“Them’s the cockatoos,” said the landlady. “They miss Mr. Spatola very much. When I go to feed them with the stale bread and seed he has here for them, would you believe it, they’ll hardly eat a thing.”
The room was without a floor covering. Upon some rough shelves, nailed to the wall, were heaps of music. A violin case also lay there. There were a few chairs, a cot-bed, and a neat pile of books upon a table. Ashton-Kirk ran over these quickly; they were mostly upon musical subjects, and in Italian. But some were Spanish, English, German and French.
“He was the greatest hand for talking and reading languages,” said Mrs. Marx, wonderingly. “I don’t think there was any kind of a nationality that he couldn’t converse with. Mr. Sagon that lives on the floor below says that his French was elegant, and Mr. Hertz, my parlor lodger, used to just love to talk German with him. He said his German was so high.”
Ashton-Kirk opened the violin case and looked at the instrument within.
“Spatola always carried his violin in this when he went out, I suppose?” he said, inquiringly.
“Oh, yes; that one he did. But the one on the wall there,” pointing to a second instrument hanging from a peg, “he never took much care of that. It’s the one he played on the street, you see.”
Her visitors followed the gesture with interest.
“That was just to clinch a point I made with Fuller this morning,” said the investigator to Pendleton, in explanation. Then to Mrs. Marx he continued: “Mr. Spatola had visitors from time to time, had he not?”
But the woman shook her head.
“Sometimes he had a pupil who came in the evening. But they never came more than once or twice; he generally called them thickheads after a little, and told them they’d better go back to the grocery or butcher’s shop where they belonged.”
“Are you quite sure that no one else ever called upon him?”
The woman nodded positively.
“I’m certain sure of it,” she said. “I remember saying more than once to my gentlemen on the different floors, that Mr. Spatola must be awfully lonely sometimes. Mr. Crawford would often come up here and smoke with him and play a game or two of Pedro. Mr. Hertz tried it a couple of times; but him and Mr. Spatola couldn’t hit it very well.”
“How many lodgers have you?”
“I have rooms for nine. Just now there are seven. But only four are steadies—Mr. Hertz, Mr. Crawford, Mr. Sagon and Mr. Spatola. Mr. Hertz is an inspector of the people who canvass for the city directory; he took the parlor after Mr. Spatola gave it up. He drinks a little, but he’s a perfect gentleman for all that. Mr. Crawford is a traveling man, and is seldom home; but he pays in advance, so I don’t never worry about him. Mr. Sagon is what they call an expert. He can’t speak much English yet, but sometimes even the government,” in an awed tone, “sends for him to come to the customs house to tell them how much diamonds are worth, that people bring in. He works for Baum Brothers and Wright. The others,” bulking them as being of no consequence, “are all gentlemen who are employed on the directory under Mr. Hertz.”
“Have you any Italian lodgers other than Mr. Spatola?”
The woman shook her head.
“No,” she said, “and I don’t want none, if this is the way they carry on.”
“Are there any other rooming houses in the street?”
“No, sir. It’s only a block long, and I know every house in it. I’m the only one as takes lodgers.”
“Are there any Italians in business in the block, or employed in any of the business places?”
Mrs. Marx again shook her head positively.
“Not any.”
“You speak of a Mr. Sagon. Of what nationality is he?”
“Oh, he’s French, but he’s lived a long time in Antwerp. That’s where he learned the diamond business. And he must have lived in other places in Europe; Mr. Spatola says he has spoken of them often.”
Just then there came from below the sound of a heavy voice, singing. The words were French and the intonation here and there was strange to Ashton-Kirk.
“Who is that?” he asked.
“It’s Mr. Sagon,” replied the woman. “He’s the greatest one for singing them little French songs.”
“Ah, I have it,” said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment. “He’s a Basque, of course. I couldn’t place that accent at first.”
A narrow, ladder-like flight of stairs was upon one side. Ashton-Kirk mounted these and found himself in a smaller loft; a number of well-kept cockatoos, in cages, set up a harsh screaming at sight of him. Opening a low door he stepped out upon a tin roof. Mrs. Marx and Pendleton had followed him, and the former said:
“The police was up here looking. They said Mr. Spatola came through the trapdoor at Hume’s place that night and walked along the roofs and so down to his own room.”
“That would he very easily done,” answered Ashton-Kirk, as his eye took in the level stretch of roofs.
After a little more questioning to make sure that the landlady had missed nothing, they thanked her and left the house. At his door they saw the man in the cloth cap and overalls. A second and very unwieldy man, with a flushed, unhealthy looking face, had just stopped to speak to him.
He supported himself with one hand on the wall.
“Hello!” called the machinist to Ashton-Kirk; and as the two approached him, he said to the unwieldy man: “I stopped you to tell you these gents had gone in. They’re detectives.”
“Oh,” said the man, with interest in his wavering eye. “That so.” He regarded the two young men uncertainly for a moment; and then asked: “Did Mrs. Marx tell you anything?”
“She didn’t seem to know much,” answered the investigator.
The unwieldy man swayed to and fro, an expression of cunning gathering in his face. The
