Mr. Wilkins produced a magnifying glass. “Perhaps it’s from a wig that was made here,” he conceded.
“How long since you made a gray wig?”
“I’ll show you my records.”
For ten minutes Colt and Wilkins pored over the books. Then I saw Colt produce three photographs from his pocket.
“Recognize any one of these men?”
“Why... why, yes I do. This one — it’s the man himself.”
“You have a quick eye, Mr. Wilkins. That’s all I want to know.”
With Wilkins’ promise to remain within call, we hurried off. It was now six-thirty P.M.
“Amusing thing!” Colt said. “Just before we left, I had a telephone call from our Wall Street man. He discovered what Coleman was up to in her investigation, and it certainly ties up with that wig.”
For the rest of that night and down to the Tuesday-morning breakfast hour Colt labored constantly on the Coleman murder case. Three times that night he talked on the transatlantic telephone with the Paris police. He also held a ten-minute conversation by radiophone with the captain of the liner on which Lucius Coleman had sailed. But not until an hour before midnight did we get a break in the case.
That came with the report of Doctor Multooler. At eleven he called Colt. “The autopsy fixes the time of death within ten minutes of ten o’clock,” he announced.
“But Madame’s watch stopped shortly after midnight!” gasped Colt. “Nevertheless, my evidence is positive. I’ll send you a full report in writing.”
Multooler’s discovery upset Colt’s previous calculations. “I think we’ll go up to the abode of Digberry,” he announced.
The wigmaker’s home was in St. Nicholas Place, not far from the railroad station in New Rochelle. During our swift drive to the suburb, Colt remarked, “That watch must have been stopped by opening the back and depressing the spring. Not a new alibi — but I didn’t suspect it.”
No more was said until we reached our destination, an old-fashioned, five-story apartment building known as the Gloria Arms. Mr. Digberry leased Suite G, on the second floor, and the janitor willingly let us in. For ten minutes we traversed our prisoner’s deserted rooms, but Colt admitted that his search was almost barren.
On our way out, he paused to question the girl in charge of the outmoded lobby switchboard. Yes, she had worked last Saturday night. Yes, she remembered a call for Mr. Digberry around ten-thirty. She finally admitted she had listened in.
“I heard a man say he had a message from Madame Coleman and would like to see Mr. Digberry at once, down at the railroad station. Right after that Mr. Digberry went out. But he came right back. After a little while I saw him go out again, and he didn’t come back for quite a while. Even then, he went out later.”
As Colt lighted his pipe in the car, his face was grave. “I won’t know how to put this thing together,” he confessed, “if all Digberry’s extraordinary story is proved true. But this much is obvious. If our little bald friend is innocent, then the murderer played him a villainous trick.
“I believe I see through this crime now, Tony — but I don’t know yet how to pin it on the murderer. There’s one long shot,” he added. “Do you remember that Walters had a visitor who spent the night with him? Well, Tony, there’s our long shot; if it hits, we might get a perfect case.”
When we returned to Headquarters, I sat down at my typewriter. I had three books full of stenographic pothooks on the case, and soon I was absorbed in their transcription. It must have been an hour later when I was disturbed by voices in the commissioner’s office. I entered to find Colt seated at his desk. Spread before him were a gray Palm Beach suit and a straw hat with a band of red and blue. Colt was issuing orders to a detective.
“Use the vacuum cleaners on these clothes,” directed the commissioner, “and turn the results over to our laboratory. The chemists know what to look for.”
The detective saluted, gathered up the costume and departed.
“I’ve taken a chance on our long shot, Tony,” declared Colt wearily.
It was Tuesday noon — twenty-four hours after the discovery of Margaret Coleman’s body. Gathered in Colt’s office were Inspector Flynn and Digberry, the commissioner and myself.
Flynn had failed to break down Digberry; nevertheless the inspector was satisfied of the little man’s guilt.
“Mr. Digberry, where did you go when you left your house at ten-thirty Saturday night?” Colt demanded.
“I went to the station to see a man who didn’t show up.”
Flynn snorted. “I think we’ve stalled long enough with this fellow. I want to charge him with murder!”
“You have no case against me at all!” Digberry cried. “I demand to be represented by a lawyer!”
“You’ll need a doctor if you take that tone,” Flynn came back. “You wrote those Driller letters. We’ve traced the paper from the manufacturer to the dealer and found a supply of it in that hair works you run in New Rochelle. And the experts swear all the letters were written on a typewriter in your joint. And the one you wrote to yourself was only to cover up.”
“Why should I do such a thing?” shouted Digberry.
Flynn gave a harsh chuckle. “You’re asking me? You sent them as a blind, so the police would think the Driller killed Margaret Coleman. And he did. For you’re the Driller, Digberry.”
“I did not kill her!” Digberry screamed. “Why should I kill her?”
“Because you had a love affair with her. You’ve lied about everything. Here’s the report from the bank. It’s true that you drew out a thousand dollars. But not as ransom money, in one lump sum, as you said. You’ve been drawing that cash out in dribs and drabs all summer. While your wife was away, you were spending money on an opera singer. It was high life for you, Digberry, my boy. But now the end of the summer is near. You thought there was only one way to get rid of that woman. So the whole hocus-pocus was just a scheme of yours to kill Margaret Coleman and put the blame on some made-up villain!”
“Try to prove that I killed her!” Digberry taunted. “Just try!”
“I can do that, too,” Flynn grated. “You had a gun on you, didn’t you? Well, the shot that killed Margaret Coleman was fired from that gun.”
Digberry whirled to Colt. “Mr. Commissioner, I’m not guilty of these things! How am I to face my wife—”
An attendant was ushering Captain Walters into the office.
“Hello!” he cried. “What’s the row?”
“Just a few questions, captain,” began Colt. “I believe you told me yesterday you met Madame Coleman at Menton?”
“Quite!”
Colt stood up and pointed at Captain Walters with the bowl of his pipe. “It’s a curious fact,” he said, “that the revolver which Mr. Digberry says was left in his apartment by a burglar is one of French manufacture, purchased from a dealer in Menton, and containing a mark recognizable to the police!”
Walters began, “Do you infer—?”
“Tony, open that door!”
I opened a door just behind Colt’s desk. Wilkins was standing there.
“Mr. Wilkins,” called Colt, “do you recognize in this room any of your recent customers?”
Wilkins nodded. “The little blond fellow over there,” he rumbled, pointing to Captain Walters. “He’s the man I made the bald wig for the other day.”
“See any head in this room that your wig resembled?”
The eyes of the two wigmakers met, and Wilkins roared, “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before? That wig was the dead image of old Digberry’s head.”
“That will do!” said Colt, and I closed the door after Wilkins, as an attendant led him away. Colt again faced Walters.
“I have your complete history,” he announced. “This morning you kindly left your fingerprints on sensitized paper that I gave you when I showed you the Driller letters. Your prints were telephotoed to the police in Europe. You served time in France and Holland for blackmail.”