I produced a department envelope from my pocket. In this, the hair was sealed and marked for identification.
Meanwhile, Colt was giving Flynn instructions. “Get Madame Coleman’s husband. I want to question him downtown. And get that writer — Captain Walters. There are a few things he’ll have to clear up. I’d like pictures of both of them. And come down to my office as soon as you can, inspector. I want you there when I talk to Digberry.”
But our leaving was still delayed. Captain Allerton had obtained samples of Madame’s facial preparations and Colt sat down to study them.
As I waited for him near the door, I felt a clammy hand touch mine. I turned around hastily to find myself staring into the pale eyes of Cooper.
“Take this,” he whispered.
He placed in my hands a legal-sized envelope with bulky contents. A rubber band was around it; the flap was sealed.
“A thousand dollars reward for anyone who finds the guilty man — it might help the hotel’s reputation,” Cooper gurgled, and darted away.
As soon as we were in the car, I told the commissioner about the money. He merely nodded and shoved the envelope into his pocket. He remained silent until we reached Headquarters at two-thirty.
Digberry was waiting for us. “Where’s the letter?” was Colt’s first question.
Detective Mulvaney, who stood beside the prisoner, handed over a much-fingered envelope, from which Colt drew out a single sheet of notepaper. It was a duplicate of the ten others reposing in the drawer at his right hand.
“This calls for one thousand dollars or death,” he commented. “Where is your bank passbook?”
Mulvaney promptly offered a gray-backed booklet, on the front of which appeared the names of Everett P. and Hattie Elizabeth Digberry, and a statement that the account was payable to either, or both, and to the survivor.
Colt flipped the pages; then glanced at the prisoner. “This is a new book. It has just been issued!”
“I lost the old one about three weeks ago. The bank advertised the loss, and then issued this new one for me.”
Colt’s eyes were solemn and accusing. “We’ll come back to the bankbook matter later. In the meantime, what were your relations with Margaret Coleman?”
Mr. Digberry’s cheeks blanched. “She was one of my customers,” he replied.
“Wasn’t she an intimate friend?”
“Miss Coleman reposed a great deal of confidence in me as an artist in my own line,” the wigmaker admitted.
“Is that why she put your picture on her mantel? And is that why you visited her almost every night, when she was supposed to be in Europe?” pursued Colt relentlessly.
The prisoner thrust out his chin. His silence was plainly meant for defiance.
“Are you refusing to answer?”
“I am!” declared Mr. Digberry. “I really am! There’s such a thing as professional confidence. Any questions about Madame Coleman she can answer for herself.”
“You know better than that, Digberry. You know as well as I do that Margaret Coleman cannot answer any questions.”
“How should I know that? Why can’t she?”
“Because she’s dead!”
“Dead! Margaret... dead?”
“Murdered!” Colt added. “With a bullet through her head. And you didn’t know anything about that, did you?”
“Nothing!” groaned Digberry. “As God is my witness, I knew nothing about it.”
“Didn’t you visit Margaret Coleman Saturday night?” Colt demanded.
“No! Indeed, no!”
“Where were you?”
“I was in the cemetery.”
“Where were you at midnight?”
“I was waiting outside the cemetery until the time to leave the money.”
“Anybody see you from eleven-thirty until you were arrested at two?”
“Not a soul.”
“And you call that an alibi?”
“I call it hell!” declared Mr. Digberry.
“I’m waiting to know what your relations were with Margaret Coleman.”
“She liked me,” replied Digberry. “There was nothing immoral in our friendship. She was lonely. So was I. She was tired of her smart friends. She always said she could talk to me. And she admired my work. You know she was divorced?”
“Well?”
“Her husband was Lucius Polk Coleman — a very rich man. When they parted he made a settlement. But even though they were divorced, he still wanted to tell her what to do with her money. Soon the money was all gone. She said she had been cheated out of it. She blamed a man — she would not name him, but I never had any doubt. Literally, Mr. Colt, that poor lady, that truly great musical artist, was broke. Think of that humiliation. Yet she had to keep up appearances. So she pretended to go abroad. Her idea was to save every cent to prepare for next season. But her stocks went down to nothing — literally nothing. And all the time she was working with a man at the bank to punish the man who had robbed her.”
“What bank?” interposed Colt.
“The Harrison National.”
Colt reached for the telephone. In five minutes one of our Wall Street Squad was on his way to the Harrison National Bank. While Colt was talking, Inspector Flynn came in. He saluted and sat down.
“Go on!” prompted Colt, when he had finished phoning.
“I was telling you,” resumed Digberry, “how Madame pretended—”
“Never mind. Take a look at this, and see if you know what it is.”
On his desk Colt laid the envelope containing the gray hair. He extracted the strand with a small pair of pincers.
“I recognize that,” Digberry said spitefully. “It’s evidently from a very poor wig made by a faker named Wilkins.”
“How can you make a positive statement like that?” asked Colt.
“I know by the way that knot is tied. One wigmaker knows another’s work.”
Colt put away the hair. “Whom did Madame Coleman fear most?” he asked.
“Her husband. She was getting evidence to bring action against him.”
Flynn chuckled grimly. “Surely you can tell us more than that. For instance, what time did you leave the Wedgeworth Arms on Saturday night?”
“I just told the chief I wasn’t there on Saturday night,” reiterated Mr. Digberry.
“But the manager saw you!”
“Not me. On Saturday night I had my own worries; I had to put a thousand dollars on Aunt Kate’s grave.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Colt cried. “All right, Flynn. Take him downstairs and let the boys talk to him!”
“The third degree!” groaned Digberry.
Flynn sent him off, shut the door and walked over to Colt’s desk. “Here are the two pictures you wanted. I talked with Walters. He’s out of it. At the time this woman was killed, Walters and a friend who spent the night with him were talking with our sergeant on that beat. That’s an alibi nobody can smash.”
“But what about her husband?”
Flynn sighed. “He sailed at one A.M. Saturday on a liner due in Cherbourg five days from now.”
The door closed on Inspector Flynn.
“Get me the address of Wilkins,” Colt called to me.
As I hurried to the outer office, I left him, telephone in hand, asking to be connected with the chief of the Paris police. I found the address of Elmer Wilkins, wigmaker, and Colt decided to call upon him.
Mr. Wilkins, a man with ears too big, a nose too long and a mouth too wide, received us with a Chinaman’s smile. Before we had spoken, he assured us that his firm was the oldest and most reliable in the United States.
Colt silenced him by stating, “I don’t wish to buy any artificial hair today. I’m the police commissioner, and I want information.” He drew forth the gray hair. “Now, what can you tell me about that?”