Major Brane inspected the jade figure with appreciative eyes, touched it with fingertips that were almost reverent for a full ten minutes before he even thought to count the currency in the purse. The amount was ample.
Then Major Brane undressed, crawled into bed. He got up an hour later, took ten grains of aspirin, and drifted off to sleep. He awoke in the morning, jumped from bed and pulled the morning’s paper out from under the door.
Headlines announced that representatives of the Cantonese government had consented to consult with Chiang Kai-shek at the international port of Shanghai, the object being to patch up their internal difficulties so that China could present an unbroken front to her external enemies.
Major Brane sighed. It had been a hard night’s work, but the results had been speedy.
On his way to breakfast, he encountered the night elevator operator.
“There was an old Chinaman who called on me last night,” he said. “What time did he come in?”
The operator stared at him with wide eyes. “There wasn’t any Chinaman came in while I was on duty,” he said.
Major Brane nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “I was mistaken.”
When he came to think of it, the Chinese sage would never have left a back track could be traced to Major Brane.
Doubtless the events of the preceding night had been such that no man and no government wished to be officially identified either with their success or failure.
Major Brane was a lone wolf, prowling through a diplomatic danger zone; but he would not have had it otherwise.
A Logical Ending
The lettering on the door read: David C. Clark — Consulting Criminologist. To a few intimate friends he was known as “Dave,” and to the profession generally he was known as “Key-Clew Clark,” or, sometimes, as “One-Clew Clark.”
Across the desk sat Phil Bander, local manager of the Interstate Detective Agency.
“This case has got me stumped, and we’re working against time on it. Our men can’t seem to get anywhere. We just run around in circles. There isn’t a definite lead in the whole case.”
David Clark frowned slightly and shook his head.
“There’s always a definite lead,” he said, “somewhere.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bander, grinning. “You’re going to tell me the old story that somewhere there’s one definite, outstanding clew that dominates the entire crime; points to the guilt of the proper party. I’ll bet you’ve told me that a hundred times already.”
Clark snapped testily, “Well, apparently I haven’t told you often enough.”
“Yes, I know,” said Bander. “It’s usually worked so far, but this is one case where you can’t find the one outstanding clew. You can’t find anything except a lot of confusion.”
“Well,” said the criminologist. “I can’t find anything until you tell me about the crime itself. What are the clews?”
“There are lots of clews,” said Bander, “and they all point to a fellow named Pete Dimmer, who is the chauffeur of the dead man.”
“Well,” said the criminologist, “if the clews all point to him, why not act on the theory that he is guilty. That’s the way you detectives work.”
Bander ignored the sarcasm of the tone and made a gesture with his hand.
“Because,” he said, “it just happens that Pete Dimmer is the one man in the whole list of possible suspects who has an absolutely perfect, unimpeachable alibi.”
“Alibis,” said the criminologist, “can be manufactured probably easier than any other form of defensive evidence. In fact, I have solved several cases by suspecting the person who had the most complete alibi.”
“Sure, I know all that,” groaned Bander. “I’ve pulled that stuff myself. But this is one case where there’s an absolutely perfect alibi that can’t be shaken.”
“Well,” said David Clark, “we are talking around in circles. Suppose you tell me exactly what happened. In the first place, who are you representing?”
“I’m representing the agency, of course, and the agency is representing the insurance company that had the gem insured,” said Bander.
“What gem?”
“A huge diamond, known in trade circles as the Clinkoff Diamond.”
“It’s quite valuable, I take it?”
“Exceedingly valuable. It’s worth a perfectly huge sum intact, and it could be cut up into three or four smaller diamonds, each one of which would be worth a very considerable sum.”
“And the diamond was stolen?” asked the criminologist.
“Yes. Carson Millright is something of a gem collector. It seems that he’d been after the Clinkoff diamond for some time. A few days ago he had an opportunity to purchase it at what he considered a bargain, and he made the purchase.”
“Then what happened?” asked the criminologist.
“The gem was delivered, of course, and Millright decided that he was going to keep it where he could show it to his friends, at least for a few days. He didn’t like the idea of getting a stone that was a show-piece and keeping it locked up in a safety deposit vault. He approached the insurance company for the purpose of finding out what the premium would be on a very large sum of insurance.”
“I take it,” said the criminologist, “the premium was plenty high.”
“The premium was plenty high,” said the detective, “although, in the light of subsequent events, it wasn’t high enough.”
“Well, go on,” said Clark.
“The gem,” said the detective, “cost Millright his life. He was found in the morning by his valet, seated in a deep leather chair in his library, with a bullet hole in the front of his forehead. The gun that shot him, a small caliber affair, was on the table a few feet away. As nearly as we can tell, the shot had been fired from a distance of about five or six feet.”
Clark’s face was rigid with attention. His deep violet eyes, which seemed to be peculiarly luminous, stared at Bander in concentrated attention.
“No sign of struggle?” he asked.
“No sign of struggle,” said Bander.
“What time was the murder committed?”
“About midnight.”
“Any visitors received at the house?”
“There’d been one who had been received earlier in the evening. That was Sam Townley, the agent who wrote the insurance policy. That is, he had solicited the business for his company, and Millright had given it to him.”
“What time did Townley call?” asked Clark.
“Around ten o’clock. He left about eleven.”
“No one else called?”
“No one. That is, we are virtually certain that no one else called. Millright had one iron-clad policy, which was that he would never open the door himself. He was afraid of burglars, and he put chain locks on the door and insisted that his valet answer all rings.”
“I take it that there were no rings at the doorbell.”
“None. The valet sleeps where he can hear the doorbell.”
“Who let Townley in?”
“The valet, a chap named Drake, Bob Drake.”
“And Townley left about eleven?”
“That’s right. The valet is positive about that.”
“How does he fix the time?” asked the criminologist.
“Drake was up in his room, which is directly over the front door,” said Bander. “Millright has a private telephone which runs from the library to the valet’s room. He rang the telephone and said that Townley was leaving and he wanted the valet to go down and put on the chain lock.”