gers only in their grasp. Look here—" he pointed to the large square livid mark—"this would be the bruise left by the heel of the hand, and these—" he indicated the long, circling lines about the dead man's neck—"would be the finger-marks. That's just the way, the bruises showed on that man at the Bellevue Morgue."
"Snap out of it!" I almost shook him in my irritation. "Here's one time when observed phenomena don't amount to proof. It seemed fantastic enough to find a cylinder of concentrated carbon monoxide in the car, with you chaps and Miss Watrous almost dead of CO poisoning, but to lug in a gorilla or orang-utan to throttle our would-be murderer before he had a chance to slip his gas mask on—Poe never thought up anything as wild as that."
"Okay. Have it your own way," he grumbled, "but—"
A grunt from Amberson deflected our attention from the corpse. "Take a look at this, you fellers," he commanded, holding out the sheaf of papers he had taken from the inside pocket of the dead man's blouse. "Ever see a finer set-up?"
The first paper was a pass from G-2 declaring the bearer might circulate where he chose inside our lines in uniform or plain clothes; he was not to be delayed; all railroad transportation officers were directed to give him every preference. Intelligence work.
The next identified him as Captain Albert Parker Tuckerman, infantry unassigned, on leave with special permission to visit the Paris area. Next were travel orders to Brest, Saint-Nazaire, Treves, Coblenz—each issued in a different name. Last, but far from least, was a complete list of our personnel at provost marshal's offices, intelligence and liaison officers, and orders for troop movements and concentrations in occupied Germany.
Weinberg pursed his lips and gave a soundless whistle. "Looks as if you've caught a fish here, sir. Who was he; any idea?"
"Nope," Amberson shook his head, "but I'll bet G-2 will be glad to see his photograph. There's a Jerry undercover man been raisin' merry hell with our arrangments; shouldn't wonder if he's here—" he jerked a thumb toward the still form stretched on the railway seat. "Just for once I'm grateful to that big-mouthed apKern. When he began to sound off about carrying confidential papers we all knew it was for Miss Watrous' benefit, but this bird fell for it. He must have traveled with that can of carbon monoxide and gas mask all ready for such emergencies. Maybe that'll account for some of the mysterious disappearances of papers from our offices. Anyway, it's fairly obvious that when we fell asleep he opened up his little bag o' tricks and was about to swipe apKern's dispatches when he got a whiff o' his own poison and passed out."
"But he didn't die that way—" Weinberg began.
"Take it easy, buddy," I admonished as I administered a none too gentle nudge with my field boot. "Let the board of inquiry decide how he died. Don't go broadcastin' that gorilla-stuff. Want to be slapped in the booby-hatch before you have a chance to sop a drink up at Treves?"
Weinberg lit a cigarette and took a thoughtful puff. "I don't know how the big lug died," he finally admitted. "Maybe he woke up and apKern talked him to death. But there's something dam' funny about it, just the same."
"How?" Amberson demanded.
"Oh, nothing. It couldn't have any bearing on the case."
"Everything has bearing on a case like this," the major answered with the cocksureness of the professional policeman.
"What was it?"
"Well, when I went to give first aid to Miss Watrous I noticed that her left puttee
