Barth studied the servant in the same fashion as he had eyed the assistant. He paced back and forth beside Valdan’s body. He swung suddenly to Benzig and snapped a question.
“You think that Valdan bolted the door?” questioned the commissioner.
“Yes,” replied Benzig. “But it may have been my imagination. You see, sir, Mr. Valdan had spoken about the outer door — the one in the large laboratory — the door that leads to the little alleyway between this house and the next—”
“What did he say about it?”
“He made sure that it was bolted, sir. That was before he came in here.”
“Is that outer door bolted now?” demanded Barth, turning to Cardona.
“No,” replied the detective. “The bolt is drawn.”
“But I bolted it, sir!” exclaimed Benzig. “After the delivery men left the box of guinea pigs. I am sure I did so, for Mr. Valdan checked on it.”
“Delivery men?” questioned Barth, of Cardona. “Who were they?”
“I have Benzig’s complete statement here,” declared the detective. “There was a wrong delivery of equipment yesterday; today the same men brought an unordered crate of guinea pigs. Shall I have Benzig repeat his statements?”
“No,” snapped Barth, suddenly. “Remove these witnesses. We must examine this room at once.”
POLICEMEN conducted Benzig and Crowder from the room. Barth closed the door and studied the bolt very closely. Cardona remarked that there were no finger prints. Barth shot the bolt and turned to the detective.
“Tell me about the delivery men,” ordered Barth.
“Yesterday,” stated the detective, referring to his notes, “several men showed up with three boxes that they said contained laboratory equipment. This is according to Benzig’s testimony.”
“I understand. Proceed.”
“Benzig says he unbolted the outer door and let them in. Valdan had gone away; he had said nothing about the equipment. So Benzig went upstairs and asked Crowder. The servant knew nothing. Benzig returned and sent the men away with the boxes.”
“I see. And they returned today?”
“Yes. With a crate of guinea pigs. Benzig let them put the crate in here. This is it — over here by the body.”
“Why did Benzig accept the consignment of guinea pigs? Did he say?”
“Valdan used guinea pigs for some purpose. Had them around the laboratory. Benzig thought the shipment was O.K. — so he says.”
Cardona expected another question from the commissioner. It did not come. With one of his abrupt changes of tack, Barth began to pace across the room. He stopped by the table. Cardona joined him, while Cranston remained quietly observant.
“Here’s a box with two guinea pigs in it,” declared the detective. “They’re dead ones.”
“Humph,” grunted Barth, disinterested.
“And this big box drawn out from under the table,” added Cardona. “Nothing in it but a lot of lead pipe.”
“Humph,” repeated Barth.
“Folders in the filing cabinet drawer,” added Cardona. “They’re arranged according to numbers. One of them is missing. Number one hundred and eleven.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Barth. “Did you question Benzig on that matter?”
“Yes,” replied Cardona. “He said that Valdan had him arrange folders according to their numbers. That was about a month ago. The only trouble — and I checked on this by examining other drawers — is that a lot of numbers are missing.”
“Why?”
“Benzig says they represented old experiments, formulas and so on. Valdan chucked a lot of them that were no use any more and left the spaces blank.”
“Then we can assume that number one hundred and eleven was destroyed with the others. That is, unless we can positively assure ourselves that something has been taken from this room. Did you question Benzig on that score?”
“Yes. He looked around while I was watching him. But he couldn’t figure anything missing.”
Lamont Cranston had strolled over to the table. He lifted the cover of the box that contained the two guinea pigs. Barth saw him and smiled indulgently. The commissioner was concerned with matters more important than dead guinea pigs.
“We must quiz Benzig and Crowder,” decided Barth. “However, Cardona, we need a starting point. We must find it. If we could prove that something is missing from this little laboratory — something that we know should be here but—”
“You have already gained such proof,” interposed Cranston, quietly, as he leaned above the box that held the two guinea pigs.
“What?” questioned Barth excitedly. “You say that something is missing, Cranston? What makes you believe so?”
“The testimony of the witnesses.”
“But they knew of nothing that has been removed.”
“On the contrary,” remarked Cranston, turning toward the commissioner, “they were very specific in their statements. In fact, their arrival at this room was prompted by the disappearance of an object that should most certainly have been here.”
“You mean—”
“The copy of the afternoon newspaper.”
THE commissioner laughed. He seemed to take Cranston’s remark as a jest. Then, recalling the importance of the case, he became serious.
“This is no time for trifles, Cranston,” rebuked Barth. “Why should a murder have been committed over an afternoon newspaper? Assuming that some unknown person did remove the journal, how could that act have aided him in his attack on Troxton Valdan?”
“The answer is quite simple,” responded Cranston. “It is possible that Valdan, had he seen the newspaper, might have had some occasion for immediate alarm.”
“What could that have been?”
“The headlines.”
“You mean—”
“I mean,” asserted Cranston, firmly, “that the phrase ‘death sleep’ might have caught the eye of Troxton Valdan. That seeing it, the chemist might have instantly placed himself on guard.”
“Absurd,” interjected Barth. “Your imagination is tricking you, Cranston. There is no connection between that episode at Seth Tanning’s apartment and this death of Troxton Valdan.”
“No connection?” Cranston’s lips formed a thin smile. “I must disagree with you, commissioner. I have just been examining the evidence that proves the very connection of which I have spoken.”
“Where is it?” cried Barth, in excitement.
“Here,” responded Cranston, tapping the cardboard box.
“Two dead guinea pigs?” barked Barth. “What is this, Cranston — a hoax? Two guinea pigs — dead ones — have nothing to do with murder.”
“Two guinea pigs,” repeated Cranston, “but not dead ones. Examine them more closely, commissioner. Tell me, did you ever before observe dead animals that were on their feet — in a state that resembles suspended motion?”
Barth stared into the box. Cardona joined him and stared also. Cranston’s even tones came in quiet regularity, while his companions studied the cavies in the box.
“The two guinea pigs,” remarked the firm-faced millionaire, “are not dead. On the contrary” — the tone was unchanged, but the words came more slowly, drilling home the thought that they expressed — “on the contrary, those guinea pigs are paralyzed—”
As Cranston’s voice paused, Joe Cardona came bobbing up from the cardboard box. His usually stolid face betrayed sudden excitement. The detective needed no more to complete the idea that Cranston had begun.
“He’s right, commissioner!” exclaimed Joe. “The guinea pigs are paralyzed. Like those people were last night! It’s the death sleep again!”
CHAPTER VII