Cardona had been busy on the case all that night. The next noon found him at headquarters. A few short hours of sleep had renewed his vigor. Grim-visaged as ever, the star detective spoke with thin, firm lips as he talked to the reporters.
“I was there because we expected trouble,” was Cardona’s admission. “But get this straight, boys: Blefken walked into it! He did the wise thing when he called on me. His mistake was in what followed. If he hadn’t left that room, he’d be alive to-day!”
“Look here, Cardona,” said one of the police reporters. “We’ve printed your statement. We’ve been sent down here to get more — if you’ve got anything else to say. There’s one point they’re all asking. Why did you let Middleton get out of that room?”
“Let’s see one of the morning newspapers,” retorted Cardona. “I haven’t had time to look at any of them.”
A reporter pulled a newspaper from his pocket. Cardona spread the sheet and stared at the front page. All of the reporters were eyeing him closely.
A frown appeared upon Cardona’s swarthy visage. The detective’s lips grew tighter, and for a moment he appeared on the point of rage. Then he gave vent to his feelings by crumpling the paper and casting it in the corner. His fists tightened as he glared at his inquisitors. After that, his natural calmness returned.
“I’ve come in for a panning, eh?” he questioned. “That’s a nice play-up you’ve given this case. Making me look like a dummy! Incompetent, eh?”
“It’s not my fault, Cardona,” retorted the reporter who had spoken before. “I’m sent out to get facts. Maybe you’re right about Blefken walking into trouble. But look at the facts — that’s what we’re after.
“You let the murderer get away. Your statement shows that Middleton was dangerous. We’ve printed the letter he sent to Blefken. The time element is bad, too. One minute you said he was gone. Yet he managed to choke Blefken and make a clean get-away while you were finding the body and raising a holler—”
The speaker stopped short. Cardona’s eyes were blazing with suppressed rage. The reporter knew it was not wise to go on. The others shifted uneasily. They did not know what to expect.
“My statement still stands,” declared Cardona firmly. “That’s all I care to say. My statement stands!”
“All right.” The talkative reporter shrugged his shoulders and left the room. The others waited.
“See Inspector Klein, if you want more,” bawled out Cardona furiously. “See him. See if he thinks I’m incompetent—”
He caught himself, realizing that this scene would do him no good in print. He smiled sourly; then sat down at his desk and began to study some reports.
Men left the room, and when their footsteps died away, a wan smile came over Cardona’s rigid features. He fumbled among the pile of papers and produced a photograph.
It showed a reproduction of a thumb print. Next, Cardona brought out an envelope. He stopped before opening it. He looked around, conscious that he was being watched. He saw Clyde Burke standing near.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the detective. “I thought you’d gone out with the rest of those news hounds.”
“I’ve stayed to talk with you, Joe.”
“You heard what I said. That’s sufficient!”
“Not for me!” Burke smiled broadly. “I know you too well, Joe.”
“What do you mean?”
“That poker face of yours. It wouldn’t have slipped up when you saw the newspaper, unless—”
CARDONA was staring with keen interest as Clyde Burke paused to let his words make a definite impression.
“—unless,” resumed Burke, “you were thinking of something else. Unless you were so sure of yourself that the wisecracks in the newspapers would come as a surprise.”
“So you think I’ve got something up my sleeve?”
“I know it,” returned Clyde. “Positively! I was sure when the others left; I stayed on that account. I’ve been watching you.”
“You’re a good guy, Burke,” declared Cardona, gazing speculatively toward the wall. “You’ve always treated me right. So I’m going to return the favor. I’m going to let you have a story for the Classic that will knock the daylights out of these phonies.”
Burke grinned at Cardona’s reference to the other newspaper reporters.
“They’re panning me,” declared Cardona, “because I let Middleton get away. They’re already calling Middleton the ‘society slayer.’ That’s what the headline said on that newspaper.”
Cardona wagged his thumb toward the corner, where he had thrown the paper. Burke nodded knowingly.
“Well,” continued Cardona, “they’re all wet — all but you, Burke. Picking my statement to pieces. Saying I’ve committed myself as incompetent — not one of them seeing that my statement itself proves that I didn’t have a chance to get the killer.”
“How’s that?” Burke was interested.
“Look at the time element,” retorted Cardona. “The very factor they hold against me. I followed Middleton in less than one minute after he was gone. Less than one minute, mind you, Burke. Have you seen the body?”
“Yes,” replied Burke, wondering why Cardona had so suddenly shifted his discussion.
“Did you see the marks on the throat?”
“Yes.”
“Those deep thumb prints?”
“Yes.”
Cardona paused to give Burke time to reflect. The reporter was pondering, but his thoughts were far different from what Cardona supposed.
Clyde was thinking of a thin white line — an almost invisible mark — that had girdled the neck of Charles Blefken. He was also recalling a dim spot on the dead man’s forehead.
Clyde Burke had observed both of these, because he was looking for them; but it was evident that Joe Cardona had not seen them.
“The thumb prints,” repeated Cardona expressively. “Pretty deep, weren’t they? Lots of pressure, wasn’t there? Now just figure it out. Middleton was in that little room. When he left, I followed—”
“I got you, Joe!” cried Clyde, a sudden intelligence dawning. “Middleton had only one minute to get out in that hall, murder Charles Blefken, and make his get-away—”
“You’ve got it! Give him half a minute at the most to choke Blefken. He couldn’t have done it, Burke. Impossible.
“Furthermore, it was more than five minutes — closer, maybe, to ten — from the time that Blefken left the cardroom until his body was found. Where was he all that time? He was due back in the lounge. There was nowhere else that he could go.”
“Then some killer was waiting for him—”
“That’s it, exactly.”
“In the little passageway.” Burke was picturing the scene. He had been to Blefken’s house that morning.
“Which was pitch-dark,” prompted Cardona.
“And the killer got him!” Burke went on. “Caught him as he was coming back. Choked him to death. Long, heavy pressure. Then the murderer must have left, very quickly.”
“He did leave. Before Middleton came along, as I reckon it,” Cardona agreed.
“How do you explain Middleton’s action?” asked Burke.
“Simply enough,” said Cardona. “He may have gone to find Blefken. I thought that at first; but I figure it different, now.
“I think Middleton was beating it. Nervous. He was on his way to that side door — hesitating, maybe but when he stumbled across the body, he kept right on going.
“Why?” questioned Clyde.
“Why?” echoed Cardona. “Plenty of reason why. He’d have been the goat. What was he doing in the place?