quite far away, many yards from him, the three of us together. He must have had a seizure, a dizzy spell. We heard the scream as he slipped, toppled — and then he was gone. The Vermont police examined the site after we reported it. It had begun to snow and they could not make out any footprints on the edge. But from the points of the jagged crags below, which they could reach, they recovered bits of bone, bits of flesh, and bits of the ski suit he had been wearing. The body, of course, was never recovered.' He put the tip of his right index finger between his teeth and bit upon the fingernail, audibly.
'Mr. Troy,' I said. 'Do you have any idea as to why your sister has come up with this-wild story of hers?'
'I'm afraid there's only one explanation. I believe her to be in the throes of a severe nervous breakdown.'
'But is there any basis for it? Any past history? Any reason?'
'She mentioned our reciprocal wills to you, didn't she?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Well, Adam's estate, after taxes, was divided into approximately fifty thousand dollars for each of us. My brother Joseph, a childless widower, was a rather conservative man, as am I. We put that money away and continued in the even tenor of our ways — but not so Sylvia. She quit her nightclub work, went off to Europe, and within a year, she had squandered her inheritance in toto. I think this did something to her, disturbed her, that within a year she was back to where she had started. She was compelled to return to work for a living, and right then, right from the beginning, she began to act peculiarly. Then she began to prattle about a plot, our plot, to murder Adam. And now this terrible business about Adam's ghost.'
'And what about Joseph?' I said. 'His suicide. Would you tell me?'
'Precious little to tell. Joseph was a sweet, simple, meticulous man. He was quite a hypochondriac although he had a dread of doctors. About six months ago he developed stomach pains, nausea, vomiting. He refused to go to a doctor, but I finally dragged him. X-rays disclosed a mass in his stomach. The doctors believed it to be benign, but Joseph believed otherwise. We had arranged for an operation but, before the time for it arrived, he killed himself.'
'Yes, I know, he slashed his wrists,' I said. 'But what about this business of no weapon?'
He smiled, yellow-fanged, sadly. 'The police are satisfied with the explanation. Joseph committed suicide in his bathroom. He cut open his wrists and bled to death. Knowing Joseph, I know exactly what he did, once he made up his mind to do it. There was an open razor found nearby, without a blade. He took the blade from the razor, cut his wrists, dropped the blade into the toilet bowl, flushed the toilet, and bled to death. There was a good deal of blood, all over that bathroom, but no actual weapon. Joseph was meticulous, a creature of habit. He flushed the weapon away into the toilet bowl. The police agreed completely with my thinking in the matter. After all, I was his brother; I knew him.'
I stood up, saying, 'Thank you.'
'Mr. Chambers, please.' He fidgeted, hesitant, obviously embarrassed.
'Yes?' I said.
'Mr. Chambers,' he blurted. 'I believe you should return that fee to my sister.'
'Why?'
'She doesn't need a private detective. She needs a doctor.'
'I'm inclined to agree.'
He smiled, seeming relieved that I understood and acquiesced. 'I've already made inquiries,' he said, 'and I've selected a physician, nerve-specialist, psychiatrist, whatever the devil they call them these days. By some pretext or other, I'm going to get her to him.'
'Good enough,' I said. 'As for the fee, I agree. It belongs with a doctor, rather than with me.'
'You're extremely considerate. I thank you.'
'I don't believe I should give it to her, though,' I said. 'No sense disturbing her any further. I'll bring it to you. I don't have it with me, but I'll deliver it later on to your apartment.'
'Please keep fifty dollars of it, Mr. Chambers. You've certainly earned that.'
'Thank you. Then I'll see you later.'
'You know where?'
'Miss Troy gave me your address on Fourth Street.'
'It's apartment 3 A. And, oh!'
'Yes?'
'Actually, I'm a night man here. I work from two in the afternoon and I close at ten. Then I go home, eat, shower, relax. So I'm not home until quite late.'
'I'm somewhat of a night man, myself,' I said. 'Suppose I come around midnight. Is that all right?'
'Fine, fine. You've been very kind, Mr. Chambers.'
He shook hands with me and I left.
At ten o'clock that evening, with two hundred and fifty dollars of her fee in my pocket, I sat at a back table of Cafe Bella and watched her act. Cafe Bella was dim and unpretentious, the service was poor, the liquor was bad, and so was Sylvia Troy's act. She came out in black trousers and a black blouse and she did imitations of celebrities, male and female. Her range of voice was marvelous — from deep male baritone to male tenor to male alto to female contralto to mezzo-soprano to the high squiggly soprano of elderly women — but her imitations were rank, her material wretched, her timing deplorable, and her woeful little jokes were delivered without a spark of talent. I left in the middle of her performance.
I had a late supper, I wandered in and out of some of the Village clubs, I had a few drinks, I watched a few dancing girls, and then at midnight I went to 149 West 4th Street which was Simon Troy's address. A self-service elevator took me up to the third floor and there I pushed the button of 3 A. There was no answer. I pushed again. No answer. I tried the knob. The door was open and I entered.
Simon Troy was seated, staring straight ahead, his elbows resting on the edge of a table for two. On the table in front of him was a large cocktail glass empty except for a cherry at its base. He was staring at a vacant chair opposite. On that side of the table, in front of the vacant chair, stood a similar cocktail glass brimming-full and untouched. I went quickly to Simon Troy, examined him, and then went to the telephone and called the police to report his death.
The man in charge was my friend Detective-Lieutenant Louis Parker of Homicide. His experts quickly ascertained the cause of death as cyanide poisoning. The cherry in the drained cocktail glass was thoroughly imbued with it. Simon Troy's fingerprints were on the stem of the glass. The other glass was free of poison. There were no fingerprints on its stem. Inspection revealed no vial or other container for poison in the apartment. After the body and the evidence were removed and Lieutenant Parker and I were alone, he said, 'Well, what goes? What's the story on this? What are you doing here?'
'Do you believe in ghosts, Lieutenant?'
Cryptically he said, 'Sometimes. Why? Are you going to tell me a ghost story?'
'I might at that,' I said. I told him the entire story and I told him what I was doing in Simon Troy's apartment.
'Wow,' he said. 'Let's go talk to the little lady.'
She was in her dressing room. She maintained that she had been in her dressing room, or out on the floor performing, all night. Her dressing room opened upon a corridor which led to a back exit directly on the street. Parker questioned all the employees in the place. None could disprove what Sylvia Troy had said. Then Parker took her to the station house and I accompanied them. There he questioned and cross-questioned her for hours, but she stoutly maintained that she had not left her dressing room except to go out on the floor and do her act. Policemen came and went and the questioning was frequently interrupted by whispered conferences. At length Parker threw his hands up. 'Get out,' he said to her. 'Go home. And you better stay there so we know where we can reach you.'
'Yes, sir,' she said meekly and departed.
We were silent. Parker lit a cigar and I lit a cigarette. Finally I said, 'Well, what do you think?'
