“That was a devil of a layout,” he said. “Egret feathers, glass diamonds. I suppose they really must have been planted by that J. Dugmore Lampton, after all — he was an English customs officer, and he was no doubt following precedent in the consular reports when he arranged for Sanchez to be seized at this end of the line.”
“Why did Sanchez wish that complete change of clothes?” pressed Poggioli, unsatisfied. “You know he could have worn ashore his shirt, undershirt, socks—”
“Oh, that was just his obsession, his craziness.”
“All right. Admit that. Then why did J. Dugmore Lampton quote the consular reports? As I said long ago, if he is a consul he knows those reports go in the discard the moment they are published. For Lampton’s memory to go back to 1915, and quote reports of that year, that isn’t human, Mr. Slidenberry.”
“Well, I’m not worrying about that end of the line,” the inspector laughed. “Sanchez is ashore and he took nothing with him.”
At this moment a Western Union boy came bicycling down the wharf and rounded into the inspector with a message.
Slidenberry looked at the enclosure, then puckered his brow and read aloud:
“NO SUCH PERSON AS J. DUGMORE LAMPTON REGISTERED WITH AMERICAN CONSULATE AT BELIZE. ERROR POSSIBLE. MAY BE J. HAMILTON SMITH.”
The two men stood holding this second cablegram between them, looking at it.
“Well,” said Slidenberry slowly, “so there was no J. Dugmore Lampton, or if there is one he is not expecting any reward after all—”
Poggioli burst out:
“My heavens! Of course, of course, that’s the solution of it!”
“What? What’s the solution of what?”
“The whole thing! There isn’t any Lampton. Dr. Sanchez himself sent that cablegram. Why didn’t I think of that at once? Of course he is the only man in the world who could quote year and page of consular reports as far back as 1915 because you see his name is mentioned in them. In fact, he was deported then. He would have no trouble at all remembering the date.”
“But there’s no sense to that!” cried Slidenberry. “What in the world would he want to make all this trouble for himself for?”
“He is like a sleight-of-hand performer; he wanted to center our attention on diamonds and feathers while he slipped something else past us. He wanted to make absolutely sure of it. I suppose he needs money for some new revolutionary undertaking.”
Slidenberry dropped his hands hopelessly.
“But, look, man, he didn’t go ashore with anything — nothing at all. Even his clothes are new!”
Poggioli laughed wryly.
“No-o, he didn’t, but I did.”
Slidenberry looked surprised.
“You... you went ashore — what with?”
“Why, his money, of course; I took that ashore, didn’t I?”
“But money can’t conceal diamonds and egret feathers!”
“Of course not, but you could take a five-bolivar piece, couldn’t you, and — come on, come on, let’s get to that money changer’s address and look into this thing.”
The two men hailed a taxi and whirled a few blocks to Miramar Street. When they reached the house, a very simple old householder met them.
“Where is that money changer, the one I traded with an hour or so ago?” hurriedly asked the psychologist.
The householder, who was an Ecuadorian, spread his hands.
“Señores, he gave up his room. He is gone. Did he cheat you? No, I hope not.”
“No, he didn’t cheat me! He smuggled dope — cocaine, I imagine — out of a ship down at the docks.”
“Are you Señor Poggioli?” asked the householder.
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“A very fine gentleman left with me a note and a little token. He said you would call and get it.”
“Well, give it to me!”
The Ecuadorian hustled away for a moment and returned with a note and a five-bolivar piece. The note said:
Muchas gracias, señor, for your highly esteemed services. I am leaving you a little souvenir which will assure that your deductions, although somewhat tardy, are correct.
Always your friend and admirer,
The souvenir was a very fight five-bolivar piece. Poggioli twisted it experimentally. It unscrewed and disclosed the fact that it was a small silver container. It was empty and had been cleaned thoroughly. Legally it proved nothing.
About the Perfect Crime of Mr. Digberry
by Anthony Abbot
The case of the meek little man and the spread-eagled corpse. A Thatcher Colt story.
The facts in the case of Mr. Digberry have not been disclosed by the New York Police Department. Absurd as the statement may sound, Mr. Thatcher Colt, then Police Commissioner, actually connived with the little man to conceal all evidence of his singular misdeeds. Mr. Digberry was guilty of one felony and deeply involved in a second crime of peculiar fiendishness and horror. Yet he was allowed to go free, with his pockets stuffed with money and his secret utterly safe.
Now, after three years, the Digberry bargain has come to an end. In revealing the circumstances, as I learned them while I was confidential secretary to the commissioner, I am able to give at last a complete account of the murder of one of the most beautiful women in New York.
I first saw Mr. Digberry in the line-up about nine-thirty one scorching August morning. More than a thousand detectives were crowded into the old gymnasium of the Headquarters Building at 24 °Centre Street. Across the runway, that Monday morning, passed a defiant parade of law-breakers. Auto thieves and dope peddlers, gunmen and blackmailers, they came forth, put on their hats and took them off again, stood fullface and profile, and were marched off in custody.
It was in such unholy company that Thatcher Colt and I encountered one of the truly unique conspirators of criminal history.
“Everett P. Digberry!”
Assistant Chief Inspector Flynn barked the name angrily, and a small, bald-headed man, with a fringe of gray hair around his temples and with large, blinking eyes, walked indignantly toward the center of the platform. His gray Palm Beach suit was wrinkled, and against his left side he pressed a stiff straw hat, banded with a gay ribbon of red and blue.
“You were found climbing over the back wall of St. Christopher’s Cemetery, the Bronx, at two A.M. on Sunday, and you are charged with carrying a concealed weapon without a license. Are you guilty or not?”
“I would like to explain,” began Mr. Digberry. “As a citizen, I demand—”
“Have you ever been arrested before?”
“Never. I can explain everything!”
“You’ll have to!” was Flynn’s grim assurance. “Where did you get this gun — a thirty-two-caliber French Touron? Come on, now, speak up!”
“I haven’t the remotest idea where I got it,” rasped Mr. Digberry. “All this was due to a letter from the Driller. If you would only listen—”
But by then he was being yanked through the door, and the next suspect faced the lights.
“Tony,” whispered Thatcher Colt to me, “get that fellow and bring him to my office. I want to talk to him!”
I glanced at Colt in surprise. But orders were orders, and at ten o’clock I led my man into the commissioner’s private office.
“I’ve just read a report about you, Digberry,” Colt stated accusingly. “You’ve been lying! What were you doing in that graveyard at two o’clock in the morning?”