all,” he told her. “I guess I’ve washed up this case, and in double-quick time, too. What a sap he was to walk right in on us! I suppose the dope thought I’d be fooled with his play-acting about being drunk. He’s not as drunk as he looks.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I’ll tell you how I know that,” Taylor confided. “There wasn’t a single empty bottle, or a full one either, in the cellar. And he had nothing in his pockets to drink. A guy can’t stay drunk without a source of supply, and he’s been hiding out down there for some hours.”
“How about the furnace? Glass melts, and fuses to a rough lump in intense heat.”
Taylor shook his head. “Not a sign of it. We sifted the ashes, looking for anything that might have to do with the corpse. All we found was this.”
He took a tiny blackened doughnut from his pocket and showed it to the schoolteacher. “Probably a ring from the girl’s finger, before it got partly melted. Analysis will show what it is. Though there’s no need of fussing much with that. This case is open and shut.”
“Open and shut,” Miss Withers repeated absently.
“Sure it is. The janitor’s a moron. He got full of liquor—yes, he had a good load, though he wasn’t as drunk as he pretended. Then he hit the girl over the head with a shovel, dragged her down cellar—and then burned the body. He was going to bury it, but the Inspector prevented that, by walking in too soon. Say, we’ve had dozens of these sex crimes lately. The papers are full of ’em.”
The Sergeant wrapped up the gloves carefully, and put them in his inside pocket. “These’re important,” he announced.
Miss Withers wanted to know why.
“The murderer wore gloves so as not to leave his fingerprints on the shovel handle,” Taylor announced triumphantly. “But microscopic analysis will show traces of this same cotton on the shovel, I’ll bet anything.”
“That’ll prove a whole lot, seeing that the janitor naturally used that shovel every day of his life,” Miss Withers pointed out. “Sergeant, you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m making a what?” The Sergeant was blank. “Oh, you mean we’re not sure that the shovel was the weapon the janitor used to kill the girl and bean the Inspector?”
“I mean you’re making a mistake in giving the janitor the third degree. I warn you, if any harm comes to Anderson while you have him in the station house, I’ll see that a whole basketful of trouble unloads on you. Guilty or not guilty, you have no right to beat up a man to get a confession, and I’m opposed to it. Besides …”
“Besides what?” The Sergeant looked around him for support, and found it in the persons of his uniformed men, who were looking at Miss Withers with ill-concealed contempt.
“Besides, you didn’t look at his eyebrows,” she finished, and took her departure.
VI
Miss Withers Springs a Quiz
(11/15/32—7:30 P.M.)
T HE ASSUREDLY DEMENTED AIDE -de-camp of the Weather Man whose especial duty it is to send Manhattan’s weather, had evidently been unable to decide between rain and snow, and had sent both that night for good measure. Miss Hildegarde Withers heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief as her taxi finally skidded to a stop before a sombre brownstone on West Seventy-fourth Street. Shielding her sailor from the drifting wet by means of a half-folded evening paper, she ran across the sidewalk and up a short flight of steps.
There was a line of bell-pushes beneath the row of mailboxes. Apartment 3C was at the end, evidently the top floor rear. There was a card, whose comparative whiteness signified that Halloran and Davis had not lived here for long.
Miss Withers leaned heavily on the buzzer. Her hand reached for the knob of the inner door, but no click came from upstairs to release the lock. She tried again, pressing the button until her thumb ached, but still she drew no reply.
“Botheration,” snapped Miss Withers. She hadn’t counted on
“And how do you know that?”
“I’ll tell you how I know that,” Taylor confided. “There wasn’t a single empty bottle, or a full one either, in the cellar. And he had nothing in his pockets to drink. A guy can’t stay drunk without a source of supply, and he’s been hiding out down there for some hours.”
“How about the furnace? Glass melts, and fuses to a rough lump in intense heat.”
Taylor shook his head. “Not a sign of it. We sifted the ashes, looking for anything that might have to do with the corpse. All we found was this.”
He took a tiny blackened doughnut from his pocket and showed it to the schoolteacher. “Probably a ring from the girl’s finger, before it got partly melted. Analysis will show what it is. Though there’s no need of fussing much with that. This case is open and shut.”
“Open and shut,” Miss Withers repeated absently.
“Sure it is. The janitor’s a moron. He got full of liquor—yes, he had a good load, though he wasn’t as drunk as he pretended. Then he hit the girl over the head with a shovel, dragged her down cellar—and then burned the body. He was going to bury it, but the Inspector prevented that, by walking in too soon. Say, we’ve had dozens of these sex crimes lately. The papers are full of ’em.”
The Sergeant wrapped up the gloves carefully, and put them in his inside pocket. “These’re important,” he announced.
Miss Withers wanted to know why.
“The murderer wore gloves so as not to leave his fingerprints on the shovel handle,” Taylor announced triumphantly. “But microscopic analysis will show traces of this same cotton on the shovel, I’ll bet anything.”
“That’ll prove a whole lot, seeing that the janitor naturally used that shovel every day of his life,” Miss Withers pointed out. “Sergeant, you’re making a mistake.”
“I’m making a what?” The Sergeant was blank. “Oh, you mean we’re not sure that the shovel was the weapon the janitor used to kill the girl and bean the Inspector?”
“I mean you’re making a mistake in giving the janitor the third degree. I warn you, if any harm comes to Anderson while you have him in the station house, I’ll see that a whole basketful of trouble unloads on you. Guilty or not guilty, you have no right to beat up a man to get a confession, and I’m opposed to it. Besides …”
“Besides what?” The Sergeant looked around him for support, and found it in the persons of his uniformed men, who were looking at Miss Withers with ill-concealed contempt.
“Besides, you didn’t look at his eyebrows,” she finished, and took her departure.
VI
Miss Withers Springs a Quiz
(11/15/32—7:30 P.M.)
T HE ASSUREDLY DEMENTED AIDE -de-camp of the Weather Man whose especial duty it is to send Manhattan’s weather, had evidently been unable to decide between rain and snow, and had sent both that night for good measure. Miss Hildegarde Withers heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief as her taxi finally skidded to a stop before a sombre brownstone on West Seventy-fourth Street. Shielding her sailor from the drifting wet by means of a half-folded evening paper, she ran across the sidewalk and up a short flight of steps.
There was a line of bell-pushes beneath the row of mailboxes. Apartment 3C was at the end, evidently the top floor rear. There was a card, whose comparative whiteness signified that Halloran and Davis had not lived here for long.
Miss Withers leaned heavily on the buzzer. Her hand reached for the knob of the inner door, but no click came from upstairs to release the lock. She tried again, pressing the button until her thumb ached, but still she drew no reply.
“Botheration,” snapped Miss Withers. She hadn’t counted on
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