Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, Fall 1941

About the Perfect Crime of Mr. Digberry by Anthony Abbot

The case of the meek little man and the spread-eagled corpse. A Thatcher Colt story.

The facts in the case of Mr. Digberry have not been disclosed by the New York Police Department. Absurd as the statement may sound, Mr. Thatcher Colt, then Police Commissioner, actually connived with the little man to conceal all evidence of his singular misdeeds. Mr. Digberry was guilty of one felony and deeply involved in a second crime of peculiar fiendishness and horror. Yet he was allowed to go free, with his pockets stuffed with money and his secret utterly safe.

Now, after three years, the Digberry bargain has come to an end. In revealing the circumstances, as I learned them while I was confidential secretary to the commissioner, I am able to give at last a complete account of the murder of one of the most beautiful women in New York.

I first saw Mr. Digberry in the line-up about nine-thirty one scorching August morning. More than a thousand detectives were crowded into the old gymnasium of the Headquarters Building at 24 °Centre Street. Across the runway, that Monday morning, passed a defiant parade of law-breakers. Auto thieves and dope peddlers, gunmen and blackmailers, they came forth, put on their hats and took them off again, stood fullface and profile, and were marched off in custody.

It was in such unholy company that Thatcher Colt and I encountered one of the truly unique conspirators of criminal history.

“Everett P. Digberry!”

Assistant Chief Inspector Flynn barked the name angrily, and a small, bald-headed man, with a fringe of gray hair around his temples and with large, blinking eyes, walked indignantly toward the center of the platform. His gray Palm Beach suit was wrinkled, and against his left side he pressed a stiff straw hat, banded with a gay ribbon of red and blue.

“You were found climbing over the back wall of St. Christopher’s Cemetery, the Bronx, at two A.M. on Sunday, and you are charged with carrying a concealed weapon without a license. Are you guilty or not?”

“I would like to explain,” began Mr. Digberry. “As a citizen, I demand—”

“Have you ever been arrested before?”

“Never. I can explain everything!”

“You’ll have to!” was Flynn’s grim assurance. “Where did you get this gun — a thirty-two-caliber French Touron? Come on, now, speak up!”

“I haven’t the remotest idea where I got it,” rasped Mr. Digberry. “All this was due to a letter from the Driller. If you would only listen—”

But by then he was being yanked through the door, and the next suspect faced the lights.

“Tony,” whispered Thatcher Colt to me, “get that fellow and bring him to my office. I want to talk to him!”

I glanced at Colt in surprise. But orders were orders, and at ten o’clock I led my man into the commissioner’s private office.

“I’ve just read a report about you, Digberry,” Colt stated accusingly. “You’ve been lying! What were you doing in that graveyard at two o’clock in the morning?”

Mr. Digberry gulped. “I’ve been trying to answer that all night long, and no one will listen to me! Won’t you let me tell my story in my own way?”

“Do I understand that you have a letter signed by the Driller?” asked Colt.

“I have, chief!”

“Then go ahead and tell your story in your own way.”

“Well, you see, to begin with, I’m a wigmaker,” explained Mr. Digberry. “I carry on a manufacturing business founded by my grandfather. I produce wigs of mohair, human hair, and of silk and wool, suitable for all characters and impersonations. Also, a complete line of wigs for dolls.”

“What has that to do with your recent behavior? You’ll have to come to the point!”

“I am now at the point,” declared Mr. Digberry. “I am only a victim, chief. You see, I’ve been spending the summer alone at my home in New Rochelle. My family — I have a wife and six daughters — are at a bungalow in Maine. That’s why I’ve had to face the whole thing alone. This letter — this ghastly letter from the Driller — came at a moment when I needed all my mental resources for my own business. I am about to launch a new idea in the wig field: a soft, flexible cap of silk gauze, with the hair sewn—”

“When did you get this letter?” interrupted Colt.

“One week ago.”

“What did it say?”

“It told me I must pay the sum of one thousand dollars or be killed!”

“And how were you to pay this money?”

“I was to wait for directions.”

“And you received them?”

“Yes, chief; that’s why I was in the graveyard. Three days after the letter arrived, my telephone rang about six in the morning. A harsh voice told me to get the thousand dollars, and on Saturday — really, two o’clock Sunday morning — carry it in a bundle to Waverly Avenue and Gorsuch Street, in the Bronx; to climb over the wall of St. Christopher’s Cemetery and go at once to my own family plot. I have three aunts buried in that plot. I was told to lay the money on the middle grave — Aunt Kate’s.”

“And you did that — without consulting the police?”

“Yes, I did, chief. After all, I have my wife and six daughters to think of. I drew the money out of our savings, laid it on Aunt Kate’s grave and ran. But as I ran, I looked back and I saw a tall man pick up the money and disappear among the trees. Then I climbed over the wall and practically dropped into the arms of one of your policemen!”

“But you carried a revolver. Where did that come from?”

“As heaven is my witness, I don’t know! I found it in my room about half past ten last Saturday night. I had gone out for a few minutes, and when I returned, I found the gun on the bed. A burglar has been in our apartment house three times recently. Perhaps he left it there. I don’t know. But I took it along when I started for the cemetery. I meant to give it to an officer and explain—”

Colt looked incredulous and changed the subject. “From what bank did you get the money?”

“The Drovers and Mechanics in New Rochelle.”

Colt glanced at me; a flash of his eyes that was an instruction. Going to another room, I called the manager of the Drovers and Mechanics Bank. Back in Colt’s office, I nodded quickly — Colt knew I had confirmed the fact that Mr. Digberry had withdrawn one thousand dollars from his savings account.

“I’m going to be reasonable with you,” Colt told the nervous little man. “Frankly, I don’t believe your story about that revolver. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but only if you’re on the level and help the police.”

“I’ll do anything... anything.”

“Where is your letter from the Driller?” Colt demanded, as he pressed a buzzer.

“In the top left-hand drawer of my wife’s bureau at home.”

The door opened to admit Captain Israel Henry, the official guardian of Colt’s office.

“Send a detective with Mr. Digberry to his home for a letter,” ordered Colt. “Bring down all his personal papers — bankbooks, insurance policies. Arrange with the district attorney to delay his appearance before the magistrate. And come back here with the letter.”

At the door the captive turned. “Chief, my wife and daughters are coming home tomorrow afternoon. Can’t I be released in time to meet them? And can’t I get out of this without anybody being the wiser?”

Captain Henry practically tossed him through the door. Meanwhile, Colt had opened a drawer of his desk, lifted out a sheaf of papers and cast them on the blotter.

“The Driller’s been causing some excitement, Tony.”

“Don’t believe I ever heard of him.”

“Probably some harmless nitwit, but because of the people involved, I have to take it seriously. Ten of Manhattan’s foremost citizens have received letters like the one that fellow just described. The chairman of the Opera Society got the first one. That was two weeks ago. Since then, several friends of mine have received similar threats. Each letter was typewritten and demanded payment of money, with death as the penalty for disobedience. Each promised further instructions as to how payment was to be made, and each was signed ‘The Driller.’ ”

“Of course it’s a crank!”

“The fantastic entrance of Mr. Digberry into the affair makes me wonder. Remember that all the other letters went to eminent citizens, ranging from John Otts, the bank president, to Margaret Coleman, the coloratura soprano. All persons of position and wealth — except Digberry. And Digberry is a wigmaker!”

Two minutes later, at Colt’s summons, Inspector Flynn stalked into the office and Colt explained the situation.

“Get in touch with all these people who received Driller letters, Flynn! Find out if any of them know Digberry or have had any dealings with him.”

Within half an hour Flynn phoned me. “Tell the chief I’ve got a man in my office who knows all about Digberry.”

“Send him right up!” was Colt’s instruction.

The stranger who entered the commissioner’s office a minute or two later was young and slender and blond, with keen blue eyes and the grace that expresses athletic strength. He was Captain Edgar Walters, a correspondent for foreign journals, who lived in an East Side river view apartment.

“I am a friend of Margaret Coleman,” the visitor explained. “I was told you wished to question me.”

“You know Digberry?”

“Madame Coleman does. I’ve met him once or twice. Eggy runt, you know — harmless but full of eloquence.”

“How does Madame Coleman know Digberry?”

Captain Walters grinned. “Through his art as a wigmaker. He’s an enthusiast about his work — a left-handed chap who can draw curious designs. He made Madame Coleman a remarkable wig for her rôle as Gilda in ‘Rigoletto,’ and has since made her other wigs. Mr. Digberry has a passion for exactitude. His wigs are most realistic.”

Colt nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Where is Madame Coleman now?”

“In Norway.”

“But she received one of these letters?”

“It was turned over to me.”

“And what is your relation to Madame?”

Captain Walters made an expressive gesture with his hands. “I am what is called a ‘ghost.’ Madame Coleman’s book of memoirs is soon to be published. I’m writing them for her — under her name, of course. We came to know each other when I was publishing a Riviera society and fashion magazine at Menton, and interviewed her there. That was before her divorce — you recall she was married to Lucius Polk Coleman, that jealous old poof-poof? A millionaire, but a hopeless muffle-head. I told her she was a fool to stick to him, and when that blew up—”

“Is the wigmaker trustworthy?”

Captain Walters chuckled. “Honest, yes; harmless, too, but the most garrulous creature alive. I don’t know him well, but Madame Coleman finds him stimulating.”

When Captain Walters had departed, after seeing the other Driller letters, Colt once more signaled for Flynn.

“I want to keep busy on this case,” he told the inspector. “Trace that Digberry revolver. And let’s go further with that paper, too — all those Driller notes were on identical sheets... Now, Tony, let’s get at this budget report.”

But the budget was doomed to be neglected. Just before noon, Colt’s phone rang sharply. The commissioner listened a minute, then swore devoutly. He hung up the receiver and reached for his hat. “Woman murdered on Sixty-fourth Street. One of our men who was at the line-up this morning is on the scene. And what did he find on the mantelpiece but a photograph of our Mr. Digberry!”

I reached for my hat as Colt braced Captain Henry.

“When Digberry is brought back here, hold him incommunicado. See particularly that he learns nothing about this Sixty-fourth Street murder!”

Drawn up under the porte-cochère on the Broome Street side of Headquarters was the commissioner’s car. At the wheel sat the moonfaced Neil McMahon, Colt’s chauffeur. With the siren blowing defiance of all the red lights, we raced uptown to the Wedgeworth Arms on Sixty-fourth Street, a few doors from Central Park.

The crime had been committed in a fourth-floor rear apartment, furnished — two rooms, kitchenette and bath. Here we found a full detail from the Homicide Squad and Doctor J. L. Multooler, an assistant medical examiner.

“We didn’t want to move the body until you came, commissioner,” the doctor explained. “You’ll find it a peach of a case!”

“What’s the woman’s name?”

“She was known here as Mrs. Samuel Smith. Probably a fake!”

I am not easily shaken by woeful sights, but the scene that awaited us in that inner room was unnerving.

It was like a living room, but with a bed that collapsed into a wall closet, The door to that closet was now open wide, and the body of the victim was standing bolt upright, facing us — a beautiful blond woman, her face rouged and powdered.

She had been shot through the left temple, and the powder burns showed that the weapon had been held close to her head. It must have been the killer who placed her in this extraordinary position. Her shoeless feet were on the floor; a scarf was tied around her throat and drawn through the bedsprings. Her arms were lifted so that the ripped sleeves of her costly dress were attached to hooks in opposite sides of the closet.

Doctor Multooler’s voice broke the silence. “I wonder who she really is!”

Colt turned to the surgeon with an amazed expression. “You don’t recognize her?” he exclaimed. “This is the body of Margaret Coleman, the coloratura soprano. She was believed to be in Norway.”

The commissioner’s piercing glances searched the room, rested finally upon an overstuffed armchair drawn up to a window, overlooking a courtyard. The chair faced the singer’s body.

Colt studied this chair with patient care.

“Blood on the upholstery,” he announced. “She must have been sitting in this chair. The murderer entered the room unheard. He crept up behind her and shot through her left temple.”

“But only a left-handed person would do that!” I exclaimed.

To this deduction of mine (of which I felt rather proud), Colt made no answer. Instead, he approached the body once more and lifted its left wrist.

“Bracelet watch with crystal broken,” he announced. “That slight bruise over the right eye probably means the body toppled forward, striking the watch on the floor. The hands of the watch stopped at ten minutes past twelve.”

“So the time of the murder is fixed,” said Doctor Multooler.

Again Colt refrained from comment. Instead, he turned to Captain Allerton of the Homicide Squad.

“Observe that she had recently powdered and rouged her face. Get the trademark name of the powder, rouge and lipstick,” directed the commissioner. “There must be samples in this apartment.”

As Allerton moved along, Colt turned to a detective from the D. A.’s office.

“Where’s that picture of Digberry?”

The detective pointed to the mantel behind us. There, indeed, stood a likeness of the wigmaker of New Rochelle. The picture had been torn across as if by angry hands. The top of it was missing. Colt picked it up with a low whistle of amazement.

Just then Captain Allerton brought in the manager of the Wedgeworth Arms, Percy J. Cooper. Colt questioned him in the outer room.

“When did anyone in this apartment house last see this woman alive?”

“Saturday night, about seven-thirty, when she had a meal served in her room.”

“Did she have any visitors that night?”

“Yes, sir. That man there!” The manager pointed to Digberry’s photograph.

“Do you know him?”

“I disrecollect his name, but we noticed him around here all the time.”

“At what hour was he here on Saturday night?”

“The elevator boy says he got here late. He don’t remember just when.”

Mr. Cooper had not known his tenant was a famous singer; Margaret Coleman had not been recognized by the employees or tenants. She had come to the Wedgeworth Arms early in June — three days after her reported sailing, as it later developed — and engaged the apartment, paying two months’ rent in advance.

“Did Madame have many visitors?”

“A few. One I distinctly remember — a gray-haired man about sixty. They had a terrific row about money. The neighbors heard Madame Coleman crying that she had been robbed and made penniless. I had to object to the noise.”

“When was that?”

“About a month ago. I think the gray-haired man — he was short and dapper, I remember, and he carried a stick — came two or three times before, but never after that scene. She stopped at the desk the next morning and apologized. She said the man was her husband and asked me never to let him up in the elevator again.”

“And Mr. Digberry — did he come often?” asked Colt, placing the torn photograph in his pocket.

“Nearly every night.”

“Who discovered the body?”

“The floor maid. She couldn’t get in yesterday, so she decided the tenant did not wish to be disturbed. But this morning, when no one answered her knocking, she went in. Seeing nobody around, she went ahead and cleaned up — until she opened that door!”

Colt dismissed the manager and we returned to the inner room. Inspector Flynn, who had arrived shortly after we did, came forward with something that gleamed dully in his hand. “The bullet that did it,” he announced. “It flattened against the wall beside that armchair. My guess would be a thirty-two.”

“Send it to the ballistics department,” Colt ordered. “Tell them to compare it with the bullets from Digberry’s gun.”

Hedge, one of the assistant D. A.’s, was conferring with Captain Allerton.

“Our men have searched everywhere,” Allerton reported, seeing Colt. “But all Madame Coleman’s personal papers are missing. Whoever did it was thorough. No fingerprints, except the lady’s.”

Colt nodded abstractedly, his eyes once more searching the room for some significant detail. But there seemed to be no visible clues.

“Our men questioned twenty people in flats near this one; nobody heard the shot,” continued Allerton. “But on Saturday night there were radios going in a lot of rooms in the house.”

Colt’s stalking around the room had brought him back to the open closet. The expanse of coiled bedspring filled his gaze. Beginning at the upper left-hand corner, he studied it by inches. Presently he lifted an almost invisible object that had been caught in the bedspring.

It was a gray hair!

On the sleeve of his left arm, Colt placed that threadlike clue. Against the blue serge, he could study it clearly; it was, indeed, a human hair, and yet there was a tiny fragment at one end that was certainly not human; it seemed more like a knotted sliver of white gauze.

I produced a department envelope from my pocket. In this, the hair was sealed and marked for identification.

Meanwhile, Colt was giving Flynn instructions. “Get Madame Coleman’s husband. I want to question him downtown. And get that writer — Captain Walters. There are a few things he’ll have to clear up. I’d like pictures of both of them. And come down to my office as soon as you can, inspector. I want you there when I talk to Digberry.”

But our leaving was still delayed. Captain Allerton had obtained samples of Madame’s facial preparations and Colt sat down to study them.

As I waited for him near the door, I felt a clammy hand touch mine. I turned around hastily to find myself staring into the pale eyes of Cooper.

“Take this,” he whispered.

He placed in my hands a legal-sized envelope with bulky contents. A rubber band was around it; the flap was sealed.

“A thousand dollars reward for anyone who finds the guilty man — it might help the hotel’s reputation,” Cooper gurgled, and darted away.

As soon as we were in the car, I told the commissioner about the money. He merely nodded and shoved the envelope into his pocket. He remained silent until we reached Headquarters at two-thirty.

Digberry was waiting for us. “Where’s the letter?” was Colt’s first question.

Detective Mulvaney, who stood beside the prisoner, handed over a much-fingered envelope, from which Colt drew out a single sheet of notepaper. It was a duplicate of the ten others reposing in the drawer at his right hand.

“This calls for one thousand dollars or death,” he commented. “Where is your bank passbook?”

Mulvaney promptly offered a gray-backed booklet, on the front of which appeared the names of Everett P. and Hattie Elizabeth Digberry, and a statement that the account was payable to either, or both, and to the survivor.

Colt flipped the pages; then glanced at the prisoner. “This is a new book. It has just been issued!”

“I lost the old one about three weeks ago. The bank advertised the loss, and then issued this new one for me.”

Colt’s eyes were solemn and accusing. “We’ll come back to the bankbook matter later. In the meantime, what were your relations with Margaret Coleman?”

Mr. Digberry’s cheeks blanched. “She was one of my customers,” he replied.

“Wasn’t she an intimate friend?”

“Miss Coleman reposed a great deal of confidence in me as an artist in my own line,” the wigmaker admitted.

“Is that why she put your picture on her mantel? And is that why you visited her almost every night, when she was supposed to be in Europe?” pursued Colt relentlessly.

The prisoner thrust out his chin. His silence was plainly meant for defiance.

“Are you refusing to answer?”

“I am!” declared Mr. Digberry. “I really am! There’s such a thing as professional confidence. Any questions about Madame Coleman she can answer for herself.”

“You know better than that, Digberry. You know as well as I do that Margaret Coleman cannot answer any questions.”

“How should I know that? Why can’t she?”

“Because she’s dead!”

“Dead! Margaret... dead?”

“Murdered!” Colt added. “With a bullet through her head. And you didn’t know anything about that, did you?”

“Nothing!” groaned Digberry. “As God is my witness, I knew nothing about it.”

“Didn’t you visit Margaret Coleman Saturday night?” Colt demanded.

“No! Indeed, no!”

“Where were you?”

“I was in the cemetery.”

“Where were you at midnight?”

“I was waiting outside the cemetery until the time to leave the money.”

“Anybody see you from eleven-thirty until you were arrested at two?”

“Not a soul.”

“And you call that an alibi?”

“I call it hell!” declared Mr. Digberry.

“I’m waiting to know what your relations were with Margaret Coleman.”

“She liked me,” replied Digberry. “There was nothing immoral in our friendship. She was lonely. So was I. She was tired of her smart friends. She always said she could talk to me. And she admired my work. You know she was divorced?”

“Well?”

“Her husband was Lucius Polk Coleman — a very rich man. When they parted he made a settlement. But even though they were divorced, he still wanted to tell her what to do with her money. Soon the money was all gone. She said she had been cheated out of it. She blamed a man — she would not name him, but I never had any doubt. Literally, Mr. Colt, that poor lady, that truly great musical artist, was broke. Think of that humiliation. Yet she had to keep up appearances. So she pretended to go abroad. Her idea was to save every cent to prepare for next season. But her stocks went down to nothing — literally nothing. And all the time she was working with a man at the bank to punish the man who had robbed her.”

“What bank?” interposed Colt.

“The Harrison National.”

Colt reached for the telephone. In five minutes one of our Wall Street Squad was on his way to the Harrison National Bank. While Colt was talking, Inspector Flynn came in. He saluted and sat down.

“Go on!” prompted Colt, when he had finished phoning.

“I was telling you,” resumed Digberry, “how Madame pretended—”

“Never mind. Take a look at this, and see if you know what it is.”

On his desk Colt laid the envelope containing the gray hair. He extracted the strand with a small pair of pincers.

“I recognize that,” Digberry said spitefully. “It’s evidently from a very poor wig made by a faker named Wilkins.”

“How can you make a positive statement like that?” asked Colt.

“I know by the way that knot is tied. One wigmaker knows another’s work.”

Colt put away the hair. “Whom did Madame Coleman fear most?” he asked.

“Her husband. She was getting evidence to bring action against him.”

Flynn chuckled grimly. “Surely you can tell us more than that. For instance, what time did you leave the Wedgeworth Arms on Saturday night?”

“I just told the chief I wasn’t there on Saturday night,” reiterated Mr. Digberry.

“But the manager saw you!”

“Not me. On Saturday night I had my own worries; I had to put a thousand dollars on Aunt Kate’s grave.”

“Is that the best you can do?” Colt cried. “All right, Flynn. Take him downstairs and let the boys talk to him!”

“The third degree!” groaned Digberry.

Flynn sent him off, shut the door and walked over to Colt’s desk. “Here are the two pictures you wanted. I talked with Walters. He’s out of it. At the time this woman was killed, Walters and a friend who spent the night with him were talking with our sergeant on that beat. That’s an alibi nobody can smash.”

“But what about her husband?”

Flynn sighed. “He sailed at one A.M. Saturday on a liner due in Cherbourg five days from now.”

The door closed on Inspector Flynn.

“Get me the address of Wilkins,” Colt called to me.

As I hurried to the outer office, I left him, telephone in hand, asking to be connected with the chief of the Paris police. I found the address of Elmer Wilkins, wigmaker, and Colt decided to call upon him.

Mr. Wilkins, a man with ears too big, a nose too long and a mouth too wide, received us with a Chinaman’s smile. Before we had spoken, he assured us that his firm was the oldest and most reliable in the United States.

Colt silenced him by stating, “I don’t wish to buy any artificial hair today. I’m the police commissioner, and I want information.” He drew forth the gray hair. “Now, what can you tell me about that?”

Mr. Wilkins produced a magnifying glass. “Perhaps it’s from a wig that was made here,” he conceded.

“How long since you made a gray wig?”

“I’ll show you my records.”

For ten minutes Colt and Wilkins pored over the books. Then I saw Colt produce three photographs from his pocket.

“Recognize any one of these men?”

“Why... why, yes I do. This one — it’s the man himself.”

“You have a quick eye, Mr. Wilkins. That’s all I want to know.”

With Wilkins’ promise to remain within call, we hurried off. It was now six-thirty P.M.

“Amusing thing!” Colt said. “Just before we left, I had a telephone call from our Wall Street man. He discovered what Coleman was up to in her investigation, and it certainly ties up with that wig.”

For the rest of that night and down to the Tuesday-morning breakfast hour Colt labored constantly on the Coleman murder case. Three times that night he talked on the transatlantic telephone with the Paris police. He also held a ten-minute conversation by radiophone with the captain of the liner on which Lucius Coleman had sailed. But not until an hour before midnight did we get a break in the case.

That came with the report of Doctor Multooler. At eleven he called Colt. “The autopsy fixes the time of death within ten minutes of ten o’clock,” he announced.

“But Madame’s watch stopped shortly after midnight!” gasped Colt. “Nevertheless, my evidence is positive. I’ll send you a full report in writing.”

Multooler’s discovery upset Colt’s previous calculations. “I think we’ll go up to the abode of Digberry,” he announced.

The wigmaker’s home was in St. Nicholas Place, not far from the railroad station in New Rochelle. During our swift drive to the suburb, Colt remarked, “That watch must have been stopped by opening the back and depressing the spring. Not a new alibi — but I didn’t suspect it.”

No more was said until we reached our destination, an old-fashioned, five-story apartment building known as the Gloria Arms. Mr. Digberry leased Suite G, on the second floor, and the janitor willingly let us in. For ten minutes we traversed our prisoner’s deserted rooms, but Colt admitted that his search was almost barren.

On our way out, he paused to question the girl in charge of the outmoded lobby switchboard. Yes, she had worked last Saturday night. Yes, she remembered a call for Mr. Digberry around ten-thirty. She finally admitted she had listened in.

“I heard a man say he had a message from Madame Coleman and would like to see Mr. Digberry at once, down at the railroad station. Right after that Mr. Digberry went out. But he came right back. After a little while I saw him go out again, and he didn’t come back for quite a while. Even then, he went out later.”

As Colt lighted his pipe in the car, his face was grave. “I won’t know how to put this thing together,” he confessed, “if all Digberry’s extraordinary story is proved true. But this much is obvious. If our little bald friend is innocent, then the murderer played him a villainous trick.

“I believe I see through this crime now, Tony — but I don’t know yet how to pin it on the murderer. There’s one long shot,” he added. “Do you remember that Walters had a visitor who spent the night with him? Well, Tony, there’s our long shot; if it hits, we might get a perfect case.”

When we returned to Headquarters, I sat down at my typewriter. I had three books full of stenographic pothooks on the case, and soon I was absorbed in their transcription. It must have been an hour later when I was disturbed by voices in the commissioner’s office. I entered to find Colt seated at his desk. Spread before him were a gray Palm Beach suit and a straw hat with a band of red and blue. Colt was issuing orders to a detective.

“Use the vacuum cleaners on these clothes,” directed the commissioner, “and turn the results over to our laboratory. The chemists know what to look for.”

The detective saluted, gathered up the costume and departed.

“I’ve taken a chance on our long shot, Tony,” declared Colt wearily.

It was Tuesday noon — twenty-four hours after the discovery of Margaret Coleman’s body. Gathered in Colt’s office were Inspector Flynn and Digberry, the commissioner and myself.

Flynn had failed to break down Digberry; nevertheless the inspector was satisfied of the little man’s guilt.

“Mr. Digberry, where did you go when you left your house at ten-thirty Saturday night?” Colt demanded.

“I went to the station to see a man who didn’t show up.”

Flynn snorted. “I think we’ve stalled long enough with this fellow. I want to charge him with murder!”

“You have no case against me at all!” Digberry cried. “I demand to be represented by a lawyer!”

“You’ll need a doctor if you take that tone,” Flynn came back. “You wrote those Driller letters. We’ve traced the paper from the manufacturer to the dealer and found a supply of it in that hair works you run in New Rochelle. And the experts swear all the letters were written on a typewriter in your joint. And the one you wrote to yourself was only to cover up.”

“Why should I do such a thing?” shouted Digberry.

Flynn gave a harsh chuckle. “You’re asking me? You sent them as a blind, so the police would think the Driller killed Margaret Coleman. And he did. For you’re the Driller, Digberry.”

“I did not kill her!” Digberry screamed. “Why should I kill her?”

“Because you had a love affair with her. You’ve lied about everything. Here’s the report from the bank. It’s true that you drew out a thousand dollars. But not as ransom money, in one lump sum, as you said. You’ve been drawing that cash out in dribs and drabs all summer. While your wife was away, you were spending money on an opera singer. It was high life for you, Digberry, my boy. But now the end of the summer is near. You thought there was only one way to get rid of that woman. So the whole hocus-pocus was just a scheme of yours to kill Margaret Coleman and put the blame on some made-up villain!”

“Try to prove that I killed her!” Digberry taunted. “Just try!”

“I can do that, too,” Flynn grated. “You had a gun on you, didn’t you? Well, the shot that killed Margaret Coleman was fired from that gun.”

Digberry whirled to Colt. “Mr. Commissioner, I’m not guilty of these things! How am I to face my wife—”

An attendant was ushering Captain Walters into the office.

“Hello!” he cried. “What’s the row?”

“Just a few questions, captain,” began Colt. “I believe you told me yesterday you met Madame Coleman at Menton?”

“Quite!”

Colt stood up and pointed at Captain Walters with the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a curious fact,” he said, “that the revolver which Mr. Digberry says was left in his apartment by a burglar is one of French manufacture, purchased from a dealer in Menton, and containing a mark recognizable to the police!”

Walters began, “Do you infer—?”

“Tony, open that door!”

I opened a door just behind Colt’s desk. Wilkins was standing there.

“Mr. Wilkins,” called Colt, “do you recognize in this room any of your recent customers?”

Wilkins nodded. “The little blond fellow over there,” he rumbled, pointing to Captain Walters. “He’s the man I made the bald wig for the other day.”

“See any head in this room that your wig resembled?”

The eyes of the two wigmakers met, and Wilkins roared, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? That wig was the dead image of old Digberry’s head.”

“That will do!” said Colt, and I closed the door after Wilkins, as an attendant led him away. Colt again faced Walters.

“I have your complete history,” he announced. “This morning you kindly left your fingerprints on sensitized paper that I gave you when I showed you the Driller letters. Your prints were telephotoed to the police in Europe. You served time in France and Holland for blackmail.”

Captain Walters laughed convincingly. “My dear Mr. Colt, you can’t connect me with this murder. My alibi is complete. I had no motive and no opportunity.”

Colt smiled. “You stole Madame Coleman’s money, Walters,” he said. “A banking friend of hers helped her to investigate you. The Parisian police co-operated and they told me all about that. Somehow you learned that the singer was in a fair way to send you to Devil’s Island. So you decided to kill her!”

“That is preposterous! I refuse—”

“And you decided to make it a perfect crime. A perfect crime demands that the police have a victim. You decided on Digberry after calling on Margaret Coleman. She refused to forgive you. That was when you tore Digberry’s picture. You wanted only the upper part of his head — the lower part might have been recognized by Wilkins, a fellow craftsman. For you meant to kill a woman and have it appear that Digberry was her murderer. That was why you had a wig designed to make you resemble Digberry. That was why you bought a duplicate of his Palm Beach suit and his straw hat. We’ve traced the shops where you made those purchases. Too bad you didn’t destroy the suit and hat and wig, but before you got around to it, they were in our hands.

“You dressed up like Digberry and went to the Wedgeworth Arms. It was a hot night; the door was open and you crept in. Mr. Digberry was left-handed, so you fired the fatal shot with your left hand.”

“You can’t prove one word of this.”

“The concierge in Menton can prove that you owned the revolver with which Margaret Coleman was killed,” pursued Colt. “That was the gun you planted in Digberry’s apartment by calling him out and then going in yourself. After that, you thought the job was finished. You had faked the time on the wrist watch; by eleven o’clock, you were at home with your friend. You expected to prove you were home an hour before the crime was thought to be committed. Too bad a hair of your wig caught in that bedspring.”

“You have no evidence that will put me on the scene of the crime,” Walters snarled.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Walters,” Colt replied. “But I really can put you on the scene of that murder. You remember that Margaret Coleman’s face was powdered and rouged. She preferred a distinctive powder made by a craftsman in Norway. Madame still had some of it left from more prosperous days. When the killer lifted that body it was inevitable that some of the powder should fall on his clothing. And we found some of it on your suit — our chemists have identified it.”

“I’ve nothing to say,” replied Walters thickly, “until I talk with my attorney.”

Two detectives came and took him away to a fate that all New York remembers.

When the door had closed, Inspector Flynn rose. “Mr. Commissioner,” he protested, “that was wonderful work, but there’s still the evidence against Digberry. He did write those letters; he did lie about taking the money out of the bank.”

Colt chuckled. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Mr. Digberry, as Captain Walters told us, has a passion for realism, for exactitude. That is shown in his masterpieces of wigs, and also in his visit to the cemetery.”

“But he didn’t have a thousand dollars with him, chief—”

“Because he wanted to befriend a lady who had been gracious to him, Mr. Digberry drew on the savings which were the joint property of his wife and himself. Tomorrow, Mrs. Digberry returns. The day of reckoning is at hand. The new bankbook will hide the withdrawals. But what about the balance? Mr. Digberry must explain to his wife what he did with the missing thousand. Hence, he invented these letters and included himself among ten illustrious others.”

Flynn began to laugh. But Colt, opening a strongbox in his lower drawer, drew out a sheaf of green paper money.

“The Wedgeworth Arms has posted a reward of one thousand dollars,” he explained. “Mr. Digberry, you identified the Wilkins wig — I think you earned the cash and the glory.”

“I would like the cash,” Digberry admitted. “But chief, my wife mustn’t know about this affair. Give the credit to Mr. Flynn.”

With his pockets full of money, the wigmaker ran off to meet the train. Colt had promised to keep the facts a deep secret. And so he did — but Digberry, since a widower, has married again and the necessity for silence has passed.