Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 19, No. 99, February 1952

The Ten O’Clock Scholar by Harry Kemelman

More of Harry Kemelman’s thoughts and theories on ’tec technique: At first sight, says Mr. Kemelman, it would appear that the classical detective story is a game of “Guess Who?” which the author plays with the reader. This view, in Mr. Kemelman’s opinion, is absolutely false. The reader’s psychological reaction to a game is entirely different from his psychological reaction to a story. In a mental game we derive our pleasure and satisfaction from solving the problem. But in a detective story, if we succeed in guessing the identity of the villain before the author tells us, we are apt to disparage the author s skill — in the same way that we disparage the skill of a stage magician if we see through his tricks...

The truth is (if we may venture our own opinion), most readers make no real attempt to solve the problem ahead of the author’s own revelation. And for most readers, this is as it should be: the primary purpose of detective fiction is entertainment; if, in addition to enjoyment and escape, you also wish to sharpen your wits in a duel with the author, so be it — but this honing of the mind is purely a plus value, an extra dividend, a bonus for your investment of time and money...

I do not think it was a strong sense of justice that prompted Nicky Welt to come to my assistance on occasion, after I left the Law Faculty to become County Attorney. Nor as Snowden Professor of English Literature at the university would his interests be likely to lie in the functions of my office. Rather, I think, it was a certain impatience of mind — like that of the skilled mechanic who chafes as he watches the bungling amateur and at last takes the wrench from his hand with a “Here, let me do it.”

Nevertheless, I felt that he enjoyed these brief excursions from the narrow routine of lecturing and grading papers, and when he invited me to attend a doctoral examination, I felt that it was his way of thanking me and reciprocating.

I was busy at the time and loath to accept, but it is hard for me to refuse Nicky. He was only two or three years older than I, but his prematurely white hair (my own was only just beginning to gray at the temples) and his lined, gnome-like face made him appear many years my senior; and perhaps for that reason it seemed natural for him to treat me with a certain condescension, and equally natural for me to accord him the deference that complemented it.

But a three-hour doctor’s oral can be very dull if you are not yourself the candidate, or at least a member of the examining committee. So I temporized.

“Who is the candidate, Nicky?” I asked. “One of your young men? Anyone I know?”

“A Mr. Bennett — Claude Bennett,” he replied. “He has taken some courses with me, but he is not working in my field.”

“Anything interesting about his dissertation?” I continued.

Nicky shrugged his shoulders. “Since this is a preliminary examination according to the New Plan, we don’t know what the dissertation subject is. In the last half-hour of the examination the candidate will announce it and outline what he hopes to prove. I understand from other members of the committee, however, that Mr. Bennett’s interest is primarily in the Eighteenth Century, and that he is planning to do some work in The Byington Papers.”

And now I thought I saw light. I suppose no university is really complete without a faculty feud. Ours was localized to the English Department, and the principals were our two Eighteenth Century specialists, Professor George Korngold, biographer of Pope, and Professor Emmett Hawthorne, discoverer and editor of The Byington Papers. And so bitter was the conflict between the two men that Professor Hawthorne had been known to walk out of meetings of learned societies when Korngold rose to speak, and Korngold had once declared in a sectional meeting of the Modern Language Association that The Byington Papers were a Nineteenth Century forgery.

I smiled knowingly. “And Korngold is on the committee?” Professor Hawthorne, I knew, was at the University of Texas for the semester, as an exchange professor.

Nicky’s lips twisted into a most unscholarly smirk. “They’re both on the committee, Korngold and Hawthorne.”

I looked puzzled. “Is Hawthorne back?”

“We had a wire from him saying that he had made arrangements to return north early, ostensibly to check proof on the new edition of his book. But I consider it most significant that we got the wire shortly after Bennett’s examination date was posted in the Gazette, and equally significant that he is due to arrive the night before the examination. Of course, we invited him to participate and he wired his acceptance.” Nicky rubbed his hands with pleasure.

And although in the nature of things I did not expect to enjoy the proceedings quite as much as Nicky would, I thought it might be interesting.

Like many an anticipated pleasure, however, the actuality proved disappointing. The candidate, Claude Bennett, failed to appear.

The examination was scheduled for ten o’clock Saturday morning, and I arrived in good time — about a quarter of — so as not to miss any part of the fun. The committee had already assembled, however, and I could detect from the general atmosphere, and more particularly from the way the members were grouped as they stood around and gossiped, that Korngold and Hawthorne had already had an exchange or two.

Professor Korngold was a large, stout man, with a fringe of reddish hair. His naturally ruddy complexion was exaggerated by a skin disorder, a form of eczema from which he suffered periodically. He smoked a large curved-stem pipe which was rarely out of his mouth, and when he spoke, the burbling of the pipe was a constant overtone to the deep rumble of his voice.

He came over to me when I entered the room and offering his hand, he bellowed, “Nicky said you were coming. Glad you could make it.”

I took his outstretched hand with some reluctance for he was wearing a soiled cotton glove on the other to protect, or perhaps only to conceal, the broken skin where the eczema had penetrated. I withdrew my hand rather quickly, and to cover any awkwardness that might have resulted, I asked, “Has the candidate arrived yet?”

Korngold shook his head. He tugged at his watch chain and brought forth a turnip of a watch. He squinted at the dial and then frowned as he snapped the case shut. “Getting on to ten o’clock,” he rumbled. “Bennett better not funk it again.”

“Oh, he’s been up before, has he?”

“He was scheduled to come up at the beginning of the semester, and a day or two before, he asked for a postponement.”

“Does that count against him?”

“It’s not supposed to,” he said, and then he laughed.

I sauntered over to the other side of the room where Professor Hawthorne was standing. Hawthorne was a small, tidy man, with more than a touch of the dandy about him. He had pointed mustaches, and he was one of the few men in the university who wore a beard, a well-trimmed imperial. He also went in for pince-nez on a broad black ribbon, and even sported a cane, a slim ebony wand with a gold crook. All this since his discovery of The Byington Diary some few years ago, during a summer’s study in England. He had been an ordinary enough figure before that, but the discovery of The Byington Papers had been hailed by enthusiasts as of equal importance to the deciphering of the Pepys Diary, and honors had come to him: a full professorship, an editorial sinecure with a learned publication, and even an honorary degree from a not too impossible Western college. And with it had come the imperial and the cane and the pince-nez on a ribbon.

“George Korngold being amusing at my expense?” he asked with seeming negligence.

“Oh, no,” I said quickly. “We were talking about the candidate. George said something about his having funked the examination once before.”

“Yes, I suppose Professor Korngold would regard Bennett’s request for a postponement as funking it,” Hawthorne said ironically, raising his voice so that it was just loud enough to be heard across the room. “I happen to know something about it. And so does Professor Korngold, for that matter. It so happens that Bennett was working on The Byington Papers. Our library acquired the manuscript just a few days before Bennett was scheduled to stand for examination. As a real scholar, naturally he wanted a chance to study the original manuscript. So he asked for a postponement. That’s what Korngold calls funking an exam.”

From across the room the voice of George Korngold boomed out, “It’s ten o’clock, Nicky.”

Hawthorne glanced at his watch and squeaked, “It’s only five of.” Korngold laughed boisterously, and I realized that he had only been baiting Hawthorne.

When five minutes later the clock in the chapel chimed the hour, Korngold said, “Well, it’s ten o’clock now, Nicky. Do we wait till noon?”

Hawthorne waved his stick excitedly. “I protest, Nicky,” he cried. “From the general attitude of one member of this committee the candidate has already been prejudged. I think in all fairness that member should disqualify himself. As for the candidate, I am sure he will be along presently. I stopped by at his hotel on my way down and found that he had already gone. I suppose he has dropped in at the library for a last minute check-up of some point or other. I urge that in all decency we should wait.”

“I think we can wait a while, Emmett,” said Nicky soothingly.

By a quarter past, however, the candidate had still not arrived, and Hawthorne was in a panic of anxiety. He wandered from one window to another looking out over the campus towards the library. Korngold, on the other hand, was elaborately at ease.

I think we all felt a little sorry for Hawthorne, and yet relieved, somehow, when Nicky finally announced, “It’s half-past ten. I think we have waited long enough. I suggest we adjourn.”

Hawthorne started to protest, and then thought better of it, and remained silent, gnawing on his mustache in vexation. As we all moved to the door, Korngold rumbled loud enough for all to hear, “That young man had better not plan on standing again for examination in this university.”

“He may have an adequate excuse,” Nicky ventured.

“The way I feel right now,” said Korngold, “it would have to be something more than just an adequate excuse. Only a matter of life and death would justify this cavalier treatment of the examining committee.”

Nicky had some work to do at the library, so I went back to my office. I had been there less than an hour when I was informed of the reason for Bennett’s seeming negligence. He had been found dead in his room — murdered!

My first reaction, I recall, was the idiotic thought that now Bennett had an excuse that would satisfy even Professor Korngold.

I felt that Nicky ought to be notified, and my secretary tried to reach him several times during the afternoon but without success. When, at four o’clock, Lieutenant Delhanty, our Chief of Homicide, accompanied by Sergeant Carter who had also been working on the case, came to report on his progress, she still had had no luck.

Carter remained outside in the anteroom, in case he should be needed, while I led Delhanty into my office. Delhanty is a systematic man. He brought forth his notebook and placed it carefully on my desk, so that he could refer to it when necessary. Then he carefully drew up a chair and after squinting through his eyeglasses he began to read.

“At 10:45 we were notified by James Houston, manager of the Avalon Hotel, that one of his guests, a Claude Bennett, twenty-seven, unmarried, graduate student at the university, had been found dead by the chambermaid, a Mrs. Agnes Underwood. He had obviously been murdered. The call was taken by Sergeant Lomasney who ordered Houston to close and lock the door of the room and to await the arrival of the police.

“The Medical Examiner was notified and came out with us. We arrived at 10:50.” He looked up from his notes to explain. “The Avalon is that little place on High Street across from the university gymnasium. It’s more of a boarding house than a hotel, and practically all the guests are permanent, although occasionally they take a transient. There was a car parked in front of the entrance, a Ford coupe, 1937, registration 476–921. The key was in the ignition switch.” He looked up again. “That turned out to be important,” he said. He made a deprecatory gesture with his hand. “It’s the sort of thing a policeman would notice — a parked car with the key in the switch. It’s practically inviting someone to steal it. I made inquiries of the manager, Houston, and it turned out to be Bennett’s car.”

“Bennett’s room was one flight up, just to the right of the stairs. The shades were drawn when we entered, and Houston explained that they had been found that way. Bennett was lying on the floor, his head bashed in by half a dozen blows from some blunt instrument. The Medical Examiner thought the first one might have done the trick, and the rest were either to make sure or were done out of spite. Near the body was a long dagger, the haft of which was covered with blood. A few strands of hair adhered to the sticky haft and were readily identified as the victim’s.”

He reached down and drew from the brief-case he had brought with him a long, slim package. He carefully unfolded the waxed-paper wrapper and exposed to view a dagger in a metal sheath. It was about a foot and a half long. The haft, which was stained with dried blood, was about a third of the over-all length, about an inch wide and half an inch thick, with all the edges nicely rounded off. It appeared to be made of bone or ivory, and was engraved with swastikas.

“That was the weapon, I suppose,” I said with a smile.

He grinned back at me. “Not much doubt about that,” he said. “It fits the wounds just right.”

“Any fingerprints?” I asked.

Delhanty shook his head. “None on the weapon, and only the ones you’d expect in the room.”

I picked up the dagger gingerly by the sheath.

“Why, it’s weighted in the haft,” I said.

Delhanty nodded grimly. “It would have to be,” he replied, “to have done the job it did on Bennett.”

I put it down again. “Well, a dagger like that shouldn’t be too hard to trace,” I said hopefully.

Delhanty smiled. “We had no trouble with that. It belonged to Bennett.”

“The chambermaid identified it?”

“Better than that. The mate to it was right there hanging on the wall. Here, let me show you.” Once again he reached into his brief-case and this time came up with a large photograph showing one side of a room. There was a desk against the wall and a typewriter on a small table beside it. But it was the wall above the desk that attracted my attention, for arranged symmetrically on hooks was a veritable arsenal of weapons, each with a little card, presumably of explanation, tacked underneath. By actual count, there were two German sabres, three pistols, two weapons that looked like policemen’s nightsticks (at my puzzled look, Delhanty murmured, “Taken from guards of a concentration camp — nasty weapons — almost as thick as my wrist”) and one dagger, the twin of the weapon lying on my desk. But there was another card and an empty hook where the other dagger should have been, and it was just possible to discern its outline as a lighter area in the faded wallpaper.

Delhanty chuckled. “G.I. trophies. My boy brought home enough stuff to equip a German regiment.”

He drew a pencil from his breast pocket and pointed with it to the desk in the photograph.

“Now I call your attention to this stuff on the desk to the right of this pile of books. It’s hard to make out in the picture, but I itemized it.”

He referred to his notes again. “ ‘Loose change to the sum of twenty-eight cents, a key to the room, a pen and pencil set, a jackknife, a clean handkerchief, and a billfold.’ It’s the usual stuff that a man keeps in his pockets and transfers every time he changes his suit. One thing struck me as funny: the billfold was empty. It had his license and registration and a receipted bill for his room rent and a little book of stamps, but I mean there wasn’t a dollar in the money compartment.”

“Nothing odd in that,” I remarked. “Students are not noted for their wealth.”

Delhanty shook his head stubbornly. “Usually you carry some money with you. The change on the desk didn’t even amount to lunch money. We searched the place carefully and found no money and no bankbook. But in the wastebasket we did find this.”

Once again he ducked down to rummage in his brief-case. This time he brought forth a long government-franked envelope.

“That’s the kind they send checks in,” he remarked. “And do you notice the postmark? He must have received it yesterday. So we checked with the local banks and the first one we tried admitted they had cashed a government check for Bennett for one hundred dollars. The teller couldn’t be sure, of course, but unless Bennett asked for bills of a particular denomination, he would probably give him the money in three twenties, two tens, three fives and five ones.

“Well,” Delhanty went on, “a young man in Bennett’s circumstances wouldn’t be likely to spend all that in a day. So that suggested to me that robbery might be the motive. And then I thought of the car parked outside with the ignition key still in the switch. It wasn’t left there overnight because it would have been tagged. That meant that it was delivered there this morning, either by a friend who had borrowed it, or, more likely, by some garage. We had luck on that too. We found that the car had been left at the High Street Garage for lubrication and was delivered around 9:30 this morning. When I asked about the key in the switch, the manager of the garage was as puzzled as I had been. They always deliver the keys to the owner, he said, or make arrangements with him to leave them somewhere.

“I asked to look at their records to see who delivered the car. Well, it’s only a small place and they didn’t keep any such records, hut the manager knew that it was a young apprentice mechanic they had there — fellow named Sterling, James Sterling. He does most of the lubricating work and delivers cars when necessary. The manager couldn’t be sure, but he thought Sterling had delivered Bennett’s car to him several times before. I considered that important because it would show that Sterling knew Bennett’s room number and would be able to go right on up without making inquiries.”

“I take it,” I said, “that there wouldn’t be any trouble getting into the hotel without being noticed.”

“Oh, as to that, the place is wide open. It’s not really a hotel, you see. There’s no desk clerk. The outer door is kept open during the day, and anyone could come in and out a dozen times without being seen.

“I asked to speak to Sterling,” Delhanty went on, “and learned that he had gone home sick. I got his address and was just leaving, when I noticed a row of steel lockers which I figured were used by the mechanics for their work clothes. I asked the manager to open Sterling’s and, after a little fuss, he did. And what do you think I found there, tucked away behind the peak of his greasy work cap? Three twenties, two tens, and three fives. No ones — I suppose he figured he could have those on him without exciting suspicion.”

“You went to his home?”

“That’s right, sir. He may have been sick before, but he was a lot sicker when he saw me. At first he said he didn’t know anything about the money. Then he said he won it shooting crap. And then he said he had found it in Bennett’s car, tucked down between the seat and the back cushion. So I told him we had found his fingerprints on the billfold. We hadn’t, of course, but sometimes a little lie like that is enough to break them. His answer to that was that he wanted a lawyer. So we locked him up. I thought I’d talk to you before we really put him through the wringer.”

“You’ve done an excellent job, Delhanty,” I said. “Quick work and good, straight thinking. I suppose Sterling thought that leaving the key in the switch would indicate that he hadn’t seen Bennett to deliver it to him personally. And you went him one better and figured that his leaving the key in the switch was in itself an indication that something was wrong. Finding the money clinches it, of course. But it would be nice if we found someone who had seen him. You questioned the residents, of course?”

“Naturally, we questioned everybody at the hotel,” Delhanty said. He chuckled. “And it just goes to show how sometimes too much investigating can hinder you by leading you off on a tangent. I questioned them before I got a line on Sterling, and for a while I thought I had the logical suspect right there in one of the residents of the hotel. You see we had gone through all the residents, and Houston, the manager, and had drawn a perfect blank: no one had seen anything; no one had heard anything. Then we called in the chambermaid. We had left her for the last because she had been kind of upset and hysterical, what with finding the body and all. Well, she had seen something.

“She had started to work on that floor at half-past eight. She’s sure of the time because the chapel clock was just chiming. She was just going into the room at the other end of the corridor from Bennett’s when she saw Alfred Starr, who occupies the room next to Bennett, leave his room and knock on Bennett’s door. She watched, and saw him enter. She waited a minute or two and then went on with her work.”

“Why did she watch?” I asked.

“I asked the same question,” said Delhanty, “and she said it was because Starr and Bennett had had a fearful row a couple of days before, and she wondered about his going in now. When I had questioned Starr earlier, he had said nothing about having gone into Bennett’s room. So I called him in again and asked him about it. At first he denied it. That’s normal. Then when he realized that someone had seen him, he admitted that he had visited Bennett that morning, but insisted that it was only to wish him luck on his exam. Then I mentioned the row he had had a couple of days before. He didn’t try to dodge it. He admitted he had had a fight with Bennett, but he claimed he had been a little tight at the time. It appears he had brought his girl down from Boston for a dance at the Medical School a couple of weeks ago. He had been tied up in the morning and had asked Bennett to entertain her. Then he had found out that after she had gone back to Boston, Bennett had written her a couple of times. That was what the fight was about, but he had later realized that he had been foolish. Bennett’s coming up for his exam gave him an opportunity to apologize and to wish him luck. He hadn’t said anything about it because he didn’t want to get mixed up in anything, especially now with final exams on.”

Delhanty shrugged his shoulders: “For a while, I thought I had my whole case right there: jealousy over a girl as the motive; weapon and opportunity right at hand; and even some indication of guilt in his not telling a straight story from the beginning. And then the whole case collapsed. The time element was off. The Medical Examiner had figured the murder had taken place about nine o’clock. That didn’t bother me too much since the best they can give you is only an approximate time. But Starr was on his way to play squash at the gym, and they have a time-clock arrangement there because there’s a fee for the use of the squash courts. Well, according to that clock, Starr was ready to start playing at 8:33. That would give him only three minutes from the time he entered Bennett’s room to the time when he started playing, and it just isn’t enough. So there you are. If the time at both ends hadn’t been so exact, we would have felt that Starr was the star suspect.”

He laughed at his pun, and I managed a smile. Then a thought occurred to me.

“Look here,” I said, “there’s something wrong with the time even as it stands. I know the arrangement for the squash courts; I’ve played there often enough. The lockers are at the other end of the building from the courts. You change into your gym clothes first and then you go down to the squash courts and get stamped in. Starr would not have had a chance to change if those times are correct as given.”

Delhanty was apologetic. “He didn’t change in the gym. I should have mentioned that. The hotel is just across the street, you see. He was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt and had his racket with him when he went into Bennett’s room. The chambermaid told us that.”

I nodded, a little disappointed. Strictly speaking, criminal investigation is not my job. The police report to me because as County Attorney it is my function to indict, and if a true bill is found, to try the case in court. But it is only natural to seize the opportunity of showing the professional where he might have slipped up.

There was a discreet knock and my secretary opened the door just wide enough to put her head in and say, “Professor Welt is outside.”

“Have him come in,” I said.

Nicky entered and I introduced him to Delhanty.

“A sad business, Lieutenant,” Nicky said, shaking his head. Then he noticed the dagger on the desk.

“This the weapon?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Bennett’s, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” said Delhanty, his tone showing surprise. “How did you know?”

“I’m only guessing, of course,” Nicky replied, with an amused shrug of the shoulders. “But it’s fairly obvious. A dagger like that isn’t anything that a man would normally carry around with him. And if you went calling on someone with the intent of bludgeoning him to death, it is hardly the sort of thing you would select to take with you. There are a thousand things that are readily available and are so much better for the purpose — a wrench, a hammer, a piece of pipe. But, of course, if you had no intention of killing when you set out, and then found it necessary or expedient, and this was the only thing to hand—”

“But it wasn’t,” I said. “Show him the photograph, Lieutenant.”

Delhanty handed over the photograph with some reluctance, I thought. I got the impression that he was not too pleased with Nicky’s characteristic air of amused condescension.

Nicky studied the photograph intently. “These books on the desk here,” he said, pointing with a lean forefinger, “are probably the texts he was planning to take to the examination with him. Notice that they all have paper markers. I don’t see any notes. Did you find a package of notes anywhere in the room, Lieutenant?”

“Notes?” Delhanty shook his head. “No notes.”

“Notes and texts at an examination, Nicky?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, in accordance with the New Plan, you remember, the candidate outlines his dissertation in the last half-hour, indicating what he hopes to prove, listing a partial bibliography and so forth. He is permitted to make use of any texts and notes that he cares to bring with him for that part of the examination.”

“Is that so?” said Delhanty politely. “History student, was he? I noticed the top book was History of Cal... Cali — something.”

“No, he was an English Literature student, Lieutenant,” I said. “But that involves the study of a lot of history. The two fields are interrelated.” I remembered that there had been a brief vogue of Moslem influence among Eighteenth Century writers. “Was it History of the Caliphate?” I suggested.

He sampled the title, and then shook his head doubtfully.

I shrugged my shoulders and turned again to Nicky. “Well, why didn’t Bennett’s assailant select one of the bludgeons instead of the dagger?” I asked. “Excellent weapons for the purpose according to the Lieutenant here — each as thick as his wrist.”

“But he didn’t use the dagger — at least not to kill with,” Nicky replied.

We both stared at him.

“But there is blood on the haft, and some of Bennett’s hair. And the Medical Examiner found that it fitted the wounds just right.”

Nicky smiled, a peculiarly knowing and annoying smile. “Yes, it would fit, but it is not the weapon.” He spread his hands. “Consider, here is a large variety of weapons ready to hand. Would a man select a dagger to bludgeon with when there are actually two bludgeons handy? Besides, hanging there on the wall, how would he know that the haft of the dagger was weighted and could be used as a bludgeon at all?”

“Suppose he planned to stab him, but that Bennett turned before he could draw the blade from the sheath, or say it stuck,” Delhanty suggested.

“Then there would be fingerprints showing,” Nicky retorted.

“He might have worn gloves,” I offered.

“In this weather?” Nicky scoffed. “And attracted no notice? Or are you suggesting that Bennett obligingly waited while the assassin drew them on?”

“He could have wiped the prints off,” said Delhanty coldly.

“Off the sheath, yes, but not off the haft. When you draw a dagger, you grip the haft in one hand and the sheath in the other. Now if your victim turns at just that moment and you have to club him with the weighted haft, his prints will be nicely etched in the resultant blood. And you couldn’t wipe those off unless you also wiped off the blood or smeared it. That would mean that the murderer would have to have worn at least one glove, and that would be even more noticeable than a pair.”

A faint, elusive thought flickered across my mind that was connected somehow with a man wearing a single glove, but Delhanty was speaking and it escaped me.

“I’ll admit, Professor,” he was saying, “that I’d expect he would have taken one of the bludgeons — but the fact is, he didn’t. We know he used the dagger because it was right there. And it was covered with blood which matches Bennett’s and with hair that matches his, and most of all, it fits the wounds.”

“Of course,” Nicky retorted scornfully. “That’s why it was used. It had to fit the wounds in order to conceal the real weapon. The bludgeons wouldn’t do because they were too thick. Suppose you had just crushed somebody’s skull with a weapon that you felt left a mark which could be traced to you. What would you do? You could continue bashing your victim until you reduced his head to a pulp — in the hope of obliterating the marks; but that would be an extremely bloody business and would take some time. If there were something lying around that would fit the wound nicely, however, you could use it once or twice to get blood and hair on it, and then leave it for the police to find. Having a weapon at hand which apparently fits, they would not think to look for another.”

“But there was nothing distinctive about the mark of the weapon,” Delhanty objected.

“If you are thinking of something like a branding iron, of course not. But if we assume that the dagger haft was selected because it fitted the original wound, it automatically gives us the shape of the real weapon. Since it was the edge of the haft that was used, I should surmise that the real weapon was smooth and rounded, or round, and about half an inch in diameter. It would have to be something that the attacker could have with him without exciting comment.”

“A squash racket!” I cried.

Nicky turned sharply. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

I told him about Starr. “He was dressed in his gym clothes and he had his squash racket with him. The frame of a squash racket would about fit those dimensions. And it would excite no comment from Bennett since Starr was in shorts and sweatshirt.”

Nicky pursed his lips and considered. “Is there any reason for supposing that the mark of a squash racket would implicate him?” he asked.

“He was seen by the chambermaid to go into the room.”

“That’s true enough,” Nicky conceded, “although I gathered from your story that he did not know he had been seen.”

Before I could answer, Delhanty spoke up. “Of course,” he said sarcastically, “I’m nothing but a cop, and all these theories are a little over my head. But I’ve made an arrest and it was done through ordinary police work on the basis of evidence. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my time, and my men’s time, with legwork and just sat back and dreamed the answer. But there’s pretty good proof that Bennett was robbed of a hundred dollars this morning, and I’ve got a man in a cell right now who had that hundred dollars on him and who hasn’t been able to give any explanation that would satisfy a child as to how it got there.” He sat back with an air of having put Nicky and me too, I suspect, in our places.

“Indeed! And how did you go about finding this individual?”

Delhanty shrugged his shoulders in a superior sort of way and did not answer. So I explained about the envelope and billfold clues, and how they had been tracked down.

Nicky listened attentively and then said quietly, “The mechanic arrived around 9:30. Have you considered the possibility, Lieutenant, that Bennett was already dead at the time, and that Sterling’s crime was not of having killed, but only of having robbed? Much more likely, I assure you. The man would be an idiot to kill, especially for so small a sum, when he knows that he would be suspected almost immediately — after all, his employer knew where he was going and the approximate time that he would arrive. But if he found the man already dead and he saw the money in the wallet, it would be fairly safe to take it. Even if the police were to discover that a sum of money was missing, which was unlikely in the first place, they would normally assume that it had been taken by the murderer. So he probably took the money and then went back to the shop prepared to say, if he should be asked, that he had knocked on Bennett’s door to deliver the keys and Bennett had not answered.”

“That sounds reasonable, Nicky,” I said. Then noticing the look on Delhanty’s face, I quickly added, “But it’s only a theory. And we know that criminals are guilty of idiotic acts as well as criminal ones. Now if we knew exactly when Bennett was killed, we’d know whether Sterling could be completely eliminated, or if he was still a suspect.”

“You could always get the Medical Examiner to swear that it couldn’t have happened after nine,” Delhanty murmured sarcastically.

I ignored the remark. Besides, it occurred to me that we had overlooked a possible bit of evidence.

“Look, Nicky,” I said, “do you remember Emmett Hawthorne saying that he called on Bennett on his way down to the exam? Bennett must already have been dead, which is why he didn’t answer and why Emmett concluded that he had gone on ahead. Maybe Emmett remembers what time it was. If it was before 9:30, it would at least clear Sterling.”

Nicky gave me a nod of approval, and I felt inordinately pleased with myself. It happened so seldom.

I reached for the telephone. “Do you know where he’s staying, Nicky? I’ll ring him.”

“He’s staying at the Ambassador,” Nicky answered, “but I doubt if he’s there now. He was in his cubicle in the library stacks when I left, and there’s no phone connection except at the center desk of the Reading Room. If you had a messenger, you might send him over and ask him to come here. I don’t think he’d mind. I’m sure he’d be interested in our discussion.”

“Sergeant Carter is outside chinning with your secretary,” said Delhanty grudgingly. “I could have him go. Where is it?”

“It’s a regular rabbit warren of a place,” I said. I looked at Nicky. “Perhaps you could go out and give him directions—”

“Perhaps I’d better,” said Nicky, and crossed the room to the door.

I smiled inwardly while we waited for him to return. I did not see how Starr’s alibi could be broken, but I was sure that Nicky did. When he returned a minute or two later, however, his first words were discouraging.

“Your idea of Starr and the squash racket,” he said, “is not entirely devoid of ingenuity, but it won’t do. Consider: the original quarrel was about a girl and it occurred a couple of days ago. Now if the two young men are living in the same house — on the same floor, in fact — and Bennett was probably around most of the time, since he was preparing for his exam, why didn’t Starr seek him out earlier? It is most unlikely that he would have brooded over the matter for two whole days, and then bright and early on the morning of the third day, on his way to play squash, have stopped off and killed him. Absurd! It would not be beyond the bounds of possibility if Starr had dropped in to warn him off or to threaten him, and then in the course of the quarrel that might have followed, killed him. But in that event there would have been voices raised in anger, and the noise would have been heard by the chambermaid who was listening for it. There would have been some sign of a struggle — and there was none.”

He shook his head. “No, no, I’m afraid you don’t grasp the full significance of the dagger and the necessity for its use.”

“Look at it this way,” he continued; “suppose the attacker had not used the dagger as a red herring. Suppose that after having bludgeoned Bennett with the weapon he had brought with him, he had departed. What line of investigation would the police have pursued then? On the basis of the wound, the Medical Examiner would describe the weapon as a blunt instrument, round or rounded, and about half an inch in diameter. A length of narrow pipe, or a heavy steel rod would fit, but the assailant couldn’t walk around or come into Bennett’s room carrying something like that without exciting comment and suspicion. Of course, he could carry it concealed — up his coat sleeve, perhaps. It would be awkward, but it could be managed. And it would be still more awkward to draw out without Bennett seeing and making an outcry. But again, with luck it could be managed. All this if the attacker set out with the deliberate idea of murdering. But sooner or later, the police would consider the possibility of the crime having been committed on the spur of the moment. And then it would occur to them that the weapon would have to be something that the attacker had with him, something he could carry openly without exciting the slightest suspicion. And that could only be—”

“A cane!” I exclaimed.

“Precisely,” said Nicky. “And when you think of a cane, Professor Hawthorne is the first person who comes to mind.”

“Are you serious, Nicky?”

“Why not? It’s an important part of the rather theatrical costume he designed to go with the new personality he acquired since becoming a great man. You can readily see that in his mind, at least, the mark of his cane would identify him as surely as if he had branded the young man with his initials.”

“But why would he want to kill his protégé?”

“Because he wasn’t — wasn’t his protégé, I mean. You remember the young man was scheduled to come up for examination at the beginning of the semester and did not. Hawthorne told us that it was because our library had acquired the original Byington Papers and that Bennett wanted a chance to study them. But The Byington Papers had been published in full, and it is only a short summary of this dissertation that the candidate expounds at the exam. So that even if the original manuscript were to furnish additional proof of his thesis, it would not justify postponing the exam. Hence, we must conclude that Bennett had got an idea for an entirely new dissertation. Naturally, he told Hawthorne about it. But Hawthorne had to go down to Texas, so he probably got Bennett to say nothing of his discovery until his return. Then when announcement was made of the new edition of Hawthorne’s book, Bennett decided to stand for examination again. Hawthorne came back as soon as he found out. He arrived last night and this morning was his first chance to see Bennett. I am quite sure he did not come intending to kill him. He would have brought another weapon if he had. He came to beg him to hold off again until they could work out something together — a paper on which they would collaborate, perhaps. I don’t think it occurred to Hawthorne that Bennett might refuse. But he did, probably because he felt that after the announcement of a new edition of The Byington Papers he could no longer trust Hawthorne.

“To Hawthorne, this refusal meant the loss of everything he held dear — his academic standing, his reputation as a scholar, his position in the university. So he raised his cane and struck.”

“But what discovery could Bennett have made that would justify Hawthorne’s killing him?” I asked.

Nicky’s eyebrows rose. “I should think you could guess that. We know that Bennett’s dissertation subject had something to do with the original manuscript. My guess would be that the book that you noticed on his desk, Lieutenant, was a History of Calligraphy — two ‘l’s,’ Lieutenant — a history of handwriting.” (The look of sudden recognition that lit up Delhanty’s face confirmed the guess.) “I fancy the other books were probably concerned with paper and the chemistry of ink — that sort of thing. In any case, I am quite certain that Bennett had discovered some proof — scientific proof, not internal criticism like Korngold’s which is always subject to different interpretations — but proof of handwriting styles and ink and paper that The Byington Papers were a forgery.”

The telephone exploded into sound and when I lifted the instrument to my ear, I heard the excited, panicky voice of Sergeant Carter.

“He just shot himself,” he cried. “Professor Hawthorne just shot himself here at the hotel!”

I glanced at the two men in the room and saw that they had heard. Delhanty had risen and was reaching for his hat.

“Stay there,” I said into the phone. “Lieutenant Delhanty will be there in a minute. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Carter answered. “I went to the library but he had just gone. I caught him at the hotel here and I gave him Professor Welt’s message. He just nodded and went into the next room, and a couple of seconds later there was a shot.”

“All right, stand by.” I cradled the phone.

Delhanty was already at the door. “That’s it,” I said to him.

“Guess so,” he muttered, and closed the door behind him.

I turned to Nicky. “What message did you ask Carter to give him?”

He smiled. “Oh, that? I merely suggested to the Sergeant that he ask Hawthorne to bring Bennett’s notes with him.”

I nodded moodily. For a minute or two I was silent, staring at the desk in front of me. Then I looked up.

“Look here, Nicky, did you expect that your request would have the effect it did?”

He pursed his lips as if to take thought. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “I did not consider it beyond the bounds of possibility. However, my primary concern was my responsibility to poor Bennett. I thought that if there was any merit in his idea, I ought to expand his notes into a paper which I would publish in his name.” His little blue eyes glittered and his lips relaxed in a frosty smile. “Naturally, I wanted to begin as soon as possible.”