Egyptian Cross Mystery (21 page)

“That can wait,” said Ellery sharply. “There’s one thing more important than anything else at the moment. Mr. Tvar, this note left by your brother says you know where to reach Van. How can you know? You’ve been out of communication with the world for a year, and the Arroyo murder took place only six months ago—last Christmas.”

“Prepared, all prepared,” muttered Megara. “For a long time, for years … I said before that I would have known without the note that Andreja was still alive. The reason was—something you told me in your recital of the Arroyo facts.” They stared at him. “You see,” he continued gloomily, “when you mentioned the names of the two men who discovered the body at the crossroads …”

Ellery’s eyes narrowed. “Well?”

Megara again searched the room with his eyes, as if to make sure that the evanescent Krosac could not hear. “I knew. For if Old Pete—the hillman you mentioned—was alive, then Andreja Tvar, my brother, was also alive.”

“I’m afraid I—” began the District Attorney blankly.

“Oh perfect!” cried Ellery, turning to Professor Yardley. “Don’t you see? Andrew Van is Old Pete!”

Before the others could recover from their astonishment, Megara nodded and continued. “That’s it. He assumed the alternate personality of the hillman years ago in preparation for just such an eventuality as this. He’s probably in the West Virginia hills now—if Krosac hasn’t already found him—hiding away in fear of his life, hoping against hope that Krosac hasn’t discovered his mistake. Krosac hasn’t seen any of us either for twenty years, remember. At least, I don’t believe he has.”

“And that’s how Krosac made a mistake in his original murder,” said Ellery. “Not having seen his victim for so many years, it was easy to fall into the error.”

“You mean Kling?” asked Isham thoughtfully.

“Who else?” Ellery smiled. “You want action, Inspector? It looks as if we’re going to get some.” He rubbed his hands briskly. “Because one thing is sure. We must forestall Krosac and fool him. I don’t believe Krosac has found Andreja yet. The Old Pete get-up was perfect; I sat in that courtroom in Weirton and never once suspected that anything might be out of character with the man. We must get to your brother at once, Mr. Megara, but so secretly that Krosac—whoever he is, no matter in what identity he may be masquerading—will still be ignorant of the hillman disguise.”

“Suits me,” said Vaughn, with a surly grin.

Megara rose; his eyes had become narrow slits of enamel. “I’ll do anything you say, gentlemen—for Andreja. As for me,” he patted his gun pocket ominously, “if that devil Krosac is looking for trouble, he’ll find it. A cartridgeful.”

N
OTHING MRS. BRAD—OR
her daughter—was able to say could persuade Stephen Megara to remain on
terra firma
that night. He spent the rest of the day quietly enough, his old commanding self, with the Brads and Lincoln; but when evening fell, he began to stir restlessly, and by nightfall was on his way to the anchored yacht offshore. Its riding lights pricked the blackness of Oyster Island sharply. Mrs. Brad, to whom the return of her husband’s “partner” was a comfort and a reassurance, had followed the yachtsman down the path to the landing in the dark, pleading with him to remain.

“No,” he said, “I sleep on the
Helene
tonight, Margaret. I’ve lived on it so long it’s really my home. … Nice of you to want me. But Lincoln’s with you, and”—his tone was ugly—“my being there won’t make the house any safer for you. Good night, Margaret, and don’t worry.”

The two detectives who accompanied them to the Cove stared curiously. Mrs. Brad lifted a tearful face to the sky, and retraced her steps. It was remarkable how little the tragedy had affected her nerves; she passed the silent totem post, with its brooding wooden eagle, almost indifferently.

It had been quickly agreed by the conspirators that the story of the Tvar brothers was to be kept a secret from every one.

Stephen Megara, under the questioning glances of Captain Swift and the steward, slept under guard that night. Detectives patrolled the decks. Megara locked his cabin door, and the man on duty outside heard the gurgle of liquid and the steady chink of glasses for two hours. Then the light snapped off. Despite his assurance, Megara seemed to welcome the bolster of liquid courage. But he slept quietly enough, for the detective heard no sound all night.

The next morning, Saturday, Bradwood stewed with activity. Very early two police cars—sedans—dashed around the driveway and waited, panting, before the colonial house. Inspector Vaughn, like conquering Caesar, descended and strode in the midst of his uniformed guard down the path toward the landing dock. At the dock the engine of a police launch broke into a roar. The Inspector, very grim and red of face, jumped into the launch and was piloted toward the yacht.

The proceedings were conducted with frankness; there was no attempt at concealment. On Oyster Island several tiny figures could be descried before the greenery craning at the progress of the launch. Dr. Temple, pipe in mouth, stood on his boat landing and watched. The Lynns, under the pretext of rowing about the waters of the Cove, were all eyes.

The Inspector disappeared up the
Helene’s
ladder.

Five minutes later he reappeared, accompanied by Stephen Megara, who was dressed in a business suit. Megara’s face was drawn, and he reeked alcohol; he said nothing to his sailing master, but followed Vaughn down the ladder with surprisingly steady steps. They dropped into the launch, which at once put back for shore.

On the Bradwood dock they conversed for a moment in low tones; the guard waited. Then the uniforms closed in, and the two men strode up the path toward the house completely surrounded by police. It was almost a parade.

Before the house a plainclothesman saw them coming, leaped from the tonneau of the first police car, saluted, and stood waiting. Very quickly Vaughn and Megara got into the first car. The second filled with police. And then the two cars, klaxons raucously clearing the road, shot around the drive and into the highway which ran past Bradwood.

At the gate, four county troopers on motorcycles jumped to life. Two preceded the first car; two flanked it; the police car made up the rear. … It was an amazing thing, but with the departure of the two cars not a single trooper, policeman, or detective remained on the grounds of Bradwood, or anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

The cavalcade thundered on the main highway, sweeping all traffic aside, proclaiming in gassy roars its intention to reach New York City. …

Back at Bradwood the departure of the Inspector and Megara left everything still and peaceful. The Lynns paddled home. Dr. Temple strolled off, smoking, into the woods. The figures on the shore of Oyster Island disappeared. Old man Ketcham rowed out into the Cove in a decrepit old dinghy, bound for the mainland. Jonah Lincoln quietly backed one of the Brad cars out of the garage, and headed it down the drive.

Professor Yardley’s house, set well back from the road, was lifeless, from all outward appearances.

But that Vaughn had not taken leave of his senses would have been apparent to anyone who investigated the ends of the highway which separated Bradwood from Yardley’s estate. … For at each terminal of the road—two junctions, either of which any automobile or pedestrian must pass in order to leave Bradwood by a land route—a powerful car full of detectives was unobtrusively parked.

And in the Sound, behind Oyster Island and so invisible from the mainland, a large launch drifted, motor idling, while men sat on the deck fishing … keeping a sharp look out nevertheless for the two horns of Ketcham’s Cove, past one of which any craft must come if it attempted to leave the vicinity of Bradwood by water.

T
HERE WAS GOOD REASON
for the fact that Professor Yardley’s house showed no evidence of life Saturday morning. The Professor was under orders, like any officer; as was his old Negress, Nanny. To have exhibited himself openly while Inspector Vaughn and Stephen Megara were making their noisy departure might have been indiscreet. It was known that the Professor entertained a guest—Mr. Ellery Queen, special investigator, of New York City. If the Professor had strolled about alone, it might have raised suspicions in the mind of whoever deemed it necessary to be on the alert. And unfortunately the Professor could not appear with his guest. His guest was gone. His guest, to be exact, at the moment when Megara climbed into the police car, was hundreds of miles from Long Island.

It had been a canny plot. Late Friday night, in the darkness enshrouding Bradwood, Ellery had quietly slipped out of Yardley’s grounds in his Duesenberg. Until he reached the main highway he maneuvered the car like a ghost. Then he plunged forward toward Mineola. There he picked up District Attorney Isham and darted toward New York.

At four o’clock Saturday morning the old Duesenberg was in the capital of Pennsylvania. Harrisburg was asleep; both men were tired, and without conversation they checked in at the Senate Hotel and went to their rooms. Ellery had left a call for nine. They dropped into their beds like clubbed men.

Nine-thirty Saturday morning found them miles from Harrisburg, bound for Pittsburgh. They did not stop for luncheon. The racing car was coated with dust, and both Ellery and Isham showed the strain of the tedious grind. … The Duesenberg for all its years responded nobly. Twice they were chased by motorcycle policemen when Ellery was sending the old engine along at seventy miles an hour. Isham produced his credentials, and they went on. … At three o’clock in the afternoon they were crawling through Pittsburgh.

Isham growled: “The hell with this. He’ll keep. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m starving. Let’s have something to eat.”

They wasted precious time while the District Attorney filled his stomach. Ellery was strangely excited; he toyed with his food; although his face was marked with lines of fatigue, his eyes were fresh, and they sparkled at unexpressed thoughts.

At a few minutes to five, the Duesenberg was parked before the frame building which housed the majestic fathers of Arroyo’s municipal destiny.

Their joints creaked as they descended. Isham stretched his arms hugely, oblivious of the curious eyes of a fat old German—Ellery recognized him as the worthy Bernheim, Arroyo’s storekeeper—and the blue denim-clad countryman who seemed perpetually to be sweeping the sidewalk before the Municipal Hall. Isham yawned: “Well, might as well get it over with right away. Where’s this country constable, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery led the way into the rear of the building, where the Constable’s office lay. He knocked at the door and a rusty bass voice said: “Come in, durn ye!”

They went in. Constable Luden sat there large and sweaty as life, just as if he had not moved in the six months that had elapsed since Ellery’s last visit to Arroyo. His buck teeth stuck out of his fat red face as he gaped.

“I’ll be the son of a so-an’-so,” Luden exclaimed, crashing his big feet to the floor, “ef it ain’t Mr. Queen! Come in, come in. Still chasin’ th’ feller that bumped our scoolteacher oft?”

“Still on the scent, Constable,” smiled Ellery. “Meet a fellow-preserver of the law. This is District Attorney Isham of Nassau County, New York. Constable Luden—Mr. Isham.”

Isham grunted and did not offer to shake hands. The Constable grinned. “Town’s seen some mighty big mucks in th’ last year, mister, so don’t act so stuck-up.” Isham gasped. “Y’heard me. … What’s on y’r mind, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery said hastily: “May we sit down? We’ve been driving for a few hundred centuries.”

“Set.”

They sat. Ellery said: “Constable, have you seen that daffy hillman of yours, Old Pete, recently?”

“Ol’ Pete? Now, that’s queer,” said Luden, with a shrewd glance at Isham. “Ain’t seen th’ old nut fer weeks. Don’t often come to town, Ol’ Pete, I mean, don’t; but this time—durned ef I seen him fer two months! Musta stacked up on vittles a-plenty last time he come down from the mount’n; y’might ask Bernheim.”

“Do you know where his hut is located?” demanded Isham.

“Reckon I do. … What’s all th’ shootin’ fer far’s Ol’ Pete’s concerned? Ain’t goin’ t’arrest ’im, now, are ye? Harmless ol’ loonatic. … Not,” added the Constable hastily as Isham frowned, “that it’s any o’ my affair. … Never been up to Ol’ Pete’s shack—few folks roundabout have. Cave country up there—ol’ fellers, thousan’s o’ years old—an’ folks is jest a mite scary. Ol’ Pete’s shack is some’res in th’ hills in a mighty lonely spot. Y’ couldn’t find it y’rself.”

“Will you guide us, Constable?” asked Ellery.

“Sure thing! Reckon I c’n find ’er.” Luden stood up and, like a fat old mastiff, shook himself. “Y’don’t want word to git round, now, do ye?” he said casually.

“No!” said Isham. “Don’t even tell your wife.”

The Constable grunted. “No fear o’ that. I ain’t got no wife, praise be. … C’mon.”

He conducted them not to the front of the building, where the car was parked on Arroyo’s main street, but out through a back door to a side street which was deserted. Luden and Isham waited, and Ellery circled the Municipal Hall quickly and jumped into the Duesenberg. Two minutes later the car was in the side street, and the three men departed in a cloud of choking dust, Luden clinging to the runningboard.

Constable Luden directed them by devious ways to a dirt road which seemed to plunge into the heart of the nearby hills. “Dif’rent road,” he explained. “You park ’er here, an’ well walk on up.”

“Walk?” said Isham doubtfully, eyeing the steep ascent.

“Well,” drawled Luden in a cheerful voice: “I c’d carry ye, Mr. Isham.”

They left the car in a clump of bushes. The District Attorney looked about, then stooped over the side of the Duesenberg and picked something up from the floor. It was a bulky wrapped bundle. Luden looked at it with frank curiosity, but neither man vouchsafed an explanation.

The Constable lowered his big head and, plodding through a thicket, searched—with the air of a man who does not greatly care whether he finds or not—until he pointed out a faint footpath. Ellery and Isham toiled behind in silence. It was a steadily ascending journey through wild, almost virgin, forest; the trees were so massed that the sky was invisible. The air was sultry, and all three men were soaked with perspiration before they had climbed fifty feet. Isham began to grumble.