“You won’t forget now,” admonished Bruno, as Kohl and he stood talking in the forward car. “You’ll look for the passengers who got off before the murder was discovered?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Kohl gloomily, “but frankly I don’t think it will result in anything. The innocent ones will come in, and if there’s the guilty one among ’em, he’ll stay away. And there you are.”

  “One other thing, Kohl. Thumm’s men are scouting around up the line, along the tracks and roadbed, looking for the revolver on the chance that it was thrown from the train. Will you send Jersey men to relieve them and continue the search? It will be light soon, and they’ll be able to see better. Of course, we’ve had the DeWitt party as well as the rest of the crowd searched, and the gun wasn’t found.”

  Kohl nodded and left the train.

  The party reassembled in the forward car. Thumm was struggling into his topcoat. “Well, Mr. Lane,” he said, “what do you say about this crime? Does it verify your other ideas?”

  “Do you still think,” put in Bruno, “that you know who killed Longstreet and Wood?”

  Lane smiled for the first time since he had discovered DeWitt’s body. “I not only know who killed Longstreet and Wood, but I also know who killed DeWitt.”

  They stared at him, speechless. For the second time since Thumm had met Lane he shook his head like a fighter shaking off the effects of a head- blow. “Whew!” he said. “I give up.”

  “But Mr. Lane,” protested Bruno, “let’s do something. If you know, tell us and we’ll nab him. This can’t go on forever. Who is it?”

  Lane’s face dropped into haggard lines. When he spoke it was with some difficulty. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. You must have - odd, isn’t it? - faith in me. Believe me when I say it would do not the slightest good to unmask our Mr.

  X now. You must have patience. I am playing a dangerous game, but haste would be ruinous.”

  Bruno groaned. He appealed helplessly to Thumm, who was thoughtfully sucking his forefinger. Thumm looked into Lane’s clear eyes with sudden decision. “Okay, Mr. Lane. Whatever you say goes with me. I’ll fight it out on my side, and I know Bruno will on his. If I’m wrong in you, I’ll take my licking like a man. Because I’m absolutely - this is between you and me - up a tree.”

  Lane flushed - the first sign of emotional response he had exhibited. “There may be another murder if we let this crazy killer run around loose,” said Bruno with a final desperate lunge.

  “You may take my word for it, Mr. Bruno.” Lane’s voice was dryly assured. “There will be no other murders. X is finished.”

  Scene 4

  EN ROUTE TO NEW YORK

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 3:15 A.M.

  District Attorney Bruno, Inspector Thumm, and a small army of men climbed into police cars and roared away from the Teaneck siding in the direction of New York.

  For a long time the two men sat without speaking, immersed in a welter of spinning thoughts. The black Jersey countryside skimmed by.

  Bruno opened his mouth, and the words flew out soundlessly, swallowed up in the thunder of the cut-out. Thumm yelled: “Hey?” and they put their heads together.

  Bruno shouted into the Inspector’s ear: “How do you figure Lane knows who killed DeWitt?”

  “The same way, I suppose,” cried Thumm, “that he knew who killed Longstreet and Wood?”

  “If he knew.”

  “Oh, he knows all right. The old son-of-a-gun inspires confidence somehow. Can’t figure it out myself… Easy enough to see how his mind worked. He probably figures that Longstreet and DeWitt have been on the spot from the beginning, both of ’em. Wood’s murder came between as a result of circumstances - to shut him up. That means-”

  Bruno nodded slowly. “That means that the motive for these crimes goes ’way back, maybe.”

  “Sure looks like it.” Thumm swore fluently as the driver of the car took a bump in the road without touching his brake. “So Lane says there won’t be any more murders - see? Longstreet and DeWitt rubbed out, and there’s an end to it.”

  “Feel sorry for that poor old devil,” muttered Bruno half to himself. The same thought was in their minds - DeWitt, in some as yet unseen way sacrificed… They sat in silent communion as the car rushed on.

  After a time Thumm took his hat off and pounded his forehead. Bruno gaped.

  “What’s the matter - feel sick?”

  “Trying to figure out that damned finger-sign DeWitt left.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s cuckoo, Bruno, plain cuckoo. Can’t make head or tail of it.”

  “How do you know DeWitt left it?” demanded the District Attorney. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Just an accident.”

  “You don’t believe that. Accident, hell! Did you see me try putting my fingers in that position? Took a lot of strength to keep them overlapped for even thirty seconds. And it’s impossible, I’d say, for the fingers to have got together in a spasm, Bruno. Schilling had the same idea, or he wouldn’t have made me experiment… Say listen!” The Inspector shifted in the leather seat to glare suspiciously at the District Attorney. “I thought you were sort of impressed by that evil-eye crack!”

  Bruno smiled sheepishly. “Well… The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to dismiss it. It just can’t be. It’s too fantastic - isn’t real, by God.”

  “Hard to figure, all right.”

  “Then again, who can tell? Let’s suppose - mind you, Thumm, I’m not saying I believe it…”

  “I get you, I get you.”

  “Well, let’s suppose those overlapping fingers did signify the protection- sign against the evil eye. Might as well take all the possibilities into consideration. All right. DeWitt died instantly on being shot; one thing sure, then, the sign must have been made deliberately by DeWitt and before he was shot.”

  “Murderer might have set DeWitt’s fingers that way after DeWitt was dead,” said Thumm in a disagreeable voice. “As I said before.”

  “Oh, rot!” cried Bruno. “The murderer didn’t leave any sign on the other two - why on this one?”

  “All right - have it your way,” shouted Thumm. “I was only acting true to form - detective examining all the possibilities, and all that kind of junk.” Bruno paid no attention. “If DeWitt left that sign deliberately - hell, he knew his murderer, all right, and wanted to leave a clue to his murderer’s identity.”

  “So far so good,” yelled Thumm. “Elementary, my dear Bruno!”

  “Oh, shut up. On the other hand,” continued the District Attorney, “about this evil-eye business. DeWitt wasn’t superstitious. Told you himself he wasn’t. That means… Say, Thumm!”

  “I get you, I get you,” cried the Inspector, sitting up abruptly. “You mean that DeWitt left the sign to indicate his murderer was superstitious! By golly - that begins to sound like something! Jibes with DeWitt, too. Split- second thinker, he was. Quick on the trigger, keen business man…”

  “Do you think Lane has considered that?” asked Bruno thoughtfully. “Lane?” The Inspector’s excitement subsided as if it had been doused with ice-cold water. His thick fingers bruised his jaw. “Well. Now that I think of it, maybe the idea isn’t so hot after all. This goddamned superstition business…”

  Bruno sighed.

  Five minutes later Thumm said suddenly: “What the hell is a jettatore?”

  “Possessor of the evil eye - Neapolitan term, I think.”

  They lapsed into gloomy silence as the car hurtled on.

  Scene 5

  THE DEWITT HOUSE IN ENGLEWOOD

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 3:40 A.M.

  West Englewood was fast asleep under a frosty moon when a large police touring-car passed through the village and took a side road lined with decaying trees. Two State troopers on motorcycles flanked the car. Behind it came another and smaller car filled with detectives.

  The cavalcade came to a stop before the driveway leading through the lawns to the DeWitt house. From the large touring-car emerged Jeanne DeWitt with Kit Lord, Franklin Ahearn, Louis Imperiale, Lionel Brooks, and Drury Lane. All were silent.

  The troopers cut their motors, pulled the machines back on their stands, and sat their saddles idly, puffing at cigarettes. The detectives swarmed from the smaller automobile and surrounded the party.

  “All of you into the house,” said one, with an air of authority. “District Attorney Kohl’s orders to keep you together.”

  Ahearn protested; he lived near by, he said, and saw no reason for spending the remainder of the night in the DeWitt house. Lane hung back as the others straggled up the walk to the portico. The detective with the authoritative air shook his head; another man stepped to Ahearn’s side. Ahearn shrugged and followed the others; and Lane, smiling faintly, proceeded along the dark walk in Ahearn’s wake. The detectives trudged behind.

  They were admitted by a half-dressed Jorgens, who stared at them in bewilderment. No one vouchsafed an explanation. The party, followed doggedly by the detectives, went into the large Colonial sitting-room, dropping into chairs with varying expressions of hopelessness and fatigue. Jorgens, buttoning himself with one hand, lit electric lamps with the other. Drury Lane sat down with a sigh of relief, nursing his stick and watching the others with bright eyes.

  Jorgens hovered over Jeanne DeWitt. The girl was sitting on a sofa encircled by Lord’s arm. The butler said timidly: “I beg your pardon, Miss Jeanne…

  She murmured “Yes?” in a voice so strange that the old man took a step backward.

  But he said: “Has anything happened? These men… I beg your pardon, but where is Mr. DeWitt?”

  Lord said gruffly: “Oh, go away, Jorgens.”

  The girl said clearly: “He’s dead, Jorgens. Quite dead.”

  Jorgens’ face went ashen; he remained in the same stooping attitude like a man entranced. Then he glanced about uncertainly as if to corroborate this appalling intelligence, saw only averted faces or stony eyes from which all emotion had been drained by the remorseless events of the night. Without a word, he turned to go.

  The detective in charge blocked his way. “Where’s Mrs. DeWitt?”

  The old butler regarded him blankly out of bleared, rheumy eyes. “Mrs. DeWitt? Mrs. DeWitt?”

  “Yes. Come on - where is she?”

  Jorgens stiffened. “Upstairs asleep, I think, sir.”

  “Was she here all evening?”

  “No, sir. No, sir, I think not.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”

  “When did she get in?”

  “I was asleep, sir, when she came in. She had evidently forgotten her key, for she rang until I came down.”

  “Well, well?”

  “She came in about an hour and a half ago, 1 should judge, sir.”

  “Don’t you know exactly?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Just a minute.” The detective turned to Jeanne DeWitt, who had sat up during this conversation, listening almost with eagerness. The detective seemed puzzled by the peculiar expression on her face. He said, with a clumsy attempt at graciousness: “I guess - Would you want to tell Mrs. DeWitt what happened, Miss? She’ll have to know, and besides I want to talk to her. District Attorney Kohl’s orders.”

  “I tell her?” Jeanne threw her head back and laughed hysterically. “I tell her?” Lord shook her gently, murmuring in her ear. The wildness fled from her eyes and she shuddered. She said, in a half-whisper: “Jorgens, call Mrs. DeWitt down here.”

  The detective said eagerly: “Never mind. I’ll get her myself. Here, you - show me where her room is.”

  Jorgens shuffled out of the room, followed by the detective. No one spoke. Ahearn rose and began to pace the floor. Imperiale, his coat still on, bundled it more securely about him.

  “I think,” said Drury Lane amiably, “it would be wise to light a fire.” Ahearn stood stock-still, looking around the room. He shivered suddenly, as if he had just felt the chill in the air. He glanced about in a helpless way, hesitated, then went to the fireplace, knelt and with trembling hands occupied himself in starting a fire; a little heap of logs crackled after a moment. Firelight leaped along the walls. When he had the fire going to his satisfaction, Ahearn rose, dusted his knees and resumed his pacing. Imperiale took his coat off. Brooks, buried in the depths of an armchair in a far comer, hitched the chair closer to the fire.

  They all raised their heads suddenly. A confusion of voices floated through the doorway and the warming air. Stiffly, unnaturally, they held their heads that way - watching, waiting for something to happen in the curiously detached manner of statuary. Then Mrs. DeWitt glided into the sitting-room, followed by the detective and the hesitating, still dazed Jorgens.

  Her gliding motion, unnatural as their manner, unreal as the tempo of a dream, nevertheless released them from the spell of horror and the evil night, ‘they relaxed; Imperiale rose and made a formal little bow; Ahearn grunted, tossing his head; Lord’s arm tightened about Jeanne’s shoulders; Brooks went to the fire. Only Drury Lane remained in the same pose, a man handicapped by deafness, head cocked alertly and eyes sharp for the slightest move that might be significant of sound.

  Fern DeWitt was clothed in an exotic dressing-gown hurriedly wrapped about her nightdress; her hair, still gleaming black, streamed over her shoulders. She was more beautiful now than in the light of day: the lacquer was stripped from her face and the firelight softened the marks of age. She paused uncertainly, her eyes much like Jorgens’ and looked around. When they came to Jeanne, they contracted oddly and she crossed the room to bend over the girl’s exhausted body. “Jeanne, Jeanne,” she whispered. “I’m so-so…” The girl replied in a crystal voice, without raising her head or looking at her stepmother. “Please go away.”

  Fem DeWitt recoiled as if Jeanne had slapped her; without another word she turned to leave the room. The detective, who had been standing behind her watching closely, barred her way. “A couple of questions first, Mrs. DeWitt.”

  She stopped, helplessly. Imperiale hurried forward with a chair, and she sank into it, staring at the fire.

  The detective cleared his throat in the heavy, palpable silence. “What time did you get in tonight?”

  She sucked her breath in. “Why? Why? You don’t…”

  “Answer the question.”

  “A few minutes after - two.”

  “That is, about two hours ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Just driving.”

  “Driving.” The detective’s voice was crude with suspicion. “Anybody with you?”

  “I was alone.”

  “What time did you leave this house?”

  “A long time after dinner. About seven-thirty. I took my own car and drove, drove…” Her voice trailed away and the detective waited patiently. She moistened her dry lips and began again. “I drove to the City. After a time I found myself in the Cathedral… St. John the Divine.”

  “On Amsterdam Avenue and 110th Street?”

  “Yes. I parked my car and went in. Just sat there for a long time, thinking… “

  “What’s the idea, Mrs. DeWitt?” demanded the detective in a rough tone. “Do you mean to tell me that you went clean to uptown New York just to sit in a church for a couple of hours? When did you leave the Cathedral?”

  “Oh, what’s the difference?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “What in the world is the difference? Do you think I killed him? You do - I know you do, all of you, sitting here this way, watching me, judging me…”

  She began to weep, hopelessly, her magnificent shoulders heaving.

  “What time did you leave the Cathedral?”

  She sobbed a little then, choked back the tears, and said brokenly: “About half-past ten or eleven o’clock, I don’t remember.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I just drove and drove and drove.”

  “How’d you get back to Jersey?”

  “By the Forty-Second Street ferry.”

  The detective whistled, stared at her. “Came all the way downtown in heavy New York traffic again? Why? Why didn’t you cross by the 125th Street ferry?”

  She said nothing.

  “Come on now,” said the man brutally. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  “Explaining?” Her eyes were dull. “I have nothing to explain. I don’t know why I came downtown. I was just driving, thinking…”

  “Yeah, thinking.” He glared now. “What about?”

  She rose, draping her gown about her. “I think you are carrying this just a bit too far. Certainly my thoughts are my own? Let me pass, please. I am going to my room.”

  The detective stepped before her and she stopped short, the color fading from her cheeks. “No, you don’t-” he began, when Drury Lane said pleasantly: “Really, I think Mrs. DeWitt is perfectly right. She is under a strain and it would be only kindness to question her further - if it is necessary - in the morning.”

  The detective screwed his eyes at Lane, coughed, stepped aside. “All right, sir,” he growled. He added grudgingly: “Excuse me, lady.”

  Fern DeWitt disappeared, and again the party lapsed into apathy.

  At a quarter after four Mr. Drury Lane might have been observed at a curious business.

  He was alone in the library of the DeWitt house. His Inverness was thrown over a chair. His tall trim figure paced off the room methodically, eyes roving, hands prying and searching. In the center of the room was a large walnut desk, carved and old. Lane went through the drawers one by one, sorting papers, examining records and documents. Apparently he was dissatisfied; because he left the desk and for the third time turned to a wall- safe.

  He tried the knob again; the safe was locked. He turned away and slowly, carefully went through tier upon tier of books, looking between shelves and volumes, opening a book here and there.

  When he had completely examined the books, he stood musing. His bright eyes strayed to the wall-safe again.