They made their way through the starboard lower cabin and found on the front deck outdoors that the salvagers had spread a piece of canvas. The bundle now lay on the canvas, sodden, in a little pool of foul-smelling water. It was the shapeless body of a man, crushed and bloody and mangled beyond recognition. The head and face were pulp; from the peculiar position in which it lay the spine seemed to have snapped; one arm, grotesquely, was flat, pulpy, spread out as if a steam roller had run over it.

  Drury Lane’s face was whiter than before; with an effort he kept his eyes on the gruesome remains. Even Inspector Thumm, inured to scenes of bloody violence, made a little sound expressive of distaste. As for DeWitt, he gasped a little and turned his head away instantly, his face almost green. Around them were ferry officials, the ferry captain and the pilot, detectives, police, all morosely regarding the corpse.

  From the south side of the boat, in the cabin, came sounds of excitement; the passengers had been herded into the long room under guard.

  The body was lying flat on its dead stomach, the lower half curved impossibly backwards and to one side; the grisly head was sidewise to the deck. On the canvas lay a visored black cap, soaked.

  Thumm knelt and pushed the body with one hand. It was like a sack of wet meal, limp and unresisting. He half-turned it over; a detective assisted him, and they managed to turn the body face up. It was that of a large burly man with red hair; the features were crushed and unrecognizable. Thumm muttered to himself in surprise: the dead man was dressed in a dark blue coat, pockets edged in a black leather, two rows of brass buttons down the entire length of the front. With suddenly predatory fingers Thumm snatched the cap from the deck - it was a conductor’s cap. A shield above the visor bore the metal number 2101 and a metal inscription: Third Avenue Railways.

  “Is it possible-?” exclaimed the Inspector, and stopped. He glanced sharply upward at Drury Lane, who was bending over and devouring the cap with his eyes.

  Thumm dropped the cap and thrust his hand, callously now, into the inner breast pocket of the dead man’s coat. His hand reappeared with a shabby soaked leather wallet. He rummaged through it, and leaped to his feet at once, ugly face shining.

  “It is!” he cried. He looked around, quickly.

  The stocky figure of District Attorney Bruno, topcoat tails flying, was hurrying from the terminal to the ferry; plainclothes men pounded after him.

  Thumm whirled on a detective. “Put double guards on that cabin full of passengers!” He stretched hugely, waving the limp wallet. “Bruno! Hurry up! We’ve got our man!”

  The District Attorney broke into a run, sprang to the boat, took in the dead man, the crowd, Lane, DeWitt in one sweeping glance.

  “Well?” he panted. “Who do you mean - the writer of the letter?”

  “In person,” said Thumm hoarsely. He prodded the body with his foot. “Only somebody else got to him first!”

  Bruno’s eyes widened as he looked down again and saw the brass buttons of the coat, the visored cap on the deck. “A conduc-!” He lifted his hat from his head despite the chill wind and dabbed the perspiration away with a silk handkerchief. “Are you sure, Thumm?”

  For answer Thumm eased a water-softened card out of the wallet and handed it to the District Attorney. Drury Lane stepped quietly behind Bruno and examined it over Bruno’s shoulder.

  It was a round-edged identification-card issued by the Third Avenue Railways Company, bearing the stamped number 2101 and a signature.

  The signature was a scrawl, but quite readable. It said: Charles Wood.

  Scene 3

  WEEHAWKEN TERMINAL

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9, 11:58 P.M.

  The West Shore Railroad waiting-room in the Weehawken terminal was an old drafty two-story structure, huge as a barn out of Brobdingnag. The ceiling was nakedly iron-girdered, the beams crossing each other in a crazy motif. High above the floor, and hugging the second-story walls, ran a platform skirted by a railing. Off this platform were corridors leading to small official chambers. Everything was drab dusty gray-white.

  The macerated corpse of Conductor Charles Wood had been borne on its canvas bier, still sopping with river-water, through the echoing waiting-room, then upstairs along the platform to the private office of the station-master. The waiting-room itself had been commandeered by the New Jersey police and cleared of railroad passengers. The passengers from the south cabin of the Mohawk were escorted, in a buzzing bustle, through lanes of police to the terminal waiting-room, where, under guard, they waited the doubtful pleasure of Inspector Thumm and District Attorney Bruno.

  The Mohawk itself had been chained by Thumm’s order to the pier. Consultation of ferry officials resulted in a rapid revision of the ferry schedule; ferries came and went in the fog; railroad service was permitted to continue as usual, except that a temporary ticket-office was installed in the train-shed itself and passengers suffered to entrain through the ferry waiting-room. The abandoned Mohawk, alive with lights, was black with detectives and police; none except officials and police were permitted to board. In the station-master’s office upstairs a small group surrounded the recumbent body. District Attorney Bruno busied himself with the telephone. His first call was to the home of District Attorney Rennells of Hudson County. He explained quickly over the telephone that the dead man had been a witness in the New York murder of Harley Longstreet - over which he, Bruno, had jurisdiction - and requested permission to conduct the preliminary inquiry into Wood’s death himself, despite the fact that the man had been killed in New Jersey territory. Rennells acquiesced, and Bruno at once notified New York police headquarters. Inspector Thumm grasped the instrument and ordered additional New York detectives.

  Mr. Drury Lane was sitting quietly in a chair watching Bruno’s lips, the now hard-lipped pallor of John DeWitt - forgotten in a comer - and the cold fury of Inspector Thumm.

  As Thumm put down the telephone, Lane said: “Mr. Bruno.”

  The District Attorney, who had moved to the foot of the corpse and was staring moodily down at its horrible length, twisted his head toward Lane; an odd hope leaped into his eyes.

  “Mr. Bruno,” said Drury Lane, “have you examined the signature of Wood carefully - the signature of his identification card?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems to me,” explained Lane mildly, “that it is of paramount importance to prove, indisputably, the identity of the anonymous letter-writer. Inspector Thumm seemed to think Wood’s signature and the handwriting of the letter were the same. But with all deference to the Inspector’s opinion, I for one should feel more content if an expert confirmed it.”

  Thumm grinned nastily. “They’re the same, Mr. Lane. Don’t fret yourself about that.” He knelt by Wood’s body and with no more emotion than if he had been handling a stuffed tailor’s-dummy he explored the dead man’s pockets. He rose at last with two wrinkled, damp pieces of paper. One was a Third Avenue Railways accident-report blank, carefully describing a minor collision with an automobile that afternoon, and signed. The other was a stamped sealed envelope. Thumm tore it open, read it, handed it to Bruno, who ran his eye down the sheet and then turned it over to Lane. It was a request for literature on a correspondence course in transportation engineering. Lane studied the handwriting and signatures of both documents.

  “Have you the unsigned note, Mr. Bruno?”

  Bruno rummaged in the depths of his wallet and produced the letter. Lane spread the three pieces of paper on the desk to his side, scrutinized them with unwinking concentration. He smiled after a moment and returned them to Bruno.

  “I apologize, Inspector,” he said. “All three were undoubtedly written by the same hand. And since we know that Wood wrote the accident-report and the letter to the correspondence school, he must also have been our anonymous letter-writer from the identical handwritings… Nevertheless it is important, I think, that an expert corroborate even Inspector Thumm’s violent opinion.”

  Thumm grunted and dropped to his knees again beside the dead man. District Attorney Bruno returned the three documents to his wallet and reached for the telephone once more. “Dr. Schilling… Doc? This is Bruno. In the Weehawken railroad terminal, station-master’s office. Yes, behind the ferries… Right away… Oh! Well, finish that and get here as fast as you can… Four o’clock? Then don’t bother. I’ll have the body taken to the Hudson County morgue and you can pick it up there for examination… Yes, yes, I insist on having you in on it. It’s the body of Charles Wood, the conductor of the Longstreet car,… Right, ’Bye.”

  “If I may make a further suggestion,” put in Drury Lane from his chair, “Mr. Bruno? It is possible that Wood spoke to or was seen by ferrymen or fellow street-car employees just before boarding the Mohawk.”

  “Excellent hunch, Mr. Lane. They may still be around.” Bruno picked up the telephone again and put in a call to the New York side of the ferry-route.

  “Bruno, D.A. of New York County, speaking from the Weehawken terminal. There’s been a murder here - oh, you’ve heard it? - and I want cooperation at once… Fine. Send over any ferry employees who may have seen or spoken to Conductor Charles Wood, Number 2101, Third Avenue Railways line, Forty-Second Street Crosstown, this evening… About an hour ago, yes… And while you’re doing that, see if you can’t pick up one of the car inspectors on duty. I’m sending over a police boat.”

  Bruno hung up and dispatched a detective with orders to the captain of the police boat moored to the pilings by the Mohawk.

  “Now!” He rubbed his hands. “Mr. Lane, while Inspector Thumm is examining the body, would you care to go downstairs with me? There’s a raft of work to be done.”

  Lane rose. Out of the corner of his eye he had been watching DeWitt, crouched forlornly in a corner. “Perhaps,” said Lane in a serene baritone, “Mr. DeWitt would accompany us? The scene here cannot be anything but unpleasant to him, Mr. Bruno.”

  Bruno’s eyes gleamed behind his rimless glasses. His gaunt face curved into smiles. “Yes, by all means. Come along if you like, Mr. DeWitt.”

  The little gray broker looked gratefully at Lane’s cloaked figure. He followed the two men from the room. They skirted the platform and descended to the floor of the waiting-room.

  The District Attorney raised his hand in the hush that fell as they paraded across the floor. “The pilot of the ferryboat Mohawk. This way. Want a chat with you. Captain, too.”

  Two men detached themselves from the group of passengers and trudged to the spot.

  “I’m the pilot - Sam Adams.” The ferry pilot was a squat powerful man with closely cropped black hair and a bullish face.

  “Just a moment. Here, where’s Jonas? Jonas!” Inspector Thumm’s secretarial detective hurried up, notebook ready. “Take this testimony down… Now Adams, we’re trying to get confirmatory identifications of the dead man. Did you see the body when we had it on the ferry-deck?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Have you ever seen the man before?”

  “Hundreds of times.” The pilot hitched his trousers purposefully. “Sort of friend of mine, he was. ’Course, his head was bashed in and all that, but I’d swear on the Book that he’s Charley Wood, conductor on the Crosstown.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  Pilot Adams lifted his cap and scratched his head. “Why - I just know. Same build, same red hair, same clothes - can’t tell you exactly how I know - I just know. Besides, I spoke to him tonight on the boat.”

  “Oh! You saw him then. Where - in the pilot-house? I thought that was against the rules. Tell me the whole story, Adams.”

  Adams cleared his throat, spat into a nearby spittoon, darted an embarrassed glance at the tall, cadaverous, weather-beaten man at his side - the ferry captain - and said: “Well, let’s see. I know this Charley Wood for years. Been on this run nigh onto nine years, ain’t I, Cap’n?” The captain nodded his head judiciously and expectorated with deadly accuracy into the cuspidor. “Charley lives over in Weehawken here, I guess, ’cause he always took the ferry across at 10:45 when he was through with his shift on the car.”

  “Just a moment.” Bruno nodded significantly to Lane. “Did he take the 10:45 ferry tonight?”

  The pilot seemed aggrieved. “I’m gettin’ to it. Sure he did. Well, anyways, years back he got into the habit of cornin’ up on the top passenger deck and passin’ the time of night, you might say. Haw!” Bruno scowled, and Adams hastened on. “Anyways, if Charley don’t come up there and yell to me of nights I’m sorta disappointed. ’Course, nights he was off or stayed over in the City I didn’t see him, but most generally he took the Mohawk.”

  “That’s very interesting,” commented the District Attorney. “Very. But make it snappy, Adams - this isn’t a serial, you know.”

  “Well, ain’t I?” The pilot shuffled again, set himself. “Now then. Tonight Charley comes up on the 10:45, top passenger deck, starb’rd, like he always does, and he yells up at me: ‘Ahoy there, Sam!’ He says ‘Ahoy!’ mostly ’cause of my bein’ a sailor, you see. Just a joke of his. Haw!” Bruno showed his teeth and Adams sobered instantly. “Well, well, I’m gettin’ to it,” he said hastily. “So I yells back ‘Ahoy!’ an’ I says, ‘Lousy fog, ain’t it, Charley? Thick as me old lady’s brogue!’ an’ he says, yellin’ up at me - I could see him ’most as clear as I see you; he was up right close to the pilot-house an’ the lights of the house was shinin’ on his face - he says: ‘You tell ’em, Sam. Rotten, ain’t it?’ an’ I says, ‘How’s tricks with you, Charley?’ an’ he says, ‘Well,’ he says ‘so-so. Had a collision with a Chewy this afternoon. Guiness was hop- pin’,’ he says. ‘Damn fool woman-driver,’ he says, an’ says, ‘Ain’t they hell,’ an’-”

  Adams grunted in shocked surprise as the sharp elbow of the ferry captain drove with force into his meaty ribs. “Get th’ hell on with that yam, Sam,” said the captain. He had a hollow bass voice that reverberated through the room. “Can’t ye see th’ lubber’s gonna pop you one if ye don’t make port?” Pilot Adams whirled on his superior. “You poke me in th’ ribs again-”

  “Here, here!” Bruno’s voice was sharp. “None of that. You’re the captain of the Mohawk?”

  “That’s me,” boomed the tall cadaverous man. “Cap’n Sutter. Twenty-one years on th’ river.”

  “Were you in the pilot-house while this - er - conversation was taking place?”

  “That’s my ballywick, Mister, on a foggy night.”

  “Did you see this man Wood while he was yelling up at Adams?”

  “Ye’re tootin’, Mister.”

  “You’re sure it was 10:45?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you see Wood again after his talk with Adams?”

  “Nope. Next I saw 0’ him, he was bein’ fished out 0’ the river.”

  “You’re positive of the identification?”

  “I ain’t finished,” broke in Pilot Adams in a complaining voice. “He said somethin’ else. He said he wasn’t goin’ to stay on for any extra trips tonight- had an appointment, he did, over in Jersey.”

  “You’re sure of that? Did you hear that, Captain Sutter?”

  “Fer once this gabby shark’s right, Mister. An’ that was Wood - seen him hundreds 0’ times.”

  “You said, Adams, that he wasn’t going to stay on for ‘extra’ trips tonight. Was he in the habit of staying on for extra trips?”

  “Not a habit, I wouldn’t say. But sometimes when he felt good, ’specially in the summertime, he’d take a coupla rides.”

  “That’s all, both of you.”

  The two men turned, and halted at once at the commanding note in Drury Lane’s voice. Bruno rubbed his jaw. “One moment, Mr. Bruno,” said Lane pleasantly. “May I ask these men a question?”

  “Certainly. Anything and any time you want to, Mr. Lane.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Adams - Captain Sutter.” The two river-men were staring at him open-mouthed - the cape, the black hat, the formidable stick. “Did either of you see Wood leave that portion of the upper deck where he had been standing when he spoke to you?”

  “Sure, I did,” said Adams promptly. “Got the signal, began pullin’ her out. Wood waved his hand at us an’ left, goin’ back under the roof of the top passenger deck.”

  “Right,” thundered Captain Sutter.

  “Exactly how much of the upper deck is visible to you gentlemen from the pilot-house at night, even when your lights are on?”

  Captain Sutter speared the spittoon again. “Not much. We can’t see under the roof o’ the passenger deck a-tall. An’ at night, with th’ fog, anythin’ that’s outside th’ reflection o’ the pilot-house lights is dark as Davy’s locker. Pilothouse’s built like a fan, ye know.”

  “You saw and heard nothing else from 10:45 until 11:40 that might betray the presence of human beings on the upper deck?”

  “Say, listen,” growled the captain. “Ever try to take a tub crost the river on a foggy night? Believe me, Mister, ye got all ye can do to keep outa th’ way of river-traffic.”

  “Excellent.” Drury Lane stepped back. Bruno, brows knit, dismissed the river-men with a nod.

  He climbed to the seat of one of the waiting-room benches, shouting: “Now I want all those who saw the body fall from the upper deck to step up here!”

  Six people wavered, looked at each other, then with hesitant steps crossed the room to stand uncomfortably beneath Bruno’s unfriendly scrutiny. All, as if rehearsed, began to speak at once.

  “One at a time, one at a time,” snapped Bruno, jumping off the bench. He eyed a rotund little man with blond hair and a paunch. “You - what’s your name?”

  “August Havemeyer, sir,” said the little man nervously. He wore a round clerical-looking hat, a stringy black tie; his clothes were shabby and begrimed. “Pm a printer - goin’ home from work.”