Harvard Street, Boston; Hannah Hindmarsh, 218 E. 79th Street, Cleveland.
“What else?” I asked when I had studied these.
The detective-sergeant’s supply hadn’t been exhausted yet.
“The dead man’s collar buttons—both front and back—had been taken out, though his collar and tie were still in place. And his left shoe was gone. We hunted high and low all around, but didn’t find either shoe or collar buttons.”
“Is that all?”
I was prepared for anything now.
“What the hell do you want?” he growled. “Ain’t that enough?”
“How about fingerprints?”
“Nothing stirring! All we found belonged to the dead man.”
“How about the machine he was found in?”
“A coupe belonging to a Doctor Wallace Girargo. He phoned in at six this evening that it had been stolen from near the corner of McAllister and Polk Streets. We’re checking up on him—but I think he’s all right.”
The things that Whipple and Charles Gantvoort had identified as belonging to the dead man told us nothing. We went over them carefully, but to no advantage. The memoranda book contained many entries, but they all seemed totally foreign to the murder. The letters were quite as irrelevant.
The serial number of the typewriter with which the murder had been committed had been removed, we found—apparently filed out of the frame.