Wrede looked puzzled.
"Why, no," he answered, after a slight hesitation. "No one here cared for dogs. I happen to know that both Archer and Brisbane detested pets."
"What about Miss Lake?"
"She has no use for dogs. She likes cats. She had a blue Persian at one time, but Archer made her get rid of it. That was years ago."
Markham frowned.
"Well, a dog has just been found here in the hall--back of those curtains."
"That's most remarkable." Wrede seemed genuinely astonished. "I can't imagine where it came from. It must have followed some one in, without being seen."
Markham did not answer, and Heath, taking his cigar from his mouth, stepped forward belligerently, and thrust out his jaw.
"But you like dogs, don't you?" he shot forth, in his best third-degree manner.
Wrede was taken aback by the Sergeant's sudden aggressiveness.
"Why, yes," he said. "I'm very fond of them. I've always kept one till I moved into the apartment next door. . . ."
"What kind of a dog?" demanded Heath, without relaxing his bellicose manner.
"A Doberman Pinscher," Wrede told him, and turned to Markham. "I don't exactly understand this man's questions."
"We're all a little on edge," Markham apologized. "Some very peculiar things went on in this house last night. Coe did not commit suicide--he was murdered."
Wrede did not appear surprised.
"Ah!" he murmured. "I was afraid of that."
Grassi now gave a guttural exclamation, and stepped into the hall.
"Murdered?" he repeated. "Mr. Coe was murdered?" His face was abnormally pale, and his dark eyes stared at Markham in frightened wonderment. "I understood he had taken his own life with a revolver."
"He was stabbed in the back," Markham informed him. "The bullet did not enter his head till after death."
Again the Italian gave a curious guttural exclamation and leaned heavily against the casing of the drawing-room door. So white was his face that for a moment I thought he was going to faint. Heath was watching him like a tiger, and at this point he moved deliberately forward until his face was within six inches of Grassi's.
"Stabbed with a dagger!" he spat out. "In the back. Wop stuff. What d'ye know about it?"
As quickly as he had gone pale, the Italian drew himself together, and stood erect with great dignity, looking Heath steadily in the eyes. A slow sneering smile curled the corners of his heavy lips.
"I know nothing about it, sir," he said with quiet suavity. "I am not of the police. Perhaps you know a great deal about it." His tone, though on the surface polite, was an insult.
Heath was piqued.
"We know plenty," he boasted truculently. "And when we get going, it won't be so damn pleasant for you."
Markham stepped forward and placed his hand on Heath's shoulder.
"This can wait, Sergeant," he said placatingly. "We've considerable preliminary investigating to do before we question Mr. Grassi."
Heath snorted and walked reluctantly toward the stairs.
"You gentlemen will have to wait in the drawing-room for a while," Markham said to Grassi and Wrede. "And please be so good as to keep the door closed until we want you."
At these words, Hennessey waved the two men back into the drawing-room and drew the sliding doors shut.
"Come, Sergeant," Markham said. "We'd better make a once-over of Coe's room before the boys get here."
Heath sullenly led the way upstairs.
During the next five minutes or so, Markham and the Sergeant walked about Coe's quarters giving them a cursory inspection. As I have said, the room was at the rear with windows in the east and south walls. Heath went to each window and raised the shades. When he had completed his rounds he went up to Markham, who was standing before the clothes-closet door, looking inside.
"Here's a funny one, sir. The windows are all shut tight--but that ain't all. Every one of 'em is locked. And this room is on the second story, so that no one could get in from the outside. Why all the precaution?"
"Archer Coe was a peculiar man, Sergeant," Markham replied. "He was always afraid burglars would break in and steal his treasures."
The answer did not satisfy Heath.
"Who'd want this junk?" he grumbled sceptically, and moved to the desk.
Markham, after casually inspecting the closet, walked across the room to the teak-wood chest beneath one of the east windows. I then remembered that Vance had regarded this chest curiously during his conversation with Doctor Doremus about Coe's broken rib.
Heath was now standing in the middle of the room, gazing about him disgustedly.
"It's a cinch," he said, "that nobody could get in or out of this joss-house except by the door. It beats me."
The fact was that the only door in the room other than the main door which we had found bolted on the inside, was the one leading into the small clothes-closet. There was no private bathroom: the house had been built in an era when one common bathroom on the second floor was considered the height of sanitary luxury. We learned later, however, that Miss Lake had installed another bathroom on the third floor. Archer Coe, and his brother Brisbane, whose bedroom was at the front of the house on the same floor as Archer's, had shared the main bathroom which led off the hall between their quarters.
"I've seen nothing of the weapon that killed Coe," Markham remarked.
"It's not here," Heath asserted dogmatically. "It was withdrawn from Coe's body, and I'll bet the guy cached it where it wouldn't be found."
"That's possible," Markham agreed. "Anyway, I think you'd better open the windows--it's close in here. And you might turn off the electric lights."
"Nothing doing." The Sergeant was indignant. "You see, sir," he hastened to explain apologetically, "somebody pressed those window catches and also pushed the light switch. And I want to know who it was. I'm going to have Cap Dubois* get me the finger-prints."
* Captain Dubois was the finger-print expert of the New York Police Department; and Heath had asked especially that he be sent to the house.
A few minutes later Vance returned to the house. As he entered the room his face was troubled, and anger smouldered in his gray eyes.
"There's a good chance she'll live," he reported; "but that was a vicious blow some one dealt her. A blunt instrument of some kind. Doctor Blarney is fixing her up, and I'll know more about her condition tonight." (I had rarely seen Vance so upset.)
"What does it all mean?" Markham asked him. "Where does that dog fit in?"
"I don't know yet." Vance sank into a chair and took out his case of Régies. "But I have a feelin' it's our opening wedge. That little dog is the one totally irrelevant item in this whole bloody affair--she's our one contact with the world outside. She doesn't belong here, and therefore will have something important to say to us. Furthermore, she was wounded in this house."
Markham's eyes suddenly narrowed.
"And the wound was similar to the one on Coe's head, and in the same place."
Vance nodded dubiously.
"But that may be merely a coincidence," he returned after a moment. "In any event, no one in this house cared for dogs. There's never been one here, and I've often heard both Coe and his brother express themselves on the subject. I once had to sit for half an hour listening to Brisbane read aloud Ambrose Bierce's libelous attack on dogs.* No member of this household brought that dog in, Markham. But had the dog got in by mistake, no member of the family would have hesitated to strike it."
* Vance was referring to "Concerning Dogs" in "The Shadow on the Dial," a collection of Bierce's essays published posthumously by Robertson in San Francisco.
"You think an outsider brought it in?"
"No, that wouldn't be reasonable either." Vance frowned meditatively. "That's the strange thing about the dog's presence here. It was probably a terrible accident--a fatal miscalculation. That's why I'm so deuced interested. And then there's this point to be considered: the person who
found the dog here was afraid to let her out. Instead--for his own safety--he tried to kill her and then hid her behind the portières downstairs. And he almost succeeded in killing her."
"Could the doctor tell at what time she was hurt?"
"Not exactly. But from the condition of the swelling about the eye and the dried blood in the wound, he said it might have been as long as twelve hours ago."
"That coincides."
"Oh, yes--quite. The dog either witnessed the stabbing or was present in the house shortly afterward."
"It's a curious situation," Markham murmured.
"Yes, it's curious," Vance agreed. "And damnable. But once we trace the dog's ownership, we may know something pertinent."
Markham looked doubtful.
"How, in Heaven's name, are we going to trace a stray dog?" he asked dispiritedly. "The city is full of them. And if it belonged to the person who entered here last night, the owner is certainly not going to advertise for it or even answer a 'found' advertisement."
"True." Vance nodded. "But the matter isn't as obscure and difficult as that. That little Scottie is no mere pet-shop companion. Far from it. She'd make trouble in the ring for some of our leading winners. I went over her as carefully as I could when she lay on Blamey's operating table. She has a short back, a fine spring of ribs, and a perfect tail; and she's low to the ground, with well bent stifles and sturdy hind-quarters. Also she has amazin' bone and substance. I know a little about Scotties, Markham, and I have an idea she's got both Laurieston and Ornsay blood in her. Her sturdiness and substance, coupled with her somewhat bold and slightly light eye, indicates the Laurieston strain--a great strain, by the by, but not sufficiently sensitive for my taste. On the other hand, she has certain very definite refinements--a lean, clean head and a sensitive muzzle, small ears, and a slightly receding occiput--all of which spells Ornsay."
"That's all very well"--Markham was annoyed by Vance's technicalities--"but what do those things mean to any one but a breeder? I can't see that they get us anywhere."
"Oh, but they do," smiled Vance. "They get us much forrader. The breeding of certain blood-lines in this country is known to every serious dog fancier. And a bitch like this one is the result of years of intensive breeding. There are such things as pedigrees and stud books and A. K. C. records and professional handlers and licensed judges; and it is not altogether impossible to trace a blue-blooded dog once you have a few clues as to its blood-lines and cross-strains. Furthermore, she's in perfect show condition now; and the chances are that a dog as good as this one has been shown. And whenever a dog is shown, another set of facts is put on record."
Heath had been listening to Vance with bored scepticism. Now he asked a question.
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Vance, that you can find the owner of any good dog you run across?"
"Oh, no, Sergeant," Vance hastened to assure him. "I only say that, provided a dog has been put on record and shown, and also provided one has a definite idea of the dog's progenitors, there is a good chance that, with patience, the owner may be found."
"Huh!" Heath was unimpressed. "But even if you did find the owner of this mut, where would you be? The owner might simply say, 'Oh, thank you, kind sir. The little devil ran away last Thursday.'"
Vance smiled.
"So he might, Sergeant. But well-bred dogs don't follow strangers into unknown houses. Moreover, dogs as good as this one are not generally permitted to roam the streets unattended." He lay back in his chair and partly closed his eyes. "There's something particularly strange about that dog's presence in this house last night. If I had the explanation, I'd know infinitely more about the murderer."
Heath gave Vance a shrewd look.
"Maybe the murderer was somebody who was fond of dogs," he suggested through his teeth. (It was obvious that he had Wrede in mind.)
"Oh, quite the contr'ry, Sergeant." Vance looked at Heath quizzically. "Until we have further data, we must assume that the murderer viciously injured the Scottie--probably to keep her quiet--"
What Vance was going to say further was interrupted by a noise of footsteps and voices in the lower front hall. A moment later, three plain-clothes men and two uniformed officers from the local precinct station clattered into the room. On seeing the District Attorney they hesitated.
"I have taken charge of the case," Markham told them. "We're handling it from Headquarters, but we'll want two men to guard the house."
"Certainly, sir." A heavy-set, gray-haired man saluted, and turned to the uniformed officers. "You, Hanlon and Riordan, stay here. Mr. Markham'll give you orders." He turned back to the District Attorney. "If there's anything else, Chief, let me know. I'm Lieutenant Smith."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
CHAPTER VI
THE IVORY-HEADED STICK
(Thursday, October 11; 11 a. m.)
The three plain-clothes men went out--reluctantly, I thought; but in important criminal cases handled by Headquarters, the men from the local station are automatically eliminated.
They had scarcely departed when the finger-print experts--Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy--arrived, with the official photographer, Peter Quackenbush. Under Heath's orders, they went systematically about their work.
"What I want most," the Sergeant told them, "are the prints on those window-catches, the push-button of the electric-light switch, and the door-knob. We'll get the finger-prints of the people in the house later for comparison. . . . What I want to know is who locked those windows and turned on the lights in this room. And I want to know who went outa this room last."
Vance beckoned Heath to one side.
"I can throw some light into the gloom of your uncertainties, Sergeant," he said. "Coe himself locked the windows and pulled down the shades; and he also switched on the lights. But I'll admit I'm in a Stygian darkness as to who was the last person to handle the door-knob. And I'm frightfully afraid that we won't be able to ascertain that important fact by sign-manuals."
Heath blinked and looked up questioningly. He was about to answer, but instead he called to Captain Dubois.
"Say, Cap; take the right thumb-print of the body on the bed, and see if you can check it with the prints on the window-catches and the light switch."
Dubois turned from one of the east windows, where he was sprinkling a light saffron powder over the flat surface of the lever of the catch, and, picking up his small black satchel, went to the bed. A few minutes later he returned with a piece of cardboard on which was an ink impression of Coe's thumb. Holding it under the light, he inspected it with a jeweller's-glass. Then he laid it on the desk and, going back to the window, closely inspected the flat surface of the catch. After a moment he gave a grunt.
"You had the right dope, Sergeant," he said, taking the glass from his eye. "It looks like the guy on the bed locked this window."
He then went through the same process of minute comparison with the catches on the other windows. When he was through he came to Heath.
"All the same--as far as I can see. Two of the lock-plates are blurred, but they seem to match."
The Sergeant shot Vance a sidelong look, but Vance had again relaxed in his chair and was smoking dreamily with closed eyes.
"Now, Cap," said Heath, "try the switch and the door-knob."
Dubois went to the switch and, after sprinkling the powder over it, blew upon it gently and studied it through his jeweller's-glass.
"Same here," he nodded. "I can't be sure, you understand, until I get the photographic enlargements and compare 'em. But the prints look the same--the whorl type with a pronounced ridge dot and several distinctive bifurcations."
"Never mind the enlargements," Heath told him. "Try the knob."
Again Dubois used his insufflator to puff the powder over the door-knob, and inspected the result closely with the aid of a flash-light.
"I'd say the same person handled the knob," he told the Sergeant. "But it's not as clear as it might be."
Heath grunted
.
"No use trying the outside knob," he said. "Too many people have handled it this morning."
He smoked a while in silence.
"Try that gun on the desk, wrapped in my handkerchief."
Dubois obeyed.
"Nothing here," he told the Sergeant after a few minutes. "The trigger's incised and wouldn't take a print. And on the left side of the butt there's a blur on the ivory which may or may not be the dead bird's thumb-print."
"Nothing else on the gun?" Heath asked with obvious disappointment.
"Nope." Dubois inserted the glass in his eye and again leaned over the revolver. "Looks to me as if it had been wiped clean before the fellow picked it up."
"It had." Vance spoke lethargically. "It's a waste of time to inspect the gun. If there are any marks on it, they're Coe's."
The Sergeant stood glaring at Vance. Finally he shrugged, and waved his hand in dismissal to Dubois.
"Thanks, Cap. I guess that'll be all."
"Want me to have photographs made and verify the findings?"
Vance had risen and was crushing out his cigarette.
"Really, y' know, Sergeant," he remarked, "it's not necess'ry."
Heath hesitated; then he shook his head at Dubois.
"Don't bother."
Dubois and Bellamy and the photographer had scarcely quitted the room when Commanding Officer Moran of the Detective Bureau, followed closely by Detectives Burke and Snitkin of the Homicide Bureau, came in.
Moran greeted us pleasantly and asked Markham several questions concerning the case. News of it had been relayed to him from the Telegraph Division after Heath's report over the telephone. He seemed relieved to find Markham on the scene, and, at the District Attorney's request, officially assigned Heath to the case. He left us almost immediately, manifestly glad to get away.
Burke and Snitkin had come at Heath's specific request, and, after greeting the Sergeant, stood by the mantelpiece awaiting orders.
Markham had sat down in the Windsor chair at the desk, and after telephoning his office that he would be delayed, he lighted a fresh cigar and made a peremptory gesture to Heath.
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