“On the other hand, Inspector, to follow out your blackmail theory, Crockett might no longer have had a goose to kill. Suppose this June check was to have been the last of the series? Suppose Crockett had been informed by DeWitt and Longstreet that there were to be no further checks at all?”

  “There’s something in that… Of course, we looked for records of correspondence with this Crockett, but there just weren’t any. That doesn’t prove anything, because naturally they could have got in touch with him without leaving a trace.”

  Lane shook his head lightly. “Somehow, I cannot subscribe to the theory of blackmail purely on the facts you present, Inspector. Why should the amounts vary so? Blackmail would generally take the form of standardized amounts.”

  Thumm muttered: “And that makes sense, too. As a matter of fact, the June check was for seventeen thousand, eight hundred and sixty-four dollars. How’s that for a round figure?”

  Lane smiled. He cast a last longing look at the tiny thread of the Hudson River that twinkled through the tops of the trees below, breathed hugely, and slipped his feet into the moccasins.

  “Come along downstairs, Inspector. We have reached the point where I must ‘crown my thoughts with acts.’ Therefore - ‘be it thought and done’!” They moved toward the tower stairs. Thumm grinned at the naked flesh of his host’s chest. “By God!” he said, “you’ve got even me going, Mr. Lane.

  Never thought I’d cotton to quotations like that. This Shakespeare lad had horse-sense, didn’t he? I’ll bet that mouthful was from Hamlet.”

  “Before me, Inspector.” They stepped into the half-light of the turret and began to descend the curving stones. Lane smiled behind Thumm’s broad back. “I suppose that was a valiant deduction from my terrifying habit of citing the Dane. But you’re wrong, Inspector. It was Macbeth.”

  Ten minutes later the two men were seated in Lane’s library. Lane, a gray dressing-gown thrown over his bare body, was consulting a large map of New Jersey while Inspector Thumm looked on in utter obfuscation. The roly-poly, roast-beef-and-pudding figure of Lane’s butler, the euphemistically nicknamed Falstaff, was disappearing through an archway rimmed with books.

  After several moments of unswerving concentration on the map, Lane pushed it aside and turned to face Thumm with a smile of sheer satisfaction. “The time has come, Inspector, to make a pilgrimage. A pilgrimage of some importance.”

  “We’re off at last?”

  “Oh, no - not the last pilgrimage, Inspector,” murmured Lane. “Perhaps the penultimate pilgrimage. Again you will have to take me on faith, Inspector. I am beginning, I fear, to question my own powers since the DeWitt murder which, while I might have foreseen it, I could not have prevented by any direct method…You see, I make excuses for myself. DeWitt’s death…” He was silent, and Thumm gazed at him curiously. Then he shrugged. “We play on! My instinctive sense of the dramatic prevents me from spoiling a perfect climax for you. Do as I suggest and, provided the fates are with us, I can furnish excellent evidence that will cause your case against Collins to collapse. This will naturally disturb our good friend the District Attorney, but we must protect the living. Telephone from here at once to the proper authorities, Inspector. Have a squad of men meet us as soon as possible this afternoon at Weehawken. Among them must be men equipped with dragging apparatus.”

  “Dragging apparatus?” Thumm was dubious. “Dragging… For deep water? A body?”

  “I should say that your men be prepared for any contingency. Ah, Quacey!” The diminutive wigmaker, his old leather apron bound about his tiny waist, had trudged into the library bearing a large manila envelope. Under his disapproving gaze - he saw Lane’s nudity beneath the dressing-gown - Lane took the envelope with eager fingers. It bore a consular imprint.

  “A message through Uruguay,” he said gayly to Thumm, who looked blank. He tore open the envelope, extracting several stiffly backed photographic prints and a long letter. He read the letter and threw it on the desk.

  Thumm could not disguise his curiosity. “Is that a photo of a set of fingerprints, or am I seeing things, Mr. Lane?”

  “These, Inspector,” replied Lane, waving the photographs in the air, “are telephotographs of the fingerprints of a most interesting gentleman named Martin Stopes.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Thumm instantly. “I thought it had something to do with the case.”

  “My dear Inspector, these are the case!”

  Thumm regarded Lane with the hypnotized stare of a light-blinded rabbit. He licked his lips. “But - but,” he spluttered, “these are what case? These murders we’re investigating? My God, Mr. Lane, who in the name of glory is Martin Stopes?”

  Lane did the impulsive thing; he circled Thumm’s thick shoulders with one arm. “I have the advantage of you there, Inspector. I shouldn’t have laughed - it was a boorish thing to do… Martin Stopes is the X we have been seeking - the man responsible for removing Harley Longstreet, Charles Wood, and John O. DeWitt from the face of the good earth.”

  Thumm gulped, blinked, shook his head in the characteristic dazed way. “Martin Stopes. Martin Stopes. Martin Stopes, murderer of Longstreet, Wood, DeWitt…” He rolled the name on his tongue. “Why, my God!” he burst out, “I’ve never even heard of him! His name’s never even come up in the case!”

  “And what’s in a name, Inspector?” Lane replaced the photographs in the manila envelope. Thumm stared at them as if they were precious documents; his fingers hooked unconsciously. “What’s in a name? My dear Inspector, you have had the pleasure of seeing Martin Stopes, many, many times!”

  Scene 10

  NEAR BOGOTA

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 12, 6:05 P.M.

  Hours of search found Inspector Thumm looking very depressed indeed. Strong as his faith had grown in the divinatory or logical powers of Mr. Drury Lane, it had not been able to withstand some rude shocks. Their little company equipped with queer instruments that resembled relics of the Spanish Inquisition, had all afternoon been disturbing the turgid depths of various New Jersey streams crossing the path of the West Shore Railroad. Inspector Thumm, as successive attempts with the dragging apparatus proved sterile, pulled a continuously longer face. Lane had said nothing; he directed the physical aspects of the search, contenting himself with suggestions of watery spots likely to produce whatever he was seeking.

  It had grown quite dark by the time the wet and weary party of men reached the stream near the town of Bogota. Men were dispatched on errands; the magic of Inspector Thumm’s authority secured additional apparatus. Strong searchlights were set up near the tracks and played upon the quiet water. A scoop-like iron object, which had been in constant use all afternoon, was again brought into play. Lane and a disconsolate Thumm stood side by side watching the mechanical movements of the workmen.

  “Like looking for a needle in a haystack,” grumbled the Inspector. “Absolutely not a chance of finding it, Mr. Lane.”

  As if Thumm’s pessimistic statement had aroused the pity of the gods of chance, there came at this moment a shout from one of the men operating a rowboat twenty feet from the roadbed. The shout cut off Lane’s reply. Another searchlight was trained on the boat. The scoop had come up with its usual complement of slime, vegetation, gravel and mud, but this time something winked and shone in the powerful rays.

  With a cry of triumph, Thumm scrambled recklessly down the slope, followed more sedately by Lane.

  “Is it - What is it?” roared the Inspector.

  The rowboat edged toward him, and the operator’s muddy hand held out the glittering object. Thumm looked up at Lane, who had reached his side, with something like awe. Then he shook his head and began to examine the find.

  “A .38, no doubt?” asked Lane mildly.

  “That’s what it is, by God!” cried Thumm. “Boy, luck sure is with us today! Only one empty chamber, and I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that when we fire a bullet through this barrel the bullet-markings’11 jibe with that one we took out of DeWitt!”

  He fondled the wet weapon tenderly, wrapped it in a handkerchief and put the thing into his coat pocket.

  “Come on, boys!” he yelled to the miserable crew. “We’ve got it! Pack the stuff away and go on home!”

  He and Lane marched back along the tracks toward one of the several police-cars which had driven them about all afternoon.

  “Well, sir,” said Thumm, “let me get this straight. Now here we find a gun of the same caliber as was used in killing DeWitt, in a body of water over which the train passed that night. From the location of the find it isn’t hard to see that the gun was thrown out of the train after the murder into the water. By the murderer.”

  “There is another possibility,” said Lane. “That the murderer got off the train before or at Bogota, walked on or back, as the case might be, to that stream and threw the revolver into it. I am merely,” he said, “pointing out the possibility. That the revolver was hurled from the train is by far the likelier theory.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you? Well, I’ll agree with you there…”

  They had reached the police-car now and rested gratefully against the black door. Lane remarked: “In any event, the discovery of the revolver where we found if definitely eliminates any opportunity of securing a conviction of Collins.”

  “You mean that Collins now has a perfect out?”

  “Judiciously phrased, Inspector. The local pulled into the Ridgefield Park station at 12:30. Collins secured a taxicab before the train was out of sight - this is important. From that point on his alibi is fixed by the taxidriver, who was taking him in the opposite direction from the train - toward New York. The revolver could not have been thrown from the train into the stream before 12:35, the time the train passed over the stream. Even if the revolver were thrown into the stream by a person on foot, he could not have reached the stream before the train, naturally. But Collins could not possibly have walked or driven to the stream, thrown in the weapon, and returned to the Ridgefield Park station before the train was out of sight! There is a distance of approximately a mile between Ridgefield Park and the stream, two miles up and back. True, it is conceivable, for example, that the revolver was hurled into the stream long after the murder-period; that Collins might have come back hours later and done this would not be impossible under ordinary circumstances. But the circumstances are extraordinary. For the cab took Collins directly to his New York apartment, and his movements were covered from that moment. Ergo - exit Mr. Collins.”

  Thumm’s voice rose triumphantly. “I knew you’d overlooked something, Mr. Lane! You’re dead to rights in that argument - Collins himself couldn’t have thrown the gat into the stream. But how about an accomplice? Suppose Collins killed DeWitt, handed the gun to an accomplice, beat it off the train, and told the accomplice to throw the gun into the water from the train five minutes after he himself had left it. That would be damned smart figuring, Mr. Lane!”

  “Now, now, Inspector, don’t excite yourself,” said Lane with a smile. “All along we have been discussing the legal aspect of the Collins case. I have not overlooked the possibility of an accomplice. Not at all. It is sufficient that I ask you - who is this accomplice? Can you produce him before the Court? Have you anything except a glossy theory to offer the jury? No, I am afraid that Mr. Collins cannot be convicted of DeWitt’s murder in the face of the new evidence.”

  “That’s right,” said Thumm, his face gloomy again. “Neither Bruno nor I have the slightest idea who the accomplice might be.”

  “If there is an accomplice, Inspector,” said Lane dryly.

  The crew had straggled up and Thumm climbed into the police-car. Lane followed, the other car filled up, and the caravan headed back toward Weehawken, a trailer carrying the apparatus.

  Thumm sat immersed, from the expression on his face, in an eddy of bitter thoughts. Drury Lane relaxed, stretching his long legs. “You see, Inspector,” he continued, “even from a psychological standpoint the argument of an accomplice is weak.”

  Thumm groaned.

  “Let us work along the theory that Collins killed DeWitt, had an accomplice, gave the weapon to the accomplice and instructed him to throw the revolver out of the train five minutes after Collins had dropped off at Ridgefield Park. So far, so good. The hypothesis is based solely on the presumption that Collins is building for himself an air-tight alibi; in other words, the revolver is to be found along the route at a point five minutes beyond the place where Collins is known to have turned back in the opposite direction.

  “But Collins has no alibi if the revolver is not found at the point five minutes beyond his dropping-off place. Therefore, if Collins planned all this, he had to make absolutely certain that the revolver was found. Yet we discover the weapon in a stream, where but for the grace of God it might have lain until doomsday. How can we reconcile the theory of Collins’s manufactured alibi with the fact that every effort was apparently made to keep the revolver from being found at all? You will say, I suppose” - although Thumm’s expression indicated no desire to speak - “that it might have been an accident that the revolver landed in the stream, that the accomplice threw it out of a window intending it to land along the roadbed. But if he intended the revolver to be found in support of Collins’s alibi would he throw it twenty feet out of the train? For that is where we found it - at a point in the stream twenty feet from the tracks.

  “No, the accomplice would merely drop the revolver out of the window, where it could not possibly land anywhere but on the roadbed, insuring its later discovery.”

  “In other words,” muttered Thumm, “you’ve proved clearly that the gun wasn’t meant to be found. That eliminates Collins, all right.”

  “So it does, Inspector,” murmured Lane.

  “Well,” remarked Thumm with a helpless snort, “I’ll admit it beats me. Every time Bruno and I get our mitts on somebody we think is X, you spoil our party. It’s getting to be a habit, by God. Now the case is more complicated than ever, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “On the contrary,” said Mr. Drury Lane, “we have pushed it very near the end.”

  Scene 11

  THE HAMLET

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13, 10:30 A.M.

  Quacey Stood at a telephone in his wiggery establishment at The Hamlet. Mr. Drury Lane sprawled in a chair near by. The dark shades were drawn up at the windows, and the weak sunlight spattered in.

  The ancient was speaking in his creaky voice. “But Mr. Bruno, that’s what Mr. Lane says. Yes, sir… Yes, tonight, at eleven P.M. you are to meet Mr. Lane here and bring Inspector Thumm and a small squad of police with you… One moment, please.” Quacey snuggled the speaker to his bony little breast. “Mr. Bruno wants to know if the men are to be in plainclothes, Mr. Drury, and what’s the idea, he says.”

  “You may inform the District Attorney,” drawled Lane, “that the men are not to be in uniform and that the idea is a little excursion into New Jersey. Tell him that we shall take the West Shore train bound for West Englewood on a most important mission connected with the case.”

  Quacey blinked, and obeyed orders.

  11 P.M.

  Inspector Thumm, perhaps by virtue of his more intimate acquaintanceship, was the only member of the police party which gathered that night in the library of The Hamlet to appear completely at ease. Mr. Drury Lane was not in evidence, and District Attorney Bruno sank into an old chair with an irritable exclamation.

  The fat little body of Falstaff bowed and scraped itself into Bruno’s consciousness. “Well?”

  “Mr. Lane’s regrets, sir. Will you wait a few moments, he says.”

  Bruno nodded without enthusiasm. Thumm chuckled to himself.

  While they waited the men’s eyes traveled with curiosity about the vast room. The ceiling was very high, and three of the walls were covered from floor to ceiling by open bookshelves holding thousands of volumes. Library ladders stood braced against the upper shelves. A quaint balcony ran completely around the room; two winding flights of iron steps gave access to it at two corners. Bronze signs engraved in Old English catalogued the books - a circular desk at one end of the room was evidently the sanctum of a special librarian, although the desk was now unoccupied. On the fourth wall there were some curious items; Bruno rose impatiently from his chair and began to wander about. He saw a stiffly varnished, glass-covered old chart in the center of the fourth wall; the curlicued inscription in the lower left- hand comer established it as a map of the world dated 1501. A collection of Elizabethan costumes, each in a separate case, lined the wall on the floor…

  They all turned as the door of the library opened suddenly and the wizened figure of Quacey slipped into the room. He held the door wide, an expectant grin on his old gnarled face.

  Through the arching doorway strode a tall, burly, ruddy-faced man who regarded them truculently. He had a powerful chin, but his cheeks sagged slightly and there were unmistakable signs of dissipation around his eyes. He was dressed in a tweed suit - a rough tweed with wide sporty trousers and a sackcoat. He jammed his hands into the flapless pockets and glowered at them.

  The effect of his appearance was instantaneous and dynamic. District Attorney Bruno froze to the floor, blinking his eyes rapidly as if he could not credit the intelligence their nerves flashed to his brain. But if Bruno was startled, Inspector Thumm was affected in a subtler, profounder way. His rocky jaw trembled like a child’s; it dropped and wagged slightly. His eyes, normally hard and cold, blazed with a feverish horror. He opened and shut them quickly several times. The color had quite fled his face.

  “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered hoarsely. “Har - Har - Harley Longstreet!”