Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“I’ll give Mrs. Wheatland a receipt for these and you can do the same, Saleworth,” he said. “I, too, should like to give these to experts.”

“I am an expert,” said Saleworth a trifle stiffly. “And I pronounce them fine stones of the first water. How ever, the thing was too much of a menace to be lightly treated. Five experts wait to examine the stones I was to bring them after to-night’s demonstration.”

Mrs. Wheatland watched the men write their receipts with sullen, brilliant eyes. She shrugged them aside when they handed them to her and Williams laid them upon the desk top. He could so easily understand the terrible position in which the girl stood, whether she was guilty or not. With the death of the man at her feet, the door to her happiness was slammed in her face. Even if she had had nothing to do with the crime and loved one of the men present, marriage with that man would not be possible.

Chapter VII

“I Play a Violia”

Having laid the receipts for the diamonds upon the desk, the lieutenant walked again to the body of the professor and stood before it for a silent moment. He was trying to see Wheatland and the entire room the moment before that light went out.

Saleworth had been bending over the diamonds which he had just taken from the cooled crucible. The professor had been beside him, and as far as Williams could recall, every one else grouped curiously about.

“I say, don’t you think we should take into consideration the playing of that unearthly violin?” asked Frisby. “That will make great headlines! And there are servants in the house, you know. Jock, in particular, was devoted to Archie.”

“But the man who stabbed him was locked here in this room with us and he took the jeweled pin from Miss Price’s hair to commit the crime,” snapped the lieutenant. “Don’t forget that. The violin player, no matter how involved, or how he worked the trick, was not in this room.”

“Yes,” said Farren. “One of us is guilty.”

“What good would it do one of us to kill the professor?” asked Clinton. “Even if his wild speech at the dinner table were true, none of us would dare marry Caresse now.”

“Perhaps the guilty man has the formula,” said Saleworth looking about.

“The formula, my aunt!” sneered Harmer. “There ain’t no such animal. Old Arch was stringing us and the public about these gems. Mother Nature made them all right.”

“You can easily have the stones traced,” said the lieutenant to the diamond expert. “They are large and pure enough.”

“Oh, quite,” bowed Saleworth.

“But suppose he did make them and nobody ever finds the formula for poor dear Caresse!” sobbed Linda Price. “How dreadful! If Arch was on the square, the result of years of labor will just be wiped out by the murderer — by one of you men. Nobody ever does believe in anything that has never been done before.”

“Be quiet, Linda,” said Caresse sharply. “The whole thing was a trap set for me, cannot you see? Archie’s wild jealousy is at the back of it all.”

For a moment the lieutenant was inclined to believe her. Forgetting the body at his feet he was almost swayed by the girl’s compelling charm. And then again he heard the professor’s grim voice: “If I am killed Caresse will know by whom and why.” And the professor had certainly been killed. That alone was the lieutenant’s job. He now had a murder on his hands and he could swing into his stride.

“All of you try to take up the positions now that you held when that light went out,” he said briskly. “Remember as best you can. Snap into it. We’ve got to get somewhere in this case to-night before I open that door.”

As every one moved rather uncertainly to obey, Will Clinton, the chemist, spoke hesitantly.

“I fancy I had better tell you now, lieutenant, before you find out for yourself,” he said. “I had a grievance against the professor. Some months ago he promised to let me into this secret of the diamond making. I was frankly incredulous and he promised to take me in as a partner. He has never done so and each time he put me off. He owed me money, several thousand, and that is why he promised to do this. I said that if he convinced me that he could actually manufacture diamonds we would cancel the debt.”

“I see,” said the lieutenant slowly. “All right. Thank you for your frankness, Mr. Clinton. If any one can think of anything else. That sort of thing saves me probably a good bit of work.”

Harmer gave a sudden, short laugh, not a pleasant laugh. His eyes met those of Caresse fleetingly.

“I suppose I may as well confess that I own a violin, and that I can also play it,” he said. “But I’ve never played the funeral march. Jazz is more in my line.”

Chapter VIII

Too Many Combinations