“You may be able to help,” responded the detective. “We’re after every bit of evidence that may lead to a clew.”
“Where was Oscar — the servant?”
“Out for the evening. So was Willis. Both have perfect alibis— checked.”
“I see. Then Lukens was alone.”
“Yes. Willis came in about midnight. He went all to pieces when he found the police there. He was all garbled for a while.
“This morning he talked better. He told us that you had been there and had left the house some time before he went out.”
“That is correct.”
“Here’s what I want to know, Mister Paget. Did you notice anything unusual at the house when you were there? Do you recall the exact time you were there? Anything that Doctor Lukens said or did?”
“I was only there a few minutes,” said Paget thoughtfully. “I had dinner, here, with Mister Burnham. It was about quarter of eight when I left — it’s only ten minutes by cab to Marchand’s house — so I must have gotten there about eight.
“I arrived back here at eight thirty. I remember looking at the clock after I came in, because Jerry and I wanted to start out before nine o’clock.
“Didn’t I tell you that I would be back by half past eight, Jerry?”
Burnham scratched his head.
“Yes, I remember it,” he said. “Eight thirty by the clock right there on the bookcase. I said to be back by nine. You said you’d be back by eight thirty, and you were.
“Jack Greylock came in a couple of minutes before you. He’d probably remember it, too. He was only half lit at the time.”
“Back here at half past eight,” said Cardona, making a notation on a pad. “That figures you at Marchand’s house from about eight to eight twenty. That was pretty close to what Willis said.”
“HALF past eight,” interrupted Jerry Burnham, still scratching his head. “That was the time. Kama” — the Japanese servant entered — “what time did Mister Paget come in here last night — you know, when Mister Greylock was here. Just before we went out together?”
“Bigee clock strike halfee past eight,” said the Japanese.
“Great boy, Kama,” said Burnham approvingly. “That Jap knows everything. That’s why I keep him. Best man I ever had.”
“Between eight and eight twenty,” said Cardona, with a satisfied voice. “That much is settled. Did Doctor Lukens appear at all worried?”
“He looked tired,” said Paget. “Said he had been working all afternoon, and had just cleaned up the job. Willis was putting everything away. He looked tired, too.”
“Did he say anything special to you?”
“Nothing. I merely stopped in to inquire if he had found records of any uncompleted business that concerned me. I handled a few of Marchand’s investments, you know. The old man was a friend of my father.”
“I see.” Cardona arose. “That’s all, Mister Paget,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you. Thanks for the information. I’ll put your testimony on record. It about cleans up all that I can get.”
“I’m always glad to help you, Cardona,” said Paget, rising and walking to the door with the detective.
“Too bad you couldn’t get me earlier this morning.
“Burnham and I didn’t get in until after three o’clock. We were on the go from half past eight, with Greylock and two or three others. Made the rounds of the town — and we’ve been sleeping it off here.”
“Right-o,” interposed Burnham, “and I’m going back to get some more sleep.”
The detective left the apartment. Rodney Paget turned to Kama.
“Breakfast,” he ordered.
While Paget was eating, the Japanese servant stood beside the table.
“Bigee clock in the living room,” said Kama. “He go slow last night.”
“Clock go slow?”
“Yes, sir.” Kama produced a watch. “You go out, Mister Paget, I lookee at clock. Clockee say eight. I lookee at watch. Watchee say pretty near nine.
“You come in, I hear bigee clock strike halfee past eight. I lookee at watchee after that. Watchee say pretty near halfee past ten.”
“Yes?” questioned Paget curiously.
“Then you go outee with Mister Burnham,” went on Kama. “After you go, I lookee at clock again.
Clockee say pretty near eleven. I lookee at watch. Watchee say same as clockee — pretty near eleven.”
“Well, well,” observed Paget.
“I thinkee it funny,” added Kama. “I thinkee someblody pushee clockee back. Then slame someblody pushee clockee up. Clockee right now. Clockee always right. Exclept last night.”
“Listen, Kama,” said Paget. “Have you been drinking some of Mister Burnham’s liquor?”
“No drinkee, Mister Paget. No likee stuff.”
“Well, don’t say anything to him about the clock. Forget it, understand?”
Kama nodded.
“That man who was here,” added Paget. “Do you know who he was?”
The Japanese shook his head.
“Forget him, too,” ordered Paget. “He was just a friend of mine, who stopped in to tell me some news. The clock’s all right now, isn’t it?”
Kama nodded.
“Well, since it’s all right, forget it. The clock struck half past eight when I came in, didn’t it? Just remember that part. Maybe your watch was wrong. Half past eight. Remember?”
“You come in at halfee past eight,” repeated Kama.
RODNEY PAGET finished breakfast in his usual leisurely fashion. He took a bath and dressed. It was afternoon when he prepared to leave the apartment. Burnham was still sleeping.
Paget handed Kama a ten-dollar bill before he left.
“What time did the clock say when I came in?” he asked.
“Clockee strike halfee past eight,” came the parrotlike reply.
Paget rode along Eighty-first Street in a taxicab. He gazed curiously from the window as he passed the brownstone house where Doctor Lukens had died. He noticed a policeman standing by the front steps.
A faint smile appeared upon Paget’s lips.
Reaching in the watch pocket of his trousers, the clubman drew forth an object and held it in his half-closed hand. It was the scarab ring which Doctor Lukens had worn the night before — the ring which had once belonged to Henry Marchand.
Still smiling, Paget replaced the ring in his pocket. Calmly and leisurely, he opened his cigarette case and removed a cigarette. He put it carefully in the long holder.
Rodney Paget was puffing slowly and contentedly when the cab stopped in front of the Merrimac Club.
CHAPTER IX. PAGET BECOMES ACTIVE
SEVERAL days had passed since the murder of Doctor George Lukens. The hue and cry of the tabloids had died away. The death of the physician had become one of those unsolved mysteries that are soon forgotten.
The pair of dice with their constant seven were not even mentioned in the newspapers. Cardona had pocketed the cubes and had shown them to Inspector Klein. They had seen a strange significance.
At intervals, New York had been victimized by startling crimes that had gone unsolved. There had been no direct proof that they had been the work of the same organization. The only clew had been the fact that the number seven had appeared, in each instance.
The bank safe had contained seven pennies. Seven buttons had been clipped from a murdered man’s coat. A dying gangster had gasped the word “Seven” when the police had captured him during an attempted burglary.
There was little discussion of Lukens’s death at the Merrimac Club, although the physician had been a member. The members kept to themselves as a rule. Once a man had become accustomed to the silence of the vast rooms, he moved about in his own particular fashion.
Rodney Paget had been a member for years. He liked the club because of its atmosphere of privacy. The only thing that made him uncomfortable was the occasional danger of being posted for back dues. That was an unpardonable crime, and Paget had barely escaped it at different times during his long period of membership.