“Miss Ickthorpe, Mr. Crane, Mr. Burrows—your first corpse,” said Ellery briskly. “Now, dad, to work. How does it stand?”

Inspector Queen sighed. “Name is Oliver Spargo. Forty-two, separated from his wife two years ago. Mercantile traveler for a big drygoods exporting house. Returned from South Africa after a year’s stay. Bad reputation with the natives in the outlying settlements—thrashed them, cheated them; in fact, was driven out of British Africa by a scandal. It was in the New York papers not long ago. . . . Registered at the Fenwick here for three days—same floor, by the way—then checked out to go to Chicago. Visiting relatives.” The Inspector grunted, as if this were something justifiably punished by homicide. “Returned to New York this morning by plane. Checked in at 9:30. Didn’t leave this room. At 11:30 he was found dead, just as you see him, by the colored maid on this floor, Agatha Robins.”

“Leads?”

The old man shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not. We’ve looked this bird up. Pretty hard guy, from the reports, but sociable. No enemies, apparently; all his movements since his boat docked innocent and accounted for. And a lady-killer. Chucked his wife over before his last trip across, and took to his bosom a nice blonde gal. Fussed with her for a couple of months, and then skipped out—and didn’t take her with him. We’ve had both women on the pan.”

“Suspects?”

Inspector Queen stared moodily at the dead traveler. “Well, take your pick. He had one visitor this morning—the blonde lady I just mentioned. Name of Jane Terrill—no sign of occupation. Huh! She evidently read in the ship news of Spargo’s arrival two weeks ago; hunted him up, and a week ago, while Spargo was in Chicago, called at the desk downstairs inquiring for him. She was told he was expected back this morning—he’d left word. She came in at 11:05 this a.m., was given his room-number, was taken up by the elevator-boy. Nobody remembers her leaving. But she says she knocked and there was no answer, so she went away and hasn’t been back since. Never saw him—according to her story.”

Miss Ickthorpe skirted the corpse with painful care, perched herself on the edge of the bed, opened her bag and began to powder her nose. “And the wife, Inspector Queen?” she murmured. Something sparkled in the depths of her fawn-brown eyes. Miss Ickthorpe, it was evident, had an idea and was taking heroic measures to suppress it.

“The wife?” snorted the Inspector. “God knows. She and Spargo separated, as I said, and she claims she didn’t even know he’d come back from Africa. Says she was window-shopping this morning.”

It was a small featureless hotel room, containing a bed, a wardrobe closet, a bureau, a night-table, a desk, and a chair. A dummy fireplace with a gas-log; an open door which led to a bathroom—nothing more.