“It looks,” the young policeman added, “like he might of been murdered. Anyway we found what must of been a bullet in what looks like it probably had been his stomach, once.”

“Go away,” Malone groaned. He put down the gin bottle and sneezed again.

“You’re going to get pneumonia,” von Flanagan said solicitously.

The little lawyer shook his head. “Not on my income.”

“I better go back out,” the young policeman said. “Johnson still thinks he can find the rest of that left foot.” He slammed the door.

“Malone,” von Flanagan said, “that note. Was it written in the same handwriting as the diary?”

Malone blew his nose and said “Yes,” unhappily. That was one of the things that had been bothering him. Plus the fact that there was something maddeningly reminiscent about the wording of the note. “But,” he added, “it wasn’t written on a telephone pad.” If he could only remember—

At this point another young policeman came in the room and said, “There’s someone here inquiring about Miss Dawn. I thought I’d better speak to you. He says his name is Robert Spencer.”

Malone covered his eyes with his hand and said, “This is too much!”

Von Flanagan said, “By all means, send him in.”

“By all means,” Malone repeated. “Maybe he can help find what’s left of his own left foot.” He sneezed again. He downed another drink of gin. Then, suddenly he remembered, Bob Spencer, actor. Appearing, right now, in a rather dreary and not too successful comedy. Robert Spencer had had a small son, parked somewhere with relatives, when he met and married Diana Dawn.

“There’s someone with him,” the policeman said. “A Mr. Apt.”

“John Apt,” Malone said. “He’s an old-time theatrical agent. His friends call him Jack. Managed Diana Dawn, probably managed Robert Spencer, too—I don’t know.” He smothered the next sneeze.

Bob Spencer was tall, young, handsome and anxious-eyed. His first words were, “Is Doris all right? What’s been happening to her? Why are all these policemen at her house? Where is she? When can I see her?”

Jack Apt smiled at Malone, von Flanagan, and the young policeman. It was a friendly, ingratiating smile. He nodded a shoulder toward the young actor and said, “You pardon him, he is upset.”

Nothing, Malone reflected, would ever upset Jack Apt. The diminutive agent had undoubtedly been born with a friendly smile and an imperturbable face and hadn’t changed his expression in all his sixtyodd years. He had bright little eyes, a white, waxy skin, and a few wisps of silvery hair on his well-shaped skull. He wore a black Chesterfield that seemed too large for his tiny frame and carried, incredibly and appropriately, a black derby.