And now Quiribus grew stubborn with the stubbornness that only a giant could present.

  Spoke. With grim firmness.

  “While it wouldn’t affect my verdict one way or the other, Mr. Clarvoe, which of two men I confirmed, I wouldn’t give a verdict nor—nor the ghost of a verdict!—contradicting a man—unless I knew who he was—and which was his. So—so that I could at least explain to him, later, in my way, how he was wrong. And then he wouldn’t hold it against—”

  “Oh—nuts!” almost groaned the other. “What the hell diff—but all right then. Well, Keith claims that thing on the board is a spiral. O’Cardigan, on the other hand, claims that a spiral always possesses a—a third dimension—as he puts it!—like a bed spring, see?—and claims that that curve is an unwind—a term he’s 100 p’ cent confident he heard once in a night-school anylictyal geomytry class where he was watching a man. In fact, he swears to high heaven that there is such a term, because he heard it—and that it was used by a high-up professor of mathematics. Who explained the shape of the curve as the path of a point on a piece of string being unwound from a—a circle. Is that right? Well anyways, Keith claims that the term is ridiculous, and that O’Cardigan heard the professor saying that the path of a point on a string being unwound from a circle was a spiral, and that this is a spiral, and nothing else, and—well—what’s the true lowdown, Big Boy? Careful now, because–”

  But Clarvoe said no more.

  Quiribus cleared his throat. “Well now, right off the bat,” he ventured, “I’m going to say that your Mr. O’Cardigan is 100 per cent wrong—only about, I mean, that there can’t be a spiral all in one plane. Like the chalk line on the surface of that blackboard. In fact the thing he’s terming a spiral—with an extension along a 3rd dimension is a helix. See? A helix! Again, your Mr. Keith is entirely wrong when he says that there is no such mathematical term as an ‘unwind.’ For there very much is—and it’s one of several objectively descriptive terms used in math classes everywhere—oh sure, I’ve sat in lots of such, as ‘visiting guest,’ while visiting big towns like St. Louis, Springfield, whatnot—it’s one of several terms used in math classes every­ where to keep in the pupil’s minds the generating source for certain mathematical curves under discussion. Such as—well an Unwind is, definitely, the path traced by a point on a string being unwound from a circle—just as an In-Roll, or Epicycloid, is the path traced by a point on a circle rolling inside of another circle—and an Out-Roll, or Hypocycloid, is the path made by a point on a circle rolling outside of another circle, and a—well, that particular terminology keeps the students ever appraised of how the curve in ques­tion is generated, and thus keeps them in mind of the real sou—”

  “No platform lectures now,” cautioned Clarvoe peevishly. And added hastily; “Well the bi-i-i-ig question around here just now is is there a difference between a—a spiral and an unwind? For if there—”

  “Is there?” echoed Quiribus aghast, his mathematician’s soul absolutely rasped by this profanity. “My gosh!” he echoed weakly. “Is there—a difference? Why—”

  “Well what—what the hell is it?” Clarvoe broke out, almost beside himself with impatience. “Take, now, that horsehair snake with the belly-ache, drawn on the board there, now which—which is it? For—”

  He stopped, scowling, For Quiribus was shaking his head firmly, oh so firmly. And now spoke, calmly, ever so calmly.

  “Mr. Clarvoe, until I know who and what I’m putting into jeopardy—by what I answer and how—I—I have to refuse to answer, that’s all. I—”

  Clarvoe threw up his hands. “I sure did start somep’n, all right, when I dragged a giant into this case. I thought I could—”

  “You got a giant, sure,” acknowledged Quiribus digni-fiedly, “but you also got a trained mathematician. Who asks only to know to what degree he may help to electrocute somebody for—”

  “’Nough!” groaned Clarvoe. “Nobody’s electrocuted yet—and at this grand rate of progress, nobody is going to be. But okay, Big One! You shall have the identities of these two people. And the facts why either one of ’em, so help me Hannah, could be the—you shall have same. But in no more than 299 words, I warn you!”

  “That’s quite all right and plenty, Mr. Clarvoe,” affirmed Quiribus politely, “as far as I am concerned. And when you reach your 299th and concluding word, you shall have your answer from me about your dia—curve—and in con­siderable fewer words than 299 to boot.”

  And Quiribus waited firmly, little dreaming that the simple verdict he was being asked to give—whether, in short, that sinuous convoluted line on that blackboard was spiral or unwind!—was one that would do far more than “put a man in jeopardy,” as he himself had expressed it. Was a verdict, no less, that must conclusively determine which of two well-to-do Chicagoans, each with a powerful motive to wish the mathematical professor out of the way, had put motive into execution—and killed Lucius Munstergale!

  CHAPTER XVI

  On a Spot!

  “What I am now about to tell you, giant,” asserted Clarvoe sourly, “I shall deny—if ever you reveal a word as to the particular part of it you shouldn’t: and you know mighty well, I guess, where you stand, in case—”

  “I know, yes,” returned Quiribus dignifiedly. “Giants have reputations for being everything from—from patho­logical liars, to inverts, perverts, masochists, sadists, thieves, killers, half-wits—”

  “Enough! I can see that you’re as normal as anybody I’ve ever seen. And no offence meant. About the denying, I mean. For I merely said, and say it again—that I’ll deny anything you might relate—”

  “Suppose,” helped Quiribus, still dignifiedly, “you just go ahead—and don’t worry about this giant?”

  “I will.” Clarvoe licked his lower lip almost angrily. Then, as was plain, cooled down.

  “Well,” he began, “when Keith decreed this thing—this thing, I mean, now again facing us over on that black­ board there—to be a spiral, naturally the first thing I—or we—were interested in, was whether any of Munstergale’s acquaintances, enemies, friends, or whatnot, had such a name, or something like it.” He paused. “For there are only about 6,000,000 right thumbs in Chicago, you know!—and the single right thumbprint we have—”

  “You—you didn’t tell me about that?” accused Quiri­bus darkly. “And I think you’re not doing right by me in this—”

  “Oh,” expatiated Clarvoe, “I’m telling you about it now, ain’t I? Since I’m laying the rest of the stuff on the line? Yes,” he bit out, “there’s a single bloody thumbprint in this case—if you’ll note it at the right of the glass of the clock door there—near the handle.” Quiribus, casting his gaze quickly hence, did now see it, a definite smudge close to the handle. Clarvoe went on speaking glumly. “Yes, it’s Munstergale’s own blood—as per a special quick spectry-scopic test Keith made, from a scraping of it, and of some from Munstergale’s forehead—and shows that the killer, after having fired point-blank at Munstergale, must have stepped forward and moved a lock of hair or something on the dying man—or felt at the site, to see whether he’d killed Munstergale or grazed him—well, the killer must have got his thumb wet with blood unknowingly—then noted that his bullet had stopped the clock—strode over and tried to open it to get it going again-—found it locked—and gave it up, figuring that the mere time of his crime didn’t particu­larly matter anyway. In fact, he must have gotten out then and there, but using a hankie to open doors. For no further prints have been found on the knobs. And”—he tapped his breastpocket—“we do have that hankie here, don’t forget, which tells the tale. Even to some tiny spicules of blood in its own center. Just when he realized he’d left a print here is anybody’s guess; he probably discovered it only later, long later, when he saw actual congealed blood on his thumb, that he might have left its print on that glass—or might not have—but by then it was too—”

  “Well,” Quiribus put in, a little perturbedly, “I don’t see why you need me then in this case at all. For you have that—that famous Bureau of Identification of yours—and there’s a big Bureau at Columbus, Ohio, from all I read, operated by Uncle Sam, listing millions of—”

  “Are you telling me—what to do with a thumb-print—­left at a bump-off? Or—or are you maybe ribbing me?” Clarvoe appeared downright bewildered. “But whether or no,” he added dourly, “don’t you realize that the B. of I. lists only, for the most part, people who have committed crimes already? And the same, the Federal bureau at Columbus? And—but to put your queries at rest, my fine feathered giant—my criminological cockatoo”—Clarvoe was getting angry at, perhaps, the belief he had been getting “ribbed”—“O’Cardigan is a fingerprint man—served many years in the Detective Bureau doing just that stuff—and one examination by him of that f.p. on the clock brings out that it’s one known as an Anomaly—findable in 10 seconds in any file of f.p’s—it’s a double-delta, crossed by two right-angled scars—and known today, in the anoma­lous class, as a D-D, 2 r-a-s. And a phone call to both of those places you were so kind as to tell me about revealed that it ain’t in either. And—but what the hell,” Clarvoe added explanatorily—“except that it explained nothing—can you expect, when you consider that no matter who of 2 certain persons did this job, he was no criminal or even suspect in a crime? And—but alacky and alassy,” Clarvoe broke off, “you don’t even know that yet. Though doubt­lessly still insist on knowing it. Which—well,” he de­manded peremptorily, “shall I go on—or shall I go on?”

  “By—by all means,” pleaded Quiribus. “I want to do my end, you know.”

  “Oh thank you, kind sir!” This was irony, and smile-less irony to boot. But the other man did, at least go on. “Well, as I say, one thumbprint—against 6,000,000 unlisted thumbs in Chicago!—isn’t worth anything at all—unless one can fix on the probable killer—and wants to confirm. And so, as I say, we were plenty interested around here as to whether any of Munstergale’s acquaintances, past, present or future, had any such name tallying with a spiral!” He paused. “Fortunately for all that”—and now he nodded his head, almost combatively, it seemed, at the cabinet at his right elbow—“this damned old nut—ahem—this old drybones has kept a sort of acquaintanceship record for years on cards, there in that lower right-hand section with the deep drawers—typed out, moreover, all of ’em, on the old mini-type portable he has upstairs on the desk in his bed­room—he had in mind, he even told me once, to write a book some day called ‘Threads Crossed by a Mathematician,’ and not only made out a card, or several, on and for each such persons as he had an out-of-the-way relationship or connections with, but—well there’s where this case was duck-soup to-day for three men in here named Clarvoe, Keith, and O’Cardigan! Made to order, see? Except for—He scowled back at the blackboard, brought his gaze back to his giant auditor. “So,” he finished, “to find out whether Munstergale had ever had any dealings with anybody suggesting spiral was—was in the bag. And so—”

  Now Clarvoe turned, moved his hand wearily to a drawer that Quiribus could see was labelled Sm-Ur, and drew it out. Revealing, as even Quiribus could see standing where he was, that the cards in it had been separated in their middle. “All right—step over, Big Boy—and take a gander!”

  And Quiribus, hastily crossing the distance with almost a giant step, and bending down, saw, with huge and surprised amazement, a card which carried, across its top, in addition to the apparent annual date of its making, same being the current year, the hand-lettered inscription:

  SPEIRRL, Alfonsé

  The card was typewritten over its entire face below the handwritten name, in small-faced type but exceedingly widespread lines filling the entire width of the card, and—the typing had been put in upside-down by feeding the card into the machine reversed, and so that, beyond any doubt, any too curious student visiting here, to be perhaps coached, could not read cards while his master was engaged, or out of the room.

  “No,” Clarvoe explicated, as the giant looked up questioningly, not having mastered upside-down typewriting, “there isn’t anything else in the whole S group of names—nor the Z groups either, which after all has a hiss like an S, you know!—that even remotely sounds like ‘spiral.’ This would be it—if.”

  He faced Quiribus unhappily.

  “Do you know—who Alfonsé Speirrl is?”

  “Heavens no,” retorted Quiribus. “I’m a stranger here, you know.”

  “Well, he’s the millionaire founder and proprietor of the so-called Cozy Restaurants,” sighed Clarvoe dolorously, “forming a chain covering this entire city. A Franco-Bohemian—the last name, plainly, shows the Bohemian part of him—the first, the French part! And now—hm?—but all right—here goes!–”

  He reached around, drew out the card, upended it, and passed it to the giant with a jerky nod that plainly said “Drink your fill, you confounded 10-foot Hitler.” Which the giant proceeded hungrily to do. For the card, com­mencing with a date—the actual date of October 1st, this year—presented some astounding facts. At least—where murder might have been concerned. For it read:

  October 1. “King” of the Cozy Restaurants he is known as—but the appellation is self-applied, as everyone seems to know. And a great misjudger of other people—specially when motivated by civic righteousness. For when I called on him tonight, and showed him the chemical analysis I have had made from food obtained twice from his restaurants, since the specific time I got ptomaine poisoning in the big Madison Street one, he reached for his checkbook as though $25 or so might settle same. He was thinking less, however, in penny ante sums when I showed him likewise the doctor’s certified history on my poisoning case, and the fact that we have the sealed specimens of the vomited food, and food obtained that night by the doctor’s assistant in the Madison Street restaurant, tracing both definitely to the Madison Street restaurant. He tried to blame the case on a recipe allegedly given him by a Sicilian woman servant he has had in his household for some months: a recipe which, he avers, calls for “aged meat.” But, alas for his so elaborate efforts, the dish was not a Sicilian dish by any manner of means, since it was entirely minus the spices such people ordinarily use. He looked both thoughtful and cunning when I told him that I wasn’t sure yet but that, for the sake of Chicago’s health, I shouldn’t—

  Here the typewriting came to an end on the particular face of the card Quiribus was gravely surveying; and he turned it hurriedly over, and went on with that which spilled over half-way on the reverse side.

  —file a gigantic suit, and show up the rotten “cozy” restaurants, manned by wandering hobos and dirty itinerants glowing in clean white freshly-starched garments, the food carelessly prepared because of overworked and incom­petent labour, and worst of all, all of the cozy’s are located, because of infinitesimal rents, in old cockroachy buildings made presentable and delectable, so far as the restaurant itself goes, by artificial white-tiled brick false fronts, and tessellated marble flooring concealing the rottenness behind. He is plainly, plainly convinced now that I have a case—the case of cases!—but fatuously thinks, from all I gather, that I will settle it for a paltry thousand dollars or so.

  And now only did Quiribus look up. “We-e-ell,” was all he could say, “if that man’s whereabouts by remote chance tally with—say!—good Lord, you—you don’t mean to tell me, Mr. Clarvoe, that this Alfonsé Speirrl lives—on Three Squares Place?”

  “What d’you think?” retorted the other harshly. “I mean—that I brought you here for?”

  Though it was to be some moments yet before the full explanation of this as-yet-cryptic remark was to be in Quiribus’s possession. In fact, Clarvoe was now taking down the telephone directory that lay atop the cabinet, riffling over its pages to where a corner of one had been turned down-obviously by himself, and earlier—and, turning the volume about, he proceeded silently to let Quiribus himself read what was now marked on the turned-down page by a firm pencil checkmark: and which was no other than

  Speirrl, Alfonsé, Restaurateur, Res. 16,

  Three Squares Place. WES-t 9987.

  “Well I’ll be—be everlastingly goshawked!” was all Quiribus could say. “Why Mr.—”

  “Save it!” pleaded the other. “For you’re going to ask why I haven’t long since put out an arrest order for Speirrl, and am not back downtown taking his right thumb-print, and questioning him from A to Izzard and back again as to where he claims to have been at 10:47 last night. Well, Big Boy, that’s the reason or rather, but one of ’em!—why you’re here now. For Speirrl—well, friend Speirrl’s beautiful daughter Ninon is married to this burg’s Chief of Police Patterson Gilkeson. So-o-o—is there—maybe!—imagination enough in that huge oversized sconce of yours to picture just wha-a-at would happen if I called her pahpah in, questioned him in painful detail as to exactly where he was last night at the murder hour—having to explain, of course, that he was suspected in a murder!—took his right thumbprint, a thing which legally he doesn’t have to give nor to volunteer—and—everything turned out false? Why—via his daughter, who’s puhlenty a spitfire, and rules Chief Gilkeson with a rod of—but skip it!—via his daughter, Speirrl would order me out of this Homicide Department swift and pronto—and a brand new man would be Homicide Chief of the Chicago Detective Bureau. Now is that clear, Big Boy, or will I have to take a sledgehammer and hammer it right into—”

  “You’d kind of have to stand on a chair, wouldn’t you,” grinned Quiribus, “to even part my hair—with a sledge?” He shook his huge head tolerantly. “No, its plenty clear to me all right, that if you tried to pin a murder on this girl’s father—far enough so that he had to sort of hump himself and clear himself—and he—he was innocent, you’d go out higher than a kite with—in fact,” he conceded, “for the first time I can understand fully why you had to do your investigating as to his possession—or non-possession—of a revolver, through this—this Chief of the Unione Siciliano and via the Sicilian woman servant mentioned on the card—only to find that such gun as he may have had, he claims to have gotten rid of and—but after all, Mr. Clarvoe, he is a 100 per cent logical suspect, it seems to me, by no more than the facts on that card, and—” And Quiribus’s big face grew highly disapproving, “—I did think, Mr. Clarvoe, that it was all fiction—’bout police officials holding back when they had evidence that incriminated people higher—”

 

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