“GEN’LEMAN callee you on phone, sir.”
Rodney Paget sat up in bed. It was morning. He was in Jerry Burnham’s apartment. Burnham’s Japanese valet had roused him.
“All right, Kama,” said Paget. “I’ll answer.”
He arose slowly and leisurely put on a pair of slippers. He yawned as he went into the living room, followed by the valet.
“He downstairs, sir,” informed Kama. “He say he wanee see you.”
“Hello,” drawled Paget, speaking in the house phone. A note of surprise entered his voice. “Oh, yes. I remember you. I met you at Marchand’s house the night the old man died. Come right up.”
Paget went back in the bedroom and put on a dressing gown. Another man, similarly attired, appeared in the hallway. The newcomer bore the tired look of a man who had awakened from a sleep disturbed by alcoholic memories.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We’re up, Jerry,” replied Paget with a laugh. “And a detective’s coming up. He’ll be here in a minute.”
“A detective?”
“Yes. His name is Cardona. Something to do with the death of old Marchand.”
Kama answered the knock at the door. Cardona walked in. He nodded to Paget in a friendly manner.
“Sit down,” urged Paget. “This is Mister Burnham, Mister Cardona—”
“Glad to meet you,” said the detective. “I called at your apartment, Mister Paget. I was told that you could be reached over here.”
“I’ve been here all night,” said Paget, with a laugh. “That is, all night, since three o’clock in the morning.”
He glanced at a clock on the bookcase. “Look at that,” he added. “Nearly eleven, and I’m just getting up.
“What do you want to see me about, Cardona? Something to do with Marchand?”
“Not Marchand.”
“Who, then?”
“Haven’t you seen the morning papers?”
“Not yet. I just got up. We generally read the evening papers around here. What’s happened?”
In reply, Cardona drew a newspaper from beneath his arm and handed the journal to Paget. The clubman blinked as he observed a familiar face picture on the front page; then his eye caught the headlines.
“Jove!” he exclaimed. “Doctor Lukens murdered!”
PAGET stared with wide-open eyes as hastily perused the paragraphs below the headlines. He seemed to have forgotten his customary indifference.
He devoured the printed lines. Then he cast the newspaper to the floor. His face was sober as he stared at the detective.
“You were there,” Paget said solemnly. “You had the man. Why didn’t you hold him?”
“He knocked me out,” admitted the detective. “My men let him slip away. Nearly winged him when he jumped out of the window. Didn’t even see his face, though.”
“This is terrible news, Cardona,” Paget said slowly. “I hope you get the murderer!”
“You may be able to help,” responded the detective. “We’re after every bit of evidence that may lead to a clew.”
“Where was Oscar — the servant?”
“Out for the evening. So was Willis. Both have perfect alibis— checked.”
“I see. Then Lukens was alone.”
“Yes. Willis came in about midnight. He went all to pieces when he found the police there. He was all garbled for a while.
“This morning he talked better. He told us that you had been there and had left the house some time before he went out.”
“That is correct.”
“Here’s what I want to know, Mister Paget. Did you notice anything unusual at the house when you were there? Do you recall the exact time you were there? Anything that Doctor Lukens said or did?”
“I was only there a few minutes,” said Paget thoughtfully. “I had dinner, here, with Mister Burnham. It was about quarter of eight when I left — it’s only ten minutes by cab to Marchand’s house — so I must have gotten there about eight.
“I arrived back here at eight thirty. I remember looking at the clock after I came in, because Jerry and I wanted to start out before nine o’clock.
“Didn’t I tell you that I would be back by half past eight, Jerry?”
Burnham scratched his head.
“Yes, I remember it,” he said. “Eight thirty by the clock right there on the bookcase. I said to be back by nine. You said you’d be back by eight thirty, and you were.
“Jack Greylock came in a couple of minutes before you. He’d probably remember it, too. He was only half lit at the time.”
“Back here at half past eight,” said Cardona, making a notation on a pad. “That figures you at Marchand’s house from about eight to eight twenty. That was pretty close to what Willis said.”
“HALF past eight,” interrupted Jerry Burnham, still scratching his head. “That was the time. Kama” — the Japanese servant entered — “what time did Mister Paget come in here last night — you know, when Mister Greylock was here. Just before we went out together?”
“Bigee clock strike halfee past eight,” said the Japanese.
“Great boy, Kama,” said Burnham approvingly. “That Jap knows everything. That’s why I keep him. Best man I ever had.”
“Between eight and eight twenty,” said Cardona, with a satisfied voice. “That much is settled. Did Doctor Lukens appear at all worried?”
“He looked tired,” said Paget. “Said he had been working all afternoon, and had just cleaned up the job. Willis was putting everything away. He looked tired, too.”
“Did he say anything special to you?”
“Nothing. I merely stopped in to inquire if he had found records of any uncompleted business that concerned me. I handled a few of Marchand’s investments, you know. The old man was a friend of my father.”
“I see.” Cardona arose. “That’s all, Mister Paget,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you. Thanks for the information. I’ll put your testimony on record. It about cleans up all that I can get.”
“I’m always glad to help you, Cardona,” said Paget, rising and walking to the door with the detective.
“Too bad you couldn’t get me earlier this morning.
“Burnham and I didn’t get in until after three o’clock. We were on the go from half past eight, with Greylock and two or three others. Made the rounds of the town — and we’ve been sleeping it off here.”
“Right-o,” interposed Burnham, “and I’m going back to get some more sleep.”
The detective left the apartment. Rodney Paget turned to Kama.
“Breakfast,” he ordered.
While Paget was eating, the Japanese servant stood beside the table.
“Bigee clock in the living room,” said Kama. “He go slow last night.”
“Clock go slow?”
“Yes, sir.” Kama produced a watch. “You go out, Mister Paget, I lookee at clock. Clockee say eight. I lookee at watch. Watchee say pretty near nine.
“You come in, I hear bigee clock strike halfee past eight. I lookee at watchee after that. Watchee say pretty near halfee past ten.”
“Yes?” questioned Paget curiously.
“Then you go outee with Mister Burnham,” went on Kama. “After you go, I lookee at clock again.
Clockee say pretty near eleven. I lookee at watch. Watchee say same as clockee — pretty near eleven.”
“Well, well,” observed Paget.
“I thinkee it funny,” added Kama. “I thinkee someblody pushee clockee back. Then slame someblody pushee clockee up. Clockee right now. Clockee always right. Exclept last night.”
“Listen, Kama,” said Paget. “Have you been drinking some of Mister Burnham’s liquor?”
“No drinkee, Mister Paget. No likee stuff.”
“Well, don’t say anything to him about the clock. Forget it, understand?”
Kama nodded.
“That man who was here,” added Paget. “Do you know who he was?”
The Japanese shook his head.
“Forget him, too,” ordered Paget. “He was just a friend of mine, who stopped in to tell me some news. The clock’s all right now, isn’t it?”
Kama nodded.
“Well, since it’s all right, forget it. The clock struck half past eight when I came in, didn’t it? Just remember that part. Maybe your watch was wrong. Half past eight. Remember?”
“You come in at halfee past eight,” repeated Kama.
RODNEY PAGET finished breakfast in his usual leisurely fashion. He took a bath and dressed. It was afternoon when he prepared to leave the apartment. Burnham was still sleeping.
Paget handed Kama a ten-dollar bill before he left.
“What time did the clock say when I came in?” he asked.
“Clockee strike halfee past eight,” came the parrotlike reply.
Paget rode along Eighty-first Street in a taxicab. He gazed curiously from the window as he passed the brownstone house where Doctor Lukens had died. He noticed a policeman standing by the front steps.
A faint smile appeared upon Paget’s lips.
Reaching in the watch pocket of his trousers, the clubman drew forth an object and held it in his half-closed hand. It was the scarab ring which Doctor Lukens had worn the night before — the ring which had once belonged to Henry Marchand.
Still smiling, Paget replaced the ring in his pocket. Calmly and leisurely, he opened his cigarette case and removed a cigarette. He put it carefully in the long holder.
Rodney Paget was puffing slowly and contentedly when the cab stopped in front of the Merrimac Club.