Part 5 (2/2)

Darcy gasped.

”Is that your dagger?” snapped Carroll at the jewelry worker.

”It isn't a dagger--it's a paper-cutter--a magazine knife.”

”Well, whatever it is, who owns it?” The words were as crisp as the steel of the stained blade.

Darcy stared at the keen knife, and then at the dead woman.

”Who owns it?” and the question snapped like a whip.

”I don't! It was left here by--”

There was a commotion at the side door, which had been opened by Mulligan in order that the men might carry out the body of Mrs. Darcy.

There was a shuffling of feet, and a rather thick and unsteady voice asked:

”Whash matter here? Place on fire? Looks like devil t'pay! Let me in. Shawl right, offisher. Got a right t' come in, I have! I got something here. 'Svaluable, too! Don't want that all burned--spoil s.h.i.+ngs have 'em burned.

”'Lo, Darcy!” went on a young man, who walked unsteadily into the jewelry store. ”Wheresh tha' paper cutter I left for you t' 'grave Pearl's name on? Got take it home now. Got take her home some--somes.h.i.+ng--square myself. Been out al'night--you know how 'tis.h.!.+ Take wifely home li'l preshent--you know how 'tish. Gotta please wifely when you--hic--been out al' night. Wheresh my gold-mounted paper cutter, Darcy?”

”Harry King, and stewed to the gills again!” murmured Pete Daley.

”Wow! he has some bun on!”

”Wheresh my paper cutter, Darcy?” went on King, smiling in a fas.h.i.+on meant to be merry, but which was fixed and gla.s.sy as to his eyes.

”Wheresh my li'l preshent for wifely? Got her name all 'graved on it nice an' pretty? Thash what'll square wifely when I been out--hic--al'night. Wheresh my paper cutter, Darcy, ol' man?”

Silently the jewelry worker pointed to the stained dagger--it was really that, though designed for a paper cutter. The detective held it out, and the red spots on it seemed to show brighter in the gleam of the electric lights.

”Is that your knife, Harry King?” demanded Thong.

”Sure thash mine! Bought it in li'l ole N' York lash week. Didn't have no name on it--brought it here for my ole fren', Darcy, t'

engrave. Put wifely's name on--her namesh Pearl--P-e-a-r-l!” and he spelled it out laboriously and thickly.

”My wife--she likes them things. Me--I got no use for 'em. Gimme oyster fork--or clam, for that matter--an' a bread n' b.u.t.ter knife--'n I'm all right. But gotta square wife somehow. Take her home nice preshent. Thatsh me--sure thash mine!” and carefully trying to balance himself, he reached forward as though to take the stained dagger from the hand of the detective.

”You got Pearl's name 'graved on it, Darcy, ole man?” asked King, thickly, licking his hot and feverish lips.

”No,” answered the jewelry worker, hollowly.

Then Harry King, seemingly for the first time, became aware that all was not well in the place he had entered. He turned and saw the body of the murdered woman as the men from the morgue Started out with it.

He started back as though some one had struck him a blow.

”Is she--is she dead?” he gasped. ”Dead--Mrs. Darcy?”

”Looks that way,” said Carroll in cool tones. ”You'd better come in here and sit down a while, Harry,” he went on, and he led the unsteady young man to the rear room, while the men from the morgue carried out the lifeless body.

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