Atlanta Daily World

MURDER OF THE NIGHTCLUB LAD
THE NEW THATCHER COLT DETECTIVE MYSTERY
BY
ANTHONY ABBOT
COPYRIGHT, 1931 BY COVICI-FRIEDE INC, DISTRIBUTED BY KING FEATURES SYNDICATE, INC

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

COLT'S hand was on the door-knob, as he paused, thought for a moment and framed his next questions with meticulous care.

"Miss Lox, do you remember when you, Lola, and Mrs. Carewe were in this room last night-laughing!"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Colt."

"What were you laughing about?"

"Just at my chatter. I was telling them some of the experiences I have had while Mrs. Carewe helped her to undress. I was trying to cheer up Lola."

"Did Lola ask for the bathrobe herself? Think carefully now."

"Yes, she did."

"Did you get it for her?"

"Yes--out of that closet over there."

"And did you button it on her?"

"Her mother did--Lola's hands were trembling so that she could not do much for herself!"

Colt's grip tightened on the knob--and yet he lingered. He seemed reluctant to go; his mind seemed groping for more facts.

"Was there any conversation about that bathrobe?"

Dorothy Lox, who had been rubbing Mrs. Carewe's temples with witch-hazel, looked up at Colt with a puzzled air.

"I seem to remember that there was. Now - what could it have been? It was something about the bathrobe being an old one. Mr. Rowland had called here early last night and seen Lola in it. And he had offered to buy it from her. All this was before they even left the house. Lola laughed about how much fun they had over it. He offered to buy her a new one if she would give him that one. And she refused. It seemed it was an old argument between them. Lola had some reason of her own for holding on to that old bathrobe. I gathered it was a present from some admirer--over in Paris, long ago.

Anyway, Vincent Rowland did seize the bathrobe and hide it--and Lola refused to leave with him until it was found again. I think, Mr. Colt, that was all there was about the bathrobe."

"I think," returned Thatcher Colt, "that is quite enough. Report here for duty at seven tonight--and thanks!"

Mrs. Carewe had fallen again into a deep slumber. Colt exchanged a few words with Flynn, who was leaving for Headquarters and then we took our departure.

District Attorney Merle K. Dougherty was awaiting us impatiently in the tip of the needle of the Chrysler Building. There, in the rooms of the Cloud Club, we had made our luncheon rendezvous.

To me, the Cloud Club quarters are among the supreme disappointments of present New York life.

Here is a retreat in the sky, a place where one may dine and loaf among the clouds. From the club windows one might glimpse the most romantic spectacles of the great American metropolis if one were permitted. But no--there is a registration desk in front of the very best window, and other obstacles apparently wherever it was possible to raise them. The best view is from the toilet. And instead of the peace and quiet of the vault of heaven through which the Chrysler needle is pierced, the place resounds with the endless clucking derry-down of stock market tickers.

Thus the Cloud Club is one of a piece with so much of modern New York ineptitude in the face of charming opportunities. But Dougherty belonged to the Cloud Club and he had insisted that we meet in these sad-yet-might-have-been-glorious chambers in the air.

True to his promise, Colt had seen to it that bulletins of all our developments had been sent to the District Attorney's office. Hence it was something of a chastened Dougherty who led us to a round table in a private room. Since we had parted from him, after breakfast, Dougherty had been to the barber. His red curls were trimmed; he was wearing a fresh suit, his nails glistened, and his sagging jowls were smooth and powdered.

But the great, infant blue eyes were troubled and disappointed. Dougherty knew that the case was by no means as simple as he had believed: it was a grave and ghastly problem, that seemed every moment to become more perplexingly entangled.

"The case against Vincent Rowland seems to be more convincing at every turn," he commented, after Colt had told him of our recent visit to the apartment. "It seems to me our next step is to face him with what we've got."

But to this Thatcher Colt demurred.

"I am not at all sure that is our wisest course," he objected. "I know Vincent Rowland. I know the mule-like quality of his mind, once he gets his feet firmly planted under him. It is my object not to give him that opportunity. You see, we haven't a case against Rowland yet."

"But, my God, Thatcher--his handling of the bathrobe is enough"

"Not for the jury you will have to convince Dougherty!"

"By the time we get before the jury, the case will be complete," declared the District Attorney frowning.

"But let's get it right before we put the steel mittens on the murderer. That's the only satisfactory way to handle a job like this anyway. Rowland can't get away. We have him under the closest observation. Now my idea is to keep him that way, while we establish the vital points which would be needed to convict him."

"Prove that he had possession of the scorpions."

"Certainly--that is one of the most vital phases on which we would have to be one hundred per cent correct. Then we shall have to show that even though he had the bathrobe in his hands, he had also the opportunity to secrete the scorpion there. To me that is one of the weakest links in the chain.

Consider for yourself, Dougherty--Vincent Rowland had that bathrobe in his hands, before he and Lola left the house to go to the Mayfair. Right? Do you believe, then, that he put the scorpion in the bathrobe at that early hour? If so, why did no one notice?

(To Be Continued)

Copyright 1931, by Covici-Friede, Inc.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate, Inc.