The Bartlett Mystery. Tracy Louis

you don’t mind,” he explained suavely, “I’ll order some coffee and rolls. Will you join me?”

      This was the parry of a skilled duelist to divert an attack and gain breathing-time. Clancy rather admired such adroitness.

      “Sorry, I can’t on principle,” he countered.

      “How – on principle?”

      “You see, Senator, I may have to arrest you, and I never eat with any man with whom I may clash professionally.”

      “You take risks, Mr. Clancy.”

      “I love ’em. I’d cut my job to-day if it wasn’t for the occasional excitement.”

      The valet appeared.

      “Coffee and rolls for two, Phillips,” said Meiklejohn. He turned to Clancy. “Perhaps you would prefer toast and an egg?”

      “I have breakfasted already, Senator,” smiled the detective, “but I may dally with the coffee.”

      When the door was closed on Phillips, his master glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece. The hour was eight-fifteen. Some days elapsed before Clancy interpreted that incident correctly.

      “You rose early,” said the Senator.

      “Yes, but worms are coy this morning.”

      “Meaning that you still await answers to your questions. I’ll deal with you fully and frankly, but I’m curious to know on what conceivable ground you could arrest me for the murder of my friend Ronald Tower.”

      “As an accessory before the act.”

      “But, consider. You have brains, Mr. Clancy. I am glad the Bureau sent such a man. How can a bit of unthinking generosity on my part be construed as participation in a crime?”

      “If you explain matters, Senator, the absurdity of the notion may become clear.”

      “Ah, that’s better. Let me assure you that my coffee will not affect your fine sensibilities. Miss Rachel Craik is a lady I have known nearly all my life. I have assisted her, within my means. She resides in East One Hundred and Twelfth Street, and the man about whom she was so concerned last night is her brother. He committed some technical offense years ago, and has always been a ne’er-do-well. To please his sister, and for no other reason, I undertook to provide him with five hundred dollars, and thus enable him to start life anew. I have never met the man. I would not recognize him if I saw him. I believe he is a desperate character; his maniacal behavior last night seems to leave no room for doubt in that respect. Don’t you see, Mr. Clancy, that it was I, and not poor Tower, whom he meant attacking? But for idle chance, it is my corpse, not Tower’s, that would now be floating in the Hudson. You heard what Tower said. I did not. I assume, however, that some allusion was made to the money – which, by the way, is still in my pocketbook – and Tower scoffed at the notion that he had come there to hand over five hundred dollars. There you have the whole story, in so far as I can tell it.”

      “For the present, Senator.”

      “How?”

      “It should yield many more chapters. Is that all you’re going to say? For instance, did you call on Rachel Craik after leaving Eighty-sixth Street?”

      Meiklejohn’s jaws closed like a steel trap. He almost lost his temper.

      “No,” he said, seemingly conquering the desire to blaze into anger at this gadfly of a detective.

      “Sure?”

      “I said ‘no.’ That is not ‘yes.’ I was so overcome by Tower’s miserable fate that I dismissed my car and walked home. I could not face any one, least of all Helen – Mrs. Tower.”

      “Or the Bureau?”

      “Mr. Clancy, you annoy me.”

      Clancy stood up.

      “I must duck your coffee, Senator,” he said cheerfully. “Is Miss Craik on the phone?”

      “No. She is poor, and lives alone – or, to be correct, with a niece, I believe.”

      “Well, think matters over. I’ll see you again soon. Then you may be able to tell me some more.”

      “I have told you everything.”

      “Perhaps I may do the telling.”

      “Now, as to this poor woman, Miss Craik. You will not adopt harsh measures, I trust?”

      “We are never harsh, Senator. If she speaks the truth, and all the truth, she need not fear.”

      In the hall Clancy met the valet, carrying a laden tray.

      “Do you make good coffee, Phillips?” he inquired.

      “I try to,” smiled the other.

      “Ah, that’s modest – that’s the way real genius speaks. Sorry I can’t sample your brew to-day. So few Englishmen know the first thing about coffee.”

      “Nice, friendly little chap,” was Phillips’s opinion of the detective. Senator Meiklejohn’s description of the same person was widely different. When Clancy went out, he, too, rose and stretched his stiff limbs.

      “I got rid of that little rat more easily than I expected,” he mused – that is to say, the Senator’s thoughts may be estimated in some such phrase. But he was grievously mistaken in his belief. Clancy was no rat, but a most stubborn terrier when there were rats around.

      While Meiklejohn was drinking his coffee the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Tower. She was heartbroken, or professed to be, since no more selfish woman existed in New York.

      “Are you coming to see me?” she wailed.

      “Yes, yes, later in the day. At present I dare not. I am too unhinged. Oh, Helen, what a tragedy! Have you any news?”

      “News! My God! What news can I hope for except that Ronald’s poor, maimed body has been found?”

      “Helen, this is terrible. Bear up!”

      “I’m doing my best. I can hardly believe that this thing has really happened. Help me in one small way, Senator. Telephone Mr. Jacob and explain why our luncheon is postponed.”

      “Yes, I’ll do that.”

      Meiklejohn smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. In the midst of her tribulations Helen Tower had not forgotten Jacob and the little business of the Costa Rica Cotton Concession! The luncheon was only “postponed.”