Egyptian Cross Mystery (35 page)

“Iodine,” said Vaughn. “That tells the whole story. He got it from that medicine shelf over there when he cut himself. Left the bottle on the table and later upset it by accident, or just threw it on the floor—he should give a damn. It’s thick glass, and didn’t break.”

They went to the wall where the body hung; several feet to the side, in a corner, over the basinlike arrangement and the pump-handle, was the shelf which Isham had noticed on his previous visit to the shack. Except for two spaces the shelf was full; upon it stood a large blue package of cotton, a tube of tooth-paste, a roll of adhesive, a roll of bandage, and one of gauze, a small bottle labeled iodine and a companion bottle labeled mercurochrome and several small bottles and jars—cathartics, aspirin, zinc salve, Vaseline, and the like.

“It’s clear enough,” said the Inspector gloomily. “He used Van’s stuff. The bandage and the big bottle of iodine came from Van’s shelf, and he should worry about putting ’em back.”

“Just a minute,” said Isham, frowning. “You’re jumping to the conclusion that it was Krosac who was cut. Suppose it was this poor chump hanging on the wall. Don’t you see, Vaughn? If it wasn’t Krosac who got the wound, and it was Van, then we’d be on a false trail if we looked for a man with a cut wrist, thinking it was Krosac.”

“You’re not so dumb,” exclaimed Vaughn. “Never thought of that. Well!” He threw back his chunky shoulders. “Only one thing to do—take a look at the body.” He advanced toward the wall with set lips.

“Oh; say,” groaned Isham, wincing, “I—I’d rather not, Vaughn.”

“Listen,” snarled Vaughn, “I don’t like this job any more than you do. But it’s got to be done. Come on.”

Ten minutes later the headless body lay on the floor. They had extracted the spikes from the palms and feet. The rags Vaughn had shorn away from the corpse and it lay nude and white, a mockery of God’s image. Isham leaned against the wall with his hands pressed to his stomach. It was the Inspector who, with an effort, went over the bare flesh for wounds; turned the hideous thing over, and repeated his examination on the back.

“No,” he said, rising, “no wounds except the nail holes in the palms and feet. That wrist cut is Krosac’s, all right.”

“Let’s get out of here, Vaughn. Please.”

They returned to Arroyo in thick silence, breathing deeply of the untainted air. In town Inspector Vaughn sought out a telephone, and called Weirton, the county seat. He spoke to District Attorney Crumit for five minutes. Then he hung up and rejoined Isham.

“Crumit’ll keep quiet,” he said grimly. “Was he surprised! But it won’t leak out and that’s all I’m interested in. He’s bringing Colonel Pickett down here, and the Coroner. I told him we took a few liberties with Hancock County’s newest stiff.” He chuckled humorlessly as they emerged into Arroyo’s main street and hurried toward the tiny garage. “Second time they’ll have to hold an inquest into the death of Andrew Van!”

Isham said nothing; he was still in the clutch of nausea. They hired a fast car and set out—an hour and a half behind Ellery—raising an identical cloud of dust. They headed for the Ohio River, the bridge, and Steubenville.

Who is the murderer?

It has been my custom to challenge the reader’s wits at such point in my novels at which the reader is in possession of all facts necessary to a correct solution of the crime or crimes. The Egyptian Cross Mystery is no exception: by the exercise of strict logic and deductions from given data you should now be able, not merely to guess, but to prove the identity of the culprit.

There are no ifs and buts in the only proper solution, as you will find upon reading the explanatory chapter. And although logic requires no helping hand from fortune—good reasoning and good luck!

—Ellery Queen

T
HAT WAS AN HISTORIC
Wednesday, the beginning of as odd and exciting a manhunt as the records of four states contained. It covered some five hundred and fifty miles of zigzag territory. It involved the use of all forms of modern rapid transit—automobile, express train, and airplane. Five men took part in it—and a sixth whose participation came as a complete surprise. And it covered, from the time Ellery set foot in Steubenville, Ohio, nine hard hours which to all except the leader seemed nine centuries.

A triple pursuit … It was remarkable how they chased one another—a long strung-out hunt in which the quarry was always just out of reach; in which there was no time for rest, for food, for consultation.

At 1:30 Wednesday afternoon—just as District Attorney Isham and Inspector Vaughn trudged up to the Municipal Hall in Arroyo—Ellery Queen raced his Duesenberg into Steubenville, a busy town, and after a short delaying during which he questioned a traffic officer, pulled up before the Fort Steuben Hotel.

His pince-nez glasses were awry on his nose and his hat was pushed far back on his head. He looked the motion-picture conception of a reporter, and perhaps that is what the clerk at the hotel desk took him for; for he grinned and neglected to push the register forward.

“You’re Mr. Ellery Queen, aren’t you?” he asked, before Ellery could catch his breath.

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Mr. Yardley described you,” said the clerk, “and said you’d be along this afternoon. He left this note for you.”

“Good man!” cried Ellery. “Let’s have it.”

The note had been written in great haste, in a most unprofessorial scrawl:

QUEEN:
Don’t stop to question clerk. Have all information necessary. Man of K’s description stopped this hotel arriving about midnight last night. Left 7:30 this
A.M.
in hired car. Limp discarded on leaving hotel, but sports bandaged wrist which puzzles me. Broad trail shows no fear of pursuit; actually said he was going to Zanesville. Going after him by car. Have vague description from clerk. Will leave further instructions for you with clerk Clarendon Hotel, Zanesville.

Yardley

Ellery’s eyes were gleaming as he tucked the note into his pocket. “At what time did Mr. Yardley leave Steubenville?”

“Noon, sir, in a hired car.”

“Zanesville, eh?” Ellery was thoughtful. Then he picked up a telephone and said: “Let me have the Chief of Police of Zanesville, please. … Hello. Police department? Let me speak to the Chief. … Hurry! Never mind who I am. … Hello! This is Ellery Queen of New York City speaking. Son of Inspector Richard Queen of the New York homicide squad. … Yes! I’m in Steubenville, Chief, and I’m on the trail of a tall dark man with a bandaged wrist in a hired automobile, followed by a tall man with a beard in another hired car. … The first man’s a killer. … Yes! He left Steubenville at half-past seven this morning. … Hmm. I suppose you’re right; he must have passed through long ago. Pick up what trail you can, please. The second man can’t have reached Zanesville yet. … Keep in touch with the clerk at the Clarendon Hotel. I’ll stop by as soon as I can.”

He hung up and dashed out of the Fort Steuben Hotel. The Duesenberg, like the Pony Express, clattered off toward the west.

In Zanesville Ellery quickly found the Clarendon Hotel, the Clarendon Hotel clerk, and a short tubby man in police uniform who met him with outstretched hand and a wide Rotarian smile.

“Well?” demanded Ellery.

“I’m Hardy, the chief here,” said the fat man. “Your man with the chin-whiskers telephoned a message to the clerk not long ago. At least, he identified himself as such. Seems that the first man changed his route and instead of coming to Zanesville took the road to Columbus.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Ellery. “I might have known Yardley would bungle it, poor old bookworm. Have you notified Columbus?”

“Sure have. Important arrest, Mr. Queen?”

“Important enough,” said Ellery shortly. “Thank you, Chief. I’m on—”

“Excuse me,” said the clerk timidly. “But the gentleman who called said he would leave a message for you at the Seneca Hotel in Columbus. The clerk there is a friend of mine.”

Ellery retreated with celerity, leaving the short gentleman in uniform slightly bewildered.

At 7:00—while Vaughn and Isham were blundering along the muddled trail between Steubenville and Columbus—Ellery was threading his way through East Broad Street in Columbus looking for the Seneca Hotel, after a hair-raising drive from Zanesville.

He met with no obstacle this time. From the clerk behind the desk he got Yardley’s scribbled message:

QUEEN:
Fooled me that time, but I quickly picked up the scent again. Don’t think it was intentional on his part—just changed his mind and went on to Columbus. Have wasted a little time, but discover that K. took train out of here at 1 o’clock for Indianapolis. Am taking plane here to make up lost time. What fun! Shoot along, young man. May catch the fox in Indianapolis, and will your face be red!

Y.

“When he gets colloquial,” muttered Ellery to himself, “he’s almost insufferable. … What time did this gentleman write the note?” He swabbed the perspiration from his grimy brow.

“Five-thirty, sir.”

Ellery snatched a telephone and put in a call for Indianapolis. In a few moments he was talking with Police Headquarters. He introduced himself and discovered that word had already been passed along by the Columbus police. Indianapolis was extremely sorry, but identification had been difficult from the unsatisfactory description, and they had found no trace of the hunted man.

Ellery hung up with a toss of his head. “Any other message for me from Mr. Yardley?”

“Yes, sir. He said he’d leave word at the airport in Indianapolis.”

Ellery produced his wallet. “A fat largess, old man, for rapid service. Can you get me an airplane at once?”

The clerk smiled. “Mr. Yardley said you might want one. So I’ve taken the liberty of chartering one for you, sir. It’s waiting at the field.”

“Damn Yardley!” muttered Ellery, tossing a bill on the desk. “He’s stealing my thunder. Whose chase is this, anyway?” Then he grinned and said: “Great work. I didn’t think I’d find such intelligence in the hinterland. My car is outside—an ancient Duesenberg. Take care of it for me, will you? I’ll be back—God knows when.”

And he was out in the street hailing a taxicab. “Flying field!” he shouted. “Fast!”

It was a little past eight o’clock—an hour after Ellery had left Columbus in the chartered airplane, nearly three hours behind Yardley, and seven hours after their quarry had left Columbus by train—when Vaughn and Isham, two sorely fatigued travelers, raced into Columbus. Vaughn’s official position had lent their trip wings. Messages had flashed ahead from Zanesville. An airplane waited for them at the Columbus port. They were in the air, bound for Indianapolis, before District Attorney Isham could groan three times.

The chase would have been humorous had it not had such grim purpose behind it. Ellery relaxed in his plane and thought of many things. His eyes were abstracted. So much that had been unclear and indecisive for seven months was clear now! He went over the entire case in his mind, and when he came to the murder of Andrew Van he regarded the result of his mental labor and found it good.

The plane sailed on, quite as if it hung in the cloud-strewn air, and only the crawling of the town-dotted terrain far below destroyed the illusion of a body at rest. Indianapolis … Would Yardley pounce on the fox there? It was, Ellery knew after a rapid calculation, temporally possible. The man who hid beneath the cloak of Krosac had left Columbus by railroad train; he could not reach Indianapolis before approximately six o’clock, perhaps a few minutes later—a trip of some five hours by rail. Whereas Yardley, leaving Columbus by plane at 5:30, should cover the comparatively short air-distance by seven o’clock. Flying conditions were favorable, as Ellery could see and feel. Should Krosac’s train be the least bit late, or should he be delayed in leaving Indianapolis for the next stop on his itinerary, there was every possibility that the Professor would catch up with him. Ellery sighed and half wished that Krosac would evade the Professor’s unpracticed clutches. Not that Yardley had done badly, for a novice, so far!

They drifted down on the field of the Indianapolis airport like a scudding leaf in the rosy afterglow of dusk. Ellery consulted his watch. It was 8:30.

As three mechanics grabbed the wings of the plane and rammed chock-blocks under the heels, a young man in uniform came running up to the door of the cabin. Ellery stepped out and looked around.

“Mr. Queen?”

He nodded. “A message for me?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, sir. A gentleman named Yardley left it for you a little less than an hour and a half ago. He said it was important.”

“A mild word,” muttered Ellery, grabbing the note. This affair, he reflected as he opened it, was becoming a saga of wild rides and alternate messages.

Yardley’s scrawl merely said:

Q.: Looks like the last lap. Thought I might catch up with him, but missed him by the skin of my teeth. Arrived here just as man of K’s description took off in plane for Chicago. That was at 7. Cannot get plane until 7:15. K’s craft due in Chi between 8:45 and 9:00. Suggest if you arrive before 8:45 notify Chi police to nab our flitting gent, on flying field there. I’m off!

Y.

“Mr. Yardley caught a plane at seven-fifteen?” demanded Ellery.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Then he should get to Chicago between 9:00 and 9:15?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ellery slipped a small bill into the young man’s hand. “Lead me to a telephone and you’re my benefactor for life.”

The young man grinned and broke into a run, Ellery loping after.

At the airport terminal building Ellery frantically put in a call to Chicago. “Police Headquarters? Give me the Commissioner. … Yes, the Commissioner of Police! … Hurry, you fool, this is a matter of life and death. … Commissioner? What? … Look here, this is Ellery Queen of New York City and I have a personal message for the Commissioner. Important!” He stamped his feet in impatience as his cautious
tête-à-tête
at the other end of the wire asked questions. Five minutes of mingled abuse and pleading elapsed before the voice of the august gentleman who controlled Chicago’s police affairs boomed into his receiver. “Commissioner! You remember me—Inspector Richard Queen’s son. … Cleaning up the Long Island murders. Yes! … Tall dark man with a bandaged wrist is arriving between 8:45 and 9:00 at Chicago tonight in an Indianapolis plane. … No! Don’t nab him on the field. … Matter of personal satisfaction. Will you have him trailed to wherever he goes, and then surround the place? … Yes. Arrest him only if he tries to leave Chicago. It’s possible he’s heading for Canada … or the Pacific coast, yes … He doesn’t know he’s being followed. … Incidentally, look out for a tall man with a beard like Abe Lincoln’s on the same field flying from Indianapolis—Professor Yardley. Tell your people to grant him every courtesy. … Thanks and good-by.