I stood up, saying, "Thank you."
"Mr. Chambers, please." He fidgeted, hesitant, obviously embarrassed.
"Yes?" I said.
"Mr. Chambers," he blurted. "I believe you should return that fee to my sister."
"Why?"
"She doesn't need a private detective. She needs a doctor."
"I'm inclined to agree."
He smiled, seeming relieved that I understood and acquiesced. "I've already made inquiries," he said, "and I've selected a physician, nerve-specialist, psychiatrist, whatever the devil they call them these days. By some pretext or other, I'm going to get her to him."
"Good enough," I said. "As for the fee, I agree. It belongs with a doctor, rather than with me."
"You're extremely considerate. I thank you."
"I don't believe I should give it to her, though," I said. "No sense disturbing her any further. I'll bring it to you. I don't have it with me, but I'll deliver it later on to your apartment."
"Please keep fifty dollars of it, Mr. Chambers. You've certainly earned that."
"Thank you. Then I'll see you later."
"You know where?"
"Miss Troy gave me your address on Fourth Street."
"It's apartment 3 A. And, oh!"
"Yes?"
"Actually, I'm a night man here. I work from two in the afternoon and I close at ten. Then I go home, eat, shower, relax. So I'm not home until quite late."
"I'm somewhat of a night man, myself," I said. "Suppose I come around midnight. Is that all right?"
"Fine, fine. You've been very kind, Mr. Chambers."
He shook hands with me and I left.
At ten o'clock that evening, with two hundred and fifty dollars of her fee in my pocket, I sat at a back table of Cafe Bella and watched her act. Cafe Bella was dim and unpretentious, the service was poor, the liquor was bad, and so was Sylvia Troy's act. She came out in black trousers and a black blouse and she did imitations of celebrities, male and female. Her range of voice was marvelous — from deep male baritone to male tenor to male alto to female contralto to mezzo-soprano to the high squiggly soprano of elderly women — but her imitations were rank, her material wretched, her timing deplorable, and her woeful little jokes were delivered without a spark of talent. I left in the middle of her performance.
I had a late supper, I wandered in and out of some of the Village clubs, I had a few drinks, I watched a few dancing girls, and then at midnight I went to 149 West 4th Street which was Simon Troy's address. A self-service elevator took me up to the third floor and there I pushed the button of 3 A. There was no answer. I pushed again. No answer. I tried the knob. The door was open and I entered.
Simon Troy was seated, staring straight ahead, his elbows resting on the edge of a table for two. On the table in front of him was a large cocktail glass empty except for a cherry at its base. He was staring at a vacant chair opposite. On that side of the table, in front of the vacant chair, stood a similar cocktail glass brimming-full and untouched. I went quickly to Simon Troy, examined him, and then went to the telephone and called the police to report his death.
The man in charge was my friend Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker of Homicide. His experts quickly ascertained the cause of death as cyanide poisoning. The cherry in the drained cocktail glass was thoroughly imbued with it. Simon Troy's fingerprints were on the stem of the glass. The other glass was free of poison. There were no fingerprints on its stem. Inspection revealed no vial or other container for poison in the apartment. After the body and the evidence were removed and Lieutenant Parker and I were alone, he said, "Well, what goes? What's the story on this? What are you doing here?"
"Do you believe in ghosts, Lieutenant?"
Cryptically he said, "Sometimes. Why? Are you going to tell me a ghost story?"
"I might at that," I said. I told him the entire story and I told him what I was doing in Simon Troy's apartment.
"Wow," he said. "Let's go talk to the little lady."
She was in her dressing room. She maintained that she had been in her dressing room, or out on the floor performing, all night. Her dressing room opened upon a corridor which led to a back exit directly on the street. Parker questioned all the employees in the place. None could disprove what Sylvia Troy had said. Then Parker took her to the station house and I accompanied them. There he questioned and cross-questioned her for hours, but she stoutly maintained that she had not left her dressing room except to go out on the floor and do her act. Policemen came and went and the questioning was frequently interrupted by whispered conferences. At length Parker threw his hands up. "Get out," he said to her. "Go home. And you better stay there so we know where we can reach you."
"Yes, sir," she said meekly and departed.
We were silent. Parker lit a cigar and I lit a cigarette. Finally I said, "Well, what do you think?"
"I think that little chick is pulling the con-game to end all con-games and we don't have a thing on which to hold her."
"How so, my friend?" I said.
"You know about those reciprocal wills, don't you?"
"Yes."
"The first one — Joseph's — is still in Probate. Now the second one goes into Probate. With these two brothers dead, that little dame stands to come into upwards of a hundred thousand dollars."
"So?"
"So we've got Joseph listed as suicide, but since no weapon was found, it could have been murder. Now this Simon could be suicide too, can't he? — except no vial, no container." He waved a hand. "Spirited away."
"The ghost?" I said mildly.
"The dame," he said. "She killed the two of them and concocted this ghost story as the craziest smoke-screen ever. And we don't have one iota of proof against her. But we're going to keep at it, baby; that I can assure you." Then he smiled, wearily. "Go home, boy. You look tired."
"How about you?" I said.
"Not me. I stay right here and work."
I got home at four o'clock, and as I opened my door, my phone was ringing. I ran to it and lifted the receiver. It was Sylvia Troy.
"Mr. Chambers!" she said. "Please! Mr. Chambers!" The terror in her voice put needles on my skin.
"What is it?" I said. "What's the matter?"
"He called me."
"Who?"
"Adam!"
"When?"
"Just now, just now. He said he was coming… for me." The voice drifted off.
"Miss Troy!" I called. "Miss Troy!"
"Yes?" The voice was feeble.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes."
"I want you to close all your windows and bolt them."
"I've already done that," she said in that peculiar childlike sing-song.
"And lock your door and bolt it."
"I've done that too."
"Now don't open your door to anyone except me. I'll ring and talk to you through the closed door so you'll know who it is. You'll recognize my voice?"
"Yes, Mr. Chambers. Yes, I will."
"Good. Now just stay put. I'll be there right away."
I hung up and I called Parker and I told him. "This is it," I said, "whatever it is. Bring plenty of men and plenty of artillery. We figure to shake loose a murderer. I'll meet you downstairs. You know the address?"
"Of course."
I hung up and ran.
Aside from Parker, there were three detectives and three uniformed policemen — one of whom was carrying a carbine. As we entered the hallway, the detectives and the two remaining policemen took their pistols from their holsters. At the door to 4 C, Parker motioned to me and I rang the bell.