Eden put the clipping down on the table. “Well, that’s one more fact about Jerry Delaney. He was interested in a soprano. So many men are—but still, it may lead somewhere.”
“Poor Jerry,” said Holley, looking down at the rather pitiful pile of the man’s possessions. “He won’t need a hair-brush, or a razor, or a gold watch where he’s gone.” He took up the watch and regarded it thoughtfully. “Honest Jack McGuire. I seem to have heard that name somewhere.”
Chan was investigating the trousers pockets. He turned them out one by one, but found nothing.
“Search is now complete,” he announced. “Humbly suggest we put all back as we found it. We have made delightful progress.”
“I’ll say we have,” cried Eden, with enthusiasm. “More progress than I ever thought possible. Last night we knew only that Madden had killed a man. Today we know the name of the man.” He paused. “I don’t suppose there can be any doubt about it?” he inquired.
“Hardly,” Holley replied. “A man doesn’t part with such personal possessions as a hair-brush and a razor as long as he has any further use for them. If he’s through with them, he’s through with life. Poor devil!”
“Let’s go over it all again before we put these things away,” said Eden. “We’ve learned that the man Madden feared, the man he killed, was Jerry Delaney. What do we know of Delaney? He was not in very affluent circumstances, though he did have his clothes made by a tailor. Not a smart tailor, judging by the address. He smoked Corsican cigarettes. Honest Jack McGuire, whoever he may be, was an old friend of his, and thought so highly
