“Poor place to do it, chief. On his own doorstep. Lots of other places would have been better.”

“A cemetery, I suppose,” Stewart sneered.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I HAD NO IDEA what was going on that day. Tony called twice, to ask Miss Mattie how I was; but I knew nothing of the conference at the Cloisters between Dwight Elliott, Brander Jones, and Tony; or of the autopsy, which showed that Bessie had been killed, as had been suspected, by a blow on the head. The little revolver, fingerprinted, showed no prints but her own. It had not been fired. The doorknob to the west wing door showed her prints, but also those of Reynolds. It looked as though she had simply stepped through it and had been immediately attacked.

What I knew by six o’clock that night was only from the newspapers. They spread themselves, of course. Third Murder At Cloisters. Wife of Young Millionaire Killed was typical of them all. None of them openly accused Tony, but practically all of them spoke of an estrangement. I learned later that Jim Conway had called the reporters into his office and laid his cards on his desk face up.

“This is straight,” he said. “We don’t know who did it. I’ll swear that I don’t, and that goes for the district attorney’s men too. We haven’t got the weapon. You can say we hope to make an arrest soon, but I’m damned if I know who it will be. You needn’t put that in, unless you want Beverly to have a new chief of police; but that’s how it is.”

He took them over to the hotel and ordered ginger ale, which made their faces fall until he produced a bottle. After that they cheered up.

“Straight goods, chief. Not a clue?”

“Not a clue. Why don’t you fellows look for the weapon? Whoever did it wouldn’t carry it far.”

The net result of which was a rather hilarious crowd of young newspapermen searching the woods and ditches, and even the grounds of the country club. Just before dark one of them went back to Jim’s office. He had a package carefully wrapped in yellow paper. He unrolled it and stood back.

“Ditch behind that playhouse affair. Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

It did, although it had been carefully wiped. Jim looked at it. It was a bronze Buddha, very heavy, and he had a good idea where it came from. He kept an impassive face, however.

“Ever see it before?” the reporter inquired, watching him.

Jim smiled. “Dozens of them around, boy,” he said. “What home without a fat Buddha these days?”

“What d’you bet it comes from the Cloisters itself? There’s a Chinese room, isn’t there?”

“You don’t have to have a Chinese room to have one of them. I’ve got a pair myself. Book ends,” he added, seeing the boy’s grin. “Go and look if you like. They’re both still there.”

When he was alone he telephoned Reynolds, and Reynolds called the parlormaid. He came back, his voice strained.