Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“Well, it would seem so, sir.”

The waiter was obviously tired. Under ordinary circumstances, doubtless, he would have been in bed at this time of day. Oakes softened his tone.

“Mr. Bouchet, of the Broken Lantern, tells me that he telephoned the first message, the one to Miss Deronda. And she herself telephoned the message to Lanyon?”

“I believe that’s correct, sir.”

“And you conveyed both messages?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were the messages written?”

“Yes, sir. The cashier at the desk took the messages over the phone, wrote them down on a slip of paper and gave them to me to deliver to the table?”

“Did either Miss Deronda or Lanyon make any comment when they received the messages?”

“Not that I recall, sir. That is, except that they were both put out at Miss Deronda’s having to go back to work.”

“Now, Hayden, when you gave Lanyon the message from the girl, did he go right out — that is, out the front door?”

“Certainly.”

“There’s a back door to the place, isn’t there?”

“Yes, sir. A kitchen door. But nobody uses it except the help.”

“And can you go along the outside of the building from the kitchen door to the highway?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a road comes in from the highway. Trucks with supplies drive right up to the kitchen door, on the south side.”

“Very good, Hayden. I like your straightforward answers. Now, show me the kitchen door, will you?”

Hayden lifted his eyebrows in surprise. But he got up promptly, and led the way back to the kitchen.

Oakes walked out of the kitchen door. He strolled thoughtfully down the narrow road along the building to the highway, then back again. His eyes were searching the ground. Hayden watched him curiously from the kitchen door.

Oakes returned, and reentered the kitchen. Hayden followed him. Just inside Oakes stopped. He was looking at a large sink that was close to the door.

“Dishwasher work there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, now, the dishwasher that was working last night from two o’clock on — I suppose he’s home now.”

“No,” said Hayden. “It happens that he’s here. That’s him just inside the dining room, Mr. Oakes. Tom comes to work at one in the morning. He relieves the first dishwasher. Tom washes dishes until the place closes up, then he does the porter work. That’s why he’s here now.”

“Guess I’ll talk to Tom, then,” Oakes said. “By the way, Hayden, what’s the time?”

Hayden took his watch out, opened it.

“Close to ten thirty.”

“Thanks. Say, that picture you got in your watch — she’s some good looker. Daughter, is she?”

“No, sir,” said Hayden, closing the watch. “Just a friend.”

“Well,” said Oakes, “got to hurry. Guess I’ll talk to Tom first though. You can go now, Hayden.”

Hayden went back to the dining room. Oakes called to the man who was busy at the scrubbing.

Tom was a young man, slight of stature, eager of eve, and distinctly greasy of aspect. He clearly belonged to that unfortunate group of human’s who, in spite of a ready grasp of details, never succeed in mastering any but the most menial positions.

“Now, Tom,” Oakes confided. “I’m working on this murder case. I want you to help me.”

Tom’s eves shone like twin stars.

“Me! Gosh!”

“Yeah! Now, where were you between two and three o’clock last night?”

“Me! Why, I was hanging over that tub there, massaging dishes.”

“Think, now, Tom, are you sure you—”

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Tom began to get excited. “I did quit the sink for a while.”

“When was that?”

“I dunno just what time it was. No occasion to look. But I was gone about half an hour, I guess.”

“Now you’re getting hot,” Oakes commended him warmly. “What were you doing while you were away from the sink?”

“I was shaving spuds.”

“Shaving spuds! Think of that now!”

“Yes, sir. I remember because I was just going to leave the sink when up comes Billy Hayden. That’s the waiter you was talking to. And Billy says, why, he says, you can’t leave the sink now, Tom, to fix them spuds, because you’ll be swamped with dishes before you get back.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Oh, I tells him that I got to go and shave them spuds because Mr. Coil-man himself ordered me to.”

“So Mr. Collman ordered you to peel the potatoes right away, did he?”

“Sure. He was down in the cellar, and he comes up — the cellar door is right over in that corner — and tells me to barber the spuds right away.”

“And after Mr. Collman told you to fix the potatoes, where did he go?”

“He went back down in the cellar.”

“And where did you work on the potatoes, Tom?”

“Why, back in the vegetable room. There’s a little room way back there, back of the kitchen, where they keep the vegetables. That’s where I always shave the spuds.”

Oakes was beaming on Tom delightedly.

“Say, Tom, you’re a smart guy. Now, there must have been some reason why Mr. Collman wanted you to fix the spuds right away. And I bet you he didn’t fool a clever lad like you. What do you suppose was the reason?”

Tom suddenly lost some of his enthusiasm. For a moment he seemed to be tongue tied.

“Don’t be afraid,” Oakes encouraged him. “If you lose one job, a brainy guy like you can always get another.”