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but he was merely a flatfoot. There was no sign of a Homicide or DA man.
    I crossed the street and walked along to the barriers. Over the shoulder of a woman in a purple dress I could see two workmen down in the hole, so the scientists had finished with it. While I stood looking down at them my sagacity came up with five conclusions:
    1. Yeager had had some connection with someone or something at Number 156. Whoever the guy was who had come and hired me, and whatever his game was, and whether he had killed Yeager or not, he certainly hadn’t just pulled that address out of a hat.
    2. If Yeager had been killed elsewhere and the body had been brought to this spot deliberately, to impress someone at 156, why hadn’t it been dumped on the sidewalk smack in front of 156'Why roll it into the hole and climb down and put a tarp over it'No.
    3. If Yeager had been killed elsewhere and the body had been brought to this spot not deliberately, but accidentally, merely because there was a hole here, you would have to swallow a coincidence that even a whale couldn’t get down. No.
    4. Yeager had not been shot as he was entering or leaving 156. At any time of night the sound of a shot in that street would have brought a dozen, a hundred, heads sticking out of windows. So the shooter runs or steps on the gas pedal. He does not drag the body to the hole and roll it in and climb down and put a tarp over it. No.
    5. Therefore Yeager had been killed inside Number 156, some time, any time, after 7:30 p.m. Sunday, and later that night, when there was no audience, the body had been carried to the hole, only fifteen yards, and dropped in. That didn’t account for the tarp, but no theory would. At least the tarp didn’t hurt it. It could have been to postpone discovery of the body until the workmen came.
    In detective work it’s a great convenience to have a sagacity that can come up with conclusions like that; it saves wear and tear on the brain. I backed away from the barrier and walked the fifteen yards to Number 156.
    Some of the houses had a sign, vacancy, displayed at the entrance, but 156 didn’t. But it did have a sign, hand-printed on a piece of cardboard fastened to the pillar at the foot of the steps going up to the stoop. It said superintendent, with an arrow pointing to the right. So I went right and down three steps, then left and through an open doorway into a little vestibule, and there in front of my eyes was evidence that there was something special about that house. The door had a Rabson lock. You have a Rab-son installed on a door only if you insist on being absolutely certain that anyone who enters must have either the right key or a sledgehammer, and you are able and willing to shell out $61.50.
    I pushed the bell button. In a moment the door opened, and there facing me was one of the three most beautiful females I have ever seen.
    I must have gaped or gasped, from the way she smiled, the smile of a queen at a commoner. She spoke. “You want something?” Her voice was low and soft, without breath.
    The only thing to say was “Certainly, I want you,” but I managed to hold it in. She was eighteen, tall and straight, with skin the color of the wild thyme honey that Wolfe gets from Greece, and she was extremely proud of something, not her looks. When a woman is proud of her looks it’s just a smirk. I don’t think I stammered, but if I didn’t I should have. I said, “I’d like to see the superintendent.”
    “Are you a policeman?”
    If she liked policemen the only thing to say was “Yes.” But probably she didn’t. “No,” I said, “I’m a newspaperman.”
    “That’s nice.” She turned and called, “Father, a newspaperman!” and her voice raised was even more wonderful than her voice low. She turned back to me, graceful as a big cat, and stood there straight and proud, not quite smiling, her warm dark eyes as curious as if she had never seen a man before. I knew damn well I ought to say something, but