INSPECTOR TIMOTHY KLEIN stood in the center of Marchand’s room. Hands behind his back, he surveyed a group of men gathered before him.
The group included the four who had found Marchand’s body. With them were the police surgeon and the toxicologist who had been called in by Doctor Lukens.
Joe Cardona was in the background, leaning against the wall.
“So you found the mark on Marchand’s finger?” questioned Klein.
“Yes,” replied Doctor Lukens. “On the second finger of the right hand. But I am at a loss to explain how it came there.”
The inspector smiled as he looked at the other men present. All seemed bewildered, with the exception of the toxicologist.
“Show them, Joe,” ordered Klein.
The detective came forward. He swung the desk away from the wall so that its side faced the group.
With his right hand he operated the movable molding, raising it with his forefinger and pressing his second finger into the opening beneath. With the action, the secret drawer shot from the front of the desk.
The witnesses came forward in surprise. They examined the mechanical apparatus on the side of the desk. Then Klein moved them back and beckoned to the toxicologist.
“I sent for this man without telling you, doctor,” he said to Lukens. “You were one of the four who discovered Marchand’s body, so I left you out of it for the time being. I wanted him to see what he could find on this.”
The inspector exhibited a small envelope, from which he dropped a hollow needle upon the table.
“Don’t touch it!” warned the toxicologist. “It contains a very virulent poison! It caused Marchand’s death!”
“When Marchand operated the secret drawer,” explained Klein, “he wounded himself with the needle point. That is why he died.
“This discovery, made by Detective Cardona and myself, explains the death of Henry Marchand. He was the victim of his own snare!”
“His own snare?” questioned Lukens.
“Positively,” replied the inspector. “We all know the precautions the man adopted — the closet, protected by tear gas; the safe, with its electric alarm.
“The drawer” — he tapped the desk — “which he seemed most anxious to guard, was protected by the poisoned needle!”
RODNEY PAGET broke the few moments of silence which followed.
“It’s rather surprising,” he said, “that Mister Marchand should have done this. He must have had enough wisdom to know that he would need some other method of opening the drawer. It doesn’t sound logical—”
The inspector smiled as he held up his hand in interruption.
“Marchand was fully prepared,” he said. He drew the thimble from his pocket. “Cardona found this in the desk. The old man had it handy, so that he could open the secret compartment without injury. In fact, it was this very thimble that prevented Cardona from suffering the same fate as Marchand.
“By some freak of fate, the old man forgot to put the thimble on his finger. It was probably due to his condition after the long journey.”
Doctor Lukens nodded. He turned toward Paget as though to corroborate Inspector Klein’s theory.
“I can readily understand that,” said the physician. “Mister Marchand was very forgetful. He used to complain of the fact to me.
“When he arrived home last night he was worried. He went upstairs in haste. It is not at all surprising that he forgot to take the proper precaution.
“The document in that secret compartment was evidently of great importance to him. He wanted to be sure that it was safe. He did not realize the mistake he was making.”
“Perhaps you’re right, doctor,” agreed Paget. “Mister Marchand used to forget some very important matter regarding his investments.”
“Willis will remember this,” declared the physician. “When Mister Marchand installed the tear-gas ejector on the closet, he nearly set it off by mistake. Mister Marchand told me about that himself.”
“Yes, sir,” said Willis. “He also had trouble with the alarm on the safe. He forgot to disconnect it three times. Both Oscar and I answered it.”
Inspector Klein approached the secretary.
“Did you have any knowledge of this secret drawer in the desk?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied Willis.
“How about you?” asked the inspector, addressing Oscar.
The servant shook his head.
“Very few persons came in this room, sir,” volunteered Willis. “Mister Marchand had me here on secretarial duties. He occasionally conferred alone with Mister Paget or Doctor Lukens. Offhand, I can think of no one else.”
The inspector looked around the room.
“This place looks prosperous enough for a safe cracker to try it,” he announced. “I can’t see any connection between the attempted burglaries and this unfortunate accident that killed Mister Marchand. Of course, it was the telegram that brought him back.”
He slapped his hand upon the table.
“This case is obvious,” he declared. “Death by misadventure. The circumstances were very unusual. I nearly lost a good man because of it” — he indicated Cardona with his thumb — “but we were fortunate.
“Detective Cardona has full reports. Give him a complete analysis of the poison in the needle. That’s all.”
“One moment, inspector,” said Doctor Lukens. “I am speaking now as a friend of Henry Marchand — as his closest friend.
“The circumstances of his unfortunate death are, as you say, obvious. But I am extremely anxious to learn the meaning of the paper that was in the envelope. It contained a code message, I believe. Is there no way that we can decipher it?”
Detective Cardona produced the envelope. The inspector handed it to Doctor Lukens.
“It is no longer evidence,” declared Inspector Klein. “It is a personal document belonging to the estate of Henry Marchand. We shall leave it in your possession, Doctor Lukens.”
“But I cannot decipher it,” objected the physician. “Nor do I know who could do the work. Yet it seems important to me.
“A document so highly valued by Henry Marchand — by my old friend who—”
“Let me have it,” said Cardona quietly. “I’ll have photostats made of it, doctor, and I’ll return the original to you.
“I’ll turn the copies over to some experts. They can decipher nearly anything. You’ll hear from me later.”
“Regarding the newspapers,” began Doctor Lukens.
“They won’t run much of a story on it,” said Inspector Klein reassuringly. “It isn’t a murder; it isn’t even a suicide. Death by misadventure.
“If any one had wanted to kill Marchand, they would have got him while he was away from here. They don’t come into houses like ghosts. That’s what I told Detective Cardona.
“‘Tell me how Marchand was poisoned,’ I said, ‘and we’ll have the solution.’ Right, wasn’t I, Joe?”
The detective grinned and nodded.
BACK at headquarters, Cardona turned out a colorless report covering the case of Henry Marchand.
The theatrical aspects of the tragedy did not impress him. The detective was too used to death to see anything dramatic in the finding of Marchand’s body.
He had been perplexed by a mystery; with the aid of Inspector Klein, he had solved it. No murder and no crime. An unfortunate combination.
Cardona’s only reflections on the matter concerned his own narrow escape. He did not care to dwell upon his mistake. The inspector had apparently forgotten it. That pleased the detective.
The newspapers covered the story, and Cardona minimized the case. The circumstances of the death were interesting, and the finding of the code was an added point. But as an accident, the death was not a highly sensational one.
The name of Henry Marchand was little known. The old man had lived as a recluse for many years.
Hence the story was printed in condensed form, and was crowded off the front page by the excitement of a gang killing that occurred the same night.
Cardona expected to hear no more from the press. He was mildly surprised the next day when one newspaperman approached him for an interview. This was Clyde Burke, an ex-reporter who wrote occasional feature stories. He had known Cardona for several years.
“Say, Joe,” said Burke, “that Marchand case was a funny one, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing much to it,” replied Cardona. “I gave the dope to the inspector. He figured it out right. Accidental death.”
“How about the code in the old man’s drawer?”
“It doesn’t interest us. Probably some private data that belonged to Marchand. I had photostats made so the experts can get busy on it. I did that to please Marchand’s friend, Doctor Lukens, but I sent them all away and gave the original back to Lukens.”
“I’d like to see it. Maybe I could figure it out.”
Cardona was thoughtful.
“I guess I could recall one of the copies and let you have it. But you’re not reporting for a paper now, are you, Burke?”
“No. I’m running a clipping bureau.”
“Fine job for a newspaperman. Give me your address, Burke. I’ll send the code along by mail.”
“By the way, Joe,” said Burke, “what’s the low-down on this Marchand case? The sheets didn’t carry much of a story on it.”
The detective seemed reluctant to talk; then, prompted by Burke’s questioning, he eventually delivered all the important details of Marchand’s death.
CLYDE BURKE returned to his office. There, with the facility of a trained journalist, he typed the essential features of the detective’s account. Beneath the report he placed the words: “Copy of code will follow.”
Cardona had assured him that the photostat would be sent promptly. Burke sealed the report in an envelope.
He left the office and boarded a subway train. He left the tube at Twenty-third Street. He entered an old office building, ascended the stairs, and stopped before an obscure office. The faded letters on the glass, of the dingy door bore the name:
M. JONAS
Burke dropped the envelope in the mail slot in the door.
Burke’s work was completed. He had delivered the inside story of the Marchand case. His report contained full details of the solution established by Inspector Timothy Klein.
But there was no mention in his report of the pair of dice that showed the number seven. The tiny cubes had been forgotten in Inspector Klein’s theory. They had been classed as totally unimportant.