The men piled out of the front seat, got out the tools, and started pumping feverishly, taking turns.
“We don’t need to get much air in there — just enough so we can steer the car,” said Clark.
“All right,” gasped Bander, “give me one spell more at the pump and we’ll be all right.”
He pumped for a few seconds, inspected the tires, and shouted, “Come on! We can get started now. That will keep the wheels together, anyway.”
The men ran back to the car, flung the pump helter-skelter in the back, piled in and started traveling.
“There’s a service station out where this road runs into the highway,” said Clark. “We can telephone froth there.”
They jolted into the service station, and while the detective was telephoning a report of the robbery, Clark had the attendant pump up the front tires. Bander came out on the run.
“Let’s go!” yelled the criminologist. They started out at high speed toward the city. Clark had taken his position behind the wheel while Bander was in telephoning, and his driving was wild.
They had gone four of five miles when suddenly the motor started to cough, spit, and backfire. Finally the motor quit altogether.
“Now what?” said Clark in an exasperated voice.
“There’s a car coming behind us,” said Townley. “I can get it and run into the next place and have them send out a tow-car for you.”
“Okay,” said Clark. “I don’t know as we can do any good anyway. We’ve got the roads all blocked. You go ahead and go into the next town and send out a tow-car. It’s probably something wrong with the carburetor. Maybe it’s just a loose connection in the gasoline line or the vacuum tank.”
Townley hopped to the ground and started waving his hands frantically. A car which was coming behind them slowed down
“We’ve had a breakdown,” shouted Townley. “Can you give me a lift to the nearest garage?”
“Hop in,” said the man.
Townley climbed in the car.
As the tail light became indistinct in the distance, Bander stared at the criminologist.
“Now what?” he asked. “You certainly seemed to have done some clever work at the start of this case, and to have made a fool out of yourself on the last of it.”
Clark laughed, reached over and pushed in the choke adjustment on the car, stepped on the starting mechanism. The car purred into life.
“You see,” he said, “I simply slipped out the cable on the adjusting mechanism so that the carburetor would flood. It’s all ready to go now.”
“What was the idea?”
“You’ll see,” said Clark. “We’ll pick up that car ahead now.”
Within two miles they had picked up the car in which Townley had secured a ride.
“Here’s a little town and garage ahead,” said Bander. “Townley will stop there.”
But Townley did not stop there. The car that carried him went through the town with no diminution of speed.
Mile after mile they followed the speeding car, and Bander’s forehead was creased with a perplexed frown.
“Won’t he know that we’re behind him?” he asked.
“No,” said Clark. “He thinks our car is broken down back on the road.”
They followed the other car clear into the city, then saw it stop at a taxi cab stand, and Townley got out, shook hands with the driver of the car, entered a taxicab. They had no difficulty in following the taxicab to a little apartment house where Townley discharged the cab and ran in to the house.
“What do we do now?” asked the detective.
“We wait,” said Clark, grinning, “but not very long.”
They walked to the entrance of the apartment house, stood one on each side of the door, waiting. Within five minutes Townley came running out, and as he ran out, Clark’s gun was thrust into his stomach.
“All right,” said the criminologist, “get them up, Townley.”
The man flashed his hand toward his shoulder, encountered the empty holster, and slowly raised his hands.
“You will find, Bander,” said the criminologist, “that Townley has an apartment in this place under an assumed name, and that he used it as a place to hide the gem.
“By making him think that I had discovered the gem, and therefore was in a position to know the identity of the murderer, he naturally wanted to leave us stalled on the road while he rushed in to find out whether or not his stone was safe. Finding it safe, he thought I was mistaken, and he was then going back to send a tow-car for us.”
“But how did you ever suspect him?” said the detective.
“Easy enough,” chuckled the criminologist. “There was one key clew which pointed to Townley, and to Townley alone. You see, Townley pretended to let himself out of the door. All he did was to slam the door and tiptoe back down the passageway to the chauffeur’s room. He stayed there until he thought the house was quiet, put on a suit of the chauffeur’s clothes, purloined his gun and then went out and committed the crime.”
“Sure, I can see it all now,” said the detective. “He thought that he could blame it on the chauffeur. But what I want to know is, what was the one key clew that pointed to Townley?”
The criminologist chuckled.
“Of all the list of suspects,” he said, “there was only one who wouldn’t have known that it was the chauffeur’s night out. Townley was the only one who wouldn’t have known that the chauffeur would, in all probability, have a perfect alibi. Therefore, when he picked the chauffeur to blame the crime on, he showed that he was unfamiliar with the routine of the house.
“Therefore, in order to find the real criminal, I had only to scan the list of suspects to find the one man who was on that list and was unfamiliar with the chauffeur’s regular night off. That was the key clew. It only remained for me to follow that one key clew to a logical ending.”
Restless Pearls
Chapter I
Bob Crowder tip-toed along the iron platform of the fire escape and tried the window with exploring fingertips.
The window was locked.
Crowder sighed wearily, reached his hand under the lapel of his coat to a leather case which hung suspended from his shoulder, just under the armpit. He took out a curved steel bar, gently placed it under the edge of the window, and pried down.
After a moment, the sash creaked under the strain, then snapped upward, making some noise. Bob Crowder slipped the curved bar back into the leather case, took a flashlight from his pocket, and eased his way over the sill and into the room. He heard a quick gasping intake of breath.
“What’s the matter?” he asked casually. “Did I wake you up?”
“Who are you and what do you want?” It was a woman’s voice.
“I was inquiring,” Crowder told her, “about having disturbed your slumbers.”
He switched on the flashlight. The beam disclosed a young woman in silk pajamas, sitting bolt upright in bed, her eyes blinking against the glare of the spotlight.
“Turn that thing away,” she said, “and tell me who you are and what you want.”
“Right at the moment,” said Bob Crowder, “I am looking for a string of matched pearls, reported to be worth some forty-five thousand dollars, although I think the amount has doubtless been exaggerated.”
He adjusted a mask about his forehead and calmly pulled down the shades.
“Would you mind switching on that light by the side of your bed?” he asked.
The young woman was in the early twenties. She was blonde, with that peculiar straw color of the hair which shows that artificial means have been used to lighten the hair. She was slender but well-formed, and there was a certain willowy grace about her motions as she flung back the covers and jumped to the floor. She groped with her feet for slippers, then reached out and switched on the light.