All-Story Detective, October 1949 — page 120: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

120 was where the Eagle put his clients through the post graduate course. On the top floor was an enormous collection of birds, all covered up for the night. The body had been taken away; the print men, the photographers and medics were gone; and there wasn’t anybody in sight but a couple of detectives waiting for orders from Barnaby. He posted them outside, on the off chance that one of the human birds in the place might do a little night flying, and he and I went down to O’Mara’s for a few drinks. The ma- chinery was rolling now, and it would roll all night. Meanwhile, there wasn’t much else to do except think. I did some myself. Just before I dropped off to sleep I came up with an idea that made me feel like Little Jack Horner with the plum on his thumb. The telephone jangied me out of the sleep. It was one of the boys at Homicide. He said Barnaby was on his way uptown - in a terrific hurry and would pick me up outside my apartment in ten minutes. It was seven o'clock. I flipped into some clothes and was standing on the curb when the squad car came wailing ip the street, with Barnaby holding the back door open for me. The car slowed, I jumped in, and off we went. I leaned back in the corner, lighted a cigarette, and pulled out my plum. “Look.” I said. “MacGregor took those capsules under the impression they were medicine, didn’t he?” Barnaby nodded. “Well, since he died about half-past nine, he must have taken the capsules at nine.” Another nod. “The prescription said two capsules every four hours, which means his last dose before the fatal one was five o'clock, and the capsules were all right then.” “That’s right.” “Since he didn’t want anybody to know he was taking medicine, he’d have kept them in his pocket all the time. So, who- ever switched capsules on him did it some All-Story Detective time between five o’clock and the time he put on that dinner jacket—say between five-thirty and six.” “Yep. 9? I played my ace. “Who else could have done it but the Raven? She was in her office next to his study. She listened at the door until he went into the bathroom to shave, then she sneaked in, made the switch, and there you have it.” I leaned back and waited for the applause. There wasn’t any. He sat there without saying a word, while I got madder and madder. When he did start talking, it was as though I hadn’t even mentioned any little theories of my own. He. said, “There’s a cook up there, you know, an old Irish dame. Claimed to have been at her sister’s all day and until early this morning. We checked on it, and she was. “We checked on that fellow Keith, the Catbird. He was where he said he was— out from four until seven.” | “You see,” I crowed. ‘That’s the crucial time, and he wasn’t even there. And you practically had the finger on him.” “Yeah, I know.” We banged to a stop in front of the Eagle’s nest, and Barnaby jumped out. I wondered what the hurry was, because he doesn’t usually move fast unless he has to. I was surprised to see a cop standing by the door, and even more surprised to find another one inside, by the bird-cage door Barnaby pushed right on past him. I’ve seen a good many corpses of one kind and another. but this was the most grotesque I ever want to see. She was slung over the golden bar where the slate- gray eagle had been perched, face down, with her legs dangling down one side and her torso and arms down the other. The raven black hair was down to. It fell in a silken mass that was longer than her slender arms. The gold handle of a knife jutted out of her back, just below the left shoulder blade. The Raven was dead. COMmiclboo (Cc ©