Egyptian Cross Mystery (23 page)

“Sorry,” said Vaughn. “Can’t tell you. Please, Miss—”

“But Stephen looks ill. You haven’t been putting him through those nasty third degrees of yours!”

Vaughn grinned. “Oh, say now—that’s a lot of newspaper talk. Nothing like that. Looks sick, does he? Guess he doesn’t feel well. He did say something about having severe pains in the groin.”

Helene stamped her foot. “Inhuman, all of you! I shall ask Dr. Temple this very moment to go out to the yacht and have a look at him.”

“Go ahead and ask,” said the Inspector eagerly. “It’s all right with me.” And he sighed with relief when she marched off the porch and took the path which led past the totem post. Vaughn clamped his jaws at once. “Come along, Johnny. Got a job to do.”

Accompanied by the detective, the Inspector descended from the porch and struck out on the western path through the woods. The little hut in which Fox, the gardener-chauffeur, was confined popped into view through the trees. A plainclothesman lounged on the doorstep.

“Quiet?” asked Vaughn.

“Not a peep out of him.”

Vaughn without ceremony pushed open the door and went into the cabin, followed by his subordinate. Fox’s face, lean, gray, black-stubbled, eyes violet with shadows, turned to him at once with eagerness. He had been pacing the floor like any restless prisoner in a cell. When he saw who his visitor was, however, his lips clamped shut and he resumed his pacing.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” said the Inspector abruptly. “Will you talk?”

Fox’s feet pounded with uninterrupted rhythm.

“Still won’t tell me what you went to see Patsy Malone for, hey?”

No answer.

“All right,” said Vaughn, sitting down lazily. “That’s your funeral—
Pendleton.”

The man’s stride faltered for an instant, and then resumed. His face remained expressionless.

“Good boy,” said Vaughn with sarcasm. “Swell nerves.
And
guts. But it won’t get you anywhere, Pendleton. Because we know all about you.”

Fox muttered: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve done time.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Did a stretch in stir and don’t know what doing time means? All right, all right,” said the Inspector with a smile. “But I’m telling you, Pendleton, you’re acting like a damned fool. I don’t hold it against you because you used iron bars for curtains. …” His smile disappeared. “I mean it, Pendleton. Denying it won’t do you any good. You’re in a jam—see? You’ve got a record, and under the circumstances it’s best for you to come clean.”

The man’s eyes were agonized. “I’ve got nothing to explain.”

“No? All right, let’s talk about it. Suppose I bumped into a crook below the deadline in New York City. A jeweler’s safe had just been cracked. … Think my man wouldn’t have explaining to do? Guess again.”

The tall man stopped and leaned on his doubled hands; his knuckles were white against the dark table. “For God’s sake, Inspector,” he said, “give me a break! All right, I’m Pendleton. But I tell you I’m innocent in this case! I want to go straight—”

“Hmm,” said the Inspector. “That’s better. Now we know where we’re at. You’re Phil Pendleton, you were in State’s Prison at Vandalia, Illinois, serving a sentence of five years for robbery. You pulled the hero act in the prison break there last year, and saved the Warden’s life. The Governor of Illinois commuted your sentence. You’ve got a record—assault and battery in California, housebreaking in Michigan. Served time for both crimes. … Now, if you’re on the level we don’t want to hound you. If you’re not, come clean and I’ll make it as easy for you as I can. Did you bump off Thomas Brad?”

The man who was known in Bradwood as Fox dropped limply into a chair. “No,” he whispered. “As God is my judge, Inspector.”

“How’d you get that last job—from the man who gave you references?”

He spoke without looking up. “I wanted to start over again. He—he didn’t ask questions. Business was bad, and he fired me. That’s all.”

“Had no ulterior motive in taking this double gardener-chauffeur’s job, eh?”

“No, it was outdoors, good pay …”

“All right. If you expect consideration, you’ve got to clear up that visit to Malone’s. If you’re on the straight, why do you look up a mob like Malone’s?”

Fox was silent for a long moment. Then he rose, and his face hardened. “I’ve got a right to lead my own life. …”

“Sure you have, Pendleton,” said the Inspector genially. “That’s the ticket! We’ll help you.”

Fox spoke rapidly, looking at the detective in the doorway without seeing him. “In some way an old—an old prison pal traced me here. The first I knew about it was Tuesday morning. He insisted on meeting me. I said no—I was through. He said: ‘You wouldn’t want me to tip off your boss, would you?’ So I went.”

Vaughn nodded; he was listening intently. “Go on, son, go on.”

“He told me where to go—no names, just an address in New York. Tuesday night, after I dropped Stallings and Mrs. Baxter off at the Roxy, I drove up there, parked the car on the next block. Some gun let me in. I saw—somebody. He made me a—proposition. I said no—I was through with the old life. No more rackets for me. He told me he’d give me till the next day to consider, and if I didn’t come through he’d tell Mr. Brad who I was. I went away—and you know the rest.”

“Naturally laid off when he heard a murder was committed,” muttered Vaughn. “This was Patsy Malone, eh?”

“I—well, I can’t say.”

Vaughn eyed him shrewdly. “Won’t squeal, hey? What was the proposition?”

Fox shook his head. “I won’t tell any more, Inspector. You want to help me and all that, but if I spilled it it would be the spot for me.”

The Inspector rose. “I see. Well, I can’t say, between you and me, that I blame you. That sounds like the straight goods. … By the way—Fox …” the man’s head jerked up, and he looked into Vaughn’s eyes with a mixture of astonishment and gratitude—“where were you last Christmas?”

“In New York, Inspector. Looking for a job. I answered Brad’s ad and he took me on the day after New Year’s.”

“Check.” The Inspector sighed. “Well, Fox, for your sake I hope it’s as you say. Under the circumstances my hands are tied. You’ll have to stick around. No guards, no pinch, you understand. But you’ll be under observation, and I don’t want you to try a lam.”

“I won’t, Inspector!” cried Fox. New hope had leaped into his face.

“Keep going as if nothing’d happened. If you’re in the clear I won’t discuss this thing with Mrs. Brad or disclose your record to her.”

Before this generosity Fox stood speechless. The Inspector beckoned his man and left the hut.

Fox followed slowly. He stood in the doorway and watched the Inspector and the two detectives stride down the path into the woods. His chest rose, and he breathed deeply of the warm air.

Vaughn found Helene Brad on the porch of the big house.

“Torturing poor Fox again,” she sniffed.

“Fox is all right,” said the Inspector shortly; his face showed the fatigue and helplessness he felt. “Find Temple?”

“Dr. Temple was out. He took a sail somewhere in his motorboat. I left a note for him to see Stephen the moment he got back.”

“Out, eh?”

Vaughn glanced in the general direction of Oyster Island and nodded wearily.

A
T 9:15 SUNDAY MORNING INSPECTOR
Vaughn, who had slept overnight at Bradwood, was summoned by Stallings to the telephone. He seemed to be expecting the call, for he looked blank at once and said in an audible mutter: “Wonder who that is.” Whether Stallings was deceived or not, he learned little enough from the Inspector’s monosyllabic replies to the early caller. “Hmm. … Yes. … No. All right.” The Inspector hung up and, eyes glittering, hurried out of the house.

At 9:45 District Attorney Isham made a grand entrance into Bradwood, driving up in an official county car with three county troopers. They all descended before the colonial house and Inspector Vaughn leaped forward, grasped Isham’s hands, and began earnestly to converse with him in an undertone.

Under cover of this diversion Ellery slipped his Duesenberg into the grounds of Yardley’s estate a few moments later.

No one apparently noticed that one of the three troopers who had accompanied the District Attorney did not possess the easy military bearing characteristic of his companions. He joined a larger group of troopers, who thereupon dispersed and walked off in various directions.

Professor Yardley, in slacks and sweater, smoking the inevitable pipe, greeted Ellery with a welcoming cry in the selamik of the house.

“Here’s our chief guest!” he shouted. “I thought you weren’t coming back, my boy!”

“As long as you’re in the quotative mood,” smiled Ellery, stripping off his coat and flinging himself on the tessellated marble, “you might consider the fact that
hospes nullus tam in amici hospitium diverti potest … odiosus siet.”

“Why butcher Plautus? You haven’t been here three days anyway.” The Professor’s eyes were bright. “Well?”

“Well,” said Ellery, “he’s with us.”

“No!” Yardley became thoughtful. “In uniform? Good as a play, by heaven.”

“We rearranged the details in Mineola this morning. Isham got hold of a couple of troopers and an official car, telephoned Vaughn, and set out for Bradwood.” Ellery sighed; there were huge circles under his eyes. “That trip! Van was about as communicative as a clam. I’m tired! But there’s no rest for the weary. Would you care to witness the great unveiling?”

The Professor scrambled to his feet. “Decidedly! I’ve been a martyr long enough. Had breakfast?”

“We stuffed our bellies in Mineola. Come along.”

They left the house and sauntered across the road to Bradwood, Vaughn was still talking to Isham when they reached the porch. “Just telling the D.A.,” said Vaughn, as if Ellery had never been away, “the line we got on Fox.”

“Fox?”

The Inspector repeated what he had learned about the man’s history.

Ellery shrugged. “Poor devil. … Where’s Megara?”

“On the yacht.” Vaughn lowered his voice.
“He’s
gone down to the landing. … Megara had some bad pains in his groin yesterday. Miss Brad tried to get Temple, but he was out all day. I think Temple’s gone over to the
Helene
this morning.”

“Anything evolved from that pretty plot yesterday?”

“Nothing. Decoy didn’t pull a real live duck out of the sky. Come on, let’s go before these people start getting up. They’re all asleep yet—nobody’s been about.”

They proceeded around the house and took the path to the Cove. On the dock stood three troopers, and the police launch waited to cast off.

No one paid the least attention to the third trooper. Isham, Vaughn, Yardley, and Ellery scrambled into the launch, and the three troopers followed. The boat sputtered off toward the yacht a half-mile away.

The same procedure was observed in boarding the
Helene.
The four men scaled the ladder, and then the troopers followed. The members of the
Helene’s
crew who stood about the deck in immaculate whites had eyes only for Inspector Vaughn, who was striding along as if he meant to arrest somebody.

Captain Swift opened the door of his cabin as they passed. “How long—?” he began.

Vaughn tramped along, a deaf man, and the others meekly tramped along, too. The Captain stared after them, his jaw swelling; then he cursed with effortless fluency and retreated into his cabin, slamming the door.

The Inspector knocked on the panels of the main cabin. The door swung inward, and Dr. Temple’s taut, blackish face appeared.

“Hullo!” he said. “Out in force, eh? I’ve just been having a look at Mr. Megara.”

“May we come in?” asked Isham.

“Come in!” said Megara in a tight voice from the interior of the cabin. They filed in, silently. Stephen Megara lay on a simple bed, naked where a sheet did not cover him. The yachtsman’s face was pale and strained; there were beads of sweat on the edge of his eyebrows. He was doubled up, clutching his groin. He did not look at the troopers; his eyes were fixed on Temple with agony.

“What’s the trouble, Doctor?” asked Ellery soberly.

“Hernia testis,”
said Dr. Temple. “A good case of it. It’s not anything to worry about immediately. I’ve given him temporary relief; he’ll feel the effect of it in a moment.”

“Got it on this last trip,” panted Megara. “All right, Doctor; all right. Leave us, please. These gentlemen want to discuss something with me.”

Temple stared; then he shrugged and picked up his medical bag. “As you say. … Don’t neglect that, Mr. Megara. I suggest surgery, although it isn’t absolutely necessary right now.”

He bowed with military stiffness to the others and quickly left the cabin. The Inspector followed him out. He did not return until Dr. Temple was in his own motorboat headed for the mainland.

Vaughn closed the cabin door tightly. On deck two troopers set their backs against it.

The third trooper took a step forward, and licked his lips. The man in the bed plucked at the sheet.

They looked at each other, silently; they did not shake hands.

“Stefan,” said the schoolmaster.

“Andreja.” Ellery felt the alarming impulse to giggle; there was something ludicrous in the situation, tragic as its overtones were. These two straight, clean-cut men with the foreign names—the yacht, the bed of pain, the drab uniform … There had never been anything quite like it in all his experience.

“Krosac. Krosac, Andreja,” said the sick man. “He’s found us, as you always said he would.”

Andreja Tvar said harshly: “Had Tom followed my advice … I warned him by letter last December. Didn’t he get in touch with you?”

Stefan shook his head slowly. “No. He didn’t know where to reach me. I was cruising in the Pacific. … How have you been, Andr’?”

“Very well. How long is it?”

“Years … Five, six?”

They fell silent. The Inspector was watching them with eagerness, and Isham barely breathed. Yardley looked at Ellery, and Ellery said quickly: “Please, gentlemen. The story. Mr.—Van …” he indicated the schoolmaster, “must get away from Bradwood as soon as possible. Every moment he lingers in this vicinity increases the danger. Krosac, whoever he is, is clever. He may easily see through our little deception, and we want no possibility of his following Mr. Van back to West Virginia.”