The air was thick with fog, as if a giant spider had spun his web across the city. The last bedraggled leaves were falling from the trees with soft sighs of protest.
He walked down the steps, drawing the spider’s web into his lungs. It came out of his mouth like ectoplasm from the mouth of a spirit. As he moved, the mist moved away from him, separating, drawing together again behind him. He walked in the small cleared space like a shadowy king.
“Ah, thank you, thank you,” he said. “I am honored.”
The fog smothered his voice and swallowed his smile. Uneasy, he quickened his pace. He was light and heavy and quick and dull. He was the last man on earth moving into the spirit world; he was hungry, and there was nothing to eat but ectoplasm...
His car stepped out of the fog. The feel of the wheel in his hands made him real again. He put his foot on the starter, grinning with relief, letting the motor roar. Then he bent his head to take a last look up at the house.
The room above the drawing room was showing a light. The room was Duncan’s and the key to it was in Sands’ pocket. As he watched, a figure came between the light and the drawn curtains.
There was a woman in Duncan’s room, in front of the bureau. She was crouching, she was opening the drawers, looking for something, and she was in a hurry.
Sands got out of his car and walked quickly to the house, thinking, maybe she wants to borrow those damned blue pajamas. He held his finger on the bell and waited, stamping his feet impatiently on the doormat.
Jackson opened the door. “Oh. I thought you’d gone, sir.”
“Yes,” Sands said. “Is everyone in the dining room?”
“No sir. Mrs. Revel went up to her room. She didn’t want any dinner.”
“And Hilda?”
“Hilda is in the kitchen having her dinner.”
“Mrs. Revel is taking Mr. Williams’ death very badly, isn’t she?”
Jackson looked puzzled. “Yes sir. It’s what you’d expect. I understand how she feels. I was engaged myself once.”
“Oh,” Sands said. “And the young lady died?” Jackson grinned. “No sir. She said she’d see me in hell first. Women are funny.”
“I have never married,” Sands said. He turned around and went down the steps.
The light in Duncan’s room was out by the time he reached his car. He got in and headed toward Bloor Street.
He had intended to go home and broil himself a steak and go to bed. But he was no longer very hungry. On Bloor he stopped at a White Spot and had a hamburger and some coffee and a piece of pie. When he had finished he made a call on the pay telephone and came back to pay his check, smiling.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the library of Commissioner of Police Day.
The library and the commissioner had points in common: they were both large and comfortable and they both made Sands uncomfortable.
Day smiled a greeting. “Don’t apologize for disturbing me, Sands,” he said affably.
Sands, who had no intention of apologizing, said, “Thank you, sir. It’s very kind of you. Have you read my report on the Stevens affair?”
“Sad,” Day said. “Very sad. The young man was slightly drunk, lost his balance, and fell down the steps.”
“I don’t think so,” Sands said.
Day smiled indulgently. “I remember when I was an inspector I took a very grim view indeed of such accidents. I don’t blame you, Sands. When you have a headache an oculist will tell you it’s your eyes and a psychoanalyst will tell you it’s your repressions. Similarly, a policeman is likely to consider an accident murder. It’s only natural.”
“In this case, very natural,” Sands said dryly. “Another man was killed about six o’clock. In the same house. With Stevens’ revolver.”
The commissioner’s smile faded and he assumed his why-does-everything-happen-to-me? expression. He said, “Another American?”
“No. He was in a broker’s office in Montreal.”
“Well, that’s something,” Day said with a sigh. “We can’t afford to have Americans murdered in Canada. It creates bad feeling, especially at such a critical time. I suppose you’re sure this American, Stevens, was murdered?”
“Quite sure. If you’ve read my report carefully you’ll see that.”
The commissioner reached in his humidor for a cigar. “You are irritatingly superior, Sands. I did read your report carefully. I read everything carefully.”
“Yes sir.”
“There were, I grant, a number of confusing side issues in the case, considerable hocus-pocus with letters and what not, but the main issue is clear. A drunken man fell and was killed.”
“And the loaded revolver he was carrying at the time evaporated,” Sands said.
“So,” Day said.
“So. That wasn’t in the report. Your mistake was a natural one, Commissioner, and I don’t blame you.” Sands’ voice was smug. “I came over here merely to get your opinion on the case, but if you have no opinion I’d better be going.”
“Oh, sit down,” the commissioner said irritably. “Of course I have an opinion. I always have an opinion.” He paused weightily. “It is my opinion that this Stevens was a crook. You had better take a plane to Boston tomorrow morning and find out more about his business.”
“I dislike planes,” Sands said.
“Come, come! You’ll have to be more progressive—”
“I get airsick.”
“And while you’re in Boston you might look into the records of this man Jackson. An odd coincidence that he should come from Boston.”
“He came to Toronto to join the R.C.A.F.,” Sands explained. “They turned him down and he had no money to get back to his home so he took a domestic job.”
“Find out about Stevens’ money, if he made a will and who benefits. I suppose you have Horton working on the letter written to this Dr. Prye?”
“I have,” Sands said. “I’ll ring him up now if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
Sands went to the table and in two minutes was talking to Horton, the police department’s graphologist.
“How about the two letters I sent you?” Sands asked.
“I got it all written up for you,” Horton said. “I’m on my way to dinner. Good-by.”
“Good-by. Were they written by the same person?”
“No. Be a good boy and hang up, Sands. I’m hungry. Go away.”
“The commissioner wouldn’t like it,” Sands said. “I’m at his house now.”
“My God,” Horton said. “Why didn’t you tell me? All right. Pay close attention. There were many similarities between the two letters and after a casual glance I decided that they were both written by the same person, the letter beginning ‘Dear George’ being the normal writing of this person and the letter beginning ‘Dr. Prye’ being a disguised writing. However, I put my gadgets to work and now all is clear. The person who wrote the letter to Dr. Prye has a normal handwriting which is similar to the writing on the letter to dear George, which is the normal writing of whoever wrote it. Get it?”
“No.”
“Well, I can’t help that.”
“Try again. Call them A and B.”
“Sure. A and B are two people who’ve been to the same boarding school and have learned to write under the same master. That is, they write similarly. That ought to be clear. A wrote a letter to Dr. Prye, trying to disguise the writing. B wrote a letter to dear George in a normal, undisguised handwriting. Both A and B are female.”
Sands shouted, “What?”
“Surprise,” Horton said. “Either they’re females or damn close to it. I can’t tell definitely by the writing. How could I? Sometimes you can hardly tell when you see them.”
“Don’t be coarse.”
“The hungrier I get the coarser I get. Do I hang up now?”