Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

Schuyler Didn’t Really Expect His Partner to Hit Him With an Ax, Even if He Had Tried to Steal $1,000,000

I

Schuyler was just about ready to leave. He gazed across the room admiringly at the pigskin bag. It was a good-looking bag — neat, but not gaudy. And it was built along lines that gave it the pleasant illusion of bulging. Of course it wasn’t actually bulging. But there was plenty in the bag — plenty of good old United States currency. There was more than a million dollars that Schuyler and his partners had taken away from shop girls, clerks, soda jerkers, garage workers, saps in all walks of life.

Schuyler thought of his partners — and he grinned. He had to admit that it was going to be kind of tough on them. That is, the shock of it would be tough — at first. But men as smart as Pope and Talbott shouldn’t remain broke for long. Their ideas were too good.

Schuyler looked down at the elaborately engraved ticket on his desk. It was salmon-colored — a beautiful thing. Schuyler’s lips twisted as he read:

Schuyler read the ticket slowly. Then he inspected the engraving on the back. Then he chuckled.

“I might have bought one myself,” he said.

He fanned himself with the ticket for a moment. It was very hot — much too hot for comfort. Outside, the streets of New York were baking. But it wouldn’t be long before Schuyler would be far away from all this heat — out on the ocean, bound for South America.

Schuyler suddenly thought that it would be only fitting that he should leave a note. He examined his watch — still a few minutes left. He took out his pen and selecting a piece of expensive stationery from a drawer, wrote rapidly for a moment:

Schuyler studied the letter. He found it very funny. And he knew how funny Pope would find the idea of himself, or anybody else for that matter, winning the Caledonian Sweepstakes.

Schuyler sealed the note with the ticket and placed it in a prominent position on Pope’s desk — where he was certain to find it the first thing Monday morning. Schuyler knew it was going to be a shock to Pope — and to Talbott, too.

But he would be a long way off, on Monday.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty to twelve — half an hour to boat time. It was time to leave — to fade out. He listened and he could hear the typewriter clicking in the front office. He decided to say good-by to the stenographer — the dumb one. Even dumb stenographers got suspicious at times. And he didn’t want any suspicions today. He wanted to get a good start on Pope and on Talbott.

He pressed the buzzer on his desk and he composed himself while he waited the response. When Louise, the dumb girl called Louise, answered he looked very businesslike, very dignified.

He cleared his throat.

“Miss Long,” he said, “I’m off now for the week-end. To all callers I’ll be back Monday morning — bright and early.”

The girl nodded. Schuyler wondered if she were suspicious. She was awfully dumb, but sometimes even the dumb ones get suspicious. However, Schuyler wasn’t going to worry particularly about her. He wondered at times if she knew what it was all about. He liked them dumb.

“All right, sir,” said Louise.

She turned and closed the door behind her. Schuyler grinned. He had got away with that. He was in a hurry now. He grasped his imported Panama, strode across the room and picked up the pigskin bag. It gave him a thrill to lift that bag. It would give any one a thrill to lift a million dollars — in good old greenbacks.

Schuyler had to hurry. He was going directly to the pier and he was going to lock himself in his state room on the Empress Xenia, New York to Buenos Aires. He would emerge at sea as Dr. Jerome, pleasure-bound to the Argentine.

Schuyler was a pretty smart fellow. He thought so himself.

He walked toward the private doorway to the hall. He intended to duck out without again seeing the stenographer.

A man carrying a million dollars, a stolen million dollars, can look pretty suspicious — even to a dumb stenographer.

II

He was almost to the door, his hand was extended to grab the knob, when he stopped suddenly. There was a shadow outside the door. The shadow was Talbott’s. Schuyler quickly tiptoed back to his desk, took off his hat and sat down.

Schuyler waited, rigid, while Talbott let himself in with a key. Talbott looked very slick in a light herringbone suit — almost cool for a day of such terrific heat. He nodded to Schuyler, stared about the room searchingly with his cold gray eyes.

There was a tense moment which Schuyler wished had not occurred. He had to struggle to get control of himself. It was quite a shock — seeing Talbott.

“Back from Chicago, eh,” said Schuyler.

Talbott looked him over, grinning.

“Yeah, just in. You intending to go away?”

He was looking at the pigskin bag resting beside Schuyler.

“Yes, and I got to go pretty quick,” said Schuyler. “Just about can make my train for Lake Dorrance.”

“Ah!” said Talbott. “A lovely place. Especially in this infernally hot weather. It’s quiet, cool, peaceful and nice crowd — a lot of dumb ones.”

Talbott wiped his pink neck with a silk handkerchief and slumped into a chair opposite Schuyler. He was smiling affably. And although Schuyler said he had to hurry, Talbott wasn’t urging him to be gone.

“It is awfully hot,” agreed Schuyler.

“And I guess some people feel it more than others,” said Talbott.

Still holding his silk handkerchief in his hand, he lifted a handbag he had brought with him and placed it on the desk. Schuyler noticed for the first time that it was a pigskin bag — very similar to his. Talbott, too, noticed the similarity, grinned.

“Just alike, eh,” he said. “Good week-end bags?”

Schuyler didn’t like the way Talbott laughed.

“I’ve got to run, Jim,” he said.

Talbott was still looking around searchingly. For quite a while his eyes rested on Schuyler’s bag. Then they wandered over to where the note lay so prominently on Pope’s desk. Schuyler felt a colder chill. He wished he hadn’t written that note.

“Ah, what made you decide to go away so suddenly?” asked Talbott.

“Well, you know, the heat’s hell on one,” said Schuyler. “And everybody else was out of town. Pope’s away until Monday and — and I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know you weren’t expecting me,” said Talbott, “and I guess the heat is giving you trouble right now. You look hot.”

His eyes were wandering from Schuyler’s bag to the note on Pope’s desk.

“Well, I guess I got to run along, Jim,” said Schuyler. “Got to make that train.”

Talbott’s gaze was now concentrated on that note — the note that so conspicuously bore the name Al Pope. Talbott put his elbows on the desk and, with his fists supporting his chin, turned slowly from the note to Schuyler.

“I left a note,” said Schuyler, “to let Al Pope know where I was — in case he came in.”

“A good idea,” he said, “to let the boys know where you are when you go away — suddenly!”

He stood up, walked over to Pope’s desk, lifted the note, stared at the name on it.

“I got to run along, Jim,” said Schuyler. “Got to make my train.”

Talbott showed his teeth.

“Go ahead and run,” he said, “if you can run fast enough.”

Then he picked up the note and tore it open. Schuyler went pale, lifted the bag with the money and set it in front of him on the table.

“You win, Talbott,” he said, “I’ll split — fifty-fifty.”

Talbott read the note — and laughed.

“Jeez, this is funny,” he said. “Jeez, you are a funny guy. We three peddle a million dollars’ worth of fake lottery tickets and then you grab the dough and leave poor old Pope and me one of the tickets and hope we win. Jeez, you’ve got a sense of humor!”

Schuyler’s face had gone very white. His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t kid me, Talbott,” he said. “You aren’t worrying about Pope. Come on... we’ll cut. Only I want to do it quick. I want to duck.”

Talbott walked back across the room and sat down at the desk. He calmly took a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and, grinning, his elbows resting on the desk, he slowly pulled them on.

“A hot day for such work as this,” he said, “but it’s got to be done... No, Schuyler, I’m sorry, but there will be no split. Your idea is the best. One guy ducks with everything — me!”

Schuyler watched him incredulously. He laughed hysterically.

“What’s the idea?” he said. “You couldn’t get away with anything here. I’d—”

Talbott reached over and slowly opened the bag — the bag he had brought.

Schuyler’s expression turned to horror. But he still laughed shrilly.

“You couldn’t pull a stunt like that here,” he said, “because I’d— Why, man, you couldn’t kill any one in this office, because I’d— You’re crazy, Talbott, you couldn’t hit me with that hatchet because I’d yell and—”

“I won’t, eh?” snarled Talbott. “What do you think I brought this hatchet up here for? Why, you sap, I found out at the bank you’d copped that dough. The only break I got was I got here before you beat it!”

“But you can’t do that— You can’t hit me — I’ll yell, I’ll—”

“Yeah?” snarled Talbott as his arms swung across the desk in an arc.

Schuyler fell backwards. Talbott grabbed up the bag with the million dollars in it almost before Schuyler slumped out of the chair onto the floor. And he took the back stairs out of the building.

III

Louise didn’t like her job with the Schuyler Importing Company. She had only been there four days, but she already was looking for another place. She didn’t like Schuyler or the men that visited him. They all had a manner of grinning at her as if she wasn’t quite right in her mind.

There was something very mysterious about the business. She couldn’t make heads or tails out of it. There were a lot of mysterious phone calls and mysterious accounts that she could not understand. And all the time men were coming in and grinning at her.

At noon on Saturday, a very hot noon, she sat before her typewriter, listening intently for Mr. Schuyler to leave. As soon as he went, Louise herself was going to duck. It was too hot to work.

She was very startled to hear voices in Mr. Schuyler’s office. She decided that some one had come in the private door. She couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying. Of course, she could have gone to the door and listened, but Louise wouldn’t do that.

After a short while the voices stopped and Louise ran to the door and listened.

All was absolutely quiet in Mr. Schuyler’s office. She decided that Mr. Schuyler and his visitor had probably just stepped out. She opened the door to peek.

The outer door was closing. A man was going out. Louise for a moment could see a shadow against the frosted glass. Nothing but a blurred shadow. Then she saw something else and she felt faint, reeling.

“Oh,” she gasped and she closed the door quickly. She found it hard to breathe. The sound of riveting machines across the way were suddenly beating on her brain.

“Oh,” she said again and slumped into the chair before her typewriter. She sat there, breathing hard, dazed for probably two or three minutes. Then she jumped up. She felt a sudden desire to get out of that office, to get away from—

Without a hat, without even an idea of where she was going, Louise dashed out into the hall. It was deserted. She shuddered. She felt a sudden overwhelming urge to see some one human — alive!

An elevator shot past the floor. Louise ran to the cage, pressed a button, held to it. In a minute an outraged elevator operator opened the door.

“Say, what’s the idea of—” he bellowed.

But something in the look of Louise made him stop.

“There’s... there’s Mr. Schuyler in there,” she stammered, “and I was sitting in the other room.”

“Yeah? What of it?” demanded the operator.

“Some one came in and hit him... hit him with an ax. And I walked in just as the man that did it was going out the door.”

“What did he look like?” demanded the operator.

“I haven’t the least idea,” said Louise.

She fell to the floor in a faint.

IV

Inspector Hogan stood in the center of the office of the late Chris Schuyler, importer, surveying the scene of murder. His straw hat was back on his head. His hands were poised at his hips. He shook his head despairingly.

“Bad, bad,” he muttered, “a butcher did that one... a butcher walked in broad daylight into the Excelsior Building... and walked out again.”

Hogan’s experts were on their knees around the desk. Jenkins was leaning over the body. Cohn was examining the hatchet. Crawford was examining the pigskin bag.

“This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard of,” said Jenkins, his voice tinged curiously with admiration.

“Never mind that!” snapped Hogan. “You’re paid to find facts... stick to them.”

Hogan was in a bad mood. It was a terrifically hot afternoon and this was a particularly ugly case. He didn’t like it at all.

“There was no struggle,” said Jenkins. “It seems that the murderer merely came in here and beaned this chap with an ax.”

“But before he beaned him,” said Cohn, “he put on a pair of rubber gloves. There’s not a finger-print mark on this handle.”

Hogan groaned.

“Do you expect me to believe that this guy sat back,” he demanded indignantly, “and let somebody put on a pair of rubber gloves and crown him with a hatchet!”

“He did exactly that,” said Cohn, “or the murderer walked along Broadway at high noon wearing rubber gloves and carrying a hatchet.”

Hogan wiped the perspiration from his brow, shook his head for the twentieth time.

“Is that dumb dame outside,” he said, “is that dumb dame in fit condition yet to talk.”

“She’s still a little hysterical,” said Stewart, who was standing between the offices. Hogan could still hear the sobbing Louise.

The elevator operator, who had been standing in a corner, pop-eyed, stepped forward.

“I tell you she’s lying,” he said. “I never took anybody up to this office this morning.”

Hogan laughed harshly.

“Of course you didn’t, sap,” he said. “The person that killed this fellow walked up the back steps, did his job and walked out again.”

The elevator operator muttered stubbornly. Jenkins stood up.

“She’s probably lying, chief,” he said. “Her story sounds awful fishy.”

“Oh, no,” said Hogan. “Nobody could be so dumb as to make up a story like that. You’d just have to be born that dumb. It’s got to be true.”

“I can’t understand,” said Jenkins, “how anybody could be within eight feet of a murderer and not run over and open a door and take a good look at him.”

“It’s a gift,” said Hogan. He walked out into the next room and Louise was so entirely dejected that he couldn’t find the heart to be stern with her.

“Listen, sister,” he said, “you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

There was no doubt that she was badly frightened. She was pitiful.

“I... I don’t know anything about it,” she said between sobs. “I’ve only been working here a week and I don’t know what it’s all about.”

Hogan was inclined to believe that she didn’t know what it was all about.

“But, the business,” asked Hogan. “What did they do here? What did they import?”

She sighed.

“Mr. — Mr. — ” she stammered.

“Hogan is the name,” said Hogan.

“Mr. Hogan, I haven’t got any idea what the business was about. I never could find out. They used to dictate letters to me and I’d answer the phone, but... but I never could understand what it’s all about.”

Hogan flushed angrily.

“Listen, young lady,” he said, “you are not as dumb as all that. Nobody could be.”

Jenkins was at his elbow. He shook his arm.

“Aw, you might as well lay off, chief,” he said. “She’s probably just as dumb as she looks and... and I got the whole case cracked, anyway!”

Hogan swung around, a bright light in his eyes.

“What... what’s that?” he said.

“Easy,” said Jenkins. “This is the headquarters of that gang that’s been flooding the country with fake lottery tickets. And Schuyler tried to run out with a million dollar take on Al Pope. Here’s the note and a ticket that Pope found when he came in and surprised Schuyler.”

Hogan, hands trembling with excitement, grasped a crumpled note and a ticket on the fake Royal Caledonian Sweepstakes.

“Where did you get this?” demanded Hogan.

“On the floor, chief,” said Jenkins, “on the floor on the further side of the desk — where Al Pope dropped it just before he swung the hatchet that killed Schuyler.”

Inspector Hogan grinned, looked from one to another of his detectives.

“Tell headquarters,” he said, “to get that racketeer Pope — for murder! He’s the man!”

Cohn and Crawford nodded and were gone. Hogan, grinning, turned to the girl secretary, who was still weeping.

“Well, sister,” he said, “you made an awful botch of this. But just the same we’ve got this case solved. Al Pope did it.”

Inspector Hogan rubbed his hands together. He felt good, despite the oppressive heat.

V

At nine o’clock that night Al Pope sat in the anteroom of the Schuyler Importing Company. Around him were grouped three burly detectives. Pope was looking them square in the eye.

“Out with it,” snarled Hogan. “You might as well come through with it, Pope. We’ve got you cold!”

Pope looked slowly from one to the other of the detectives and grinned.

“You mean warm, don’t you, Hogan?” he said to the inspector. “It’s kind of warm in here.” He ran his hand along his wilted collar.

Jenkins stood over him menacingly.

“Aw, let me crack him one, chief!” he said. “This guy thinks it’s a joke.”

Hogan held up his hand to stay Jenkins.

“Wait!” he said. Then he turned to Pope. “You are just being a fool,” he said. “You might as well crack. We could send you to the chair right now. You and Schuyler were in on this crooked lottery deal. You sneaked into Schuyler’s office and caught him about to beat it with the dough. The wise-cracking letter he wrote you, the letter he didn’t expect you to see until Monday, proves it. The rest of the story tells itself.”

Al Pope was looking squarely at the inspector.

“Listen, Hogan,” he said calmly, “I admit that I was in on this lottery deal—”

“You bet you were in on the lottery deal,” snarled Hogan.

“Yes,” said Pope, “but that isn’t murder. I haven’t been near this office all day.

“I didn’t know anything about this until you fellows picked me up at the Centre Hotel. What about Talbott? He was in on it, too.”

Hogan laughed dryly.

“That’s it,” he said. “One rat turns on another. We’ll have Talbott in a little while if he’s anywhere in New York. But you’ve got to explain a lot more than Talbott. What about that letter?”

Pope shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe,” he said calmly, “Talbott came here and found Schuyler ready to leave, maybe he smelled a rat and opened the letter, addressed to me, and then killed Schuyler.”

Hogan groaned, wiped his perspiring forehead with a big cotton handkerchief. He had to admit, to himself, that there might be logic in Pope’s words.

He was sure that one of the partners in the fake lottery killed Schuyler. But — which one?

“If that dumb stenographer,” he muttered, “had only run across the room and taken a look out that door we wouldn’t have all this stalling.”

Again Pope shrugged.

“I can’t help it because the stenographer Schuyler hired was dumb,” he said. “But I do know that I didn’t kill him.”

“Yeah?” said Hogan. “Well, you can rest assured that I’m going to find out who did kill him before any one leaves this office to-night.”

They could hear Louise, still sobbing, in the other room. She was with a police matron. The body had been removed, but Louise was disturbed by the fact that there had been a body in the room. Hogan listened to her sobs and shook his head despairingly.

At that moment a door opened and a detective rushed in.

“They’re bringing in Talbott now!” he announced.

Hogan’s face lightened.

“Great!” he said. “Where did they get him?”

“He was at the Hotel Greenway — sound asleep.”

There were footsteps in the hall and Hogan motioned for quiet as the door began to open. Then Talbott walked in — with two detectives. There was consternation written on his face.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “what’s this I hear about poor old—”

“Never mind that grandstand play,” snarled Hogan. “Come in here and sit down and answer questions — fast!”

Talbott looked shocked. He looked searchingly around the room. His eyes met those of Pope for a moment and then he looked away quickly. Pope grinned.

“Hello, Jim,” he drawled. “What did you do with the million dollars!”

Talbott, slumping into the chair, looked at his business partner in surprise.

“What do you mean, Al?” he said. “What million dollars?”

Pope laughed.

“Why, the million dollars you copped,” he said, “when you came up here and killed Schuyler, you rat!”

“If any one did that job, it’s you!” said Talbott.

Hogan was beaming down on them, as upon a couple of erring school boys.

“That’s it, boys,” he said. “Have it out. But see if you can’t get together on this argument and decide which one of you killed Schuyler. Or maybe” — he stroked his chin — “you were both in on it.”

“Hogan, I tell you—” said Pope.

“Never mind telling me,” said Hogan. “Both of you come into the next room. Maybe that dumb secretary can help us out after all.”

Pope and Talbott both looked puzzled. Talbott wet his lips. Then each got up and, escorted by Hogan and the detectives, went into the room where Schuyler had met his death.

“Now, you, Pope,” said Hogan, go slowly out that door — the door the murderer went out.

“When you get outside, stand and hold it just a little bit open with your back turned to it.”

Pope looked puzzled.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Because,” said Hogan, “I want to see if this secretary, this Miss Long, can recognize either of you, from your shadows on the door, as the man who sneaked out after Schuyler was murdered.”

VI

Pope shrugged his shoulders and walked to the door, accompanied by a detective. He went out, the detective leading. Slowly Pope closed the door. A shadow, thrown by an electric light in the hall, was plainly distinguishable upon the glass door. Pope stood still when Hogan yelled to him to do so. Talbott wet his lips as he watched the procedure.

“Now, Miss Long,” said Hogan, “can you recognize that shadow. Can you recognize anything familiar about it.”

Red-eyed, the girl looked at the door.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Hogan sighed.

“My dear lady,” he said. “You saw a man’s shadow on that door this afternoon. Is that the shadow you saw? Is there anything familiar about it?”

The girl stared at the shadow of Pope on the door. They all waited in silence — watching her.

“Why,” she said finally, “all shadows look alike and... and, anyway, I didn’t pay much attention to it.”

Hogan groaned, called to Pope and the detective to come back. Pope was grinning.

“You might as well try it,” said Hogan dejectedly to Talbott.

Talbott was grinning as he went out the door with a detective.

“Now look at him,” said Hogan. “Do you make anything out of that shadow?”

“Why, no,” said Louise. “Nothing at all.”

“Jeez, you’re dumb,” said Hogan.

He roared to the detectives to bring the two suspects into the other room.

“We’ll probably have to knock it out of them,” he announced.

Both Talbott and Pope looked at him apprehensively as they marched into the reception room.

Inside the murder room, Louise Long, the secretary, was flushing angrily. She turned to the police matron, her eyes bright with indignation.

“I don’t think they should talk about me that way,” she said. “You’d think I didn’t have any brains at all.”

The matron smiled sympathetically.

“You should be more observant, my dear,” she said. “If you had been observant and you had thought fast, if you had at least run to the door, this case would have been solved by now.”

“Well, I didn’t think about it then,” said Louise.

She was staring at the brightly polished surface of Schuyler’s desk. There was a desk lamp sitting in the middle and the surface of the desk shone like polished glass.

Suddenly Louise, who was sitting in a chair near the wall, bent over until her eyes were almost even with the desk. She frowned. She got up, stepped around to the other side of the desk and bent over until her eyes were again on an angle with the surface.

Still frowning, she straightened and walked to the outer room where Hogan was grilling his two suspects.

“You rats,” rasped Hogan, “both came back to town to-day because you suspected Schuyler!”

“I admit I came back,” said Pope, “because we were supposed to split Monday. But I had no intention to come to this office until Monday. And, I didn’t come!”

“The same goes for me,” said Talbott.

“Yeah?” roared Hogan. “Well, one of you did come to this office and one of you smashed in the head of Schuyler. And, so help me God I’m—”

Hogan felt a tug at his elbow. He turned impatiently. The girl secretary was smiling at him.

“Mister Hogan,” she said, “maybe I could help you out.”

“I doubt it,” growled Hogan.

“Well, would it help you if I could tell you that one of these men was in here to-day?” asked Louise.

“Would it!” gasped Hogan. “Why, good grief, girl, that’s what we’ve been trying to find out for hours.”

The girl was smiling reassuringly.

“Well, I can tell you,” she said.

“Well, why didn’t you tell us before?” roared Hogan.

“Because I just found it out. I just found out that... that—”

“That what?” asked Hogan.

“That Talbott was in here to-day,” she said simply.

There was a moment of tense silence as they all stared at her incredulously. It was Talbott who first found words.

“You lie!” he snarled.

“Oh, no,” said the girl. “You were in here to-day and I can prove it. You sat at that desk.” She turned to Hogan. “Want me to prove it, Mr. Hogan?”

“Lord, yes!”

They followed her into the next room — everyone. The girl walked over to the desk, bent over until her eyes were nearly level with it.

“You see,” she said, “there is a smudge on that desk.”

Hogan could see a smudge and he said so.

“Well, it wasn’t there this morning,” said Louise triumphantly.

“But,” said Hogan, “what does that prove? That smudge isn’t a fingerprint!”

The girl grinned.

“I know it isn’t a finger-print,” she said. “But if you look at that smudge very close you will see that that smudge is a perfect impression of a herringbone cloth of very nice design — just like the nice suit Mr. Talbott has on.”

There was tense silence. The detectives were looking from one to the other.

“The reason I noticed it,” said Louise, “is that I always kept Mr. Schuyler’s desk very clean. And I know Mr. Talbott left that impression of his elbows on the polished wax to-day because I cleaned that desk this morning and—”

Louise Long was rather rudely pushed aside by Detective Jenkins, who bent over the desk with a magnifying glass.

“You don’t need a glass,” said Louise, “because if you bend over you can see it—”

“No!” roared Hogan, “He may not need a glass, but what he needs is a new head — the dumb-bell! Why, he’s dumber than you are! He missed that one!”

Jenkins, with his glass, straightened up, grasped Talbott’s arm, looked at the texture of his suit, bent over the desk again.

“Correct,” he said in a monotone. “I mean it is correct that these are perfect impressions of the elbows of Talbott.

“The wax was softened by the heat and took the impressions. He’s the guy who sat here — to-day!”

“Outside with him!” roared Hogan. “Outside and... and choke it out of him.”

He rushed across the room, held his stubby finger beneath the nose of the quavering Talbott.

“Talbott,” he snarled, “you’re elbow prints are going to send you to the electric chair.”

Two detectives grabbed the shoulders of the struggling Talbott. He swung around, almost freed himself and faced Louise Long.

“Do you know what you’ve done, you little dumb-bell?” he rasped.

“Why... why, no!” stammered Louise.

“Cut it!” snapped Hogan.

The detectives dragged out Talbott. In less than two minutes Jenkins was back in the room — grinning. He walked to a far corner and Hogan joined him. They whispered together.

“Well?” said Hogan.

“Sure,” said Jenkins. “What chance did that guy have when he left that pair of elbows on the desk? He came clean.”

“And?” said Hogan.

“He told us where he hid the money — in a safe deposit vault. We found the key on him.”

“Well,” said Hogan, “the great Royal Caledonian Sweepstakes has been drawn and the public gets a break, gets its money back — because a dumb stenographer had more sense than the so-called best minds of the police department.”

They walked together to the center of the room.

“Mr. Hogan,” said Louise, “have I done anything I shouldn’t have done?”

“Not in the least sweetheart,” said Hogan.

A detective broke in on the conversation.

“The newspaper boys in the hallway says a rumor leaked out,” said the detective, “that a girl stenographer solved this case.”

“How did that get out?” roared Hogan. “If I find the guy that’s tipping off newspapermen,” he threatened, “I’ll have him walking a beat before morning.”

Louise was sobbing.

“I don’t want any lies about me in the newspapers,” she said.

“Your name won’t even get in the newspapers if I can help it,” said Hogan.

“I’m really sorry that I couldn’t have been of some help,” sobbed Louise.

“That’s all right,” said Hogan. “I guess you can go home and — and explain to the newspaper boys on the way out that you weren’t any help.”

Louise smiled and nodded her head. Quickly she put on her hat and marched out of the room. As the door closed behind her, Hogan solemnly shook his head.

“Jeez, you’re dumb,” he said to the door.