Shirley unostentatiously signaled for an encore on the refreshments.

“You’re nervous to-night, Captain.  You’ve been doing things before you consulted me—­which is against our Rule Number One, isn’t it?”

The Captain gulped down his whiskey, and rubbed his forehead.

“Couldn’t help it, Monty.  It got too busy for me, before I realized anything unusual in the case.  See what I got from a gangster before I landed here.”

He turned his close-cropped head, as Montague Shirley leaned forward to observe an abrasion at the base of his skull.  It was dressed with a coating of collodion.

“Brass knuckled—­I see the mark of the rings.  Tried for the pneumogastric nerves, to quiet you.”

“Whatever he tried for he nearly got.  Kelly’s nightstick got his pneumonia gas jet, or whatever you call it.  He’s still quiet, in the station house—­You know old man Van Cleft, who owns sky-scrapers down town, don’t you?—­Well, he’s the center of this flying wedge of excitement.  His family are fine people, I understand.  His daughter was to be married next week.  Monty, that wedding’ll be postponed, and old Van Cleft won’t worry over dispossess papers for his tenants for the rest of the winter.  See?”

“Killed?”

“Correct.  He’s done, and I had a hell of a time getting the body home, before the coroner and the police reporters got on the trail.”

Shirley lowered his high-ball glass, with an earnest stare.

“What was the idea?”

“Robbery, of course.  His son had me on the case—­’phoned from the garage where the chauffeur brought the body; after he saw the old man unconscious.  Just half an hour before he had left his office in the same machine, after taking five thousand dollars in cash from his manager.”

“Who was with him?”

“Now, that’s getting to brass tacks.  When I gets that C.Q.D. from Van Cleft, I finds the young fellow inside the ring of rubbernecks, blubbering over the old man, where he lies on the floor of the taxi—­looking soused.”

“He was a notorious old sport about town, Captain.”

“Sure—­and I thinks, it sorter serves him right.  But, that’s his funeral, not mine.  Van Cleft, junior, says to me:  ’There’s the girl that was with him.’”

“Where was the girl?”

“She was sitting on a stool, near the car, a little blonde chorus chicken, shaking and twitching, while the chauffeur and the garage boss held her up.  I says, ‘What’s this?’ and Van Cleft tells me all he knows, which ain’t nothing.  Them guys in that garage was wise, for it meant a cold five hundred apiece before I left to keep their lids closed.  Van Cleft begs me to hustle the old man home, so one of my men takes her down to my office, still a sniffling, and acting like she had the D.T.’s.  The young fellow shook like a leaf, but we takes him over to Central Park East, to the family mansion,—­carrying him up the steps like he was drunk.  We gets him into his own bed, and keeps the sister from touching his clammy hands, while she orders the family doctor.  When he gets there on the jump, I gives him the wink and leads him to one side.  ‘Doc,’ I says, ’you know how to write out a death certificate, to hush this up from your end.  I’ve done the rest.’”