The Inspector returned his attention to the pocket. The second object was a peculiar one. It was a small ball of cork, one inch in diameter, riddled with at least fifty ordinary needles, the tips of which projected from the cork a quarter-inch all around, making the total diameter of the weapon an inch and a half. The tips of the needles were stained with a reddish-brown substance. With the point of his penknife Thumm prodded the cork and turned it around. The needle-tips on the other side were similarly stained - it was a tarry, sticky substance. He leaned forward and sniffed vigorously. “Smells like stale tobacco,” he muttered to Duffy, who was watching over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t touch this bare-handed for a year’s salary.”

  He straightened up, explored his own pockets, and produced a small pair of pincers and a packet of cigarettes. He dumped the cigarettes into his pocket. Manipulating the pincers, he managed to get a firm grip on the needled cork. Lifting it out of Longstreet’s pocket gingerly, he slipped the ball of cork into the empty cigarette-packet. At a low word to Duffy, the sergeant left, returned in a moment with the article Thumm had commanded - a newspaper - and the Inspector wrapped the cigarette-packet in a half dozen thicknesses of paper. He handed the package to Duffy.

  “That’s dynamite, Sergeant,” he said grimly, standing up. “Handle it that way. You’re responsible for it.”

  Sergeant Duffy stood stiffly erect, holding the package at arm’s length.

  Inspector Thumm, ignoring the tense glances of the Longstreet party, went forward. He questioned the motorman and the passengers who were standing close to the front doorway. He made his way back through the car and repeated this procedure with the conductor and passengers on the back platform. Returning, he said to Duffy: “Here’s luck, Sergeant. Not a soul left this car since it started at Eighth Avenue. Since this bird got on…Tell you what. Send Morrow and Sittenfield back to their posts; we’ve got plenty of men here. Post a cordon outside; I want this car cleared.”

  Duffy, still holding the deadly package, went rearward. He let himself out of the car; the conductor immediately closed the doors behind him.

  Five minutes later the doors at the rear were opened again. From the iron- shod step outside to a stairway across the floor of the carbarn extended two lines of police and detectives. Inspector Thumm had weeded out the members of the Longstreet party; they trooped silently from the car in single file and were escorted through the cordon into a private room on the second floor of the building. The door of the private room was closed, and a policeman took up his station outside. Inside, two detectives watched the party.

  With the disappearance of the Longstreet party, Inspector Thumm superintended the exodus of all other occupants of the car. They filed, a long shambling line, through the same cordon into a large general room on the second floor, guarded by a half-dozen detectives.

  Inspector Thumm now stood, alone, in the deserted car - alone with the sprawled dead figure on the seat. He stood thoughtfully regarding the contorted face, eyes still open to the glaring lights, pupils oddly dilated. The clang of an ambulance outside roused him. Two young men in white hurried into the tram, herded by a short fat man wearing old-fashioned gold-rimmed eyeglasses and a dinky gray cloth hat of ancient vintage, its brim rolled up behind and pulled down in front.

  Thumm worked the lever of the back door and leaned out. “Dr. Schilling! This way!”

  The short fat man, Medical Examiner of New York County, puffed into the car followed by the two internes. As Dr. Schilling bent over the dead man, Inspector Thumm carefully put his hand into the left patch-pocket and took out the silver spectacle-case.

  Dr. Schilling straightened. “Where can I take this stiff, Inspector?”

  “Upstairs.” Thumm’s eyes twinkled with grim humor. “Dump him in that private room up there with the rest of the party. That,” he said dryly, “ought to be interesting.”

  He swung off the car as Dr. Schilling superintended the removal of the body. Thumm beckoned a detective. “Something I want you to do at once, Lieutenant. Have this car gone over with a fine-comb. Collect every piece of junk in it. Then go over the routes the Longstreet party and the other occupants of the car took in passing through the cordon. I want to make absolutely sure that nobody dropped anything. You know! A good job now, Peabody.”

  Lieutenant Peabody grinned and turned on his heel. Inspector Thumm said: “Come on with me, Sergeant,” and Duffy, still holding the newspaper- wrapped weapon tenderly, smiled in a sickly way and followed the Inspector to the staircase leading up to the second floor.

  Scene 4

  PRIVATE ROOM IN A CARBARN

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 6:40 P.M.

  The private room on the upper floor of the carbarn was a large, bare, dismal place. A continuous bench flanked the four walls. The Longstreet party sat about in varying attitudes of misery and strain, but all were silent.

  Dr. Schilling, preceding the two internes bearing the dead man on a stretcher, entered the room immediately behind Inspector Thumm and Sergeant Duffy. He commandeered a screen and the three doctors disappeared with the stretcher behind it. Not the slightest sound interrupted this rite, conducted with the utmost cheerfulness by the Medical Examiner. The Longstreet party, as if by an unspoken command, thereafter kept their heads turned away from the screen. Softly, Cherry Browne began to cry, leaning against Pollux’s trembling shoulder.

  Inspector Thumm clasped muscular hands behind his back and surveyed the party with quiet, almost disinterested speculation. “Now that we’re all here in a nice private room,” he began pleasantly, “we can have a sane talk about this thing. I know everybody here is upset, but not too upset to answer a couple of questions.” They sat like school-children, gazing up at him. “Sergeant,” the Inspector continued, “you told me that some gentleman here had identified the dead man as Harley Longstreet. Who was that?”

  Sergeant Duffy pointed to the motionless figure of John DeWitt sitting beside his wife on the bench. DeWitt stirred.

  “I see,” said Inspector Thumm. “Now, sir, suppose you tell me what you began to tell the sergeant in the car. - Be sure to get all this, Jonas,” he said to one of a group of detectives at the door. The man nodded, pencil poised over a notebook. “Now, sir. What’s your name?”

  “John O. DeWitt.” Determination, self-assurance had crept into his bearing, into his voice. Inspector Thumm noticed a quick flash of surprise on the faces of several of the party; DeWitt’s manner seemed to please them. “The dead man was my business partner. Our firm is DeWitt & Longstreet. Brokers, Wall Street.”

  “And who are these ladies and gentlemen?”

  DeWitt quietly introduced the other members of the party.

  “Now, what were you all doing on that street-car?”

  The frail little man recited in a dry, precise way the facts leading up to the boarding of the Forty-Second Street Crosstown, the engagement party, what took place there, Longstreet’s invitation to spend the week-end at his home, the departure from the hotel, the sudden storm, the decision to take the car to the ferry.

  Thumm listened noncommittally. As DeWitt concluded, he smiled. “Nicely told. Mr. DeWitt, you saw that peculiar cork of needles I took from Longstreet’s pocket in the car. Have you ever seen it before? Or heard of the existence of such a thing?” DeWitt shook his head. “Anyone else here?” All shook their heads. “Very well. Now listen carefully, Mr. DeWitt. Are the following facts true? While you, Longstreet, and the others waited on the corner of Forty-Second and Eighth under the awning, you showed Longstreet a letter. He put his left hand into his left pocket, extracted his eyeglass- case, took out the glasses, and put his hand into his pocket again to return the case. Did you notice anything happen to his left hand? Did he cry out? Did he pull his hand out fast?”

  “Not at all,” replied DeWitt composedly. “You are apparently attempting to fix the exact period during which the weapon was slipped into his pocket. Positively not at that time, Inspector.”

  Thumm turned to the others. “Anybody notice anything wrong?”

  Cherry Browne said in a thin tearful voice, “Nothing was wrong. I was right beside him and if he had stuck himself I would have known it.”

  “Good. Now then, Mr. DeWitt, when Longstreet finished reading the letter, he once more put his hand into his pocket to take out the case, stowed away his glasses and again - for the fourth time - put his hand into that pocket, on this last occasion to return the case. Did he cry out then, or make any sign that he was pricked?”

  “I am willing to swear, Inspector,” replied DeWitt, “that he made no outcry or sign of any kind.”

  The others nodded their heads in unanimous agreement.

  Thumm rocked a little on his heels. “Miss Browne,” turning to the actress, “Mr. DeWitt says that immediately after returning the letter, he saw Longstreet and you dash for the car, and that you held your fiancé’s left arm from then until you both got into the car out of the rain. Is that true?”

  “Yes.” She shivered a little. “I was pressed up close to him, hanging on his left arm. He - he had his left hand in the pocket. We were that way until - until we were on the rear platform.”

  “Did you see his hand at all on the platform - his left hand?”

  “Yes. When he took it out of his pocket to look for change in his vest pocket and didn’t find any. Just after we got on the car.”

  “His hand was clear - no pricks on it, no blood?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. DeWitt, let me see that letter you showed your partner.”

  DeWitt took from his breast pocket the muddied envelope and handed it to Inspector Thumm. Thumm read the letter - the grievance of a customer named Weber complaining that he had ordered stock sold at a certain time for a certain price, but that DeWitt & Longstreet had not followed instructions, and that he, Weber, had lost a considerable sum of money as a result. The letter demanded a refund of this loss, claiming that the negligence was the firm’s. Thumm returned the letter to DeWitt without comment.

  “These facts, then, are substantially correct,” he resumed. “In other words-”

  “The weapon,” went on DeWitt tonelessly, “must have been slipped into Longstreet’s pocket while he was on the car.”

  The Inspector grinned without humor. “That’s it exactly. He had put his hand into his pocket four times on the corner. As they crossed over to board the car, you yourself saw Miss Browne pressed against Longstreet’s left side, and Longstreet’s own hand was in that all-important left pocket. If anything was wrong then, both you and Miss Browne would have noticed it. In the car Miss Browne saw his hand, and it was all right. Then the needled cork was not in his pocket before he boarded.”

  Thumm scratched his jaw, ruminating. Then, shaking his head, he strode up and down before the party, questioning each one as to his or her physical position in the vehicle in relation to Longstreet. He discovered that all were grouped loosely, shifting and swaying with the motion of the car and the restless movements of the passengers. He clamped his lips together but showed no other sign of disappointment.

  “Miss Browne, why did Longstreet take out his glasses in the car?”

  “I think he wanted to read his paper,” she replied wearily.

  DeWitt said: “Longstreet always consulted the final stock quotations in his late paper on the way to the ferry.”

  “And it was when he took out his glasses that he cried out and looked at his hand, Miss Browne?” asked Thumm, nodding.

  “Yes. He seemed surprised, annoyed, but nothing more. He began to examine his pocket, as if to see what had caused the pricks, but the car lurched badly and he grabbed for a strap. Then he said he had just scratched himself. But he was pretty groggy, it seemed to me.”

  “But he put on his glasses anyway, and read the stock page?”

  “He started to open his paper, but he never finished. He - he collapsed before I could realize what was happening.”

  Inspector Thumm frowned. “Read the stock page on the car every night, hey? Any special reason he might have had, Miss Browne, to look at his paper tonight? After all, it wasn’t the politest thing to do… ”

  “Perfectly ridiculous,” interrupted DeWitt again, in cold tones. “You don’t know - or didn’t know - Longstreet. He’d do anything he pleased. What special reason, as you express it, could he have had?”

  But Cherry Browne, beneath the traces of tears, was looking thoughtful. “Come to think of it,” she said, “there might have been a special reason, at that. Only this afternoon he called for a paper - it wasn’t the final, I don’t think - to see what a certain stock was doing. He might-”

  Thumm clucked encouragingly. “That’s the stuff, Miss Browne. And what was the name of the stock, do you know?”

  “I think… It was International Metals.” She stole a swift look at the portion of the bench where Michael Collins sat sullenly studying the dirty floor. “And Harley said, when he saw that International Metals had dropped a lot, Harley said Mr. Collins might need help on short notice.”

  “I see. Collins!” The bulky Irishman grunted. Thumm regarded him with curiosity. “So you’re in on this party, too. I thought the Income Tax Department kept you busy… Collins, where do you come in on this deal?” Collins bared his teeth. “I’m not sure this is any of your business, Thumm. But if you must know, Longstreet advised me to buy in heavy on International Metals - he’d been watching the stock for me. And hell, the bottom just dropped out of it today.”

  DeWitt had turned and was regarding Collins with frank surprise. Thumm said quickly: “And did you know about this transaction, Mr. DeWitt?”

  “Certainly not.” DeWitt faced him squarely. “I’m astonished to hear that Longstreet advised buying Metals. I foresaw its collapse last week and strongly advised a number of my personal customers against buying in.”

  “Collins, when did you first hear about the drop in Metals?”

  “About one o’clock today. But look here, DeWitt, what do you mean you didn’t know about Longstreet’s information? What kind of lousy firm do you run anyway? I’m-”

  “Take it easy,” said Inspector Thumm. “Just take it easy, Son. Did you speak to Longstreet between one o’clock today and the time you saw him at the hotel?”

  “Yes,” ominously.

  “Where?”

  “At the Times Square branch of the firm. Early afternoon.”

  Thumm again rocked on his heels. “No words, I suppose?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” shouted Collins suddenly. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Thumm! What the hell are you trying to do - pin this thing on me?”

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “Well - no.”

  Cherry Browne screamed. Inspector Thumm whirled as if he had been shot. But he saw only the cheerfully fat little figure of Dr. Schilling emerging from behind the screen in his striped shirt-sleeves. A brief glimpse of Long- street’s rigid dead face…

  “Let’s have that thingamajig - that cork, or whatever it is, the boys told me about downstairs, Inspector,” said Dr. Schilling.

  Thumm nodded to Sergeant Duffy; Duffy handed the package with an expression of immense relief to the Medical Examiner who took it, humming, and disappeared again behind the screen.

  Cherry Browne was on her feet now, eyes wild and face writhing like a nightmarish Medusa’s. Her initial reaction had worn off; the sudden sight of Longstreet’s livid clay had brought on a purposeful, somehow cunning hysteria. She brandished her finger at DeWitt, ran forward and clutched his lapels, shrieked into his blanched face: “You killed him! You did it! You hated him! You killed him!” The men had risen, pale; Thumm and Duffy sprang forward and pulled the screaming woman away. Throughout DeWitt stood like stone. The color drained out of Jeanne DeWitt’s face; her lips tightened and she advanced tigerishly on the actress. Christopher Lord blocked her path, began to soothe her in a low voice. She sat down again, staring horrified at her father. Imperiale and Ahearn with serious faces took their places at DeWitt’s side, like a guard of honor. Collins sat belligerently in his comer. Pollux was on his feet now, whispering rapidly into Cherry Browne’s ear. She calmed gradually, began to cry… Only Mrs. DeWitt had not turned a hair; she surveyed the scene with bright, unblinking, inhuman eyes.

  Inspector Thumm towered above the quivering woman. “How did you come to say that, Miss Browne? How do you know Mr. DeWitt killed him? Did you see Mr. DeWitt put that cork into Longstreet’s coat?”

  “No, no.” She moaned, shaking from side to side. “Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know. I only know he hated Harl, hated him like poison… Harley told me so dozens of times-”

  Thumm snorted, straightened, and looked hard and significantly at Sergeant Duffy. Duffy gestured to the detective writing in the notebook. The man opened the door; his partner stepped further into the room. And while Pollux bent over Cherry, solacing her with some magical words of his own, Inspector Thumm snapped: “Everybody stay right here until I get back,” and strode through the open doorway followed meekly by Jonas, the detective with the notebook.

  Scene 5

  GENERAL ROOM IN A CARBARN

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 7:30 P.M.

  Inspector Thumm proceeded directly to the general room in the barn. He entered upon a grotesque scene - men and women standing, sitting, squirming, chattering, expressing impatience, fear, discomfort. The Inspector grinned at one of the detectives in charge and stamped loudly for attention. There was a concerted rush in his direction; they panted and objected, protested, questioned, swore…

  “Stand back!” roared Thumm in his best parade voice. “Now get this straight. No complaints, no suggestions, no excuses. The quieter you people are the sooner you’ll get out of here.

  “Miss Jewett, I want you first. Did you see anyone put anything into the pocket of the man who was killed - I mean while he was standing in front of you?”