Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“That’s unfortunate,” said the visitor. “I am from Graydon & Henshaw’s, and Mr. Henderson asked me to call about making him a new wardrobe — slightly larger than the one he has! I expect he told you?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” returned the butler rather suspiciously.

“Well, well! And I’ve made a special journey! I wonder if you could just show me the wardrobe? I could get some idea, and might not have to trouble to call again.”

“Have you a card, sir?” asked the butler.

Crook produced one. Graydon & Henshaw’s were one of a round dozen addresses which the detective was privileged to use, and had he been run over by a motor bus the contents of his cardcase would have identified him by twelve different names.

The butler looked hard at the card, looked harder at the visitor, and then, with a shrug, intimated that the business could proceed; but he kept very close to the detective’s heels all the time the detective was in the flat.

“Ah — so that’s the wardrobe!” exclaimed Crook when he had been ushered into the bedroom. “H’m. A nice piece, that — a very nice piece. I really can’t see what he wants with a bigger one. Though, of course, it’s not in the interests of my firm to dissuade Mr. Henderson. Perhaps—”

He swung open the wardrobe door, and nodded his head.

“Ah, that explains it. Mr. Henderson has rather a large outfit, hasn’t he? I wish I could afford half as many suits!”

He dived his hand in among them, an action which brought a frown to the butler’s face.

“What’s that for?” he demanded.

“Yes — they go all the way back,” murmured Crook to himself. “Probably the same width would do, but a little greater depth. H’m, yes. Thank you.” He closed the door. “By the way, I’m not surprised that it takes some doing to keep such a large wardrobe as that in repair.”

“Nothing broken, is there?” asked the butler.

“I meant the contents of the wardrobe. Before your master comes home, some one had better sew on the missing button of his brown suit.”

He chuckled at his little joke, but the butler did not see any humor in it.

“I’ll tell Mr. Henderson you called,” he said shortly.

“Yes, please do,” answered Crook. “I very nearly called last night. Would I have found him in?”

“No, he was out.”

“But it was late when I passed — half past ten. He might have been in by then?”

“He didn’t come in till after eleven,” growled the butler as he opened the front door, “and even if he had, I don’t suppose he’d have seen a visitor at that time of night.”

“No, I dare say not,” admitted Crook amiably. “That’s really why I didn’t call.”

On his way back, Detective Crook’s face grew grave and thoughtful.

“Well?” exclaimed the inspector, meeting him at the front door of the late Isaac Sherman’s house. “Have you traced anything?”

“I have traced the home of the missing button,” answered Crook.

“Where—”

“Wait till we’re inside.”

In the study once more, the inspector repeated his question.

“Where is the home of the missing button?” he demanded.

“On Mr. Henderson’s brown coat, now hanging in his wardrobe,” returned Crook.

“Ah!” The inspector’s eyes glowed with gratification. “We’re getting on. Then Mr. Henderson must have been here last night!”

“It looks like it.”

“Looks like it? Is a haystack a haystack? Now, it’s gather odd that Mr. Henderson hasn’t mentioned his visit.”

“Where is he now?”

The inspector looked grim.

“Still with Mrs. Sherman, comforting her. Staying to lunch, I take it. You’d think she’d be lying down prostrated, now, wouldn’t you?”

“After four years, inspector?” reproved Crook. “Perhaps the oddest thing is that a murderer should remain so close to the scene of the tragedy?”

“No, that’s not odd,” retorted the inspector. “People who murder aren’t normal, to begin with. You never know how they’ll act. They may fly. They may stay — held by a sort of fascination, or by a belief that the police won’t see what’s right under their nose.”

Detective Crook smiled appreciatively. “You’re quite right,” he said. “There’s no rule in the matter — otherwise our job would be easier. What do you say to asking Mr. Henderson in here, and putting him through it?”

“Right!” exclaimed the inspector. “Sooner the better, I think. It’s not going to be pleasant, but it’s got to be clone.”

Mr. Henderson received the summons with a frown. He told the maid, who brought him the official request, that he would be in the study in two minutes, and turned to Mrs. Sherman when the maid had departed.

“I wonder what they think I can tell them?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Sherman dully. Her face was pale, and her eyes were heavy with unshed tears. “I suppose they’d question everybody, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes. I expect so. But — surely — they can’t know—”

He stopped abruptly. Mrs. Sherman’s frightened eyes were upon him.

“Know — what, Fred?” she faltered.

He colored slightly and turned away; but the next moment he was by her side.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he whispered. “Keep up your courage. All this — will soon be over.”