Chapter IV
With John Fletcher, former Justice of the Supreme Court of the State of New York, at one end of a telephone, official red tape was quickly and effectively cut. Professor Herman Brierly was given the powers and privileges necessary for an independent investigation.
Less than an hour after the receipt of the telegrams, Professor Brierly, accompanied by McCall, Matthews and Jimmy Hale, was at the office of the medical examiner, who was charged with making the official report on deaths by other than natural means.
Dr. Simpson showed the old savant marked respect. Parts of the story had leaked out somehow and the knowledge that behind Professor Brierly were such distinguished names had its effect, apart from the weight that the old scientist's own name carried.
The four men were led into a small bare chamber, behind the office of the medical examiner, where all the earthly remains of Morris Miller lay on an enameled metal slab.
Dr. Simpson drew aside the sheet, saying:
"I've not yet had time to make a post mortem, Professor, but that will be only a formal gesture in this case. This is obviously suicide."
Professor Brierly, who did not mince words when engaged in a scientific investigation, took one look at the hole in the temple with its encircling powder marks. He snapped:
"This is obviously not suicide; certainly not, if this wound was the cause of death, which neither you nor I at present know. Have you the weapon with which this was done?"
Dr. Simpson reddened.
"The police have that, sir."
"And the bullet—oh, of course you have not extracted that. We will do it together, if you please."
Professor Brierly began taking off his coat and vest, Matthews doing likewise.
Dr. Simpson said tartly:
"Since you know so much about it without examination, and are so cock sure that it isn't suicide, why bother with such trifles as the weapon and the bullet. You might have sat down and written a thesis about it without even seeing the body."
Professor Brierly whirled on him bristling. Matthews, coat and vest in hand, slid between them. They were of equal height. Matthews looked at the other and said softly:
"Doctor, it isn't safe or wise to talk to Professor Brierly that way when I'm around. We don't want any trouble. You were told to give Professor Brierly the fullest opportunity and help in making this post mortem. We don't need your help, but it would be wiser not to interfere."
Dr. Simpson was looking into a pair of dangerously cold blue eyes. Nothing made Matthews as angry as an affront to the man who was more than father to him. Dr. Simpson saw the rippling muscles, he saw the clean cut jaw; he remembered the names of the men who were behind this investigation. He retreated gracefully.
"Oh, all right, but it disturbs a professional man to have his word questioned so lightly. I have some reputation—just a minute, I'll bring the instruments."
Jimmy asked Matthews:
"How long will this take, Jack?"
"Perhaps an hour, Jimmy, why do you ask?"
"Nothing, I want to go out and use the phone. I'll be back before you're through."
For the past half hour Jimmy had been outwardly calm, but inwardly raging with impatience. Minutes became a matter of supreme importance now. James Hale, the newspaper man, now had a big story, and it was important to catch the Eagle's home edition if possible. This was July Fourth. On this day, while they issued a paper, they kept only a skeleton staff. With nothing big breaking they were likely to put the home edition to bed and call it a day, leaving just a man or two in the office for emergencies, similar to the early morning dogwatch.
He also took a malicious satisfaction in shooting something into the office that would keep them all on the jump for the rest of the day and perhaps late into the night.
Jimmy, accustomed to thinking in headlines, had been formulating a head for the story; he was now murmuring it to himself as he hurried to a public telephone: DEATH POINTS A FINGER, DEATH POINTS A FINGER, over and over again. He saw those words, in letters three inches high, flaming across the top of the front page.
When the pleasant far-away voice of the operator said: "New York Eagle" Jimmy barked: "'Lo Ann, gimme the city desk quick, will you."
"Mr. Hite's wire is busy, will you wait a minute, Mr. Hale?"
"Can't Ann. I got to catch the home, put whoever Hite's talkin' to on another wire and gimme the chief."
Jimmy had made a request that he would have made only in dire emergency; he felt he was justified. He heard a faint clicking, then came Hite's familiar growl:
"Are you drunk, Jimmy? What the hell can be so important that you must cut in—mebbe you think I'll stop the presses for a feature story. I—I said I'd pay the expenses of the trip, not for useless, expensive telephone calls. You could have mailed—"
"'Scuse me, chief. I got a wow of a story. When's the home going to bed?"
"Just gone; didn't I tell you—"
Jimmy found an effective way of stopping this flow of talk. He cut in, saying:
"One, perhaps three of this Tontine group have been murdered during the past twenty-four hours."
"What!"
The growl that came over the wire was a scream. Jimmy jerked the instrument away from his ear.
The explosion kept ringing in his ear painfully. Hale repeated slowly:
"One, perhaps three of the Tontine group were murdered during the past twenty-four hours."
The growl that now answered him was Hite's normal voice, with the tense undertone it held when he had a big story. Jimmy heard Hite's voice faintly; the city editor was giving orders to the pressroom that would stop the presses. For the next fifteen minutes there would be feverish but orderly activity.
"All right, Jimmy, just gimme the flash so I'll have enough for a head; the copy desk's all gone. Then I'll put you on Roy's wire and you can give him the story."
Jimmy, with the capacity of the trained newspaper man to tell a big story in a few words, told Hite enough in four sentences to furnish material for a headline. Then, with malicious satisfaction, he said:
"There's a New York end on this, chief."
This he knew would have the effect of keeping in the office everybody who had not yet gone home and might even cause a scurrying about that would call in others, thus spoiling whatever plans they had made for the rest of the day. Newspaper men have no union hours. He added as an afterthought: "I got a swell head for this, chief. DEATH POINTS A FINGER."
The answer to this was a grunt. There was a click and Roy Heath's soft southern drawl came floating over the miles of wire. There was a stream of invective. Jimmy's past, present and future were depicted in pointed billingsgate, all done in good English. Roy had planned a pleasant afternoon and evening with a lady who had just finished a triumphant musical comedy engagement. And now—Jimmy wickedly cut in on this by saying:
"This is a swell obit, Roy." There is nothing the newspaper man hates to do as much as an obituary. The cub's early training is obtained on the obituary column. Roy took a fresh start, but he was cut short, evidently by Hite, whose desk was near the rewrite man's.
"All right, shoot if you got anything to say."
Jimmy, for the next thirty minutes, sketched the vivid story, so fresh in his mind over the miles of wires between them, interrupted from time to time by the growing excited ejaculations from Roy Heath, as he sensed the "scoop" qualities of the story. He ended:
"Tontine is spelt—"
"I know how to spell it and I know what it is. I got some education. I ain't a damn ignorant Yankee."
"One of the members of this group is Lorenzo Tonti, a direct Descendant of the man who devised this insurance. The fund now amounts to about several million dollars. During all this time, whenever there was an accident, injury or death to a member of this group, each of the survivors received in an envelope a sheet of paper with the number '14' on it.
"This bunch had an annual reunion on the Fourth of July, a gesture to show the real patriotism of Southerners—"
"What do you mean 'gesture'? They are the only real patriots in the country."
"Fourteen survivors were to have met at the camp of Isaac Higginbotham, former justice of the United States Supreme Court. Eleven came. At eight o'clock this morning a telephone message came telling of the suicide of one of them, August Schurman, retired art dealer, of New York. At nine o'clock there came a telephone message telling of the suicide of another, Morris Miller, of Lentone, Vermont. At ten o'clock there came a message telling of the drowning of Herbert Wrigley, retired manufacturer, at Bradley Beach, New Jersey.
"Just as they received word of the third death there came a batch of telegrams, one for each of the eleven survivors, with the word 'fourteen' on each telegram, just that, nothing else, just 'fourteen.'
"We just saw the body of Morris Miller. The medical examiner pronounced it suicide. Professor Brierly, after looking at the bullet wound in the temple, says, that if that wound caused death, it is not suicide. And you betcher life what Professor Brierly says is so. Me and the Prof are now gonna make an exhaustive investigation and give you our findings. Got it all?"
The monosyllabic grunt coming over the wire showed Jimmy that Roy Heath had taken it all. Jimmy knew that there would now come from Heath's clicking typewriter keys an amplified and elaborated story that would take the breath of all who read it. Shortly the halted presses would resume their roar and pour out an edition that would startle the country.
Soon other papers would take up the burden. This was a story of major importance. There was thrill, glamour, romance, drama, everything that goes to make the big newspaper event. And it was.
Chapter V
At the police station, where the investigators and the reporters were sent by Dr. Simpson, they were told that Detective Brasher, who had the case in hand, was still at the home of Morris Miller, finishing his examination.
They had no difficulty finding the Morris home. He had built, years before, a house which was called by the natives for miles around, "Miller's Folly," to resemble a medieval castle. Miller had gone to the extent of building a draw bridge in front of the house, which was let down and drawn up regularly morning and night.
The rear of the house was on a high point facing the western shore of Lake Memphremagog, with only a narrow strip of land separating it from the waters of the lake. The blankness of the entire rear facade of the structure was broken only by one window, built into a deep embrasure. Above the window was a small circular opening about the size of a porthole.
Detective Brasher was cordial to the visitors. He had been notified of their coming.
He led the way to the room on the third floor where the body had been found that morning.
"Nothin' to it, Professor," said Brasher, "nothin' to it. Mr. Miller used this room to write and read in and the next room for sleeping. You see it is a sort of suite, with a bath room and everything.
"This room is just as we found it this mornin' when we broke in. Mr. Miller was lyin' on the couch there, the bed in the next room is made up like the maid left it; it hadn't been slept in. He was lyin' on his back with a hole in his temple—oh, you saw that. All right.
"Well, his arm hung down over the edge of the couch, and the revolver was on the floor where he dropped it. There was his finger marks on it all right and no one else's. The gun is there," pointing to a table, among miscellaneous odds and ends, "and nobody touched it. The door was locked from inside and so was the window of the bedroom. They tell me he always slept with the door and window locked."
"How did he get air during the night?" asked McCall.
"Through that." Brasher was standing on the threshold separating both rooms and was pointing to the porthole in which was fixed a circular fan. Brasher continued:
"We came here about eight o'clock, or mebbe a quarter after. Mr. Miller used to get up very early. When he wasn't down for breakfast this mornin' and the people down stairs knowin' he had an appointment with Judge Higginbotham, they came up and called. When there was no answer to their callin' and knockin' they called us up.
"Me and another man from headquarters, we broke the door open and we found him like I tell you. Doc Simpson says he was dead about five or six hours when we found him. That makes it about three o'clock when he kills himself. You see the servants had all gone after dinner; gone to a movie. A shot fired in this room couldn't be heard down stairs. I tried it.
"No, there's nothin' to it, Professor. It's a dead open and shut case. Mr. Miller committed suicide, don't need any scientific sharps to tell that."
Professor Brierly nodded absently. He was gazing about the room. Then he walked to the library table, on which lay the revolver. He stooped over it and turned to the detective.
"May I examine this weapon, Mr. Brasher?"
"Sure, help yourself."
"It is certain, Mr. Brasher, that there are no finger prints on this weapon other than those of Mr. Miller?"
"That's certain. Our finger print man hasn't had the experience of the big city men, but he's a good man, just the same, and knows what he's talkin' about."
"And he said what, about the finger prints?"
"He said that there were Mr. Miller's finger prints all over the gun, that part of Mr. Miller's thumb print, his right thumb was on the trigger, showin' that that's the way he must have pulled the trigger, with his thumb, understand?"
"We will take this for granted, Mr. Brasher. Now, did any one disturb the barrel of the weapon, remove the shells or—"
"No, Professor, nothin' like that was done, the gun is there just as we found it. We know a little about guns but we ain't expert, get me, and we thought we'd leave it till—"
Professor Brierly was not listening. He gingerly picked up the weapon from the table, using his handkerchief, and removed the cylinder, which held one empty shell and five loaded ones.
With a deftness and a certainty of movement, remarkable in a man of his age, he removed one of the bullets from a shell, using his knife for the purpose. He first examined the bullet and compared it with one he took from his vest pocket. Then he spilled the powder into the palm of his hand, examined and sniffed that. He looked up.
Brasher was beginning to show a little impatience. He said:
"Like I said, there's nothin' to it, Professor, nothin' at all.
Miller committed suicide."
Professor Brierly shook his head gently.
"I am afraid you are wrong, Mr. Brasher. There is a great deal to it. One thing, seems certain. If Mr. Miller killed himself, it is reasonably certain that it was an accident; that he did not intend to do so. And, off hand, although I am not prone to giving snap judgment, I should say that the chances are enormously against his either having shot himself by accident or design."
"But, Professor, there was Mr. Miller on the couch, his gun near his hand, where he dropped it. The door and window were locked, not only locked, but bolted, from inside; Mr. Miller was a very suspicious man; that's why he built this tower.
"In addition to this, he had a burglar alarm on the door, he didn't need one on the window.
If you look out the window in the next room you'll see that it would take a bird, or anyhow, something that can fly, to get at it. A monkey couldn't get at the window, to say nothing of getting in.
"When we came this morning, the door was bolted and the alarm was on. The window was as you see it, bolted from inside. As for that ventilating thing, a baby couldn't get in. There were powder marks around the bullet hole. So, how—"
Professor Brierly was not listening. He walked into the bedroom, followed by the others. He examined the walls and floors. He went to the window, submitting each pane to a careful scrutiny. He looked carefully at the sill. Then he went to the door, with its jagged scars showing from the recent assault upon it by the police. He returned once more to the window. He opened it—it swung outward on a hinge—and looked out a long time.
When he withdrew his head from his long scrutiny, even Matthews, who knew him best, could not tell from his demeanor if he had what he was seeking. For that matter, Matthews was completely in the dark as to what his mentor and foster father was looking for.
Professor Brierly turned to Brasher, who had followed him into the room and was following his movements with cynical amusement.
"Who takes care of these rooms, Mr. Brasher; I mean who cleans them?"
"I don't know, but there's a sort of housekeeper. I'll get her up here."
"Do so, please."
A thin, middle-aged woman, dressed in somber black, appeared. She looked from one to the other of the group of men. There was no emotion visible on her thin features, except for a tinge of defiance. She was introduced as Mrs. Horsnall.
"Mrs. Horsnall," asked Professor Brierly, "who cleans these rooms?"
"The maid, Ella."
"When did she clean these rooms last?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Are you sure she cleaned them properly?"
"She did that, or she would have heard from me. I looked at the rooms myself after she was through. I always look after the work of the help around here."
No one present doubted that she did a thorough job of looking after things.
"Have any repairs been done in these rooms recently, Mrs.
Horsnall?"
"Repairs, how do you mean?"
"Well, such things as locks, hinges, lights, windows, and so forth."
"No. We've got a man of all work who takes care of such things. He hasn't been in these rooms since last spring; he replaced that fan in the hole there." She pointed to the ventilator.
"How is it there is no screen on the window? There are mosquitoes around here, are there not?"
"Yes, sometimes. But Mr. Miller never opened the window, except at night sometimes, when there wasn't any light in the room and that only for a short time. You see, he was queer that way. He was afraid of being shot at."
"Did Mr. Morris have any revolvers, Mrs. Horsnall?"
"Yes, he had three or four."
"Is that one of them?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't know one from the other. I never touched them; I was afraid of them."
"And you are quite certain, Mrs. Horsnall, that no repairs were made in the rooms since last spring and that no one except you, the maid, Ella, and Mr. Miller himself were in these rooms since last spring?"
"I'm sure of that, sir."
"Will you send the maid, Ella, up here, Mrs. Horsnall, and, thank you."
Ella, a sulky young woman of Irish extraction, came and verified everything Mrs. Horsnall had said. Professor Brierly took her over practically the same ground as he had the older woman.
Professor Brierly dismissed her and went back to the window, which he submitted once more to a careful scrutiny. He absently picked at the outer edges of the panes with his fingers. He turned to Detective Brasher, saying, apologetically:
"I came up to this beautiful country for a rest and a vacation; I did not think I should have any need for any revolvers. Can you tell me where I can get one like this and shells like these?" He pointed to the table.
Brasher looked at him suspiciously.
"Sure, Professor, you can get them at Hinkle's sporting goods store, in town. Hinkle carries everything, but," belligerently, "what about your sayin' that Miller didn't kill himself?"
"If you mean by 'killing himself,' that he committed suicide, I can safely say, even now, with the incomplete information I have, that he did not kill himself. There is a possibility that he was handling the weapon and accidentally discharged it. But the surrounding circumstances make that highly improbable."
He paused for a moment and asked, abruptly: "Is there any objection to my looking about the grounds?"
"None at all, Professor, but do you mind telling me what you want a gun like this for?"
"Certainly not. I should like to make some tests with it."
"Professor, I've heard a lot about you. I'd like to work with you. I'm a rough neck, a man without education, just a hard working detective, but I do the best I can. I'd like to—"
Brasher paused, floundered and reddened. There was a soft gleam in the deeply sunken bright blue eyes of the old scientist. He nodded.
"Of course, I'll be happy to have your help. I will just look about—"
"I'll go with you, Professor, and there's no reason why you can't have this gun, if it will help you."
"That will be fine, Mr. Brasher. It is just the thing I need." He waited while the weapon and the shells were wrapped in a paper. Matthews took the parcel and the five men went outside.
Chapter VI
Professor Brierly nodded with satisfaction when he looked up at the rear facade of Miller's Folly. Near the edge of the roof, was a chimney. A plumb line dropped from the center of the chimney would drop about three feet to the right of the only window in the blank, forbidding wall.
"I see," commented the old man, "a chimney. I did not know." He turned to Brasher. "You offered to help, young man; here is your chance. At the rear of the chimney, near its base, particularly the two rear angles, you will find fresh marks. The chimney is probably scuffed as though a rope had been drawn tightly about it and pulled back and forth. You will find the edges of the roof, coincident with the sides of the chimney, also scuffed as though a rope had been pulled across the edge with quite a weight at its end. You—"
Brasher did not hear the end. He was racing around the side of the building. In a short time they saw his figure on the edge of the roof clinging to the chimney. Then he crawled to the edge and leaning far forward, he gazed intently at something that the men below could not see.
Brasher looked down and nodded his head so violently that he nearly threw himself from the roof. He came racing around the side of the house in a short time.
"You're right, Professor; it's just like you said. I begin to see—"
Professor Brierly was pointing at a spot on the wall about three feet from the ground. There was a scar in the cement joining the stones. The scar was a small hole about large enough to hold a man's small finger. The scar ran obliquely from above, downward and inward.
Professor Brierly was saying:
"There are a number of these scars running up in a staggered arrangement, one above the other, about a foot apart, literally. I saw some of these scars from the window above and one especially deep one. It is fairly obvious—"
"I get you, Professor, I get you. You think—"
Professor Brierly shook his head.
"I shall tell you definitely what I think when I have made the tests with the revolver. Can we get shells like these at Hinkle's? I shall need some more."
Professor Brierly chose to keep his own counsel on the way to Lentone and thence to their camp on the lake. Arrived there, he did not waste much time. Taking a number of sheets of paper, he shot at them from varying distances with the revolver found in Miller's room. Beginning by holding the muzzle an inch from the cards, he gradually increased the distance inch by inch until he was shooting from a distance of twelve inches. Then he shot from a distance of fifteen, twenty, twenty-five and thirty inches.
He now turned to the men who had been watching him.
"I can now say definitely that Mr. Miller was shot with the muzzle somewhere between twelve and fifteen inches from his temple. I still do not understand why the killer approached so close without—"
"Morris Miller was almost stone deaf," interrupted Brasher.
"Ah, that accounts for it; that clears up something that puzzled me."
"Since you three have conspired to make me take an interest in crime," his glance swept Jimmy, Matthews, and McCall, "I have gone rather exhaustively into matters that hitherto only interested me casually. I spent two months in the Scientific Crime Detection Laboratory of Northwestern University. Among the subjects I took up were powder marks.
"It was obvious to me at the first glance at the wound that it was not self-inflicted. I felt reasonably certain that the weapon was held a greater distance from the head than it would be held if the victim contemplated suicide. That is why I suggested the possibility that he had held the weapon and it had gone off by accident. That seemed a remote possibility, but still a possibility.
"Powder marks tell quite an interesting story to the student. Black powder will not leave the same marks at the same distance, either in kind or degree, as will smokeless powder. The same kind of powder fired from a weapon with a short barrel will leave burns that differ radically from those fired from a long barrel. The amount of powder also will make a difference.
"Black powder is merely a physical mixture of three ingredients. The charcoal which goes into its composition is not burned at the time of firing and remains unchanged. Each little unburned charcoal grain becomes a secondary projectile, which leaves its mark not only on the surface that received the bullet if it is close enough, but also makes little pits on the base of the bullet.
"Smokeless or semi-smokeless powder is a chemical compound in which the ingredients are radically changed in form. At the time of firing, smokeless powder is practically all burned and only gases are left, leaving neither soot nor pits on, the base of the bullet. Smokeless powders will also leave burns on the surface at which the bullet is fired, but neither as black, nor deep, nor as numerous as those left by black powder.
"Thus you see, given the same ammunition, the same weapon, it can be ascertained by tests, with a fair degree of accuracy, at what distance a shot was fired. The zone of black around the wound itself, the size of powder marks, the thinness with which they are scattered, all tell their story."
"Is this true, Professor, at distances beyond which there are powder marks?" asked Jimmy.
"Yes, it is, but not within inches, of course, nor within a few feet, perhaps. But even at those distances it can often be approximated.
"Given the hypothesis that Miller was murdered, the rest was easy. If you will go back there, Brasher, and dig your nail into the putty holding the window nearest to the bolt, you will find it soft; the other putty is hard. There are five rows of panes. The one I refer to is in the middle row at the extreme left. The killer had the forethought to use putty that was of about the same color as old putty. But I saw on the sill some minute grains of glass glinting in the light.
"Mrs. Horsnall, without knowing why I asked the question assured me that there had been no repairs, such as replacing panes of glass. When I leaned out of the window, I saw the scars in the cement. Perfectly obvious. An active man, a strong man, probably a left-handed man, threw a string with a stone at the end over Miller's Folly. With this string he drew over the building a stronger twine. Finally he drew over the top of the building a strong rope, like a wash line, or something stronger. He then drew both ends of the rope around, forming a loop, about the chimney.
"Using the chimney as his anchor, with his rope looped around it, it was fairly easy for an active man. He used the kind of spurs that electric workers use to climb up wooden poles. Those spurs left the scars I pointed out. He had a hand hold, of course, on the two ends of the rope hanging from the chimney about two feet from the window.
"The rest was rather difficult. When he reached the height of the window, the nearest pane, fortunately for him, the one near the bolt was two feet from his perch, at his left. That is why I suggest that he may be a left-handed man. He cut out the pane, opened the window, went in, killed Miller and then spent some time hiding his traces. Among these was replacing a pane of glass and using putty colored like old putty.
"A very, very dangerous murderer and a very clever one, but hardly a subtle one."
He turned to Brasher. "Now, young man, the rest ought to be simple police work. Find a man in possession of twine and rope, on which you will find adhering bits of brick, cement and paint, from Miller's roof. Find him in possession of a pair of spurs, on which you may find adhering bits of cement and you have your murderer."
As Brasher, thanking him effusively, was about to go. Professor
Brierly detained him.
"Just a moment. I want to send a telegram to New York. Leave this at the telegraph office for me, please."
He turned to his companions as Brasher departed; he smiled whimsically:
"Since you insist on plunging me into these things, I might as well be prepared. I wired for several things that we may need before this is over."
McCall was knitting his brow. He had followed with glowing admiration the exposition of the old savant.
"Professor," he asked, "you say the murderer is a clever one, but hardly a subtle one. Why do you say that?"
Professor Brierly dropped wearily into a deep chair on the porch. He shuffled the sheets of paper each with its bullet hole surrounded by powder marks.
"A man who kills another, usually uses the tools he knows best; frequently he uses the tools of his trade. That is easiest; following the lines of least resistance. Or, if killing becomes his profession, he adopts and adapts certain tools for his purpose, with which he becomes familiar.
"Just see how this murder was accomplished. A professional need not be ashamed of the way the pane of glass was inserted, the use of the rope, the climbing irons, or the spurs. The man who did this has used all these materials and tools before.
"Even in this country, where we are far behind certain European countries in such matters, it should be a simple matter for the police to pick up the killer. They can go through their records for the men who are accustomed to rob houses this way. They may find half a dozen in their files. They will pick up all of them who are not in prison and pin this murder on the guilty person. The others will have adequate alibis.
"It must be obvious to you, of course, that though Miller's safe was rifled, robbery was not the real motive for the entrance; it was murder. It must also be obvious that no eighty-two-year-old man could have done this. If an eighty-two-year-old man engineered it, he hired some one. The man he hired, as I am showing you, left a broad trail. Find him and you will find the man behind him."
He rose. "I am rather tired. I am not as young as I was. I'd better take a rest."
"An eighty-two-year-old man? Are you suggesting, Professor—" began
McCall.
"I? I am suggesting nothing. It was you, Mr. McCall, who made the ugly suggestion, remember.
"There is the mysterious number '14,' who, if he exists, is assuredly not less than eighty-two years old. Then, there is a several million dollar fund of which you told me. It was you, Mr. McCall, who made the ugly suggestion that such a sum was a tremendous temptation, both for men who have always been comparatively poor and for men who have had much and now have nothing.
"I am merely giving you the results of my conclusions from facts as I found them.
"Incidentally, this murderer, the man who killed Miller, is not very original. I remember a case in Germany in which a robber entered a house using just that means, a rope, a chimney and climbing irons. Yes, yes. It has all been done before. I did not need all the clues I found on the window and outside the house. The powder marks were enough. The killer was too hasty or too careless or too ignorant. He might not have known that there is an enormous difference between powder marks inflicted when the muzzle is two inches away and those inflicted when the muzzle of the weapon is twelve inches away. The powder marks alone, without any other factors, that slight difference of a few inches, might make the difference between life and death for the murderer."
"And the two other men, Professor?" asked Jimmy.
"Of the two other men," snapped Professor Brierly, impatiently, "I know no more than you, and little is known about their deaths right now."
"But don't you think," continued the persistent reporter.
"You don't mean, don't I think, Mr. Hale," jeered Professor Brierly. "You mean don't I guess. No, I never guess. I leave that for highly imaginative newspaper men, or," he waved his hand sarcastically at his grinning assistant, "to John, there. Bring me some facts and I shall try to give you an opinion, an opinion that I may base on those facts, but, what do you know of the other men?" he challenged sharply.
"Well, there's not much question about one of them, the one who was drowned at Bradley Beach. That seems like an honest drowning. But August Schurman, from our information, apparently hanged himself in his study in one of those old houses on the lower west side."
There was no sign of weariness now on the part of the old scientist. He was fully aroused. His deeply sunken eyes were glowing. Jimmy had used an old formula that he always found efficacious.
"Oh, yes?" Professor Brierly was leaning forward. "Not much question about Wrigley, the man who was found in the water at Bradley Beach, is there? All we know about him is that he was found dead in the water. Do you know that he was drowned? Of course you don't.
"And Schurman, the man who was reported to have committed suicide by hanging. All you know about that is that he was found hanging in his study, dead. Do you know that he died by hanging? Do you know that he was not dead before he was hung? If that is the case, then obviously, he could not have hung himself. Perfectly astonishing to me, Mr. Hale, that a man who has followed your profession as long as you have should be so gullible. For that matter, do you know those men are dead?"
After firing this sarcastic shaft, he shook his head, saying: "As I said, Mr. Hale, I am tired and I need some rest. And nothing makes me more tired than idle, futile speculation. The principal difference between a scientist and a newspaper man, Mr. Hale, is that one knows—the other—guesses."
* * * * *
The last rays of the sun were flaming in the sky across the lake when Professor Brierly suddenly said to Matthews: "John, take me down to the Higginbotham camp. The Judge tinkers with physics and mechanics, he offered me the use of his equipment. It may be a good thing for all of us to take our minds from this terrible affair. Too much brooding will certainly not help."
Matthews looked at him suspiciously. Without comment, he made ready to go.
Justice Higginbotham received the two men graciously. He took them at once to his work shop.
"I'm just an amateur, Professor. But it is a good thing for an old man to have a hobby, a very perplexing hobby. Modern science makes so many strides every year, every day, that it is practically impossible for an amateur to keep apace." He preceded them to a spacious shed in the rear of the house. It was carefully and immaculately arranged, each article in its place and most of them carefully labeled.
Professor Brierly's eyes gleamed with interest as his eyes fell on a series of tubes, some of which resembled radio tubes in their sockets.
"Ah," he murmured. "Photo-electric tubes. It should be fairly easy for you to keep apace with that for the reason that this particular branch of science is still in its infancy and we are all groping in the dark. No matter how little you know about the matter, Judge, you cannot know a great deal less than any of us."
"That's your modesty, Professor. I had just been installing some of the simpler devices when," his fine features clouded, "this deplorable, this terrible affair interrupted me." There was silence for a moment. With a visible effort of the will, he continued:
"I am so glad you and Mr. Matthews are here. I am rather vague about it. While I enjoy finding things out for myself, this has been rather difficult. I am not certain I understand the photo-cell's sensitiveness to color. You see, I was trying—"
"Why, that is comparatively simple, Judge. I see you have everything needed right here."
"Yes, I got it all from a catalogue. But now that I have it, what am I going to do with it?"
Professor Brierly stepped forward. He and Matthews worked quickly, deftly, the old scientist uttering a word of explanation now and then. The venerable jurist watched their deft handling of intricate mechanism with keen interest and obvious enjoyment.
After half an hour that seemed to Justice Higginbotham only a few minutes, so keen had been his absorption in the task, Professor Brierly and Matthews stepped back. Professor Brierly had three cards colored red, green and blue in his hand. He pointed to three indicators that he had connected to wires running from a tube.
"You see, Judge, the three indicators are marked respectively with the colors of these cards. As I pass these cards in front of the tube, the corresponding indicator will record its passage. Watch!"
He passed the cards in front of the tube slowly, first in one order then another. He changed their order; he increased their speed. The result was the same. The respective indicators each time, rapidly or slowly recorded the passage of the corresponding color correctly.
Justice Higginbotham beamed with admiration.
"I told you you were modest, Professor. It would have taken me weeks or months to do that. I've been working on rather an ambitious project with these tubes, you may laugh when I tell you; I was well on the way with it when," once more his features clouded, "this hellish thing interrupted me."
Professor Brierly, glad to take the other's mind from the dreadful tragedy stalking him and his companions, asked:
"What is the ambitious program you had mapped out that you believe will make me laugh?"
"It is true, is it not, Professor, that the impulse transmitted by a photo electric cell can be translated into incalculable energy; can be made to do things that normally require a great deal of power?"
"You have about stated the case, Judge. We know very little about it yet, about its possibilities, but they seem endless and practically indefinite.
"The impulse generated can be made to pick up a thread, or pull a trigger, operate a trip hammer, blow up a mine or move a battleship or an ocean liner, given a strong enough lever. And that means simply a proper transformation of power or energy.
"The theory is comparatively simple. Wherever or whenever a beam of light can be received, interrupted, modified, amplified, or controlled in any way, a light-sensitive cell can be employed to generate the impulse, which, properly applied, can do almost anything.
"Does that seem too involved?" asked Professor Brierly.
"No, I think not. It was acting on that theory that I experimented with—well, come along and I will show you."
He led the way outside, where he pointed to the overhanging rock.
"Professor, as that rock is situated now, what would happen if it came down? You see how delicately it seems to be balanced."
"If it came down," stated Professor Brierly, "it would crush your main building to match-wood."
"Yes, I guess it would. Well, here is what I planned. I erected a lever behind it operated by a trigger-like arrangement. I installed a photo-electric cell with wires running to the trigger. I was going to shore up this side of the decline running from the rock, so that when the trigger released it, it would be deflected and roll into the lake.
"But at that point, this deplorable affair with our group happened. All I needed to do was to shore up this side of it. I was going to make quite an occasion of it. I planned to invite a number of friends and show them that with a simple beam of light I could move that gigantic rock."
"Hmm," commented Professor Brierly. "In view of the fact that you have not yet made provision to deflect the rock it seems rather dangerous to leave things in this state. If the rock came down it would hit the roof of the porch and kill whoever happened to be there. You say you have installed the photo-electric cell? What is to prevent—".
"Oh, I have guarded against that, Professor. I placed the tube up there," he pointed to what looked like a bird's nest near one of the gables. You see, as that is situated, no light can ever get at it; the foliage of that tree keeps the sun away and its always rather dark there. In addition, there is that little shutter that I placed in front of it.
"I also disconnected the wires leading from the tube to the trigger." He beamed with the pride of the child, or the amateur, who has done something clever. "What do you think of it, Professor?"
"You managed very well, indeed. With this knowledge, I should feel rather uncomfortable sitting on the porch if I did not know you had taken all the precautions you mentioned. Playing with this hobby must give you considerable satisfaction, Judge."
"Yes, I get a great deal of joy out of it. But come, I am being selfish keeping you away from my other guests. They—"
He did not finish the sentence. He was once more reminded of the terrible pall of threatening gloom hanging over him and his comrades. The men sat in the large living-room chatting for a while. But it was forced. None of them could pretend that he was completely at ease.
Chapter VII
Jimmy decided to put a detailed account of the latest developments of the story on the wire in Lentone. He therefore asked Matthews to take him down in the sea sled. He could make better time that way than driving his own car over the plowed and unplowed fields that lay between the camp and the road.
But he did not telegraph his story. He found the small telegraph office besieged with a crowd of men and women, all clamoring for a wire. Jimmy grinned at the spectacle. It did not take the veteran newspaper man more than a glance to know it for what it was.
Three hours had elapsed between the time he telephoned his flash and the moment when he stepped into the small telegraph office in Newport. In those three hours, all the big and some of the little papers of the country had frantically wired their nearest correspondents to get busy.
From the North in Canada, from the South, East and West men and women began converging on the little town of Lentone, Vermont. A day later these local correspondents would be replaced by star reporters, special writers, feature writers, syndicate writers, novelists, and sob sisters.
Jimmy knew that within twenty-four hours every big newspaper in the country and every important press service would be represented.
Still grinning, he backed out of the telegraph office and hunted for the nearest public telephone. He found a repetition here of the condition he had met in the telegraph office. He had to walk six blocks before he came to a booth at which one or more persons were not awaiting their turn.
Forgotten now was any thought of enjoying himself in rest and recreation on his vacation. The newspaper man remains a newspaper man for a long time, only because he loves the game. And "game" is what the newspaper man who belongs, calls it. Those who do not belong get out of it sooner or later. On a big story he does not think of food, drink or hours. In the absorption of a big story he can and does continue without rest an unbelievable number of hours, subject himself to relentless physical strain. In doing so he enjoys it, as he does nothing else. He exemplifies perfectly the statement by the philosopher that there is no greater joy on earth than the one found in work. Hardly anyone, in any other occupation puts in the hours, the work, the loyalty for so little financial reward as does the newspaper man.
Jimmy's connection with his office was quickly made. Hite's few sentences were short, sharp, barking ones. Hite was keyed up to the highest pitch. By this time a call had gone out and he had enough men to handle all phases of the story. Hite gave some brief orders, made some caustic comment and switched the wire to Roy Heath's desk.
Even this individual's speech was not now the lazy drawl it habitually was. The tremendous scope of the story, the tense feverish activity on the part of Hite at the desk near him infected even Roy Heath.
Jimmy knew without being there that since the moment he had hung up the receiver on his first call, Hite and the rest of the staff had been in a frenzy of activity. Jimmy could picture it as though he were there, Hite barking orders to men and office boys at his elbow and at men and women perhaps hundreds and thousands of miles away. Jimmy could picture the stream of men and women and boys parading before his desk for orders. Jimmy could picture him perhaps talking into three telephones almost simultaneously; to the composing room, to a member of the staff somewhere in the Metropolitan area and to a correspondent many miles away.
Far and wide over the entire country, lapping over into foreign countries ranged the newspaper net that was thrown out for information. This information, arriving at the office, would be weeded out. The wheat would be separated from the chaff; the usable stuff would be licked into shape and Roy Heath and two other rewrite men would transform it into living, dramatic, racing, pulsating recital.
With only a faint trace of his lazy drawl, Roy said:
"All right, Jimmy, shoot it fast. Story waitin' for a new lead."
Jimmy poured into his ears the newest developments of the story; Professor Brierly's search and his conclusions. Jimmy concluded with:
"About the New York end now, Roy. About Schurman and Wrigley—"
"We're coverin' that, Jimmy. Schurman committed suicide, I guess, and about Wrigley, nothin' to that. He was drowned. He—"
At this point Jimmy interrupted. With a fair imitation of Professor Brierly's crisp, staccato, clear cut accents, with the perfectly astonishing memory for which James Hale was known, he said:
"Oh, yes? Not much question about Wrigley, the man who was found in the water at Bradley Beach, is there? All we know about him is that he was found dead in the water. Do you know that he was drowned? Of course you don't.
"And Schurman, the man who was reported to have committed suicide by hanging. All you know about that is that he was found hanging in his study, dead. Do you know that he died by hanging? Do you know that he was not dead before he was hung? If that is the case, if he was dead before he was hung, then, obviously he could not have hung himself. Perfectly astonishing to me, Mr. Heath, that a man who has followed your profession as long as you have should be so gullible. For that matter, do you know these men are really dead. We scientists—"
With surprising patience, Roy had listened to this burlesque. That was because Roy was one of the greatest rewrite men in the profession. Roy's quick mind had instantly grasped the thing that was behind this burlesque. At this point he interrupted.
"I get you, Professor. Too bad you can't be here yourself. But I promise that in a couple hours we'll know more about Schurman's and Wrigley's death. Swell tip, Jimmy. We'll go right after it. That all?"
"Yep," said Jimmy, going back to character. "That's all, Roy, s'long. Oh, wait a minute, Roy. Schurman is at your end. Got any dope on that?"
"No, Jimmy, all we got is a flash. We're gettin' the details now. He had engaged a plane to fly up to Higginbotham's camp, plannin' to be there first thing in the mornin'. When he didn't come up to the airport, the pilot began telephonin'. Finally, about eight o'clock or so in the morning, an old woman who takes care of Schurman's apartment, came and found him hangin'. That's about all we got, Jimmy."
Jimmy was about to hang up the receiver, when Hite's harsh growl cut in:
"Wait a minute, Jimmy. I was listening in. You gave me an idea. We can and will, of course, verify these two deaths, but it would be swell if Professor Brierly were here. Could you persuade him to come down here to give us the benefit of his experience and advice?"
"I don't know, chief. He's a crochety old gent, you know, and he has notions about things. He might take the notion that it is not fitting or pleasant or convenient to go. He might think—oh, he might think anything."
"Yes, Jimmy, I know something about the peppery old gent. But you stand pretty strong with him. See if you can persuade him. I'm going to take it for granted that he'll come. Will he object to riding in a plane?"
"Who, Professor Brierly? Don't make me laugh, chief. There isn't a thing on, above or beneath the earth that he's afraid of. If he decides to come he'll want to come the quickest way possible."
"All right then, Jimmy. I'll charter a plane by wire. If he consents to come there will be a plane ready for him in the airport most convenient to his camp, wherever that is, or right on the lake. Step on it, Jimmy."
Jimmy thought of using the telephone, decided against it. It might take some diplomatic finesse to persuade the old scientist to hire himself out to a newspaper. He might feel it degrading and cheapening to do such a thing.
On the way to the camp, Jimmy's moods were reflected in his features by alternate smiles and frowns as he pictured the manner in which his office would be received.
By the time he reached the camp he decided against using any cheap trickery to accomplish his purpose. He held Professor Brierly in too much esteem to attempt such a thing. He made up his mind that forthright frankness would serve his purpose best. He was delighted and surprised at the ease with which his errand was accomplished.
Professor Brierly consented to make the trip without hesitation. He did balk at first about accepting the plane at the expense of Jimmy's paper, but he was persuaded that it was ethical in the highest degree to do so. Jimmy clinched this argument by saying that if Professor Brierly refused to do it for the paper, Hite would perhaps engage one of the charlatans or pseudo-scientists, against whom the old savant was in the habit of raving.
At this moment there came from the direction of the lake the deafening roar of an airplane motor, which diminished as it came nearer. Looking out they saw an amphibian taxi to within a few yards of the wharf. Hite had not wasted time. The plane was there to take Professor Brierly to New York.
Jimmy decided to call it a day. His long drive from New York and the strenuous day just past, broken only by a few hours' sleep, told even on his robust constitution. Besides, there was nothing further to do that afternoon. Hite had indicated that when Jimmy's fresh news was put on the presses the staff would quit for the day.
He was in Lentone bright and early the following morning. A short visit to the home of the late Morris Miller followed by a visit to the police, gave him very little for a new lead to the story. He ruefully told himself that the news was probably where Professor Brierly was. He telephoned to his paper.
Hite's voice had a tremor that showed he came as near laughing as he ever got.
"Great little guy that professor of yours, Jimmy. My, oh my, what a newspaper man he would have made. Is he always that way, Jimmy?"
"What did he do, chief?"
"What did he do? For one thing he came as near getting me fired from this job as I ever got. He snarled and growled at me. He told the managing editor that he was an ignoramus and the M.E., believe it or not, took it, took it like a little lamb, Jimmy. Dije ever hear anybody call the M.E. an idiot and get away with it?
"He told Mr. Conway, the boss, that he was a charlatan; that he was running a yellow sheet; that he had the ethics of a hyena; that he was pandering to the worst passions of the ignorant mob and a few other choice things.
"He set the police commissioner's office on its collective ear and drove the medical examiners crazy. What he said to them should be preserved as a method of raising blisters on a man's skin with language and done in good English.
"He did say one nice thing about one human being. He said that one James Hale, Esq., was not so bad—for a newspaper man. Now don't get swelled up over this like a poisoned pup, Jimmy, or I'll have you killed. The price quoted for murdering a newspaper man is very low.
"But Jimmy, he gave us a swell new lead on the story. Schurman was murdered. Everybody here said he had committed suicide. As for Wrigley, that appears to have been an honest drowning. He was really drowned. We're looking it up just the same, but we have the old bird's word for it that he died by drowning. Say, Jimmy doesn't that bird ever sleep. He was busy as a bee all night. He left here about five this morning and may be up there already for all I know. When he left he was as chipper and fresh and full of pep as—well words fail me, Jimmy.
"He says he's going right up to the camp of Justice Higginbotham. Jimmy, I'd give a leg if I could have had a stenographic report of his speeches while he was here and a picture of the individuals at whom those speeches were fired.
"S'long, Jimmy, remember we're runnin' a daily paper and not a quarterly." This was Hite's usual formula.
Jimmy now decided to charter a swift motor boat. Professor Brierly's camp and Justice Higginbotham's camp were both a considerable distance off the main road. A swift motor boat, with a competent man to handle it, would transport him from Lentone to either or both camps in less time than would a motor car.
Getting a motor boat was not as easy as he had anticipated. He learned that a sudden demand within the past twenty-four hours had apparently exhausted all the available craft that were for hire. Something that one of the boatmen let drop gave him an inkling of the reason for this. The correspondents who were pouring into Newport had reached the same conclusion as he and had forestalled him. He also learned that every available motor car had been hired within the past few hours.
Foreseeing the possibility of being on the story for some time, he set out with the idea that if he could not charter a boat he would buy one. He felt that the expense would be justified and he was certain the powers that be on his paper would approve such a step; they were not niggardly in the matter of expenses.
After a protracted search he found a youngster of eighteen, Harry Stoy, who was not only willing to sell him his sea sled, but was also willing to hire out as the boat's crew. Harry was a fine upstanding youngster, who knew motor boats and who knew the lake and surrounding country. When Harry learned that the man to whom he sold the boat was a newspaper man on a big murder story, he stopped bargaining and entered the chase with nearly the same amount of enthusiasm as that shown by the reporter himself.
Jimmy opened his eyes wide with astonishment when Harry took him to Justice Higginbotham's camp. Boats were tied to the small wharf. Boats were moored to every available spot on the shore. For hundreds of yards about the wharf boats were anchored. Not since he had seen a regatta had Jimmy seen so many boats in one place at the same time.
When he stepped to the wharf and thence to the wide porch, he understood the cause of this. As he had seen at the telegraph office and the public telephone booths, Justice Higginbotham's camp was now a magnet for all the newspapers and press services in the United States and Canada. Near the wharf he recognized the plane that had transported Professor Brierly to New York.
Chapter VIII
Jimmy recognized several of the men and women on the porch as reporters and feature writers. These, knowing that Jimmy's paper was the one that sprung the story, made a concerted rush for him. He fended them off. He told them that beyond what had been printed he knew nothing. Asked about Professor Brierly, he told them that he had not seen the old scientist for more than fifteen hours; that his paper in New York had handled that end. He assured them that beyond the bare announcement over the phone that Schurman had been murdered, he knew nothing new.
At this moment the grizzled negro came to the door of the porch and gestured to Jimmy. He said to the reporter when Jimmy came near him:
"The jedge, Mistuh Hale, sez for you—all to come in an' see him and the otheh gempmen."
Aside from the eleven men he had first met the day before, there were in the big, comfortable living-room, Professor Brierly and District Attorney McCall. He felt and saw that all of them were looking at him.
He was shocked at the appearance of some of the men. They seemed to have shrunken in size. There was a furtive air about some of them; stark fear, fear of the unknown danger, shone in the eyes of a number of the men present.
"Mr. Hale, it is not your fault, but you are indirectly responsible for the presence of all those men and women out there. It is a very distressing thing. Newspapers have their place and uses, of course; we all recognize that, but we cannot at a time like this be besieged by a horde of men and women, not all of whom, I regret to say, have the delicacy to show the kindness and consideration—"
"I get you, Judge. The thing to do, of course, is to tell them that you will issue periodic announcements about the developments in the case. They will all understand that, I am sure, and respect your wishes for privacy at other times."
"Yes, of course, that is the simple, the obvious thing to do. Will you act for us, Mr. Hale. Tell them—"
"Sorry, Judge, I should like to act in this capacity. But I also am a newspaper man out on a story and I should be in a false position. I can help you with advice, but that is as far as I dare, as far as I can go in such a matter. I can assure you that everything you tell me in confidence will not be printed without your permission. Your comrades here who know me, Judge, will vouch for me, perhaps."
Marshall, McGuire and Fletcher nodded.
Mr. Marshall, at Jimmy's suggestion, went out to the porch and told the assembled newspaper men of the decision they had reached concerning the issuing of statements for the press. When he returned, Professor Brierly said:
"In this case, Hale, how will you treat information that you acquire through your contact with me. Would it be honorable—"
"I've thought of that, Professor. I shall not use any information
I get through my living at your camp that all the others are not
permitted to use. This, of course, does not apply to matters that
I would have learned without knowing Professor Brierly."
Some of the men present wrinkled their brows in perplexity. They had difficulty following such a nice point of ethics. But they dropped the matter by mutual consent. After all it was a slight matter in the face of the great tragedy facing them.
Jimmy turned his attention to Professor Brierly, who had been talking when he was ushered into the room. The other men settled themselves back to listen. The old scientist was saying:
"August Schurman was murdered, Wrigley was really drowned. I do not know at this time whether or not some outside influence was responsible for his drowning. I merely had myself flown to the New Jersey sea coast town, where they were keeping the body. My examination was hasty, but enough to determine that he was drowned; death was really due to that."
There was a dead silence in the room. The calm unemotional voice of Professor Brierly in this room of utter fear set Jimmy's spine tingling. Once more, for the third or the fourth time since he had come upon these men, he was struck with the odd notion that it was not real; that he was witnessing a play in which the actors did not know their lines and were missing their cues. It was the grotesque bordering on the terrible, the tragic.
"And Schurman, Professor?"
Jimmy almost jumped, as did some of the others on this breaking in of his thoughts. They also were evidently immersed in their own thoughts. It was Goldberg and Vasiliewski, who, as if actuated by a single impulse, had broken the silence.
"Schurman," answered Professor Brierly slowly, "was murdered; there is no question about that." Something clicked in Jimmy's mind. He had missed something from Professor Brierly's speech. There was not his wonted incisiveness and crispness. The reporter looked sharply at the old man. Jimmy's mind cleared; he became convinced that Professor Brierly was hiding something, was withholding something he had learned in New York. He did not, as he was accustomed to do, explain in elaborate detail. Former Police Commissioner McGuire asked:
"Murdered! How was he murdered? The information is that he was hung. What a strange way of murdering a man."
Professor Brierly nodded. He said: "He was found dead, hanging from a hook in his living-room, but he was dead when he was hung."
Marshall burst out:
"Why did you go to New York, Professor?" Still speaking slowly, Professor Brierly answered: "I was engaged by the New York Eagle to undertake the trip for the purpose of viewing both bodies. I also had another reason. Since I am plunged into this investigation it may be necessary for me to have certain instruments, instruments of precision, for the purpose of conducting certain inquiries and for making certain tests."
"Why, Professor," exclaimed Justice Higginbotham. "You need not have gone to the trouble for the second reason you give.
"It is likely that my workshop and laboratory contain everything you might need."
The professor's eyes lit up with a gleam of interest.
"Indeed they do, and I may yet avail myself of them, but I wired yesterday for additional instruments, and early this morning I stopped at my place, where I obtained a few things I needed." He arose to go, but Justice Marshall detained him:
"You did not tell us the details of the death of the two men you saw in New York and Bradley Beach, Professor. You say Schurman was murdered. Won't you tell us about it?"
Jimmy was once more conscious of a hesitancy in Professor Brierly's manner. Jimmy was quite certain that if the old man were not such a forthright individual he should have used evasive tactics at this time. After a brief pause, scrutinizing briefly the faces in front of him, he resumed his seat.
"Schurman was murdered by being struck at the base of his skull. The blow fractured one and dislocated another one of the vertebrae causing asphyxia, which made it easy for the examiner to conclude that he had been asphyxiated by the rope with which he was hung." Once more the reporter was conscious of an unwonted hesitancy in the old scientist's manner. He cast another glance about the semicircle of strained faces; then went on: "After he was struck the fatal blow, he was hung to a hook high up on the wall of his bedroom. Schurman occupied a small apartment on West Fourteenth Street, one formerly occupied as a theatrical boarding house, when that was the theatrical district.
"Entrance into his apartment was affected by an expert cracksman, the New York police say. Schurman had a small safe. The marks on the safe and the method in which entrance was affected makes the police believe that they may be able to find the man.
"There was an additional factor. There was a small electric refrigerator which was open when the body was found. There were some soiled dishes on the table in the kitchen. It appeared that an enormous quantity of food had been eaten. On one of the shelves of the refrigerator there was an apple, a green apple in which there were teeth marks.
"Someone had evidently bitten into this apple and found it too green for eating. The maid, who came to the apartment once a day to clean up, was able to estimate the amount of food that had been eaten since she had last visited the place. Six eggs were eaten at this meal.