“We learned at the desk that you and Homer left here two nights ago. About an hour afterward, Harshaw came downstairs and made a telephone call. He went back to his apartment.
“He was not seen after that. The police surgeon who examined the body believes that Harshaw was shot some time before midnight — the same night.”
“Within the last forty-eight hours,” observed Weston.
“Yes,” said Cardona. “I am expecting Doctor Fredericks, now. He is coming in from Long Island. Perhaps he can give us more information.”
The police commissioner was walking about the study, examining the place with curiosity. Cardona began to point out certain objects, and Biscayne intervened to explain a few points of Silas Harshaw’s eccentricities.
“The old man was a great student of chess,” he said, indicating a small table with an inlaid board and expensive chessmen.
“I don’t think he played a great deal, but I know that he spent much time over problems. That is a sign of a mind that is both self-centered and unusual — perhaps an eccentric one.
“He was an expert mechanic, and he was constantly forgetting his important work to toy with other devices. You will find an odd assortment of peculiar contrivances in the room he used for both workshop and laboratory.
“He devoted a great deal of time to chemical experiments. One other oddity was a passing interest he had in crude modeling and sculpture. Here is an indication of it.”
Biscayne pointed to a table in the front corner of the room. Along with other crudely fashioned subjects was a bust of somewhat less than life-size.
It bore a striking resemblance to the dead man by the window. It was evidently an attempt at a likeness of Silas Harshaw, made by the old man himself. All the modelings were formed of hard clay, as Weston discovered by inspection.
The commissioner turned around to speak to Biscayne, and noted that the professor and Cardona had gone to look at the dead man.
Before Weston could join them, Detective Mayhew entered, accompanied by a stout, middle-aged man.
The newcomer was Doctor George Fredericks. He had already seen Harshaw’s body that afternoon, but had been forced to leave when the police surgeon arrived.
Fredericks had been at a Long Island hospital until an hour ago. He had hurried back to the city.
“Tell us what you knew about Silas Harshaw, doctor,” said Cardona.
“He was a sick man,” said Fredericks solemnly. “His heart was bad; his blood pressure was high. He was in poor condition, generally. I advised him to take a trip South; to stay away from his laboratory and forget his experiments for a while.
“He called me up, two nights ago, to say that he was leaving the next day. I told him to call at my office for a prescription.”
“That explains the eight-o’clock phone call,” interposed Cardona.
“Yes,” said the physician, “I had told him to call me at eight. I was not at my office, yesterday. It was not until this afternoon that I learned Harshaw had not come for his prescription.
“Immediately, I feared that something had happened to him. He would not have gone without first coming to my office. That is why I came here and insisted that a search be made of this place.
“I expected to find him sick and helpless. Instead, we found him dead — murdered!”
Biscayne was examining the body. Now, apparently oblivious to those about him, he walked across the room to the door. He looked at Harshaw’s desk, midway between the door and the window.
While the others were watching him, he came back slowly and spoke to Weston.
“It looks to me, commissioner,” said Biscayne, “as though some one had been waiting outside that door. When Harshaw opened it, the assassin shot him. Then the murderer dragged his body over here and opened the window, to make it look as though he was killed there.”
“How did the killer escape?” queried Weston.
“That remains to be discovered,” declared Biscayne.
JOE CARDONA smiled. He went to the body and made an examination of his own. He stared closely at the dead man’s right hand. He looked at the radiator beneath the window ledge.
He clambered on the sill, and his flashlight gleamed about the bottom of the iron grating. He dropped back into the room.
“I disagree with you, professor,” he said pleasantly. “Silas Harshaw was killed right at this spot!
“If you care to look at the window ledge, you will see the evidence. There are two marks there that must have been made by sharp hooks.
“Then, perhaps, it would be wise to note the finger nails of the dead man’s right hand. You will find a silver glint upon two of them.
“I shall tell you how I believe Silas Harshaw was killed. Some one tried to enter this room by hooking a ladder from the window of the room below. Silas Harshaw heard the noise.
“He opened the window to listen. He crouched behind the sill, then drew himself upward by gripping the radiator. The other man was at the window. He shot Harshaw through the grating, then made his get-away.”
Commissioner Weston nodded as he turned to Biscayne. Professor Biscayne also nodded. In spite of himself, the professor was forced to admit that Cardona’s theory was too plausible to reject. The detective smiled.
His theory was supported by facts — facts which Roger Biscayne had not observed. Biscayne had known something of Harshaw; Cardona had known nothing. Yet the detective had scored in the first test.
“Let’s go down and take a look at the room below,” suggested Cardona, eager to press his advantage.
They went along, leaving Detective Sergeant Mayhew in charge. They found the door of the room unlocked. It proved to be an ordinary hotel room, unoccupied.
Cardona raised the window and peered upward. While he was thus engaged, some one knocked at the door. A bell boy entered in response to Cardona’s order.
“Detective Cardona?” he queried. “There’s a phone call for you at the desk. I was upstairs looking for you. The man up there told me you were here.”
Cardona picked up a telephone from a table in the corner of the room, and asked for the call.
It was from headquarters.
“Yes… yes…” the others heard him exclaim. “Right away, inspector. Right away… We can come back here later.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to the group.
“A man named Louis Glenn,” he said. “Stockbroker. Died coming home in a taxicab. Only six blocks from here. I’m going over there to see what happened!”
“We’ll go along,” responded Weston. “Come, Biscayne. You, also, Doctor Fredericks. You might be needed.”
There was something in Cardona’s tone that had prompted Weston to this quick decision. The commissioner was beside the detective as they passed through the lobby. He spoke to Cardona in a low voice.
“Do you think there’s a connection?” he asked. “Two deaths — Harshaw and Glenn—”
“Remember the note,” replied Cardona cryptically. “Harshaw was the first. Glenn may have been the second!”
CHAPTER III
THE SECOND MESSAGE
Two policemen approached the commissioner’s car as it stopped before Louis Glenn’s apartment house. Cardona spoke to them as he alighted.
One of the policemen pointed to a taxicab. It was the car in which Glenn had died.
“The driver found him,” said the officer. “He called the doorman. They took Glenn up into his apartment.
“They’re up there now with the doctor. Glenn was dead before they got him out of the cab.”
Two more policemen were in charge of Glenn’s apartment. They were watching the cab driver, the doorman, and Glenn’s valet. The body of Louis Glenn lay on the bed, its arms doubled, and its face distorted. A physician was making an examination.