But the words that came over the wire left him dumfounded. In one short minute, Cardona’s theories were shattered, and Biscayne’s were supported.
A man had been found dead, in his home. The tragedy did not appear definitely to be a crime.
The victim was a retired railroad executive. He had gone into the closet under the stairway leading to the second floor of the house. The door had closed, trapping him. He had been suffocated.
A murder? Ordinarily, Cardona would have rejected the idea. But in this case, he knew, instinctively, that the death had not been accidental.
For Cardona had been given the name of the dead executive, and he stood by the telephone, mumbling that name again and again, while his mind seemed numbed and helpless.
This was the third crime! The victim had been trapped last night. He had not been found until half an hour ago. He had been killed by design.
For the victim’s name fitted the initials that had appeared in the third mysterious note.
The dead man’s name was Thomas Sutton!
CHAPTER VIII
A SINGLE CLEW
THE home of Thomas Sutton was located in an old residential district of upper Manhattan.
It was after two o’clock when Cardona arrived there, accompanied by Commissioner Weston and Professor Biscayne. He found two persons in the house.
One was a policeman, ordered stationed there by Cardona. The other was Richard Sutton, son of the dead executive.
Richard Sutton led the way to the upstairs room, where his father’s body lay. There were no signs of foul play. It appeared to be purely an accidental death. But the three investigators thought otherwise, although they did not express their opinion to Richard Sutton.
“Tell me all about it,” said Cardona.
“Father and I lived alone, here,” said Richard, in a tired, choked voice. “It was his custom to go out every day, and to return after dinner. I suppose he did that yesterday.
“When I came in at midnight, I saw nothing amiss. I supposed that my father had retired.
“This morning I arose late. There was no sign of father. I supposed that he had gone out. I looked in his room. The bed was untouched. He had not slept there last night.
“I phoned a few places where I thought he might have stayed. He had not been seen.
“I called the police. A man came over here. We decided to search the house. We found no signs of anything being wrong.
“Somehow, we overlooked the closet under the stairs. At last we happened to open it. There we found my father’s body.”
Richard led the way downstairs, and the investigators examined the closet. The door was tight fitting. It had no knob; simply a latch on the outside. The door was closed.
Cardona opened it, and turned his flashlight into the interior. The closet was long, but the ceiling slanted downward, to a small shelf at the end.
While the detective was standing in the opening, something bumped against him. It was the door, closing of its own accord. Cardona stepped back.
Released, the door moved slowly, gathered speed, and shut with a slam. The latch clicked.
“So that’s it!” exclaimed the detective. “Thomas Sutton went into the closet; the door closed while he was there; he was trapped.”
Richard Sutton nodded soberly.
Cardona looked at the young man with a slight tendency toward suspicion. Richard Sutton was evidently broken by his father’s death.
The affair looked like an unfortunate accident. But the coincidence of the initialed letter — the third that had fitted in with circumstances — was too important to ignore.
Cardona began another inspection of the closet. He let the door shut with himself inside. He rapped against the barrier and called.
The noise was well muffled. Biscayne turned the latch, and Cardona emerged.
“Not much chance of any one hearing calls for help,” was the professor’s comment. Weston nodded.
“The closet is empty,” observed Cardona.
“Yes,” said Richard Sutton. “We used it only to store old books. The house was painted about six months ago. I took the books upstairs, and never brought them down.
“Years ago, my brothers and myself used to keep our bicycles and sleds in there. The closet has never served any purpose since except for the books, which are no longer there.”
“Was the door always this way?” quizzed Cardona.
“Yes,” said Richard. “There used to be a hook on the outside — on the baseboard. The screw eye is still on the closet door.
“The hook was broken off a long while ago, and we never replaced it. The painters removed it entirely.”
“Why do you think your father went in there?” asked Cardona.
“I don’t know,” said Richard. “That’s the only thing that puzzles me. I cannot understand why he should have entered the closet.”
THE whole case was perplexing. On the face of it, Thomas Sutton had simply decided to look into the closet under the stairs.
He had neglected to put something against the door to hold it open. That brought up an important point. Again, Cardona questioned Richard.
“Did your father know that the door would close in this manner?” asked the detective.
“I don’t think so,” responded Richard. “He might have noticed it once or twice, but I scarcely think that it would have registered with him. He was very absent-minded at times.
“Although rather methodical, he only paid attention to matters that directly concerned his thoughts of the moment. I feel sure that he had some definite reason for entering the closet, and therefore paid no attention to the door.
“If he had ever noticed it, his mind was so concerned with his specific errand that he forgot completely about the lock.”
Cardona looked in the closet again, and sniffed the smell of the fresh paint. He examined the bottom of the door, and saw that there was virtually no opening between it and the floor when the door was shut.
“Usually,” said the detective, “one should be able to obtain air in a closet like this. It is rather surprising that Sutton should have suffocated so easily.”
“How often has the closet been opened since it was painted?” questioned Biscayne, turning to Richard Sutton.
“I don’t recall that it was opened at all,” said the young man. “I may be wrong on that point. It may have been opened once or twice.”
“Then don’t forget the fresh paint,” said Biscayne to Cardona.
“Why?” asked the detective, in surprise.
“Fresh paint,” said the professor, “frequently produces carbon monoxide. That has been discovered recently.
“It was observed that men were taken sick while working in the freshly painted holds of ships. The cause was traced to the presence of carbon monoxide.”
“I never knew that,” exclaimed Cardona. “It seems impossible that this closet could be saturated with that deadly gas.”
“Not saturated,” corrected Biscayne. “But the fumes are probably present to a noticeable degree. That can be tested.
“Carbon monoxide is odorless. The presence of a limited quantity of the gas would account for a fairly rapid death of a person confined in the closet.”
“We have a death,” declared Cardona. “From what you have just said, professor, it is quite explainable as an accident.
“We must consider now if any one forced Thomas Sutton into that closet.”
“We searched the house for my father,” said Richard Sutton. “We found no traces of any one having been here.
“If my father met with foul play, I am keenly desirous of knowing it. But I have seen no indication.”
“What about your father’s financial affairs?” questioned Cardona bluntly.
“He was living on a pension,” replied Richard. “Until a few months ago, he still had some wealth. But father had a failing in that he took great interest in speculative enterprises.