Swift, knowing that he now held Searle’s attention, nodded.
“That,” he said, “is one possible explanation. The other is harder to comprehend, but yet, in some respects, more logical.”
“Shoot,” said Searle.
“That the person who ordered the mailing of those letters was one of the persons who were in the room with Hemingway, and was, therefore, unable to communicate with his accomplices until after Inspector Hunter had released him.”
Searle dropped into a chair, as though his knees had suddenly weakened.
“Not that, Swift. That would make four of us suspects — and you, being of scientific training, would be the first they’d go after. They’d slam us in cells and start giving us third degrees that would make us wish we’d never been born. Why, we’ve been panning the inspector, calling him intoxicated and all that. Lord, how he’d delight in having some legitimate excuse to get us thrown in the jug and work us over.”
Swift nodded.
“I hadn’t thought of it from exactly that angle, but I was wondering about Ramsay.”
“What about him?”
“You remember I mentioned seeing something just before Hemingway’s death?”
“That’s right, you did.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you what that something was. It sounds incredible, but for a split fraction of a second, Ramsay’s hand vanished. The hand and the biggest part of the arm just melted into space.”
Searle knitted his brows.
“Listen, son, you haven’t batted around the way I have, and you don’t realize what tricks nervous strains will play on a man. They sometimes kick about the reporters being so hardboiled and calloused, but a man ain’t worth a damn as a reporter until he does get calloused. You were all worked up, and your eyes just started playing tricks on you. Even if they didn’t, how could anybody have managed to bring about the death of Hemingway without leaving any clew at all?”
Swift was stubborn.
“Somebody did. And it must have been done by unusual methods. Therefore, anything unusual—”
Searle surrendered the point. “All right. Let’s drop around and see Ramsay. We’ll ask him what he knows about it. That’ll convince you. Ramsay’s on the square.”
They got hats and coats, went out into the velvety midnight. They found Ramsay’s room, knocked on the door, got no answer, walked in.
Searle turned on the light.
Swift stood by the door.
The click of the switch showed a scene of confusion. Drawers were pulled from the dresser. The mattress had been slit in a dozen places, and the stuffing pulled out, strewn over the floor. The bedclothes were wadded into a knot. A suitcase had been cut open. The clothes closet showed a pile of garments, the pockets pulled wrong side out.
A letter file had been dumped in a chair, and the wind from the open window had sifted various letters about the room. All over the floor, even on the walls were drops of blood, and those blood-drops were scarcely dry.
Searle made a wry face.
“Another victim,” he said.
Arthur Swift made a hurried examination of the various letters and papers while Searle was telephoning the police. Among some of the more recent letters he found a bit of paper which contained a single word: “Tonight.”
That bit of paper was undated and unsigned, but, in the lower right hand corner was the imprint of a seal, an affair of interlaced triangles, the impression of which was visible only when the paper was held at an angle to the light.
Swift laid the letter or note back in the pile of papers.
“Know anything about rings?” he asked Searle.
That individual impatiently shook his head.
“To thunder with all that hooey. The thing that we’ve got to find out is the method of death. Then we can guard against it. And we’ve got to trace each individual victim. Imagine what it means when some individual can inflict death at will upon any certain man he may select, regardless of the precautions with which that individual is surrounded! Then he writes a letter demanding certain things of the government, threatening to take the life of the President.
“And he can do it, too. Make no mistake about that, Swift. I’ve seen ’em come, and I’ve seen ’em go. I know the work of the fanatic and of the bluffer. But this man is different. He works too efficiently, too damned efficiently. Imagine picking a time right after midnight to bump off Hemingway! He picked the very time when everybody was the most alert. He did it to show how little he cared for us or our precautions.”
“Maybe,” responded Swift. “But you’ve got to admit that ordinary measures get us nowhere in this case. Now there were rings made along in the fifteenth century that were known as poison rings. They were large, made especially to hold a quantity of poison, and I have a hunch such a ring figures in this case. I’m going to find out.”
“How did the murderer get the ring in contact with Hemingway?” asked Searle.
“Perhaps he poisoned him with a slow moving poison that was implanted in his system days before.”
Searle grinned. “Wrong again. He gave Hemingway the option of avoiding death at any time by simply paying out money.”
Swift made for the door.
“Anyway, I’m going to beat it before the police arrive. After the way you’ve being panning Inspector Hunter it’ll be only a question of hours until he figures out a scheme for getting you on the inside. I don’t want to be around.”
And he walked out, went to a nearby hotel, registered under an assumed name, took off his clothes and sank into deep slumber.
By morning he was ready to run down his theory. He called on certain antique ring dealers and made known his wants, a poison ring of large capacity, answering a general description.
There were five prominent dealers in such jewelry. Three of them gave him blanks. But the fourth scratched his head, consulted his books.
“It is possible we might get you such a ring. We sold one a little over sixty days ago to a man who makes a hobby of rings. He buys, holds for a while, then sells or trades.”
Swift whipped out a pencil.
“Give me his address. I’ll pay you a commission if I make a deal.”
“Marvin is the name,” said the dealer. “I’ll give you the address in a letter of introduction.”
Marvin was at home, genial, cordial. He was a little man with puckery eyes and perpetually smiling lips. He was hardly the type one would have picked as a murderer.
Swift broached the subject of rings, gradually leading the way around to various poison rings.
“I had a magnificent specimen a couple of months ago,” said the collector. “But my physician took a fancy to it and I gave it to him.”
Art Swift nodded, as though the information were of but casual interest, talked for half an hour, purchased a small antique ring, and finally announced an obscure physical ailment which had been bothering him for some time.
Marvin suggested a good physician.
“Don’t know any,” remarked Swift.
“Try mine. Dr. Cassius Zean.”
Swift yawned.
“Thanks, I may look him up. Well, I’ve got to be going. It’s been a pleasure to chat with you. Good morning.”
Dr. Zean! The name filled him with curiosity. The man whose name was Zean might well have adopted a name such as Zin Zandor.
He called a cab, went at once to the doctor’s office.
An office girl was busy at a typewriter. Swift moved over so that he could see the make of the machine. It was an Underwood. A white-uniformed surgical nurse bustled in and out of the outer office. She had Swift fill out a card with his name, address and occupation.