quiet, in the station house--You know old man Van Cleft, who
owns sky-scrapers down town, don't you?--Well, he's the center
of this flying wedge of excitement. His family are fine people,
I understand. His daughter was to be married next week. Monty,
that wedding'll be postponed, and old Van Cleft won't worry over
dispossess papers for his tenants for the rest of the winter.
See?"

"Killed?"

"Correct. He's done, and I had a hell of a time getting the body
home, before the coroner and the police reporters got on the
trail."

Shirley lowered his high-ball glass, with an earnest stare.

"What was the idea?"

"Robbery, of course. His son had me on the case--'phoned from
the garage where the chauffeur brought the body; after he saw the
old man unconscious. Just half an hour before he had left his
office in the same machine, after taking five thousand dollars in
cash from his manager."

"Who was with him?"

"Now, that's getting to brass tacks. When I gets that C.Q.D.
from Van Cleft, I finds the young fellow inside the ring of
rubbernecks, blubbering over the old man, where he lies on the
floor of the taxi--looking soused."