Green Ace by Stuart Palmer

looking pleased as Punch. “Just on my way uptown,” he said. “Thought I’d stop in—”
    “For a cup of coffee, of course.” Miss Withers led him inside. “Care for a bite of breakfast?”
    “Breakfast, yet! I had lunch half an hour ago.”
    “Probably a stale sandwich on the edge of your desk, I know your habits.” She looked at him critically. “Oscar, you look like the canary that ate the cat. Don’t tell me you’ve already got Marika’s murderer arrested?”
    “As good as,” he said confidently. “Hildegarde, you’re always poking fun at scientific police methods, but just listen to this. Remember that hat? I just got the laboratory to report on it.”
    “So now at last we know the murderer’s head size!”
    But nothing could ruffle him. “Yes, six and seven-eights. About right for the man’s height. But the hat was bought in Dallas, Texas, about six or seven years ago—we know that because the model was discontinued during the war. It retailed at around thirty dollars but had never been blocked or cleaned, which means that the owner was flush with money at times but not recently. A five-dollar bill was tucked inside the sweatband, soggy and discolored and evidently been there for years. Maybe the guy originally hid it there so he’d never be out of taxi fare or the price of a bottle, and then forgot it. Traces of cheap brilliantine and expensive hair restorer. A few light brown hairs left over from his last haircut, which was about a week ago. The vacuum picked up minute traces of powder, alfalfa, and camel dung.”
    “He probably only walked through the Zoo on a windy day.”
    The Inspector put down his coffee cup, and tackled bacon and eggs. “Seriously, Hildegarde, we know a lot more about our man. He was in Texas five or six years ago, and flush. He’s had hard times since. He’s careful of his appearance and worried about losing his hair, which is light brown. Maybe you’re right about the Zoo—but he powders his forehead after shaving, which most men don’t bother to. With that on top of Mrs. Fink’s description, it should be a cinch.”
    “Perhaps, Oscar. Cinch is hardly the word I’d choose for any angle of this affair. By the way, has the landlady identified any photographs yet?”
    “The old girl is down there now, plowing through the racks. Nothing definite when I left the office, but Sergeant Smith says she had one possible. Only that guy has been out at Alcatraz for a couple of years, so she’s looking further. Of course, the photo angle may come to nothing. The killer may be a first offender.”
    She sniffed meaningly. “I doubt it. He killed Midge Harrington a year ago.” Miss Withers poured out more coffee. “Of course, Oscar, you forgot all about my request to ask the three people who discovered Marika’s body about which one of them unbolted the hall door of the apartment.”
    “Wrong again. We did, but they were all so excited at discovering the corpse that none of them can actually swear to it. Mrs. Fink thinks it was her husband, and the husband thinks it was Bagmann. They were all in a tearing hurry to get out of that room and downstairs to call the cops.”
    “Odd, with a phone right there in the room.”
    “So for once somebody was smart enough not to touch anything on the scene of the crime!”
    “I see. And just for the record did you do any checking to see if Messrs. Sprott, Bruner and Zotos had alibis for last night?”
    “I’ve had more important things to do! Hildegarde, once and for all will you stop trying to connect two murders that just won’t tie together? Besides, you yourself admit that the description of the murderer doesn’t fit any of your Three Musketeers.”
    “Except for the Cyrano nose, it could be any of them—even Bruner in spite of his height, because he could have hunched down in the trenchcoat and it’s hard to estimate tallness on a stairway, especially a dark stairway. Oscar, I’ve thought and thought about it.