Stan pulled up the blinds on the other two windows. Unlike the one he had just left, which faced toward Satsuma Road, they opened on the back of the house. He unhooked the screens on both and looked out. The Captain lit a cigar and watched.
“You get funny ideas yourself,” he said, after a couple of satisfying puffs. “You think Fowler was afraid of trouble and was keeping a weather eye on that window. Why wasn’t he watching the door in back of him? The killer came through there!”
Stan rehooked the screen in the third window, and turned around. There were two doors in the other side of the room. One, partially opened, revealed the bathroom. Stan crossed the room, pushed the door wide, and went in. The rack was replete with fresh hand towels. Stan came out, and said plaintively: “I couldn’t look under the tub. It’s cemented to the tile floor.”
“You’re dodging my question, Stan.”
“Not at all. I’m considering it. Assuming Fowler was killed while sitting in this room—”
“Assuming hell,” the Captain broke in with irritation. “Quit diving off into a sea of salt herrings. You can’t can a two hundred pound corpse into a house like this and lug it up a flight of stairs without leaving traces. There are none. Now tell me he was stabbed in West Palm Beach, brought here by plane, and dropped through the roof!”
“All right—all right.” Stan grinned maliciously. It made him feel better to get his friend roiled out of official composure. “At least I’m convinced that we have a common starting point. Fowler was killed in here. Why he came in here—we don’t know yet.”
“Caprilli?” LeRoy bit down hard on his cigar.
Stan shook his head. “I doubt it. Caprilli’s method is to take them out in cars, sew them up in sacks, and dump them off in vacant lots. But, if you don’t object, I’d like to talk to Caprilli this afternoon. I think I know where to locate him. Maybe I can get more out of him than you can.”
“Hop to it!” LeRoy ground out his cigar in an ashtray, viciously wishing the piece of metal was Caprilli’s right eye. ”If I get within arm’s length of that murdering dog I’ll twist his dirty neck!”
Stan opened the closet door. Seven folding chairs, similar to the one at the poker table, were slacked neatly in a pile on the floor. He unfolded one, slid it along the polished floor toward the Captain, and fixed another for himself. When he closed the closet door on the remainder, he had, Proteus-like, again become serious, almost morose.
“Sit down, Vince, I’ll be back in a minute.”
He walked out into the hall, turned right, passed the locked door to the bridge room on his left, and paused listening at the top of the stairs just beyond. A murmur of voices came from downstairs, followed by the sound of the typewriter. The distraught Toby Munroe, whom they had left bowed over the table in the bridge room, had recovered enough to go down and resume his work.
Stan retraced his steps, but paused in front of the window at the end of the hall. It was right outside of the poker room door, and was screened like the rest. Captain LeRoy, inside the room, watched Stan open the screen and close it again. It was but a few steps from where LeRoy was seated. Stan left the window, stepped inside, and took the chair he had fixed for himself.
“I think Edward Fowler knew he was in danger,” he began without preliminary. “But he didn’t think that danger existed inside this club—ergo, watching the window instead of the door. Does that make sense?”
The Captain nodded approval. “Go on.”
“Some things here just don’t make sense. Who put the chairs away?”
“Those in the closet?”
“Certainly. Munroe was expecting a poker game in this room last night—unless he’s lying. I don’t think he’s lying. Juan had prepared a cold buffet. It’s in the icebox now—untouched. No gambling club makes patrons set up their own chairs. There was one here for Fowler. The rest were in the closet.”
LeRoy removed his cap and mopped his brow. “What about—”
“The guy who phoned?” Stan mimicked. “I already have a bellyache thinking about that talkative fool. Why should he be roaming around in the middle of the night putting chairs away? Why, Vince, why? You’re sure they weren’t around the table when you got here? Fawcett couldn’t have folded them up and put them in there when he checked them for prints?
“You’re pitching wild, Stan. I can show you the pictures at headquarters if you think I’m slipping.”
Stan was regarding the round mahogany chip-rack in the center of the poker table. It contained several stacks of varicolored chips. There were four slots in the top which held unopened packs of cards, partially protruding. He pulled it toward him and let the chips trickle idly through his slim fingers. Then, impatiently he pushed it. away.
“I am shooting wild, Vince. My only excuse is that now and again a wild shot will hit a bird. Everything around here is full of question marks: Why didn’t Caprilli’s crowd show up? Moneta Caprilli would tommygun his little sister for fifty bucks. Why did Fowler come in here at all? And the chairs, Vince? I’ve got to get something to eat!”
The Captain had to dog-trot on the way downstairs to keep up with Stan’s strides. Juan Andres was dusting in the hall. Stan paused long enough to ask: “Were the chairs set up for the poker party last night Juan?”
The Cuban showed his surprise. “Yes, sir. All of them. Mr. Munroe gave me instructions.”
“At what time?” The Captain demanded.
“Between seven and eight, sir. Just before I started to fix the food.”
“Did you put them away in the closet before you left for the night?”
“No, sir. They stay around the table most of
