Outside we stopped for a moment at the door of Andrews’s car.
“I shall want to see Mr. Morowitch’s papers at home,” said Craig, “and also to call on Doctor Thornton. Do you think I shall have any difficulty?”
“Not at all,” replied Mr. Andrews, “not at all. I will go with you myself and see that you have none. Say, Professor Kennedy,” he broke out, “that was marvellous. I never dreamed such a thing was possible. But don’t you think you could have learned something more up there in the office by looking around?”
“I did learn it,” answered Kennedy. “The lock on the door was intact—whoever did the job let himself in by a key. There is no other way to get in.”
Andrews gave a low whistle and glanced involuntarily up at the window with the sign of Morowitch & Co. in gold letters several floors above.
“Don’t look up. I think that was Kahan looking out at us,” he said, fixing his eyes on his cigar. “I wonder if he knows more about this than he has told! He was the ‘company,’ you know, but his interest in the business was only very slight. By George—”
“Not too fast, Mr. Andrews,” interrupted Craig. “We have still to see Mrs. Morowitch and the doctor before we form any theories.”
“A very handsome woman, too,” said Andrews, as we seated ourselves in the car: “A good deal younger than Morowitch. Say, Kahan isn’t a bad-looking chap, either, is he? I hear he was a very frequent visitor at his partner’s house. Well, which first, Mrs. M. or the doctor?”
“The house,” answered Craig.
Mr. Andrews introduced us to Mrs. Morowitch, who was in very deep mourning, which served, as I could not help noticing, rather to heighten than lessen her beauty. By contrast it brought out the rich deep colour of her face and the graceful lines of her figure. She was altogether a very attractive young widow.
She seemed to have a sort of fear of Andrews, whether merely because he represented the insurance company on which so much depended or because there were other reasons for fear, I could not, of course, make out. Andrews was very courteous and polite, yet I caught myself asking if it was not a professional rather than a personal politeness. Remembering his stress on the fact that she was alone with her husband when he died, it suddenly flashed across my mind that somewhere I had read of a detective who, as his net was being woven about a victim, always grew more and more ominously polite toward the victim. I know that Andrews suspected her of a close connection with the case. As for myself, I don’t know what I suspected as yet.
No objection was offered to our request to examine Mr. Morowitch’s personal effects in the library, and accordingly Craig ransacked the desk and the letter-file. There was practically nothing to be discovered.
“Had Mr. Morowitch ever received any threats of robbery?” asked Craig, as he stood before the desk.
“Not that I know of,” replied Mrs. Morowitch. “Of course every jeweller who carries a large stock of diamonds must be careful. But I don’t think my husband had any special reason to fear robbery. At least he never said anything about it. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing. I merely thought there might be some hint as to the motives of the robbery,” said Craig. He was fingering one of those desk-calendars which have separate leaves for each day with blank spaces for appointments.
“‘Close deal Poissan,’” he read slowly from one of the entries, as if to himself. “That’s strange. It was the correspondence under the letter ‘P’ that was destroyed at the office, and there is nothing in the letter-file here, either. Who was Poissan?”
Mrs. Morowitch hesitated, either from ignorance or from a desire to evade the question. “A chemist, I think,” she said doubtfully. “My husband had some dealings with him—some discovery he was going to buy. I don’t know anything about it. I thought the deal was off.”
“The deal?”
“Really, Mr. Kennedy, you had better ask Mr. Kahan. My husband talked very, little to me about business affairs.”
“But what was the discovery?”
“I don’t know. I only heard Mr. Morowitch and Mr. Kahan refer to some deal about a discovery regarding diamonds.”
“Then Mr. Kahan knows about it?”
“I presume so.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Morowitch,” said Kennedy, when it was evident that she either could not or would not add anything to what she had said. “Pardon us for causing all this trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” she replied graciously, though I could see she was intent on every word and motion of Kennedy and Andrews.
Kennedy stopped the car at a drug-store a few blocks away and asked for the business telephone directory. In an instant, under chemists, he put his finger on the name of Poissan—“Henri Poissan, electric furnaces,—William St.,” he read.
“I shall visit him tomorrow morning. Now for the doctor.”
Doctor Thornton was an excellent specimen of the genus physician to the wealthy—polished, cool, suave. One of Mr. Andrews’s men, as I have said, had seen him already, but the interview had been very unsatisfactory. Evidently, however, the doctor had been turning something over in his mind since then and had thought better of it. At any rate, his manner was cordial enough now.
As he closed the doors to his office, he began to pace the floor. “Mr. Andrews,” he said, “I am in some doubt whether I had better tell you or the coroner what I know. There are certain professional secrets that a doctor must, as a duty to his patients, conceal. That is professional ethics. But there are also cases when, as a matter of public policy, a doctor should speak out.”
He stopped and faced us.
“I don’t mind telling you that I dislike the publicity that would attend any statement I might make to the coroner.”
“Exactly,” said Andrews. “I appreciate your position exactly. Your other patients would not care to see you involved in a scandal—or at least you would not care to have them see you so involved, with all the newspaper notoriety such a thing brings.”
Doctor Thornton shot a quick glance at Andrews, as if he would like to know just how much his visitor knew or suspected.
Andrews drew a paper from his pocket. “This is a copy of the death-certificate,” he said. “The Board of Health has furnished it to us. Our physicians at the insurance company tell me it is rather extraordinarily vague. A word from us calling the attention of the proper authorities to it would be sufficient, I think. But, Doctor, that is just the point. We do not desire publicity any more than you do. We could have the body of Mr. Morowitch exhumed and examined, but I prefer to get the facts in the case without resorting to such extreme measures.”
“It would do no good,” interrupted the doctor hastily. “And if you’ll save me the publicity, I’ll tell you why.”
Andrews nodded, but still held the death-certificate where the doctor was constantly reminded of it.
“In that certificate I have put down the cause of death as congestion of the lungs due to an acute attack of pneumonia. That is substantially correct, as far as it goes. When I was summoned to see Mr. Morowitch I found him in a semiconscious state and scarcely breathing. Mrs. Morowitch told me that he had been brought home in a taxicab by a man who had picked him up on William Street. I’m frank to say that at first sight I thought it was a case of plain intoxication, for Mr. Morowitch sometimes indulged a little freely when he made a splendid deal. I smelled his breath, which was very feeble. It had a sickish sweet