“Know Cherry well?”

  “Who, me? We’re pals.”

  “Do anything for her, wouldn’t you?”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Beat it.”

  Pollux flounced from the room, and Jonas came to life, rising and mincing across the floor in excellent pantomime. Thumm snorted, went to the door, and called: “DeWitt! Another minute or two.”

  DeWitt had calmed. He acted as if nothing had happened. As he crossed the threshold his quick alert eyes fastened on the smashed glass.

  “Who broke that?” he asked sharply.

  “Notice everything, don’t you? Your wife.”

  DeWitt sat down and sighed. “Very unfortunate. I’ll never hear the end of this. She’ll blame everything on that broken mirror for weeks.”

  “Superstitious, is she?”

  “Dreadfully so. She’s half-Spanish by birth, you know. Castilian mother, and, while her father was Protestant, her mother contrived to bring her up as a Catholic, despite madre’s own defection from the Church. Fern’s a problem sometimes.”

  Thumm flipped one of the broken slivers off the desk. “I take it you don’t believe in such things? I hear you’re a pretty hard-headed business man, DeWitt.”

  DeWitt regarded him with disarming directness. “My friends have been talking, I see,” he said softly. “No, Inspector Thumm, I don’t believe in that sort of rot.”

  Thumm said abruptly: “What I really called you in for, DeWitt, was to get your assurance of cooperation with my men and the investigators from the District Attorney’s office.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “You know, we’ll have to look into Longstreet’s business as well as private correspondence. His bank accounts, and all that truck. You’ll see that my operatives posted here will be given every possible assistance?”

  “You may depend upon it, Inspector.”

  “Good enough.”

  Inspector Thumm dismissed all the waiting members of the group in the outer office, issued some crackling instructions to Lieutenant Peabody and a studious-looking young man who was one of District Attorney Bruno’s assistants, and trudged out of the DeWitt & Longstreet offices.

  His face was very sad.

  Scene 9

  THE HAMLET

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 12:10 P.M.

  Quacey threw small logs on the fire; it spurted up, and District Attorney Bruno studied the physiognomy of Mr. Drury Lane by its flickering light. Lane was smiling faintly. Inspector Thumm had lapsed into silence, frowning. “Quite all, Inspector?”

  Thumm grunted.

  Whereupon Lane’s eyelids fell; and instantly, by some alchemy of muscular control, he seemed asleep. The Inspector fidgeted. “If there’s anything I haven’t made clear…” His tone implied that even if there were something he had not made clear, he was sure the omission would make little difference in the final result. Inspector Thumm was a cynical man.

  Bruno chuckled as the long still figure of the actor did not move. “He can’t hear you, Thumm. His eyes are closed.”

  Thumm looked astonished. He scratched his jutting jaw and sat forward on the edge of the tall Elizabethan chair.

  Drury Lane opened his eyes, looked quickly at his visitors and, so suddenly that Bruno recoiled, sprang to his feet. He half-turned; the firelight silhouetted his sharp clean profile. “Several questions, Inspector. Has there been a development of interest from Dr. Schilling’s autopsy?”

  “Nothing,” said Thumm despondently. “The nicotine-poison analysis confirmed the Medical Examiner’s preliminary report. But we haven’t made an inch of progress in tracing the poison or its source.”

  “And,” added the District Attorney - Lane’s head jerked toward him by instinct, “neither the cork nor the needles proved traceable. At least we haven’t traced them yet.”

  “Have you a copy of Dr. Schilling’s autopsy report, Mr. Bruno?”

  The District Attorney produced an official-looking paper and handed it to Lane, who took it closer to the fire and bent over it. His eyes gleamed weirdly as he read; he read aloud, rapidly and disjointedly. “Death from apnoza - blood fluid and characteristically blackish in color. Hmm… Paralysis of central nervous system, especially area controlling respiration, undoubtedly result of acute nicotine poisoning… Lungs, liver show hyperaemia… brain shows marked congestion. Hmm… Condition of lungs indicates victim possessed decided tobacco tolerance. Certainly heavy tobacco-user. Tolerance lengthened time required to cause death with standard lethal dose, which in non-tobacco addict would kill instantly or in less than one minute… Physical marks: slight contusion of left knee-cap probably the result of dying fall… Nine-year-old appendicitis scar. Tip of annularis, or ring finger, of right hand missing; probably for twenty or more years… Sugar content normal. Abnormal alcohol content of brain. Body that of dissipated man of middle age who once possessed powerful physique, rugged constitution, probably great resistance… Hmm. Height six feet one and a half inches; weight post mortem two hundred and eleven pounds… And so on and so on,” murmured Lane, returning the document to District Attorney Bruno. “Thank you, sir.”

  He strode back to the fire, leaned against his huge oak mantel. “Nothing was found in the private room at the carbarn?”

  “No.”

  “I assume also that Longstreet’s house at West Englewood has been thoroughly gone over?”

  “Oh, sure.” Thumm was restless now. His eyes gleamed at Bruno in sly, half-humorous boredom. “Nothing there. We did find a lot of correspondence - letters from Longstreet’s lady-friends, mostly all dated before March. Receipted and unpaid bills - the usual junk. The servants couldn’t give us a lead.”

  “I take it that his town apartments have also been examined?”

  ‘You take it right. We’re not overlooking that bet. We’ve looked up all his old flames, too, but nothing’s come of it.”

  Lane deliberately surveyed his two visitors. His eyes were serene and thoughtful. “Inspector Thumm, you are entirely satisfied that the needled cork was slipped into Longstreet’s pocket in the car and not before?” Thumm said instantly, “That’s one thing we’re dead certain of. Not the slightest doubt. Incidentally, I thought you might be interested in the cork itself. I’ve brought it along.”

  “Excellent, Inspector! You have anticipated me.” The full voice was eager now.

  Thumm took from his coat pocket a small glass jar, tightly covered, and handed it to the actor. “I’d advise you not to open it, Mr. Lane. It’s mighty dangerous.”

  Lane held the jar up to the firelight, studied its contents for a long moment. The cork, riddled with needles whose points and eyes projected on all sides stained darkly, seemed innocent enough. Lane smiled, returning the jar to the Inspector. “A homemade weapon, of course, and - as Dr. Schilling said - an ingenious one…Just before the occupants of the car were ordered out in the carbarn, it was still raining with violence?”

  “Sure enough. Coming down in buckets.”

  “Now tell me, Inspector - were there any laborers on the car?”

  Thumm’s eyes opened wide; Bruno wrinkled his forehead in astonishment. “What do you mean - laborers?”

  “Ditch-diggers. Construction-men. Plasterers. Bricklayers - you know.” Thumm seemed bewildered. “Why, no. They were all office-workers. I don’t see…”

  “And everyone was searched thoroughly?”

  “Yes,” said the Inspector in a scathing tone.

  “Believe me, Inspector, casting aspersions on the efficiency of your auxiliaries is furthest from my thought… As a confirmation, sir, once again: Nothing unusual was found on the persons of the occupants of the car, or in the car itself, or in the rooms of the barn after everyone left - anywhere?”

  “I think I brought that out, Mr. Lane,” replied Thumm coldly. “Nevertheless - nothing that would seem out of place, considering the weather, the season, the type of persons involved?”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “For example - you found no topcoats, evening clothes, gloves - things like that.”

  “Oh! Well, one man had a raincoat, but I examined it myself and it was okay as I told you. Otherwise, no articles of the sort you mentioned. I can absolutely vouch for it.”

  Drury Lane’s eyes glistened now; he looked intently from one to the other of his visitors. He stretched to his full height, and the shadow he cast upon the old wall brooded over him. “Mr. Bruno, what is the opinion of your office?”

  Bruno smiled wryly. “Obviously, Mr. Lane, we haven’t particularly well- defined ideas. The case is complicated by a plethora of motives applying to many figures involved. Mrs. DeWitt, for example, undoubtedly had been Longstreet’s mistress, and hated him because he had thrown her over for Cherry Browne. Fern DeWitt’s conduct throughout has been - well, peculiar. “Michael Collins, whose political reputation is none too savory, is a scheming, unscrupulous man of the hot-headed variety; certainly in his own mind he has incentive.

  “Young Kit Lord might in storybook fashion have acted the avenging knight-errant and killed to protect the honor of his lady-love.” Bruno sighed. “But taking it all in all, Thumm and I both incline toward DeWitt.”

  “DeWitt.” Lane’s lips framed the name judiciously; his eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the District Attorney’s mouth. “Please proceed.”

  “The trouble is,” said Bruno with a fretful frown, “there isn’t the slightest shred of evidence directly implicating DeWitt - or anyone else for that matter.”

  Thumm grumbled: “Anyone could have slipped the cork into Longstreet’s pocket. Not only a member of his party, but any passenger on the car. By the way, we’ve investigated the kit and boodle of ’em, and we can find absolutely no connection between Longstreet and any of the other occupants of the car. Nothing at all to go on.”

  “That,” concluded the District Attorney, “is why the Inspector and I have come to you, Mr. Lane. Your really brilliant analysis of the Cramer case, pointing out what was under our noses all the time, made us feel that you might be able to duplicate the feat.”

  Lane waved his arm. “The Cramer case - elementary, Mr. Bruno.” He stared thoughtfully at his visitors. A shrouded silence enveloped them now; Quacey, perched in his comer, was watching his master with complete absorption. Bruno and Thumm glanced covertly at each other. They both seemed disappointed; the Inspector half-grinned in a jeering way, as plainly as if he had said: “There! I told you so.” Bruno’s shoulders twitched in the suspicion of a shrug. They looked up simultaneously at the bell-sound in Drury Lane’s voice.

  “But surely, gentlemen,” he was saying, regarding them with gentle amusement, “it must be apparent to you that the course of action is clear.”

  The quiet words had electric effect. Bruno’s jaw dropped; Thumm shook his head slightly, like a fighter attempting to gather his senses after a hard blow.

  He jumped to his feet. “Clear!” he shouted. “My God, Mr. Lane, do you realize what you-”

  “Peace, Inspector Thumm,” murmured Drury Lane. “Like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, you start ‘like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons.’ Yes, gentlemen, the course is clear. If everything Inspector Thumm has told me is true, then I believe the guilt lies in one direction.”

  “Well, I’ll be eternally damned,” panted the Inspector. He peered at Lane out of overhung unbelieving eyes.

  “Do you mean,” asked the District Attorney weakly, “that from Inspector Thumm’s mere recital of the facts, you know who killed Longstreet?”

  The aquiline nose quivered. “I said - I believe I know… You will have to take me on trust, Mr. Bruno.”

  “Oh!” said both men in one relieved voice. They calmed at once and exchanged significant glances.

  “I appreciate your suspicions, gentlemen, but on my word they are unfounded.” Lane’s voice became charming, persuasive; he handled it like a rapier. “I prefer for pressing reasons not to commit myself further at this time on the possible identity of your unknown quarry - shall we call him X from now on? - and that, gentlemen, despite the fact that I could make what seems to me a positive disclosure of complicity.”

  “But Mr. Lane,” began Bruno in a sharper tone, “a delay - after all…” Drury Lane stood motionless, in the reddish light like an Indian. The amusement had fled his nostrils and lips now, and his face was carved out of Parian marble. His lips barely moved, but his voice came extraordinarily distinct. “A delay? Dangerous, of course. But not half so dangerous, you will have to take my word for it, as a premature disclosure.” Thumm stood sullenly by; he seemed disgusted. Bruno opened his mouth. “Don’t press me at this time, please. Now, may I ask a favor of you gentlemen?…” The lingering disbelief on the faces of his visitors brought an impatient note into his voice. “Will you send me, by mail or messenger, a clear photograph of your corpse? In the life, of course.”

  “Oh, all right,” mumbled Bruno. He shifted from one foot to the other absurdly like a sulky schoolboy.

  “You will also keep me informed, Mr. Bruno,” continued Lane in the same unimpassioned voice, “of developments. If,” he paused perceptibly, “you have not already regretted consulting me.” He regarded them for a moment and something of the old amusement crept back into his eyes.

  Both men muttered unconvincing denials.

  “Quacey will take any telephoned messages in my presence or absence.” Lane reached up above the smoky mantel and jerked a bellcord. The rosy, pot-bellied little old man in livery popped into the room like a genie. “Will you honor me by lunching with me, gentlemen?” They shook their heads emphatically. “Then show Mr. Bruno and Inspector Thumm to their car, Falstaff. Remember that they are to be welcome at The Hamlet at all times. Notify me the moment either or both arrive… Good day, Mr. Bruno.” He bowed, a swift inclination of his torso. “Inspector Thumm.”

  Without a word District Attorney Bruno and Inspector Thumm followed in the wake of the butler. At the door, as if pulled by one string, they paused to look back. Mr. Drury Lane was standing before his old fire in the midst of his old and unbelievable possessions, smiling courteously in farewell.

  ACT II

  Scene 1

  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 9:20 A.M.

  District Attorney Bruno and Inspector Thumm faced each other across Bruno’s desk the next morning, two hard-headed men eye to eye with a heckling mystery. The District Attorney’s hand played with a neat pile of letters, destroying its neatness; Thumm’s squashy nose was eloquent of a cold - and fruitless - morning outdoors.

  “Well, sir,” said the Inspector in his growling bass, “I’m stymied. Absolutely stymied. Reached a dead end this morning on the poison, cork, and needles. Looks as if the nicotine wasn’t bought but was either manufactured privately or distilled from that insecticide Schilling mentioned. We’ll never get anywhere there. And as for this Mr. Drury Lane of yours - damned if I don’t think we’re wasting our time.”

  Bruno demurred. “Now Thumm, I wouldn’t say that. Don’t be unkind.” He spread his hands. “I think you’re underestimating the man. True, he’s a queer duck, living in a place like that, surrounded by old fogies, spouting Shakespeare…”

  “Yeah! Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” scowled the Inspector. “I think he’s a lot of hot air. I think he’s giving us the runaround. I think he made a grandstand play when he said he knew who killed Longstreet.”

  “Oh, but Thumm! you’re being unfair,” protested the District Attorney. “After all, he knows he can’t make statements like that and expect to get away with ’em. He must know he’ll have to make good eventually. No, I’m inclined to think that he knows what he’s talking about - really has found a lead somewhere - is keeping quiet for reasons of his own.”

  Thumm pounded the desk. “Am I dumb, are you dumb? What do you mean - he found a lead? By all that’s holy, what kind of lead? There just isn’t any! I vote for easing him out of the picture. Christ, yesterday you thought the same way…”

  “Well, I can change my mind, can’t I?” snapped Bruno. Then he looked sheepish. “We mustn’t forget how nicely he pointed out our oversight on the Cramer mess. And if there’s the slightest chance of getting help in this damned business, I’m not overlooking it. Then too, I can’t very well give him the gate after inviting his Cooperation. No. Thumm, we’ll have to go through with it; he can’t do any harm… Anything new?”

  Thumm bit a cigarette in half. “Collins. Making trouble again. One of my men just found out that Collins visited DeWitt three times since Saturday. Of course, he’s trying to collect from DeWitt. Well, I’ll keep tabs on him, but that’s DeWitt’s affair…”

  Bruno began idly to open the letters before him. Two he tossed into a desk-basket for filing; the third, a letter in a cheap plain envelope, brought him to his feet with an exclamation. Thumm’s eyes narrowed as Bruno’s eyes swept through the letter.

  “Good God, Thumm!” shouted Bruno. “If this isn’t the sweetest break - ! Well, what is it?” he snarled at his secretary.

  The secretary tendered a card, and Bruno snatched it and read it. “He does, does he?” he muttered in quite a different voice. “All right, Barney. Send him in… Stick around, Thumm. There’s something extraordinary in this letter. But first let’s see what this Swiss bird wants. It’s Imperiale calling.”

  The secretary opened the door for the tall square figure of the Swiss business man, who entered smiling. Imperiale was attired, as usual, in meticulously correct morning clothes, a fresh flower in his lapel, stick tucked under his arm.

  “Good morning, Mr. Imperiale. What can we do for you?” Bruno was deliberate; but the letter he had been reading had disappeared. He clasped his hands on the edge of his desk. Thumm grunted a greeting.

  “My respects, sir. Good morning, Mr. Thumm.” Imperiale sat down carefully in a leather chair by Bruno’s desk. “I shall not take a moment, Mr. Bruno. I have,” he said politely, “concluded my business affairs in America. I am ready to return to Switzerland.”