“I’ve found out how Maddox was killed,” volunteered Craig, understanding the query implied in his glance.
“Indeed—already?” interrupted Hastings, to whom Kennedy was already frankly incomprehensible.
“How?” demanded Burke, checking himself in time to protect himself from setting forth a theory of his own, for Burke was like all other police detectives—first forming a theory and then seeking facts that confirmed it.
Eagerly both Burke and Hastings listened as Kennedy repeated briefly his discoveries of the spectroscopic tests which he had already told me.
“Gassed, by George!” muttered Burke, more puzzled than ever. “I may as well admit that I thought he had been thrown overboard and drowned. The shot at Mr. Hastings rather confirmed me in the rough-neck methods of the criminal. But this burglar’s microphone and the strychnine have shaken my theory. This fellow is clever beyond anything I had ever suspected. And to think of his using gas! I tell you, Kennedy, we don’t know what to expect of criminals these days.”
Burke shook his head sagely. At least he had one saving grace. He realized his own shortcomings.
“How about the speedster?” reverted Kennedy, passing over the subject, for both Craig and I had a high regard for Burke, whatever might be his limitations. “What did the patrolman say the fellow in the speedster looked like?”
Burke threw up his hands in mock resignation. “As nearly as I could make out, he looked like a linen duster and a pair of goggles. You know that kind of cop—doomed always to pound pavements. Why, it might have been anybody—a woman, for all he knew.”
“I think we’ve been away from Westport long enough,” concluded Kennedy. “Perhaps our unexpected return may result in something. A speedster—h’m. At least we can look over the garage of the Harbor House.”
I remember that I thought the words of little consequence at the moment. Yet, as it proved, it was a fateful statement made at this time and place.