CRASHING SYNCOPATION.

The Dutton Arms was nearby, which probably accounted for Miss Meusel coming to the broadcasting studio instead of at once notifying headquarters. Her apartment was roomy and furnished in quiet, luxurious taste. “Do you live here alone?” Cates asked.

She nodded. “Yes. I play a concert violin and I do all my practicing here.” She smiled faintly. “Nobody else would want to be around, even though my violin is very old and considered one of the best in tonal quality in the country.”

Dave Cates rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. Then, without comment, he started to look around the place. Nothing had been disturbed, according to Miss Meusel, save that the wall-compartment door was swinging on its hinge.

Cates strolled to the window and looked out. The automatic fire escape had not been used, as he realized when he tapped the edge of the drawer and found that dust clung to his fingers.

Turning from the window he went across the room. A violin case lay on the table and Cates gazed idly at it.

Something on the floor caught his attention and he stooped, then looked up at the watching girl.

“Have you been playing recently?” he asked.

“No, I’m sorry to confess that I haven’t touched the violin for two days,” she answered. “It hasn’t been out of its case.”

Cates sat down.

“Suppose you tell me of your activities between four thirty and eight,” he suggested.

Miss Meusel considered for a moment.

“Well,” she began, “about four fifteen Leo Archer phoned and asked me to meet him over at the Renhurst, where his band plays for tea dances. I put my necklace and rings away, and started out with Mr. Hughes, who had called to see me about a business matter.

“In turning to say something to me, Mr. Hughes bumped into that table, knocking over a flower vase, a box of candy, and some books. My maid was out for the afternoon and evening and since I was in a hurry and couldn’t attend to it, Mr. Hughes kindly offered to remain behind and clean things up a bit.”

“It looks as if he did, too,” commented Cates negligently. “Do you by any chance mean Arthur Hughes?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

Cates knew of him only by reputation as being wealthy and a somewhat eccentric young idler.

“I’ve heard the name,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter. Please go on with your story.”

She continued: “I left Mr. Hughes behind and went to the Renhurst, where I waited some fifteen minutes for Leo Archer. We had tea and afterward we drove out to an inn for dinner with Gerald Terhune—he’s the manager of Archer’s band.

“Then, when I returned to the apartment, I found that the jewelry was gone.”

“You say you had to wait fifteen minutes for Archer at the Renhurst?”

“About that long—yes. But that’s nothing unusual, for he’s never on time. He told me he was up in his office at the Renhurst working on a new number he’s writing.”

“A good band leader, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s wonderful!” she enthused. “You wouldn’t think to look at him that he can direct such a band. Yet his team is one of the jazziest in the country. He’s awfully temperamental, though. He can write and score the weirdest numbers, but he needs actual inspiration to do it.”

Cates rose and went to the radio. “Do you mind if I tune in on him for a moment?” he asked. “I never paid any attention to his band, probably because I’m not much of a musician.”

“Of course not.”

Cates turned the dials and presently the music of a dance band filled the room. It was crashing syncopation of the first order with a steady foundation of piano, banjo, bass, and drums holding solidly beneath a structure of silken saxophones, shrilling violins, and cutting trumpets.

Despite the worry of her loss, Miriam Meusel’s foot tapped to the tempo of the music and her shoulders swayed gracefully.

“Isn’t that marvelous!” she exclaimed.

Musical or not musical Dave Cates could not but feel that compelling sweep of the rhythm.

“Hot stuff,” he agreed.

He was frowning a bit as he shut off the radio and reseated himself.

“By the way, Miss Meusel, are there any other keys to this apartment besides your own?”

She hesitated, looking at him oddly.

“Yes,” she responded. “My maid has one and the janitor, of course, has a pass key.”

“Any others?”

“No.”

“I suppose you have a number of friends who know this apartment quite well.”

She became indignant.

“Yes, naturally, but I don’t see what on earth my friends have to do with this.”

“Nothing,” murmured the little radio cop. “Nothing at all. Only we have to consider everything, you know.”

At that moment someone came to the door, and there was a sound as of a key being put into the lock. Miriam Meusel rose hurriedly and went to the door where, Cates thought, she made some whispered remark.

Then a short, florid-faced man entered. Seeing Cates, he turned to Miss Meusel.

“I didn’t know you were entertaining, Miriam,” he said in a purring voice. “Otherwise I would not have called.”

She avoided Cates’ eyes as she made the introduction.

“This is Mr. Cates, Mr. Terhune,” she said. “Mr. Cates is from headquarters, Jerry.”

Cates acknowledged the introduction with a quick handshake. He knew of Terhune, manager of Archer’s band and recently appointed chairman of the general committee for the Charity Ball.

Yet he reacted strongly from this first acquaintance. Terhune’s softness, his ingratiating smile, went against Cates’ sturdy grain.

“Ah, the robbery—yes,” said Terhune softly. “A great shame, Miriam, and probably the work of some clever, experienced crook. Getting so a man hardly dares take his afternoon nap. In fact, this afternoon I fancied I heard some one prowling about my room. Doubtless it was purely imaginary.”

“May I ask where your room is?” said Cates.

“At the Renhurst, Mr. Cates.”

A loud knock came on the door. Miss Meusel admitted Arthur Hughes, a tall, big-shouldered young man with gray eyes, and a suggestion of recklessness in his bearing.

“Say, this sure is tough, Miriam!” he burst out impetuously. “About the robbery, I mean. I just heard about it and ran in to see if I could help out in any way.”

The girl patted his arm.

“You’re a dear, Arthur,” she said, “but Mr. Cates is handling the affair.”

Introduced, Cates took a quick inventory of Hughes and found that he rather liked him. But perhaps that was because Hughes appeared to good advantage when contrasted with Terhune.

“Don’t misunderstand my questions,” Cates said to Hughes, “but I understand you were up here this afternoon after Miss Meusel left the apartment.”

Hughes grinned boyishly and drew a cigarette case from his pocket.

“I knew I’d come under suspicion,” he remarked. “Yes, I was up here. I came because I had heard from some friends of mine in Philadelphia in regard to a concert booking for Miss Meusel, and I knew she’d be interested.”

“How long were you here after she left the apartment?”

“Oh, a matter of ten or fifteen minutes,” said Hughes indifferently. “Just long enough to pick up some things I kicked over.”

“Did you meet any one going out?”

“Not in the building. There were people passing outside.”

Cates nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well, I guess that’s all for now, Miss Meusel. I’ll give you a report as soon as possible.”

At the door Cates paused. “By the way, Mr. Terhune,” he asked, “are you having Leo Archer play at the Charity Ball?”

Terhune wriggled like a puppy eager to please.

“Why, yes,” he answered. “Don’t you approve?”

“You bet your life I do,” answered Officer Cates with conviction.