“Crimes of what kind, chief?” Chick inquired.
“The first was committed several months ago,” said Carter, disposing of the match with which he had been lighting a cigar. “It was the robbery of a prominent local banker, named Wagner, whose statements are entirely reliable.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“Briefly stated, he was going home from his club about nine o’clock one evening, after having dined there with a friend. He is a well-built, powerful man of forty, about the last whom a holdup man would venture to tackle. He wore some valuable jewelry, however, and he had nearly a thousand dollars in his pocket, which he wanted to use before banking hours the following morning.”
“The crook may have known about it.”
“Possibly, though Wagner doesn’t think so.”
“Where was the crime committed?”
“In the grounds of his own house, a fine residence in Garside Avenue. He was sauntering up a gravel walk leading to his front door, when a man came down from the veranda and approached to meet him. Wagner did not recognize him, but he naturally inferred that the stranger had called to see him, and, not finding him at home, that he was about departing.”
“Certainly,” Chick nodded. “That was perfectly natural.”
“What followed was quite the contrary,” Carter remarked dryly. “The stranger stopped directly in front of him and asked whether he was Mr. Wagner. He had an unlighted cigar in his mouth, or so Wagner has stated. The latter replied in the affirmative, of course, and asked what was wanted.”