Pitts gave Vance a look of crafty agreement, and continued.
“The first thing I did was to go through the fellow’s pockets. He had a good gold watch on him and about fifteen dollars in bills and silver. So it didn’t look like a robbery—unless the guy that shot him got panicky and beat it. But that didn’t seem likely, for there’s never any one round that part of the park early in the morning; and the walk there dips under a stone bluff, so that the view is cut off. The bird that did the job certainly picked a swell place for it. . . . Anyhow, I left a couple of men to guard the body till the wagon came for it, and went up to Sprigg’s house in 93rd Street,—I’d got his name and address from a couple of letters in his pocket. I found out he was a student at Columbia, living with his parents, and that it was his habit to take a walk in the park after breakfast. He left home this morning about half past seven. . . .”
“Ah! It was his habit to promenade in the park each morning,” murmured Vance. “Most interestin’.”
“Even so, that don’t get us anywheres,” returned Pitts. “Plenty of fellows take an early constitutional. And there was nothing unusual about Sprigg this morning. He wasn’t worried about anything, his folks told me; and was cheerful enough when he said good-bye to ’em.—After that I hopped up to the university and made inquiries; talked to a couple of the students that knew him, and also to one of the instructors. Sprigg was a quiet sort of chap. Didn’t make friends and kept pretty much to himself. Serious bird—always working at his studies. Stood high in his classes, and was never seen going around with Janes. Didn’t like women, in fact. Wasn’t what you’d call sociable. From all reports he was the last man to get in a mess of any kind. That’s why I can’t see anything special in his getting shot. It must have been an accident of some kind. Might have been taken for somebody else.”
“And he was found at what time?”
“About quarter of eight. A bricklayer on the new 79th-Street dock was cutting across the embankment toward the railway tracks, and saw him. He notified one of the post officers on the Drive, who phoned in to the local station.”
“And Sprigg left his home in 93rd Street at half past seven.” Vance gazed at the ceiling meditatively. “Therefore he would have had just enough time to reach this point in the park before being killed. It looks as if some one who knew his habits was waiting for him. Neatness and dispatch, what? . . . It doesn’t appear exactly fortuitous, does it, Markham?”
Ignoring the jibe Markham addressed Pitts.
“Was there nothing found that could possibly be used as a lead?”
“No, sir. My men combed the spot pretty thoroughly, but nothing showed up.”