through the bright lights of New York. Smith was plunged in such a mood of dejection that I did not care to interrupt it. We were almost in sight of the Regal Athenian before he spoke.
“Where did Longton die?” he exclaimed. “Why was he in New York without my being notified? And where is Kennard Wood?”
“It’s all a dreadful mystery to me, Smith.”
There was a momentary pause; we were whirling, issuing warning blasts, past busy night traffic, when Smith suddenly leaned forward.
“Slow down,” he cried.
Our speed was checked; the police driver leaned back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go to 39 B Sutton Place—”
“Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”
“Yes. Move.”
We were off again.
“But what is this, Smith?”
“A theory—and a hope,” he replied. “Longton’s body was found below Queensborough Bridge. Making due allowances for its unusual condition, I assume that it was thrown in near that spot some time tonight. Now, how was a body transported and thrown into the river in that state; I suggested to myself that there must have been special conditions—and then I thought of Mrs. Mendel Hammett—”
“Who is Mrs. Mendel Hammett?”
“She is a relic of the past, Kerrigan, an institution; a patron of promising talent, and a distant relation of poor Longton. I suddenly remembered his telling me that he had an apartment in her home which he was at liberty to occupy at any time. Now, the garden of 39 B Sutton Place runs down to the river; Queensborough Bridge is immediately below!”
* * *
“You need not watch me so anxiously, Sir Denis,” said Mrs. Mendel Hammett. “I am a crippled and weak-bodied old woman but not a weak-minded old woman. May I trouble you to light my cigarette.”
She lay stretched on a couch in a sitting-room whose furnishings indicated the world traveller. The bright hazel eyes shadowed by heavy brows were those of a young girl; her skin retained its freshness: so that snow-white, curling hair suggested the period of powder and patches.
“You are a wonderful woman, Mrs. Mendel Hammett.”
“I belong to a tough race,” she replied, puffing at her cigarette; “and in the company of my late husband I have been in some tough places. So Jim is dead? Well, if I can help you find out who killed him, count on me.”
“In the first place,” said Smith, speaking very gently, “I gathered from Miss Dinsford, your secretary, that James Longton was not expected; that he arrived about six o’clock this evening and stated that he wished to use his apartments.”
“He did, sir,” the vibrant voice replied. “He had come by air from Havana and he said it was important that no one should know that he was here.”
“He went up to his rooms,” Smith continued, “particularly requesting that he should not be disturbed—”
“He said he was going to take a bath and lie down until dinner time, as he was tired out.”
“Quite so. That is most important. Since then, I believe, you had not seen him?”
“I had not.”
“Did he bring much baggage?”
“One light suitcase and a large portfolio.”
“Who took them up?”
“He took them up himself.”
“Then no one else entered his apartments?”
“No one. They were always kept ready for use. Later, a maid would have turned down the bed and prepared the room—” Momentarily, the bright eyes clouded; Mrs. Mendel Hammett knocked ash from her cigarette.
“People used to find a marked resemblance between Jim and Kennard Wood. I never saw it, myself, although they were cousins on Jim’s mother’s side.”
“I had certainly noted it,” murmured Smith. “And, now that this catastrophe has occurred, I must look to the Colonel’s safety. Before I go up to examine these apartments, Mrs. Mendel Hammett, may I ask if James Longton told you anything of Kennard Wood’s whereabouts?”
“He told me that they had planned to arrive together; that they had an important conference with you and some Washington people at the Regal
“Where did Longton die?” he exclaimed. “Why was he in New York without my being notified? And where is Kennard Wood?”
“It’s all a dreadful mystery to me, Smith.”
There was a momentary pause; we were whirling, issuing warning blasts, past busy night traffic, when Smith suddenly leaned forward.
“Slow down,” he cried.
Our speed was checked; the police driver leaned back.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go to 39 B Sutton Place—”
“Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s?”
“Yes. Move.”
We were off again.
“But what is this, Smith?”
“A theory—and a hope,” he replied. “Longton’s body was found below Queensborough Bridge. Making due allowances for its unusual condition, I assume that it was thrown in near that spot some time tonight. Now, how was a body transported and thrown into the river in that state; I suggested to myself that there must have been special conditions—and then I thought of Mrs. Mendel Hammett—”
“Who is Mrs. Mendel Hammett?”
“She is a relic of the past, Kerrigan, an institution; a patron of promising talent, and a distant relation of poor Longton. I suddenly remembered his telling me that he had an apartment in her home which he was at liberty to occupy at any time. Now, the garden of 39 B Sutton Place runs down to the river; Queensborough Bridge is immediately below!”
* * *
“You need not watch me so anxiously, Sir Denis,” said Mrs. Mendel Hammett. “I am a crippled and weak-bodied old woman but not a weak-minded old woman. May I trouble you to light my cigarette.”
She lay stretched on a couch in a sitting-room whose furnishings indicated the world traveller. The bright hazel eyes shadowed by heavy brows were those of a young girl; her skin retained its freshness: so that snow-white, curling hair suggested the period of powder and patches.
“You are a wonderful woman, Mrs. Mendel Hammett.”
“I belong to a tough race,” she replied, puffing at her cigarette; “and in the company of my late husband I have been in some tough places. So Jim is dead? Well, if I can help you find out who killed him, count on me.”
“In the first place,” said Smith, speaking very gently, “I gathered from Miss Dinsford, your secretary, that James Longton was not expected; that he arrived about six o’clock this evening and stated that he wished to use his apartments.”
“He did, sir,” the vibrant voice replied. “He had come by air from Havana and he said it was important that no one should know that he was here.”
“He went up to his rooms,” Smith continued, “particularly requesting that he should not be disturbed—”
“He said he was going to take a bath and lie down until dinner time, as he was tired out.”
“Quite so. That is most important. Since then, I believe, you had not seen him?”
“I had not.”
“Did he bring much baggage?”
“One light suitcase and a large portfolio.”
“Who took them up?”
“He took them up himself.”
“Then no one else entered his apartments?”
“No one. They were always kept ready for use. Later, a maid would have turned down the bed and prepared the room—” Momentarily, the bright eyes clouded; Mrs. Mendel Hammett knocked ash from her cigarette.
“People used to find a marked resemblance between Jim and Kennard Wood. I never saw it, myself, although they were cousins on Jim’s mother’s side.”
“I had certainly noted it,” murmured Smith. “And, now that this catastrophe has occurred, I must look to the Colonel’s safety. Before I go up to examine these apartments, Mrs. Mendel Hammett, may I ask if James Longton told you anything of Kennard Wood’s whereabouts?”
“He told me that they had planned to arrive together; that they had an important conference with you and some Washington people at the Regal
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