CHAPTER XVIII

TWO BRANDS OF CIGARETTES

The Ardmore jail was located in the basement of Borough Hall, and, since it was but a place of temporary detention until prisoners could be removed to the county seat, it consisted of a single cell, a narrow steel cage tucked away in one corner adjoining the furnace room. It was here that Victor Sarbella, who had ceased his protests and had lapsed into a stony silence, that took no cognizance of Constable Griggs' persistent and exasperating questioning, had been lodged.

Wiggly Price found Borough Hall locked, and the place was in darkness. Griggs had decided to let the prisoner "cool his heels" for a while, and he had gone home to freshen himself with a nap before continuing the cross-examination. The village was still soundly asleep, and Wiggly, thinking that the constable must return shortly, made himself as comfortable as possible in the cab.

Time dragged past, and the reporter considered the Greenacres tragedy and its various angles. A great little rider of hunches was Wiggly, and, in the face of the obvious, he was riding the hunch that Sarbella hadn't shot Helen Gilmore. And the black hairpin, small a thing as it was, occupied a conspicuous corner of his thoughts. The broken vase he thought of only casually. The half-burned cigarette butt he admitted might have some importance, but he much doubted that it had belonged to Sarbella. As he had told Doctor Bushnell, he couldn't conceive a murderer, smoking a cigarette, would walk in on his victim. It just wasn't reasonable.

The east was bright with the dawn of a brilliant day; the sun mounted higher, and still Ham Griggs had not returned. Wiggly glanced at his watch with a growl of impatience; he knew that it wouldn't be long until other news hounds would be keen on the scent of the big story.

"Confound that fellow!" he muttered. "Where's he gone to? More than likely he considers the case solved and has gone home to tell his folks what a great detective he is!"

From far up the deserted street just one sound broke the stillness, a particularly cheerful, but tuneless, whistle which, as it came nearer, brought into view an elephantine youth who approached with a flat-footed shuffle, his shoes flapping noisily, as if they might be trying to mark time to their owner's musical efforts. The village fat boy, drawing closer, left off whistling and turned to song, singing in a shrill treble, "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas to-day."

Wiggly stepped from the cab to intercept him, and for no reason at all, unless it were taken for granted that it was outward evidence of an otherwise unexpressed mirth, Wiggly's ears twitched.

"Say, son," Wiggly said briskly, "do you know where Constable Griggs lives?"

For the moment Master Frederick Throgmorton, as the local juvenile heavyweight was named, was totally bereft of speech, completely hypnotized by the amazing gymnastics of Jimmy Price's ears.

"Huh?" he finally gulped. "Whatcha--whatcha say?"

"I said: Do you know where Constable Griggs lives?"

"Sure--sure thing," gasped Fatty Frederick. "Right--right down this street--third block, second house from the corner. Say, mister, tell a feller somethin'--how did you learn to do it?"

Wiggly flushed, as he always did when reminded of his refractory appendages, and he dived swiftly back into the cab, as he gave the chauffeur further directions. The taxi shot forward with a jerk. Less than a minute later they had negotiated the three blocks, and the New York newspaper man was on the sidewalk and at the picket gate of the Griggs cottage.

Etta, the constable's daughter, was ambitious, but her ambition was centered upon becoming a playwright and did not, as a rule, extend to early rising. But this morning she was up, fully dressed, and, at the moment of Wiggly Price's ring, pressing her father for further details of the Greenacres murder. For once in her life she was actually taking some pride in the fact that her parent was a constable. And Ham Griggs willingly sacrificed his intended "forty winks" that he might elaborate, none too modestly, on the part he had played; after all, it was something to be a hero to the critical and exacting Etta.

"I wouldn't be a lot surprised," he was saying, "that the reporter feller will be wantin' my pitcher to put in the paper. There ain't no use for me to deny, Etty, that I done a purty slick piece of work. I knowed the minute I clapped eyes on the Eyetalian that he was the one that done it. Wouldn't be surprised but what I'd better scoot down to Jess Burnside's pitcher gallery an' have some new pitchers struck; I ain't set for a pitcher since----" He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Father and daughter had been so absorbed that they had not heard the arrival of the taxi.

"I'll answer it, fawther," said Etta, and for once Ham Griggs did not correct the affectation which ordinarily so annoyed him. They had been sitting in the kitchen, and Etta had put on a pot of coffee which, entirely unnoticed, had boiled over. Ham tilted back in a chair, uniform coat thrown open, snapping his suspenders smartly against his chest.

Etta frisked through the brief hallway to the front of the cottage. As she opened the door, the upper portion of which was glass, with a frosted design alleged to be artistic, she faced Wiggly Price, who neglected the polite formality of removing his hat.

"Constable Griggs live here?"

"He does," admitted Etta, one hand resting upon her practically hipless waist, chin slightly tilted. "Who shall I tell fawther is calling, please?"

"Price, of _The Morning Star_."

"O--oh," gasped Etta, flustered. "Come--come right in; I'll tell him."

But there was no need to tell him. Ham Griggs, the intervening doors being open, had heard him and came striding out from the kitchen, morally certain that his prediction was well founded, and that the reporter had come for a photograph.

"Come right on in, son," he boomed hospitably. "Etty's just fixin' me up a cup of Java, an' I guess she can scare up a flock of eggs. Guess you ain't had no breakfast, huh? Come right on into the kitchen an' make yourself to home."

"Fawther!" cried Etta in embarrassed indignation. "Ain't you--haven't you forgotten your manners? In the kitchen? Why the very idea! I'll set the table in the dining room, and----"

"The kitchen for mine! Don't bother, Miss Griggs. I'm in pretty much of a hurry, but I can't turn down a cup of coffee after being up all night."

"Sure," the constable nodded complacently and then added: "Guess nothin' new turned up out at Greenacres, huh? I nailed the right man, all right; not a bad piece of work for a hick constable, if I do say so myself." With a laugh he led the way into the kitchen, while the mortified Etta bit her lip in chagrin; but there was no choice in accepting the situation. She recalled a line from her "Social Etiquette" which told her, "When embarrassed by an unexpected caller, the hostess should at once accept the situation in good grace and make her guest feel welcome." But a guest in the kitchen! Her little reference book was mute as to that.

"I want to see Sarbella just as quickly as I can," said Wiggly, sitting down and hitching his chair close to the table. He sniffed avidly. "Ah, that coffee does smell good!"

"Sure," agreed Ham Griggs. "But whatcha want to see him about? What's happened?"

"Nothing's happened--exactly," Wiggly answered cautiously, knowing that the constable would in all probability resent any intimation of Sarbella's possible innocence. Even a seasoned detective, once he has made up his mind, does not relish the idea of being shown that he had been wrong. In Griggs' case, it would be a hard blow to his exuberant vanity. "But, as you may realize, our evidence against the man is so far purely circumstantial."

"Oh, don't you worry about that," the constable said complacently; "he'll come through with a confession, after he's had a good taste of jail. Stubborn as a mule he is so far, but he'll break down; they all do."

"Isn't it thrilling!" broke in Etta, pouring coffee. "It's what you call a big story, isn't it?"

Wiggly gave a smiling nod. "It's about the best murder story I've ever worked on."

Etta beamed. "It was I who called up your editor and told him about it," she announced.

"The thunder you did!" grunted Ham Griggs.

"If it's a scoop," promised Wiggly; "I'll tell the city editor to have the business office mail you a fat little check for the tip."

"Oh, no! I didn't do it for any mercenary reasons. But, if the editor wants to say something nice about my play----"

"Eh--your play?"

"I expect it to be produced this fall. It's nearly finished; I have promised to let a New York producer stage it."

"Yes, I see," murmured Wiggly gravely. He had the good sense not to indulge in a smile, but his ears moved faintly. "And I'll certainly speak to the dramatic critic about it--I certainly will." Under his breath he added: "Lord, what the play bug does to people!"

Etta was so excited by what she considered the total success of her plan to establish a cordial personal relationship with the press that she tipped a cup, spilling hot coffee over the back of her father's hand.

"The murder at Greenacres has given me the inspiration for another play," she said. "It shall be a mystery play; they're so popular in New York."

"A good mystery is about the most interesting thing in the world," declared Wiggly, dropping a spoonful of sugar and stirring vigorously.

"And the Gilmore tragedy--fawther has just finished telling me all about it--isn't it dramatic?"

"It certainly is, Miss Griggs," agreed the reporter, wishing the girl were in Halifax.

"And to think," she rushed on, "that Kirklan Gilmore's new wife was such an awful woman. So pretty, too; I saw her only the other day. You know it was such a surprise when he married her. Mrs. Huggins--she's a seamstress and used to sew for the Gilmores--thought it was certain that he would marry Joan; such a sweet girl, Joan."

Wiggly's wandering thoughts suddenly became centered upon what the gushing Etta was saying.

"Joan?" he murmured.

"Young Mr. Gilmore's stepsister, you know. Didn't you see her? Such a sweet girl! Oh, I suppose some people would consider it unusual for a man to marry his stepsister, but Mrs. Huggins thought it would turn out that way. She's got sharp eyes, Mrs. Huggins has, and she said that Joan was simply in love with Mr. Gilmore; she used to help him so much with his work, I understand. And then, while she was away in Europe, he married the other one. It was such a terrible surprise to everybody. And Mrs. Huggins said----" Her gossip broke off into a gasp, as she stared at the reporter's ears which were now wiggling almost violently.

So Joan was in love with her stepbrother; she had dark hair; and he had found a black hairpin on the floor beside the slain woman's body! This certainly was food for thought--not only food, but a feast! The Greenacres story gave promise of being a live mystery.

And there was the cigarette butt; the husband did not smoke cigarettes; therefore it could not be explained by his dropping it there, and, if it wasn't Sarbella's----There was another angle.

During Etta's moment of speechlessness, Wiggly debated these matters swiftly, as he gulped down his coffee, and Constable Griggs embraced the opportunity to get back into the conversation.

"Whatcha say you wanted to see Sarbella about?" he demanded.

"As I said," answered Wiggly; "there's no proof against him except that he might be considered to have a motive, and that he also had an opportunity to commit the crime. Juries don't send men to the death chair on that sort of evidence. Of course, if he makes a confession or we can trace the murder gun to him, that automatically solves our difficulty; but Sarbella is probably shrewd enough to realize what a weak case you've got against him; if he does realize that, and if he is guilty, he'll have sense enough to keep his mouth shut."

"Whatcha hittin' at?" growled Ham Griggs.

"After you left Greenacres, Doctor Bushnell and I looked around a little, and we found a half-burned cigarette mashed down into the rug of the room where the woman was killed. Since Gilmore doesn't smoke----"

"Sarbella smokes 'em," broke in the constable. "Sure he does; purty near one right after the other. Regular cigarette fiend, the feller is. That clinches the case on him, huh? Is that what you're drivin' at?"

"If he smokes the same sort of cigarette as the one Doctor Bushnell found on the rug, I'd say it was pretty much a clincher. It would be evidence that he had been in the room."

"Of course it's his cigarette!" exclaimed Ham Griggs, lumbering swiftly to his feet. "I'd bet a hundred dollars on it. Come on, son, we'll get right down to the jail and prove it."

"Why, fawther!" came Etta's protest. "Won't you let Mr. Price wait until I have cooked the eggs? I was going to put them on the fire this minute."

"Speaking for Mr. Price," said Wiggly, "the coffee is sufficient. Thanks just the same." He pushed back his chair and moved to follow the constable.

"Like as not when we face 'im with this," suggested Griggs, "he'll break down an' make a clean breast of it."

"Oh, Mr. Price," called Etta, "you won't forget to--to speak to the dramatic critic about my play?"

Wiggly promised, without committing himself as to just how he would speak of it; there are some things, from a diplomatic standpoint, best left unsaid.

The constable clumped briskly out of the house with the reporter following. As they got into the taxi, Ham Griggs wondered if he were not to be asked for a photograph with which to adorn the first page of _The Star_; already he had visualized the caption: "Figures in Gilmore Murder Case--Local Officer Who Solved Baffling Mystery."

"If you want my pitcher for the paper," he suggested, "I'd better see about havin' one struck. Of course I ain't lookin' for no puff, but----"

"No use going to that expense," Wiggly broke in; "we'll probably have a staff photographer down during the day, and he can snap you on the scene--examining the murder gun, you know, or something like that. Action pictures always more interesting, Mr. Constable," he ended emphatically.

The brief trip was completed, and, as the machine again drew to a halt in front of Borough Hall, the chauffeur entered a protest.

"Say, boss," he exclaimed, "you don't expect a guy to sit at the wheel forever, do you? A man's gotta sleep some time. Guess you'd better pay what the meter reads an' let me skim back to the big town."

Wiggly paid the charge, which was twenty-seven dollars, gave a three-dollar tip, and let him go. Griggs entered the village's public building and led the way down into the basement, where Sarbella was lodged. At the sound of their footsteps, ringing on the concrete floor, the prisoner left off his nervous pacing of the cell's narrow confines and came to the steel door of the cage. His attitude was weary, dejected.

"Mebbe you're ready to speak up, huh?" grunted Ham Griggs, facing him from the other side of the bars.

"I have nothing to add," Victor Sarbella answered; "you already have the only statement I care to make," he paused briefly and then added, "for the present."

"Silence ain't goin' to do you no good, for I aim to keep you right where you are until you get ready to start talkin'," blustered the constable. "We know you killed her; we've dug up some more evidence on you--little matter of a cigarette that you dropped on the floor of that room out to Greenacres."

"Cigarette?" muttered Sarbella.

"May I have your cigarette case for a moment, Mr. Sarbella?" requested Wiggly.

The prisoner hesitated, gave the newspaper man a wary glance, and, evidently realizing that they would take it away from him by force, if he refused, slid his hand into his pocket, producing a silver case inlaid with gold stripes. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know what it's all about, but you're welcome; please do not destroy the smokes. I've only two left."

Wiggly Price took the elaborate case, which Sarbella passed through the bars, and snapped it open. One glance was sufficient to verify his logical doubts that the butt of the cheap cigarette which Doctor Bushnell had discovered on the floor of the tragedy chamber had not been the artist's. The two cigarettes before him were of an expensive imported brand, straw-tipped and monogrammed with the man's initials.

The constable was looking over his shoulder, as Wiggly extracted from his vest pocket the flattened bit of evidence upon which both Doctor Bushnell and Ham Griggs had expressed so much faith. He unfolded the strip of paper that enwrapped it.

"They are not the same," he announced. "I didn't expect them to be. The question now is--to whom did this belong? It looks very much like another man--a man with cheap tastes in tobacco--was in that room last night!"

Victor Sarbella pressed his body tensely against the bars, but not so much as a syllable passed his lips. Perhaps there was a look of relief in his face.