“Who is? What’s the matter with you, Kennedy? Are you crazy?”
“The red-haired person—she must be an actress. Don’t you remember the auburn-haired leading lady in the ‘Follies’—the girl who sings that song about ‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary’? Her stage name, you know, is Phoebe La Neige. Well, if it’s she who is concerned in this case I don’t think she’ll be playing tonight. Let’s inquire at the box-office.”
She wasn’t playing, but just what it had to do with anything in particular I couldn’t see, and I said as much.
“Why, Walter, you’d never do as a detective. You lack intuition. Sometimes I think I haven’t quite enough of it, either. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? Don’t you know she is the wife of Adolphus Hesse, the most inveterate gambler in stocks in the System? Why, I had only to put two and two together and the whole thing flashed on me in an instant. Isn’t it a good hypothesis that she is the red-haired woman in the case, the tool of the System in which her husband is so heavily involved? I’ll have to add her to my list of suspects.”
“Why, you don’t think she did the shooting?” I asked, half hoping, I must admit, for an assenting nod from him.
“Well,” he answered dryly, “one shouldn’t let any preconceived hypothesis stand between him and the truth. I’ve made a guess at the whole thing already. It may or it may not be right. Anyhow she will fit into it. And if it’s not right, I’ve got to be prepared to make a new guess, that’s all.”
When we reached the laboratory on our return, the inspector’s man Riley was there, waiting impatiently for Kennedy.
“What luck?” asked Kennedy.
“I’ve got a list of purchasers of that kind of revolver,” he said. “We have been to every sporting-goods and arms-store in the city which bought them from the factory, and I could lay my hands on pretty nearly every one of those weapons in twenty-four hours—provided, of course, they haven’t been secreted or destroyed.”
“Pretty nearly all isn’t good enough,” said Kennedy. “It will have to be all, unless—”
“That name is in the list,” whispered Riley hoarsely.
“Oh, then it’s all right,” answered Kennedy, brightening up. “Riley, I will say that you’re a wonder at using the organisation in ferreting out such things. There’s just one more thing I want you to do. I want a sample of the notepaper in the private desks of every one of these people.” He handed the policeman a list of his 9 “suspects,” as he called them. It included nearly every one mentioned in the case.
Riley studied it dubiously and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That’s a hard one, Mr. Kennedy, sir. You see, it means getting into so many different houses and apartments. Now you don’t want to do it by means of a warrant, do you, sir? Of course not. Well, then, how can we get in?”
“You’re a pretty good-looking chap yourself, Riley,” said Kennedy. “I should think you could jolly a housemaid, if necessary. Anyhow, you can get the fellow on the beat to do it—if he isn’t already to be found in the kitchen. Why, I see a dozen ways of getting the notepaper.”
“Oh, it’s me that’s the lady-killer, sir,” grinned Riley. “I’m a regular Blarney stone when I’m out on a job of that sort. Sure, I’ll have some of them for you in the morning.”
“Bring me what you get, the first thing in the morning, even if you’ve landed only a few samples,” said Kennedy, as Riley departed, straightening his tie and brushing his hat on his sleeve.
“And now, Walter, you too must excuse me tonight,” said Craig. “I’ve got a lot to do, and sha’n’t be up to our apartment till very late—or early. But I feel sure I’ve got a strangle-hold on this mystery. If I get those papers from Riley in good time tomorrow I shall invite you and several others to a grand demonstration here tomorrow night. Don’t forget. Keep the whole evening free. It will be a big story.”
Kennedy’s laboratory was brightly lighted when I arrived early the next evening. One by one his “guests” dropped in. It was evident that they had little liking for the visit, but the coroner had sent out the “invitations,” and they had nothing to do but accept. Each one was politely welcomed by the professor and assigned a seat, much as he would have done with a group of students. The inspector and the coroner sat back a little. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Downey, Mr. Bruce, myself, and Miss La Neige sat in that order in the very narrow and uncomfortable little armchairs used by the students during lectures.
At last Kennedy was ready to begin. He took his position behind the long, flat-topped table which he used for his demonstrations before his classes. “I realise, ladies and gentlemen,” he began formally, “that I am about to do a very unusual thing; but, as you all know, the police and the coroner have been completely baffled by this terrible mystery and have requested me to attempt to clear up at least certain points in it. I will begin what I have to say by remarking that the tracing out of a crime like this differs in nothing, except as regards the subject-matter, from the search for a scientific truth. The forcing of man’s secrets is like the forcing of nature’s secrets. Both are pieces of detective work. The methods employed in the detection of crime are, or rather should be, like the methods employed in the process of discovering scientific truth. In a crime of this sort, two kinds of evidence need to be secured. Circumstantial evidence must first be marshalled, and then a motive must be found. I have been gathering facts. But to omit motives and rest contented with mere facts would be inconclusive. It would never convince anybody or convict anybody. In other words, circumstantial evidence must first lead to a suspect, and then this suspect must prove equal to accounting for the facts. It is my hope that each of you may contribute something that will be of service in arriving at the truth of this unfortunate incident.”
The tension was not relieved even when Kennedy stopped speaking and began to fuss with a little upright target which he set up at one end of his table. We seemed to be seated over a powder magazine which threatened to explode at any moment. I, at least, felt the tension so greatly that it was only after he had started speaking again, that I noticed that the target was composed of a thick layer of some putty-like material.
Holding a thirty-two-calibre pistol in his right hand and aiming it at the target, Kennedy picked up a large piece of coarse homespun from the table and held it loosely over the muzzle of the gun. Then he fired. The bullet tore through the cloth, sped through the air, and buried itself in the target. With a knife he pried it out.
“I doubt if even the inspector himself could have told us that when an ordinary leaden bullet is shot through a woven fabric the weave of that fabric is in the majority of cases impressed on the bullet, sometimes clearly, sometimes faintly.”
Here Kennedy took up a piece of fine batiste and fired another bullet through it.
“Every leaden bullet, as I have said, which has struck such a fabric bears an impression of the threads which is recognisable even when the bullet has penetrated deeply into the body. It is only obliterated partially or entirely when the bullet has been flattened by striking a bone or other hard object. Even then, as in this case, if only a part of the bullet is flattened the remainder may still show the marks of the fabric. A heavy warp, say of cotton velvet or, as I have here, homespun, will be imprinted well on the bullet, but even a fine batiste, containing one hundred threads to the inch, will show marks. Even layers of goods such as a coat, shirt, and undershirt may each leave their marks, but that does not concern us in this case. Now I have here a piece of pongee silk, cut from a woman’s automobile-coat. I discharge the bullet through it—so. I compare the bullet now with the others and with the one probed from the neck of Mr. Parker. I find that the marks on that fatal bullet correspond precisely with those on the bullet fired through the pongee coat.”
Startling as was this revelation, Kennedy paused only an instant before the next.
“Now I have another demonstration. A certain note figures