that—but you never can tell. There are fakirs in India, and even in this country, who can look at a ring, and tell you the personality of the person who wore it last.”
“It’s over my head,” Sergeant Taylor insisted. “I’m a practical man, I am. Well, we’ve done everything here that can be done. Just a minute while I make sure my men are stationed for the night, and we’ll clear out of here.” He went out into the hall.
“Mulholland!” A man stepped clear of the far doorway.
“Yes, sir?”
“Okay. Just wanted to make sure you were there. Where’s Tolliver?”
“Here, sir.”
Another bluecoat put in an appearance, a brawny bulk of beef with feet like scows.
“Mulholland, you’re stationed in the hall here, outside the Cloakroom. You and Tolliver will do guard duty tonight. Nobody goes in or out, you know enough to know that. You’ll be relieved in the morning some time. That is all.”
He swung on Miss Withers, authority resting upon his shoulders like a mantle. This was the Sergeant’s big hour.
“Say,” he queried, “do you happen to know where I can dig up the address of this girl who was bumped off? Have they got a record or something around the place?”
Miss Withers assured him that they had. “Wait here a moment,” she said, authoritatively.
Quickly she disappeared into the Principal’s office. Before the Sergeant could make up his mind to follow her, she had drawn out the file box from Janey Davis’ desk again.
Snatching a pen and dipping it in a nearby inkwell, she drew a tiny streamer at the top of the figure “1” in Anise Halloran’s street number. Now the card read “apartment 3C, 447 West 74th Street.”
“That ought to give me half an hour’s head start,” she figured rapidly. She came out into the hall and handed the card to the Sergeant.
Her mind was busy in an effort to discover some means of keeping this little Hawkshaw from tagging along. “By the way, Sergeant,” she suggested, “are you sure that you’ve found all there is to be found in the basement? I have a very strong hunch that the murder weapon is still down there—and that your shovel doesn’t mean a thing. Hadn’t you better look again?”
Sergeant Taylor drew himself up to his full height. “Say, listen,” he told the school-mistress. “Maybe we did slip up at first on the body and a few things like that. But don’t kid yourself. One thing my boys know how to do, and that’s to search a place. They’ve been over every inch of the floor downstairs with a filter and a fine-tooth comb, and unless the murder weapon was small enough for one of your red ants to carry down his ant-hole, I’ll stake my life on it that it ain’t there. No, ma’am, there ain’t nothing nor nobody down in that basement now. Unless”—he ventured a heavy jest,—“unless the ghost of the dead little dame is wailing around the furnace!” He laughed, heartily.
It was a laugh in which Miss Withers did not join. Neither did the joke seem to amuse Mulholland, he whose job tonight was to keep him on a lonely vigil here.
“Say, you don’t believe—” he started to say.
But his question, and the Sergeant’s hearty chuckles, were both clipped off as with a pair of shears.
From somewhere, out of the darkness and the loneliness of that ancient building, there came the sound of a human voice, raised in song. It was far away, and muffled, and there was a throaty, eerie note in it.
“There’s somebody upstairs!” shouted Detective Allen.
“No, it’s out on the playground …” Mulholland pointed wildly.
“You’re both wrong,” Miss Withers cut in. “Listen a moment.”
The voice came louder. It was no ghost, that was certain. It was the voice of a man, a gay man, a man who had nothing heavier than a feather upon his conscience or his mind.
The song was of the simplest. “Oh, I know an old soldier an’ he got a wooden leg, an’ he hadn’t no tobaccy and none could he beg….” These were
“It’s over my head,” Sergeant Taylor insisted. “I’m a practical man, I am. Well, we’ve done everything here that can be done. Just a minute while I make sure my men are stationed for the night, and we’ll clear out of here.” He went out into the hall.
“Mulholland!” A man stepped clear of the far doorway.
“Yes, sir?”
“Okay. Just wanted to make sure you were there. Where’s Tolliver?”
“Here, sir.”
Another bluecoat put in an appearance, a brawny bulk of beef with feet like scows.
“Mulholland, you’re stationed in the hall here, outside the Cloakroom. You and Tolliver will do guard duty tonight. Nobody goes in or out, you know enough to know that. You’ll be relieved in the morning some time. That is all.”
He swung on Miss Withers, authority resting upon his shoulders like a mantle. This was the Sergeant’s big hour.
“Say,” he queried, “do you happen to know where I can dig up the address of this girl who was bumped off? Have they got a record or something around the place?”
Miss Withers assured him that they had. “Wait here a moment,” she said, authoritatively.
Quickly she disappeared into the Principal’s office. Before the Sergeant could make up his mind to follow her, she had drawn out the file box from Janey Davis’ desk again.
Snatching a pen and dipping it in a nearby inkwell, she drew a tiny streamer at the top of the figure “1” in Anise Halloran’s street number. Now the card read “apartment 3C, 447 West 74th Street.”
“That ought to give me half an hour’s head start,” she figured rapidly. She came out into the hall and handed the card to the Sergeant.
Her mind was busy in an effort to discover some means of keeping this little Hawkshaw from tagging along. “By the way, Sergeant,” she suggested, “are you sure that you’ve found all there is to be found in the basement? I have a very strong hunch that the murder weapon is still down there—and that your shovel doesn’t mean a thing. Hadn’t you better look again?”
Sergeant Taylor drew himself up to his full height. “Say, listen,” he told the school-mistress. “Maybe we did slip up at first on the body and a few things like that. But don’t kid yourself. One thing my boys know how to do, and that’s to search a place. They’ve been over every inch of the floor downstairs with a filter and a fine-tooth comb, and unless the murder weapon was small enough for one of your red ants to carry down his ant-hole, I’ll stake my life on it that it ain’t there. No, ma’am, there ain’t nothing nor nobody down in that basement now. Unless”—he ventured a heavy jest,—“unless the ghost of the dead little dame is wailing around the furnace!” He laughed, heartily.
It was a laugh in which Miss Withers did not join. Neither did the joke seem to amuse Mulholland, he whose job tonight was to keep him on a lonely vigil here.
“Say, you don’t believe—” he started to say.
But his question, and the Sergeant’s hearty chuckles, were both clipped off as with a pair of shears.
From somewhere, out of the darkness and the loneliness of that ancient building, there came the sound of a human voice, raised in song. It was far away, and muffled, and there was a throaty, eerie note in it.
“There’s somebody upstairs!” shouted Detective Allen.
“No, it’s out on the playground …” Mulholland pointed wildly.
“You’re both wrong,” Miss Withers cut in. “Listen a moment.”
The voice came louder. It was no ghost, that was certain. It was the voice of a man, a gay man, a man who had nothing heavier than a feather upon his conscience or his mind.
The song was of the simplest. “Oh, I know an old soldier an’ he got a wooden leg, an’ he hadn’t no tobaccy and none could he beg….” These were
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