“I was talking with my escort,” said the girl, moistening her lips, “and it was pretty hot and-”

  Thumm snarled: “Answer the question! Yes or no?”

  “No. No, sir.”

  “If anyone had slipped something into that pocket, would you have noticed?”

  “I don’t think so. My friend and I were talking…”

  Thumm turned abruptly to the heavy-set man - graying, with a harsh almost malevolent face - who had pulled Longstreet’s arm when he had collapsed in the car. He was, he said, Robert Clarkson, bookkeeper. No, he had noticed nothing, despite the fact that he had been standing next to Longstreet. Yes, on his left side. Clarkson’s heavy face lost its evil shading, he paled suddenly with apprehension and his loose mouth worked comically.

  The middle-aged Italian, Antonio Fontana - a swarthy, thickly mustached man - who said he was a barber returning from work, could add nothing to what had already been said. He had been reading an Italian newspaper, II Popolo Romano, during the entire trip.

  The conductor, questioned next, revealed himself as Charles Wood, Number 2101, in the employ of the Third Avenue Railways for five years. He was a tall burly red-haired man of perhaps fifty. He had seen the face of the dead man, he said, and remembered his having got on the car, one of a party of people who boarded at Eighth Avenue. This man, he said, had paid fares for ten people out of a dollar bill.

  “Did you notice anything funny when this bunch got on, Wood?”

  “Nope. The car was full, and I had all I could do to close the doors and collect fares.”

  “Ever see this man in your car before?”

  “Yep. He’s been getting on pretty often at that time of day. Been a regular customer for years.”

  “Know his name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Recognize anybody else in the dead man’s party as one of your regular passengers?”

  “Seems to me I saw another man, a weak little guy. Gray-haired, sort of. I’ve seen him come on pretty steady with the guy that was bumped off.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Can’t say I do. Nope.”

  Thumm stared at the ceiling. “Watch yourself now, Wood. This is important. I want to be absolutely sure. This bunch got on at Eighth, you say. You closed the doors. All right. Now, did anybody get on or off after Eighth?”

  “No, Chief. We were full up, and I didn’t open the doors even at the corner of Eighth Avenue. So nobody got on. And no one got off either at my end - goes without saying. Don’t know about the front. Guiness, my partner, prob’ly knows about that. He’s the motorman.”

  Thumm singled out of the crowd the broad-shouldered Irish motorman. Guiness, Number 409, said that he had worked on the line for eight years. No, he had never seen the dead man before, he thought. “But then,” he added, “I ain’t in as good a spot as Charley here to notice passengers.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “We-ell, I guess maybe his face looked a little familiar at that.”

  “Did anyone get off the front after Eighth Avenue?”

  “Didn’t even open the doors. You know the line, Inspector. Most every passenger on the Crosstown heads for the terminal, to take the ferry over to Jersey. All business places along there. And then Sergeant Duffy can tell you. He rode front with me - goin’ off duty, hey Sergeant? Lucky he was on the car at that.”

  Thumm scowled, but it was a scowl of pleasure. “Then, boys, the doors weren’t opened, back or front, after Eighth Avenue?”

  “That’s right,” replied Guiness and Wood.

  “Fine. Stand by.” The Inspector turned away and began to question other passengers. No one, it seemed, had seen anything slipped into Longstreet’s pocket, or anything else of a suspicious nature. Two passengers offered vague statements, but their conjectures were so obviously the result of heated imaginations that Thumm turned away in disgust. He ordered Detective Jonas to take the names and addresses of all present.

  At this moment, Lieutenant Peabody panted into the general room under the burden of a burlap bag full of débris.

  “Any luck, Lieutenant?” asked Thumm.

  “Just junk. Take a look.” He dumped the contents of the bag to the floor. Scraps of paper, torn dirty newspapers, empty cigarette packets, the grimy stub of a leadless pencil, burnt matches, half a bar of squashed chocolate, two ragged time-tables - the usual accumulation. Not a trace of cork or needles, or articles in any way connected with cork or needles.

  “We went over that car and the cordon routes with a fine-comb, Inspector. Dry as a bone. Whatever this bunch had on ’em when they left the car is still on ’em.”

  Thumm’s gray eyes glinted. He was the most widely publicized Inspector in the New York Police Department. He had fought his way up from the ranks quite literally by the easy spring of his muscles, his well developed reflexes, the common sense in his brain, and the unmistakable authority in his voice. He was a stubborn master of police routine, a man of action… “Only one thing to do,” he said, working his jaws slightly. “Search every son- of-a-gun in this room.”

  “You’re looking for-?”

  “Cork, needles, anything that’s out of place or out of character. And if anybody squawks, paste him one. Get busy.”

  Lieutenant Peabody grinned, went out of the room, returned in a moment with six detectives and two police matrons, jumped on a bench and shouted: “Line up, everybody! Women on one side, men on the other! No arguments! The quicker you are, the quicker you’ll get home!”

  For fifteen minutes Inspector Thumm leaned against a wall, a cigarette in his mouth, watching a scene that had more humorous aspects than serious. Women ranted in shrill voices as the muscular hands of the matrons passed impersonally over them, turning out their pockets, exploring their purses, digging into the lining of their hats and the soles of their shoes. Men submitted with better grace, but sheepishly. As each individual was released, Detective Jonas jotted down name, business address, and home address. Occasionally Inspector Thumm’s eyes drilled into the faces of those passing out - searching, questioning. One man the Inspector halted peremptorily after he had passed Jonas. This man, a small, pale, clerkish fellow, was wearing a faded overgarment. The Inspector motioned him to step aside and take it off - it was a tan gaberdine trench-coat. The man’s lips were blue with fear. Thumm explored every crevice of the coat, returned it to its owner without a word, and the man skipped out of the room in an ecstasy of relief.

  The room emptied rapidly.

  “Nothing doing, Inspector.” Peabody was dejected.

  “Search the room.”

  Peabody and his men now swept up the débris of the general room, poked in corners and under benches. Thumm straddled the pile of rubbish from the burlap bag, knelt and prodded it with his finger.

  Then he looked at Peabody, shrugged, and left the room quickly.

  Scene 6

  THE HAMLET

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 11:20 A.M.

  “Please understand, Mr. Lane,” interpolated District Attorney Bruno at this point, “that Inspector Thumm is giving you every possible detail. Many of them, such as sidelights on previous conversations, we discovered subsequently. Most of them, in fact, we are not concerned with; they’re unimportant…”

  “My dear Mr. Bruno,” said Mr. Drury Lane, “nothing is unimportant. How trite and how true that is! Nevertheless, an excellent account so far.” He stirred in his great armchair, stretching his long legs before the fire. “A moment, please, before you resume, Inspector.”

  In the uneven light of the flames, and despite the shadows, the two men saw him close his eyes peacefully. His hands were clasped lightly in his lap; no muscle moved in his pale pleasant face. The silence of the traditional past descended on those high dark walls, in that chamber out of another age.

  From his dusky corner Quacey, like an old parchment, rustled. Bruno and Thumm craned. The ancient hunchback was chuckling softly.

  They looked at each other, only to start at the sound of Drury Lane’s measured, flexible, organ voice.

  “Inspector Thumm,” he said, “there is only one point so far on which I am not entirely clear.”

  “And what’s that, Mr. Lane?”

  “The rain, according to your recital, commenced while the street-car was between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. At the time the Longstreet party boarded the car, at Eighth Avenue, the windows, I believe you said, were tightly closed. You meant every window?”

  Inspector Thumm’s ugly face went blank. “Of course, Mr. Lane. No question about it. Sergeant Duffy was positive.”

  “Admirable, Inspector.” The rich voice purred on. “And every window was tightly closed from that period on?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Lane. In fact, it was raining harder when the car got to the barn than before. Those windows were closed every minute of the time after the storm broke.”

  “Better and better, Inspector.” The deep-set eyes under their even gray brows sparkled. “Please continue.”

  Scene 7

  PRIVATE ROOM IN A CARBARN

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 8:05 P.M.

  Inspector Thumm’s account indicated that events had moved rapidly after the other occupants of the car had been released.

  Thumm returned to the private room in which the Longstreet party sat miserably waiting. Louis Imperiale, the perfect gentleman, rose at once and bowed, precisely, his heels clicking together in that absurdly military fashion.

  “My dear Inspector,” he said in his nicest manner, “please forgive my presumption, but I’m sure we are all in need of nourishment, no matter how little inclined we may be to eat. Don’t you think that some provision should be made, at least for the ladies?”

  Thumm looked about. Mrs. DeWitt sat, still rigidly, on her bench with half-closed eyes. Jeanne DeWitt leaned on the broad shoulder of Lord; both were pale. DeWitt and Ahearn were engaged in a passionless, low-voiced discussion. Pollux sat well forward, hands clasped between his knees, whispering steadily to Cherry Browne, whose set face and clenched teeth destroyed every vestige of her prettiness. Michael Collins had buried his face in his hands.

  “All right, Mr. Imperiale. Dick, run downstairs and rustle some grub for the folks.”

  A detective accepted a bill from Imperiale and left the room. The Swiss returned to his bench, with the self-satisfied look of a man who has done his work well.

  “Well, Doc, what’s the verdict?”

  Dr. Schilling was standing before the screen putting on his coat. His tattered cloth hat perched grotesquely atop his bald pate. He crooked his finger; Inspector Thumm crossed the room; and the two men went behind the screen to stand over the dead man. One of the young ambulance-doc- tors was sitting on the bench beside the body, writing scrupulously on a report-blank. The other was paring his fingernails and whistling softly.

  “Well, sir,” began Dr. Schilling jovially, “this is a nice job. A very nice job. Death from respiratory paralysis, but that’s a detail.” His left hand flew.

  DeWitt moved, and somehow Thumm’s large hand contrived to fall from the broker’s shoulder. And DeWitt said coldly: “I am innocent of my partner’s murder, if that is what you mean by frankness.”

  Thumm stared long and steadily into DeWitt’s clear eyes. Then he shrugged and turned to the other members of the party. “Everybody here will please meet me at the Times Square office of DeWitt & Longstreet tomorrow morning at nine o’clock for further questioning. There will be no exceptions, ladies and gentlemen.”

  They rose wearily and shuffled toward the door. “One moment, please,” continued the Inspector. “Naturally I’m sorry, but you’ll all have to submit to a personal search. Duffy, get one of the matrons for the ladies here.” They gasped, and DeWitt in an angry tone expostulated. Thumm smiled. “Certainly no one here has anything to conceal?”

  The procedure in the general room a few minutes before was now repeated under Thumm’s eye. The men were uneasy, the women flushed and irate. Mrs. DeWitt broke her silence of hours to snap a swift word in Spanish at the broad chest of the Inspector. He raised his eyebrows and waved his arm at the matron with finality.

  “Names, addresses,” came Jonas’s droning voice at the door as they began to file out after the search.

  Duffy looked depressed. “Not a thing, Chief. No sign of needles, corks, or anything else fishy.”

  Thumm planted his feet solidly in the center of the room, frowning and chewing his lips. “Search the room,” he said harshly.

  The room was searched.

  When Inspector Thumm left the carbarn in the midst of his men he was still frowning.

  Scene 8

  OFFICES OF DEWITT & LONGSTREET

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 9 A.M.

  The undercurrent of tension did not break surface as Inspector Thumm crossed the floor of the branch office of DeWitt & Longstreet on Saturday morning. Clerks and customers looked up at his windy passage, startled; but apparently business was being conducted in the normal way. Thumm’s men, already on the scene, interfered with nothing. They loitered quietly, and that was all.

  In the private office at the rear marked John O. DeWitt the Inspector found the entire Longstreet party of the night before assembled under the vigilant eye of Lieutenant Peabody. Sergeant Duffy’s big blue back braced the glass door marked Harley Longstreet - leading to an adjoining office.

  Thumm looked them over without enthusiasm, growled a greeting, beckoned Detective Jonas, and they entered the Longstreet sanctum. There Thumm found, nervously perched on the edge of a chair, an interesting young lady - a large, well-cushioned brunette, good-looking in a vaguely cheap way.

  Thumm sank into the swivel chair before the one large desk in the office. Jonas sat down in a corner, pencil and notebook ready. “I suppose you’re Longstreet’s secretary?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Miss Platt. Anna Platt. I worked for Mr. Longstreet for four and a half years as a sort of confidential secretary.” Anna Platt’s straight nose was unfashionably red at the tip; her eyes were very damp. She dabbed at them with a limp handkerchief. “Oh, it’s terrible!”

  “Sure, sure,” said the Inspector with a mirthless grin. “Now cut out the weeps, Sister, and let’s get down to business. You look like the sort of gal who would know her boss’s business pretty thoroughly. And his private affairs, too. Tell me - how did Longstreet and DeWitt get along?”

  “They didn’t. They were always squabbling.”

  “And who usually won these battles?”

  “Oh, Mr. Longstreet! Mr. DeWitt always objected when he thought Mr. Longstreet wrong, but then he always gave in finally.”

  “What was Longstreet’s attitude toward DeWitt?”

  Anna Platt twisted her fingers. “I suppose you want the truth… He bullied Mr. DeWitt all the time. He knew that Mr. DeWitt was the better business man and he didn’t like it. So he just bore down on Mr. DeWitt and got things his own way, even if he was in the wrong and it cost the firm money.”

  Inspector Thumm’s eyes wandered up and down the girl’s figure. “You’re a smart girl, Miss Platt. We’re going to get along. Did DeWitt hate Longstreet?”

  She lowered her eyes demurely. “Yes, I think he did. I think I know why, too. It’s an open scandal that Mr. Longstreet” - her voice hardened - “had been having an affair with Mrs. DeWitt, a serious affair… And I’m sure Mr. DeWitt knew about it, although I never heard him refer to it to Mr. Longstreet or anyone else.”

  “Did Longstreet love DeWitt’s wife? How is it that he became engaged to Miss Browne?”

  “Mr. Longstreet didn’t love anyone but himself. But he had scores of affairs all the time, and I suppose Mrs. DeWitt was just one of them. I guess, like all women, she thought he was crazy about her and no one else… I’ll tell you one thing, though,” she went on, in a tone she might have employed to discuss the weather. “You’ll be interested in this, Inspector - is it? Mr. Longstreet once made advances to Jeanne DeWitt right here in this room and there was an awful argument, because Mr. Lord came in and saw what was happening and knocked Mr. Longstreet down. Then Mr. DeWitt came in quickly and they sent me away. I don’t know what happened later, but it seemed to be patched up. This was a couple of months ago.” The Inspector appraised her coolly; this was a witness after his own heart. “Very nice, Miss Platt. Very nice indeed. And do you think Longstreet had some sort of hold on DeWitt?”

  The girl hesitated. “I’m not sure. But I do know that every once in a while Mr. Longstreet demanded large sums of money from Mr. DeWitt, ‘personal loans,’ he’d say with a nasty laugh, and he’d get them every time. In fact, only a week ago he asked Mr. DeWitt for a loan of twenty-five thousand dollars. Mr. DeWitt was awfully mad; I thought he’d have apoplexy…”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” murmured Thumm.

  “They had quite a fuss in here. But he gave in, as usual.”

  “Any threats?”

  “Well, Mr. DeWitt said: ‘This can’t go on much longer,’ and he said that they had to have an understanding once for all or they’d both go to the wall.”

  “Twenty-five grand,” said the Inspector. “My God, what did Longstreet do with all that dough? This office alone must have given him a big income.” Anna Platt’s brown eyes flashed. “Mr. Longstreet could spend money- faster than anyone you ever saw,” she said in a malicious tone. “He gambled, lived high, played the races, the market - he lost pretty nearly all the time. He certainly ate up his own income in no time and when he ran short he’d hit Mr. DeWitt for one of those ‘loans.’ Loan! He’s never given a cent of it back. I’m sure. Why I’ve been calling up his bank regularly to explain overdrawn checks. He cashed his bonds and real estate securities long ago. I’ll bet he hasn’t left a penny.”

  Thumm drummed thoughtfully on the glass-topped desk. “So DeWitt never got his money back and Longstreet was a sugar-daddy sucker. Well, well!” He stared at her, and she dropped her eyes suddenly in confusion. “Miss Platt,” he went on pleasantly, “we’re both grown people, and neither of us believes the nice story about the stork. Was there anything between you and Longstreet? You strike me as being a free-and-easy sort of secretary.” She jumped up angrily. “What do you mean!”