DETECTIVE GRIFFITH INVESTIGATES
Shortly before noon, Detective Harvey Griffith entered Mrs. Johnson’s rooming house. Griffith, the keenest man on the force, had been out of town on another case, and had come to view the scene of the murder immediately upon his return.
He found a policeman in the room on the second floor, but the body of the murdered man was no longer there.
“They moved the body out,” explained the officer. “Got all the evidence there was. This fellow Windsor didn’t have a chance to get away. Lucky he was drunk. He might have shot them when they grabbed him.
“Harrison is handling the case; he’ll be up in a minute. He’s talking to the landlady now.”
The sound of whistling came from the stairs, and a tall young man entered the room. He stopped suddenly when he encountered the short, stolid form of the star detective.
“Hello, Griffith,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t get here before we removed the body. You could have seen the whole layout. No mystery to it; they got the man quick enough. Guess you read it in the papers.”
“You can’t rely on them,” replied Griffith. “Let’s hear what you found out. I just thought that there might be a link between this murder and some of the cases I handled before I took my vacation. That’s why I drove up from Atlantic City. If you’ve landed the right man, I’ll head for the shore again, to-night. But if you haven’t—”
Harrison smiled at the seriousness of Griffith’s expression. The star detective was always ready to make a tremendous mystery out of a simple case. Some there were who claimed that he exaggerated all crimes purposely.
“Well,” explained Harrison, referring to notations, “Frank Jarnow came in at exactly eight o’clock. Arrived in town suddenly. Went up to his room. Told Mrs. Johnson — landlady — that he expected Mr. Windsor. At about eight fifteen, Henry Windsor arrived, nicely drunk. Came into the room. Mrs. Johnson showed him in; she heard Jarnow lock the door.
“A boarder going by the room at about eight thirty — on his way up to the third floor — heard a voice say: ‘You’ll be sorry for this!’ Claims it was Windsor’s voice — he heard Windsor speak afterward.
“Just after eight thirty the shots were fired — two of them. People rushed upstairs. Smashed down the door. Found the light out; Windsor holding the gun. He threatened to shoot to kill. They disarmed him.
“He said he shot Jarnow — also said the same thing down at the district station, but he says he doesn’t remember bringing a gun, nor does he remember the actual action of firing it. Claims his mind is pretty much a blank — says his friends will testify that he gets that way when he boozes.”
“Mm-m-m!” grunted Griffith. “How long between the time when the shots were fired and the time they captured Windsor?”
“We reckon it at about five or six minutes.”
“How did Windsor get in?”
“The landlady let him in.”
“The front door wasn’t locked when I came here just now.”
“No; they don’t lock it until midnight.”
Griffith looked about the room.
“Where was Jarnow?” he asked.
Harrison silently took his position in the chair, and slumped on the table — to indicate the position of the murdered man.
“And Windsor?” questioned Griffith.
Harrison pointed to the chair opposite.
Griffith sat in the place which Henry Windsor had occupied, and remained thoughtful for a few moments.
“What about the bullets?” he asked.
“They’re from Windsor’s gun,” replied Harrison, “His finger prints are on the gun, too. Windsor must have stood up to shoot; Jarnow was just about to get up; the bullets came downward at a slight angle.”
“How tall is Windsor?”
“About your height.”
“How tall was Jarnow?”
“About my height.”
* * *
Griffith walked to the window; raised it; and looked below. The alley was slightly raised; the distance was about nine feet to the ground.
“Window unlocked?” asked Griffith.
“It was,” replied Harrison. “Raised just a fraction of an inch at the bottom. Shade fully drawn.”
Griffith walked about the room, whistling softly.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a tiny scrap of paper that lay on the floor near the table.
“Don’t know how I missed that,” said Harrison. “Looks like it was torn from a larger sheet.”
Griffith picked up the bit of paper, and laid it on the table.
Harrison’s conjecture was correct; it was a scrap from a larger sheet. It appeared to be the corner, and it bore two written letters — o and r.
“The word ‘or’,” said Harrison, promptly.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” replied Griffith. “Why would ‘or’ be in the lower right corner?”
“There might be another sheet following,” returned Harrison. “What is it if it isn’t ‘or’?”
“Some other word ending in the letters o and r.”
“Such as—”
“Windsor.”
Harrison was dumfounded at Griffith’s terse reply. Somehow, the star detective always managed to gain his point; was always able to prove that something could be added to evidence.
“Here’s all we found on Jarnow,” said Harrison, pulling a large envelope from his pocket. “We can add the piece of paper to the collection.”
He slid the miscellaneous articles on the table. Griffith fished among them.
“Probably nothing here,” he said, “except a few notes that may be of value.”
Griffith picked up an envelope, and observed some penciled notations. They were short, with initials, such as B, and H; and it was quite possible that they might prove important.
“Better let me look these over,” said Griffith.
“Suit yourself,” replied Harrison. “There’s nothing else there — except eighty dollars in cash; that’s all that is valuable.”
Griffith continued to rummage through the remaining articles.
“Bring them along with you,” suggested Harrison. “You’re coming right down, aren’t you?”
“I may stop at the morgue,” replied Griffith. “I’d like to see the body. But I won’t be there long.”
“All right,” said Harrison.
He left, followed by the policeman, who had been a silent observer of the proceedings.
* * *
Left to himself, Detective Griffith walked about the room; then returned to the table. He studied both the notes, and the sheet of paper.
Then he put them back in the envelope, and picked up the money. It consisted of three twenty-dollar bills, and two tens. The tens were old, and worn. The twenty-dollar bills were crisp.
“Not important!” grunted Griffith. “Valuable. Worth twenty dollars apiece?” — he held one of the crisp bills to the light — “not worth twenty cents each! Phony mazuma. On Jarnow, the murdered man. Passed on him? Planted on him? Or—” Griffith shrugged his shoulders significantly.
The detective studied both the door, and the window. Then he sat at the table, where Windsor had been. Suddenly he stood up, and bumped his head against the hanging study lamp.
He stepped back, and pointed an imaginary pistol toward the spot where Jarnow had been seated. He repeated the experiment, avoiding the lamp.
“So Windsor was here,” observed Griffith. “He stood up, and shot downward. Funny, wasn’t it? The light was right in front of his eyes — green shade and all!”
The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket, and began to mark details. He arranged events on a schedule, and studied the times that intervened. When he had finished, he talked aloud — though softly — in order to make each finding clear.
“After Henry Windsor entered,” he said, “Frank Jarnow locks the door but does not lock the window. That might be all right — still—” he paused doubtfully.
“Then,” he added, “Windsor shoots Jarnow from an almost impossible position. Funny that Jarnow let him do it. When they crashed the door, they took the gun away from Windsor.
“What was Windsor’s motive, anyway? He certainly didn’t plan well. He had about five minutes to get away; but he didn’t go — not even through that window. Sober enough to shoot Jarnow; too drunk to put up a fight, or to escape. Doesn’t sound right, does it?”
The detective made another survey of the room; then drew some diagrams, and made penciled notations. He went out into the hallway, and stood by the wrecked door. He looked back down the stairs.
“Suppose,” he said softly, “that I am an unknown person in this job. I can come in the front door unnoticed. Up to here; then unlock the door — any skeleton key would do, and the regular key was in Jarnow’s pocket — then sneak into the room.”
He edged through the doorway, and a smile of satisfaction came upon his face as he noticed the position of the table in front of him. Again he raised his hand, and pointed his forefinger downward.
“From here,” he said, half aloud, “it’s a perfect shot! Then—” he stepped toward the table, and snapped the button on the hanging lamp — “out goes the light; and out I go — through the window, which remains unlocked.”
Griffith sat at the table, and laughed.
“The gun?” he said, as though asking himself the question. “Wipe the handle; then plant it right in Windsor’s hand.
“That slip of paper? Either Windsor or Jarnow had it. Our man snatched it, and a piece tore off. No time to hunt for it.”
The detective again reviewed his progress of crime reconstruction, and he seemed more satisfied than before. He went to the window, and peered below.
There might be evidence there, he thought, but at the moment, he had a more important idea.
Picking up the envelope, Griffith took another look at the twenty-dollar bills. The presence of what might be counterfeit currency added a new angle of interest.
Whom did it involve; Henry Windsor, or Frank Jarnow?
* * *
The question puzzled Detective Griffith as he walked down the stairs. He went to the back of the house, and made a few observations, both up the wall, and on the ground.
Then he returned to the room, and examined the window sill. He had seen no marks there before; now he observed what appeared to be a slight smudge. He shook his head.
“Looks like a handkerchief or something was laid there,” he said. “There’s a clever man in this somewhere. Enough sense to avoid finger prints during the getaway.
“There’s a man in this — a man you’re going to meet some time, Harvey Griffith, and let’s hope it’s soon.”
Satisfied with his accumulated evidence, the star detective walked from the rooming house, and moved leisurely along the street. He smiled as he thought of Harrison.
It would have been foolish to have mentioned a single clue, except, of course, the piece of paper, which Harrison should have found. Griffith knew from experience that it was best to gather all possible evidence before mentioning any of it.
“There’s ‘ifs’ to it,” he acknowledged. “But if the bills are phony; if the other man came in; if—”
He remembered the slip of paper, and drew out his notebook. He marked down an item: to check the writing of the letters “o” and “r” with any available copy of Henry Windsor’s handwriting.
“If these clues hold together,” observed Griffith. “It’s going to mean a lot to Henry Windsor. They’ve got the goods on him so far, and he’s an easy goat. It may be lucky for him that I begin where Harrison leaves off.”
So thinking, the detective continued his easy pace. These clues could wait a little while, locked in his brain, and recorded in his notebook.
For as yet, Harvey Griffith had not seen the body of the murdered man. After that had been inspected, he would be ready for action.
“Yes,” concluded the detective, “I have a hunch that this visit to the morgue will lead me to the murderer.”