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.” But he felt he already knew, and at once he was at the telephone, saying, “Margolies, is Swope there? . . . Swope, pick me up at Madame Karitska’s house in a plain car, and turn on the siren, we may not have much time. On the double. We’re going to Ardsley.”
    He put down the phone, kissed Madame Karitska on the cheek and said, “I’ll let you know. . . .”
    The apartment was on the top floor of a shabby building that housed students, young artists and welfare people. Pruden took the stairs two at a time, with Swope stopping to catch his breath but not far behind. After he’d knocked on the door of 410 it was opened by a young girl with a mass of curly blond hair and a small round face.
    â€œMiss Voorhees? Ginny Voorhees?”
    â€œYes,” she said, puzzled as she looked from Pruden to Swope.
    â€œPolice,” he told her, bringing out and showing her his badge.
    â€œPolice!”
    â€œYes, with one question to ask of you. Do you have Darlene Cahn’s violin here?”
    Frowning, she said, “Yes, of course. It didn’t fit into the trunk. I’ve just been writing a note to her parents to explain, and—”
    Pruden lifted her roughly out of the doorway and thrust her inside while Swope closed the door behind them. She gasped, “How dare you! You can’t be the police, who are you?”
    â€œYou’re sure her violin is here? It’s important, and yes, we’re the police and if it’s not you, then we’re in time; we believe someone wants that violin.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” she protested.
    â€œTrust us. Where is it?”
    â€œOver there,” she told him, pointing to a shabby violin case, its exterior scuffed and worn, and added, “And it’s
hers
. Darlene’s dead and you have no right. I insist on verifying who you are.”
    â€œNo time,” Pruden said. “The Cahns had a burglary this morning and we have a strong suspicion that next their burglar will be coming here, and whoever is going to knock on your door will be after that violin.”
    Swope said quietly, “There’s someone coming up the stairs now.”
    â€œBut why? And who?”
    Pruden led her away from the door to a corner of the room, where he said quietly, sternly, “This is for Darlene.”
    â€œDarlene?”
    He nodded. “Swope and I—” He pointed to the bedroom. “Swope, carry the violin in there and hide it. That’s where we’ll be, too. And this is what you must do,” he told her, and he spoke to her in a low voice until, hearing the knock on the door, he said, “You think you can do it?”
    She said shakily, but with spirit, “I—I think so, I played Ophelia in
Hamlet
in high school. If it’s for Darlene—”
    â€œGood girl.”
    Leaving the bedroom door ajar Pruden and Swope waited. Ginny Voorhees, answering the knock, said with proper astonishment, “Professor Blake, it’s
you
?”
    An amused voice said, “When I came to pick up Darlene you always called me Robert.”
    Ginny gave a small laugh. “Okay—Robert. Sorry, it’s been such a sad time, such a shock. I saw you at the funeral. You must miss her terribly.”
    â€œTerribly,” said the man. “That’s why I came, hoping she left something I can cherish as a part of her. Something to remember her by always.”
    Ginny Voorhees said, “I’ve already sent her personal belongings to her parents. She didn’t have any jewelry, except of course for her engagement ring, and she was . . . well, buried wearing it, so really there’s nothing.”
    â€œI meant something of hers that she valued and used every day. Her violin, perhaps.”
    There was silence and then Ginny Voorhees said, “But you don’t play the violin, it’s piano you teach.”
    The man’s voice softened seductively. “But the