“A sensible decision, sir,” replied Gray.
“This morning I was told that my Chrysler car had been found wrecked on the Arborway not far from Mr. Stewart’s home last evening. I… I was quite sure then that I could convince you I had nothing to do with its being there—”
“Let us have the circumstances, Mr. Fraim,” urged Gray, in a respectful and reassuring manner. “When did you see the car last? You say that it was stolen?”
“Yes! Last evening, at some time between six and eight, it was taken from in front of my door.”
“You reported the theft at station three. I suppose?”
“I certainly did, as soon as I discovered—”
“At what time did you report the theft?”
“Shortly after eight o’clock, inspector.”
Gray made a note of it.
Fraim seemed very uneasy. He cleared his throat.
“I left the car standing right outside here,” he declared. “It simply must have been stolen, gentlemen, and by some chance wrecked and abandoned by the thieves on the Arborway. I… I can think of nothing else to account for it.
“For my own part, I was with a Mr. Valentine Morse of New York from six thirty until eight. He was trying to interest me — that is, to obtain financial backing for… for a certain business undertaking that he plans.
“We were simply riding about town in his machine, talking over the proposition, as we didn’t wish to be where our discussion could be overheard.”
“Do you mind telling us what kind of a proposition it was?”
“I… don’t feel quite at liberty to tell you at present.”
“But you went to ride in his car, leaving yours in front of this building, and when you returned it was gone?”
“Precisely, inspector.”
“Then, of course, Mr. Morse of New York will be in a position to corroborate this.”
Fraim fumbled with the cord of his bathrobe. He glanced vapidly from Gray to Reilly, then back again, ignoring Steele.
“Y-yes — but I regret exceedingly that I… haven’t been able to locate Mr. Morse this morning. He checked out unexpectedly from his hotel, and — and seems to have left town. I had never met him until yesterday. I… I know this must sound preposterous, inspector. I can’t understand it, myself—”
Harry Gray thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “Then can you tell us anything about your recent disagreement with Mr. Roscoe Stewart, sir?”
Fraim shook his head.
“Since Mr. Stewart is dead,” he answered deliberately, “I can only say that I regret our quarrel very deeply.”
“Did you ever hear a more incredible story?” Gray demanded of Steele, when the three had left the apartment. “Surely no auto thief could have taken his car, and then abandoned it — purely by chance — within a half mile of Stewart’s home at the very time when he was shot!”
“It scarcely seems reasonable,” Steele agreed. “Could we examine the car?”
“Certainly. It’s still in the brook by the Arborway.”
He drove Steele to the place, while Frank Reilly returned to Stewart’s house to continue his own investigations.
Fraim’s automobile, a sedan, had left the Arborway, crashed through a small rail fence, and plunged down a thirty-foot embankment, wrecking itself against a tree beside a brook. The front axle and springs were broken, and the radiator was smashed.
Steele looked carefully at the interior. The car, like all Chryslers of its type, had a single switch on the dashboard which controlled both the ignition and the lights.
He called Gray’s attention to the fact that the small parking-lights were still on, and that the gear lever was in neutral.
The inspector nodded. “No indication that the driver was injured, is there?”
“No,” Steele said. “I doubt if he was injured.”
“You don’t think for a minute that the driver could have been any one except Fraim? Man, it’s dead open and shut, as I see it. He has the motive.
“He sends a fake telegram calling the servant away, drives out here, parks near the gate — Mrs. Wentworth, a neighbor, saw a car there about seven fifteen — and walks up to the house. How he got in, I admit we still have to find out. But he killed Stewart, and then ran back to his car.
“He drove away fast, skidded in the snow here, and went over the embankment. So, with the machine wrecked here, he had to invent the theft story.”
Steele nodded. “The motor theft story to evade consequences of some trouble is an old dodge,” he agreed. “But in this case, would Fraim, deliberately planning such a crime, have been asinine enough to use his own car, when some one could have obtained another for him? And why, if this car was wrecked here accidentally, did Fraim pause to take it out of gear and switch on the parking-lights after the smash?”
“The impact may have jolted the gear-lever out, Steele.”
“But it couldn’t have switched on the parking-lights.”
“Perhaps he was driving with those on instead of his headlights. Perhaps he did that to avoid being seen so far, and possibly that’s why he ran off the road.”
“Now, Harry, surely you are familiar with the switch in this type of Chrysler car. The ignition and lights are combined. It is impossible to run the motor of this car with these parking-lights on. That is peculiar to Chryslers. Now, why, if Fraim wrecked the car here accidentally, did he pause to turn on the parking-lights? The motor certainly must have stalled.”
“He might have stopped to do it,” his friend maintained.
“Oh, yes; that’s true. He might have,” Steele agreed.
They spent about twenty-five minutes in their examination, while a bus and several other machines passed along the Arborway above them. Then Gray drove back to Stewart’s residence. As they approached, he pointed in surprise to a large sedan which stood across the road from the slain man’s gate, facing the city.
“The commissioner!” he exclaimed. “I wonder how long he’s been here.”
“Between fifteen and twenty minutes,” his companion offered.
“How on earth do you know?”
Steele smiled faintly and indicated the wheel-tracks in the softening snow which had drifted at the side of the Arborway.
“The truck which passed a short time ago, and the roadster which passed fifteen minutes ago, were forced to turn out for his car,” he stated. “The bus which passed twenty minutes ago, wasn’t.”
Chapter VIII
Oily Fingers
Detective Frank Reilly was busy investigating along a line of his own.
Experience had taught him that in cases of unexplained tragedy, the key to the puzzle may often be found among the letters and papers of the victim; and he intended to make a thorough search of Roscoe Stewart’s study, library, and bedroom.
Upon arriving at the house, after leaving Inspector Gray and Malcome Steele, he discovered to his astonishment that no less an official than the commissioner of police was already following the same method of inquiry.
The commissioner, aided by a special officer, was busy examining the contents of Stewart’s desk in the study. Reilly did not presume to enter the room until his superior had finished.
When he did enter, he delayed his search of the desk until the last, believing that he could discover little after the commissioner had been over the ground.
In the top drawer, however, his sharp eyes eventually found something which had escaped the older man’s notice.
This was a box of cartridges of forty-five caliber made for use in a well known type of service revolver. The box was more than half filled.