son also, naturally.”
“Thanks!” Perry Dunham said with exaggerated gratitude. “I was afraid you were going to leave me out. When and how do we start?”
Fox was out of his chair. Going to the end of the table, between Mrs. Pomfret and the secretary, he staked a claim on the carton by laying his hand on it. “I suppose,” he inquired, “you kept the wrapper with the address on it? And the string?”
Mrs. Pomfret said, “Wells,” and the secretary disappeared behind the screen and in a moment emerged, and handed Fox a thick fold of heavy brown wrapping paper and a neat coil of twine. Fox stuck the twine in his pocket and asked:
“It was delivered this morning?”
Wells nodded. “Around nine o’clock.”
“Who opened the parcel?”
“I did. I open all packages. When I saw what was init I informed Mrs. Pomfret immediately. We are of course not experts, but we both thought it was the Stradivarius. She instructed me to lock it in the cabinet, and she telephoned the police commissioner.”
“And he sent a man to examine it for fingerprints and none were found.”
“That’s correct. He reported that there were none anywhere, except on the part of the wrapping paper that had been outside. And also except Mrs. Pomfret’s and my own.”
“Well, so much for that.” Fox picked up the carton and tucked it under his arm. “Now if there’s a room where I can take this for a little preliminary survey?”
“We’ll leave you here with it.” Mrs. Pomfret arose. “I suppose you would all like a cocktail? I know I would.” She moved. “Garda, I want to talk to you. Henry, please—Henry! Miss Heath is capable of standing alone. Please tell Stevens …”
They got away from their chairs and made it a general exodus.
Fox, left to himself, set about his examination of the evidence at hand without dilation of his nostrils or any other perceptible reaction of the sort that an investigator fired with ardor is supposed to display. From his manner it might even have been suspected that at least half of his mind was busy with something else. Not that he actually skimped anything; he inspected with great care the violin, the coil of string, and all sides of the carton, and then removed methodically, one by one, the pieces of tissue paper which had been used for packing. Apparently no revelation appeared, for his eyes lit up with no gleam of discovery, but they did flicker with an accent of interest when he unfolded the sheet of wrapping paper and leaned overto peer at the address which had been printed on it in ink:
“That,” he muttered, straightening up, “helps the odds a little anyway.” Noting the postmark, Columbus Circle Station, he folded the paper up again, proceeded to repack the carton, and, turning the cover flaps into position, stood and drummed on them with his fingers and gazed first at one empty chair and then at another, as if subjecting their late occupants to a prolonged scrutiny and calculation.
The door swung open and Perry Dunham walked in.
He glanced at the closed carton and at Fox in surprise.
“What! Haven’t you started the inquest yet?”
“Sure, I’ve finished. I’m a fast worker.”
“Who sent it? Me?”
“Yes. The string smells of the perfume you use.”
“Curses! Us criminals always slip up somewhere, don’t we?” The youth had crossed to Fox’s end of the table. “Mum wants to ask you something, or maybe Garda does, anyway Mum wants you. In the yellow room, across the big hall. She sent me to guard this while you’re gone, but in case you object you can lug it—”
“I’ll take a chance, since your mother sent you. Is that where the cocktails are?”
“Yes, but don’t get fuzzy now. You’re going to need all your brains—”
Fox was going, was at the door, had it open, was in the corridor, had closed the door behind him. The entrance to this side of the big hall was twenty steps down the corridor, and he took ten of them briskly, striding along
“Thanks!” Perry Dunham said with exaggerated gratitude. “I was afraid you were going to leave me out. When and how do we start?”
Fox was out of his chair. Going to the end of the table, between Mrs. Pomfret and the secretary, he staked a claim on the carton by laying his hand on it. “I suppose,” he inquired, “you kept the wrapper with the address on it? And the string?”
Mrs. Pomfret said, “Wells,” and the secretary disappeared behind the screen and in a moment emerged, and handed Fox a thick fold of heavy brown wrapping paper and a neat coil of twine. Fox stuck the twine in his pocket and asked:
“It was delivered this morning?”
Wells nodded. “Around nine o’clock.”
“Who opened the parcel?”
“I did. I open all packages. When I saw what was init I informed Mrs. Pomfret immediately. We are of course not experts, but we both thought it was the Stradivarius. She instructed me to lock it in the cabinet, and she telephoned the police commissioner.”
“And he sent a man to examine it for fingerprints and none were found.”
“That’s correct. He reported that there were none anywhere, except on the part of the wrapping paper that had been outside. And also except Mrs. Pomfret’s and my own.”
“Well, so much for that.” Fox picked up the carton and tucked it under his arm. “Now if there’s a room where I can take this for a little preliminary survey?”
“We’ll leave you here with it.” Mrs. Pomfret arose. “I suppose you would all like a cocktail? I know I would.” She moved. “Garda, I want to talk to you. Henry, please—Henry! Miss Heath is capable of standing alone. Please tell Stevens …”
They got away from their chairs and made it a general exodus.
Fox, left to himself, set about his examination of the evidence at hand without dilation of his nostrils or any other perceptible reaction of the sort that an investigator fired with ardor is supposed to display. From his manner it might even have been suspected that at least half of his mind was busy with something else. Not that he actually skimped anything; he inspected with great care the violin, the coil of string, and all sides of the carton, and then removed methodically, one by one, the pieces of tissue paper which had been used for packing. Apparently no revelation appeared, for his eyes lit up with no gleam of discovery, but they did flicker with an accent of interest when he unfolded the sheet of wrapping paper and leaned overto peer at the address which had been printed on it in ink:
“That,” he muttered, straightening up, “helps the odds a little anyway.” Noting the postmark, Columbus Circle Station, he folded the paper up again, proceeded to repack the carton, and, turning the cover flaps into position, stood and drummed on them with his fingers and gazed first at one empty chair and then at another, as if subjecting their late occupants to a prolonged scrutiny and calculation.
The door swung open and Perry Dunham walked in.
He glanced at the closed carton and at Fox in surprise.
“What! Haven’t you started the inquest yet?”
“Sure, I’ve finished. I’m a fast worker.”
“Who sent it? Me?”
“Yes. The string smells of the perfume you use.”
“Curses! Us criminals always slip up somewhere, don’t we?” The youth had crossed to Fox’s end of the table. “Mum wants to ask you something, or maybe Garda does, anyway Mum wants you. In the yellow room, across the big hall. She sent me to guard this while you’re gone, but in case you object you can lug it—”
“I’ll take a chance, since your mother sent you. Is that where the cocktails are?”
“Yes, but don’t get fuzzy now. You’re going to need all your brains—”
Fox was going, was at the door, had it open, was in the corridor, had closed the door behind him. The entrance to this side of the big hall was twenty steps down the corridor, and he took ten of them briskly, striding along
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