The coroner’s inquest, the next morning at ten, was the usual humdrum bit of business where both the coroner and the police are at sea. Both Val and Sam Peters were put upon the stand, and both received rather sharp questioning concerning the young woman in the case—the girl who had sold the books which were subsequently stolen. It appeared that the entire case hinged on the robbery of the books—those which had disappeared from Val’s apartment as well as those which had cost poor Mat Masterson his life.
Sam Peters, for his part, was legitimately hazy about the appearance of the girl. She had meant nothing to him—just another seller of books. They came into the store all the time—sometimes twenty or thirty a day, men and women. He was not accustomed to paying much attention to them. He gave what description he could, but it was vague and hazy.
But when it came to a hazy description, Val was the person who seemed to be able to deliver the goods. There have been hazy descriptions of women before now, but never has Val’s description been surpassed for indefinite, fog-like vagueness. This is no brief for perjury, and it might be argued that Val was committing perjury. If it was perjury, he did it lightly and joyfully—let that be an extenuation, if not an
