Flynn’s Weekly. Vol. 22, No. 3, March 5, 1927

He longed to see his name emblazoned among the stars, and so he set out to achieve his goal.

I

“There’s your eight-point buck,” said Detective Sergeant Riordan, dumping a splendid animal on the floor of Captain Brady’s office. “You said you wanted one, and I was particular to get it. How’s things been since I was away?”

Captain Brady swung round from his desk and gazed in frank admiration at the stag his chief aid had dropped upon the floor. Then his eyes rose, and he surveyed Riordan, clad in high-top boots, corduroy knickers, a gorgeously colored flannel shirt open at the neck, and an old army hat. Getting up, he extended his hand, and his lieutenant gripped it warmly.

“Boy, boy, I’m sure glad to see you back,” said Brady. “And I’m sure glad to get that buck. I didn’t suppose you’d have any luck when you went away; season being so dry, and one thing or another. Have a good trip?”

“I’ll say we did, chief. Got a-plenty, too. Aside from game, I ran off the road coming back and busted a wheel and had to lay over at Springers till I could get a new one shipped out.

“I couldn’t wire; out there in the wilderness they don’t know what a telegram is, and the forest fire put the telephone out of business. So I just came in as fast as I could. Want me to take that there venison out to your house for you? It won’t be far out of my way as I drive home to shave and get into civilized clothes again.”

“Never mind that, boy. Never mind changing your clothes or anything. I got a job for you right now.”

“But, chief, I can’t go out like this. I’d scare all the city people—”

“Who said anything about your going out,” interrupted Captain Brady. “You sit down an’ let me talk to you. I want to fill you up. Then you can go home and shave, and while you’re doing it you can think. What I need right now, boy, is your head, not your clothes.”

Riordan dropped into his chair, and taking a pipe from one of the pockets distributed about his hunting clothes, lighted the already well-filled bowl. “Something bust, has it?” he asked.

“Just about that, boy. Yes, I’d say something’s bust. You know old man Staples?”

“The nut on orchids?”

“Uh-huh. Nut is right. Well, he’s murdered.”

“When?”

“Now hold your horses, boy. You’ve been away on vacation, and I don’t suppose you’ve seen a paper since you’ve been gone, have you? Well, I’ll start at the beginning and tell it to you.”

Captain Brady swung to his desk for a moment and picked up a file of reports, then turned to face his aid again, holding them in his lap.

“This thing broke on Tuesday, the eighth. The sergeant on the desk downstairs, about eleven in the morning, sent me up a ‘missing person’ report to the effect that old man Staples hadn’t been home since the previous Saturday. That would be the fifth.

“The sergeant said he figured maybe I’d be interested, seeing Staples was pretty well known. The report was put in by Staples’s secretary — here it is. I’ll read it to you:

“ ‘Vincent Mallory, private secretary to Willard P. Staples, 90 Glenn Avenue, reports that his employer, Willard P. Staples, has been missing from his home, same address as informant, since about noon on Saturday, the fifth. When last seen the missing person was wearing a dark gray suit, light gray overcoat, black derby hat, black shoes and socks, and was carrying a Malacca cane. Missing person is described as about sixty years of age, five feet, eight: weighs about one hundred and fifty pounds, narrow face, high forehead, grayish hair, short gray beard, no mustache, no marks or scars, light blue eyes, wears gold-rimmed spectacles, slightly deaf. Business of missing person, retired capitalist, formerly associate professor of botany at the State university. If located please notify secretary or Keefe, Sanderson & Keefe, his attorneys.’

“Well, I told the sergeant he had a promising head on him, and that he did just right to notify me. Old Staples, you know, boy, must be worth somewhere around a million dollars or so, and that place of his out on Glenn Avenue is one of the show spots of the city.

“After I’d soaked up the report I called up Keefe, Sanderson & Keefe, and got hold of the younger partner, Walter Keefe, and asked him if he had any ideas. He said he was very much alarmed about Staples and that he hoped we’d bend every energy we had, and all that sort of stuff, to find him.

“That was when I began to wish you were here, boy, instead of out shooting deer for me. If I’d thought I could have got a wire to you I’d have sent one, but I knew it was no use. So I got hold of Willis and told him to go out and see what he could see.

“Willis went out to Staples’s place and came back in about two hours just as wise as when he went out. All he knew was that the secretary was worried, and that Staples had gone out before lunch the previous Saturday, saying he had an appointment with a. man about some orchids, and that he’d probably take him to lunch somewhere down town and wouldn’t be back till dinner time.

“The secretary usually takes his weekends by himself, and he told Willis he went out himself along about two o’clock, down to Bayshore, where his sister has a place, and stayed there till Sunday night, when he came back to town, met some fellows he knew, and they all made a night of it. He spent Sunday night at the St. Charles Hotel, and went out to Staples’s place Monday morning about nine, only to find out that the old man hadn’t been home. He questioned the help out at the house, then called up Keefe, Sanderson & Keefe, and they advised him to report the matter to the police. Which he did.

“Well, on his way back Willis checked at the St. Charles Hotel, and Mallory had registered there Sunday night about midnight, and was called at half past seven Monday morning, checking out soon after. Otherwise there didn’t seem to be anything showing.

“After Willis reported that much I sent him back to drill the secretary about this man the old boy had a date with to discuss orchids, but Mallory said he didn’t know who it was; that the first Staples had said to him about it was that he was going out to meet him. Didn’t have any idea who it was.

“Said old Staples often did that: some traveler or flower shop would write him they had a new and rare orchid, and the old boy would light out and dicker for it, and wouldn’t be happy till he bought it and brought it home to put in his collection. Sometimes some skipper on a ship, or some mate, would have the orchid, and the old man would go down and buy it. Didn’t usually say anything about it till he came home with the prize.

“Willis not being able to turn up any more, I put Halloran and Curtis to work. I told Halloran to make the water front and see if he could pick up any news of guys coming in with rare orchids, and I had Curtis drill the florists and greenhouses.

“They both came back with nothing. There hadn’t even been a ship come in for a week from the tropics, where orchids grow. That was all we turned up Tuesday, except that I had the report posted, and as they did the same thing downstairs, it meant that every man, in uniform and out, was supposed to have his eyes and ears open.

“Wednesday the boys did just as well. Nobody got anything, not even a smell. Wednesday was a hard day for me, there was more small stuff coming in than usual, and so I let it go at that. Thursday morning, however, I decided I’d go out to Staples’s place myself and have a. look around. That was when I began to wish you were here, boy.

“You know Staples’s place, out on Glenn Avenue? It’s more like a park than a private place; beautiful grounds, all kinds of trees and things, and three big greenhouses, just filled with orchids. Private heating plant, private water system, and a great big house with everything in it a man could want, except a wife and children. Staples’s wife has been dead a long time, and his two boys have grown up and married and gone to New York.

“Well, I went all over the place, looked in the cisterns, under the plant racks, in the storerooms, all over the house. Nothing out of the way and no sign of Staples. The help didn’t know anything. Said the old man hadn’t seemed excited or morbid or in any way different. No trace of a woman or a love affair. No enemies that anybody knew about. Nothing. And so at last I got down to Staples’s study.

“I’d been over that before, of course, but I went back there with the secretary, and we began to go through his papers. Nothing there. I was sitting at the old man’s desk, thinking and trying to dope out some kind of a lead, when my eye fell on his desk calendar.

“It was one of these things with a leaf for each day, on a little metal stand. The leaf on top was Saturday, the fifth. I looked round the room. There was a day calendar on the wall in front of his desk, and that was turned up to Thursday, the tenth.

“Then there was another calendar, with dates for a whole week showing, and that was set for the week of Sunday, the sixth. But the day calendar was still at the fifth. I picked it up and looked at it, and written on the bottom of the sheet was just a line in lead pencil. It said: ‘Pier B, Ocean Terminal.’

“I showed it to Mallory, the secretary. He said it was the old man’s writing, but he didn’t know what it was about. I asked him who looked after the office, and he said he did. I flicked the other sheets of the day calendar over, and there was nothing written on them. ‘How come.’ I said to him, ‘that you’ve brought these other two calendars up to date, but you left this one set for last Saturday?’

“He said he hadn’t noticed it till I called his attention to it, that he’d overlooked it. Laughed and said he had a bit of a head when he came to work Monday, and in his hurry to fix things up for the old man he’d evidently overlooked it, and that later, when he found out Staples hadn’t been home, he had other things to worry about.

“ ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘But you’ve changed that wall calendar since. Stop worrying, did you?’

“He saw what I was driving at, and flushed. Then he said the old man was fussy about his desk, and he never bothered with it much, except to straighten it up, pile the papers neatly, and so on. Well, I put him through rough then. But I couldn’t get anything out of him except that it was the old man’s writing on that desk calendar, and he didn’t know what it was. Not a thing else. So I told him to come with me, and we’d go down to the Ocean Terminal and see what we could find out.

II

“We went down there and Summerfield, the manager, took hold. He knew old Staples, but hadn’t seen him for a couple of months. He didn’t know anything about any orchids. I told him we were particularly interested in Pier B, and asked him if there was anything about that. He began to look sort of funny, and then he told us to follow him. We went out through the terminals and down to Pier B, way down at the end of the place. It hadn’t been used, hardly, since the war, and was dirty and dusty and full of rats. Halfway down the pier he took us up a stairway to the clearstory, in which there’d been built a lot of storage rooms. About two weeks ago, he said, a man who looked like he might be a Spaniard had come to him and wanted to rent a storage room about ten by ten, in a high and dry place that wouldn’t likely be disturbed for a year. Said he had a lot of dried onions and wanted to put them away till the market got stronger. He looked over the place and finally leased a loft over Pier B. Paid the charges on it for a year, and said he wanted to cover the inside of it with sheet tin, so as to keep the moisture out.

“That was all right with Summerfield, and the next day or so he came down and nailed tin all over the inside of the place. Summerfield himself didn’t recall any dried onions coming in, but he hadn’t been particularly interested, seeing he had his money in advance. Well, he took us up to the storeroom.

“It was padlocked on the outside. I’d begun to get pretty curious by that time, for the dried onions stuff didn’t sound good. I figured it was bootleg. Summerfield looked sheepish, and said he guessed it was, too. So we decided to have a look. We got a bar and pried off the staples that held the lock, and opened the door.

“Boy, you ought to have been there. The room had one window, opening on the water side, the lower side of the pier, away from the rest of the terminal. The window wasn’t there, no sash or frame even. And the room was absolutely bare, no dried onions, no tin, nothing. Summerfield said we must have got into the wrong place.

“We both looked around, and then we began to see things. There were marks on the walls where nails had been pulled out, and they ran in lines up and down and across. You could see where the sheets of tin had been tacked on.

“Looking closer we found marks where something like a flat chisel, about an inch and a half wide, had been used to pry the tin loose with.

“Apparently the whole place had been tinned — all over the floor and up on the walls to a height of about four feet. And evidently the tin had been pried off and the window casing along with it, and probably the whole thing thrown out in the river.

“It was so funny it was interesting. I went over the walls again, and on one of them there was a streak of dark red dots, like somebody had taken a brush and given it a shake and the drops of whatever were on it had flown off. I told Summerfield to go down to his office and telephone the river patrol to come down with their launch, that I’d wait. While he was gone I scraped off some of the wood with the red dots on it and put the shavings in an envelope. The secretary guy said he guessed he’d better be going, that there wasn’t much use of his waiting, and I slapped my cuffs on him and told him to sit down and be a good dog. He didn’t put up any holler at all, just squatted down on the floor and watched me.

“While I was waiting I went all over the walls of that room, and three or four places there were red dots or splotches. I marked ’em all with rings with my lead pencil.

“Pretty soon the launch came along, and I told the boys to tie up to the pier below and throw their grappling irons out and see what they could find. It wasn’t more than the second or third haul they made before the irons brought up a mess of tin, all crumpled up, and with nails sticking in the edges.

“Summerfield, who’d come back, said it was the tin that this Spaniard party had nailed on the walls. I told the boys in the river patrol to drag around by the terminal till they were sure there wasn’t anything else on the bottom of the slip there but water, and then report to me.

“Then I took the cuffs off Mallory, the secretary, and got Summerfield to station one of his men on the pier as a watchman, and drove back to headquarters. The secretary guy I had locked up for investigation. The chips of wood I’d scraped off I sent over to the city health bureau and told ’em to find out what the spots were. Halloran and Curtis I sent down to get a description of the Spaniard party from Summerfield, and to locate him if they could. And, take it from me, boy, I sure wished you were around here.

“Friday the health bureau wiseacres reported that the spots on the wood were blood, and they sent some of the shavings up to the university to see what kind of blood, so as to be sure of it. Nothing turned up on the Spaniard. And there wasn’t a word, all this time, on old man Staples either. Saturday the university reported that the shavings had human blood on them.

“Meanwhile the river patrol had fished out the rest of the tin and the window frame, which was still nailed to the tin — or the tin was still nailed to it. The stuff showed that it had been ripped off in a hurry.

“There was one piece had a footprint on it, or, rather, the imprint of a hobnailed boot. It was good and plain, the whole foot. From the way the tin was bent and the nails still sticking in the edges, this boot mark was made on the inside.

“The tin and stuff was all dumped on the terminal pier, down below the room, and I sent a couple of long-headed men down there from the Bertillon room, and they nailed the stuff up in place again, after straightening it out, in the same positions as it had been. This boot mark, then, was just about in the middle of the room.”

“That stuff all down there yet, chief?” interrupted Riordan.

“It’s all there, boy, nicely locked up and waiting for you to go look at it. The rent of the place is paid for a year by the Spaniard, so we’re not putting anybody out. Well, we didn’t seem to be getting anywhere, or turning up anything, so I decided to give it to the papers, in the hopes that somebody would squawk.

“So I slipped it to ’em for Sunday morning and let ’em draw their own conclusions. Which they did. You got to hand it to those reporters, they’re wise birds, all right.

“They said what I didn’t, but what I was thinking — that old man Staples was lured down to this tinned-up room on the expectation of seeing some rare orchids, and then, when they got him there, the gang, or whoever it was, not only murdered him, but cut him up neat and threw what was left of him and the tin and all the evidence out into the river. The tin, it sank and stayed there, but the rest of it was rolled along by the current, and maybe it will be found and maybe it won’t.

“The noise stirred up a lot of excitement, but nary a squawk. A lot of people had seen Spanish looking guys, but when we ran down the tips we didn’t get anything. And now you’re back, and I’ve slipped it to you.”

“You found a coat, too, with cuts across the front of it, and a new meat ax, too, didn’t you?” asked Riordan.

Captain Brady nodded his head. “Yeah, found them yesterday, down the river. I see you’ve been reading the papers. The meat ax they fetched up just beyond where they found the tin, and the slashed coat had caught on a snag down at the end of the basin, where it empties into the river. Mallory, the secretary, identified it as one of old Staples’s coats.”

“But not the one he wore when last seen,” said Riordan.

Brady looked up sharply, eyed his aid for some minutes, and then laughed shortly.

“Boy, you gave me a scare for a minute, you did. Made me think of something. But I guess you read that in the papers; some reporter, most likely, wanted to make his story different. How in heck could anybody know if the coat we fished out of the river was the one he wore when last seen? We didn’t see him last, it was the gang that killed him who saw him last.”

Sergeant Riordan got up from his chair, knocked the ashes, now cold, from his pipe, and restored it to his pocket.

“Want me to take that buck home for you?” he asked. “It won’t be far out of my way. I guess I’d better go home and have a hot bath and a shave, then come down to work.”

“Don’t bother taking that carcass out to my house, boy. I’ll get one of the motor cycle men to haul it out in a sidecar, and promise him a side of venison for his trouble. And if a hot bath and shave is all that’s bothering you, there’s the gymnasium on the top floor. Your dress uniform’s hanging in the locker. Change here and it will save time. You’ll have enough to do.”

Riordan smiled. “How’d you know I don’t want to go out and work on this dolled up like a Spaniard or something, chief?”

“ ’Cause, boy, I’m still in possession of my faculties. If you’d wanted to work covered up, you got the best layout on right now, them hunting clothes and the whiskers you’ve raised. Go on upstairs and spruce up, and then go out to Staples’s place and take a look around. That’s what you want to do.”

Detective Sergeant Riordan moved to his locker, took down his dress uniform, found a change of underclothing in a parcel he kept for just such emergencies, and walked toward the door.

“You got Mallory in yet?” he asked, pausing.

“No, I haven’t got Mallory in yet. I held him for forty-eight hours and couldn’t get a darned thing out of him that was any good. So I had to let him go. He’s out at the house. I got his promise to stay there till this thing was cleared up; and to discourage his leaving, and also to keep the crowd moving, I got the chief to assign two men on fixed post out there. Big crowd rubbering at the house all the time, and wanting in to look over the grounds.”

“Well, I’ll go take a look, as you say,” said Riordan, as he swung through the door.

III

After he had gone Captain Brady sat for a time glancing critically at the notes and reports he had on the case, and then spent a few minutes in admiration of the buck Riordan had brought him. Smiling, he telephoned the garage and “borrowed” one of the motor cycle men to take the trophy out to his house: and then turned to other detail matters in hand. Twenty minutes later Riordan again entered the office, this time resplendent in gold braid and blue, and with his face utterly devoid of any suggestion of the heavy growth of hair that had covered it when he returned from his vacation trip.

“You did a quick job, boy,” said Brady, approvingly. “Want me to go out to Staples’s with you, or would you rather go alone?”

“Seeing as you’ve made such a hit with the secretary chap, chief, maybe I’d better go alone. You might rile him up some.”

The doorman interrupted any reply Brady might have had in mind, thrusting in his head to say:

“Mr. Saunderson of the Chronicle, cap’n. Wants to see you private on something important.”

Brady waved for the newspaper man to be admitted. He came in hurriedly, and though he tried to conceal his excitement, his eyes showed he had something which he believed vital. He nodded to Riordan, and then pulled up a chair beside Brady’s desk.

“This came in by messenger boy, with a dollar, about half an hour ago, captain,” he said, putting a piece of typewritten paper on the officer’s desk. “Down at the Chronicle office — the darned fool girl on the desk didn’t notice what it was at first, and didn’t get the messenger boy’s number, or anything.”

Riordan moved over so he could also see the paper, and with Brady read:

Sergeant Riordan turned away and sat down at his desk.

“You going to print this thing in your paper?” asked Brady.

“Sure, cap. Twice. Once where it’s paid for, and then again on the front page. I’m writing the story. Got it photographed before I brought it down to you. All I ask you to do is not to tip off the other boys till it’s printed. I played fair and brought it to you, now you’ve got to give us a break on it.”

“How’d you happen to think to write it?” asked Brady, levelly.

Saunderson laughed. “On the level, cap, it’s genuine. Really came into the office. In the old days, maybe, I’d ’a’ tried to fake something like that, but not now. Why, we got a man out now trying to trace the messenger.”

“I’ll bet you have. You newspaper men sure follow all tips fast. Too fast, sometimes. I’ve seen the day when a flock of reporters have gummed a case all up. Much obliged for bringing this thing in, after you’ve photographed it.”

He turned and pushed a button on his desk, and to the responding doorman barked:

“Willis, or Curtis or Halloran — any one of ’em.”

It was Halloran who lumbered in and almost saluted. The big detective never did get his hand much higher than his stomach in his gesture of salute. Captain Brady handed him the typewritten slip.

“Some messenger kid dragged this up to the Chronicle half an hour ago. Find the kid. Find out what kind of a guy gave it to him. If it listens like a reporter, find the reporter. I want to know if that thing is on the level or if it’s a wise-crack. Slide out on it now, Halloran.”

The big sleuth again made a gesture of salute and lurched out of the office.

“You can say in your story,” said Brady, turning to Saunderson, “that Captain of Detectives Brady appreciates—”

“Knew you’d say that, cap, an’ I’ve already written it. Told the world how much you appreciate the aid the Chronicle is giving the police department.”

“I wasn’t going to say that at all, me lad. I know you too well to give you permission to blarney us. You do it whenever you feel like it, anyway. What I was going to say was that you can put a piece in your story that Captain of Detectives Brady, appreciating the gravity of this case, has assigned Detective Sergeant Riordan to take complete charge of the investigation. I guess the public knows Riordan well enough so that they’ll feel confident that we’re working on this thing.”

“You give that to the rest of the boys, cap?”

“Not yet; Riordan just got here.”

“All right — don’t tell the rest of the gang, and I’ll put it in a box-lead at the top of the story. That will be two scoops. Much obliged.”

The reporter breezed out, and Brady laughed.

“He’s a good boy,” he said. “Full of pep. What you think of that ‘personal,’ boy?”

“I think it’s real, chief. If this was a common case, some of these reporters might take a chance on faking one, but Staples is too big a man to monkey with. But I don’t think you’ll get much out of the messenger kid. Well, I’m going out to 90 Glenn Avenue and have a look.”

“Hop to it, boy. And remember you’re in charge of the investigation, and whatever you want you can have. The chief ’ll back you up in anything — he told me so.”

Riordan nodded and departed. Down in the garage he avoided his own mud-stained and travel-marked machine, and motioned to one of the drivers of the two reserve touring cars to climb into one and play chauffeur, and so, in state, rolled out to the Staples residence. His dazzling uniform visibly impressed the servant who opened the door, and he could see that it also had its effect on young Mallory, when he met him in the library.

“Mr. Mallory? Detective Sergeant Riordan is my name. I’ve been specially assigned to this unfortunate affair, and I thought I’d come round and have a little talk with you. I was away on another matter when Mr. Staples disappeared; had I been here, I hope I could have spared you the unpleasant experience you had. Our jail is clean, but that’s about all you can say for it.”

Mallory smiled. “It was all right,” he said. “They treated me very well. I think the captain probably thought he was justified in holding me. One has to suspect everybody in a homicide, I suppose.”

Riordan waved his hands apologetically. “Not everybody, Mr. Mallory. In this case, for instance, not you. Anybody can see that you are a man of refinement, and not a butcher. Tell me, you knew Mr. Staples intimately; did you ever notice any peculiarities in his behavior?”

“No, I don’t think I did.”

“Was he irritable, Mr. Mallory? I mean, sometimes did he seem easily displeased with — with little things you may have done, or may not have done?”

“No, sergeant. He was very even-tempered.”

“Just what was your work, Mr. Mallory?”

“Well, I opened all but his personal mail, and sorted it. A great deal of it I was able to answer without referring it to him. Requests for rare bulbs, you know, or letters asking advice on horticulture. He got a great many of those.

“Then, you know, many people wanted to go through the greenhouses, and I looked after that. Then there were routine matters, such as his dues in the various organizations of which he was a member, the cataloguing of his papers, his accounts — all the things that a private secretary must do. The keeping his engagements listed—”

“Of course, Mr. Mallory. Now, more personal than those things, what did you do? Did Mr. Staples ask your advice, for instance, about his addresses, his public appearances? What to wear, whether or not he was pleased at the attention he received? Things like that?”

“I don’t get just what you’re driving at, sergeant.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I want to get from you an intimate character study of Mr. Staples. What kind of a man was he? What kind of men were his real friends — not just his acquaintances?”

“Oh, I see!” Mallory leaned back in his chair and considered. “I should say,” he said at length, “that Mr. Staples was rather a lonely man, if you know what I mean. He had very few real friends. I think, perhaps, Bishop Gale was the only real friend he had in the city. The addresses he made he gave rather because of his devotion to botany or horticulture, I think, and not to please any of the individuals to whom he spoke.

“I have never seen him concerned over the way his appearances were greeted. He did not seem to care. But he was very sensitive to what Bishop Gale thought of his actions. He would often ask me: ‘What do you think the bishop thought of that?’ Or: ‘Mallory, do you think I stayed too long at the bishop’s? Do you think I tired him?’ He had a deep regard for the bishop, sergeant.”

“Do you know whether he left a will?”

“I am quite sure he did, sergeant. Keefe, Sanderson and Keefe drew it, and have it.”

“Has it been offered for probate?”

“I think not, sergeant. Last time I spoke to Mr. Keefe about it, he said he was waiting until the body was found, or there was some legal indication of his actual death.”

“Oh, then you think Mr. Keefe doubts that he was murdered?”

“Not at all, sergeant. We are all of us sure of it. But you know the law. A man must be known to be dead—”

The secretary did not finish the sentence, and Sergeant Riordan changed the subject abruptly.

“About women, now?” he asked.

“Absolutely not, sergeant,” emphatically answered Mallory. “Since Mrs. Staples passed on he has positively avoided women. A little ‘balmy’ on that subject, I should say. He actually shuns women: he will not speak before women’s clubs, and only when it is absolutely necessary will he go to a reception where women are.”

“Any women servants?”

“Two, sergeant. A sort of combination housekeeper and maid, Mrs. Adams, and a woman who scrubs and does the simple washing. Mrs. Adams is a widow, and was employed when his wife was living. The charwoman, Margaret, has been with us for six years.”

“Do you mind, Mr. Mallory, if we take a look at his study?”

“Not at all, sergeant. Just follow me.”

IV

The secretary led the way into the room Brady had described, and Riordan’s first glance was at the day-calendar upon Mr. Staples’s desk. Its topmost sheet bore the current date, the fifteenth. Riordan sat down in the big armchair that Staples had used when he was there, and looked slowly about the room. Mallory stood watching him for awhile, and then dropped into a chair on the opposite side of the desk. After a lengthy and slow survey of everything in sight from his seat, Riordan looked at Mallory.

“You spoke some time ago,” he said, “of Mr. Staples’s great regard for Bishop Gale, and of his questioning you about the impression he made upon the bishop. What was the last inquiry of that nature that you remember, Mr. Mallory?”

“I really can’t recall,” the secretary answered at once.

“Well, try and recall it,” Riordan’s voice for the first time had lost its pleasant quality, and bordered upon the harsh. The secretary flushed slightly.

There was silence in the room for several minutes. Suddenly Sergeant Riordan broke it, snapping out:

“This desk calendar, when did you tear the leaves off and bring it up to date? When Captain Brady was here it showed Saturday, the fifth. Now it shows the fifteenth.”

“I... I... I don’t remember when I changed it.”

“What’d you change it for?”

Mallory pulled himself together. “I must have changed it this morning, when I was in here. I always try to keep everything ready, just as if Mr. Staples were here — it helps to pass away the time.”

“You didn’t change it before, when Brady was here. But you changed the others. What was the idea?”

“Why... why, there was a notation on it. I thought that ought to be left, that everything ought to be left just as it was when he disappeared.”

“You told Captain Brady that you didn’t know there was anything written on it till he called your attention to it.”

Mallory bit his lip. “It was such a trivial detail,” he said, almost stammering, “that I can’t really remember. I don’t see why both of you—”

“What was the last thing about the bishop that he worried about?” cut in Riordan.

“The gar — really, I don’t know.”

Sergeant Riordan leaned back again and looked about the room once more. Presently he closed his eyes, and sat as if he had dozed off. The minutes passed and he made no move. Mallory, watching him, began to fidget in his chair.

Riordan’s eyes popped open and bored into the secretary’s.

“Now, Mr. Mallory,” he said, his voice gentle again, “I’ve given you time to think it over and make up your mind. What was the last thing about the bishop that you recall Mr. Staples was worried about? You started to say it.”

“The gardener, sergeant. The bishop’s gardener had left him very suddenly, and he wrote Mr. Staples asking him to recommend another, and to loan him one of his until the new man arrived. We sent Jonas over. He was there for almost two weeks before Mr. Staples got the man he wanted.”

“When did he get the man, the new man?”

“Friday, I think it was, the day before he disappeared. He called the bishop up about it. After that he seemed quite worried, and kept saying he hoped the new gardener would please the bishop. Asked me several times if I thought he would. I answered that I was sure he would. ‘How do you know,’ he asked me, ‘you’ve never seen him?’ I answered that I was sure any man he selected would be satisfactory.”

“What was the new gardener’s name? Where did he come from?”

“I don’t know, sergeant. Mr. Staples never told me. I think the man came from quite a little distance away, it took him nearly two weeks to get here.”

“He might have been a local man and given his former employer two weeks’ notice, mightn’t he?”

“I think he was from quite a way off, sergeant. I got that impression.”

“You got the letter the bishop wrote asking him to recommend a gardener? Got it on file?”

“Yes, sergeant. Mr. Staples wanted all the bishop’s letters kept.”

“Thank you. Did Mr. Staples write in reply, and have you a copy of that reply?”

“He telephoned, sergeant. Mr. Staples wrote very few letters. He dictated very few. Mainly he used the telephone in communicating with people in the city. With most of those outside, to whom it was necessary that he write, he told me what he wanted said, and I wrote for him. We had an accepted form: ‘Mr. Staples is very busy, and in reply to your kind letter, requests me to inform you—’ whatever it might be.”

“Oh, I see. And you don’t remember when you changed this desk calendar?”

“It must have been this morning, sergeant.”

“Did you tear off all the sheets since the one of the fifth, or did you change it yesterday, too?”

“I changed it yesterday and the day before. In fact, I think I have changed it every day since I was — was released from — released by Captain Brady.”

Riordan made no comment, and after waiting for a moment Mallory replaced the letter from the bishop in the files. When he turned back Riordan was standing.

“You got any money?” he asked.

“A little, sergeant.”

“Who’s paying your salary, since Mr. Staples went away?”

“There hasn’t been any due. Mr. Staples paid me the first of the month. There won’t be any due till next month. Mr. Keefe, however, the attorney, said he would look out for me in that respect.”

“That’s nice. Well, Mallory, that will be all for to-day. Thank you for answering my questions.”

The secretary accompanied Riordan to the door. As he opened the portal he said:

“Have you found out anything yet, sergeant?”

“Who? Me? Lord no, I just came on the case. You’re the first man I’ve seen. Good day.”

He entered the police car and was driven to the Ocean Terminal. Summerfield, who knew him well, showed him to the mysterious room over Pier B, and he examined its restored tin wall covering with much interest, especially the plain print of a hobnailed boot almost in its center. Then he looked closely at the dark red spots on the walls, plainly marked by the lead pencil rings Captain Brady had drawn, and by the marks of scrapings where some of the stain had been removed for investigation.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” commented Summerfield.

“I’ll say it’s horrible,” was the reply, as Riordan turned and retraced his steps to the waiting police car, and climbed in.

“You know where my house is,” he said to the driver. “Well, chase out there, and be prepared to wait awhile, too.”

When Sergeant Riordan returned to the detective bureau late in the afternoon he found Captain Brady in conversation with the senior member of the law firm of Keefe, Sanderson & Keefe. His chief introduced him, and told him that Mr. Keefe had called to discuss the wording of an advertisement he intended to place in the papers in reply to the one just printed in the Chronicle, and of which he had been made aware before its publication. They asked the sergeant’s views.

“It doesn’t make much difference what you say,” he replied to the inquiry. “What the person who wrote that first ad wants to find out is whether you’ll do business. Any answer will tell him that. Then he or she will begin to boost the price on you.”

“How much do you think will be asked for Mr. Staples’s body, sergeant?” asked Mr. Keefe.

“How much you got?”

“Oh — you think it will be a case of getting the limit, do you?”

“No, sir. You wanted to know how much they’d ask, not how much they’ll get. If you want to know how much they’ll get, I’d say nothing.”

“Your plan, then, is to dicker with them, and trap them?”

“No, beat whoever it is to it.”

“You mean recover the body?”

“Something like that, sir.”

“Then you have discovered something? Captain Brady has spoken very highly of your abilities.”

Riordan shook his head. “Mr. Keefe, I haven’t found out a thing new on this case, not since it was first put in my hands. The only new thing was this advertisement, and one of the Chronicle men brought that to us.”

“But you speak confidently, sergeant,” Riordan crossed to his desk, opened it, swung his chair around and sat down.

“You in a hurry to get this... this body, Mr. Keefe?” he asked.

“I desire very much to have the matter cleared up, sergeant. As Mr. Staples’s attorneys, and probable executors of his estate, there are a great many things that should be settled. Recovering his body would make it unnecessary to have the courts declare him legally dead, as now would be necessary.”

Riordan pursed his lips, and, shooting a lightning glance at Captain Brady, said:

“Then all your interest in the matter is to wind up his estate, is it?”

“That is our main interest, if you want to put it bluntly, sergeant. Of course, personally I regret Mr. Staples’s untimely end, and all that, and as a citizen I should like to see his slayers captured and punished. But as things now are, we are constantly being embarrassed by matters which we cannot settle.”

“Somebody trying to get a share of the estate?”

“No, sergeant, not that. But Mr. Staples has given several institutions to understand that at his death they would benefit, in one way or another. Now that he is dead, they want the benefits. The State Botanical Society, for example, had been promised his greenhouses and residence property — it is so provided in his will — and they want to know when they’re going to get it.”

“These people ever pay very much attention to Staples where he was alive? Bother him any about it?”

Keefe looked surprised at the question, but he answered promptly enough.

“No, sergeant, they didn’t. In fact, Mr. Staples had often remarked to me that it was very plainly evident that his various intended beneficiaries thought more of what they were going to get than they appeared to think of the donor.”

“Touchy on it, was he, sir? Wanted to make more of a stir in the world, did he?”

The attorney nodded his head. “Yes, sergeant, I think you have stated the case, in your way. Mr. Staples was a peculiar man. You and I know, and the captain here, of course, that he was really a very wonderful man in many ways, and that his collection of orchids is probably among the finest and most complete in the world. He was an authority upon them. But not very many people are interested in orchids.

“If I may say it, Mr. Staples desired a certain amount of adulation which he never received. Men did not appreciate them. Women might have, but he believed all women shallow, and did not want their praises or attention. In fact I think he took himself rather too seriously. While he was a great man in his own line, his line did not interest the world at large; and, curiously enough, he craved notoriety.”

“Well, I’ll say he’s getting it now.”

Keefe smiled wryly. “Is he, sergeant? Or isn’t it that it is chiefly the mystery of the crime that is creating the sensation and keeping the public interested. I have read the headlines very carefully, and I have not seen Mr. Staples’s name mentioned very prominently. They have proclaimed: ‘Millionaire Butchered,’ ‘Rich Man’s Death Mystery,’ ‘Police Find Hidden Murder Den,’ ‘Hunt Man with Hob-Nailed Boots.’ things like that. But nothing about Mr. Staples himself. Only incidentally is it mentioned in the various articles that he was a noted authority on and collector of orchids.”

Riordan slowly nodded his head. “That’s true,” he said, “I’m glad you mentioned it, called my attention to it. Well, Mr. Keefe, if I were you, I wouldn’t answer that advertisement at all, nor any others that may appear.”

“You wouldn’t answer them?”

“I wouldn’t pay the slightest attention to any of them. Not just yet, anyway. And I’d suggest that you tell the reporters that your firm doesn’t intend to pay any attention to them.”

“Ah, strategy! I see, sergeant. Well, I will take your advice.”

“That’s right,” spoke up Captain Brady. “You take his advice. He knows what he’s doing.”

Mr. Keefe rose to go, but paused near the door.

“You’re looking for the typewriter on which that was written,” he said, pointing to the original of the advertisement. “I’ve been told that typewriters could be traced by peculiarities—”

“Yes, we’re looking for it, sir,” interrupted Riordan. “It may take some time to find it, though.”

Mr. Keefe departed, and Brady turned to his aid.

V

“What’d you do?” Brady asked.

“Looked over Mallory then went down and had a look at that room over Pier B. Then I went home and visited mother, and told her all about my hunting trip, and that your wife would probably invite her over to-morrow night to help eat venison.”

Captain Brady considered this, but before he made any reply the doorman entered.

“Please, captain,” he said, “Halloran’s back with a messenger kid, and Sergeant Roberts, of the uniformed force, has a drunk he wants you to look at.”

“Shove ’em all in here.”

Halloran and a messenger boy entered first. He pushed the lad forward. “Tell the captain here, son, what you told me,” he said.

“Well, sir,” spoke up the boy, proud of being thus thrust into the glory of a stellar rôle, “a countrylike lookin’ feller come up to me on First Street just after noon and asked me would I run an errand for him. I says, ‘No, not for you, but for two bits I will.’ He don’t get me, and I repeats the crack. Then he laughs, pulls out an envelope and a dollar bill, an’ says for to take them to the Chronicle office. Then he gives me two bits and hurries away.”

The door opened again, and Sergeant Roberts entered with an active case of intoxication.

“Sufferin’ cats!” exclaimed the messenger boy. “That’s him now. Only he wasn’t lit up like that when he give me the message. If he had ’a’ been I’d ’a’ hit him for a dollar, an’ I betcha I’d ’a’ got it.”

“Take that kid out of here, get his statement and his pedigree, and turn him loose again,” said Brady. Then he turned and slowly eyed the drunk, who was twisting from side to side in Sergeant Roberts’s grip.

“I got this bird as he reeled out of a blind pig down on lower Center Street, cap’n,” the uniformed officer said. “Goin’ good, he was. I called the wagon, and as I threw him in I happened to look at his boots. So I come in with him. Take a look at ’em, cap’n.”

Brady reached forward and jerked one of the prisoner’s feet toward him, and the man promptly flopped on his back, muttering protestations. Brady reached again and got the other foot. Both were incased in practically new hob-nailed boots. The captain reached back to his desk with one hand and dragged forward a bit of tracing paper, which he slapped against one sole and then against the other. Then he dropped both the feet to the floor, exclaiming:

“The same boot, by gad! Fits the marks.”

He turned to Riordan elatedly. “Boy, we got him,” he exclaimed. “And just by luck!”

Then the elation vanished from his face, for Riordan’s back was turned and he was looking over the papers on his desk. For just a moment Captain Brady looked puzzled, then he dropped to his knees, drew his knife from his pocket, opened its largest blade, and with two swift slashes cut the laces that held the boots on the man’s feet and drew them off.

“Sergeant Roberts,” he snapped. “Take that man upstairs and have him locked all alone in one of the tanks. Don’t search him, don’t do anything with him. Then get a squad of men and the wagon and go down and kick in that blind pig he staggered out of, and bring everybody in the place up here. Lively now.”

Roberts saluted and dragged his prisoner from the room. Brady went over to Riordan’s chair and slapped his aid on the back.

“Tough luck, boy,” he said, laughing. “But don’t take it that way. I know you’d have got him, give you time enough. I could tell by the way you talked to Keefe you had a red-hot lead. But it don’t make any difference who got him, the harnessed bulls or us. We’re all police. It’s our job to catch crooks. This guy’s boots — the nails in one of ’em — exactly fits that mark on the tin down in that room at the pier: I got a tracing of it here, and tried it. Look, come over here and see for yourself.”

Riordan got up, his face glum, and it remained that way while Captain Brady plastered the tracing upon one of the soles of the boots, and pointed out to him how the nails fitted the marks exactly.

“You got a piece of tin, like that in the room down at the pier, chief?” he asked, when the demonstration had been completed.

“Yeah, boy, I happen to have,” Brady answered. “I got some sheet tin the other day, before this thing broke, to take home. I was going to put it on the wall behind the kitchen sink, and put enamel paint on it. I’ve been so busy on this case I haven’t taken it home yet. It’s under my desk here!”

He reached beneath the desk and drew out a flat heavy package, and, tearing the wrapping, drew out a square of rolled tin, Riordan took it and put it on the floor.

“Now, chief, you make a footprint with that boot on it,” he said, “like that footprint down there in the loft over the pier. I’ll pay for the tin if you spoil it.”

Captain Brady frowned a moment, then picked up the boot with the telltale arrangement of hobnails on the bottom of it, and, placing it on the sheet of tin, leaned on it with both hands. Picking it up, he looked at the tin. Its surface was barely scratched. He shot a look at Riordan, then put the boot back on the tin again, and stood on the sole, lifting his other foot, so his whole weight rested upon it. Then he picked up the boot again. There were just the tiniest traces of indentations where the hobnails had rested.

Brady sat down and looked at his aid. Then he picked up the tin again, and examined it.

“This floor,” he said, “is—”

“Old and punky,” cut in Riordan. “The floor down at the pier is a lot newer, and it’s hardwood. You ought to be able to make a better footprint here than you could there. And you, with all your weight, are about twice as heavy as that stew you sent upstairs. How’d he make a footprint like that, do you suppose?”

Captain Brady ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head. Then he walked over to his locker and took a heavy iron dumb-bell from it, came back, and, placing the hob-nailed boot on the tin, began to hammer it methodically, holding it in place with his left hand. After he had pounded it all over he tossed the boot aside and picked up the sheet of tin. This time he had a nicely and deeply marked impression of the hobnails.

“Chief, I always said you had a good head,” commented Riordan, laughing. “You got that the very first time, after you’d tried it twice other ways. I suppose by now you got the fact, too, that there was only one footprint in that there murder room, too, haven’t you?”

Brady rolled the dumb-bell across the floor savagely, and stood the sheet of tin on top of his desk.

“You won’t have to pay for this tin, boy,” he said. “It’s worth twice the thirty-eight cents it cost me to find that out. But still, you got to admit, this guy had the boots on.”

“And I’ll bet he can prove he got ’em honestly, too.”

“But the party that gave ’em to him?”

“Probably was a minister, and got ’em through the mail to give to some poor and deserving party. Remember, there was only one boot used to make that print down there on the pier.”

“But the advertisement? The messenger kid said this was the same bird?”

“Let’s have him down and ask him.”

“But he’s crazy drunk.”

“Have him down.”

Captain Brady pushed a button and told the doorman to get such assistance as might be necessary and bring the drunk down from the tank. The doorman, Halloran and Curtis carried him into the office. He was oblivious, utterly.

“Frisk him,” snapped Brady.

The burly Halloran did that unpleasant work. The man’s pockets yielded three dollars and ten cents in coin, one common variety of doorkey, one broken knife, stained with vari-colored paint, a piece of pink newsprint with a risque joke upon it, and two street car tickets.

Riordan took off his dress uniform coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and picked the inert drunk up and slammed him upright against the wall.

“Hold him there,” he said.

Halloran and the doorman acted as pegs to keep the figure standing. Riordan, stepping in front of him, slapped him, open-handed, first on one cheek and then on the other, then gathered a handful of the victim’s hair and began to pull upward. The effect was startling. The man’s eyes opened and he let out a shrill scream.

“Where’d you get them boots?” shouted Riordan.

“F-f-f-ather Callaghan, damn, leggo me hair.”

“Who gave you that money, and the envelope?”

“Leggo me hair, you’re murderin’ me.”

“Who give you the money, and the envelope?”

“Father Callaghan, wid de boots, oh, ouch!”

Riordan let go the handful of hair, motioned to Halloran and the doorman, and they let go at the same time. The drunk flopped to the floor, and lay there, pawing at his scalp and moaning.

“See if you can carry him up to the tank again, boys,” said Riordan. “And better have the emergency hospital doc look him over. Maybe I tore something. Tell the doc to pump him out, anyway.”

The two detectives and the doorman took up their burden, and Riordan, returning to his desk, reached for his telephone and called a number.

VI

“Father Callaghan, please,” he said. “Yes, I’ll wait — hello, Father Callaghan? This is Riordan, detective sergeant, speaking. Got a man down here, father, who says you gave him a pair of hobnail boots and some money and a letter to the Chronicle. What do you know about it, please?”

He listened a long time, then said: “Thank you, father. No, there won’t be anything said. Thank you, and good-by.”

“Well?” demanded Brady.

“He said, chief, that this morning a man came to the parish house to see him, gave him the boots and asked him to give them to some deserving poor person. Father Callaghan mentioned the case of this man Reilly — I guess that’s our friend upstairs — a painter out of work and badly in need of shoes. His caller seemed interested, Father Callaghan said, and offered to help Reilly a little. He said he was going away, but he wanted a message delivered down town. He suggested that Father Callaghan give the message to Reilly and have him deliver it. There was a small charge to be paid with the message, the man didn’t know how much. He left a dollar to cover the charges, and he gave Father Callaghan five dollars to give Reilly. He said he’d be back in a week or so, and might then have some work for Reilly.

“Father Callaghan took the boots and the message, which was in an unsealed envelope, and the money. Reilly was working about the church. Father Callaghan says he opened the envelope, and saw the advertisement inside. He was badly frightened. He’d read about this case, and didn’t want to get mixed up in it. He didn’t know what to do. On second thought, he decided that the message probably was genuine and might do some good if it was printed. So he went over to the church, gave Reilly the boots and the five dollars, and then the envelope and the dollar, and told him to go down town, find a messenger boy, give him the dollar and the message, which was addressed to the Chronicle, and get the boy to deliver it. He told him to keep his own counsel.

“He said the man who called on him was somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age, medium height and weight, smooth shaven, and looked as if he’d seen better days. He spoke very good English, he says, and didn’t seem a bit nervous. The man didn’t give any name, nor any account of himself, and, of course, while he was talking Father Callaghan had no idea what was in the message, and just thought he was somebody who wanted to do a little good, and who was embarrassed about it. Now, in view of what he knows, and what he’s read in the afternoon papers, he says he thinks the man was suffering from remorse. But he doesn’t believe that the man was a murderer, though, he says, it looks as if the man knew about this thing. He didn’t notice which direction he came from, or which way he went.”

“Humph,” said Brady, “and that’s that. He’s a priest and is telling the truth, and if we’ve got to have him, we can use him, but otherwise we’ve got to leave him out. Well, as you said, boy, that clears Reilly. What you going to do now?”

A stamping of feet in the outer room, and the opening of the door cut off Riordan’s reply, as Sergeant Roberts and his squad entered, shepherding a miserable-looking bunch of wreckage.

“Got ’em in the blind pig, captain,” he announced.

“Take ’em upstairs and have Halloran go through ’em,” said Brady. “He knows what we’re after. Tell him about the first fellow, what you saw and why you brought him in. I’m busy.”

Sergeant Roberts piloted his charges out again, and Brady reverted to his unanswered inquiry.

“What you going to do now, boy?” Riordan stretched and yawned.

“Well, chief, the way things are shaping up now, I guess I’d better go out and get that body the ad mentions. I was going to wait a few days, and get some more of those ads, but I guess I’d better—”

“What?” demanded Captain Brady, leaping from his chair. “Say, this isn’t anything to kid about.”

“Who’s kidding?”

“Looks like you were, boy. Here the whole force has been workin’ on this thing for over a week, and hasn’t turned up a blamed line that’s any good; and you yourself said you’d only been out to Staples’s house and down to the pier—”

Captain Brady stopped abruptly, and sat down.

“Go on, chief, finish it.”

Brady shook his head slowly. “No, boy. Guess I’d better not. I just remembered about the footprint and the tin. I guess I’ve said too much already.”

“Tell you what I’ll do, chief. I’ll let you in on it. I’ll just use the telephone here a minute, and then you and I’ll go out to dinner. When we come back we’ll have a man here who’ll produce that body. How’s that?”

Captain Brady scowled. “Boy, I’m in no mood for kidding,” he said.

Riordan reached for his telephone again, called the same number he had before, and Brady heard him say:

“Father Callaghan? This is Riordan again. Say, father, I think maybe you can do something for us that will clear this thing all up and let you out at the same time. Yes. I mean avoid any possibility of unpleasant publicity. You’ll do it, fine! Well, I tell you, father, you call a taxicab and drive over to Bishop Gale’s residence. He’s not in the city, went away the first of the week. But he’s got a new gardener, nice old man he is, the gardener. I think maybe you’ll find you know him, yes. Well, you use your powers of persuasion with him, father, and get him to take a ride with you, and bring him down here to Captain Brady’s office. The captain and I will be here when you arrive, and we’ll be glad to take care of the taxi bill for you. Thanks, father, you’re doing all of us a great favor. Good-by.”

He hung up and turned to Captain Brady.

“Come on, chief, let’s go,” he said. “I know you’re not hungry, but you can make yourself eat. We’ll just have time before Father Callaghan gets here.”

Riordan did all the talking as they ate. He told of his hunting trip and other recent adventures. Captain Brady listened, but that was all. He made no replies, no comments. He ate stolidly. His face was a study most of the time, and he kept shooting sharp glances at his aid. He was silent all the way back to headquarters from the restaurant, and only when he was again seated in his chair did he say anything.

“Boy, you got me beat. I’ve been going all over this case while you were talking away there, and I don’t see a thing. Except that hobnail shoe print. I can see that was a plant. But why?”

The doorman announced Father Callaghan, and ushered in the priest and a quiet, elderly, thin man, whose face seemed rather haggard. Riordan pushed forward chairs, introduced the churchman to Captain Brady, and then turned the latch on the office door and resumed his own seat at his desk. He paid not the slightest attention to the man Father Callaghan had brought with him, but Captain Brady’s eyes were as gimlets and kept boring into the fourth member of the group constantly.

“Father,” said Riordan, “you’ve had a good deal of experience with different people. I want to ask you if you’ve ever seen a man really happy because everybody flattered him?”

The priest straightened in his chair, and his eyes opened widely. The suggestion of a smile banished the lines of worry that had been apparent when he first entered the room.

“No, my son,” he said. “I have not.”

“Did you ever see a man who’d sought flattery, and who had failed to get it, find happiness in something else?”

“Yes — in service. Why?”

“Well, father, I’ve got a case in mind that I want you to help me in. There’s a man, he’s fairly well-to-do, who has done a great deal, one way or another, in this world. I don’t know whether what he’s done has amounted to so very much, as you and I figure real worth, but he’s done the best he could. In his own way he’s a great man, but most people don’t understand his way. Nobody has ever praised him. Nobody has patted him on the back and told him he was great stuff. Some people, who understand what he’s been doing, have told him his work was very fine, but the world at large never figured he amounted to much. He was lonely, and he craved attention; he craved flattery. He didn’t get it, and he got sore at everybody in general.

“But he wasn’t absolutely soured. He planned to give away what he had when he died, so that people could enjoy the things he’d enjoyed. He’d planned to give bis garden, for instance, for a public park. That showed that his heart was still right. But when he planned that, nobody patted him on the back and told him how fine his plans were.

“And so with the rest of his life. People didn’t understand him, and he didn’t understand people. And his craving for flattery — for that is really what he wanted — finally preyed upon him so it made him ill. It made him sick in the head, father. He said to himself that if he couldn’t get flattery, at least he’d get notoriety. He ‘framed’ a murder, father; an atrocious murder. He thought, in his misguided way with his sick mind, that he’d get notoriety, at least.

“But he failed again, father. The murder got the notoriety, but the man who planned it got — nothing. His name wasn’t mentioned in the headlines, nobody, as far as he knew, sought him. He made efforts to attract attention, and these were ignored, as far as he knew. What would you advise for a case like that, father?”

The priest looked at the companion he had brought with him, then at Captain Brady, then at Sergeant Riordan.

“You mean, my son,” he said, at length, “that the man who murdered Willard Staples did it for notoriety?”

Riordan nodded his head.

“He is insane,” said the priest. “There is nothing that can be done for him, save to lock him up for his own protection”

Riordan smiled grimly.

“I see your viewpoint, lather,” he declared, “but I don’t think you see mine. I was speaking about the man who planned the murder of Willard P. Staples—”

“He was insane, my son.”

“Possibly, father, in a way. But he didn’t carry out the plan; at least he didn’t commit the murder.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Staples isn’t dead at all. He’s sitting in that chair there beside you. He faked the whole thing, to get notoriety first, and then flattery when he returned. First he juiced his face to look like a Spaniard, then he shaved to look like somebody else.”

“You’re wrong officer,” spoke up the fourth man in the room. “You’re partly wrong, at least. You are partly right; I did crave attention, flattery, as you call it. But I didn’t simulate murder to get notoriety; I did it as a test, to see how much my fellow citizens really thought of me.”

“You found out, didn’t you?”

“As you say, officer, the apparent crime rather drew more attention than the victim.”

“I’ll say it did. And you’ll find out how much more when you come alive again. You’ll get neither flattery nor notoriety — people will laugh you out of the city.”

Staples laughed silently. “I think not, officer. You see, there is something besides myself to be considered. There is the police department. If I just ‘come alive’ again, as you say, the people will laugh at you. But if you assist me in ‘coming alive,’ we will both escape laughter. I had thought that all out.”

“Yeah? Like you thought out the meat ax you threw in the river and the old coat cut with shears, and not chopped up? Like the one footprint you hammered into the tin? Like the blood stains you made, by flicking your finger after you’d cut it? Flicked your finger, and the little drops of blood all flew out in a straight line, just like spatters from the end of a pen when a schoolboy flicks it. Thought your comeback out like that, did you?”

Mr. Staples’s demeanor was less confident.

“I had thought,” he said, “that you could announce you had discovered I wasn’t dead, but that I was held for ransom; that I’d promised the men who were going to kill me a ransom. That advertisement, you know, would look — would make that seem plausible. The advertisement didn’t say ‘dead body,’ it just said ‘body.’ You could announce you had discovered the gang’s hiding place, and had rescued me. That would stop the laughter”

“Would it? How’d we explain that we didn’t capture your abductors? Admit we let ’em get away, that we were so dumb we couldn’t get them after we got you? You got great ideas.”

Staples smiled dryly.

“Well, officer, if you don’t like that plan, I’ll just ‘come alive’ without any assistance. I guess I can stand the laughter as well as you can — probably better.”

Captain Brady leaned forward, frowning.

“Boy,” he said, “I guess he’s got us on the hook. You’ve done some fine work, boy; but I guess we got to be the goats. Staples, you’d better get out of here before I lose my self-control and beat you up for the ten days’ work you’ve given my men. I got a mind to take one good swing at you, anyway, just for luck.”

Staples, smiling satirically, rose from his chair. “You’d hardly dare hit me before witnesses,” he said.

“Sit down,” roared Riordan. “I told you you were sick in the head. I’m not half through with you yet. Maybe you’ll wish you were dead before you get out of the mess you’ve got yourself into.”

Staples, his face blanching, dropped back into his chair, and cast an appealing look at Father Callaghan.

“You’re a prisoner,” said Riordan. “Now, try and get this through your head, so you can tell your attorneys — if they care to handle your case.

“You’re under arrest first, for malicious mischief, in that you deliberately pried loose and threw into the river one window and window frame of a loft in Pier B, Ocean Terminal.

“Charge number two is violating the State law that prohibits the dumping of refuse into navigable streams, in that you dumped a lot of tin, nails, one meat ax and one old coat into the basin at the terminal. Those are both misdemeanors, and we’ll lock you up on them and book you on ’em for to-night.

“To-morrow we’ll start on you right. We’ll take your case before the district attorney and have him ask the grand jury to indict you and your man Mallory for a felony, to wit, conspiracy to defeat justice and conspiracy to manufacture false evidence.

“You told Mallory to leave that notation about ‘Pier B. Ocean Terminal’ on that sheet of Saturday the fifth undisturbed on your desk calendar until the police arrived and noted it.

“Furthermore I’m inclined to believe, and I think I can prove it when I have to, that you told Mallory you were going to try this gardener business out at the bishop’s place, and that in case of emergency you could be reached there, or at least that you could be communicated with through the bishop’s gardener.

“I’m satisfied Mallory was in on this with you, and when I get through I’m pretty sure I can prove it. How I’m going to do that isn’t for you to hear, however; I’ll tell the district attorney and the grand jury that. So that will take care of you being indicted for a felony.

“Furthermore, you have assumed another identity, and you have given the impression that you were murdered, and maybe the insurance people will find that interesting enough to take a crack at you on the grounds of attempting to deceive and collect insurance wrongfully.

“If they don’t want to do that. I’ll bet anyway they’ll cancel all your policies. That’s all I think of just now, but maybe after I see the district attorney, he’ll be able to think up some more — they say he’s a good lawyer. Now how do you like coming back to life? It’s a little different from what you figured, isn’t it?”

Staples looked down at the floor. Captain Brady walked over to the door, unlatched it, and stuck his head out, beckoning to Halloran, who was in the outer office. The big detective lurched into the room, and Brady indicated Staples with his thumb.

“You take that fellow upstairs, and lock him up,” he said. “Take him up the back way, through the drill hall. Never mind booking him just yet; I’ll attend to that later. And in about half an hour you slip down to the pressroom and tip them reporters off that Riordan has a story for ’em.”

The prisoner gone, in charge of Halloran, Father Callaghan rose and held out his hand to Sergeant Riordan.

“My son, I wish to thank you for taking a great load off my mind.”

“That’s all right, father. The best way I could see to do it was to have you bring the man in yourself, and listen to us. When you go home, tell the taxi driver that his trip is to be charged to the department. We are very much obliged to you, father, both the captain and I.”

“Boy,” said Captain Brady, after the priest had departed, “I want—”

“Now listen, chief,” interrupted Riordan, “don’t you go pulling any of that stuff at all. You saw everything I saw, and you noted that desk calendar the first thing. The only thing you missed was how that footprint in the tin was made, and you tumbled to that here yourself to-night.

“You’d have made the whole case before the night was over if Sergeant Roberts hadn’t gone and found that drunk with the boots on — you were just tumbling to it when he bust in. So don’t you try to hand me any credit for it. And I don’t want you to bother me any for the next twenty minutes, either — I got to dope out how’s the best way to put this up to the reporters, so they’ll be sure and see what a fine piece of work the police department has done.”