"Was there no one who came to visit him while you were there during the day. No one whom he spoke of in an intimate way?"
Again the clerk shook his head. Stillman began to appear nonplussed. He looked at the other, pondering and frowning through his glasses.
"Who came most frequently to the store?"he inquired finally.
"Why, I think Antonio Spatola,"said Brolatsky.
"Was he a customer?"
The clerk smiled.
"Oh, no. He's a street musician. You may have seen him often about the city. He plays the violin and carries some trained cockatoos upon a perch."
"What was the nature of his business at Hume's?"
"If there was anything that Mr. Hume liked better than strong drink,"said the clerk, "it was music. Antonio Spatola would come and play to him for hours at a time."
"A lover of music who could stand the playing of a street musician for hours!"cried Stillman. "That's astonishing."
"But,"protested Brolatsky, "Spatola is a splendid musician. He's studied his instrument under the greatest masters in Paris, Rome and other European cities. He has played in the finest orchestras. But he never could keep a position because of his temper. He's told me himself that when aroused he doesn't know what he is doing."
"I understand,"said the coroner. "What sort of relations existed between Hume and Spatola outside the music? Were they friendly?"
"No, sir. I might say just the reverse. For hours, sometimes, Mr. Hume would lie back in his chair with his eyes closed listening to the violin. Then, perhaps, he'd get up suddenly, throw Antonio a dollar or so and tell him to get out. Or maybe he'd begin to jeer at him. Antonio had an ambition to become a concert violinist. Ole Bull and Kubelik had made great successes, he said; and so, why not he?
"This was usually the point Mr. Hume would take up in mocking him. He'd call him a curbstone fiddler, and say that he ought to be playing at barn dances and Italian christenings instead of aspiring to the platform. Spatola would get frantic with rage, and fairly scream his resentment at these times.
"Often Mr. Hume would have him bring his trained cockatoos. And while he was making them go through their tricks, Mr. Hume would call him a mountebank, a side show fakir and other things, and tell him that he ought to stick to that as a business, for he could make a living at it, where he would starve as a violinist. I've often seen Antonio go out trembling and white at the lips with rage. Several times he's tried to injure Mr. Hume—once he took out a knife."
"Hah!"said the coroner.
"That was the time Mr. Hume called him 'Mad Anthony.' I also remember that Mr. Hume pulled aside the curtain and showed him the large painting of General Wayne, laughing and telling him that that was another Mad Anthony. He was so successful that day in arousing Spatola, that always after that, when he was drunk, he'd call the Italian 'Mad Anthony' and it never failed to infuriate him.
"Do you know where this man Spatola lives?"
"In Christie Place, sir; just about half a dozen doors from the store. I believe he rents a garret there, or something."
Stillman seemed struck by this.
"In view of the fact that the building was entered by way of the scuttle,"said he to Ashton-Kirk, "I consider that a most interesting piece of information."
"It may indeed prove so,"was the non-committal reply.
Once more the discontented crease showed itself upon the coroner's forehead; and again as he turned to Brolatsky, his voice rose sharply.
"Next to Antonio Spatola, who came most to Hume's place while you were there?"
"The next most frequent caller,"returned the clerk, "was Mr. Allan Morris."
Ashton-Kirk, glancing at Pendleton, saw him start.
"And who,"queried the coroner, "is Mr. Allan Morris?"
"At first I took him to be a customer,"replied Brolatsky. "And perhaps he was. He talked a great deal at times about engraved gems and would look at lists and works upon the subject. But somehow I got the notion that that was not just what he came for."
"What caused you to think that?"asked the coroner.
"His manner, partly, and then the fact that there seemed something between Mr. Hume and him—something that I never understood. Mr. Morris was another one that the boss used to make game of. Not so much as he would Spatola, but still a good bit. Mr. Morris always took it with a show of good temper; but underneath I could see that he too was sometimes furious."
"About what did Hume deride him?"
"That's what I never could quite make out. It always seemed as though it was something that Mr. Morris wanted. At first I got the notion that it was something that he wanted to buy and which Mr. Hume refused to sell; but later I changed my mind. There seemed to be more to it than appeared on the top. Both were very secretive about it."
"I understand."Stillman's face wore a puzzled expression; it was as though this latter development worried him. But in a few moments he went on: "Do you know where this man Morris is to be found?"
"Oh, yes. He's quite well known. Has an office in the Blake Building, and is employed just now, so I've heard, by the Navy Department."
"You have visited Christie Place to-day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did the police have you look about?"
"Yes, sir. And so far as I can see, nothing has been taken."
"The weapon that Hume was killed with, now. Do you know anything about it—did it belong to the store?"
"The bayonet? No, sir."
"Are you sure of that?"earnestly.
"Positive. It was my duty to keep a complete list of everything we had in stock. We had other sorts of arms, but no such thing as a bayonet."
There were a few more questions, but as they drew out nothing of interest, Stillman signified to Brolatsky that the interview was at an end.
"Now, you will go with Mr. Curran to police headquarters on the next floor,"said he, "and tell them what you have told me about this Antonio Spatola."
Then he opened the door and stepped out.
"Curran,"they heard him say, importantly.
"I want you to—"then the door closed, cutting the sentence short.
Pendleton gazed fixedly at Ashton-Kirk.
"I say,"said he, "I'm not up in this sort of thing at all. I've been putting two and two together, and it's led me into a deuce of a state."
Ashton-Kirk looked at him inquiringly; there was expectancy in the investigator's eyes, but he said nothing.
"Perhaps you'll think that I'm all kinds of a fool,"continued Pendleton, "and maybe I am. But here are the things that I'm trying to marshall in order. I'll take them just as they happened."He held up one hand and with the other began to check off the counts upon his fingers. "Yesterday you have a visit—a visit of a professional nature—from Edyth Vale. Last night she strangely disappears for a time. At a most unconventional hour this morning I find you at her door. Then I learn that you are on your way to look into the details of a murder that you had just heard of—somehow. Now I hear that Allan Morris, Edyth's fiancé, has been, in rather an odd way, upon familiar terms with the murdered man."
He paused as he checked this last count, still regarding his friend fixedly.
"I don't claim,"he went on, after a moment, "that these things have anything to do with each other. But, somehow, they've got together in my mind, and I can't—"
Here the door re-opened and Stillman entered,