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that was pertinent, and omitted only the conversational waywardness of Mrs. North, which he doubted the inspector would appreciate—“well, it’s your baby, Weigand. It’s certainly a screwy one.”
    Weigand nodded. There was no doubt of that.
    â€œLet’s have a report,” the inspector directed. “Let me know when you get an identification. Did you see the press?”
    O’Malley preferred the press to cats, but by a narrow margin, and his tone revealed it. Weigand had seen the press, as a matter of fact; for a moment amid other moments. He had told the press there was a body and murder, and described the man. He said that that was all he knew, thinking it was enough for the press to know—from him, at any rate. The press could go to O’Malley, for more. The press would, it assured him, and he warned the inspector. The inspector thanked him for nothing; the press was on the doorstep, howling. Weigand thought of something, and suggested it, as a lieutenant suggests things to an inspector. He thought it would be better if the exact time of the killing were kept from the press. The inspector agreed.
    â€œEven if we knew it,” he said. “A cat!”
    Weigand left it to the inspector to tell the reporters that he, Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley, had the matter well in hand and expected an arrest soon. The inspector, Weigand knew, would “have the case in hand” and be “working on it unsparingly” until, in the end, he solved it. And if it were not solved, the inspector would take Weigand in hand. The lieutenant did not resent this; it was a course proper to inspectors.
    Weigand went back to his office and looked at the reports, which were coming in. Prints not in the files; the body not that of Mr. Irwin Bokandosky, missing since September 26 from his home in the Bronx; not that of Alexander K. Churchill, absent only since the tenth day of October from his home in Queens—and also from his cage in the City National Bank. This last did not surprise the Police Department in the least; it had ideas already about Mr. Churchill. Mullins reported that it was a damned screwy case, and was deepeningly pessimistic.
    Weigand studied the report sent along by the Assistant Medical Examiner, Dr. Sampson. It was technical, but clear enough, and Weigand translated it to himself. The man had been dead about twenty-four hours, but it might be as short a time as twenty or as long a time as twenty-eight. He had eaten several hours before he died. Death resulted from severe brain lacerations, and several blows had been struck. The blow which had partly disfigured the face, breaking the nose, had been delivered after the man was dead. Perhaps, Weigand thought, out of sheer rage. The weapon had had, apparently, a circular, flat face. (“Maybe a croquet-mallet,” Sampson had written along one edge of the report.) Weigand conveyed the gist of this to Mullins, who took it badly.
    â€œMen with no clothes, croquet-mallets, cats and screwy people,” he said, indignantly. “And the guy ain’t even got a record,” he added, piling on what was evidently the last straw. Weigand agreed this made things difficult, as did the battering of the face. The last was, intentionally or not, a shrewd move on the part of the murderer, since it made it highly improbable that the newspapers would publish photographs taken of the corpse, and thus blocked one quick channel of identification. Weigand sighed and reached for his hat.
    â€œLet’s go look at it,” he said. “Maybe we’ll see something.”
    Mullins heaved himself up, sadly, and Weigand led the way to their car. Mullins switched on the red lights, which made him more cheerful, and almost smiled as the siren cried their coming. A morgue attendant got the body out of its refrigerated drawer, where Dr. Sampson had left it. Weigand examined the hands, and pointed out the deep cigarette