Seated in the back of the open cab, his hands folded upon his stomach, his long elbows grotesquely akimbo, was a sallow-faced individual, apparently asleep. “Good God!” cried Breese. “That’s Spence--the chap I saw.” Smith looked at him. “Your chauffeur says he told him you sent him away in this cab.” “But I did nothing of the kind,” cried Breese. “Why, he left by the back door. He said he’d be gone only a few minutes. I was waiting for him!” Suddenly the body swayed and then toppled headlong to the floor. The fixed eyes looked directly at us. Then we saw there was a pool of blood upon the seat of the cab. Breese cried out in horror. CHAPTER XXIII CALLE L A crowd of curiosity seekers had gathered about us. Smith tried to shoo them away, but the Havanese are persistent. It is not every day that one is privileged to witness a corpse in a cab. It was with some relief that we hailed the approach of a native policeman. Smith issued crisp commands to this man. He wanted the body taken to the morgue for the necessary autopsy. It was not to be moved before the medical examiner appeared. Spence’s shop was to be sealed and guarded. The policeman got into the cab and drove it off alone. At this Breese’s man set up a wail. He would not part with his beloved car. For ten years he had worked for the Biltmore. His reputation and his cab were both spotless. But the detective silenced him with a glare and not too ceremoniously hoisted him into another taxi. Smith and I followed. “You’re going to take us to the place where you say you left Spence,” Smith informed the driver, who looked mournfully back for his vanished cab. “Savvy?” The driver nodded miserably. As we approached Calle L, he urged his colleague to slow down. The houses we passed were vaguely familiar, impressive stone houses befitting the aristocratic Vedado quarter. Then he called: “Here! Here!” Our cab stopped. We had pulled up directly in front of the Gilded Cage! “Here!” exclaimed the chauffeur, “here this man told me to stop. He looked around for a minute, then he says: ‘Go to café.’ I go to café on corner. There.” He pointed to the modest bodega not far away. “I go inside. I come back.” He wrung his hands as he relived the tragedy. “It is terrible. Ten years I work for Biltmore and never anything happen. Never!” But Smith had gotten out and was studying the Gilded Cage. Breese still sat in the cab, as if in stupefied wonder. But he was roused by Smith’s first sharp question. “You say, Mr. Breese, that you did _not_ send this man here?” Smith demanded. “I certainly did not,” declared Breese emphatically. “Despite what your driver says?” “Despite what anybody says.” “And yet,” Smith said slowly, “he drives to your house.” Smith turned to the driver. “You say you sat in that café for fifteen minutes. Could you see your cab from there?” “Sure--sure,” the driver nodded vigorously. “I watch my cab. I do not leave it alone. I don’t know this man.”