and joined Dinwiddie and me near the door, where he had stood, watching Heath and the other detectives with lazy indifference, until the departure of Captain Hagedorn.
The four of us had no more than taken seats when the patrolman stationed in the vestibule appeared at the door.
"There's a man from the local precinct station here, sir," he announced, "who wants to see the officer in charge. Shall I send him in?"
Heath nodded curtly, and a moment later a large red-faced Irishman, in civilian clothes, stood before us. He saluted Heath, but on recognizing the District Attorney, made Markham the recipient of his report.
"I'm Officer McLaughlin, sir—West Forty-seventh Street station," he informed us; "and I was on duty on this beat last night. Around midnight, I guess it was, there was a big grey Cadillac standing in front of this house—I noticed it particular, because it had a lot of fishing-tackle sticking out the back, and all of its lights were on. When I heard of the crime this morning I reported the car to the station sergeant, and he sent me around to tell you about it."
"Excellent," Markham commented; and then, with a nod, referred the matter to Heath.
"May be something in it," the latter admitted dubiously. "How long would you say the car was here, officer?"
"A good half hour anyway. It was here before twelve, and when I come back at twelve-thirty or
