Chapter 1

My friend Lavender dwelt up four flights of steps, a wearisome climb unless one were in training. Only the little landings at the end of every flight kept me from perishing of thirst and fatigue on more than one ascent. So at least I told Lavender. The journey offered no difficulties to that agile young man himself. The trouble with me was that I inclined toward—well, stoutness.

“The rooms are comfortable,” he would reply to my protests, “the windows afford an excellent view of an interesting corner of town, and the stairs are at once a protection and a blessing. The exercise I get in going up and down is distinctly beneficial, while four flights are sufficiently formidable to daunt bores and any but very determined clients and friends. Thus my practice is kept within reasonable bounds, my bank account is not the envy of the criminal class, and my circle of intimates does not overflow the social space at my disposal. Besides, the rooms are cheap.”

The really important thing about Lavender’s rooms was their convenience to transportation. Overlooking a minor business section, not too far from the Chicago Loop to be remote, the windows fronted north and west and beneath them to the north actually lay an elevated railroad station.

And Morley of the Central Detail, who patronized the “L,” never found the place too far nor the steps too numerous. He was a clever young detective sergeant of the regular force, who occasionally visited Lavender—clever chiefly in that he had sense enough to come to Lavender when he was in difficulties. One morning he came up the steps in an unusually bad humor, and that is part of the story I have to tell.

I had spent the night with Lavender and we had just finished breakfast, sent up by the restaurateur on the corner, when we heard Morley’s footsteps and shortly beheld his morose countenance. He gave me a patronizing nod and shook hands warmly with Lavender.

We listened to his tale of woe. It seemed this time that one Peter Vanderdonck, a picture broker of some importance, had disappeared and that Morley was at his wit’s end.

“Usually,” said he, “there’s some sort of a clue, but in this case there isn’t any thing that resembles one. I can’t get started without a clue of some kind,” he grumbled with pathetic profanity.

“Who reported him missing?” asked Lavender.

“His damn landlord,” said Morley. “This Vanderdonck didn’t send a check for his rent or something like that, so the guy—name’s Giles—sends for the police. Thinks we’re bill collectors, I guess. Damn silly in my opinion. Vanderdonck’s probably just gone out of town and forgotten his rent.”

Lavender grinned. “Is the usual ‘foul play’ suspected?”

“By the landlord and the newspapers, sure!” replied Morley with heavy irony. “There’s nothing to indicate it. I’ve been through his office. No signs of a struggle. Nothing! Just as he must have left it. Not a thing moved. He might never even have used it, for all the evidence.”

“Well,” smiled Lavender, “murder doesn’t always occur in a man’s office. It’s conceivable that a man may be killed in the street or in his home.”

“Sure,” agreed the detective. “I ain’t a fool. But where do I start when there ain’t a clue? Nobody seems to know Vanderdonck but this Giles person, and nobody seems to know where he lives or whether he’s got relatives or when he was last seen. It’s just a blank wall,” he ended, with more profanity.