“Look here, Mr. Basswood,” he said. “Even the cleverest of us make mistakes. Let me call your attention to one thing. If it was Digby's death that made the difference in the values of his books, how is it that this bill from your printer, for that new catalogue of yours, is dated ten days before Digby died? I picked it up in your back room the other day. Doesn't that seem to show that you knew, ten days before the event, that there was going to be a sudden boom in Digbiana? Ten days before he died you were multiplying the prices of the items you had gathered. Now, you dog, can you explain that?”
Basswood shook, but still he clung to his hope.
“I'll give you a thousand for that manuscript,” he said.
“Ben,” said Dulcet to me, “just slip around the corner and whistle three times. The police are waiting on Eighty-fifth Street.”
“There's still one thing that puzzles me,” I said to Dulcet late that night as we sat in his room for a final smoke. “I remember that before we discovered that sign in the laundry you said that what we needed to do was to find a rhyme between tobacco and collar buttons. Now what the deuce started you off on collar buttons?”
He smiled patiently.
“When I had to pack up poor old Digby's belongings,” he said, “I had the sad task of going through his bureau drawers. You know the devilish little buttons that the manufacturers insist on putting on soft collars. They always come off after one or two washings, and then the collar collapses round your neck into an object of slovenly reproach. Digby was a bachelor, and there was no one to do any mending for him. And when I found that every one of his soft collars had its little button neatly sewed on, I knew there was something wrong. I ask you, wouldn't that have aroused the alarm of the least suspicious?”
Up to the present time, as far as I know, Basswood remains the only bookseller who has ever been electrocuted.