Lane said sharply: “The wrong attitude entirely, Mr. DeWitt. Jorgens, an estimable man and a faithful servant, was willing to give me information solely because he was under the impression that I asked in your interest. You can do no less than emulate him - unless you question my purpose.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. Yes, Maquinchao is a Uruguayan.” DeWitt was in agony. His eyes fluttered from side to side, the old wildness in them again. “But Mr. Lane, please don’t press me about Maquinchao.”

  “But I must press you, Mr. DeWitt.” Lane’s glance was naked now. “Who is Maquinchao? What is his business? How explain his unique activity while he was your guest? I am determined, sir, to have the answers to these questions.”

  DeWitt traced a meaningless pattern on the cloth with a spoon, speaking in a muffled tone. “If you insist… Nothing at all out of the ordinary. Purely a business visit, Mr. Lane. Maquinchao is the - the scout for certain South American public utility locations - wanted our office to handle the floating of a bond issue…You see, a perfectly legitimate enterprise. I-”

  “And did you decide with Mr. Longstreet to help float this bond issue, Mr. DeWitt?” asked Lane without expression.

  “Well - we have - we had the matter under consideration.” Round and round went DeWitt’s spoon, busy with a geometric pattern on the cloth: angles, curves, rectangles, rhomboids.

  “You have the matter under consideration,” repeated Lane dryly. “Why did he stay so long?”

  “Well, surely… I’m sure I don’t know, unless he visited other financing institutions…”

  “Can you give his address?”

  “Why - I don’t believe I know exactly. He travels extensively; he’s never long in one place…

  Lane chuckled suddenly. “You are a poor liar, Mr. DeWitt. And since I see it is quite futile to pursue this conversation further, let us end it here before you become so entangled in your own mendacity that you will embarrass me as much as yourself. Good day, Mr. DeWitt, and believe me when I say that your attitude is a rude commentary on my vaunted capacity for judging human nature.”

  Lane rose - a waiter jumped forward as if on springs and grasped the chair. Lane smiled in his direction, examined DeWitt’s lowered head, and said in the same amiable voice: “Nevertheless, you are welcome at The Hamlet, my place on the Hudson, at any time when you have changed your mind. Good day, sir.”

  He moved away, leaving DeWitt in the crushed attitude of a man who has heard sentence of execution passed upon him.

  As he threaded his way among the tables, preceded by the head waiter, Lane paused a moment, smiled to himself, and then resumed his march out of the dining-room. Not far from the table at which DeWitt still sat, a man was dining. The man had a red face, looked uneasy, and during the entire conversation between Lane and DeWitt had strained forward, ears cocked, in a shameless attempt to eavesdrop.

  In the foyer Lane tapped the head waiter’s shoulder.

  “That red-faced man near the table at which Mr. DeWitt and I were seated - is he a member?”

  The head waiter looked disturbed. “Oh, no, sir. A detective. He forced his way in with his badge.”

  Lane smiled again, pressed a banknote into the man’s hand, and walked with leisurely steps to the desk. The clerk pranced forward.

  “Will you please direct me first to Dr. Morris, your Club physician, and then to the Club secretary,” said Mr. Drury Lane.

  Scene 9

  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2:15 P.M.

  At 2:15 of Friday afternoon Mr. Drury Lane was walking briskly along Centre Street, hemmed in on the one side by the monumental walls of Police Headquarters and on the other by the polyglot mercenaries of lower New York. When he came to the ten-story building, Number 137, in which the County of New York saw fit to house its chief prosecutor, he turned in, crossed a corridor, entered an elevator and was borne aloft.

  As always his features were completely controlled and completely expressionless. A lifetime of discipline on the stage had given him such muscular control of his features as an acrobat has of his limbs. But, unobserved now, there was a certain unsuppressed glow in his eyes that was significant. It was a glow of excitement, of anticipation - the fire of a hunter’s eyes as he crouches behind his covert, gun poised - the shine and the joy of keen living and keen thinking. Looking into those eyes, it would be impossible for an observer to conjure the man behind them as having led a thwarted or incomplete existence… Something had tapped the juices of his ego, flooding his being with new energy, directing the vital stream into new channels of confidence, vigor, and alertness.

  Yet when he opened the door to District Attorney Bruno’s outer office, the light had been quenched and he was merely a youngish man dressed in oldish clothes.

  Someone spoke guardedly into an inter-office communicator. “Yes, Mr. Bruno.” He turned about. “Will you have a seat, sir? Mr. Bruno is very sorry, but he is in conference with the Commissioner. Will you wait?”

  Lane said he would, and sat down. He rested his chin on the knob of his stick.

  Ten minutes later, while Lane reposed peacefully with closed eyes, the door from Bruno’s private office opened and the District Attorney appeared, followed by the tall stout figure of the Police Commissioner. The clerk rose, flustered, as Lane continued to sit in what seemed to be a senile doze. Bruno smiled and tapped Lane’s shoulder. The lids flew up, the calm gray eyes became inquisitive, and Lane jumped from the chair.

  “Mr. Bruno.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lane.” Bruno turned to the Commissioner, who was regarding Lane curiously. “Mr. Lane - Commissioner Burbage.”

  “This is an honor, Mr. Lane,” boomed the Commissioner, pumping Lane’s hand. “I saw you in-”

  “I seem to be living, Mr. Burbage, in the shade of my mellow past,” said Lane with a disarming chuckle.

  “Not at all, not at all! I understand you’re as good as ever. Mr. Bruno’s been telling me of your newly acquired vocation, Mr. Lane, and some of the revelations you’ve hinted which are still mysteries to him.” The Commissioner wagged his big head. “Mysteries to all of us, I guess. Thumm’s been telling me things.”

  “The idiosyncrasy of an aging man, Mr. Burbage. Mr. Bruno has been more than patient.” Lane’s eyes crinkled. “You bear for me, Mr. Burbage, an illustrious name. Richard Burbage, the most eminent actor of his time, was one of Will Shakespeare’s three lifelong friends.” The Commissioner seemed vaguely pleased.

  They chatted for a few minutes, Commissioner Burbage excused himself, and Bruno ushered Lane into his private office. Inspector Thumm was hunched over a telephone, his face a study in incredulity. He jerked a heavy eyebrow in greeting, his ear hooked to the receiver. Lane sat down facing Thumm.

  “Now listen,” said the Inspector. While he had been listening to the voice in the receiver his face had grown redder and redder, until it seemed about to burst from sheer impotent rage. “What in hell are you trying to pull on me? Let me get this straight… Shut up, will you? You say I told you to call me at half-past two this afternoon and remind me to give you something to do? You’re crazy in the head, man! Or soused!… What? I told you in person? Hey, wait a minute.” Thumm turned from the telephone and glared at Bruno. “This dumbhead, one of my men, has just gone nuts, I tell you. He - hello, hello!” He howled into the speaker. “You helped me pick up the rug? What rug, you infernal jackass? Oh, my God. Hold on a minute.” He turned to Bruno again. “The case is simply blowing up from lunacy. Operative says I was in Wood’s room in Weehawken yesterday poking about. By God, maybe it’s on the level! Maybe - here, you!” he cried frantically. “Looks like somebody… and then his eyes focused on Mr. Drury Lane, who was watching him with affectionate amusement. His jaw sagged and intelligence crept into his feverish eyes. A surly grin spread over his face and he growled into the telephone: “Okay. I changed my mind. Just hang around the room.” He hung up and turned to Lane, plopping his elbows on the desk. Bruno looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “Well, Mr. Lane, that’s one on me, hey?”

  Lane’s features ironed out. “Inspector,” he said gravely, “if I have ever entertained doubts concerning your sense of humor, they are now eternally dispelled.”

  “What in the world is all this nonsense about?” demanded Bruno. Thumm slipped a draggled cigarette between his lips. “It’s like this. Here’s what I did yesterday. I went to Weehawken, interviewed Mrs. Murphy, searched Wood’s room, found a bankbook under Wood’s carpet, assisted, mind you, by a man who has known me for six years, and then I walked out. It’s something of a miracle, when you come to think of it. Because while I was in Weehawken, I was also sitting in my office jawing with you, down here in Centre Street!”

  Bruno stared at Lane, broke into a laugh. “That’s a little unfair, Mr. Lane. And a little dangerous.”

  “Not at all. There was absolutely no danger,” said Lane blandly. “My familiar is the world’s premier make-up man, Mr. Bruno… I must humbly ask your pardon, Inspector. My reason for impersonating you yesterday was serious and peremptory. Perhaps my instruction to your operative was a childish prank, but even that was dictated by a desire to inform you, unconventionally to be sure, of the great impersonation.”

  “Next time you might let me take a look at myself,” grunted Thumm. “A dang-” His jaw thrust forward. “Frankly, I don’t li - Well, let it go. Let’s have that bankbook.”

  Lane produced the bankbook from beneath his coat; Thumm took it and began to pore over its contents. “It’s quite possible, Inspector, that I may exhibit someone to you in the near future who will startle you even more.” Thumm’s fingers curled about the five-dollar bill tucked into the bankbook. “Well,” he grinned, “at least you’re honest.” He threw the book to Bruno, who examined it and put it into a drawer.

  “My visit,” said Lane in a brisk tone, “is induced by more than a desire to see our good Inspector wriggle. I have two requests. The first is for a carbon copy of the complete list of ferry passengers. Have you one that I may take with me?”

  Bruno explored the top drawer of his desk and handed Lane a thin sheaf of papers. Lane folded the sheaf and placed it in a pocket. “I should like to receive, too, complete reports on all missing persons in the past several months, and day-to-day reports from now on. Can that be arranged?”

  Thumm and Bruno looked at each other; Bruno shrugged, and Thumm wearily transmitted the order by telephone to the Missing Persons Bureau. “You’ll have complete reports, Mr. Lane. They’ll be sent to you at The Hamlet.”

  “Very kind of you, Inspector.”

  Bruno cleared his throat in a hesitating manner. Lane eyed him with friendly curiosity. “The other day,” began the District Attorney, “you said you’d like to be informed before we take definite action…

  ‘The ax falls,” murmured Lane. “What precisely?”

  “The arrest of John DeWitt for the murder of Charles Wood. Thumm and I are both agreed that we have a case. When the Commissioner heard my story he told me to shoot. It won’t be hard to secure an indictment.” Lane looked grave; the smooth skin stretched tightly across his cheeks. “I gather, then, that you and Inspector Thumm believe DeWitt killed Longstreet also?”

  “Naturally,” said Thumm. “This Mr. X of yours is behind the whole business. The two crimes were committed by the same hand, no question about it. With motives that fit like gloves.”

  “A neat phrase,” said Lane. “Very neat, Inspector. And when is this step scheduled to be taken, Mr. Bruno?”

  “There really is no hurry,” said Bruno. “DeWitt can’t run away. But we’ll probably arrest him within the next day - if something,” he added darkly, “doesn’t happen in the meantime to change our minds.”

  “An act of God, Mr. Bruno?”

  “Hardly.” Bruno smiled wryly. “Mr. Lane, when the Inspector and I outlined the Longstreet case to you at The Hamlet, you said you had arrived at a solution of sorts. Does the arrest of DeWitt correspond with your solution?”

  “It is slightly unfortunate,” said the actor in a musing tone. “Entirely too premature… You have a case. How strong is it?”

  “Strong enough to give DeWitt’s attorneys some sleepless nights,” retorted the District Attorney. “The State’s case against DeWitt will follow this argument, roughly: He was the only passenger on the ferry, as far as can be determined, who boarded at the same time as Wood and was still on the Mohawk four trips later, at the time of the murder. A strong point. He admitted trying to leave the ferry directly after the murder. His explanation of his presence for four trips (which at first he denied altogether, as we will stress) is thin and entirely unsubstantiated. His refusal to back up his story of having an appointment is damning; confirmation of our argument that this was just a trumped-up excuse lies in two facts: the ‘caller’ has not come forward, and the original telephone call cannot be traced. The indication is, therefore, that DeWitt’s story of the call and the caller are products of his imagination. How does that strike you so far, Mr. Lane?”

  “Plausible as you state it, but scarcely direct evidence. Please proceed.” Bruno’s keen face worked, then he looked up at the ceiling and resumed: “The top deck where the murder was committed was accessible to DeWitt - or anyone else on the boat, it is true - and there was no witness who had DeWitt in sight constantly after 10:55 p.m. A cigar which DeWitt admits was his, and which from its brand and band could only have been his, was found on the dead man. He said that he never anywhere gave Wood a cigar - a seeming defense, but actually we shall construe it in our favor, for it obviates the possibility that DeWitt gave Wood the cigar elsewhere before the murder, to account for its being on his dead body.”

  Lane tapped his hands together in mute applause.

  “Furthermore, the cigar was not on Wood’s person when he boarded the ferry and therefore must have been given to him on the boat itself.”

  “Given, Mr. Bruno?”

  Bruno bit his lip. “At least, that’s the reasonable explanation,” he said. “As far as the cigar is concerned, I shall offer the theory that DeWitt met Wood on the boat and talked with him - a theory which accounts for DeWitt’s admitted four trips and the hour’s duration between the embarkation of Wood and DeWitt, and Wood’s murder. Then he either offered Wood a cigar, or Wood asked for one while they talked.”

  “One moment, Mr. Bruno,” said Lane amiably. “You believe, therefore, that DeWitt offered Wood a cigar - or Wood asked for it - that DeWitt later killed Wood and completely forgot that on Wood’s body was a damning item of evidence directly implicating himself?”

  Bruno laughed shortly. “Look here, Mr. Lane, people do all sorts of foolish things when they commit murder. Apparently DeWitt did forget. He was bound to be highly excited, you know.”

  Lane waved his arm.

  “All right, then,” continued Bruno. “We come to motive. Of course, for DeWitt to have killed Wood we must connect DeWitt with the Longstreet murder. Here we have no direct evidence, but the motive-application is certainly clear. Wood had written the police that he knew the murderer of Longstreet. On his way to make this disclosure he was killed - inferentially, to be kept from making this disclosure. There is only one person who would be interested in sealing his lips - the murderer of Longstreet. This means, gentlemen of the jury,” went on Bruno in a mocking voice, “that if DeWitt killed Wood, he also killed Longstreet. Quod erat et cetera.”

  Thumm snapped: “Oh, he doesn’t believe a word of what you’re saying, Bruno. It’s a waste-”

  “Inspector Thumm!” said Lane with gentle reproachfulness. “Please don’t misinterpret my attitude. Mr. Bruno points out what seems to him an inevitable conclusion. I quite agree with him. The murderer of Charles Wood unquestionably murdered Harley Longstreet. The logical process by which Mr. Bruno arrives at this conclusion, however, is quite another matter.”

  “You mean,” cried Bruno, “that you too think DeWitt-”

  “Please, Mr. Bruno, please continue.”

  Bruno scowled, and Thumm slumped back into his chair glaring at Lane’s famous profile. “DeWitt’s motive against Longstreet is pretty clear,” said the District Attorney after a stormy silence. “There was bad blood between the two men because of the Fern DeWitt scandal, because of Longstreet’s lustful advances to Jeanne DeWitt, because, most important of all, Longstreet undoubtedly had been blackmailing DeWitt for a long time, subject matter unknown. In addition, aside from motive and as corroboration, DeWitt more than anyone else was familiar with Longstreet’s habit of reading the stock page on the car and taking out his glasses for that purpose, so that he could plan to the minute when Longstreet would prick himself on the needled cork, and so on. As for Wood’s stumbling on a clue that pointed to DeWitt’s guilt in the Longstreet murder, we know that DeWitt used Wood’s car at least twice between the time of the first crime and the time of the second.”

  “And the exact nature of this ‘clue,’ Mr. Bruno?” asked Lane.

  “We can’t be sure on that point, of course,” frowned Bruno. “DeWitt was alone on both occasions. But I don’t think I’ll have to show how Wood came to know - the fact that he presumably knew is sufficient for the thread of my argument… As a clinching point, a really powerful phase of the prosecution’s case will be this: As far as we know, DeWitt was the only person on the street-car at the time of the Longstreet murder who was also on the ferry at the time of Wood’s murder!”

  “And that,” growled Thumm, “is a damned good case.”

  “It’s interesting from the legal standpoint,” said the District Attorney thoughtfully. “The cigar fact is strong evidence, the other inferences and circumstances implicating DeWitt guarantee a grand jury indictment, and, unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr. DeWitt won’t be feeling so spry after the jury gets through with him.”

  “An intelligent defending attorney could make out a plausible argument the other way,” remarked Lane mildly.