Greek Coffin Mystery (12 page)

“In other words, Mrs. Simms,” said Ellery in the same deferential tone, “you really didn’t touch anything either in the library here or in the bedrooms.”

“No, sir, that I did not.”

Ellery whispered to the Inspector, and the Inspector nodded. The old man said, “Did any one in this household other than Miss Brett, Mr. Sloane and Demetrios Khalkis see Khalkis alive last Saturday morning before he died?”

All heads shook vigorously; there was no hesitation anywhere.

“Weekes,” said the Inspector, “you’re sure you didn’t enter these rooms between nine and nine-fifteen last Saturday morning?”

The cotton-balls above Weekes’ ears trembled. “I, sir? No, sir!”

“A matter of possible moment,” murmured Ellery. “Mrs. Simms, have you touched any of these rooms since Khalkis’ death seven days ago?”

“I haven’t laid finger to them,” quavered the housekeeper. “I’ve been ill, sir.”

“And the maids who left?”

Joan said in a subdued voice: “I think I told you before, Mr. Queen, that they left the day of Mr. Khalkis’ death. They refused even to step into these rooms.”

“You, Weekes?”

“No, sir. Nothing was touched up to Tuesday, the day of the funeral, sir, and after that we were told
not
to touch anything.”

“Oh, admirable! Miss Brett, how about you?”

“I’ve had other things to do, Mr. Queen,” she murmured.

Ellery encompassed them all with a sweeping glance. “Has anybody at all touched these rooms since last Saturday?” No response. “Doubly admirable. In other words, this seems to be the situation. The immediate resignation of the maids left the
ménage
shorthanded; Mrs. Simms was confined to her bed and touched nothing; the house being in an uproar, there was no one to clean up. And after the funeral on Tuesday, with the will discovered stolen, nothing was disturbed in these rooms by Mr. Pepper’s orders, I believe.”

“The undertakers worked in Mr. Khalkis’ bedroom,” ventured Joan timidly, “fixing—fixing up the body for burial.”

“And during the will search, Mr. Queen,” put in Pepper, “although we ransacked the rooms, I can assure you personally that nothing was taken away or radically disturbed.”

“I think we may discount the undertakers,” said Ellery. “Mr. Trikkala, will you check up with Mr. Khalkis here?”

“Yes, sir.” Trikkala and Demmy went into frenzied conference again, Trikkala’s questions sharp and explosive. A visible pallor spread over the imbecile’s sagging face, and he began to stammer and splutter in Greek. “He is not clear, Mr. Queen,” reported Trikkala with a frown. “He is trying to say he did not so much as set foot in either bedroom after his cousin’s death, but there is something else …”

“If I may presume to interrupt, sir,” put in Weekes, “I think I know what Mr. Demmy is trying to say. You see, he was so put out by Mr. Khalkis’ death, so upset, I might say, sort of like a child fearing the dead, that he refused to sleep in his old room next to Mr. Khalkis’ inside, and by Mrs. Sloane’s order we prepared one of the empty maid’s rooms upstairs.”

“He’s been staying there,” sighed Mrs. Sloane, “like a fish out of water ever since. Poor Demmy
is
a problem sometimes.”

“Please make sure,” said Ellery in quite a different voice. “Mr. Trikkala, ask him if he has been in the bedrooms since Saturday.”

It was not necessary for Trikkala to translate Demmy’s horrified negative. The imbecile shrank within himself and shambled to a corner, standing there, biting his nails, looking about him with the uneasy glare of a wild animal. Ellery studied him thoughtfully.

The Inspector turned to the brown-bearded English physician. “Dr. Wardes, I was speaking to Dr. Duncan Frost a few moments ago and he said that you had examined the body of Khalkis immediately after death. Is that correct?”

“Quite right.”

“What is your professional opinion as to cause of death?”

Dr. Wardes raised his full brown brows. “Exactly what Dr. Frost ascribed it to in the death-certificate.”

“Fine. Now, a few personal questions, Doctor.” The Inspector took snuff and smiled benignly. “Would you mind relating the circumstances which find you in this house?”

“I believe,” replied Dr. Wardes indifferently, “that I touched upon that not long ago. I am a London specialist on diseases of the eye. I had been visiting in New York on a sorely needed sabbatical. Miss Brett visited me at my hotel—”

“Miss Brett again.” Queen shot a shrewd glance at the girl. “How is that—were you acquainted?”

“Yes, through Sir Arthur Ewing, Miss Brett’s former employer. I treated Sir Arthur for a mild
trachoma
and made the young lady’s acquaintance in that way,” said the physician. “When she learned through the newspapers of my arrival in New York, she visited me at my hotel to renew our acquaintance and broached the possibility of getting me to look at Khalkis’ eyes.”

“You see,” said Joan in a breathless little rush, “when I saw the announcement of Dr. Wardes’ arrival in the ship news, I spoke to Mr. Khalkis about him and suggested that he might be induced to examine Mr. Khalkis’ eyes.”

“Of course,” continued Dr. Wardes, “I was properly in blighty—my nerves aren’t up to snuff at present—and at first I didn’t feel like turning my vacation into a busman’s holiday. But Miss Brett was hard to refuse, and I finally consented. Mr. Khalkis was very kind—insisted I be his guest during my stay in the States. I had the man under observation for a little more than a fortnight when he died.”

“Did you agree with the diagnosis of Dr. Frost and the specialist on the nature of Khalkis’ blindness?”

“Oh, yes, as I think I told the good Sergeant here and Mr. Pepper a few days ago. We know very little about the phenomenon of
amaurosis
—complete blindness—when it is induced by hemorrhage from ulcerous or cancerous stomach. Nevertheless, it was a fascinating problem from the medical standpoint, and I tried a few experiments of my own in an effort to stimulate a possible spontaneous recovery of sight. But I met with no success—my last rigorous examination was a week ago Thursday, and his condition remained unchanged.”

“You’re certain, Doctor, that you’ve never seen the man Grimshaw—the second man in the coffin?”

“No, Inspector, I have not,” replied Dr. Wardes impatiently. “Furthermore, I know nothing about Khalkis’ private affairs, his visitors, or anything else you may consider pertinent to your investigation. My only concern at the moment is to return to England.”

“Well,” said the Inspector dryly, “you didn’t feel that way, I understand, the other day. … It isn’t going to be so easy, Doctor, to leave. This is a murder inquiry now.”

He cut short a protest on the physician’s bearded lips and turned aside to Alan Cheney. Cheney’s replies were curt. No, he could add nothing to the testimony given so far. No, he had never seen Grimshaw before, and what was more, he added viciously, he didn’t care a hoot if Grimshaw’s murderer were never found. The Inspector raised a mildly humorous eyebrow and questioned Mrs. Sloane. The result was disappointing—like her son, she knew nothing and cared less. Her only concern was to have the household restored to at least a semblance of propriety and peace. Mrs. Vreeland, her husband, Nacio Suiza, Woodruff were equally unproductive of information. No one of them had known or even seen Grimshaw before, it seemed. The Inspector pressed the butler Weekes particularly on this point; but Weekes was positive, despite his eight years’ service in the Khalkis house, that Grimshaw had never appeared on the premises prior to the visits of the week before, and even then he, Weekes, had not seen him.

The Inspector, a Napoleonic little figure of despair, stood in the center of the room as if it were his Elba. There was an almost frantic glitter in his eye. The questions rattled out of his grey-mustached mouth. Had any one seen possibly suspicious activity in the house after the funeral? No. Had any of them visited the graveyard since the funeral? No. Had any of them
seen
any one go into the graveyard since the funeral? And again, a climax of thunderous negation—no!

Inspector Queen’s fingers curled in an impatient little gesture and Sergeant Velie tramped over. The Inspector was very short-tempered now. Velie was to foray out into the silence of the graveyard and personally question Sexton Honeywell, Reverend Elder and other
attachés
of the church. He was to discover if possible some one who might have witnessed something of interest in the graveyard since the funeral. He was to quiz neighbors and servants in the Rectory across the court and in the four other private residences which gave rear exit to the court. He was to be
mighty
sure that he missed no possible witness to a possible visit by a possible suspect to the graveyard, particularly at night.

Velie, accustomed to his superior’s tantrums, grinned a frozen grin and barged out of the library.

The Inspector bit his mustache. “Ellery!” he said with a paternal irritation. “What the devil are you doing now?”

His son made no immediate reply. His son, it might be said, had discovered something of piquant interest. His son, it should be concluded, was for no sensible reason—and it seemed most inappropriately—whistling the thematic tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony over a very ordinary-looking percolator perched on a taboret in a slight alcove across the room.

*
“How shall we plan, that all be fresh and new—Important matter yet attractive too ?”—Goethe’s
Faust. Vorspiel auf dem Theater.
L. 15.

N
OW ELLERY QUEEN’S WAS
a curious young soul. He had for hours been disturbed by the merest mental twinge—the vaguest sense of impending events—a dream-like feeling that had no form; in short, an intuition that he was on the verge of a brilliant discovery. He prowled about the library, getting into people’s way, prodding furniture and poking books about and generally making a nuisance of himself. He had passed the taboret with the percolator on it twice without more than a cursory glance; the third time his nostrils quivered ever so lightly—agitated not by a palpable odor but by the less tangible scent of discord. He stared at it for a moment with wrinkled brow, and then he lifted the lid of the percolator to look inside. Whatever he expected to see there, it was at least nothing bizarre; for all that met his eye was water.

Nevertheless, his eyes were sparkling when he looked up, and he began the musical accompaniment to his thoughts that was to annoy his father. The Inspector’s question was doomed to go unanswered; instead, Ellery addressed Mrs. Simms in his old incisive accents. “Where was this taboret with the tea-things when you found Khalkis dead last Saturday morning?”

“Where? By the desk, sir, not where it is now. By the desk, where I’d set it down the night before at Mr. Khalkis’ command.”

“Well then,” and Ellery swung about to take them all in, “who moved this taboret to the alcove after Saturday morning?”

Again it was Joan Brett who replied, and again glances now colored by the purple of suspicion were directed at her tall slender figure. “I did, Mr. Queen.”

The Inspector was frowning, but Ellery smiled at his father and said: “You did, Miss Brett. When and why, pray?”

Her laughter was a little helpless. “I seem to have done nearly everything … You see, there was so much confusion here the afternoon of the funeral, with every one searching and running about the library looking for the will. The taboret was in the way, standing by the desk here, and I merely moved it
out
of the way into the alcove. Surely there’s nothing sinister in that?”

“Surely not,” said Ellery indulgently, and turned to the housekeeper again. “Mrs. Simms, when you fetched the tea-things last Friday night, how many tea-bags did you provide?”

“A handful, sir. There were six, as I recall.”

The Inspector moved quietly forward, as did Pepper, and both men eyed the taboret with puzzled interest. The taboret itself was small and old—there was nothing distinguished about it that either could see. On it there was a large silver tray; and on the tray, beside the electric percolator, were three cups and saucers, with spoons; a silver sugar-bowl; a plate with three desiccated, unsqueezed pieces of old lemon; a second plate with three unused tea-bags; and a silver pitcher of curdled, yellowed sweet-cream. In each of the cups there was a dried sediment of tea-fluid, and in each cup a tannic ring near the inside of the rim. Each of the three silver spoons was dull and stained. In each of the three saucers, too, drooped a stained yellowish tea-bag and a dried, squeezed piece of lemon. And nothing more, so far as either the Inspector or Pepper could see.

It was too much for the Inspector, accustomed though he was to his son’s whimsical vagaries. “I don’t see what—”

“Be loyal to your Ovid,” chuckled Ellery. “‘Have patience and endure; this unhappiness will one day be beneficial.’” He raised the lid of the percolator again, stared inside, then, removing from his inseparable pocket-kit
*
a tiny glass vial, he drained a few drops of the stale cold water from the percolator-tap, replaced the lid, stoppered the vial and tucked it away in a bulging pocket, whereupon, under an assault of eyes growing more and more bewildered, he lifted the entire tray from the taboret and carried it to the desk, setting it down with a sigh of satisfaction. A thought struck him; he said sharply to Joan Brett: “When you moved the taboret last Tuesday, did you touch or change anything on this tray?”

“No, Mr. Queen,” she said submissively.

“Excellent. In fact, I might say perfect.” He rubbed his hands briskly together. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have all had a somewhat fatiguing morning. Perhaps some liquid refreshment … ?”

“Ellery!” said the Inspector coldly. “After all there’s a limit to everything. This is no time for anything so—so—”

Ellery transfixed him with a mournful eye. “Father! Do you spurn what Colley Cibber took a whole speech to eulogize? ‘Tea! thou soft, thou sober, sage, and venerable liquid, thou female tongue-running, smile-soothing, heart-opening, wink-tippling cordial!’” Joan giggled, and Ellery made her a little bow. One of Inspector Queen’s detectives, standing in a corner, whispered behind a horny hand to a confederate, “This is one hell of a murder investigation.” The glances of the Queens crossed above the percolator, and the Inspector lost his ill-humor. He retreated very quietly, as if to say, “My son, the world is yours. Do with it what you will.”