“Go ahead,” suggested Cardona.
PROFESSOR MORTH arose and walked over by the cupboard. He was sketching a scene for his audience. He pointed to the door to the hallway.
“That door opened,” declared Morth, “while I was trying to call Logan. Ruffians entered. I thought they were going to kill me. Then, from this alcove, came a mysterious rescuer. I can describe him only as a human ghost. He was cloaked in black. He shot down those enemies at the door. But they forced him back into the alcove.
“Bullets shattered three of my skulls. On this shelf” — the professor turned to the cupboard — “where I kept some of my finest specimens. This skull for instance” — Morth picked out a jawless head and showed it — “which I regarded as a fine example of the dolichocephalic type. You observe that the mandible was shot away.”
“You mean the lower jaw?” queried Cardona.
“Yes,” replied Morth. “The mandible. And this skull” — he brought down another — “was hit in the left malar bar. Compare these two skulls, gentlemen” — Morth extended them — “and note how they show the great difference between the dolichocephalic and the brochycephalic—”
“This is not important, professor,” broke in Cardona. “Please—”
“Not important!” exclaimed Morth, indignantly. “What! You do not consider the cephalic index to be important? Listen to me, inspector. The ratio of the width to the length constitutes the cephalic index. This narrow skull is dolichocephalic, an African type. This wide one — with the shattered malar bar — is brachycephalic, a northern Mongolian type. As for the mesaticephalic, I have here a European skull—”
“Hold it, professor,” urged Joe. “We’ll take all that for granted. You’ve told us the important facts about skulls. If you will—”
“The cephalic index is not most important. Look, inspector: note these facial angles. This is a prognathous skull, sloping backward, only slightly more than the seventy-degree angle that separates man from ape. Contrast it with this orthognathous specimen, with its perpendicular profile. The facial angle, or gnathic index, is highly important in the study of anthropology.”
“But what’s that got to do with Hildrew Parchell?”
“He was a student of anthropology, inspector. I used to tell him that I hoped some day to have his skull in my possession. It was an odd shape — platycephalic — and such a specimen—”
“Tell us what happened after the shooting began. That is what we are here to learn about, professor.”
“Ah yes, the shooting.” Morth smiled. His arms were loaded with skulls by this time; he began to replace them carefully upon the shelf, shaking his head as he came across broken ones. Then, turning about, he resumed:
“MY rescuer drove back the invaders. In the fray, a lucky shot struck the artificial skull that held Hothan prisoner. The mechanism sprang open. The mandible dropped. Hothan leaped for my rescuer. The cupboard was overturned.”
“And then?”
“I was tormented by the sight. One skull, which I have always regarded as a true subbrachycephalic, was shattered before my eyes. Even the maxillae were broken—”
“And Hothan?”
“Ah, yes, Hothan. He fled. I wanted to stop him; but something struck me behind the ear and I fell. Either Hothan or my rescuer, probably the latter, had hurled a pentagonal skull of the mesaticephalic type—”
“And hit you with it,” added Cardona, impatiently. “Thank you, professor. Let me do the talking now. Well,” — to the others — “are there any comments?”
“I have one.” It was Doctor Deseurre who spoke. “I can see no definite connection between the death of Hildrew Parchell and this affair here. I am convinced that Hildrew Parchell was stricken with an expected heart attack.”
“But what about Channing Tobold?” queried Cardona.
“I know nothing about his death,” replied Deseurre.
“Just how could it be connected with this trouble?” queried Roger Parchell.
“Very easily,” returned Cardona. “Have you seen those jewels that once belonged to your uncle?”
“Not yet,” answered Roger. “Mr. Wingate intended to show them to me; but he has not done so, yet.”
“You’ve seen them, Wingate,” remarked Cardona. “What’s your opinion?”
“I have seen them,” admitted Wingate, slowly, “and I recall that in the lot there was one ring — a silver ring — with a signet shaped like a skull—”
“That’s it!” broke in Cardona. “You’ve hit it. The skull ring! Homer Hothan was after the skull. But he didn’t come here first. He went to Tobold’s. He and the mob that was with him grabbed the jewelry because they saw the skull ring. They thought that junk was Hildrew Parchell’s wealth.”
“You mean,” queried Roger, “that you are convinced that my uncle did leave a hidden fortune?”
“It looks that way,” replied Cardona, “and if I were you, young fellow, I’d look for it. On your own. Don’t worry about Homer Hothan; it’s my job to find him.”
“Perhaps,” commented Doctor Deseurre, dryly, “you have the theory, also, that Homer Hothan visited Hildrew Parchell and murdered him?”
“I’ve got a hunch to that effect,” challenged Joe, staring squarely at the physician. “Hothan was in on Tobold’s killing. He came here. He might have bumped Hildrew Parchell and started that fire.”
“Possibly,” agreed Deseurre, after considering the statement. “A visit by Hothan might have been contributory to Hildrew Parchell’s heart attack.”
A pause. Then Selwood Royce spoke to Roger Parchell. The young millionaire was repeating his invitation to the heir, asking him to come out, as a guest, to the Long Island estate. Roger was nodding his acceptance.
“That’s all,” declared Joe Cardona, abruptly. “I wanted you all here to find out what was what. I’m keeping a police guard here, Professor, in case those thugs try another raid. But I figure you’re safe. Hothan must know by now that the goods aren’t here.”
That settled, Cardona turned to Wingate.
“Keep in close touch with me,” he told the lawyer. “You’re handling the estate; you’re liable to run across something that might be a clue.” Then, to the others, Cardona added: “If I want to talk with any of you, I’ll call you.”
MEN filed out. Cardona remained with Professor Morth for a few moments; then he followed the others.
As he neared the door he found Clyde Burke there, blocking the entrance. The reporter was smiling.
“How much of this do you want me to use, Joe?” queried the reporter.
“How much!” blurted Cardona. “You — you — were you in on this?”
“Right here in the hall,” acknowledged Clyde. “The flatfoot downstairs let me by. I didn’t want to butt in, so I waited in the hall.”
“And listened in, eh? Well, if this stuff gets in that yellow sheet of yours, I’ll—”
“It won’t, Joe, unless you say so.”
“All right, Burke,” Cardona grinned. “Say — hold it, will you, until I’ve gotten a line on Hothan? I want his name out of it.”
Clyde nodded his agreement. With the detective, he strolled downstairs, promising not to use the story until Joe gave the word.
Outside, they found Roger Parchell and Selwood Royce about to get into a coupe. Clyde approached the millionaire and introduced himself. Royce laughed sheepishly.
“So you’re Burke of the Classic,” he said. “Sorry, old top, about last night. I forgot I was to meet you and take you out to Long Island. Come out any time you want — I’ll be there for the next week. Just breeze in, any evening, and I’ll show you the art gallery.”