The lieutenant hastily denied that any such idea had been in his mind.
"But we gotta clear up every point, you see. Now, where did you spend your time this afternoon?"
"I left the Hotel St. Regis, where I have my apartments, at one o'clock, and drove through the park until two-fifteen — yes, I'm sure it was two-fifteen, for I had an appointment with Miss Daisy Graelis, of the Bohemian Follies, at two-thirty. We went to the Ambassadeurs and danced until four, when I escorted Miss Graelis home. It was after five when I left her, and I came directly here. That accounts for every minute of my time."
"I guess it's all right," said Jamieson. He drew his detective aside, and questioned him in a whisper.
"There ain't nothin' to it at all," snorted O'Toole. "It's a dead opeт-an'-shut case o' suicide. There's a thirty-eight calibre gun, with one cartridge fired. The door was locked an' no way o' getting into the place without a keg of dynamite. Why, Loot, this is the easiest thing I ever see."
Jamieson sighed with relief. "You're right, Marty. Ring up the coroner's office, and have them send a man up. I'll leave Bierhalter here to look after things. What's the matter, Mr. Jones? You're white as a sheet."
The dandy nodded. "I'm frightfully upset — shock, you know," he admitted. "If you don't mind I'll wait downstairs for any questions you may want to ask me."
"Pretty tough on him," said Jamieson, when J. Sylvester Jones had gone.
Johnny Suggs, who had been examining the room, and particularly the table and floor, with keenest interest, said:
"Oh, do you think so? He is Guerney's only relative, and I understand that he will inherit everything the old man left."
The lieutenant looked up quickly. He had a profound respect for Johnny's shrt tvdness, and there was something in the reporter's tone that shot a shaft of suspicion into his brain.
"You don't think Jones did this?" he demanded.
"Do you?"
"No, I don't. It's suicide, all right. What else could it be? Here he is, locked in his own room with a gun — it's his gun, all right, for you can see his name on that plate on the butt."
"I saw it," said Suggs dryly.
"Then, what the devil do you mean?"
Johnny picked up a sheet of paper from the table. It bore the legend, "Strickland Guemey — 1822 Mammoth Building," and a few lines of scratchy writing, addressed to the Curio Company of America, requesting the price of a collection of weapons used by the Dayak head hunters. It was dated at noon that day.
"Doesn't it suggest anything to your mind?" the reporter asked.
Jamieson scratched his head, read it over again, and looked puzzled. "I. can't say it does," he admitted. "You don't think any of these Dayak birds did this—"
"Certainly not." The slight shrug of Johnny's shoulders indicated vast disgust with the official police. "Why, lieutenant, this letter was written by a left-handed man!" He turned to Bradley. "Mr. Guemey was left-handed, was he not?"
The butler nodded.
"Then," said Suggs triumphantly, "if Mr. Guemey committed suicide, how did he manage to shoot himself, drop the revolver on his right side, and pick up the key with his left? Suicide? This is murder, lieutenant, you can bet a year's pay on that!"
Chapter II
In the private office of the Star's owner, Johnny Suggs told his story.
"I've checked up on Jones' story," he concluded, "and everything is just as he said. The manager at the St. Regis, Miss Daisy Graelis, and the head waiter at the Ambassadeurs, as well as his own chauffeur, can account for every moment of his time that afternoon. It is possible that Bradley, the old butler, committed the crime, but I don't believe it. He's the mildest creature that ever walked. Lieutenant Jamieson arrested him, of course, but if you'll give me the chance, dad, I'll prove that he had nothing to do with it."
The elder Suggs elevated his heels to the desk-top, and looked out at the murky wrack of sky.
"It's good stuff," he said approvingly, "and will make a corking story, but what about the finish, Johnny? We want to find out who committed the murder — and you're no detective."
Johnny flushed. "Crime detection isn't a secret art," he protested. "Anybody with the wit and patience can do it. Give me a chance at it. These boneheads like Jamieson and O'Toole will never catch the murderer. I saw what they missed once. I may be able to do it again."
"You're a regular William J. Burns-Holmes, aren't you? If you can find out who killed Guerney in a locked room, with no known mode of egress, they ought to make you police commissioner. But we won't build any triumphal arches until you do the job. Go to it."
Johnny sprang to his feet and cracked his heels together.
"I'll do it, all right."
Highly elated, he descended to the street. It was eleven o'clock, and lie was tired from his chase about town, verifying Jones' story, but he had no desire to go to bed then. As a matter of fact, he intended going back to the Guerney residence and conducting a minute investigation of the dead man's study. He had not seen all he wanted, to see that afternoon, and as the house had been locked, he would have all the opportunity he desired if he could effect an entrance.
A taxi was standing by the curb. Johnny climbed in and gave the chauffeur his instructions. In a moment more he was whirling along the brilliantly lighted street, on the first lap of his search for Strickland Guerney's murderer.
Three blocks from his destination, Suggs left the taxi. A policeman was lolling in front of the house of death, so Johnny gave it a wide berth, and entered the alley behind. It required only a moment to scale the fence, and feel his way through the darkness to the kitchen window.
Anticipating his course of action, the reporter carried with him a chisel, a jimmy, and an electric torch. In the utter blackness of the yard he did not dare use his torch, for fear a roaming policeman might see it. So, depending on his sense of touch, he felt for the window, chisel in one hand.
When he found it a sudden cold streak went up his spine. It was open three inches from the bottom!
There was someone in that house. Suggs did not doubt it for a moment. He was positive it was not the police, for they had secured the key to the front door. It was either the murderer come back to the scene of his crime, or some house-breaker, who had followed close on the news of Guerney's death, and hoped to reap a harvest. Johnny was not armed, but he shoved the window higher, swung his leg across the sill, and climbed in.
The house was horribly still. Suggs framed the kitchen wall with a circle of light, and stepping very cautiously, reached the door and peered into the dining-room. No one there. No one in the butler's pantry; no one on the first floor at all.
Was there anyone in the room where Strickland Guerney had met his death?
Very softly Johnny began the ascent of the wide staircase. Then, as he strained his ears, he heard the rustle of a skirt and the soft, smothered whimper of a frightened woman. He shrank back against the wall and waited.
A bar of light crept out of the darkness and rested on the age-blackened oak of the study door. It wavered, as though the one who held it was nervous. And then, into that bar of light was stretched a woman's hand — a slim, marvelously white hand that fitted a key into the lock!
Bit by bit the reporter edged up the stairs. He had noticed where the electric light switch was located on his first visit there that afternoon, and it stood him in good stead now. His hand felt along the wall until it touched the button, and then he flooded the hall with dazzling light.
With a gasp of fright, the woman straightened up and turned. Her soft, fair hair fell about her pallid cheeks, and the graceful gown she wore was spotted and torn from her trip over the fence and the kitchen window-sill. Even in that startling moment Johnny commented to himself on her wonderful beauty.