Queen opened it, Ellery crowding close behind. They were peering into a tiny cubicle spaced off in an angle of the wall. It contained a wash-bowl, a medicine chest and a small clothes-closet. Queen looked into the medicine chest first. It held a bottle of iodine, a bottle of peroxide, a tube of shaving-cream, and other shaving articles. “Nothing there,” said Ellery. “How about the closet?” The old man pulled the door open curiously. A suit of street-clothes hung there, a half-dozen neckties and a fedora hat. The Inspector carried the hat back into the office and examined it. He handed it to Ellery, who disdainfully returned it at once to its peg in the closet. “Dang those hats!” exploded the Inspector. There was a knock on the door and Hesse admitted a bland young man. “Inspector Queen?” inquired the newcomer politely. “Right,” snapped the Inspector, “and if you’re a reporter you can say the police will apprehend the murderer of Monte Field within twenty-four hours. Because that’s all I’m going to give you right now.” The young man smiled. “Sorry, Inspector, but I’m not a reporter. I’m Arthur Stoates, new man at District Attorney Sampson’s office. The Chief couldn’t reach me until this morning and I was busy on something else—that’s why I’m a little late. Too bad about Field, isn’t it?” He grinned as he threw his coat and hat on a chair. “It’s all in the point of view,” grumbled Queen. “He’s certainly causing a heap of trouble. Just what were Sampson’s instructions?” “Well, I’m not as familiar with Field’s career as I might be, naturally, but I’m pinch-hitting for Tim Cronin, who’s tied up this morning on something else. I’m to make a start until Tim gets untangled, which will be some time this afternoon. Cronin, you know, was the man after Field a couple of years ago. He’s aching to get busy with these files.” “Fair enough. From what Sampson told me about Cronin—if there’s anything incriminating in these records and files, he’ll ferret it out.—Hesse, take Mr. Stoates outside and introduce him to Lewin.—That’s the office-manager, Stoates. Keep your eye on him—he looks like a wily bird. And, Stoates—remember you’re looking not for legitimate business and clientele in these records, but for something crooked.... See you later.” Stoates gave him a cheery smile and followed Hesse out. Ellery and his father faced each other across the room. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked the old man sharply. “A copy of ‘What Handwriting Tells,’ which I picked up in this bookcase,” replied Ellery lazily. “Why?” “Come to think of it now, El,” declared the Inspector slowly, “there’s something fishy about this handwriting business.” He shook his head in despair and rose. “Come along, son—there isn’t a blamed thing here.”