Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 118, No. 2, March 19, 1938

Cyrus Hatch finds plenty of evidence but all it proves is that everyone is innocent of murder.

Cyrus Hatch, son of New York Police Commissioner Mark Hatch, becomes involved in a murder when he enters the Club Grotto with his bodyguard, Danny Delevan, and finds “Joan Doe” sitting at his table. Later, she leaves the club with a mysterious stranger; four shots sound quickly outside and a man staggers into the club and dies. The murdered man is Mr. Seligman, a crooked attorney.

Rushing to the sidewalk, Cyrus and Danny see Joan Doe, a gun in her hand, being hustled into a car. Cyrus, against the wishes of his father, decides to work on the case, believing that Joan Doe is innocent.

Also involved are Howard Westcott, who Cyrus saw following Joan Doe; his wife Lois, who was in the night club the night of the murder; and her sister, Terry Alexander, who later calls at Cyrus Hatch’s apartment to discuss the case. When she enters his apartment, she finds Sam Flack, law partner of Seligman, murdered, and Hatch’s secretary unconscious. When Cyrus arrives, accompanied by two detectives, and discovers the murder, they see Terry Alexander running from the house. Refusing to reveal her identity, Cyrus is arrested by his father, but he and Danny escape.

In the meantime, Cyrus discovers that Joan Doe is really Rhoda Quinn, an artists’ model, who had hired Seligman to find her husband who has been missing for several years. Cyrus suspects that Howard Westcott is the missing Timothy Quinn and Westcott later admits that this is true. Cyrus promises to keep his secret unless it is necessary to reveal it in order to clear Rhoda Quinn of the murder charge.

Cyrus and Danny follow Rhoda Quinn and overhear her talking to Lloyd Daly, a magician who is in love with her, and learn that she is aware that Westcott is Timothy Quinn. She says that she is going to his house to demand money.

Cyrus and Danny start for Westcott’s home to warn him when someone holds them up. It is Sanders, the man who had been in the night club with Rhoda Quinn, and for whom they have been searching as the key to the mystery.

Chapter XV The Third Coffin

Rain blew into the doorway, pelting Hatch and Delevan.

“All I want is a chance to talk to you, Mr. Hatch,” Norman Sanders said in an urgent tone.

“How the devil did you know I was coming here?” Hatch asked.

“I’ve been following you,” Sanders said.

“From where?”

“I was watching your home while the police were there. I saw you come out of the house next door and get into a taxi. I’ve been following you ever since,” Sanders said. “You must listen to me, Mr. Hatch.”

Hatch was gazing obliquely downward. “I feel something pressing against my spine, Danny,” he said. “Something that feels like a gun.”

“Me too, chief,” Delevan said. “Only, what I feel it’s like a howitzer.”

“Mr. Sanders is no two-gun man, Danny,” Hatch said. “The thing in your back is a fountain pen.”

“Cripes!” Delevan said.

As Delevan twisted around, Sanders jerked the pen away from his back and removed his forefinger from Hatch’s. Delevan seized Sanders’ necktie and pulled it while pushing his other hand into Sanders’ face. Sanders choked.

“Your automatic, Danny” Hatch reminded Delevan.

“That’s right,” Delevan said.

He bared his weapon and shoved it hard into Sanders’ abdomen. Gasping, Sanders lifted himself on tiptoes. With his white-rimmed eyes and his pallid face, he looked like a ghost in the gloom.

“This here gun,” Delevan warned, “it ain’t anything which a guy he uses it to write with, neither.”

“Where’ve you been hiding. Sanders?” Hatch asked.

Sanders loosened his tie and swallowed. “Mister Hatch, in heaven’s name, give me a chance to explain.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?”

Sanders forced out, “I have a room at the Commonwealth.”

Hatch nodded. “Keep him covered, Danny, and follow me.”

Delevan put the gun in his pocket and pressed it to Sanders’ side while they left the doorway. Sanders was docile. Hatch signaled a cruising cab. He waved Sanders and Delevan into it. Delevan crowded Sanders into the corner of the seat.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Danny,” Hatch said. He added to the driver, “Wait for me.”

He hurried into a restaurant and stepped into a telephone booth. A moment later, the dial ceased whirring, a woman’s voice said, “The Alexander residence.”

“Mr. Hatch calling Mr. Westcott.”

“Mr. Westcott does not wish to be disturbed.”

“I’ve got to talk to him.”

“But I cannot disturb Mr. Westcott.”

“Then call Mrs. Westcott.”

“Madame Westcott is not at home.”

“How about Miss Alexander?”

“Miss Alexander is not at home also.”

“I’ll bet a hat Rupert Alexander is there,” Hatch said.

“Do you wish to speak with Mr. Rupert Alexander?”

“Good heavens, no,” Hatch said.

He disconnected, left the restaurant and returned to the cab. He sat on one of the folding seats, facing Delevan and Sanders.

“Hotel Commonwealth,” he instructed the driver.

The cab ground off and turned eastward. Rain swished against the windows. Hatch closed the glass panel of the driver’s compartment.

“You’d like to keep clear of the police, wouldn’t you, Sanders?” Hatch asked.

“That’s what I must explain,” Sanders said with an effort. “It will go blinking hard with me if they catch me.”

“Naturally,” Hatch said. “Behave yourself, and you’ll have a chance to talk.”

Sanders strained forward. “I say, that’s damned decent of you, Hatch. You see, I had nothing to do with it. That is, with killing Seligman and Flack. I swear I had nothing whatever—”

Hatch gestured toward the driver. “Your room will be safer,” he advised.

Sanders sank back, eying Hatch entreatingly, wincing under the pressure of Delevan’s automatic.

The cab stopped at a bright marquee. Sanders entered the Hotel Commonwealth between Hatch and Delevan. An elevator lifted them to the fifteenth floor. Sanders took a tagged key from his pocket and opened Room 1521. Following him in, Hatch and Delevan closed the door.

“You’re registered under an assumed name, of course,” Hatch said.

“Yes. I haven’t dared go back to my apartment,” Sanders said. “Millie and Gloria are away. If you’ll believe me, Hatch, I had nothing to do—”

“Sit down, Sanders,” Hatch said. “Danny, keep him covered.”

With his gun, Delevan pushed Sanders into a chair. Sanders’ eyes clung to Hatch as Hatch took up the telephone and gave the hotel operator the number of Howard Westcott’s apartment.

The maid’s voice answered, “the Alexander residence.”

“This is Mr. Hatch calling again. Has either Mrs. Westcott or Miss Alexander come in?”

“They are still out.”

“Then I’ll have to speak with Mr. Westcott.”

“Mr. Westcott say I must not disturb him for any reason,” the maid protested.

“All right,” Hatch said. “Has a young woman called and asked for him?”

“No one has come.”

“Thank heaven for that,” Hatch said.

He broke the connection, consulted the directory, and asked for the number of the Hotel Trafalgar.

“This is the Morning Mirror calling,” Hatch said. “Give me the manager.”

A girl’s voice said, “Mr. Lucas’ office.”

“This in the Mirror calling,” Hatch said. “Let me speak with Mr. Lucas.”

A man’s voice said curtly, “Yes yes, what is it?”

“Carson of the Mirror, Mr. Lucas,” Hatch said. “What are you doing about your magician, Lloyd Daly?”

“His contract has been canceled.”

“Has he a room in the hotel?”

“Entertainers are usually given rooms,” Lucas answered, “but Mr. Daly will not remain in the hotel.”

“Thanks.” Hatch said.

He disconnected, then again called the number of the Trafalgar.

“Mr. Lloyd Daly’s room, please,” he requested.

The line purred several times before a man’s voice answered. “Hello?”

“Mr. Daly?” Hatch asked. “Speaking.”

“You don’t sound like Daly,” Hatch said.

“I’ve got a cold,” the voice said. “Who’s calling?”

“You’re a poor liar,” Hatch said. “This is Mallet, the Commissioner’s secretary.”

“That’s different. This is Sergeant Martin talking.”

“The Commissioner’s calling,” Hatch said. “Hold on.” He lowered his tone, imitating his father’s. “Commissioner Hatch, Sergeant.”

“Yes, Commissioner.”

“Daly will probably show up soon. Watch for him. You have your orders?”

“Yes sir. We’re not to take him to the precinct station, but bring him straight down to Headquarters.”

“That’s right, Martin. That’s all.”

Hatch left the telephone. His shining eyes turned upon Sanders. Sanders leaned entreatingly toward him.

“I know your position in this case, Hatch,” Sanders said. “The newspapers made it clear enough. You’re doing your best to learn the truth and you’re being damned fair about it. That’s why I decided I’d jolly well better talk to you before the bloody police catch me.”

Hatch started. “ ‘The bloody police!’ Great Scott! You didn’t mean the birds were actually bloody. You use that word as a synonym for bally, or confounded. A hell of a fine detective I am, not to have thought of that.”

Sanders seemed confused. “When I was in the Club Grotto—”

“Not now, Sanders,” Hatch said. “Your story will have to keep. Danny, stay here with him. I’ll be back as soon as possible — if I don’t bump into any cops.”

“This is a guy he won’t try anything funny if he knows what’s good for him, chief,” Delevan said. “Where you gonna go?”

“I’m still trying to head off that damned woman,” Hatch said.

He hurried from the room and waited impatiently for the elevator. When he reached the sidewalk, he found it swarming with a home-bound crowd. The rain had not abated. Hatch lost precious minutes while the starter whistled for a taxi.

Ducking into the cab, Hatch gave the driver the address of the Westcott apartment.

Congested traffic delayed him. Forty minutes passed before he reached his destination.

When he pressed the button in the vestibule of the penthouse, the maid peeked out.

“Mr. Hatch calling.”

The maid looked puzzled and uneasy. “Madame Westcott and Miss Alex-antler have not come back,” she said.

Hatch stepped in. The living room was empty. Some of the tension went out of his bearing.

“You’ll have to disturb Mr. Westcott, regardless of what he told you,” he said. “It’s damned important. But whatever you do, don’t go near Mr. Alexander.”

The maid glanced around uncertainly. “Be seated, please,” she said.

She disappeared down the hall as Hatch moved across the living room. He noticed that a blue glass vase lay on the rug near a table. He took it up and replaced it on the table, then glanced about with sharpened interest.

The maid returned. “Mister Westcott is not here,” she informed Hatch. “He has gone out.”

Hatch frowned at her. “Do you mean he left without your knowing it?”

“Yes sir.”

“I suppose you’ve no idea how long he’s been gone?”

“No sir.”

“You’re worried about something,” Hatch said. “What is it?”

The maid shrugged. “It is nothing,” she said.

“Don’t be evasive. You know I’m a friend of the family. What’s wrong?”

“It is nothing,” the maid said again. “A lady was waiting.”

“A lady was waiting here, in this room? Who was she?”

“She say her name is Mrs. Westcott.”

Hatch’s lips drew thin. “Had you ever seen her before?”

“No sir.”

“Who did she want to see?”

“Mr. Howard Westcott.”

“What became of her?”

“I don’t know,” the maid said. “Perhaps she left without seeing Mr. Westcott because of the call on the telephone.”

“What call?” Hatch asked.

“The call came on the house phone,” the maid explained. “Ambrose, the doorman, said a man wish to speak with the lady who is here.”

“Who was the man?” Hatch asked.

The maid shrugged again. “I tell the lady there is a call, then I go back to my room. Perhaps because of what the man said, the lady left.”

Hatch said, “I’ll wait here until Mrs. Westcott and Miss Alexander come back.”

The maid said, “Yes sir,” and withdrew.

Hatch circled the room. In front of the fish tank he paused. He stooped to peer at a dark object lying on the bed of gravel on the bottom of the tank.

It was a blue automatic.

Hatch bared his arm and reached into the water. The colorful fish scattered in alarm. He hooked his forefinger through the trigger-guard of the automatic, lifted it out and looked at it closely.

It was the Mauser automatic which Rhoda Quinn had taken from the office of Sidney Seligman.

With his handkerchief Hatch dried his arm, then lowered his sleeve. He laid the gun on the handkerchief, carefully removed the clip and counted the cartridges in the magazine — ten. He replaced the clip, wrapped the gun in his handkerchief and put it in his hip pocket.

Continuing his circuit of the room, he returned to his chair. The lines around his eyes grew dark with thought.

Suddenly he jumped up and crossed into the comer where the glass-topped grand piano sat.

A red silken rope, an inch thick, was tied around one leg of the piano. Other ropes like it were in use to bind the window drapes, but the drape of the window nearest the piano lacked its cord. The red line led tautly from the leg of the piano across the sill, and out an inch-wide crack of the casement window.

Hatch opened the window and looked down. A few inches below the sill, a dead white face was hovering in the gloom.

It was the face of Rhoda Quinn.

The lower end of the rope was knotted around Rhoda Quinn’s neck. Her upturned face was swollen. Rain was falling upon her staring eyes and her parted lips. Her hair was matted with water and blood. The top of her head was broken as if by powerful blows. She was hanging heavily against the wet wall of the building.

Far below her, the puddled pavement reflected the street lights. People were scurrying through the downpour. Cars were crawling like beetles.

Hatch drew back, his mouth grimly tense, his lowered lids darkening his eyes. For a moment he gazed at nothing. Then, with sudden decision, he crossed to the opposite corner and took up the telephone.

He dialed the number of Police Headquarters.

The glass door-bell tinkled. Hatch turned his pinched eyes to the entrance. The maid appeared from the hall. When she opened the door, Terry Alexander and Lois Westcott came in.

The telephone receiver was twanging faintly, “Police Headquarters. Police Headquarters.”

Hatch disconnected.

The maid retired. Terry Alexander and Lois Westcott hurriedly took off their raincoats and hats and hung them in a closet. They came to Hatch together.

“Cy, don’t you realize you mustn’t come here any more?” Terry said.

“I realize you’re a lovely little liar, Terry,” Hatch answered.

Terry colored. “Why... why do you say that?”

“Where have you been?” Hatch asked.

Lois Westcott answered. “We went to Mr. Kerrigan’s office.”

“Together?” Hatch said. “Then you no longer have any secrets from each other.”

“Terry and I had a talk,” Lois Westcott said in a low tone. “We told each other everything.”

“And you both went to explain the whole business to Kerrigan,” Hatch said.

“Yes,” Lois Westcott said.

“Now the three of you know exactly how Howard is involved.”

“Yes,” Lois Westcott said. “But... he still mustn’t know that I know.”

“Where is Howard?” Hatch asked.

“Isn’t he here?” Lois Westcott said. “When I left, he told me he wouldn’t be going out.”

“He’s gone,” Hatch said.

Lois Westcott turned away and went down the hall. Terry gazed boldly at Hatch.

“Lovely little liar,” Hatch accused her again. “I ought to whale hell out of you.”

“Of course I lied,” Terry said. “I told you I wouldn’t say anything that might harm Howard and Lois. It was the least I could do for them.”

“There isn’t any damned thing you wouldn’t do to protect Howard,” Hatch said.

Terry’s chin lifted.

“You are in love with him,” Hatch said.

“Cy! When I told you it’s not — it’s not like that between Howard and me — I was telling you the truth then.”

“I’d be a damned fool to believe it,” Hatch said.

“I swear it, Cy.”

“Terry,” Hatch said, “I made you a promise. It seems like a year ago, but it was only last night. I agreed not to drag Howard into this mess if I could help it. I’ve kept that promise as long as possible.”

Terry’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Howard can’t be kept out of this any longer.”

Terry’s breath caught. “What do you mean?”

Lois Westcott hurriedly returned. She took Hatch’s arm.

“Howard packed a bag,” she said.

Hatch’s right hand closed hard. “Go on,” he said.

“He left me a note.”

Lois Westcott put a slip of paper into Hatch’s hand. He read the message aloud.

“ ‘I’ve just had an urgent phone call from Pittsburgh. Tell Rupert it’s in connection with the Amalgamated deal. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Don’t worry, darling. Kiss Peter good night for me. I love you. Howard.’ ”

He returned the note to Lois Westcott.

“What’s wrong with that?” Terry asked defiantly. “Why shouldn’t Howard leave for Pittsburgh suddenly on business?”

Hatch said, “Mrs. Westcott, please call your maid.”

Terry’s eyes challenged Hatch as Lois Westcott pressed a button on the wall. In a moment the maid appeared.

“What time was it when Mr. Westcott received a long-distance call from Pittsburgh?” Hatch asked her.

The maid hesitated.

“Answer Mr. Hatch’s questions, Suzette,” Lois Westcott said.

“I do not know,” Suzette said.

“Did he actually receive such a call?” Hatch persisted.

“I know nothing about this call,” Suzette said.

Hatch stepped toward her. “I’ve got to have all this straight. A short while ago a woman came here, saying she was Mrs. Westcott, and asking to see Mr. Westcott. What did you do?”

“I go to Mr. Westcott’s room and I knocked. Mr. Westcott did not answer. I went into the loft, and Mr. Westcott was not there. I think perhaps Mr. Westcott has stepped out for a moment, so I came back to the lady and say, ‘Mr. Westcott is occupied. Please wait just a few minutes,’ and she say she will wait until she sees him.”

“Then there was a call on the house phone from a man who was in the lobby,” Hatch said. “You called this woman to the phone and she spoke to this man. Did he come up? Did you see him?”

“I do not know if he came up,” Suzette said.

“What next?” Hatch asked.

“Then the door ring, and it is you, and the lady is gone.”

Hatch nodded. “That’s all, Suzette.”

The maid left the room. Terry and Lois were anxiously searching Hatch’s face.

“Cy, what does all this mean?” Terry demanded.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Answer me, Cy!”

“I don’t think I will,” Hatch said levelly.

“Why not?”

“In the first place, if you don’t know already, it’ll be to your advantage to remain ignorant of it,” Hatch said. “In the second, I’m not sure what I’m going to do about it. I want a chance to think it over.”

He strode to the entrance. Lois Westcott gazed distraitly at the note left by her husband. Terry followed Hatch into the vestibule.

“That’s not fair,” she said.

Hatch pressed the elevator button. “It’s the best strategy I can think of,” he answered. “You’ll soon understand why.”

“If anything goes wrong now, Cy Hatch,” Terry said, “it’ll be all your fault.”

Hatch smiled dourly. “When the whole world comes crashing down around your ears,” he said, “you’ll realize it simply couldn’t be helped.”

The elevator panel opened.

“Stop talking in riddles,” Terry said. “You’ve got to tell me—”

“Goodby, Terry,” Hatch said, and stepped into the car.

Terry’s eyes flashed at him. The attendant closed the panel. The car started downward.

“Herbert,” Hatch said, “a short time ago you took a woman up to the penthouse.”

The elevator operator considered an answer, then said, “Yes, sir.”

“A few minutes later a man came into the foyer and spoke to her on the house phone. Did you take him up too?”

“Yes, sir,” Herbert said.

“Can you describe him?”

“Why, he was about average looking, sir,” Herbert said. “Except he had a beard.”

“A beard!” Hatch exclaimed. “What was he wearing?”

“Why, I think he had on a dark suit, and a dark felt hat,” Herbert said.

Hatch’s eyes grew keener. Stepping into the foyer, he found the big-bellied doorman seated on a bench beside the entrance.

“Ambrose,” Hatch inquired, “do you remember the man who spoke to the Alexander penthouse over the house phone?”

Ambrose stood with great dignity. “Of course, sir,” he said.

“Can you describe him?” Hatch asked.

Herbert came from the elevator to listen.

“As I remember him, he was rather a heavy-set fellow,” Ambrose said.

“No, he wasn’t,” Herbert said. “He was average.”

“He was heavy-set,” Ambrose said.

“Anyway,” Herbert said, “he had a beard.”

“No, no,” Ambrose said. “He didn’t have a beard. He was clean-shaven.”

“He had a beard, Ambrose,” Herbert said.

“Herbert, that man hadn’t a hair on his face,” Ambrose declared. “I recall him distinctly.”

Hatch said in an exasperated tone, “Describe the clothes he was wearing, Ambrose.”

After a moment of thought, Ambrose said, “He was wearing a dark gray suit and a dark gray hat.”

“That’s wrong,” Herbert said. “He was wearing—”

“A dark gray suit and a dark gray hat,” Ambrose repeated immovably. “And a herringbone topcoat.”

“He wasn’t wearing any topcoat,” Herbert said. “No topcoat at all.”

Hatch said, “Don’t waste time arguing about it. You both can’t be right, and probably you’re both wrong.”

“What I told you is perfectly right, sir,” Herbert insisted.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, sir,” Ambrose said with an air of hurt dignity. “I saw the gentleman twice, once when he went up and once when he came down.”

“Did you notice whether he had bits of plaster stuck on his face?” Hatch asked.

“No, sir, he didn’t,” Herbert said.

“No. sir, he didn’t,” Ambrose said.

“On second thought, sir, he may have had,” Herbert said.

“Yes,” Ambrose said magnanimously, “he may have had, sir.”

“Did he have a small black mustache with pointed ends?” Hatch asked, frowning.

“He had a large brown mustache and a beard,” Herbert said. “Brown, light brown, kind of curly.”

“Nothing of the sort, sir,” Ambrose said. “He was clean-shaven.”

“I suppose you both got a good look at the woman as well,” Hatch said, “and you can describe, her as accurately.”

“Why, certainly, sir,” Herbert said. “She was—”

“Never mind.” Hatch said. “Good heavens! Sometime I’ll ask you two men to help with an experiment to demonstrate the worst faults of eyewitnesses.”

“Huh?” they both said.

He hurried out to the sidewalk, leaving Ambrose and Herbert in a hot altercation. Rain was still falling thickly. Keeping close to the building, Hatch strode around the corner. Halfway along the block toward Madison Avenue, he paused and looked up.

The dark shadow of Rhoda Quinn’s corpse was visible high against the side of the building, directly below a bright open window.

At the corner Hatch entered a chemist’s shop. The position of the phone booth enabled him to gaze through the store window and still see the suspended corpse.

He dialed the Headquarters number.

“Police Headquarters,” a man’s voice responded.

“Connect me with the Commissioner’s office,” Hatch said.

His eyes caught a movement at the penthouse window. A woman was looking out. Hatch could not discern whether it was Terry Alexander or Lois Westcott who was gazing down into Rhoda Quinn’s dead face.

“Commissioner Hatch’s office,” Mallet’s voice said over the line.

“This is Cyrus Hatch calling.”

“Just a minute.”

The woman’s head disappeared from the window.

The telephone line hummed.

In a moment the woman’s head reappeared. She bent over the sill. Something in one of her hands reflected the light. She reached down to the head of Rhoda Quinn.

“Hello!” a gruff voice growled in Cyrus Hatch’s ear. “Is that you, Cyrus?”

“Hold the wire, Mark,” Cyrus Hatch said.

“Damnation, Cyrus!” the Commissioner said. “You listen to me.”

Cyrus Hatch did not listen.

The women bending out of the penthouse window was making sawing motions with her right arm.

Suddenly the corpse of Rhoda Quinn dropped. It seemed to roll swiftly down the side of the building. Then, striking an ornamental projection, it bounded out into the air. It became a blurred motion in the rain. It struck the pavement in the center of the street, bounced once, and became a dark, almost invisible mound.

The woman disappeared from the window.

Mark Hatch was growling over the line. Cyrus Hatch did not hear him.

He was watching.

A car turned into the cross-street from Madison Avenue. It proceeded slowly through the beating rain. The dim shine of its headlamps approached the body of Rhoda Quinn.

“Cyrus!” Mark Hatch was saying wrathfully. “Damnation, Cyrus, do you hear me? If you don’t give yourself up, I’ll be forced to crack down on you so almighty hard—”

“Sorry,” Cyrus Hatch broke in, his voice strained. “I may have some important information for you later. Goodby, Mark.”

Hatch disconnected, shouldered out of the phone booth and hurried from the shop. As he rounded the corner, he heard a squeaking of brakes. The car was now in the middle of the block. It came to a quick stop.

Its left door swung open and a man climbed out. He stood in the rain, staring down. The body of Rhoda Quinn lay huddled behind the front wheels of the car. The man looked around, stooped, straightened quickly and stared around again.

Hatch shifted away from the light of the chemist’s windows. He removed the blue automatic from his pocket. Retaining his handkerchief, he threw the gun. It skipped over the wet pavement and splashed to a stop in a puddle near Rhoda Quinn’s body.

Another car swung into the side-street from Madison Avenue. It slowed as it neared the other. Its headlamps were bright. The dripping beams clearly revealed the broken corpse of Rhoda Quinn.

Hatch turned away. At sight of a yellow sedan drifting through the rain, he shouted.

“Taxi!”

Chapter XVI Sanders Talks

Hatch left the cab at the Hotel Commonwealth. Long strides carried him to Sanders’ room. In answer to his knock, Delevan opened the door.

Sanders, his face haggard, was still sitting in the corner.

“Cripes, chief, what happened?” Delevan asked, the gun still in his hand. “You look like a guy he would like to putta slug on somebody.”

Hatch snapped a wall-switch. The music of a dance band issued from a grating above the switch. Allowing the hotel radio to continue playing, he took up the telephone.

“Chief,” Delevan complained, “I get sorta tired, pointing this here cannon at that guy. How long we gonna keep him here?”

“I don’t know,” Hatch said grimly, as he gave a number.

His call was answered by Suzette.

“This is Mr. Hatch again. Let me talk with Miss Alexander.”

After a moment, Terry said, “Hello?”

“Why did you do that?” Hatch demanded.

Terry was silent.

“I saw you,” Hatch said. “It was the damnedest, coldest-blooded act I ever witnessed. And of course, you did it for dear Howard’s sake.”

Terry said quietly, “They... they won’t come here now.”

“You mean the police? If they don’t, it’ll be the luckiest break you ever had in your life.”

Terry hung up.

Hatch replaced the telephone with a thump and swung around. Delevan was not in the room.

“Where the hell’s Danny?” Hatch demanded of Sanders.

“He just went out,” Sanders said.

“What for?”

“He didn’t say.”

Hatch looked into the hall and found that Delevan was no longer at the elevator door. He turned back with his fists clenched and sat facing Sanders.

“Listen,” Hatch said, leveling a finger. “I’m in no mood to be lied to. Don’t try it. If I catch you lying to me, I’ll break your damned neck.”

Sanders swallowed.

“You killed Sidney Seligman last night, and this morning you killed Sam Flack,” Hatch declared.

“No!” Sanders blurted. “I swear I had nothing to do with it.”

Hatch opened his fists and closed them again. “Be damned careful you don’t give me an excuse to get rough,” he warned. “You were coming out of the Club Grotto with Rhoda Quinn last night when you met Seligman. Seligman said something that scared the pants off you, and then you disappeared. Where the hell did you go?”

“I... I simply left,” Sanders said.

“Sanders, you be careful,” Hatch warned him again. “You had Rhoda Quinn’s gun. You hid behind the hedge, and just as Seligman was going into the club, you shot him.”

“I didn’t!” Sanders blurted.

“This morning you and Sam Flack had a hell of an argument in my apartment. While my secretary was gone, you killed Flack. She came back just as you were sneaking out, and you knocked her unconscious, you rat.”

“I swear I didn’t kill Flack. I didn’t kill either of them,” Sanders insisted.

“I’m going to break your neck,” Hatch said.

“I swear it!”

Hatch shrugged and turned away. “Got anything to drink in this place?”

“There’s a bottle of Scotch in the dresser,” Sanders said.

Hatch found the bottle. It was three-quarters full. He brought a glass from the bath, poured Scotch into it, handed it to Sanders and kept the bottle.

“Want any water in that?” he asked.

“No, thanks,” Sanders said. “The man who made it knew how much water to put in it.”

“Like hell he did,” Hatch said, sitting on the bed. “They always put too damned much.” He drank from the bottle, rolled the liquor around his tongue, swallowed it and sighed. “Go ahead,” he said.

Sanders took a long drink. “Let me tell you in my own way. Let me explain everything from the very beginning.”

“Don’t try to put anything over on me,” Hatch said. “I feel like beating hell out of somebody, and it might as well be you.”

Sanders strained forward in his chair. “I began working in Seligman’s office four or five months ago.”

“You forged your law degree,” Hatch said.

“I say!” Sanders took another mouthful of Scotch. “Very well, I admit that. In London I was a clerk in a barrister’s office. I knew law, but I hadn’t a degree. I needed a good job here in America. Flack thought I was a bit of all right. He thought an Englishman would give his office class. The trouble began when Seligman put me to work on the Quinn case.”

“Doing what?”

“Tracing Timothy Quinn. Rhoda Quinn had told Seligman a great deal about her husband, and Seligman had taken a great many notes. I studied them and began investigating. Before long I’d found Timothy Quinn.”

“Through the bloody birds,” Hatch said.

“That’s right,” Sanders said. “Timothy Quinn had kept a loft of homing pigeons in Chicago. I knew that racing pigeons are registered. I looked into the files of the American Racing Pigeon Union and the International Federation of Homing Pigeon Fanciers. Most of Timothy Quinn’s pigeons were still registered in his name, though his wife had gotten rid of them — she’d said she poisoned them after her husband left her — but a few had been transferred to another name. To Howard Westcott, of New York.”

“As simple as that,” Hatch said.

Sanders nodded.

“Timothy Quinn had taken a few of his best birds with him when he’d left home. In order to race the birds here, he’d transferred the registration to his assumed name. I felt sure Howard Westcott and Timothy Quinn were the same man, because Westcott answered Quinn’s description.”

“Today Rhoda Quinn took the hint you dropped and traced him in exactly the same way,” Hatch said.

“I say!” Sanders blurted. Then he went on, “I turned my information over to Seligman. He warned me to keep it strictly confidential. Then the bloody crook began playing Westcott and Rhoda Quinn against each other.”

“Seligman had you forge a letter. He took it to Westcott, and Westcott thought it was from Rhoda Quinn.”

Sanders stared and said, “That’s right.”

“Seligman told Rhoda Quinn he hadn’t found her husband, and kept getting money from her,” Hatch said. “At the same time he blackmailed Howard Westcott.”

“That’s not the half of it,” Sanders said.

“No?” Hatch said. “What’s the rest?”

“Seligman found out my law degree was forged. He’d checked up on me. But he didn’t tell Flack about it, and he told me I could stay on at the office, if I’d follow his orders and keep my mouth shut. He said if I didn’t do as he ordered, he’d send me to gaol.”

“What has that to do with Rhoda Quinn and Howard Westcott?”

“Seligman made use of what he’d learned about me. He had me prepare a death certificate,” Sanders explained. “I forged a set of papers showing that Timothy Quinn had died and been buried in the Potter’s Field three years ago.”

“What was the idea behind that?” Hatch asked.

“Seligman showed a copy of the papers to Rhode Quinn. He told her that was the end of her search. Several weeks later, Rhoda Quinn married Lloyd Daly.”

The bottle stopped midway to Hatch’s mouth. “What! Do you mean to tell me that Rhoda Quinn and Lloyd Daly became man and wife?”

“That’s right,” Sanders said.

“Good heavens!” Hatch said. “She didn’t let me in on that, and neither did Daly. Doesn’t anybody ever tell the whole truth? No! The answer is no.”

“And they hadn’t been married a week before Seligman called Rhoda Quinn into his office,” Sanders continued. “He told her there’d been a terrible mistake. He said he’d gone on investigating and discovered that the Timothy Quinn in the Potter’s Field wasn’t her husband after all.”

“How could he get away with that?” Hatch asked.

“He showed her where the fake death certificate said that the Timothy Quinn in the Potter’s Field had died of dementia paralytica. That’s another name for general paresis. He said he’d checked back over some records in Chicago, and found that the real Timothy Quinn had taken a Wassermann test just before his marriage, and of course the test was negative. The lapse of time between the test and the date on the death certificate wasn’t long enough for paresis to develop. That’s the way Seligman convinced Rhoda Quinn that the imaginary Timothy Quinn in the Potter’s Field wasn’t her husband at all.”

“Good heavens!” Hatch exclaimed. “Seligman pulled off all this skulduggery to clear the way for Rhoda’s marriage to Daly, is that it?”

“That’s it exactly,” Sanders said. “He deliberately jockeyed her into a bigamous marriage. She found herself in a position where she couldn’t prove she’d acted in good faith, upon sound evidence that her husband was dead, because Seligman got rid of the forged death certificate — said he’d lost it. And of course Rhoda Quinn couldn’t find the original, because it didn’t exist.”

“Then Seligman proceeded to blackmail Rhoda Quinn on the basis of her bigamy, and at the same time he went on blackmailing Timothy Quinn for the same reason.”

“That’s right,” Sanders said.

“The guy deserved to be killed,” Hatch said.

He refilled Sanders’ glass and took a long pull from the bottle. He peered at Sanders.

“Where do you fit into this picture?”

“I knew what Seligman was pulling off,” Sanders said.

“So did John Pirano,” Hatch said.

“Seligman was too smart to tell Pirano much about it. Pirano knew Seligman was pulling off some kind of deal, that’s all. Pirano tried to bribe me to tell him what it was all about.”

“Did you tell him?”

“No, because if I had, Seligman would have finished me.”

“Then Pirano still doesn’t know who Timothy Quinn actually is?”

“No. All he knows is that Rhoda Quinn is married to Lloyd Daly.”

“Flack didn’t know anything at all about it?” Hatch inquired.

“That’s right,” Sanders said.

“You thought you ought to have a share of the swag,” Hatch said. “But you didn’t get it.”

Sanders’ mouth drooped sourly. “I jolly well didn’t. Seligman sacked me. He warned me that unless I kept mum, he’d report me.” Sanders inched forward in his chair. “Hatch, I entered this country illegally. I jumped ship. I married an American girl, Millie Black, and Millie and I have a beautiful little daughter. I could be deported — separated from my wife and child forever.”

“Don’t try to sound like East Lynne,” Hatch said. “Couldn’t they join you in England?”

“I... I’m a fugitive,” Sanders said. “There’s a charge hanging over me. Scotland Yard wants me for forgery.”

“Good heavens!” Hatch said. “So this is why you were so anxious to talk to me. You thought I’d sympathize with you and keep you out of it.”

“That’s right, Hatch,” Sanders said, his eyes full of supplication. “Millie and Gloria are visiting Millie’s mother in Sedalia, Kansas. Millie’s sick. It’s pernicious anemia. She took Gloria to her mother’s home because I’ve been stony since Seligman sacked me. I’m down to my last quid.”

“This is lovely,” Hatch said in a bitter tone.

“If... if you could find out the truth. Hatch — about who killed Seligman and Flack — perhaps no one else need ever know about my past. If the police arrest me as a suspect, they’ll investigate me — they’ll discover the whole bloody mess. But if the case is cleared up first, perhaps the authorities won’t tumble to me at all. I swear, if I ever get out of this, I’ll go straight as a die, Hatch.”

Hatch stared at him. “Whether you deserve to get out of it is damned questionable.”

Knuckles rapped. Carrying the bottle, Hatch opened the door. Delevan sidled in, grinning with satisfaction.

“Where the hell’ve you been, Danny?” Hatch asked.

“Watch this, chief,” Delevan said.

He went to Sanders, removed a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, snapped one circle around Sanders’ right wrist and the other around the arm of the chair.

“Those there bracelets they’ll hold him, chief,” Delevan said confidently. “They sure will.”

Sanders stared at the manacles, transferred his glass to his left hand and emptied it at a gulp.

“Where the hell did you get those things, Danny?” Hatch demanded.

“Over in a pawnshop on Third Avenue, chief,” Delevan said. “They cost me two bucks. Now we can keep this here guy as long as we want him.”

“Very good, very good,” Hatch said gravely. “Did the two bucks include a key?”

Delevan tapped his vest pocket. “Got it right here. You been grilling hell outa this here guy, chief?” he inquired.

“Sanders has put me in a worse spot than ever,” Hatch said. “Apparently I’m the custodian of half a dozen different destinies. If I don’t do the right thing by everybody concerned, I’ll leave a terrible trail of broken lives strewn behind me.”

Delevan wistfully eyed the bottle of Scotch. Hatch swigged from it.

“You haven’t finished talking, Sanders,” Hatch said. “How did you happen to be at the Club Grotto last night?”

“I needed money badly, Hatch,” Sanders said, twisting his wrist in the steel cuff. “I knew Seligman often went there. I wanted to ask him to give me another chance in the office.”

“Then you didn’t expect to find Rhoda Quinn,” Hatch said.

“I hadn’t the foggiest she’d be there,” Sanders said. “When I recognized her, I decided my best chance to get hold of some money was to sell my information to her. I suggested to her we’d better go to another place, for fear Seligman might happen in and see me with her.”

“But you ran into Seligman on the way out,” Hatch said. “He knew immediately what you were up to. He warned you he was going to make his threat good. He told you were on your way out, and that meant out of the country.”

“He was going to report me, Hatch. It got my wind up. I wanted to chuck the whole business, for Millie’s sake, and Gloria’s. That’s why I went away.”

“Seligman’s death saved you from being deported and thrown into prison.”

“But it hasn’t done that,” Sanders protested. “Don’t you see it hasn’t? There’s even more danger now.”

“You didn’t have time to think of that before you shot Seligman.”

The radio had been playing steadily, but now it was silent. After a moment an announcer spoke.

“We bring you a special dispatch from the Press Radio Bureau. The dead body of Rhoda Quinn, for whom the police have been searching in connection with the Seligman homicide, was found a short while ago on Eighty-Second Street, between Fifth and Madison Avenues. The body was discovered by a passing motorist, Charles Wakefield, of Flushing, who immediately notified the police. The cause of Mrs. Quinn’s death is thought to be strangulation.

“The police theory is that Mrs. Quinn was choked to death in some other part of the city, then her body was dumped from an automobile. Evidently she was thrown out with considerable force, to judge from the condition of her body, or she was struck by another car which did not stop. No witnesses have been found. Police have begun a search of all garages in the metropolitan area, in the hope of discovering the car in which Mrs. Quinn’s corpse was transported.”

“Some people have incredible luck,” I latch observed.

“Lloyd Daly has again been taken into custody by the police,” the radio continued. “He was arrested when he entered his room at the Hotel Trafalgar this evening. He had just arrived at Police Headquarters when the news of the discovery of Mrs. Quinn’s body was received there. He is being held for questioning.

“John Pirano, the law partner of Sidney Seligman and Samuel Flack, both victims of a murderer within the past twenty-four hours, surrendered to the police this evening. Pirano stated that he left his office this afternoon a few minutes after Flack had left for the home of Professor Cyrus Hatch. He said he was in a state of nervous exhaustion and, in order to recuperate without being molested, he rented a room at the Montblanc Hotel. He said he took a sedative, and slept soundly until this evening. Then, he said, learning from the newspapers that Flack was dead and that the police were searching for him in connection with the murder, he communicated with Joseph Glatzburg, an attorney, and went with Glatzburg directly to Police Headquarters, where he told his story to Commissioner Mark Hatch. He is being held.

“This dispatch comes to you from the Press Radio Bureau. Further details will be found in your newspapers.” The radio resumed its music.

Hatch removed his coat and vest.

“Alla time you look more and more like a guy he would like to murder somebody hisself, chief,” Delevan observed. “You ain’t ate anything since breakfast. Maybe you would feel more like something human if you had yourself some dinner.”

“A fine idea. Danny,” Hatch said grimly, taking off his tie. “Send a bellboy out for a bottle of Scotch.”

“What I was talking about it was something you eat it, chief,” Delevan explained.

“I shall have dinner,” Hatch said, removing his shoes. “As an appetizer I shall have Scotch. Instead of soup, I shall have Scotch. I shall have Scotch as the main course, and I shall have Scotch salad with Scotch dressing. For dessert I shall have Scotch. I will top off the dinner with some Scotch.”

“After a heavy meal like that, chief,” Delevan said, “a guy he can drink all night and not feel it any.”

Hatch stretched out on the bed.

“Danny, get on that telephone and find Kerrigan,” he directed. “No matter where Kerrigan is, find him. Even if he’s flying over the North Pole on his way to Little America, find Kerrigan. Tell him to come here. Tell him I need him. Tell him we might as well all hang together, because if we don’t all hang together, we’ll all go to the electric chair separately. Benjamin Franklin said that. Benjamin Franklin wrote Poor Richard’s Almanac while flying a kite. Danny, you’ve got to find Benjamin Franklin Kerrigan right away.”

“Okay, chief,” Delevan said, taking up the telephone. “What you gonna do now?”

Hatch lifted his head and stared at Sanders. “My friend,” he inquired, “have you ever fallen in love with a murderess who’s in love with her sister’s husband?”

“I love Millie,” Sanders said. “I love my Millie very, very much.”

Hatch peered at Delevan. “Danny,” he said, “have you ever fallen in love with a murderess who’s in love with her sister’s husband? Have you?”

“I never did, chief,” Delevan said, “but once I went for a dame she was a lady wrassler.”

“That’s different,” Hatch said. “That’s nothing. This is worse, much worse. Falling in love with a murderess who’s in love with her sister’s husband is one of the worst things that can happen to you. Here’s to love. Hurray for what.”

“Chief,” Delevan said, “what you gonna do?”

“To sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream, something something something,” Hatch said. “Good night, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow, something something something the morrow. Shakespeare wrote that while Benjamin Franklin was flying a kite. Well, as Benjamin Shakespeare said, the morrow the merrier.”

His head sank back.

Delevan gazed at him in dismay. Sanders stared, looking sick.

“Now I lay me down to sleep,” Hatch muttered. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Who the hell else would want it, anyway?”

He closed his eyes and slept.

Chapter XVII Hatch Plays His Hand

Feeling someone chipping little bronze letters off his skull with a hammer and a chisel, Hatch rolled over. While the banging persisted, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. “Good heavens!” he moaned, and instantly closed them again. The noise was still reverberating through his brain when he ventured to lift one lid slightly.

He saw the bottle of Scotch standing on the dresser. Delevan was not in sight. Sanders was coming from the bathroom, a glass of water in his free hand, dragging the chair to which he was cuffed.

“What the hell kind of a chair do you think that is?” Hatch demanded. “That’s no way to treat it.”

“It’s worse than a bloody ball and chain,” Sanders complained.

Sanders maneuvered the chair into the corner, where he dropped into it breathlessly. The loud knocking continued.

“Where the hell’s Danny?” Hatch asked.

“He’s gone again,” Sanders said. “What’s more, the bloody bounder robbed me of fifty dollars.”

Hatch achieved a sitting position. “Robbed you of how much?”

“Fifty dollars,” Sanders said. “The blinking thief took it right out of my pocket.”

“Don’t call Danny a thief,” Hatch said. “Danny might take your money, but he’s no thief. You told me you were down to your last quid. I don’t remember just how much a quid is, except that I’m damned sure It isn’t fifty dollars.”

“Fifty dollars was all I had, and the bloody crook stole it,” Sanders said.

The knocking grew louder.

Hatch howled at the door, “Quit that racket and wait a minute!” He moaned and held his head. “I shouldn’t have done that. Why did Danny take your fifty dollars, Sanders?” he asked in a whisper.

“I’m damned if I know,” Sanders said. “First he found some sort of paper in your coat and he sat staring at it.”

Hatch dragged his coat onto the bed and fished in the pockets. “He took that photostat.”

“He sat there grinning like a half-witted baboon, then he went through my pockets and took the fifty dollars and left,” Sanders said.

“Did he say where he was going and when he’d be back?”

“He didn’t even say thank you.”

Knuckles were still pounding the door. Hatch struggled up and opened it. Kerrigan came in with a bundle of newspapers under one arm. He stared at Hatch and Sanders.

“Mr. Kerrigan, Mr. Sanders,” Hatch said, “if it matters.”

He went into the bathroom. When he came out, Kerrigan was opening the bottle of Scotch.

“That’s fine,” Hatch said. “Send down for some cracked ice and some seltzer and four or five stacks of sandwiches and a gallon of black coffee and a bottle of aspirin, will you, Kerrigan? Don’t forget the aspirin.”

Hatch put on his shoes and his tie while Kerrigan telephoned, then he drank a mouthful of Scotch.

After a hopeful moment he announced, “I still feel lousy. I wonder where Danny went.”

He unfolded the newspapers and tried to read. Kerrigan gazed from him to Sanders and back, hopelessly, until the bellboy knocked at the door. Kerrigan took the tray and paid the bill. While he made highballs, Hatch munched a sandwich and drank black coffee.

“Pass some to Sanders,” Hatch said.

Sanders took a cup of coffee in his left hand and a sandwich in his right. He had to double over in order to get his teeth into the sandwich.

“What time is it?” Hatch asked.

“The night’s young yet,” Kerrigan said, “but personally I’m aging rapidly.”

“I feel older than the hills,” Hatch said.

He placed two aspirin tablets on his tongue and washed them down with a highball.

“What the hell do you want to talk to me about, Hatch?” Kerrigan asked.

“Kerrigan,” Hatch said, “the trouble with these murders is that nobody committed them.”

“If nobody committed these murders, then Seligman and Flack and Rhoda Quinn are making damned fools of themselves,” Kerrigan said.

“Nobody did it,” Hatch insisted. “Nobody could have done it. It’s the only logical explanation.”

“Listen, Hatch,” Kerrigan protested. “I’m near enough to going screwy as it is.”

Hatch drained his cup and refilled it with black coffee. “I will concede a point,” he said. “I’ll grant you that these murders were committed. I’ll go even further and say that — assuming that somebody committed them — all three murders were committed by the same person.”

“They weren’t all necessarily committed by the same person,” Kerrigan said.

“How many murderers do you want, anyway?” Hatch asked. “One is enough for me.”

“There might be one murderer, or two, or three,” Kerrigan said, “or more. What do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I care?” Hatch asked. “Do you mind if I care?” Kerrigan shrugged.

“You and I both wanted to clear Rhoda Quinn. There’s no point in trying to clear her now.”

“We don’t even need to try any more,” Hatch said. “She cleared herself by getting murdered.”

“Then you can drop out of the case and forget the whole thing,” Kerrigan said.

“It’s not that damned simple,” Hatch said. “The only way I can extricate myself from this case is to collar a murderer.”

“The hell with that,” Kerrigan said. “I’m not interested in catching any murderer. I don’t care a damn who the murderer is. You know why I’m in this case. My job is to keep certain parties out of it.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Hatch said. “Everybody I know is trying to keep out of it. The whole cockeyed world is trying to keep out of it, except me. I’ve outdone myself trying to stay in it. I’m in it, all right. Kerrigan, I got the Commissioner into a jam and now I’ve got to get him out of it. I’ve got to vindicate myself.”

“Go ahead and vindicate yourself to your heart’s content,” Kerrigan said, “but I’m damned if I’ll let you do anything that might incriminate my clients. I’ll see you in hell first.”

Hatch nodded, then shook his head. “I haven’t one little inkling of who the murderer may be.”

“What about your handcuffed friend here?” Kerrigan asked.

Sanders winced.

“Maybe he killed Seligman, and maybe he killed Flack,” Hatch said, “but I’m sure he didn’t kill Rhoda Quinn.”

Sanders gripped the arms of his chair.

Kerrigan asked, “Why not?”

“I saw Rhoda alive late this afternoon,” Hatch explained. “Sanders has been with me, or with Danny, every minute of the time since then. If all three murders were committed by the same person, that lets Sanders out.”

“All three murders were not necessarily committed by the same person,” Kerrigan reminded him.

“I think they were.”

“Why?”

“Because of that gun of Rhoda Quinn’s. Somebody confiscated it. Not for the purpose of framing Rhoda. though. If anybody had wanted to get rid of her, it would have been a hell of a lot simpler to kill her. Anyway, nobody had a reason for getting her into trouble. Just the opposite. It was to the advantage of everybody concerned to keep her quiet.”

“All right,” Kerrigan said impatiently.

“Whoever took Rhoda’s gun did it for one of two reasons. First, he didn’t dare use a weapon of his own for fear it would be traced back to him; or second, he simply didn’t have one of his own to use.”

“All right.”

“So following the Seligman murder, the murderer was without a usable weapon. He probably didn’t expect to do any more murdering right away, but he had to anyway. Twice he found himself in an emergency without a weapon, and he had to use his hands. Flack was strangled. So was Rhoda Quinn. So I say, all three murders are the work of one murderer.”

“All right,” Kerrigan said, “and I still don’t give a damn.”

Hatch took up another sandwich. “I wish I knew where Danny went,” he said.

“All we need to make our joy complete is for Danny to turn up dead,” Kerrigan observed.

“Don’t say that!” Hatch exclaimed. “Listen, Kerrigan. Follow through on this with me.” For a moment he chewed soberly. “We’ve eliminated Sanders. Now take John Pirano.”

“I don’t want Pirano. I wouldn’t take him as a gift. I don’t care whether he’s guilty or not,” Kerrigan said.

“I’m leading up to something you will care a lot about,” Hatch retorted.

“If I have a kick in the teeth coming,” Kerrigan said, “hurry up and get to it.”

“Just keep listening,” Hatch said. “Pirano might have killed Seligman. He had a motive — to take over Seligman’s blackmailing racket. He also had a motive for killing Flack. Flack was dumb, but he was honest, and being honest he wouldn’t stand for any crooked dealing. So, desperate to save himself from exposure, Pirano had to put Flack away. Also, Pirano might have had to silence Rhoda Quinn for the same reason.”

“There’s your case,” Kerrigan said.

“But Pirano said he was asleep, under the influence of an opiate, at the time Rhoda Quinn was killed. It’s a lousy alibi — so lousy it sounds true. In case you ever need an alibi for a murder, my friend, the best alibi is none at all. Maybe Pirano can prove it. If he can, he’s out.”

“All right, he’s out,” Kerrigan said.

“Next take Lloyd Daly,” Hatch said, eating thoughtfully. “Daly was at the scene when Seligman got it. Nobody knows where he was when Flack turned up his toes. But he wasn’t anywhere around when Rhoda Quinn was bumped off tonight.”

“How do you know he wasn’t?” Kerrigan asked.

“I saw Daly get into a taxi over on the west side. I heard him give the driver the address of the Trafalgar Hotel. As soon as he arrived at the Trafalgar Hotel, he was arrested.”

“Who’s left?” Kerrigan asked.

“Leaving the ladies out of it,” Hatch said, “Howard Westcott.”

Kerrigan started with dismay and peered at Sanders.

“Sanders knew all about it anyway,” Hatch said.

“Oh, damn!” Kerrigan said.

“Howard Westcott was outside the Club Grotto last night when Seligman was killed,” Hatch said. “He might easily have been at my apartment this morning when Flack was murdered. At about the time Rhoda was murdered this evening, he disappeared.”

“I know all about that,” Kerrigan said.

“Do you know where Rhoda Quinn was killed?” Hatch asked.

Kerrigan poured himself a new drink and nodded. “That’s why I’m damned near going screwy,” he said.

“There was a man who talked with Rhoda over the house phone from the lobby,” Hatch said. “He may or may not be the guilty party. He went up to the penthouse, and Rhoda let him in, and then he left, but that still doesn’t mean he killed her, whoever he was. Kerrigan, do you know whether Westcott left before or after Rhoda showed up?”

Kerrigan drank and said, “No.”

“The note Westcott left was a phoney,” Hatch said. “It covered up his real reason for leaving town. Now, why did he scram in such a hell of a hurry, and where did he scram to?”

Kerrigan drank again. “I wish I knew,” he said.

“Maybe we can find out,” Hatch said. “Westcott is the man who chipped the letters off the door of the Seligman tomb last night. We know what his message means, all except the symbol PAC.”

Kerrigan sat forward. “Do you think that’s where he’s gone — to PAC?”

“He appointed a rendezvous,” Hatch said. “It’s only logical to suppose he’d try to keep it. PAC must mean a city. A city and something else.”

Kerrigan said. “It might mean the Pittsburgh Amalgamated Company.”

Hatch picked up the telephone.

“Operator,” he said, “look in your telephone directory for Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and see if you can find a Pittsburgh Amalgamated Company or Corporation, or any other Amalgamated thing beginning with a C.”

“Hold the line,” the girl said.

Hatch munched on another sandwich. Kerrigan drank. Sanders sat still.

“I can’t find anything like that,” the operator said.

“Thanks,” Hatch said, and hung up. “No go, Kerrigan, but it’s the right idea. A certain city, a certain place — a certain hotel.”

Suddenly he dropped his sandwich, opened the drawer of the desk and rummaged through sheaves of stationery and telegram blanks. He turned back with a paper-covered book.

“Eureka!” he said.

“What’s that?” Kerrigan asked.

“Travel America Guide and Hotel Directory, Winter Edition, 1938,” Hatch said. “Try to think of all the cities you ever heard of beginning with a P.”

“Pittsburgh first,” Kerrigan said.

Hatch leafed through the book. “No hotel in Pittsburgh has a name beginning with the initials A.C.,” he announced.

“Philadelphia.”

Hatch turned the pages. “In Philadelphia there’s the Adelphia, but there’s no C in it.”

“Peoria,” Kerrigan suggested.

Hatch searched the columns. “Nothing there.”

“Paterson.”

Hatch’s finger pointed over the listings. “The Alexander Hamilton,” he said. “That wouldn’t be it.”

“Palm Beach.”

Again Hatch flicked the pages. “The Ambassador, but still no C.”

“Pensacola.”

Hatch retorted, “Nothing doing.” His eyes lighted with a thought. “It might be the A-something Chambers. Do you know any Chambers beginning with an A?”

“Ante-chambers,” Kerrigan said.

“Kerrigan,” Hatch said severely, “this is serious.”

“Try Paltimore,” Kerrigan said.

Hatch scowled at him, but turned to Baltimore. “Good heavens!” he said. “There’s the Abby, the Academy, the Albion, the Altamont, the Armistead and the Arundel. But still no C, unless it would mean the Academy.”

“How about Poston, or Pirmingham, or Puffalo,” Kerrigan asked, “or Prooklyn, or Palbany?”

Hatch went back to Scotch. “We’re not quite on the right track,” he said. “Perhaps P isn’t the city. Perhaps P is the hotel and AC is the city.” Suddenly he was galvanized. “That’s it! Atlantic City!”

“Damn me!” Kerrigan said.

Hatch split the book. “Plenty of ’em!” he exclaimed. “The Palm-Hall, the Penn-Atlantic, the Palais, the Pennhurst, the Phillips House, the Pierrepont, the Plaza, the President and the Princess.”

Kerrigan said, “Let’s get to work on the telephone.”

“Wait,” Hatch said. “Westcott hoped that the letters PAC would immediately convey to Rhoda Quinn the name of a certain hotel in Atlantic City. Why should they? Because they stayed at that particular hotel upon some important occasion. Kerrigan, it was their honeymoon!”

“Now you’ve got something,” Kerrigan said. “Knowing the kind of woman Rhoda was—”

“We’ll pick out the one she would consider the classiest,” Hatch said.

“She’d take the Palais,” Kerrigan said.

“Absolutely,” Hatch agreed. “The message meant, ‘Rhoda Quinn — you see Timothy in the Palais Hotel, Atlantic City.’ ” He took up the telephone. “Operator, get me the Palais Hotel in Atlantic City. I want to talk with Mr. Howard Westcott.”

“Hold the line,” the operator said.

Hatch sipped his highball. Kerrigan sat on the edge of his chair. Sanders watched them intently. Soon Hatch nuzzled the transmitter.

A voice said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Westcott,” Hatch said.

“Who’s calling?” Westcott’s voice returned cautiously.

Hatch smiled at Kerrigan.

“Damn me!” Kerrigan muttered.

“Cyrus Hatch calling,” Hatch said over the line. “Have you seen the latest papers, Mr. Westcott?”

“Hatch! How the devil did you know— Yes... yes, I’ve seen them.”

“Then you know it’s no use waiting any longer for that certain party to meet you there,” Hatch said.

“I know, I know.”

“You chipped the letters off the door of the Seligman tomb with the idea of connecting with Rhoda and helping her to keep out of the hands of the police, is that it?”

“Yes... yes,” Westcott said.

“You knew that if the police caught up with her, and put the heat on her, that would be your finish.”

“Yes... yes.” Westcott’s voice was ragged. “Great Scott, Hatch, what can I do now?”

“Phone your wife and tell her you’ll be back on the first train you can catch,” Hatch suggested. “Good night, Mr. Westcott.”

He sat comfortably on the bed and looked at the light through his highball.

“And that lets Howard Westcott out also,” he said.

“I hope it does,” Kerrigan said, “but how do you figure it?”

“If Westcott had killed Rhoda here in New York, he certainly wouldn’t have rushed down to Atlantic City hoping to meet her there, would he?”

“Damn me!” Kerrigan said with a sigh.

“That eliminates all our suspects except the ladies. I think we should eliminate them also, if only for the sake of old-fashioned chivalry,” Hatch said. “Just as I remarked at the beginning, the trouble with these murders is that nobody committed ’em.”

“It still isn’t necessarily true that they were all committed by the same person,” Kerrigan said again.

“I’m still sure they were all committed by the same person,” Hatch said.

“A person who couldn’t possibly have committed them,” Kerrigan added.

“Right,” Hatch said.

“We’re all going screwy,” Kerrigan sighed.

Thoughtfully Hatch finished his highball. Putting aside the empty glass, he took up the telephone.

“Operator,” he asked, “is there a public stenographer in the hotel?”

“On the mezzanine,” the operator said.

While he put on his coat and hat, Hatch peered at Sanders.

“Listen, Sanders,” he said. “You asked me to help you get out of this with a whole skin. I’ll do what I can. But I want you to keep one thing clearly in mind. If you let slip so much as one word about the connection between Howard Westcott and Rhoda Quinn, I’ll throw you to the wolves. Understand that?”

“I... I understand, Hatch,” Sanders said.

“We can’t keep the name of Timothy Quinn out of this, but as far as you’re concerned, Sanders, Quinn and Westcott are two separate and distinct identities. From this moment on, Howard Westcott is dissociated in your mind from everything and anything concerning Timothy Quinn. You don’t know a damned thing about Howard Westcott.”

“I... I don’t know a damned thing about Westcott,” Sanders agreed.

Hatch nodded.

“What’s more, you don’t know anything about Timothy Quinn,” Hatch went on. “You don’t even suspect that there was anything crooked going on in Seligman’s office. If you accuse John Pirano of blackmail, he’ll retaliate, and your goose will be cooked. So far as you know, Pirano is a thoroughly honest man. If you insist on that, he’ll keep quiet about you, because he’ll need your support.”

Sanders was absorbing every word.

“Last night, in the Club Grotto, you recognized Rhoda Quinn as a former client of Seligman’s, and you simply asked her if she knew where you might land a new position. When she began to quarrel with Seligman, you discreetly retired. What Seligman said to you was an angry expression of personal dislike. You’ve been avoiding the police on advice of counsel. You’d better get busy on the phone and find yourself a lawyer who’ll back you up on that.”

Sanders nodded eagerly.

“But remember, if you shoot off your mouth about Howard Westcott, you’re sunk,” Hatch threatened.

“That’s right,” Kerrigan affirmed.

“I’ll do exactly as you say,” Sanders promised.

Hatch took Sanders’ key from the dresser. As Kerrigan followed him out, Sanders eyed them distraitly.

“Hatch,” Kerrigan said while they waited for the elevator, “you’re a hell of a decent guy.”

“Whatever I am, I’m too much that way for my own good,” Hatch said wryly.

They left the elevator at the mezzanine and stepped into the public stenographer’s office. A red-headed girl took her feet off the typewriter, closed her book and smiled.

“I want to get off a couple of letters,” Hatch explained, “but I’d like to write them myself.”

The girl said, “Go as far as you like.”

She opened a drawer containing paper and envelopes, took another chair and resumed her book. Hatch sat at the typewriter and fed a sheet of onionskin under the roller. Kerrigan watched his dancing fingers and frowned. Hatch paused at intervals, thinking hard. Finally, when the sheet was covered, he folded it and put it in his pocket.

He wrote a second, shorter letter and typed a name on an envelope. He sealed the second letter in the envelope, then rose and proffered a dollar bill to the girl.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the bill.

Kerrigan followed Hatch from the office, down the stairs into the lobby, out to the curb and into a taxi.

Hatch leaned forward and whispered an address to the driver.

The cab started.

“What the hell are you up to now?” Kerrigan inquired.

Hatch closed the panel of the driver’s compartment, removed the first letter from his pocket and switched on the dome light.

“This is a dangerous thing to do,” he said, “but I’m damned if I can see any other way out.”

“If you think it’ll work, let’s try it,” Kerrigan said. “Right now I’d bet on a million-to-one chance.”

Hatch began reading. “ ‘Dear Mr. Westcott. You probably remember my name as that of a man from which you bought a number of racing pigeons several years ago. I must apologize for involving you, even in this innocent manner, in a murder case, and for concealing myself in this way, but circumstances make it necessary.’ ”

“What the hell is this?” Kerrigan asked.

Hatch read on. “ ‘I am the Timothy Quinn who disappeared from Chicago six years ago — Rhoda Quinn’s husband. Recently Rhoda’s lawyer, Sidney Seligman, searching at her behest, located me. I do not know how he accomplished this, for I had severed all connection with my old life and changed my name. Seligman found that I had remarried — bigamously, I confess, and very happily. My situation being what it is, I naturally wish to remain safely out of reach of the law.

“ ‘Seligman began blackmailing me. Of course, I was in no position to take legal action against him, but, in hope of escaping his greed somehow, I began watching him. Last night I saw Rhoda leaving his office. The idea struck me that Rhoda was probably also being victimized by Seligman in some way. Hoping that she might forgive me, once she learned my circumstances, and also that she and I, working together, might find some means of beating Seligman’s game, I followed her.

“ ‘She went from Seligman’s office to the Club Grotto. I waited outside, intending to follow her to her home, for a better opportunity to discuss the matter. Later I saw her come out of the Club, with a man whom I did not recognize, just as Seligman arrived.

“ ‘I was an eye-witness to the murder.’ ”

“Damn me!” Kerrigan said.

“ ‘I saw the murderer fire through the hedge at the side of the door, and I saw him make his escape. Through the information and photographs published in the newspapers, I learned his identity. I am determined to see him punished for his crime.

“ ‘But—’ ”

“Hatch, you’re a terrific strain on my nerves,” Kerrigan said.

“ ‘But, because I cannot come forward openly, I found it necessary to make use of some means of communication which would not reveal my whereabouts or the name under which I am now living. I remembered your loft, Mr. Westcott, and recalled that you frequently ship pigeons off by express, as I used to do. I telephoned your home, spoke to Mrs. Westcott as another pigeon fancier, and learned that you were about to send a crate of pigeons to Boston. Seizing the opportunity, I confiscated your crate of birds while Mrs. Westcott was taking them in her car to the express office.

“ ‘I have already released all but two of the birds. One of the two remaining pigeons will carry this message to you. The last bird may carry an even more important communication — the name of the murderer.

“ ‘But—’ ”

“Hatch you’re killing me,” Kerrigan said.

“ ‘But,’ ” Hatch continued, “ ‘I hesitate to assume the responsibility of condemning a human being, even a murderer, to death. I write this in the hope that he will realize he cannot escape justice. I take this means of warning him, of giving him an opportunity to confess.

“ ‘But if he does not confess tomorrow, I will hesitate no longer. I will write another message, to be delivered by pigeon in this same way, and name him.’ ”

“Damn me!” Kerrigan said.

“ ‘Please turn this letter over to the Commissioner of Police as soon as convenient, and arrange matters so that he will be present when the final message arrives. Sincerely yours, Timothy Ouinn.’ ”

Kerrigan moaned, “Hatch, that’s dynamite. What if it dawns on the police that Quinn is Westcott?”

“Can you think of any better way of squeezing out of this?” Hatch challenged.

Kerrigan said vehemently, “It’s nothing but a bluff. It won’t work. Nobody’ll confess. Tomorrow will come and go and the murderer will keep his mouth shut. Then it’ll be up to you to name somebody as the murderer. Who the hell are you going to pick?”

“Damned if I know,” Hatch admitted. “I’ll have to figure that out when the time comes.”

The cab stopped. Hatch climbed out and paid the driver. Kerrigan followed him into the cigar store on the corner, and stood beside the telephone booth while Hatch put through a call.

Suzette’s voice said, “The Alexander residence.”

“This is Mr. Hatch, Suzette. Is Rupert Alexander within earshot?”

“He is in his study,” Suzette answered.

“Good. Call Mrs. Westcott.”

In a moment Lois Westcott’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Don’t worry about Howard,” Hatch said. “Has he phoned you?”

“No.”

“Then expect a call from him. He’ll be back soon, and I think he’s in the clear. In a few minutes another pigeon will return to the loft with a message—”

Lois Westcott stifled an exclamation.

“Learn that message by heart,” Hatch went on. “You’ll grasp the plan behind it. Get Terry to fall in with the plan, and explain it to Howard as soon as he comes. Telephone the Commissioner and tell him about the message. He’ll probably send a couple of men around. We’ll have to take a chance with your father, but show him the letter and he’ll understand that there’s nothing else to be done.”

“It sounds — dangerous,” Lois Westcott said.

“It’s dangerous as hell,” Hatch said, “but we’ve got to see it through. Good night, Mrs. Westcott.”

His face was hard when he left the booth. Kerrigan trudged with him to a tenement midway in the block. They climbed to the third floor. Kerrigan unlocked the door. Hatch went in first and gazed speculatively at the two pigeons in the crate.

“You can’t go through with this, Hatch,” Kerrigan said. “It’s a crazy chance. It’s too damned risky.”

Hatch took a spool of thread from the dresser, broke off a length, then opened the cage, reached in, and closed his hand over one of the birds.

“The night flier?” he asked Kerrigan.

“Listen, Hatch,” Kerrigan said. “You can’t do this. I’m damned if I’ll let you do it.”

Hatch rolled the tightly folded letter around the pigeon’s leg and bound it in place with the thread. He turned to the window. Kerrigan gripped his arm.

“Put that pigeon back,” Kerrigan said.

“This is the only way out, Kerrigan,” Hatch said soberly.

“Put that pigeon back, Hatch,” Kerrigan said. “Put it back or I’ll paste you to the floor.”

Hatch opened the window. Kerrigan caught his shoulder and spun him about. He tried to take the bird from Hatch’s hand. The bird squeaked with fright. Hatch struck once, a straight-armjab to the point of Kerrigan’s chin.

Kerrigan fell back on the bed. He sprang up as Hatch reached out into the darkness, holding the bird.

He opened his hand.

The pigeon darted off into the night. It became a black flutter that vanished in the western sky.

Hatch looked at Kerrigan, and Kerrigan scowled at Hatch, and they gravely wagged their heads.

“Sorry, Kerrigan,” Hatch said.

“That’s all right, Hatch,” Kerrigan said.

“Good.”

Hatch closed the window and gazed grimly at the one bird remaining in the crate.

“I wish I knew what’s happened to Danny,” he said.