Mr. Digberry gulped. “I’ve been trying to answer that all night long, and no one will listen to me! Won’t you let me tell my story in my own way?”
“Do I understand that you have a letter signed by the Driller?” asked Colt.
“I have, chief!”
“Then go ahead and tell your story in your own way.”
“Well, you see, to begin with, I’m a wigmaker,” explained Mr. Digberry. “I carry on a manufacturing business founded by my grandfather. I produce wigs of mohair, human hair, and of silk and wool, suitable for all characters and impersonations. Also, a complete line of wigs for dolls.”
“What has that to do with your recent behavior? You’ll have to come to the point!”
“I am now at the point,” declared Mr. Digberry. “I am only a victim, chief. You see, I’ve been spending the summer alone at my home in New Rochelle. My family — I have a wife and six daughters — are at a bungalow in Maine. That’s why I’ve had to face the whole thing alone. This letter — this ghastly letter from the Driller — came at a moment when I needed all my mental resources for my own business. I am about to launch a new idea in the wig field: a soft, flexible cap of silk gauze, with the hair sewn—”
“When did you get this letter?” interrupted Colt.
“One week ago.”
“What did it say?”
“It told me I must pay the sum of one thousand dollars or be killed!”
“And how were you to pay this money?”
“I was to wait for directions.”
“And you received them?”
“Yes, chief; that’s why I was in the graveyard. Three days after the letter arrived, my telephone rang about six in the morning. A harsh voice told me to get the thousand dollars, and on Saturday — really, two o’clock Sunday morning — carry it in a bundle to Waverly Avenue and Gorsuch Street, in the Bronx; to climb over the wall of St. Christopher’s Cemetery and go at once to my own family plot. I have three aunts buried in that plot. I was told to lay the money on the middle grave — Aunt Kate’s.”
“And you did that — without consulting the police?”
“Yes, I did, chief. After all, I have my wife and six daughters to think of. I drew the money out of our savings, laid it on Aunt Kate’s grave and ran. But as I ran, I looked back and I saw a tall man pick up the money and disappear among the trees. Then I climbed over the wall and practically dropped into the arms of one of your policemen!”
“But you carried a revolver. Where did that come from?”
“As heaven is my witness, I don’t know! I found it in my room about half past ten last Saturday night. I had gone out for a few minutes, and when I returned, I found the gun on the bed. A burglar has been in our apartment house three times recently. Perhaps he left it there. I don’t know. But I took it along when I started for the cemetery. I meant to give it to an officer and explain—”
Colt looked incredulous and changed the subject. “From what bank did you get the money?”
“The Drovers and Mechanics in New Rochelle.”
Colt glanced at me; a flash of his eyes that was an instruction. Going to another room, I called the manager of the Drovers and Mechanics Bank. Back in Colt’s office, I nodded quickly — Colt knew I had confirmed the fact that Mr. Digberry had withdrawn one thousand dollars from his savings account.
“I’m going to be reasonable with you,” Colt told the nervous little man. “Frankly, I don’t believe your story about that revolver. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, but only if you’re on the level and help the police.”
“I’ll do anything... anything.”
“Where is your letter from the Driller?” Colt demanded, as he pressed a buzzer.
“In the top left-hand drawer of my wife’s bureau at home.”
The door opened to admit Captain Israel Henry, the official guardian of Colt’s office.
“Send a detective with Mr. Digberry to his home for a letter,” ordered Colt. “Bring down all his personal papers — bankbooks, insurance policies. Arrange with the district attorney to delay his appearance before the magistrate. And come back here with the letter.”
At the door the captive turned. “Chief, my wife and daughters are coming home tomorrow afternoon. Can’t I be released in time to meet them? And can’t I get out of this without anybody being the wiser?”
Captain Henry practically tossed him through the door. Meanwhile, Colt had opened a drawer of his desk, lifted out a sheaf of papers and cast them on the blotter.
“The Driller’s been causing some excitement, Tony.”
“Don’t believe I ever heard of him.”
“Probably some harmless nitwit, but because of the people involved, I have to take it seriously. Ten of Manhattan’s foremost citizens have received letters like the one that fellow just described. The chairman of the Opera Society got the first one. That was two weeks ago. Since then, several friends of mine have received similar threats. Each letter was typewritten and demanded payment of money, with death as the penalty for disobedience. Each promised further instructions as to how payment was to be made, and each was signed ‘The Driller.’ ”
“Of course it’s a crank!”
“The fantastic entrance of Mr. Digberry into the affair makes me wonder. Remember that all the other letters went to eminent citizens, ranging from John Otts, the bank president, to Margaret Coleman, the coloratura soprano. All persons of position and wealth — except Digberry. And Digberry is a wigmaker!”
Two minutes later, at Colt’s summons, Inspector Flynn stalked into the office and Colt explained the situation.
“Get in touch with all these people who received Driller letters, Flynn! Find out if any of them know Digberry or have had any dealings with him.”
Within half an hour Flynn phoned me. “Tell the chief I’ve got a man in my office who knows all about Digberry.”
“Send him right up!” was Colt’s instruction.
The stranger who entered the commissioner’s office a minute or two later was young and slender and blond, with keen blue eyes and the grace that expresses athletic strength. He was Captain Edgar Walters, a correspondent for foreign journals, who lived in an East Side river view apartment.
“I am a friend of Margaret Coleman,” the visitor explained. “I was told you wished to question me.”
“You know Digberry?”
“Madame Coleman does. I’ve met him once or twice. Eggy runt, you know — harmless but full of eloquence.”
“How does Madame Coleman know Digberry?”
Captain Walters grinned. “Through his art as a wigmaker. He’s an enthusiast about his work — a left-handed chap who can draw curious designs. He made Madame Coleman a remarkable wig for her rôle as Gilda in ‘Rigoletto,’ and has since made her other wigs. Mr. Digberry has a passion for exactitude. His wigs are most realistic.”
Colt nodded thoughtfully and asked, “Where is Madame Coleman now?”
“In Norway.”
“But she received one of these letters?”
“It was turned over to me.”
“And what is your relation to Madame?”
Captain Walters made an expressive gesture with his hands. “I am what is called a ‘ghost.’ Madame Coleman’s book of memoirs is soon to be published. I’m writing them for her — under her name, of course. We came to know each other when I was publishing a Riviera society and fashion magazine at Menton, and interviewed her there. That was before her divorce — you recall she was married to Lucius Polk Coleman, that jealous old poof-poof? A millionaire, but a hopeless muffle-head. I told her she was a fool to stick to him, and when that blew up—”
“Is the wigmaker trustworthy?”
Captain Walters chuckled. “Honest, yes; harmless, too, but the most garrulous creature alive. I don’t know him well, but Madame Coleman finds him stimulating.”