Figure it Out For Yourself

'I saw him coming downstairs about twenty minutes ago. She died eight hours ago; say about four o'clock in the morn-ing. Obviously she died while he was in her room, unless he left before four and came back this morning for some reason or other.'

She sank back on the cushions of the settee and fanned herself with her hand.

'He could have done that, couldn't he? Gee! I was getting all worked up.'

'I remembered the lean man's unshaven chin. If he had left last night, why hadn't he shaved this morning before coming out on to the streets? There might be a perfectly good answer to that one, but until I heard it it seemed to me he had spent the night in Gracie's room.

This was too important to let slide. I had to find out for certain.

I got to my feet

'Here's the other ten I owe you. Thanks for the help. Take my tip and keep out of this. Let someone else find her.'

'Uuugh! I won't sleep a wink thinking of her in there.'

'You'll sleep even less if some tough cop takes you down to Headquarters and gets to work on you. Keep out of it.'

'Aren't you going to tell them?'

I shook my head.

'I haven't the time to waste on a suicide case. You'll be surprised how quickly someone will miss her. They always do.' I took out my bill-fold and another ten-dollar bill. 'If they ask questions, keep me out of it. Tell them about this guy in the fawn suit, but not until they ask you.'

She took the bill and stowed it away in her brassiere.

'I'll keep you out of it.'

I left her sitting on the settee, biting her under-lip and frowning. She looked a lot less happy and a lot more worried than when I had first seen her.

Out in the corridor again, I peeped to right and left, satisfied myself no one was watching me, then stepped across the corridor into Room 23. I closed the door and began a quick but systematic search of the room.

I was looking for some proof that would tell me the lean man had spent the night here. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I looked just the same.

First I examined the bed and found a couple of black hairs on the pillow. Gracie was blonde. If he had rested his head on the pillow, it didn't mean he had stayed in the room all night. But it certainly hinted he had.

It wasn't until I had covered practically every inch of the apartment and was giving up that I found what I wanted. There were two cupboards in the kitchenette: one contained cups and saucers and plates; the other, jugs and dishes and cooking utensils. There was a cup and saucer amongst the jugs. They shouldn't have been in that cupboard. They should have been in the adjacent cupboard. That gave me an idea. I turned my attention to the trash basket. Dumped on top of the usual refuse was a small pile of coffee grounds; and they were luke-warm. There was no mistake about that. They had been emptied out of a percolator some time this morning.

Gracie hadn't made coffee this morning. That was certain. If the lean man had returned because he had forgotten something he wouldn't have made himself coffee. That I wouldn't believe. But if he had slept there the night, he might have made himself coffee before leaving. It would be a cold-blooded thing to have done, as he must have known Gracie was hanging dead in the bathroom. Come to think of it, he probably knew she was dead before he went to bed; and that was even more cold-blooded.

Then suddenly it was as obvious as a neon light on a dark night. This wasn't suicide: it was murder.

II

There was a call-box in the darker part of the lobby. I opened the door and stepped inside. It smelt as if someone had kept a goat in there at one time, and not a particularly nice goat at that.

Holding my breath, I hung my handkerchief over the ancient mouthpiece, lifted off the receiver and dialled.

After a while a voice bellowed: 'Police Headquarters. Sergeant Harker talking.'

'Connect me with Lieutenant Mifflin,' I said, speaking away from the mouthpiece. I probably sounded at the other end like Hamlet's father's ghost.

'Who's that?'

'Harry Truman,' I said. 'Make it snappy. You may not think it but time's money to me.'

'Hold on,' the sergeant said. I heard him call across the room, 'Is the Lieutenant in? There's a guy wanting him. Says his name is Harry Truman. That's familiar, ain't it? I've heard it before somewhere.'

Someone called the sergeant a very rude name.

Then Mifflin came on the line.

'Lieutenant of the Police talking,' he said sternly. 'Who's that?'

I'm reporting a hanging in Room 23, second floor, 274 Fel-man Street. If you get over there fast you'll find a clue in the refuse bin. Don't be too sure it's suicide, and take a little trouble checking on the woman. It'll pay dividends.'

'Who's that talking?' Mifflin demanded.

I could hear the scratch of his pen as he wrote down the address.

I haven't the faintest idea,' I said, and hung up.