“According to her diary,” Malone told him, “a man telephoned her and told her that if she’d go to such-and-such a hotel, and register under such-and-such a name, he’d meet her there with some very important information about the long-missing Robert Spencer. She went there, answered the door, ‘a man’—otherwise unidentified—forced her into the bathroom, slashed her wrists, and left her there unconscious. She told the police this story, and they laughed at her. The words Good-bye, good-bye were written on the bathroom mirror.”

Von Flanagan shuffled his feet uncomfortably and said, “You gotta admit, Malone, it smells phony.”

Malone ignored him. “From that point on, the diary is the story of a terrified girl who knows someone is trying to kill her. And yet,” he put down his cigar, “I’ll read you the last entry.”

“I am terribly afraid, but I must know the truth. I have been promised that if I keep the appointment I will be told what happened to Robert Spencer. This I must know.”

Malone closed the little diary gently and said, “The slip of paper directing me—or someone—to dig in the garden, under the tree, was found between those two pages.” He picked up the remains of his cigar, decided it was past all hope of relighting, and began to unwrap a new one.

“She took poison,” he said, “but not quite enough to kill her, and her maid was summoned home in time to have her rushed to a hospital. She registered at a hotel under a phony name and slashed her wrists—not badly—just before the hotel maid was due to come in.”

“What are you trying to prove?” von Flanagan asked uneasily.

“Nothing. Except that ‘the man’ must have known that ledge was safe enough to push a baby carriage on. He thought she’d use her head and climb back in through her window, though he made sure someone would see her and call the police before she did. He obviously didn’t know she had an abnormal fear of heights that would keep her frozen there, too scared to move and too sane to jump. Nor,” he added modestly, “did he know that I’d arrive providentially.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” von Flanagan said.

“Trouble is,” Malone said, reaching for the gin bottle, “right now, neither do I.”

Again the young policeman came to the door, even more mud on his boots and slicker. “We found a little of what’s left of his clothes,” he reported. “Looks like he’s been there a long time. Got his wallet, his watch, and some other stuff. Looks like,” he said, “he was some guy named Robert Spencer.”

Malone lifted the gin bottle to his lips, and closed his eyes.