“One of the men found the roadster and reported. The squad that handled the Dangerfield case went out there on the jump...”
He broke off as the receiver started to rattle again.
He listened, frowned, grunted.
“Okay, go over everything with a fine-toothed comb,” he said, and turned once more to Sid Rodney.
“The watch,” he said, “had stopped, and didn’t start running again until the officer took it out of the pocket and gave it just a little jar in so doing. The hands pointed to exactly thirteen minutes past ten o’clock.”
“That,” observed Rodney, “was more than two hours after Albert Crome had died, more than two hours after the disappearance of the white rats.”
Captain Harder rolled his head from side to side on the propped-up pile of pillows.
“Forget those white rats, Rodney. You’re just making a spectacular something that will frighten the public to death. God knows they’re going to be panicky enough as it is. I’d feel different about the thing if I thought there was anything to it.”
Rodney nodded, got up from the bed.
“Well, captain, when they told me you were keeping your finger on the job, I decided to run in and tell you, so you’d know as much about it as I do. But I tell you I saw those white rats vanish.”
The captain grinned.
“Seen ’em myself, Rodney, in a magician’s show. I’ve seen a woman vanish, seen another one sawed in two. I’ve even seen pink elephants walking along the foot of the bed — but that was in the old days.”
Sid Rodney matched his grin, patted the captain’s foot beneath the spotless white of the hospital bedspread.
“Take care of yourself, old-timer, and don’t let this thing keep you from getting some sleep. You’ve lost some blood and you’ll need it. Where were the banker’s clothes found?”
“Out on Seventy-first and Boyle Streets.”
“They leaving them there?”
“For the time being. I’m going to have the car finger-printed from hood to gas tank. And I’m having the boys form a line and close off the street. We’re going to go all over the things with a fine-toothed comb, looking for clues.
“If you want to run out there you’ll find Selby in charge. Tell him I said you were to have any of the news, and if you find out anything more, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Sure, cap. Sure!”
“Okay. So long.”
And Captain Harder heaved a tremulous sigh.
Sid Rodney walked rapidly down the corridor of the hospital, entered his car, drove at once to Seventy-first near where it intersected Boyle.
There was a curious crowd, being kept back by uniformed officers.
Sid showed his credentials, went through the lines, found Detective Sergeant Selby, and received all of the latest news.
“We kept trying to locate Soloman at his home. He came in, all right, and his wife told him we were trying to get him. He went to the telephone, presumably to call police headquarters, and the telephone rang just as he was reaching for the receiver.
“He said ‘hello,’ and then said a doubtful ‘yes.’ His wife heard that much of the conversation. Then she went into an-other room. After that she heard Soloman hang up the receiver, and walk into the hall where he reached for his hat and coat.
“He didn’t tell her a word about where he was going. Just walked out, got in his car, and drove away. She supposed he was coming to police headquarters.”
Sid lit a cigarette.
“Find out who he called?”
“Can’t seem to get a lead on it.”
“Was he excited?”
“His wife thought he was mad at something. He slammed the door as he went out.”
“These the clothes he was wearing?”
“Yes.”
Sid Rodney nodded.
“Looks just like another of those things. Thanks, Selby. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Keep sober,” said the police detective.
Sid Rodney drove to Arthur Soloman’s residence.
Newspaper reporters, photographers, and detectives were there before him. Mrs. Soloman was staring in dazed confusion, answering questions mechanically, posing for photographers.
She was a dried-out wisp of a woman, tired-eyed, docile with that docility which comes to one whose spirit has been completely crushed by the constant inhibitions imposed by a domineering mate.
Sid Rodney asked routine questions and received routine answers. He went through the formula of investigation, but there was a gnawing uneasiness in his mind. Some message seemed to be hammering at the borderline of his consciousness, as elusive as a dream, as important as a forgotten appointment.
Sid Rodney walked slightly to one side, tried to get away from the rattle of voices, the sputter of flash lights as various photographs were made.
So far there were only a few who appreciated the full significance of those vacant clothes, propped up behind the steering wheel of the empty automobile.
The telephone rang, rang with the insistent repetition of mechanical disinterest. Some one finally answered. There was a swirl of motion, a beckoning finger.
“Rodney, it’s for you.”
Vaguely wondering, Rodney placed the receiver to his ear. There was something he wanted to think about, something he wanted to do, and do at once. Yet it was evading his mind. The telephone call was just another interruption which would prevent sufficient concentration to get the answer he sought.
“Hello!” he rasped, and his voice did not conceal his irritation.
It was Ruby Orman on the line, and at the first sound of her voice Sid snapped to attention.
He knew, suddenly, what was bothering him.
Ruby should have been present at the Soloman house, getting sob-sister stuff on the fatherless children, the dazed widow who was trying to carry on, hoping against hope.
“What is it, Ruby?”
Her words rattled swiftly over the wire, sounded as a barrage of machine gun fire.
“Listen, Sid; get this straight, because I think it’s important. I’m not over there at Soloman’s because I’m running down something that I think is a hot lead. I want you to tell me something, and it may be frightfully important. What would a powder, rubbed in the hair, have to do with the disappearance, if it was the sort of disappearance you meant?”
Sid Rodney grunted and registered irritation.
“What are you doing, Ruby — kidding me?”
“No, no. Tell me. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“I don’t know, Ruby. Why?”
“Because I happen to know that Soloman had a little powder dusted on his hair. It was just a flick of the wrist that put it there. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It looked like a cigarette ash, but I noticed that it seemed to irritate him, and he kept scratching at his head. Did you notice?”
“No,” snapped Sid, interested. “What makes you think it had anything to do with what happened afterward?”
“Because I got to investigating about that powder, and wondering, and I casually mentioned the theory you had, and I felt a prickling in my scalp, and then I knew that some of that same powder had been put in my hair. I wonder if...”
Sid Rodney was at instant attention.
“Where are you now?”
“Over in my apartment. I’ve got an appointment. It’s important. You can’t come over. If it’s what I think it is, the mystery is going to be solved. You’re right. It’s absolute zero, and— My God, Sid, it’s getting cold...”
And there was nothing further, nothing save the faint sounds of something thump-thump-thumping — the receiver, dangling from the cord, thumping against the wall.
Rodney didn’t stop for his hat. He left the room on the run. A newspaper reporter saw him, called to him, ran to follow. Sid didn’t stop. He vaulted into his car, and his foot was pressing the starter before he had grabbed the wheel.