"All of which is mine. It's the money that was taken from me when I was held up. I had the wallet and several of the cigars in the same pocket. The currency evidently became impregnated with the odor of the cigars. Where did you get it?" Ward shuffled leisurely through some papers, finally producing a telegram. "This wire," he said, flourishing the message with an extravagant gesture, "come in from the Frisco police while you were out. It says the guy downstairs on ice is Dominic Diaz. He was a guest at San Quentin up to four days ago where he was serving ten to fifty years for some mistakes he made when he was younger." Mr. Peck nodded interestedly. "It also says that when he so rudely walked off the premises without stopping to say goodbye, he was with a red headed monkey, minus one ear, that answers to the name of Mike McSweeney." "I see." "Mr. McSweeney had the bad taste to try to stick up our local drug emporium about half an hour ago." "And he is now incarcerated in your bastille." "Right. And he had your dough on him." * * * * * Ward sat back in his swivel chair, hooked his thumbs into the arm holes of his vest and beamed. "Well, I guess that makes it pretty clear. Eh, Mr. Peck? Diaz, the dead pigeon, and this guy McSweeney take it on the lam from the big house. They sticks you up, then blow North and land here. They're going to split, but McSweeney's a pig. He wants the works. So what does he do? He croaks his pal." Ward cocked his head and extended his hands, palms outward. "Okay?" Mr. Peck scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, fairly so," he answered without enthusiasm. "But before I say _how_ clear, I'd like to see this McSweeney person." A moment later a very sullen and defiant Mike McSweeney was ushered into the room. "Turn around slowly," Mr. Peck ordered. The man sulked, but with a little persuasion, he finally did as he was told. "Now take your shoes off." "Say, what is this, a racket?" the prisoner snarled. "That will be all," Mr. Peck murmured after a hasty inspection of McSweeney's feet. "You may return him to his cell. And unless you care to have him prosecuted for his attempted robbery of the drug store, you may just as well notify the Warden at San Quentin to come up and get him. His list of crimes, I am sorry to say, Ward, does not include the murder of Dominic Diaz." "Why--why it's as plain as the nose on your face," Ward spluttered as McSweeney was led from the room. "The cigar smelling currency...." "You've tried hard," Mr. Peck interrupted, "very hard, in fact. Your efforts are indeed commendable and I do say that your deductions are plausible, but the fact remains that McSweeney is not the man we are looking for." "Well, couldn't have McSweeney poisoned him and then thrown his body on the tracks?"