“Why?”
“Because the old man was very particular that no one should enter this room.”
“Why?”
“We do not know, unless the answer is in the code message which we found in the drawer. I have traced Marchand’s career. It is above reproach. He had no enemies.
“He retired from the woolen business twenty years ago. Since then he had increased his wealth by profitable investments.
“Willis is familiar with all of his financial affairs, and they were very simple.”
“If there was nothing here,” observed Klein, “why did the burglar enter?”
“Marchand is known to own some valuable jewelry’” said Cardona. “The gems were owned by his deceased wife. They are not kept here. They are in a safe-deposit vault.
“My theory is that the burglar thought they were somewhere in this room, yet he didn’t try the safe.”
“Hm-m-m!” observed the inspector. “Maybe both times he was discovered before he had an opportunity to make a thorough search.”
“Still, I can see no connection between his attempts and the death of Marchand,” said Cardona. “Willis thought there might be a connection; but he has no theory. Nevertheless, he called in the police.”
“Very good,” said the inspector. “Now you’ve brought us back to the starting point — Marchand’s death.
All else is superficial, for the present.
“How was Marchand poisoned? That’s what we’ll have to find out.”
THE inspector arose and paced around the room. Detective Cardona looked at him in admiration.
Joe Cardona was looked upon as the smartest detective in New York; but he knew that his real ability could not approach that of Inspector Timothy Klein. Cardona’s superior was a man who dealt in simple facts; who reached to the heart of crime. He reduced all information to the lowest quantity before he acted.
The inspector stopped pacing. He pointed to the desk.
“Open that secret drawer again,” he said.
Cardona inspected the desk. He moved his hands down the side, seeking some spot that would yield.
His efforts brought no result. He opened an ordinary drawer in the center of the desk.
“Maybe there’s some kind of a key here,” he said.
Among other objects, he found a pair of dice.
“Look at these,” he said. “Lying seven up.”
“Seven,” commented the inspector, taking the dice. “There’s been a lot of crimes in which the number seven has figured. Remember that bank robbery, where they left seven pennies in the safe?”
“Maybe the same gang has something to do with this.”
“Let’s keep away from vague theories, Joe,” said the inspector. “Get that secret drawer open. Any sign of a key yet?”
“Here’s a thimble,” said Cardona.
The inspector took the object. It was a silver-plated thimble that had been lying amidst a pile of paper clips.
“Hm-m-m!” grunted the inspector. “Funny thing to find in an old man’s desk.”
The detective made no comment in return. He closed the drawer. He moved his hand along the side of the desk, following a line where he knew the shallow secret compartment must lie.
He paused near the back of the desk. His fingers were upon an ornamental molding that was divided into sections. Cardona tapped and detected a movement in the woodwork.
As he pressed upward, the tiny segment of molding slid into the top of the desk, showing a hole beneath.
Cardona removed his hand; the segment dropped.
“Look here!” exclaimed the detective.
The inspector leaned over the side of the desk.
“Watch this,” said Cardona. “I slide this piece of molding up like this. See? Then it drops back again. Now I push it up with one finger; then insert another finger in the opening beneath.”
INSPECTOR KLEIN’S brawny fist descended upon the detective’s wrist. Cardona’s arm dropped away from the desk. The tiny bit of molding slipped back into place.
The detective looked at the inspector in amazement, as one would stare at a man who had gone suddenly insane.
“What’s the idea?” he blurted, unable to restrain his anger.
The inspector handed him the thimble.
“Put that on your finger,” he said. “Then push your finger in the hole when you raise the molding.”
The detective obeyed, wondering. When he pressed with the finger that wore the thimble, the secret compartment suddenly appeared at the front of the desk.
“Did you notice anything?” asked Klein.
“Yes,” replied the detective, still puzzled. He looked at the thimble. “It seemed as though I struck metal.”
“Pliers?” demanded the inspector.
Cardona felt in his pocket and produced a pair of tweezers.
“Those will do,” said Klein.
He leaned over the desk and raised the sliding molding with the thumb of his left hand. Holding the tweezers in his right, he probed the hole beneath the molding.
Slight clicks followed; then the inspector twisted his hand and drew out the tweezers.
Raising the instrument to the light, he revealed a short, slender point of metal, clipped between the ends of the tweezers.
“It looks like a needle!” exclaimed Cardona. “Like the needle of a sewing machine.”
“It is a needle,” said the inspector quietly. “Look at the point of it. A hollow needle, with a remarkably sharp point. Only the thimble prevented it from piercing your finger.
“If you had not worn the thimble on your finger—”
The inspector paused to gaze steadily at the detective. A look of enlightenment was dawning on Cardona’s face.
“If I had not worn the thimble—” came the detective’s words.
“—you would have died as Marchand died!” was the inspector’s ominous reply.
CHAPTER III. KLEIN’S SOLUTION
INSPECTOR TIMOTHY KLEIN stood in the center of Marchand’s room. Hands behind his back, he surveyed a group of men gathered before him.
The group included the four who had found Marchand’s body. With them were the police surgeon and the toxicologist who had been called in by Doctor Lukens.
Joe Cardona was in the background, leaning against the wall.
“So you found the mark on Marchand’s finger?” questioned Klein.
“Yes,” replied Doctor Lukens. “On the second finger of the right hand. But I am at a loss to explain how it came there.”
The inspector smiled as he looked at the other men present. All seemed bewildered, with the exception of the toxicologist.
“Show them, Joe,” ordered Klein.
The detective came forward. He swung the desk away from the wall so that its side faced the group.
With his right hand he operated the movable molding, raising it with his forefinger and pressing his second finger into the opening beneath. With the action, the secret drawer shot from the front of the desk.
The witnesses came forward in surprise. They examined the mechanical apparatus on the side of the desk. Then Klein moved them back and beckoned to the toxicologist.
“I sent for this man without telling you, doctor,” he said to Lukens. “You were one of the four who discovered Marchand’s body, so I left you out of it for the time being. I wanted him to see what he could find on this.”
The inspector exhibited a small envelope, from which he dropped a hollow needle upon the table.
“Don’t touch it!” warned the toxicologist. “It contains a very virulent poison! It caused Marchand’s death!”
“When Marchand operated the secret drawer,” explained Klein, “he wounded himself with the needle point. That is why he died.
“This discovery, made by Detective Cardona and myself, explains the death of Henry Marchand. He was the victim of his own snare!”