Having determined that she had gotten all the concessions she was likely to get, little Jean nodded solemnly and went to her playroom to retrieve the magnifier. After a few minutes, she returned with the instrument. After getting our coats and hats, Mr. Clemens and I accompanied Martha McPhee down to the street, where we mounted into her carriage and her driver Jimmy took us off to see the scene of the crime again—this time in daylight.
Martha’s building looked considerably more ordinary in the afternoon sun than it had in the rain and mists of the previous evening. Then it had seemed uninviting, even a bit gloomy. Now it appeared little different from the buildings on either side, a blocky brick edifice that could have been transplanted to New York or Boston without attracting much notice. Jimmy pulled the horses up in front of it, and I hopped out to reach a hand to Mrs. McPhee as she descended.
Mr. Clemens stepped out and peered up at the windows of the apartment where the murder had taken place less than twenty-four hours ago. I thought he must be sharing my reflective mood, until he said, “The room we were sitting in is on the other side of the building, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s in the back,” said Martha. “Did you want to see it from the ground?”
“Probably don’t have to,” said Mr. Clemens. “I was trying to figure out if anybody from outside could have seen into that room last night—maybe the shooter wasn’t in the room at all. But I can look out the upstairs window and get as good an answer to that as I could from ground level.”
“The curtains were all drawn,” Martha reminded him. “Besides, what could someone from outside have done? If the bullet had come from outside, one of the windows would have broken.”
“Not if it was left open,” said Mr. Clemens.
“And if it had been open, we would have felt a draft,” said Martha. “Besides, it could not have been done without my knowing it. But why are we holding this discussion out on the street, when we could be upstairs looking for whatever the police may have missed? Follow me, please, gentlemen.” And she turned and led the way into the building, and up the stairs.
Inside the apartment, Martha lit the gas, then turned to my employer and said, “Where do you think we should begin?”
Mr. Clemens looked around the little front room, and said, “I’d like to get a closer look at all those trick bell ropes and spy holes that detective found last night. I always wondered how the spooks made all those noises people heard at séances.”
A disappointed look came over Martha’s face. “I can’t see how any of that can help Edward,” she said.
“I can’t either—yet.” Mr. Clemens walked over to the bell ropes and gave one of them an experimental tug. The sound of a clattering chain came faintly through the door to the other room. He flashed a smile, like a boy who’d found a hidden box of Christmas toys, then turned to Martha with a more serious expression. “But I think there’s a good chance that the murderer knew what to expect. The shot seems to have been timed for when there was a racket to cover up the gunshot, and that suggests to me that the killer knew there was going to be a racket. Did anybody besides you and Ed know about these contraptions?”
Martha had kept a stoical expression as my employer spoke, but after he finished she gave him a pale smile, and said, “Oh, very well. If I really want you to help me, I can’t reasonably hope to prevent you prying into dark corners. We had a man come in to do the actual work—Edward isn’t very good at carpentry or the like, although he designed all the apparatus. He’s very clever at things like that. But naturally the workman would have known about it.”
“Figures,” said Mr. Clemens. He reached over and gave a tug on another rope, which produced the sound like a distant church bell, then continued. “Ed’s never been a man who’d do anything to put calluses on his hands, unless you can get ’em from a deck of cards. I reckon it’d be worth our while to talk to that worker. Did you hold on to his address?”
“Well, yes we did, but I don’t think you’re likely to find him there,” said Martha. “It was Terry Mulligan, the man who ran away when he came back and saw the police here. He’s most likely gone into hiding someplace—unless they’ve found him today and taken him in.”
“Damn,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t know whether I’d rather have him stay free or get caught, but either way, I guess we aren’t going to learn anything from him before the police get it. We’ll get his address and maybe look in there later, on the off chance we can find out something useful, but I’m not going to get my hopes up very high. Let’s have a look through that spy hole. Where is it?” He turned and looked at the wall behind which the séance room lay, scanning the various picture frames and lighting fixtures there.
“Behind this,” said Martha, indicating a small colored engraving of an outdoor scene. She lifted it up to reveal a brass plate about six inches in diameter, with several parallel slits, almost like a miniature
