The Black Mask (Vol. 4, No. 3 — December 1921)

I

THIS story begins with the tale one Henry Grover told Meroe before seven in the morning, after I had ushered him into the room. We had never seen him before.

He was bald, with the exception of a curious and rather ugly strip of black hair at the back of his head. His eyebrows were heavy and black, and above the left one there was a mole with a long hair growing out of it which seemed to bother the eye beneath. He tilted back his head to gaze at us from under half-lowered lids which seemed too heavy to raise themselves. His face was smooth and molded with odd lines about the mouth.

“I have a room on the sixth floor of the Buckminster, facing south,” he said. “My desk makes an angle with the window, and I sit so the light comes from the left and a little behind. By slightly turning my head, I can see the face of the Claridge across the rather narrow street.

“Now you must have observed, Mr. Meroe, that it is unpleasant to be stared at; that there is something distressingly tangible about it even when you are not aware of the owner or the location of the eyes which are staring at you. This feeling came to me yesterday afternoon. I looked hastily about the room. My door was closed and I was alone. I looked out of the window. Opposite stretched the windows of the sixth floor of the Claridge. Every ten yards was a set of bay windows. Not directly opposite, but just three or four windows to the right, was the third of these sets.

“There I glanced, instinctively, and rather furtively trying to conceal the fact. In the side window was the back of a settee. Beyond this I saw a rather stout and elderly woman with slightly gray hair and a dark brown dress sitting motionless in a rocking chair and staring at me.

“This annoyed me so that I resolved to outstare her. I turned my chair slightly and directed a defiant glare which I held for perhaps thirty seconds before I discovered that she had not been looking at me at all. She took absolutely no notice of my action.

“Laughing at myself, I attempted once more to resume my writing, but again felt the irresistible impulse to turn my eyes... Still the steady stare. Then for the first time I noticed something just above the back of the left end of the settee. It was the head of a man. The confused reflections at that part of the window had prevented me from distinguishing him before. Of course! I thought to myself. The man was undoubtedly talking to her, and she was listening very attentively. But my train of thoughts had been wrecked and work was useless, so I put on my hat and went out for a walk.

“It was nearly supper time, so I went downtown to my favorite restaurant. On the way home I stopped, as is my custom, at the Public Library. It was late when I returned to bed. As I opened my window I noticed that the bay window was dark, and presumed, of course, that the man and woman had retired.

“Now I am an early riser, sir. I very often do two or three hours’ work before breakfast.”

Here he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his head.

“Mr. Meroe,” he said strangely, and evidently quite carried away with a vivid memory, “this morning I commenced to write, as usual. Soon came the first light of dawn. I kept on writing. Then it grew lighter and I turned off the desk lamp... And, dear God! man,” he said hoarsely, “I looked out of the window — I looked out of the window, and... there she was — that woman — still staring at me! And the head of the man was above the back of the settee in exactly the same position.”

I leaned forward with a glance at Meroe.

“And what did you do, Mr. Grover?” he was asking.

“I went directly over to the Claridge, sir, but the janitor said that I was — er — crazy, and would not listen to me. What’s more, he would not let me in to wake up the manager. So I returned to my room to make sure that I had not been dreaming. Being perfectly satisfied that this was not the case, I decided to appeal to you. If you will come directly to my room, I am confident that you will find things just as I have stated.”

“And it is your opinion, Mr. Grover, that a crime has been committed?”

“Why, yes — er — well, that, of course, is one possibility.”

“Come,” said Meroe, putting the screen in front of the fireplace, “we will go immediately.”

Once in the room, Grover advanced quickly to the window and uttered an exclamation of astonishment, for the room behind the third bay window opposite was the scene of a commotion.

Meroe bolted for the door with the two of us at his heels.

The office of the Claridge was empty. Not waiting to ring for the elevator, Meroe rushed up six flights of stairs.

I followed him, leaving Grover blustering and far behind.

We made our way toward the sound of voices down the hall, and stood in the doorway of a room facing a dozen or more people. Meroe showed them his badge of authority. Mr. Barhart, manager of the hotel, stood forth as main spokesman. I was surprised to find that all in the room were alive and on their feet, and noticed that Meroe was also somewhat disturbed at this.

“Where are the bodies?” he asked, addressing Mr. Barhart, who seemed rather astounded that Meroe had arrived upon the scene, and could not quite understand how he had known that there were bodies in the case when he, himself, had just discovered them.

“Why, we carried them to the bed in the other room,” he replied, “and sent for the house doctor.”

“Has he been here?”

“He has examined them, sir. In fact, he is still in the room with them.”

“Were they dead?”

“Apparently quite lifeless.”

“Then you should not have removed them until the arrival of the proper authorities, Mr. Barhart. Have you notified the police?”

“The police!” Mr. Barhart was quite taken aback. “It had not occurred to me that there was need to notify the police. I was about to notify the friends of these people and arrange with the undertaker...”

“Then it had not occurred to you, Mr. Barhart, that a crime had been committed?”

There was a murmuring of voices among the assembly at the end of the room, among which were guests of the hotel, two or three maids, the elevator boy, and the telephone girl.

“A crime!” exclaimed the manager. “These unfortunate people have been ill. Fifteen minutes ago a telegram came for Mr. Brentore, and, as they did not answer the phone, I, myself, came up to see what was the matter. I found them dead, Mrs. Brentore in the chair here, and Mr. Brentore on the settee by the window.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Grover had caught up with us and was standing in the doorway.

“What was the doctor’s verdict?” asked Meroe of Barhart at this point.

“That they both had died of heart trouble, perhaps after having eaten a very heavy meal,” he replied.

“Oh, but they were not present in the dining-room at dinner time,” interrupted one of the guests.

Meroe beckoned to Grover.

“Mr. Barhart, this man occupies a room on the sixth floor of the Buckminster, very nearly opposite these windows. Yesterday afternoon he saw Mr. and Mrs. Brentore in the positions in which you have informed me they were found this morning. Early this morning he saw them in the same position. He rushed here to notify you. Your janitor laughed at him, called him crazy, and refused to let him wake you. I am. sorry, Mr. Barhart, but I will have to ask all of you to remain in this room until I have investigated the situation a little more closely...”

The telephone girl stepped forward and held up her hand.

“Lee Harmon, the janitor, has disappeared,” she said. “He was seen by Miss Lougee, the night operator, at about six. Shortly after that there was a call for him about a water fixture, but he was not to be found.”

Just then the doctor stepped forth from the bedroom.

“These gentlemen are here under the impression that a crime has been committed,” said Barhart, with a sweep of the hand toward the three of us.

“And perhaps — perhaps we are wrong,” said Grover, with his rasping voice. “I was the one who suggested the idea. I was very suspicious and consulted Mr. Meroe immediately, knowing that he, if anyone, could throw light on the subject. But — but perhaps I was over-hasty — yes, perhaps I was over-hasty...”

“There is every evidence of a natural death,” said the doctor.

“You are sure there were no marks of violence?” asked Meroe.

“Absolutely, Mr. Meroe. I have examined the bodies very carefully. Besides, they were found in a peaceful position, one in the chair and one on the settee. This would hardly indicate a death by violence. No, the deaths were undoubtedly caused by heart failure although I am at a loss to know the exact nature of this heart failure. There is a total lack of other indications.”

“Does it not strike you as odd, doctor,” said Meroe, “that the two deaths should have occurred simultaneously?”

“At first, yes. But on second thought, no,” he replied. “They were both in a weak condition, and, in sitting conversing with each other, as was evidently the case, if one were to die suddenly, it would not be unnatural that the shock of the discovery should cause heart failure in the other.”

Meroe shook his head doubtfully.

“And you are absolutely certain that they were not poisoned?” he asked.

“No. I am not absolutely certain that they were not poisoned,” was the reply. “But I will assist in performing an autopsy this morning, if you wish.”

“Please make arrangements to do that,” said Meroe. “And I will notify the coroner at once. And, by the way, doctor, Mr. Barhart informs me that Mr. and Mrs. Brentore had been ill. May I ask what was the nature of that illness?”

“That I do not know, Mr. Meroe. Although I am the house doctor, Mr. and Mrs. Brentore were in the habit of consulting a doctor by the name of Kramer. I know nothing about him other than his name and his distinctly odd personal appearance.”

Meroe turned to the gathering at the end of the room.

“Is there testimony to be volunteered illustrative of the case as it stands,” he asked. “Does anyone know where Dr. Kramer may be found?”

“I have heard Mrs. Brentore call Dr. Kramer on the phone,” said the telephone girl. “He lives at the Braymore.”

“When was Dr. Kramer last seen in this building?”

“He passed through the office to the elevator yesterday afternoon,” she answered.

“I took him up to this floor, sir,” said the elevator boy. Then an elderly woman stepped forward.

“My rooms are across the hall,” she said, “and I saw him enter the room. It was about four o’clock.”

“And how long did he remain here?”

“I do not know. But later in the afternoon, shortly after five, I saw the janitor come out of Mrs. Brentore’s room. I thought nothing of it at the time, but perhaps it will prove to have some bearing on the matter, now that the janitor is supposed to have disappeared.”

“I am quite sure that it will have a bearing,” said Meroe. “And now, Mr. Barhart, may I please see the telegram which caused you to seek an entrance to these rooms this morning?”

Meroe read the message which Mr. Barhart handed him and then dismissed all except Barhart and Grover.

As the gathering dispersed, Meroe led me into the bedroom to examine the bodies. They were stretched side by side upon the bed under a sheet. The clothing was on a chair. I thought I heard Meroe utter an exclamation as he held up the dress of the woman. Then he turned to the bodies. The skin of each of them was ashy pale and the lips were almost a pale slate color.

“It is hard to believe that they died of heart failure,” I whispered. “It appears to me that the doctor and Mr. Barhart are very much interested in proving that a crime has not been committed.”

Meroe did not answer. He was on his way to the phone to notify the coroner.

When he returned he proceeded to examine the bodies very minutely from head to foot. Once he poked me and pointed to the lower arm of the woman near the elbow.

“It looks like a needle-prick,” I whispered.

Meroe then went over the arms of the man very carefully, but found nothing.

Suddenly he poked me again and pointed to the man’s left leg.

There was the same little mark which looked like a needle-prick.

“Do you think they have been poisoned?” I whispered.

“The coroner will soon find out,” he answered.

And then we joined Mr. Grover and Mr. Barhart, who had remained in the sitting-room of the suite.

Meroe sat down to examine the contents of the desk. I saw him put an envelope in his pocket.

“Mr. Barhart,” said Meroe, “what can you tell me of this janitor, Lee Harmon, who was seen to depart from this room yesterday afternoon, who would not permit Mr. Grover to notify you of his suspicions this morning and who has, since then, disappeared?”

“I know absolutely nothing about him, Mr. Meroe, except that we have employed him for little more than a month.”

“Did he come to you with recommendations?”

“His only recommendation was from — well, now, that’s funny! It hadn’t struck me before — his only recommendation was from Dr. Kramer.”

“Hm! I see. Well, how long have Mr. and Mrs. Brentore been guests at the Claridge?”

“Three years this next month.”

“And how long has Dr. Kramer been attending them?”

“Just this fall. Before that I do not believe they were in need of medical advice. If so, it did not come under my observation.”

“And Mr. and Mrs. Brentore were quite wealthy?”

“Very wealthy, Mr. Meroe.”

“As soon as the coroner arrives, Mr. Barhart, I will leave to make some further investigations of my own. I will return at two o’clock. Please see that all the available witnesses are present.”

“And — you are still of the opinion that a crime has been committed, Mr. Meroe?”

“I would rather not answer that, Mr. Barhart, until I have received the coroner’s statement... And, Mr. Grover, there is nothing to keep you now, but inasmuch as you are one of the chief witnesses I shall ask you to be present at two this afternoon.”

“Really, you know,” he rasped, “perhaps I have been over-hasty. I would not wish to be the cause of unnecessary trouble by suggesting that a crime had been committed when — when—”

“You were certainly the early bird this time, Mr. Meroe,” chuckled a voice in the doorway.

It was the coroner.

II

At the office of the Braymore, which was next door to the Buckminster, Meroe made inquiries about Dr. Kramer. He had occupied room number seventy-five on the seventh floor for two months; was not seen very often; was in the habit of spending long hours, sometimes days, in his room with the door locked, and had been known to refuse to answer messages or telephone calls. They knew nothing whatsoever of his practice, were not even sure that he possessed one. The last seen of him was the afternoon before, when he had returned to his room after having been away for two or three hours.

There was an automatic elevator in the Braymore. This we took to the seventh floor. We knocked at the door of seventy-five, but there was no answer. We tried to open it, but it was locked. Meroe called a maid.

“Dr. Kramer does not permit us to enter his room unless he calls us, sir,” she said, but handed him the pass key. The door was bolted from the inside and would not open.

“I think,” said Meroe, “that we can get in through the window, if you will let us into a room which opens out onto the roof of the Buckminster. There is no space between the two buildings.”

He was not mistaken. After climbing out of room seventy-two we encircled a small court and came to the window of Dr. Kramer’s room, which was closed but unfastened.

Inside there was nothing — absolutely nothing belonging to Dr. Kramer. The drawers were open and crumpled paper littered the floor, as if he had packed very hurriedly.

“So Dr. Kramer has disappeared, too,” muttered Meroe.

Outside, Meroe handed me the telegram which had been sent to Mr. Brentore. It was from Brattlenook, New Jersey, and dated November the twenty-ninth.

It was signed “R. Goodnow.”

“Harding is their lawyer,” said Meroe, drawing from his pocket the envelope he had found in Brentore’s desk. “If you will wire R. Goodnow of the death of Mr. and Mrs. Brentore, I will run up to see Harding and tend to one or two other matters. Then we will meet at Marston’s at twelve-thirty for a bite of lunch before ending this curious little story about the woman in a dark brown dress who stared at Henry Grover...”

There was an odd smile on Meroe’s face, but before I could speak he was striding down the street away from me.

Shortly before twelve-thirty I seated myself in the lobby of Marston’s to wait for Meroe. At twelve-fifty-five he came through the door as if he had been hurrying. His brows were puckered and he appeared distressed.

“What news?” I asked.

“That there were absolutely no traces of poison,” he replied, leading me quickly to a table in the corner.

“Then — then the whole thing is a farce — I mean about the crime part of it? What about the janitor and Kramer? What about Barhart and the house doctor?...”

But Meroe did not answer. After giving our order, he leaned back in his chair, with his chin sunk to his chest in deep thought.

“There is not much time,” he said. “I must make some sort of a showing at two o’clock, or the reputation of a year’s hard work will be seriously injured... Not that I really care,” he added, with a curious light in his eyes and a slow shaking of the head.

“What did you find from Harding?” I asked, but again he was lost in thought and did not hear me.

We ate in silence. Then we sat in silence.

I looked at my watch. It was after one-thirty.

Suddenly Meroe leaned over to touch my arm.

“Do you remember,” he asked slowly, “if those needle-pricks were directly over one of the large veins?”

“No,” I answered. “No, I did not think to notice.”

“It all hinges upon that,” he said. “Let us go.”

We arrived at the Claridge a moment before two. The elevator boy was waiting for us.

“They are all upstairs,” he said.

As we approached the door to the room I could see that, indeed, they were all within; all who had been present in the morning. At the side of the door was Larkin, from Headquarters. He stepped down the hall to meet us.

“They tell me, Mr. Meroe,” he remarked drily, “that you are attempting to build a murder out of a case of heart failure.”

“Perhaps,” smiled Meroe, making his way through the door and on past the assembly into the bedroom.

He was followed with curious eyes. In a moment he appeared again. There was a blank expression on his face as he looked at the coroner.

“The bodies have been removed, Mr. Meroe,” he was informed.

“Are they with Jordan?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must phone Jordan.”

As Meroe disappeared there was a great murmur of voices. Upon his return he stepped behind the table on the left of which were the coroner, Barhart, Grover and the house doctor.

“I will begin,” said Meroe, “by telling you what I have been able to discover about Mr. and Mrs. Brentore, the deceased. They were a lonely, childless couple, at one time poor. Five years ago Mr. Brentore came into sudden wealth through interests in an African diamond project. He had originally been a jeweler of no great repute, forced to struggle to make food and clothing above the rent of the shop. Three years ago he sold his business and retired with his wife to this suite at the Claridge to live until old age should overtake them, which they did not expect would be very many years.

“The nearest relative to either of them was an elder sister of Mr. Brentore, who died in Brattlenook, New Jersey, leaving a grown son by the name of Roderick Latimer. Of the character of this man I will not venture to speak other than that he took a great interest in the suddenly acquired fortune of his Uncle Brentore, whom he had never seen.

“One day a man by the name of Dr. Kramer registered at the Hotel Braymore. He was from Brattlenook, New Jersey. He called upon Mr. and Mrs. Brentore, telling them that their nephew, Roderick Latimer, was one of his best friends, and had asked him to call upon them. Mr. Brentore was immediately interested, for he had often wished to know more of this nephew than he had heard from his sister before her death.

“One evening Dr. Kramer called again and found Mrs. Brentore indisposed. He volunteered his services, saying that he had given up his practice upon leaving Brattlenook, but would be very glad to render service to either of them at any time it might be needed. Curiously enough, Mr. and Mrs. Brentore, from then on, became more and more in need of these services. Their health commenced to fail. As time went on there came a thought which very often comes to men of failing health who are burdened with wealth. He had not, made a will. Perhaps, yes, perhaps this was even suggested by Dr. Kramer. At least they talked together about this nephew who was Brentore’s only relative.

“A decision was at hand. But he was evidently not satisfied with secondhand knowledge of this Latimer from one who had been a stranger until so recently. There was an old boyhood friend of Mr. Brentore’s living in Brattlenook. His name was Goodnow. He telegraphed, asking Goodnow to look up Latimer and report results by wire. This was done, and the report received by Brentore was favorable, so he made an appointment with Harding, of the Mentor Building, to draw up the will. Then he telegraphed Goodnow to inform Latimer of what he had done, and to ask him, Latimer, to come at his earliest opportunity at his, Brentore’s, expense, for a short visit here at the Claridge.

“That was yesterday. Goodnow sent a night letter to Brentore, which arrived this morning. In endeavoring to see that Mr. Brentore received this message, Mr. Barhart discovered both Mr. and Mrs. Brentore dead. I will read you the message.

“ ‘Evidently you did not receive former telegram. Latimer disappeared four months ago in face of heavy debts. Advise you retract will immediately.’

“Now Brentore had received a favorable report, apparently from Goodnow. So you see the unfavorable telegram had been intercepted and the favorable one substituted. I found from Western Union that the correct telegram left their office.

“Now at this point let me remind you that Dr. Kramer was seen to enter this room yesterday afternoon at four. That the janitor who came here a month ago with only Dr. Kramer’s recommendation was seen to leave this room at about five. This morning it was discovered that the janitor had disappeared. And since then I have discovered something which may interest you — i. e., that Dr. Kramer has disappeared from his quarters at the Braymore!”

III

There was a murmuring at this, and Meroe waited for it to subside before he continued.

“Much of the above information not obtainable here at the Claridge I obtained from Frank S. Harding, whom I discovered to be the lawyer engaged to draw up the will. Some of it I have inferred as necessary to make the tale coherent. And now we will approach what I still choose to consider a mystery, from another angle...

“It has to do with Henry Grover here, who came to me at six-thirty this morning, over half an hour before Mr. Barhart had entered the room. Mr. Grover occupies a room directly opposite this one at the Buckminster. He came to me rather distressed because yesterday afternoon at five, or a little after, he had been disturbed by the figure of a woman with slightly gray hair and a dark brown dress who stared at him from this room. Soon he discovered that she was not staring at him, but at a man who was evidently talking to her and whose head he could see above the back of the settee in the window.

“It had bothered him so much, however, that he stopped work and went out for a walk. He remained for supper and did not return until dark. Not seeing a light in this window he presumed that the inmates had retired for the night. But early this morning he discovered them in exactly the same position, the position in which they were found later by Mr. Barhart. Rushing over to the Claridge, he was stopped by the janitor, who laughed at him, called him crazy and refused to allow him to wake up the manager. Not long after this the janitor disappeared. Mr. Grover came to me at six-thirty, told me the story and requested that I accompany him to his room to see for myself. When we arrived we found that the situation had already been discovered, so we made our way to the scene as quickly as possible.

“At first my suspicions were aroused at the reluctance with which the house doctor and Mr. Barhart accepted even the remotest suggestion that a crime had been committed. I have since, however, come to the conclusion that it was but a natural instinct on the part of parties interested in the business end of the establishment to avoid encroachment upon its good name.”

There was a slight bow of acknowledgment from Barhart.

“It surprised me a great deal to be informed that there were absolutely no indications of a death other than natural. So I examined the bodies myself, and found what it would be only too easy to overlook, that which I had every reason to suspect was the mark of a hypodermic needle. There was one on the arm of the woman and one on the leg of the man.

“I was therefore doubly surprised and disconcerted when the coroner informed me that there were absolutely no traces of drug or poison. Things had come to my notice which left no doubt whatsoever in my own mind that the whole thing was a very clever conspiracy or plot, but the whole framework of my theory would fall away if Mr. and Mrs. Brentore had died a natural death.

“It all depended upon one fact. When I rushed through to the bedroom a while ago it was to verify this. The bodies were gone. I called up Jordan and asked him to look for the needle marks and tell me if they were situated each of them over a large vein. His answer was ‘Yes.’

“Now is it not true, Doctor, that if air is introduced into a large vein it may be carried in the venous circulation to the right ventricle, and be then forced by the systole of the latter into the pulmonary artery or its primary branches, acting like a clot, possibly even producing a clot?...”

“It is, Mr. Meroe. That would be what is termed an air embolism. It would have somewhat the same effect as phlebitis of a large vein...”

“And it would produce death?”

“It would.”

“And the face and surface of the victim would be ashy pale with the lips and mucous membrane a pale slate color, as was the case with the bodies in question?”

“Either that or the face would be livid and bluish, and in some cases the limbs are convulsed.”

“And there was nothing in your examination of these bodies with which you could contradict my statement that death was caused by the introduction of air into a large vein by means of an empty or partially empty hypodermic needle, thus leaving the marks which I discovered on examining the bodies this morning?”

“Nothing, Mr. Meroe. It is a thing which had not occurred to me before in relation to this particular case. It is only in exceptional cases that there are any distinctive signs to be found on physical examination.”

“And how long after the introduction of the air would death occur?”

“Death might take place in a very few moments, not due to mere asphyxia — but in some degree, at any rate, to syncope—”

“Now, with the doctor’s word in support of my theory,” said Meroe, turning to the others, “I advance the tentative hypothesis that Mr. and Mrs. Brentore were murdered deliberately by the malignant introduction of air into a large vein. Now, as this could not very well he accomplished without their consent, or without drugging them, or binding them, I suggest that it was accomplished upon the pretext of injecting a medicine applicable to an ailment from which they believed themselves to be suffering at the time.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“But could one die such a death, Mr. Meroe,” interrupted the rasping voice of Mr. Grover, “and remain in the natural sitting posture in which I saw them as early as yesterday afternoon, and in which Mr. Barhart found them this morning?”

“They could not,” answered Meroe; “and for that reason I was about to offer the additional suggestion that, after having been successfully murdered in this unusual way, the bodies were placed in a sitting posture as nearly natural as possible. And why? It would seem that one would not take the trouble to do this without a perfectly definite and undoubtedly ingeniously conceived purpose. It is this and one other point which have led me to some rather startling conclusions since seven o’clock this morning. There is in this room, at this moment, one who will verify all that I am saying.

“Did it not strike you as suggestive that the lady across the hall should have seen Dr. Kramer enter this room and the janitor depart from it? I leave you to draw your own conclusions from this and the fact that when one disappears both disappear. And who would derive the greatest benefit from the death of Mr. and Mrs. Brentore? Would it not certainly be the nephew, Roderick Latimer, who disappeared from Brattlenook in the face of heavy debts? Who else would spend weeks of patient labor on a plan to hasten the preparation of the will and, immediately after that, the death of these people?

“At this point I offer as another suggestion that Roderick Latimer. Dr. Kramer and Lee Harmon, the janitor, are one and the same person—”

There was another burst of murmuring. There was a slightly sarcastic smile on the face of Larkin.

“—and that in the person of the janitor he was able to intercept the telegram the receipt of which would have ruined his chances of being named in the will, and that in the person of the doctor he was able to commit the murder at the proper time and without any great outcry.”

“Mr. Meroe,” said Larkin suddenly, “most of what you have given us, clever and coherent though it is, is mere theory. Have you proof of what you say? Can you lead us to the murderer?”

“If the case ended at that point I would not have proof of what I say. I would not be able to lead you to the murderer. But Roderick Latimer did not stop there. He went a step farther. He went a step too far. In an effort to protect himself without having to, flee the country entirely he had conceived a plan which was entirely too perfect for him to carry out without a flaw. He knew that the best way to escape detection and still be on the ground until such time as it was safe for him to resume the character of Roderick Latimer, pay his debts, and take up the life of a wealthy and righteous citizen — was to be right under the nose and on the side of the detector. This would have been very successful had he been the master-mind to think of all the details at once. He was not that perfect master-mind. And now, Lee Harmon, Dr. Kramer, Roderick Latimer and Henry Grover, what have you to say for yourself?”

IV

There was a general outcry of astonishment. Henry Grover looked about him and up at Meroe in utter amazement. There was another sarcastic smile on the face of Larkin.

“You would look more like yourself without that on,” said Meroe, reaching for the hair which grew out of the mole above Grover’s left eye, but it did not budge. Grover uttered an exclamation of pain and arose in indignation.

“Come out of it, Latimer,” said Meroe. “It will not help you now to put up a bluff. You came to me at six-thirty. You were in a hurry as you accosted the telephone girl at the Charles-gate Club. You were not in a hurry when once you had entered my room. You made your story entirely too dramatic to get away with it naturally. You described the woman as having slightly gray hair and a dark brown dress. It was when I found that her hair was really only slightly gray and that her dress was a very dark brown that I got the hunch about your whole game. I defy any man to sit in your room at the Buckminster and tell Mrs. Brentore’s dark brown dress from a black one while it is hanging over a chair in the center of this room. And it would be equally impossible to recognize her hair as slightly gray without having seen it at very close range. And when I found that the window of Kramer’s room at the Braymore opened onto the roof of the Buckminster not far from the stairway leading down to the sixth floor, your floor, I was convinced. Also you were too eager to retract your suggestion that a crime had been committed, after seeing the possibility of its being considered otherwise...”

“Now let’s see whether that mole will not come off. It doesn’t look quite natural to me. Your ideas of disguise are a bit crude for this day and age. I wish I had seen you as Dr. Kramer and the janitor...”

Grover had backed away from Meroe. Suddenly the coroner reached up for the mole. Grover jerked away with another exclamation, but the mole was left behind, held up to view in the coroner’s fingers.

“Do you deny anything that I have said?” asked Meroe, “Do you deny that you kept a room at both the Braymore and the Buckminster and managed to keep up the appearance of living in both of them by means of the stairway in the roof? Do you deny that for the past month you have worked yourself to death as Lee Harmon, janitor of the Claridge, in order to be the more certain of success in your little plan?”

I felt a real tinge of pity for the man as he hung his head. Suddenly he looked up.

“Perhaps it would help clear matters,” he said in a strained, but quiet voice, “if I showed you just exactly what was done in the case, for instance, of the woman.”

He reached in his hip pocket and drew forth a little box. He removed from it a hypodermic needle.

“It was this vein,” he said, “pointing to his arm with the point of the needle...”

We watched him with gaping mouths, half stupefied by the strange tones of his voice. Suddenly Meroe lurched toward him, but it was too late. The needle was in his vein and his thumb was pressing home.

“I would rather not be bothered with the red tape of a trial,” he said quietly.

I will not describe in detail the scene which followed. There were screams from the women and somewhat of a panic as they rushed from the room. He did not live more than fifteen minutes.

Meroe left the rest in the hands of Larkin and the coroner. We walked home through the park breathing clean air and sunshine to clear our souls of the unwholesomeness with which we had been steeped since morning.

“You know,” said Meroe, “he would have slipped away with the whole thing right under our noses if he had not described the woman who stared at him as having been dressed in a dark brown dress.”

And that was the last I ever heard Meroe mention of the affair, for it was his custom to forget these things as soon as his part had been played.