BACK at headquarters, Cardona turned out a colorless report covering the case of Henry Marchand.
The theatrical aspects of the tragedy did not impress him. The detective was too used to death to see anything dramatic in the finding of Marchand’s body.
He had been perplexed by a mystery; with the aid of Inspector Klein, he had solved it. No murder and no crime. An unfortunate combination.
Cardona’s only reflections on the matter concerned his own narrow escape. He did not care to dwell upon his mistake. The inspector had apparently forgotten it. That pleased the detective.
The newspapers covered the story, and Cardona minimized the case. The circumstances of the death were interesting, and the finding of the code was an added point. But as an accident, the death was not a highly sensational one.
The name of Henry Marchand was little known. The old man had lived as a recluse for many years.
Hence the story was printed in condensed form, and was crowded off the front page by the excitement of a gang killing that occurred the same night.
Cardona expected to hear no more from the press. He was mildly surprised the next day when one newspaperman approached him for an interview. This was Clyde Burke, an ex-reporter who wrote occasional feature stories. He had known Cardona for several years.
“Say, Joe,” said Burke, “that Marchand case was a funny one, wasn’t it?”
“Nothing much to it,” replied Cardona. “I gave the dope to the inspector. He figured it out right. Accidental death.”