THE body of Henry Marchand had been removed, otherwise the room was the same. Its antiquated lights still cast their ghoulish gleam upon the scene.
Beyond the door through which the four men had forced their way, a dim hall light revealed a short, dark-visaged man who seemed to be awaiting some one. This was Detective Joe Cardona, of the New York police.
Footsteps came from the stairway. The detective became alert. He raised his hand in greeting to a tall, broad-shouldered individual who arrived at the top of the stairs.
The newcomer was Cardona’s superior, Inspector Timothy Klein.
The two men entered the room. In brief, matter-of-fact tones, Cardona gave the circumstances of Henry Marchand’s death. Then he pointed to the open drawer in the top of the desk. He removed the envelope from the drawer, and extracted a folded paper.
“The envelope was sealed,” explained the detective. “I opened it. Here’s what I found inside.”
Inspector Klein studied the paper. It was thickly inscribed with a series of curious, unintelligible marks.
“A code,” remarked the inspector.
Cardona nodded. “But I can’t make anything out of it.”
The inspector handed the paper to Cardona, who pocketed it, with the envelope.
“What else have you found out?” asked Klein.
Cardona referred to a written report.
“Four men were here when Marchand died,” he said. “They all entered the room together. We have gone over the place thoroughly. It seems impossible that any one else could have been in the house.
“Marchand died here, alone. I have quizzed all the witnesses, separately and together. I have also learned facts regarding each of them. They all appear reliable.”
CARDONA paused and laid four separate sheets of paper upon the desk. He took a chair and proceeded with more detailed information:
“Oscar Schultz,” he read. “Servant of Henry Marchand for more than twenty years. Considered faithful and honest. Says very little and answers questions readily, though briefly.”
The detective read from references on the second sheet.
“Harvey Willis,” he said. “Age twenty-eight. Secretary to Henry Marchand for two years. Seems genuinely broken up by his employer’s death. A weak type, but very conscientious. Has always followed Marchand’s instructions to the letter.”
Klein raised his eyebrows as Cardona read the third name.
“Rodney Paget,” said the detective. “A friend of Henry Marchand—”
“You mean the young clubman?” interrupted Klein. “The polo player?”
Cardona nodded. “He’s not so young, though. About forty.”
“I’m going back a few years,” returned the inspector, with a smile. “Young Paget comes from a good family. I knew his father thirty years back. Always well liked.
“This is Rodney, Junior, eh? He has good connections, but I don’t think he inherited much wealth. What’s his connection with Marchand?”
“Paget is connected with a brokerage house. He handled stocks and bonds for Marchand. He came here tonight to see the old man.”
“All right. Who’s the fourth?”
“Doctor George Lukens.”
“Of the Telman Hospital,” grunted the inspector.
“He was Marchand’s physician,” explained the detective. “He came here tonight after receiving a telegram from Marchand. The old man was not well. He wanted the doctor to be here when he arrived.”
“A good group of witnesses,” commented Klein.
“More than that,” declared Cardona. “They were instrumental in bringing the police immediately upon Marchand’s death.
“This case puzzles them as much as it does me. If there are clews to Marchand’s death — whatever may have caused it — they have supplied important items of information that will prove valuable.”
“For instance?”
“Lukens, to begin with.”
“Marchand had a weak heart. He had returned from a long trip. Lukens, as his physician, thought at first that heart failure was the cause of Marchand’s death.
“With another doctor, that would probably have ended the matter. But Lukens is so thorough that he looked for something else.
“He conferred with the police surgeon. They brought in a toxicologist. They are convinced that Marchand’s death was caused by some unusual poison. They have not yet discovered the mode of application.”
INSPECTOR KLEIN looked around the room as though seeking some spot in which a concealed person might be present. The detective smiled.
“We’ve searched this place thoroughly,” he said. “Willis and Oscar helped us. It’s lucky that they did. See that closet door?”
The inspector nodded.
“Unless you turn the knob twice before you pull the door,” said Cardona, “you will get a face full of tear gas. Just a little idea of Marchand’s. He has an alarm wired to the knob of the safe.”
“This desk?”
“Unprotected. But look at the clever construction of this drawer.”
Cardona pressed the drawer inward. There was a sharp click. The detective jumped back instinctively.
Then he looked closely at the desk.
“Look at that!” he exclaimed. “It’s cleverer than I thought! What happened to the drawer, anyway?”
The compartment had closed so perfectly that neither the inspector nor the detective could find its outline in the woodwork.
“Neither Oscar nor Willis knew about this drawer,” said Cardona. “I pushed it in before, but not all the way.
“Now I’ve locked it. How in blazes are we going to open it?”
“We’ll try later,” said the inspector, dryly. “Anything more?”
“Yes,” returned Cardona, turning away from the desk. “It was Willis who called the police. He and Oscar believe that the house was entered twice during Marchand’s absence.
“The first time, Oscar heard a noise downstairs. The second time, they discovered a man in this room.
The burglar escaped through an open window on the first floor. They gained no description of him.
“The second attempt caused them to summon Marchand home.”
“Why?”
“Because the old man was very particular that no one should enter this room.”
“Why?”
“We do not know, unless the answer is in the code message which we found in the drawer. I have traced Marchand’s career. It is above reproach. He had no enemies.
“He retired from the woolen business twenty years ago. Since then he had increased his wealth by profitable investments.
“Willis is familiar with all of his financial affairs, and they were very simple.”
“If there was nothing here,” observed Klein, “why did the burglar enter?”
“Marchand is known to own some valuable jewelry’” said Cardona. “The gems were owned by his deceased wife. They are not kept here. They are in a safe-deposit vault.
“My theory is that the burglar thought they were somewhere in this room, yet he didn’t try the safe.”
“Hm-m-m!” observed the inspector. “Maybe both times he was discovered before he had an opportunity to make a thorough search.”
“Still, I can see no connection between his attempts and the death of Marchand,” said Cardona. “Willis thought there might be a connection; but he has no theory. Nevertheless, he called in the police.”
“Very good,” said the inspector. “Now you’ve brought us back to the starting point — Marchand’s death.
All else is superficial, for the present.
“How was Marchand poisoned? That’s what we’ll have to find out.”
THE inspector arose and paced around the room. Detective Cardona looked at him in admiration.
Joe Cardona was looked upon as the smartest detective in New York; but he knew that his real ability could not approach that of Inspector Timothy Klein. Cardona’s superior was a man who dealt in simple facts; who reached to the heart of crime. He reduced all information to the lowest quantity before he acted.
The inspector stopped pacing. He pointed to the desk.
“Open that secret drawer again,” he said.
Cardona inspected the desk. He moved his hands down the side, seeking some spot that would yield.
His efforts brought no result. He opened an ordinary drawer in the center of the desk.
“Maybe there’s some kind of a key here,” he said.
Among other objects, he found a pair of dice.
“Look at these,” he said. “Lying seven up.”
“Seven,” commented the inspector, taking the dice. “There’s been a lot of crimes in which the number seven has figured. Remember that bank robbery, where they left seven pennies in the safe?”
“Maybe the same gang has something to do with this.”
“Let’s keep away from vague theories, Joe,” said the inspector. “Get that secret drawer open. Any sign of a key yet?”
“Here’s a thimble,” said Cardona.
The inspector took the object. It was a silver-plated thimble that had been lying amidst a pile of paper clips.
“Hm-m-m!” grunted the inspector. “Funny thing to find in an old man’s desk.”
The detective made no comment in return. He closed the drawer. He moved his hand along the side of the desk, following a line where he knew the shallow secret compartment must lie.
He paused near the back of the desk. His fingers were upon an ornamental molding that was divided into sections. Cardona tapped and detected a movement in the woodwork.
As he pressed upward, the tiny segment of molding slid into the top of the desk, showing a hole beneath.
Cardona removed his hand; the segment dropped.
“Look here!” exclaimed the detective.
The inspector leaned over the side of the desk.
“Watch this,” said Cardona. “I slide this piece of molding up like this. See? Then it drops back again. Now I push it up with one finger; then insert another finger in the opening beneath.”
INSPECTOR KLEIN’S brawny fist descended upon the detective’s wrist. Cardona’s arm dropped away from the desk. The tiny bit of molding slipped back into place.
The detective looked at the inspector in amazement, as one would stare at a man who had gone suddenly insane.
“What’s the idea?” he blurted, unable to restrain his anger.
The inspector handed him the thimble.
“Put that on your finger,” he said. “Then push your finger in the hole when you raise the molding.”
The detective obeyed, wondering. When he pressed with the finger that wore the thimble, the secret compartment suddenly appeared at the front of the desk.
“Did you notice anything?” asked Klein.
“Yes,” replied the detective, still puzzled. He looked at the thimble. “It seemed as though I struck metal.”
“Pliers?” demanded the inspector.
Cardona felt in his pocket and produced a pair of tweezers.
“Those will do,” said Klein.
He leaned over the desk and raised the sliding molding with the thumb of his left hand. Holding the tweezers in his right, he probed the hole beneath the molding.
Slight clicks followed; then the inspector twisted his hand and drew out the tweezers.
Raising the instrument to the light, he revealed a short, slender point of metal, clipped between the ends of the tweezers.
“It looks like a needle!” exclaimed Cardona. “Like the needle of a sewing machine.”
“It is a needle,” said the inspector quietly. “Look at the point of it. A hollow needle, with a remarkably sharp point. Only the thimble prevented it from piercing your finger.
“If you had not worn the thimble on your finger—”
The inspector paused to gaze steadily at the detective. A look of enlightenment was dawning on Cardona’s face.
“If I had not worn the thimble—” came the detective’s words.
“—you would have died as Marchand died!” was the inspector’s ominous reply.