“Assuming, of course, that the murderer wrote the note.”
“Do you prefer to assume that some balmy joker found out about the crime through telepathy or crystal-gazing, hied to a typewriter, composed a dithyramb, returned hot-footed to the house, and, for no good reason, took the terrific risk of being seen putting the paper in the mail-box?”
Before Markham could answer Heath entered the lounge room and hurried to our corner. That he was worried and uneasy was obvious. With scarcely a word of greeting he handed a typewritten envelope to Markham.
“That was received by the World in the late afternoon mail. Quinan, the police reporter of the World, brought it to me a little while ago; and he says that the Times and the Herald also got copies of it. The letters were stamped at one o’clock to-day, so they were probably posted between eleven and twelve. What’s more, Mr. Markham, they were mailed in the neighborhood of the Dillard house, for they went through Post Office Station ‘N’ on West 69th Street.”
Markham withdrew the enclosure from the envelope. Suddenly his eyes opened wide, and the muscles about his mouth tightened. Without looking up he handed the letter to Vance. It consisted of a single sheet of typewriting paper, and the words printed on it were identical to those on the note left in the Dillard mail-box. Indeed, the communication was an exact duplicate of the other:—“Joseph Cochrane Robin is dead. Who Killed Cock Robin? Sperling means sparrow.—THE BISHOP.”
Vance scarcely glanced at the paper.
“Quite in keeping, don’t y’ know,” he said indifferently. “The Bishop was afraid the public might miss the point of his joke; so he explained it to the press.”
“Joke, did you say, Mr. Vance?” asked Heath bitterly. “It ain’t the kind of joke I’m used to. This case gets crazier——”
“Exactly, Sergeant. A crazy joke.”
A uniformed boy stepped up to the District Attorney and, bending over his shoulder discreetly, whispered something.