The Smart Set/Volume 21/Issue 1/The Case on the Wall

by Burton E. Stevenson

 

THE CASE ON THE WALL

By Burton E. Stevenson

Godfrey had asked me around that evening to talk over the still obscure Mercer disappearance, and had named eight o'clock; but the star reporter of a great daily makes his engagements subject to the whim of any one of several millions of people, so I was not surprised when eight o'clock came without bringing Godfrey with it. I filled my pipe, lighted it, and turned to the shelves which covered two of the walls, certain that I should find something there with which to pass an hour or two both agreeably and profitably.

For Godfrey possesses a rather remarkable library, of a sort—unique, indeed, in several of its items; as, for instance, in Professor Lampiere's exhaustive monograph on the shape of the eyebrow in its relation to criminal propensity—a monograph left in manuscript at the author's death and willed to Godfrey as a token of appreciation of his invaluable assistance in the astonishing affair of the Tregarthen birthmark. It is Godfrey's intention to add some notes to this monograph, to preface it with an account of Professor Lampiere's other contributions to criminal science, and to see the book through the press; but until he finds time to do this, it must remain peculiar to his collection.

I had gone over the books more than once, but as I passed from the first case to the second, my eye was caught by an object on the wall which I had never before noticed there. It was a case of polished wood, about five inches square and perhaps two inches deep, with a front of beveled glass. The reflection of the light on this glass for a moment obscured my view of what lay behind it, but as I moved to one side, I was astonished to see that the only thing the case contained was a half-smoked cigar. It was about two inches in length and occupied the very centre of the case, impaled on a pin.

I was still gazing at this singular object and wondering why it should be worthy of such a shrine, when the door opened and Godfrey himself came in.

“Ah, Lester,” he said, “sorry I kept you waiting. There was a case just at the last moment——”

“Of course,” I said. “You were lucky to get here so soon. I've been fully occupied.”

“In looking at that little memento?” and his eyes followed mine to the case on the wall.

“Yes—and in wondering what it commemorates.”

“It commemorates my first victory, Lester,” and his face grew reminiscent as he looked at it. “I thought I had lost it, but I ran across it the other day while sorting over some rubbish and decided to have it properly mounted, for it's as dear to me as an author's first acceptance or a lawyer's first brief is to him—dearer, for a lawyer often loses his first case and the author's masterpiece may prove a failure; but that affair was one of my most unqualified successes!”

It was not just then that I heard the story, for with Godfrey business is always first; but afterward, when we drew up before the fire for a final smoke before I said good night, I got it out of him.

II

It was in the Winter of '92 that Godfrey decided to try detective work, and he naturally chose New York as the best arena. But to get an appointment to the Metropolitan force was no easy matter, and it was not until the following June that this ambition was realized. Even then he found a wide difference between the dream and the reality, for he was at once assigned to duty “up-State,” as the district above the Harlem was facetiously called.

It was not an enviable post for a man burning to distinguish himself. The first week passed absolutely without incident, and to Godfrey it seemed a year. He virtually lived at headquarters; instead of becoming fat and somnolent after the manner of Harlem policemen, he grew gaunt and restless; but at last his reward came.

He had awakened rather earlier than usual that morning, and finding that he could not go to sleep again, he got up, dressed, and walked over to headquarters to report. He noticed that the hands of the sergeant's clock pointed to ten minutes of six, and just as he walked around to the desk to glance over the blotter, the telephone-bell rang.

The sergeant unhooked the receiver and placed it to his ear.

“Hello!” he called. Then, after a moment, “What for?”

But to this question he apparently received no answer, for he replaced the receiver with a jerk and swung around to Godfrey.

“They want an officer over at 838 West One Hundred and Twenty-third street, Jim,” he said. “Want one pretty bad, I guess. The old fellow who telephoned was about scared to death. Will you go?”

“Yes,” said Godfrey, and a moment later was hurrying down the street.

It was only a few blocks, and at the end of ten minutes he stopped before a square, old-fashioned house, standing back from the street in the midst of a little grove of trees. On either side of the place was an empty lot, which made the grounds seem larger than they really were. A porch ran across the front of the house and another, covered with vines, along the sides.

Godfrey opened the gate and entered. As he mounted the steps to the porch, the door opened a few inches and a face, distorted with grief and terror, peered out.

“Are you the officer?” asked a quavering voice.

“Yes,” answered Godfrey, and showed his shield.

“Then for God's sake come in!” and the door was swung back, disclosing an old man with family servant written in every line.

“What's the matter?” Godfrey demanded as he entered. “What has happened?”

For answer, the other beckoned with unsteady hand and led the way along the hall to the door of a room which was evidently the library.

“Look at that,” he said, and motioned within.

For an instant, in the semi-darkness, Godfrey saw nothing; then, with a sudden quickening of the pulse, he discerned a figure sitting in a chair facing the door. The head was bowed forward as though in sleep. He approached it and lifted the head with his hand, then let it fall with a little cry of horror at its stare of agony, its protruding eyes and tongue, its swollen lips.

But a moment served to give him back his self-control, and he lifted the head again. This time he perceived the livid band which encircled the neck. The man had been strangled.

“Who is he?” he asked of the servant, who, apparently on the verge of collapse, stood gasping on the threshold, as though not daring to enter the room.

“He's Professor Carew,” said the old man, with a sob.

Godfrey started again.

“Professor Carew!” he repeated incredulously, and turned back to the distorted face.

Could this really be the great physicist, honored throughout the world of science, member of a dozen learned societies, officer of the Legion of Honor, decorated by the German Emperor, by the Czar of Russia, by the King of Spain? Professor Carew—and foully murdered!

A great case! But would he be able to handle it? He gripped his hands together and put the doubt behind him.

“Who's the family doctor?” he asked.

“Dr. Sweetser, sir.”

“Call him up and ask him to come at once,” said Godfrey.

Then, as the servant disappeared, he turned to an inspection of the room.

III.

It was a large apartment, lined to the ceiling with books, crowded and crammed with them, until they overflowed upon the chairs and into the corners. A long library-table stood in the middle of the floor and it was in an easy-chair beside this table that Professor Carew was sitting at the time he met his death.

Besides the door into the hall, there was another leading to a rear room. This door stood half-open and a glance showed Godfrey that the room beyond was Professor Carew's laboratory. Opposite the hall door was a row of three windows, extending to the floor and opening upon the porch at the side of the house. The remaining wall was occupied by a mantel and open fireplace, flanked on either side by shelves.

He had just finished this tour of the room when he heard the front door shut heavily and a hasty step come down the hall. The next instant a man appeared in the doorway—a man whose virile face gave the lie to the gray hair above it. The little case in his hand bespoke the doctor.

“What's this?” he demanded in a voice not wholly steady. “Come, Carew, this won't do!” and he lifted his friend's head to drop it, as Godfrey had done, with a cry of horror.

“This is Dr. Sweetser, I suppose?” said Godfrey, coming forward.

“Yes, that's my name, sir,” answered the doctor, turning quickly. “Who are you?”

“My name is Godfrey, sir; I belong to the detective force.”

“And what are you doing here?”

“I am trying to bring a murderer to justice,” answered Godfrey quietly. “See here,” and he rolled the dead man's head to one side. “Professor Carew has been murdered.”

The doctor stared with starting eyes at the livid band upon the neck; then he dropped heavily into a chair, set his case upon the floor, and, with shaking hand, mopped the perspiration from his face.

“Wait a minute,” he said hoarsely. “I can't believe it! Carew murdered! Why, he hadn't an enemy on earth! Some robber, no doubt....”

“No,” said Godfrey. “His watch is still in his pocket, and see, here is his purse. The room is evidently undisturbed.”

“Wait!” said the doctor again, and rose to his feet and took a hasty turn up and down. “Now,” he added, after a moment, “go ahead, sir. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I'm sure you can,” Godfrey agreed, and glanced admiringly at the firm-set lips and gleaming eyes. “How long would you say Professor Carew had been dead?”

The doctor bent over the body for a moment.

“From six to eight hours,” he said.

“Then he was killed before midnight?”

“Yes—I should say an hour or so before midnight.”

“You will see,” Godfrey went on, pointing to the livid band, “that the murderer must have stolen up behind him, thrown a rope or something of the sort about his neck and twisted it tight. Here at the back are the marks of his knuckles.”

The doctor nodded assent.

“Since Professor Carew is facing the door,” Godfrey continued, “his assailant could not have entered unseen from that direction. He must, therefore, have come either from the laboratory or from the porch. I am inclined to think he came from the porch. The windows, you see, are closed, but the central one is unfastened.”

Again the doctor nodded.

Godfrey went to the central window, opened it and passed out upon the porch. The doctor followed him.

“No chance for a footprint,” said Godfrey, looking at the closely-clipped turf. “That would have been too fortunate. Ah, see there!” he added.

He was pointing to a half-smoked cigar which lay on a little ledge beside the window nearest the street. He picked it up, smelt it and examined it closely.

“Did Professor Carew smoke?” he asked, at last.

“No, never,” replied the doctor. “Nor would he permit smoking in his house. He abhorred the odor of tobacco.”

“Ah,” commented Godfrey; “then this cigar was left here by someone about to enter—someone who knew of this abhorrence. Suppose we call the servant—what is his name?”

“Browder,” answered the doctor. “He and his wife have been here for many years. They were the only servants. Professor Carew, you know, was a bachelor.”

Browder was still hovering on the threshold of the library and came forward quickly at the sound of his name.

“Browder,” began Godfrey, “I've just found this cigar lying here beside the window. Do you know who left it there?”

The old man gazed at it in astonishment.

“No, sir,” he said. “It must have been put there last night. I dusted off the porch yesterday afternoon and it wasn't there then.”

“You don't smoke, do you?”

“Me, sir!” cried Browder. “No, sir; not I!”

“Suppose you tell us what occurred last night,” suggested Godfrey, leading the way back into the library; “everything you can remember.”

“Well, sir,” began Browder, “my master had his dinner at seven o'clock, as usual.”

“Did he dine alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in his usual spirits?”

“Yes, sir; just as usual.”

“And with his usual appetite?”

“Yes, sir; so far as I could see. He never was what you would call a hearty eater. After dinner he sat out there on the porch a while, and then, about eight o'clock, the bell rang. I went to the door and found a foreign-looking man standing there.”

“What do you mean by foreign-looking?”

“Well, sir, not like an American. He was very dark, with a big, black mustache that stuck straight out on either side and the sharpest eyes I ever saw. He gave me his card and I took it in to my master. He looked at it, hesitated a moment, and then told me to show the gentleman in.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Godfrey. “Where is the card?”

Browder disappeared into the hall and came back with a little square of pasteboard in his hand. Godfrey took it and read:

“M. André Lambesq,

“Paris.

“Ever hear of him, Dr. Sweetser?” he asked.

“No,” said the doctor, “I never did.”

Godfrey gazed at the card a moment longer, then placed it carefully in his pocket.

“Well, go ahead, Browder,” he said. “What happened then?”

“I had some work to do in the dining-room,” continued the man, “and didn't hear anything for maybe half an hour. Then my master rang for me, and as I went out into the hall I heard the foreigner talking away at the top of his voice like blazes.”

“What was he saying?”

“I don't know, sir. I judged he was using his native language. When I got to the door of the library I saw him walking up and down, waving his hands in the air and red in the face as a turkey-cock. But he calmed down all of a sudden when he saw me there.

“'Show the gentleman out, Browder,' said my master, and then said something quick-like to the foreigner, who answered in the same way, but I couldn't understand nothing but one word, 'regret.'

“When I came back I found my master setting at the table there, writing a letter.

“'Wait a minute, Browder,' he said. 'I want you to mail this for me.'

“So 1 waited, and pretty soon he directed and sealed it and gave it to me, and I took it to the box at the corner.”

“Did you read the address?” asked Godfrey.

“No, sir; I didn't,” Browder answered with offended dignity.

“I was sure you didn't,” said Godfrey, smiling. “What next?”

“Well, just as I got back I met one of the neighbors, Mr. Morrell, at the gate coming in and I brought him on into the library.”

“Who is Mr. Morrell?” asked Godfrey, turning to the doctor.

“He used to be the head of one of the largest wholesale drug houses in the city. He retired some years ago, and is reputed to be very wealthy.”

“Was he in the habit of calling on Professor Carew?” Godfrey continued, turning back to Browder.

“Yes, sir; he called quite often. He and my master were the trustees of the Lyons estate.”

“The Lyons estate?” Godfrey repeated.

“I can tell you about that,” broke in the doctor, “though I don't see that it is especially relevant. When Mark Lyons died, ten or twelve years ago, he named his two closest friends as trustees of his estate to manage it in the interest of the Lyons Maternity Hospital, which he had founded.”

“Was the estate a large one?”

“It was estimated at fifteen millions.”

“Not a small one, at least,” commented Godfrey. “How long did Mr. Morrell stay?”

“About two hours, I should say, sir. I'm not sure, for master let him out, as he often did. But about eleven o'clock, when I looked in the library, master was alone. He was setting there in that very chair reading some papers. When he heard me at the door he looked up and told me to lock up the house and go to bed; that he wouldn't need me any more.”

“Did you lock these windows?”

“Yes, sir; all of them.”

Godfrey examined the locks with knitted brow. It was plainly impossible to throw them from the outside without cutting away the sash, and the sashes showed no mark.

“Well, and what next?” he said, at last. “Did you go to bed?”

“Yes, sir; all of them.”

“And heard nothing unusual?”

“No, sir, not a thing. I woke up once in the night and came to the head of the stairs and looked down to see if master had left the lights burning, as he did sometimes, going to bed absent-minded like; but they were out, so I went back to bed and it wasn't till this morning when I came down that I found him——”

A sob choked him.

“And you called the police at once?”

“Yes, sir; as soon as I could get my wits together. It was the only thing I could think of to do.”

“Where was your wife all this time?”

“She cleaned up the kitchen after dinner last night and then went to bed. She never comes in the front of the house and didn't know till I told her....”

Again his voice trailed off into a sob.

Godfrey glanced around the room, his eyes at last resting on the bowed figure by the table.

“You say your master was reading when you saw him last?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Papers, I think you said?”

“Yes, sir; there was a bundle of them on the table beside him.”

“It is a significant thing, Dr. Sweetser,” Godfrey pointed out, “that there are no papers there now. Yet it is possible that Professor Carew put them away and then sat down to think them over. You say he had no enemies?”

“Not an enemy on earth, sir. How could he have? Why, I never knew a man so universally beloved and honored.”

“And yet, he must have had one enemy,” and Godfrey pointed to the band of livid flesh.

“Yes,” agreed the doctor hoarsely. “But I can't believe it! Even here, looking at it, I can't believe it!”

Godfrey fell silent a moment, gazing down at the bowed head with its crown of white hair, at the delicate, sensitive hands, now clutching convulsively the arms of the chair.

“He had retired from active life, I understand?” he said at last.

“Yes; and yet his life was fuller of activity than most men's. He still kept up his experiments, and he was interested in many philanthropies—especially in the Lyons Hospital, which was very dear to him. I was head physician there some years ago, and in that way first got to know him. He was very enthusiastic over the work the hospital was doing—a work which had never adequately been done before. He was never weary of talking about it and planning for it. He intended, I think, to bequeath it his own estate.”

“Was Mr. Morrell equally enthusiastic?”

“Yes, in every way; he was a most painstaking and conscientious trustee. His knowledge of business made him especially valuable; he was able to invest the moneys belonging to the hospital to the best advantage and its income has always been very large so large, indeed, that an addition to the main building has been undertaken.”

“Do you happen to know just how large?”

“The statement last year showed the gross receipts to be something over $750,000.”

“That's five per cent. on fifteen millions—a remarkable showing, truly,” agreed Godfrey. “The hospital was evidently very fortunate in its trustees.”

He walked to one of the windows and stood for a moment tapping absently on the pane and staring out across the lawn. Then he picked up the half-smoked cigar, which he had placed carefully on the table, and contemplated it for a time in silence. It seemed to fill him with a strange perplexity.

“Dr. Sweetser,” he said at last, “I want you to examine this cigar closely, so that you can identify it hereafter, if need be. I want you to notice particularly these distinct, even depressions across the end which was in the smoker's mouth. Do you think you will know it again?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor, after a moment; and Godfrey wrapped the cigar tenderly in a piece of paper and placed it in his pocket.

“I'll have to inform the coroner,” he said, with a little sigh, “and turn the case over to him. Where will I find the telephone?”

“This way, sir,” said Browder, and led the way to the instrument.

The message took but a moment, and Godfrey retraced his steps to the library. He was plainly worried. There was a deep line between his eyes and his lips were compressed and bloodless.

“I wouldn't take it too hard,” said Dr. Sweetser, soothingly, noticing his haggard countenance. “This won't be the first crime which has defied solution.”

“No,” agreed Godfrey. “Has any theory occurred to you, doctor?”

“Yes,” answered the doctor promptly, “and I'm sure it's the right one. Some madman, escaped from an asylum, perhaps, wandered into the grounds, attracted by the light pouring through those windows. He approached them and saw this old man sitting here alone. He raised the window gently, crept in and seized my poor friend by the throat....”

“You forget,” objected Godfrey, “that Browder says he fastened all the windows.”

“And yet the central one was found unfastened. Professor Carew may have opened the window himself, after Browder locked it, finding the room close or wishing for a breath of fresh air before he went to bed. Or perhaps Browder forgot to lock it. At any rate, it was through that window that the murderer made his entrance and escape.”

Godfrey nodded.

“I agree with you there,” he said.

“And, depend upon it, the murderer was a madman. Who else would seek to kill a quiet and inoffensive man? You have yourself pointed out that robbery was not the motive. I don't doubt we'll hear of an escaped lunatic in the course of the morning.”

“Perhaps we shall,' assented Godfrey. “You may be right, doctor—your theory is certainly plausible. I hope you will mention it to the coroner. You would better wait for him here and take charge of things.”

“I will,” agreed the doctor, “It is the least I can do for my old friend.”

IV.

The task of finding M. André Lambesq proved disappointingly simple. He was registered at the Waldorf and had not yet arisen when Godfrey sent up his card. An inquiry of the clerk developed the fact that M. Lambesq had arrived the day before on one of the French line boats, and had come directly to the hotel.

Half an hour later Godfrey was admitted to M. Lambesq's presence. Amid exclamations of astonishment and horror, he related briefly the facts of Professor Carew's death. M. Lambesq was inconsolable. The world of science had lost its supreme leader, and in such a manner! He, himself, had come from Paris to lay before the great savant a new theory of light phenomena—a theory more comprehensive, more satisfactory, more subtle than either the corpuscular or the undulatory—a theory which, however, M. Carew had refused to credit....

For a moment Godfrey wondered if this might not be the madman; but a few questions settled all that. After leaving the Carew house M. Lambesq had driven direct to his hotel, where he had met some compatriots. He had been with them from nine o'clock until after midnight. He gave Godfrey their names. There could be no doubt of his entire innocence,

Godfrey left the hotel, walked across to Sixth avenue and took the Elevated downtown. He got off at Bleecker street and, after a short walk through a maze of dirty thoroughfares, entered a tall building, redolent with the odor of tobacco.

“I want to buy some cigars,” he said to the heavy-faced man behind the counter, “but before I do so, I would like to see your expert a moment.”

“Very well, sir,” answered the other, and touched a bell. “Show this gentleman to Mr. Jennings,” he said to the boy who answered it.

They mounted two flights and entered a little room lined with innumerable pigeon-holes. A tall, thin man sat at a table by the window, peering at something through a microscope. He looked up as the door opened.

Godfrey introduced himself and produced from his pocket a half-smoked cigar.

“I want to duplicate this cigar,” he said, as he unwrapped it, “and I don't know what it is.”

Jennings took it, looked at it, sniffed it.

“There can't be any doubt,” he said. “That cigar is distinctive—no wonder you liked it. It's the El Trinidad Imperiale. A box will cost you thirty dollars.”

“Thank you,” said Godfrey, and he stopped at the office downstairs and bought a box.

On the journey back to Harlem he saw nothing of the crowds jostling past him. So the murderer of Professor Carew smoked El Trinidad Imperiales! That seemed absurd. Perhaps he was on the wrong track, after all. The cigar might have been left there by someone else; there was nothing to connect it positively with the criminal. Yet it must have been placed there the night before by someone about to enter the library by the window—someone either familiar with Professor Carew's abhorrence of tobacco or else not wishing to be incommoded by a cigar in the desperate business he was about to undertake.

He left the train at his station and walked over to headquarters. The sergeant grinned when he saw him.

“That case is a little too big for you, ain't it, Jim?” he asked.

“It is pretty big,” agreed Godfrey.

“So the old man thought. He's detailed Simmonds and Growden from the Central Office to look after it.”

Godfrey flushed, but kept himself in hand.

“Has he?” he asked, with seeming carelessness. “What do they think about it?”

“They think it was done by a lunatic. They're out looking for him now.”

Godfrey's face remained impassive, but his eyes were strangely bright.

“I guess I'll go out and take a look around, too,” he said.

But instead of looking around, he mounted straight to his room and spent the remainder of the afternoon there, chewing and otherwise mutilating those splendid El Trinidad Imperiales in a manner too shameful to describe.

V

The inquest was held next day, and the little court-room was crowded to the doors. The crime had stirred the city to its depths and a great clamor had arisen that the murderer be found and punished. Not only the three officers, but a veritable swarm of reporters were working on the case, and added to these was a host of amateur detectives, stirred to action by the reward of one hundred thousand dollars offered by Professor Carew's co-trustee, Mr. James Morrell. Other rewards were to follow as soon as various boards and deliberative bodies could take action, and scores of wild-eyed men were feverishly hunting down clues which led nowhere, and spinning theories which would have done credit to M. Lecoq, but which, unfortunately, there was no way of verifying.

Godfrey chose an inconspicuous seat and listened to the testimony with little apparent interest. Absolutely nothing new was developed. The only story he had not heard was that of Mr. Morrell, and it agreed in every particular with the story Browder had told. He had made merely a friendly call, had remained about an hour and Professor Carew himself had taken him to the door. He had not heard of the crime until Dr. Sweetser telephoned him, and he had hastened at once to the house. Professor Carew had been one of his dearest and closest friends, and he would gladly give half his fortune to bring his murderer to justice.

Indeed, it was evident that Mr. Morrell had not yet recovered from the shock of his friend's death. His lips trembled from time to time and his hands shook convulsively as he told of his close intimacy with the murdered man. He was suffering so keenly that the coroner had the mercy to dismiss him with the fewest possible questions. Once off the stand, he gradually recovered his self-control and was soon giving close attention to the testimony.

But none of it furnished a clue to the culprit, and the jury, without retiring, brought in the usual verdict of “death at the hands of a person unknown.” In the stir which followed the rising of the court Godfrey approached Dr. Sweetser.

“Doctor,” he said,“I wish you would introduce me to Mr. Morrell. There are one or two points which he may be able to clear up.”

“Certainly,” assented the doctor, and led him forward.

Mr. Morrell had withdrawn a little to one side and was talking earnestly with Simmonds and Growden. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, with gray hair and a florid face. At the moment he was engaged in lighting a cigar.

“Hello, Sweetser,” he said, as the doctor approached. “It seems that your theory is likely to prove the right one.”

“I was sure it would,” replied the doctor. “I want to introduce Mr. Godfrey, who, as I have already told you, was first on the scene.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Godfrey,” said Mr. Morrell, and shook hands. “I think you'll agree with the doctor and your colleagues here that the crime could have been committed only by a lunatic.”

“I was rather inclined to think so at first,” said Godfrey slowly, “but I don't think so now.”

Growden laughed offensively.

“Maybe that theory ain't fancy enough for you,” he sneered.

Godfrey flushed.

“Well, I'll believe it when you find the lunatic,” he said.

“We have found him,” retorted Growden triumphantly. “He's locked up down below. He escaped from Hartman's sanatorium night before last. The sanatorium is only a block and a half from the Carew house, and this fellow is especially dangerous—homicidal mania. It's a clear case.”

Godfrey looked at him through half-closed eyes.

“You think so?” he asked negligently.

Growden's face turned a deep purple.

“See here,” he shouted, “don't you give me none of your impudence! I won't——”

“Oh, come, Sam,” protested Simmonds, “what's the use of getting mad with a damned cub like him? Maybe he can save us any more trouble by producing the guilty party himself.”

Godfrey's face hardened; his eyes were shining strangely. He got out a cigar and bit off the end.

“Mr. Morrell, will you give me a light?” he asked. Then he paused, with Morrell's cigar in his fingers. “Yes, I believe I can,” he said, “and I'll produce him now. Gentlemen, you behold the murderer of Professor Carew in the person of Mr. James Morrell.”

For an instant the group regarded him in astonished silence. Then the detectives broke into a loud guffaw.

But Dr. Sweetser was white with anger.

“I must tell you, sir,” he burst out, “that I consider the joke in very bad taste.”

“It is not in the least a joke,” said Godfrey quietly. “Look at his face!”

They stared at the distorted, quivering countenance, Simmonds and Growden suddenly silent, the doctor visibly appalled. Then he shook his head and turned fiercely back to Godfrey.

“Monstrous!” he cried. “Absurd! Any man would be startled by such an accusation!”

“Shall I tell you how it happened, doctor?” continued Godfrey evenly. “I may err in one or two details——”

“Monstrous!” broke in the doctor. “To make such an accusation without proof.”

“I have not made it without proof.”

“Where is your proof, then? Let us have it!”

A little crowd had gathered and was listening open-mouthed.

“My proof,” said Godfrey slowly, “is that the left lateral incisor in his upper jaw is missing. See—he has his mouth open.”

Dr. Sweetser glanced at Morrell and saw that the defect indeed existed; then he turned back to Godfrey, more wrathful than ever.

“Enough of this tomfoolery, sir!” he said sternly. “If every man who had lost a tooth were guilty of murder, there would be few of us at large. Come, Mr. Morrell, let us go. I will see that this affair is reported to the proper authorities.”

“Just a moment, Dr. Sweetser,” Godfrey interposed. “Will you look at this cigar? It is the one Mr. Morrell handed me a moment ago. It is an El Trinidad Imperiale. The one I found outside Professor Carew's library window was also of that make.”

“And what of it, sir? Thousands of men smoke them.”

“Not quite thousands, I fancy, since they retail at thirty dollars a box. But look at the cigar, Dr. Sweetser, at the end Mr. Morrell had in his mouth. Do you perceive the depressions across it?”

The doctor looked and turned suddenly livid.

“I wasted nearly a box of those cigars,” Godfrey went on, with a sigh, “before I hit upon the explanation of those depressions—before I discovered that the man who murdered Professor Carew had lost one of his front teeth and used the cavity as a sort of natural cigar-holder. Did you ever notice how Mr. Morrell smokes, doctor? Did you ever wonder why he never had that tooth replaced? He doesn't hold his cigar between his teeth—he shoves it into that cavity and keeps it there until the cigar is finished. Do you think one man in a million holds a cigar that way? Well, see here.”

He took from his pocket the other cigar, unwrapped it and laid it beside the first one in his open hand.

“Compare them,” he said. “You will find the marks identical. I think you must confess, doctor, that in this case a missing tooth is enough to hang a man.”

A little ripple of wonder and applause ran through the crowd. It was broken by a crash as Morrell pitched forward to the floor.

VI

“And it was enough to hang him?” I asked, as Godfrey fell silent and gazed musingly into the fire.

“Oh, we got other evidence, of course, once we were started on the right track. Besides, Morrell confessed in the end. He had speculated secretly all his life, and as he grew older the mania increased and his judgment and self-control weakened. He ended by embezzling the hospital funds. Professor Carew had left their investment to him—for years he had been paying the interest out of the principal and making it so large that no one asked any questions. But he was caught in the wheat crash that Spring—he found himself at the end of the rope.

“He could carry on the farce no longer, so he went to Professor Carew that night intending to confess everything; but his courage failed him. Instead, he left behind him the regular falsified report which he had made up. But after he was out on the street again he realized that exposure was certain. He lighted a cigar and paced up and down, trying to decide what to do. At last, he resolved to go back. He knew the ways of the house and he went straight to the windows looking out over the lawn. As he mounted to the porch, he instinctively laid his cigar on the ledge below the window.

“The middle window was open—Professor Carew had no doubt opened it himself—and as Morrell gazed in at him, trying to nerve himself for the ordeal, he saw that he had not been heard. Carew's back was to the window, and a sudden fiendish thought flashed through the brain of the defaulter.

“He knew that Carew's estate had been willed to the hospital; he knew that he himself had been named as its administrator; with that at command, he could tide over the present crisis, perhaps regain all that he had lost! He would have time to rally; there would be no exposure....

“He whipped out his handkerchief, twisted it into a rope, crossed the room on tiptoe, and strangled his friend. Then he gathered up the papers, turned out the lights and went out as he had entered, closing the window behind him. He had nerve—he carried out the crime cleverly and coolly. But for one thing he would probably never have been suspected.”

“And that was?”

For answer Godfrey lifted his finger and pointed to the case on the wall.