“I have compared the string with that still hanging from Meredith’s door,” he said, in explanation. He placed the string in Curtis’ hand. “It is the same color and weight, and was evidently cut from the same ball of twine.”
“And Fernando denies that I ever requested him to tie a string to my door,” mused Curtis, as he put the string back in his despatch box.
“Could he have tied the string on your door, then cut it off, and tied one on Meredith’s door as a practical joke?” asked McLane. “And after the events of Sunday night be afraid to confess?”
“That is a plausible theory,” admitted Curtis, somewhat dubiously, however. “But why pick out John Meredith’s door?”
“Ask me something easy,” begged McLane. “Did you go in Meredith’s bedroom, Dave?”
“Yes. I telephoned from there for Sam Hollister.” Curtis paused, then spoke with added gravity. “While standing before the instrument trying to recall Hollister’s number, I heard a woman moving about in the bedroom.”
McLane’s eyes were twice their usual size. “Go on,” he urged. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Did the woman see you?”
“No. I had not switched on the electric lights,” Curtis explained, keeping his voice low but distinct. “As she went by me on her way out of the room, she tossed this handkerchief in my direction.” He took it out of his despatch box and gave it to McLane. “When I picked it up I detected the smell of chloroform very plainly.”
McLane turned the handkerchief over several times and the solitary initial caught his eye.
“A,” he said aloud, and the gravity of his tone was unmistakable. “Anne?” He laid the handkerchief back in the despatch box. “Lock up the box, Dave,” he directed. “Have you shown the handkerchief to Coroner Penfield?”