“We pinched him, of course; found him at the Astor, and he said he’d never have been dragged into the case if he had paid Beaumont the blackmailing sum he demanded. Guess that part of his story is true. Quizzed about the tragedy, he admits going to the hotel, but says that when he found the door unlocked and entered the room the place was empty, so he figured that the couple had gone to some show, and went outside to wait for them.
“There is one very strong point against him, a point that will send him to the electric chair. In his pocket we found a revolver, loaded, but with one used cartridge, and of the same calibre as the one that killed the woman. He says he fired the cartridge, and a lot of others, at some shooting gallery over on the East Side, but he couldn’t remember the location. I’ve had Brotherton in my office, grilling him all the morning, and was convinced that it is a dead open-and-shut case against him. In fact, I was just about to send him to court when you called me up.”
The District Attorney gasped, and sank back into his chair.
“I don’t know what to do,” he finally confessed. “To tell the truth, it looks to me as if all of these three men are guilty, but it is also equally clear that if one of them is the murderer, the others are innocent. I don’t know who to hold or who to set free. Haven’t you any suggestions to make?”
“The only thing to do is to let matters drift,” was the reply. “We’ll keep all of them in jail until things clear a little.”
“But we can’t,” protested the District Attorney. “They’ll be suing out writs of habaes corpus, with a chance of going free when a hearing was held.”
“These birds haven’t a Chinaman’s chance of getting out of jail,” declared the Inspector with emphasis. “Because why? Because we have other charges against them. I understand now why Henderson ran away as he did. Wasn’t afraid of the murder charge, but didn’t want to attract police attention. You see, we identified him this morning. Henderson is Dwight Harrison, the fugitive cashier of a National Bank in Osoto, Iowa. Left the bank’s depositors in mourning and without funds some weeks ago. I’m keeping his identity a secret until we decide we don’t want to try him on that murder indictment. Then as for Willoughby, alias Johnson, he can’t deny that he ran away with a woman in Ohio and brought her to New York. The Mann White Slave Act covers his case. Brotherton has trouble ahead, too. He carried a revolver without a permit, so is liable under the Sullivan Law. Yes, they’ll all stay with us for a while. In the meantime I’ll get everybody busy and see what we can dig up.”
IV
As they say in the movies, the scene shifts to “One Week Later.” Inspector Dineen, in his office, received word that Tom Halloran wanted to see him, and promptly ordered that he be admitted. Halloran was on the retired list of police captains, and Dineen, in his younger days had served under the veteran and always respected and admired him. So he greeted his caller cordially and then looked inquiringly at the young man in civilian clothes who accompanied him.
“My nephew, Neil Mooney.” explained Halloran. “A harness bull in the Forty-seventh Street Station. Brightest youngster in town, Jimmy. You need him on your staff. He’s a real, honest-to-God detective.”
The inspector shook his head.
“Sorry, my staff is full, Cap,” he replied. “I’d make an exception to oblige you, if I could, but it isn’t possible. I’d be panned by the Commissioner if I let personal friendship sway me.”
“But, Jimmy,” protested Halloran, “I’m not asking you to do me a favor. I’m doing you the favor. Listen, now. Have your bright boys solved that Hotel Monolith murder case?”
“Not yet,” admitted the Inspector; “but we are working hard on it.”
“Your worries are over on that particular case,” declared Halloran, his face one broad smile. “This bright young nephew of mine has cleaned it up.”
Then, turning to his companion, he commanded: “Tell him all about it, Neil. I know Jimmy. He’ll be glad to listen to you.”
“Well, Inspector,” diffidently began the young man, “I’ve always been ambitious to become a detective, and with that end in view I have tried to cultivate a memory for faces. Until I went on vacation a week ago my beat took in the Hotel Monolith. Had the trick from 4 P.M. to midnight. I saw the newspaper pictures of this Mrs. Johnson, and they looked familiar, although I couldn’t place her at first. I puzzled over the matter for a while and then I remembered. From the street one can look into the hotel dining-room, and I had seen this Mrs. Johnson eating there on several occasions, for she nearly always had a window table. And, as I tried to recall more about her, the fact struck me that she always wore a display of jewels. They looked as if they were worth a lot, but after her murder there was no mention of them.”
“None of my men ever got onto that fact,” interrupted the Inspector.
“It wasn’t their fault — just my good luck,” was Mooney’s generous response. “Had they known as much as I did, undoubtedly the idea would have struck them that some clever crook had seen the jewels while she sat in the dining-room, just as I had seen them. So I decided to test the theory that a criminal had forced his way into the room, been surprised by the unfortunate lady while at work, and had killed her to make a getaway. Of course this was only an idea of mine, based on the assumption that all three of the men under arrest had told absolutely true stories.
“From the brief glances I had secured at this jewelry, I was aware that several of the pieces were odd and unusual designs, and I sketched them out, roughly, from memory.” He reached in his pocket and produced a few sheets of scratch paper with rudely drawn designs. “Of course, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I spent my vacation in going around to the various hangouts where crooks congregate — coffee houses and saloons during the day, dances at night. Last evening I dropped into the gathering of the ‘Jolly Merrymakers’ and spotted a woman who was wearing this piece of jewelry.” (Indicating one of the designs.) “Well, I kept her under close observation and found that her steady was that Wop second-story worker, ‘Scar-Faced Pietro.’ The rest was easy. I trailed him to his home, down in Hell’s Kitchen, forced my way in when he had gone to sleep, knocked him out after a fight, found the jewels hidden in the bed and when Pietro saw I had the goods, he came across. The Wop had spotted the dame, just as I figured it, slipped into her room when he thought she was at the theatre, and, when she came back unexpectedly, shot her down, pocketed the jewels and walked out. All of which goes to prove that these men now under arrest are innocent and told the exact truth when they were questioned.”
“Now, Jimmy, where does Sherlock Holmes get off?” gloated Halloran. “Hasn’t the boy here got it all over him?”
“The most marvelous piece of brain work I ever heard of,” was the Inspector’s reply. “Forget what I said a while ago, Captain. Do we want him at Headquarters? I’ll say we. do. Young man, there’s a great future for you in this department. Shake!”
V
That same evening, after dusk, one of the benches in Central Park was occupied by a couple apparently much interested in each other. The young man was talking, the girl listening.
“And then the Inspector took me in to see the Chief,” the speaker went on, “and the Chief said all kinds of nice things. Made me a lieutenant of detectives on the spot. It’s wonderful, but — Nora — I hated to do what I did. Never could have done it, only you made me promise. But all the time I wanted to tell them that the credit didn’t belong to me, but to Nora Riley.”