the rods; so I guess the ones found in Central Park belonged to the car after all: fell out probably. . . . It seems a fellow drove the car into the garage about noon last Friday, and gave the garage-man twenty dollars to keep his mouth shut. The man's a wop, and says he don't read the papers. Anyway, he came across pronto when I put the screws on."
The detective drew out a small note-book.
"I looked up the car's number. . . . It's listed in the name of Leander Pfyfe, 24 Elm Boulevard, Port Washington, Long Island."
Markham received this piece of unexpected information with a perplexed frown. He dismissed Emery almost curtly, and sat tapping thoughtfully on his desk.
Vance watched him with an amused smile.
"It's really not a madhouse, y' know," he observed comfortingly. "I say, don't the Colonel's words bring you any cheer, now that you know Leander was hovering about the neighborhood at the time Benson was translated into the Beyond?"
"Damn your old Colonel!" snapped Markham. "What interests me at present is fitting this new development into the situation."
"It fits beautifully," Vance told him. "It rounds out the mosaic, so to speak. . . . Are you actu'lly disconcerted by learning that Pfyfe was the owner of the mysterious car?"
"Not having your gift of clairvoyance, I am, I confess, disturbed by the fact."
Markham lit a cigar—an indication of worry.
"You, of course," he added, with sarcasm, "knew before Emery came here that it was Pfyfe's car."
