleep, wasn’t necessary. You took it to make your unconsciousness the more pronounced.

  “When Colby read what had happened, he knew you had tricked him. But he had to flee. If he had been caught then he’d have been accused of the woman’s murder. Even he didn’t know what your motive was.

  “You took the body of Margy Marigold to Indiana and butchered it, hid the pieces where they would be discovered sooner or later. Then you went about your business as Sidney Striker, the bereaved husband whose wife had eloped with another man. And you knew that, if the worst ever came to the worst and you were suspected, you had only to dig up the criminal record of the absent Colby, and that would again turn suspicion to him. But you didn’t intend to do that except as a last resort, because with his fingerprints and photos, they might capture him.”

  Sidney Striker watched the mouth of Lester Leith with fascinated eyes, as though he must not only hear the words, but see them spoken.

  “But I never accused Colby,” he said.

  “Because it wasn’t necessary. The fact that your wife had eloped, plus the positive identification of the remains, was all the insurance company needed.

  “They thought you had acted in good faith with that insurance policy. They paid the money. You invested and reinvested. Today you are a fairly wealthy man.”

  The catfish mouth parted to give vent to a rasping laugh. “Rather a wild story. How about proof?”

  Lester Leith opened a black hand bag he carried.

  “Curling iron, left in Pickets, identified as that of your wife, rusted, fingerprints. Jar of stale massage cream. Also left in Pickets apartment. Note fingerprint. That fingerprint tallies with fingerprint of Margy Marigold. Note dog collar.

  “Ah, that does give you a start. You’d almost forgotten the dog, eh? Yes, the woman nearly upset all your carefully laid plans by having a dog. She wouldn’t leave it behind. You couldn’t insist without arousing the suspicion of everyone. So you had her take the dog, pretend to find it as a stray. After you removed the body to Indiana you ‘disposed’ of the dog. That collar and the license tag gives you something of a start, doesn’t it?”

  There was no need of the question. The sallow face was twitching spasmodically.

  Suddenly the lean hand flashed into an arc of motion.

  Up from under the desk came a blue steel automatic. “Damn you, yes! You know enough to—die!”

  Lester Leith spoke rapidly, his eyes on those of the other. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not going to betray you.”

  Beads of unclean perspiration welled out of the taut skin across the man’s forehead.

  “What—”

  “Certainly not. I’m going to sell you this evidence.”

  “Humph, then start the police on the trail. There are too many angles by which they could check up. You’re right about my needing a convict as an accomplice. I needed a man with a criminal record. That was so I could turn around and accuse him if anything went wrong. But that’s the point of danger. I went bond for Tillotson, alias Colby. That’s a matter of record. They can uncover this from the California end.”

  Lester Leith flipped over the document which was signed by himself, by Sergeant Ackley, by Fawkes, and by Chief Lambert-son.

  “Read that. The police are in on this shake-down. They’re selling you immunity.”

  A look of dazed relief crossed the thin features.

  “Honest?”

  “Look at that, read it. See, it’s acknowledged. They wouldn’t let you have anything like that, would they— not unless they were prepared to talk business. I’m their emissary.”

  Striker gulped.

  “How much?”

  “How much quick cash you got in the bank? Don’t lie. We can check it up if you do.”

  “Thirty-odd thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll take thirty even.”

  “Good God, man, that won’t leave me with enough to pay my monthly expenditures!”

  “You might prefer to check it to a lawyer to defend you on a murder charge that can’t be beaten,” suggested Lester Leith, softly.

  “It’s a holdup!”

  “Certainly. But it’s less than you got from the insurance. One word of this and the insurance company comes down on you for fraud and collects not only the money, but all of the profits you’ve made with that money. The police throw you in jail and prove a murder charge. You sizzle in an electric chair like a sausage in a frying pan.”

  “I’ll never be taken alive.”

  “No? Well, frankly, Striker, or Marigold, or whatever name you want to be called, I don’t give a damn for you. You make me sick. If you want to be a damned fool go ahead.”

  “I could kill you and take that paper from you.”

  “Ha, ha, the police knowing, unofficially of course, that I was here? Bah. I either give them their split of thirty thousand or they close in on you. They’re posted at all the street comers now, waiting.”

  “But—the police are crooks!”

  ” You should call the kettle black! They have to live. If they’d tumbled to the facts three years ago they’d never have made you this proposition. But now the public has forgotten about the case, and there’s a chance for the case, and there’s a chance for the ones on the inside to made a little money.”

  Striker considered the situation. Slowly, he pocketed the gun.

  “That’s sensible,” said Lester Leith. “We go to the bank. You draw out the money. We come back here, make a bill of sale for the articles of evidence, and I deliver the document signed by the police to you. Then I wait for the police to have a divvy. After that you keep that document in a safe deposit vault. The police dare not double cross you while you have that. That’s your assurance that everyone is playing fair.”

  Sidney Striker had experienced a whirl of emotions in the last fifteen minutes that had drained his every ounce of strength. He could hardly walk, much less think straight. He had seen the spectre of a dead past beckon him to the grave. He had heard himself sizzling in an electric chair like a sausage on a hot stove. He had a hope, a chance of salvation. Thirty thousand dollars was but a fraction of his wealth.

  He grasped the arm of Lester Leith for support. Together they went to the bank.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Police Arrive

  “Important business deal,” muttered Striker as he handed in his check over the counter. “Large bills.”

  The teller showed evident surprise, but he cashed the check. The two men repaired once more to the private office. Here Lester Leith made out a bill of sale, delivered the articles of “evidence,“ also endorsed over the document signed by the police officers.

  “So you’d never be taken alive?” he asked.

  Striker shook his head.

  “Don’t blame you, but, perhaps you might not get a chance to shoot.”

  Striker shrugged his shoulders.

  “I always carry a phial of poison,” said Lester Leith, taking the phial from his pocket. “I have enemies who might want to take me for a ride. I always resolved I’d take that poison if I ever got in their power.”

  Striker snorted.

  “Don’t think you’re the only smart one. I always carry tablets. They’d never electrocute me while I got these.” He took out of his pocket a small glass bottle.

  Leith nodded.

  “I was hoping you carried something like that,” he said cryptically. “Now I’m going to wait in your outer office. If you hear voices, simply listen at the keyhole. That will show you how I fix things with the police.”

  And, with no other word of farewell, he went to the door, slammed it, took a seat in the outer office.

  Ten minutes passed. The inner door opened. “I don’t understand—” began Striker.

  Lester Leith waved him back.

  “Naturally you wouldn’t. But the police have to make sure of a fair split. That’s why I can’t leave this office until they come for their cash. Otherwise I might ditch some of it. They’ll be here in a moment. Get back.”

  Striker withdrew.

  Within less than sixty seconds there was the pound of feet on the stairs. The door burst open. Sergeant Ackley’s florid face thrust into the room. The eyes lit on Lester Leith, sprawled contentedly in a chair.

  “Ah, sergeant, beat me to it, eh? I’d hoped to leave a nice little chat with Striker before you arrived. He isn’t in at present.”

  Sergeant Ackley leaped into the room. Behind him came Fawkes. Chief Lambertson could be heard, patiently toiling up the stairs. Soon he, too, puffed his way into the room.

  “So Striker was the murderer of his wife, and you wanted to shake him down?” accused Ackley.

  “Tut, tut, sergeant. Who said anything about wanting to shake him down? I wanted to find out certain details. But my interest in crime solutions is purely academical, as I’ve told you many times.

  “Now Striker not only murdered his wife, but his wife and Margy Marigold were one and the same.”

  “What!” yelled Ackley.

  Behind him there was the faintest sound of rustling motion at the keyhole of the inner door. But Ackley was too excited to hear it, and Lester Leith began to talk rapidly, trying to cover up that noise.

  “Certainly. There was no motive for the murder of Margy Marigold save jealousy. But there was a motive for the murder of Martha Striker. That was why Striker arranged things as he did. He really is the same person as Harley Marigold.

  “It was the dog that was the clew, Boston Bulls do not stray all the way from Indiana to make up with a chance mistress who takes them in, and then become inconsolable over the death of that mistress. Nor, under those circumstances, is it a strange man who can give such animals their sole consolation?

  “No, my dear sergeant, the clew of the dog should have given you all you needed. It did not. As a result, Sidney Striker was able to collect fifty thousand dollars on the death of Martha Striker, whose body was so readily identified by the recent dental work she had so opportunely had done—at his suggestion. A moment’s thought would have given you the lead. It only needed to secure a picture of the supposed Martha Striker to make the chain complete.

  “And, aside from the dog, there was the matter of the woman. A woman who loves as this woman loved, does not banish herself from the man she loves when a divorce is granted, call it interlocutory or any other name.”

  Sergeant Ackley’s jaw sagged. “Good God!”

  Lester Leith lit a cigarette, calmly blew a smoke ring. “There are a few details I haven’t cleared up, as yet,” he said, “but for the most part I’ve reached a theoretical solution—and, by the way, sergeant, I’ve sold that dog collar and license.”

  “Sold it!”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Who’d you sell it to?”

  “Striker. Can you imagine? I asked him thirty thousand dollars for it, and the damned fool paid, largely, I think, on the strength of the fact that you had given me written authority to dispose of them.”

  “You—you—you’ve seen him then.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Does he know your suspicions?”

  “Oh, yes, he admitted his guilt.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. I left him in that office.”

  In a single bound Sergeant Ackley was at the door. He flung it open. The door thudded against something soft and inert. “Dead!“ exclaimed Ackley.

  Lester Leith nodded. “He always carried poison. He said he’d never be taken alive.”

  Sergeant Ackley snatched the bit of paper from the dead hand. “By God, Leith, I can send you up for life on this evidence. That’s blackmail. You didn’t inform the law, that’s compounding a murder.”

  Lester Leith shook his head.

  “Quite the contrary, my dear sergeant. That’s why I was so anxious to see that it was not evidence that I sold. That’s why I insisted that my dog couldn’t even be of the same breed as the dog, Bobo, who figured in the Marigold case. That’s why I got your written permission to sell my property.”

  Sergeant Ackley gasped.

  “But the fox terrier was of the same size!”

  “Doubtless the collars looked somewhat alike. You should have thought of that before you gave me permission to sell them.”

  CHAPTER X

  Dead Lips

  Chief Lambertson had been puffing from his exertions. Twice he had tried to speak. Each time the labouring lungs refused to supply sufficient air to give the words sound. Now he managed to get enough breath to fill his lungs, open his mouth, and then a sardonic laugh rasped from his heaving diaphragm.

  “The city police!” he chortled.

  “By Gad!” Sergeant Ackley glared.

  “Shut up! Your signature’s on that paper, too!”

  Lester Leith shrugged.

  “As for the other angle, that of withholding the information from the police, sergeant, I waited in the outer office for you. You must admit I told you as soon as I saw you.”

  Sergeant Ackley looked at the lifeless form. “And knew this chap was listening. You knew he’d kill himself.”

  Lester Leith made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. “Of course, one doesn’t always follow the best course. There are no books of etiquette giving guidance in such cases. I rather thought it would be better to tell you, rather than to have you burst into that room without knowing.

  “You see, the man had a weapon, and he threatened me with it. Under the circumstances I felt it would be decidedly better to let you know the man was a murderer before you jumped into the room.”

  Sergeant Ackley sneered. “All very pretty. Yet you knew this man would kill himself!”

  “How very much better to have him kill himself, sergeant, than to have him kill you. I’d almost lose my interest in the theoretical solutions of crime problems if I didn’t have you to make it so very interesting for me. No, sergeant, I couldn’t spare you.

  “And as far as this man is concerned — well, sergeant, the law would have killed him, very bitterly, very painfully, very deliberately. And, do you know, sergeant, I’ve never met a criminal for whom I felt less sympathy. He had the love of a good woman, a regular little pal, and he killed her for a lousy bit of money! Bah! I can’t even sympathize with him in anything he did, not even fooling the police.”

  Sergeant Ackley scratched his head. “But you must have had some clew beside the dog!”

  Lester Leith smiled. “That, and that the police had already run down every possible clew based on any disclosed motive. I told Scuttle not to bother unless the records of Pickets disclosed a murder within a certain definite time period. When he told me that, I knew I was sure of my ground. And, of course, I made it a point to get pictures of the various parties concerned by dropping in to a friendly police station as an interested citizen and going over their files.”

  “Humph,” grunted Ackley. “You’re talking pretty freely for you. You’re under arrest. I’ll make a case out of this somewhere.”

  Lester Leith’s eyes suddenly narrowed to cold slits. “On the contrary, sergeant, you’ll do nothing of the sort. You won’t even arrest me!”

  Sergeant Ackley’s jaw sagged. “Won’t what?”

  “Won’t arrest me, won’t try to make out a case. You see, my dear sergeant, I asked the newspaper reporters to drop up here for a story at precisely four o’clock. They’ll be here soon.

  “If you try to press a case against me you’ll establish these things: first, that you gave me this fool paper saying I could sell the things you now try to make appear as a criminal sale; second, that I solved the Marigold-Striker murders, and that you were just suckers who followed along.

  “On the contrary, if you tear up this acknowledged paper, you can claim the credit of the solution. You’ll be nationally known. You’ll get a promotion. You’ll get more pay. You’ll be written up in newspapers and magazines as the greatest sleuth of the department. And, lastly, it won’t appear that the fingerprint in the dried massage cream is of your little finger.”

  Ackley turned a startled face to confront the questioning eyes of his companions.

  “The notary?” he asked.

  “Is going to Europe to study music,” assured Lester Leith. “She leaves on the train with me tonight. She has rare talent.”

  There was the sound of hurried steps on the stairs outside of the office.

  “Quick, the reporters,” said Lester Leith.

  Sergeant Ackley swooped. With a swift motion he grabbed the dead man, felt through his pockets. When he straightened he had the dog collar, the massage cream, the curling iron, the signed, acknowledged document, and he thrust them all in his pockets.

  A man stepped into the outer office. “You said you had a story? A telephone, I believe?”

  “Yes,” snapped Sergeant Ackley. “I’m Sergeant Arthur Ackley. This is my assistant, Mr. Fawkes. The other gentleman is Chief Lambertson, of Pickets. The other chap doesn’t matter.”

  “Good Lord!” yelled the reporter, catching sight of the body. “It’s Striker!”

  “On the contrary,” said Sergeant Ackley, with drawling insolence, mimicking Lester Leith’s tone as nearly as he could, “it’s not Striker. It’s Marigold. That man is the murderer of Margy Marigold, and he’s the murderer of Martha Striker. I have solved the case, with the aid of a dog’s photograph.”

  “And my assistance,” reminded Fawkes.

  “And your able assistance,” conceded Sergeant Ackley.

  “And you couldn’t have done it without me!” proclaimed the pompous chief of police of Pickets.

  “You, too, are entitled to credit,” agreed Ackley.

  The reporter gazed with goggled eyes, then made a dash for the telephone.