“Me?” Quacey seemed surprised and even nervous. His leather apron, by its temporary banishment, had divested him of his badge of self-possession. He wore a derby, a little black overcoat with a velvet collar, and brand-new sharply sparkling shoes that seemed to pinch his toes, for he winced as he hopped to the sidewalk. Groaning, he followed Lane up the walk to the portico.

  A tall old man in livery admitted them, escorting them through shining halls to a large sitting-room in exquisite Colonial taste.

  Lane sat down, Quacey hovering behind him, and looked about with approval. “I am Drury Lane,” he announced to the butler. “Is anyone at home?”

  “No, there’s no one, sir. Mr. DeWitt is in the City, Miss DeWitt is out shopping, and Mrs. DeWitt is having a-” he coughed - “a mud-facial, I believe it’s called, sir. So-”

  “I am delighted.” Drury Lane beamed. “And you are-”

  “Jorgens, sir. Mr. DeWitt’s oldest servant.”

  Lane relaxed in the Cape Cod chair. “The very man, Jorgens. I owe you an explanation.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “Mr. Bruno, the District Attorney in charge of the Longstreet case, of which you know, has kindly permitted me to act in the capacity of independent investigator. I-”

  The old man’s face lost its woodenness. “I beg your pardon, sir, but surely you don’t have to explain to me. If I may say so, Mr. Drury Lane is…”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lane, with a queer little gesture of impatience. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jorgens. Now a few questions, and I should like exact answers. Mr. DeWitt-”

  Jorgens stiffened, and the animation went out of his face. “If it’s anything disloyal to Mr. DeWitt, sir…

  “Bravo, Jorgens. Bravo.” Lane’s sharp eyes studied the man intently. “And again - bravo. A commendable sentiment. I should have assured you that it is in Mr. DeWitt’s best interests that I am here.” Jorgens permitted a relieved smile to touch his grayish lips. “To continue. Mr. DeWitt has been brought into the lamentable murder of Mr. Longstreet by virtue of his close relationship with the deceased. It is felt that this very relationship may elicit information helpful in the apprehension of Mr. Longstreet’s murderer. Did Longstreet visit here often?”

  “No, sir. Very rarely, sir.”

  “And why was that, Jorgens?”

  “I don’t exactly know, sir. But Miss DeWitt didn’t like Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. DeWitt - well, sir, Mr. DeWitt seemed to be oppressed by the presence of Mr. Longstreet, if I make myself clear…”

  “Oh, quite. And Mrs. DeWitt?”

  The butler hesitated. “Well, sir…

  “You would rather not say?”

  “I would rather not say, sir.”

  “For the fourth time - bravo… Quacey, sit down. You’ll be tired, old fellow.” Quacey sat down beside his master. “Now, Jorgens. How long have you served Mr. DeWitt?”

  “Over eleven years, sir.”

  “Would you say that Mr. DeWitt is a companionable sort of person - a friendly man?”

  “Well… no, sir. I should say that his only real friend is Mr. Ahearn, who lives near by. Although Mr. DeWitt is really a very pleasant man, sir, when you know him well.”

  “Then this menage does not customarily house guests?”

  “Not very often, sir. Of course, Mr. Imperiale is staying here now, but he’s a special sort of friend, too; he has been here three or four times in as many years. Otherwise, Mr. DeWitt entertains very few guests.”

  “You say ‘very few.’ I gather, then, that the few guests that do stay here occasionally are clients, perhaps - business guests?”

  “Yes, sir. But not many of those either, sir. Just once in a great while. For instance, there was a business gentleman staying here recently from South America.”

  Drury Lane looked thoughtful. “How recently?”

  “He was here for about a month, sir, and left about a month ago.”

  “Had he ever visited here before?”

  “Not to my recollection, sir.”

  “South America, you say. What part of South America?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Precisely when did he leave?”

  “I believe it was on August fourteenth, sir.”

  Lane was silent for a moment. When he spoke again it was slowly, in a voice rich with interest. “Do you recall if Mr. Longstreet visited here during the period when the South American was in the house?”

  Jorgens replied promptly: “Yes, sir. Much oftener than usual. There was one whole evening, the night after Mr. Maquinchao - that was his name, sir, Felipe Maquinchao - came, when Mr. DeWitt, Mr. Longstreet, and Mr. Maquinchao were closeted in the library until well after midnight.”

  “Of course, you are not aware of the substance of their conversation?” Jorgens looked shocked. “Oh, no, sirl”

  “Naturally not. Stupid question,” murmured Drury Lane. “Felipe Maquinchao. An outlandish name. What sort of person was he, Jorgens? Can you describe him?”

  The butler cleared his old throat. “He was a foreigner, sir, a Spanish-looking sort of man. Dark and tall and with a little black military mustache. Very dark complected, I might say - almost like a colored person or an Indian. He was a funny sort of gentleman, too. He did not talk much nor stay at the house much. He took very few meals with the family, and did not fraternize, so to speak. Some nights he did not return to the house until four or five in the morning; some nights he did not come in at all.”

  Lane smiled. “And this peculiar guest’s peculiar activity had what sort of reaction on Mr. DeWitt, Jorgens?”

  Jorgens seemed disturbed. “Why, Mr. DeWitt took Mr. Maquinchao’s coming and going quite for granted, sir.”

  “Do you know anything else about him?”

  “Well, sir, he spoke English with a Spanish accent, and he had very little luggage, just a large suitcase. He had many secret conferences with Mr. DeWitt, sometimes with Mr. DeWitt and Mr. Longstreet in the evening. Mr. DeWitt didn’t introduce him more than was - ah - socially necessary when other guests gathered for the evening sometimes. And that’s about all I know, sir.”

  “Did Mr. Ahearn seem to know him?”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “And Mr. Imperiale?”

  “Mr. Imperiale wasn’t here at the time. He came a little after Mr. Maquinchao left.”

  “Do you know where the South American went after he left the house?”

  “No, sir. He carried his own suitcase, sir. I don’t believe anyone else in the house except Mr. DeWitt knew any more about him than I, sir. Not even Miss DeWitt or Mrs. DeWitt.”

  “By the way, Jorgens, how do you know he was a South American?”

  Jorgens coughed into one parchment hand. “Mrs. DeWitt asked Mr. DeWitt once in my presence, sir, and Mr. DeWitt said so.”

  Drury Lane nodded and closed his eyes. Then he opened them and asked distinctly: “Can you recall any other visitor or visitors in recent years who might have come from South America?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Maquinchao is the only Spanish gentleman we have ever had here.”

  “Very well, Jorgens. I am extremely pleased with you. Now will you get Mr. DeWitt on the telephone, tell him you are calling for Mr. Drury Lane, and that I request most urgently a luncheon appointment today.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jorgens went to a taboret, sedately dialed a number and, after a moment, asked for the broker. “Mr. DeWitt? This is Jorgens, sir… Yes, sir. Mr. Drury Lane is here, sir, and asks for a luncheon appointment today. Most urgently, sir… Yes, sir. Mr. Drury Lane… He asked me particularly to tell you it was urgent, sir…

  Jorgens turned from the instrument. “Will the Exchange Club at noon be convenient, Mr. Lane?”

  Lane’s eyes gleamed. “The Exchange Club at noon will be perfect, Jorgens.”

  As they entered the limousine outside, Lane said to Quacey - who was now tugging desperately at his collar - “It occurs to me, Quacey, that your observational talents have been wasted these many years. How would you like to turn detective temporarily?”

  The car started, and Quacey ripped his collar from his wrinkled neck fiercely. “Anything you say, Mr. Drury. Right now this collar…

  Lane chuckled deep in his throat. “Your assignment is merely this - I must apologize for giving you a small task, but then you are a tyro at this game… This afternoon, while I am occupied with various matters of moment, you will get in touch with every South American consul in New York City. You will endeavor to locate a consular gentleman who might have had contact with one Felipe Maquinchao, a South American, tall, dark, mustached, with probably a touch of the Indian and Negro in his blood. A veritable Othello, Quacey…You understand that discretion is called for, Quacey. I should dislike to have Inspector Thumm or District Attorney Bruno discover in which direction I am seeking. Comprende?”

  “Maquinchao,” said Quacey in his rusty squeak. His old brown fingers twined themselves in the strings of his beard. “Now how in the name of the Three Witches do you spell that?”

  “For,” went on Mr. Drury Lane contemplatively, “if Inspector Thumm and District Attorney Bruno haven’t the sense to question John DeWitt’s butler, they deserve to be kept in ignorance.”

  “He talks too much,” said Quacey severely, in the manner of a man who spends most of his life listening.

  “On the contrary, lump of evil,” murmured Mr. Drury Lane, “he talks too little.”

  Scene 8

  THE EXCHANGE CLUB

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, NOON

  Mr. Drury Lane made a grand entrance, unpremeditated to be sure. It was simply a matter of walking into the leathery atmosphere of the Exchange Club on Wall Street and, ipso facto, creating something of a furor. Three men discussing heated golf on a lounge recognized him as if by signal and the Scottish game was obscured in a blur of whispers. The eyes of a colored attendant rolled wildly at sight of the cape. A clerk behind the desk looked startled and dropped his pen. The word spread with the rapidity of a bullish rumor.

  Men began to stroll by, attempting to appear unconcerned but glancing curiously at Lane’s odd figure out of the corners of their eyes.

  Lane sat down with a sigh in a clubchair in the foyer. A white-haired man hurried up and bowed as low as his circumference would permit.

  “Good day, Mr. Lane, good day.” Lane smiled briefly. “This is an honor, sir. I’m the Chief Steward. Is there anything I can do for you, sir? A cigar, perhaps?”

  Lane’s fingers rose in a protesting gesture. “No, thank you so much, Steward. My throat, you know.” It seemed to be an old ritual for him, because the words, although pleasant, were utterly mechanical. “I am waiting for Mr. DeWitt. Has he come in?”

  “Mr. DeWitt? I don’t believe he has, Mr. Lane. I don’t believe he has.” The Steward’s tone implied that Mr. DeWitt was to be severely censured for keeping Mr. Drury Lane waiting. “In the meantime I’m entirely at your disposal, sir.”

  “You’re very kind.” Lane leaned back and closed his eyes in dismissal. The Steward, looking very proud, stepped back and tampered with his necktie.

  At this moment the slight frail figure of John DeWitt hastened into the foyer. The broker was pale; there was something of apprehension on his features, an added strain, a new pressure from within. He obeyed the smiling gesture of the Steward without changing expression and walked quickly across the foyer toward Lane, followed by envious glances.

  The Steward said: “Here’s Mr. DeWitt, sir,” and seemed hurt by Lane’s lack of response. It was not until DeWitt motioned him away and touched Lane’s hard shoulder that the actor opened his eyes. “Ah, DeWitt!” he said with pleasure, and sprang to his feet.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Lane,” said DeWitt constrainedly. “I had another appointment - had to break it - delayed me…

  “Not another word,” said Lane, whipping off his cape. A uniformed Negro hurried up and took Lane’s cape, hat, and stick and DeWitt’s coat and hat with the dexterity of a genie. The two men followed the Steward through the foyer into the Club dining-room where a head waiter, roused out of his professional nonchalance, broke out in smiles and conducted them, at DeWitt’s request, to a secluded part of the dining-room.

  Throughout a light luncheon - DeWitt toyed with his filet while Drury Lane ate robustly a solid chunk of roast beef - Lane refused to be tempted into serious discussion. DeWitt made repeated efforts to discover the purpose of Lane’s rendezvous; Lane countered with: “Unquiet meals make ill digestions,” and let it go at that. DeWitt smiled in a half-hearted way and Lane continued to talk easily, smoothly, as if there were nothing weightier on his mind than the proper method of masticating English beef. He recounted several intimate reminiscences of his early days on the stage, his sentences punctuated with illustrious theatrical names - Otis Skinner, William Faversham, Booth, Mrs. Fiske, Ethel Barrymore; and as they ate, DeWitt’s rigidity softened before the smooth pregnant conversation of the old actor, and he found himself listening with enjoyment. Some of the tension left him, and Lane chatted on without seeming to notice.

  Over coffee, and after DeWitt had accepted equably enough Lane’s refusal of a cigar, Lane said: “I can see Mr. DeWitt, that you are not by nature a morose or morbid man.” DeWitt was startled, but puffed his cigar without replying. “It is not a feat of psychiatrics to read from your physiognomy and recent actions a sad winter’s tale - mental depression, chronic perhaps, but alien to your character.”

  DeWitt murmured: “In some respects I’ve had a hard life, Mr. Lane.”

  “Then I was correct.” Lane’s voice became persuasive; his long hands were flat on the tablecloth, perfectly motionless. DeWitt’s eyes were fixed on them, as on a focal point. “Mr. DeWitt, my primary reason for spending an hour in conversation with you is a friendly one. I feel that I should know you better. I feel that, in my own blundering way perhaps, I may be able to help you. I feel, in fact, that you require help of no common variety.”

  “That’s decent of you,” said DeWitt drearily, without raising his eyes. “I realize well enough the dangerous position I’m in. Neither the District Attorney nor Inspector Thumm has deceived me in the slightest. I am being constantly watched. I have the feeling that even my correspondence is being tampered with. You yourself, Mr. Lane, have been questioning my servants…”

  “Only your butler, Mr. DeWitt, and entirely in your interest.”

  “… and so has Thumm. So you see - I know where I’m at. On the other hand, I sense that you’re a little different from the police - more human?” He shrugged. “You may be surprised, but I’ve been thinking of you a good deal since Wednesday night. You stepped into the breach several times in my defense…”

  Lane’s face was grave. “Would you mind, then, if I asked you a question or two? My concern with this investigation is not official. It is personally motivated, and only with the end in view of getting at the truth. There are some things I must know if I am to make further progress…”

  DeWitt looked up swiftly. “Further progress? Have you reached any conclusions already, Mr. Lane?”

  “Two fundamental ones, Mr. DeWitt.” Drury Lane beckoned a waiter, who ran up excitedly, and ordered another pot of coffee. DeWitt’s cigar had gone out; it drooped from his fingers, forgotten, as he stared at Lane’s profile. Lane smiled faintly. “I must commit an impropriety and differ from a beautiful lady. A false prediction, Mr. DeWitt! Madame de Sévigné might as well have prophesied the ephemerality of immortal Shakespeare as of immortal coffee.” He continued in the same mild tone. “I know who killed Longstreet and Wood, if you would term that progress.”

  DeWitt paled as if Lane had struck him in the face. The cigar snapped between his fingers. He blinked under Lane’s serene gaze and choked back a lump of amazement, fighting for self-possession. “You know who killed Longstreet and Wood!” he said in a strangled voice. “But, my God, Mr. Lane, if you know aren’t you going to do something about it?”

  Lane said gently: “I am doing something about it, Mr. DeWitt.” DeWitt did not move. “Unfortunately, we are dealing with literal-minded Justice; she demands tangible instruments of conviction. Will you help me?”

  DeWitt did not reply for a long time. His face was tortured now; his eyes frantically sought to penetrate the blank mask of this unusual prosecutor, as if to probe and discover how much he knew, precisely what he knew. Then he said, in the same tight voice: “If I only could, if I only…”

  “Dared, Mr. DeWitt?”

  It was all melodramatic and somehow shoddy. Deep within the actor’s body a little worm of repugnance stirred.

  DeWitt kept silent. Again he studied Lane’s eyes, as if he sought the name of a murderer there. Finally he struck a match and applied it to the dead end of his cigar with unsteady fingers. “I’ll tell you what I can, Mr. Lane. But - how shall I say it? - my hands are - well, tied… There’s one thing you simply mustn’t ask me - the identity of the person with whom I had an appointment Wednesday night.”

  Lane shook his head good-humoredly. “You make it doubly difficult, Mr. DeWitt, by maintaining silence on one of the most interesting points in the case. However, we will waive that-” he paused, “for the present. I understand, Mr. DeWitt, that both you and Longstreet made your fortunes in South America, in some mining venture, that you came to the States together and set up a brokerage business requiring considerable capital. I take it, then, that your mine was something of a bonanza. That was before the War, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what country of South America was your mine located?”

  “Uruguay.”

  “Uruguay. Quite so.” Lane half-closed his eyes. “Mr. Maquinchao is a Uruguayan, then?”

  DeWitt’s mouth opened; his eyes clouded with suspicion. “How do you know about Maquinchao?” he demanded. “Jorgens, of course. The cursed old fool. I should have told him-”