Greek Coffin Mystery (21 page)

“I don’t quite see—” began Sampson.

“Please.” Ellery lit another cigaret with steady fingers. “Let me continue. Where do we stand? Here—the entire solution, it must be plain now, with Khalkis as the murderer, collapses. For the solution was based on two points: one, that Khalkis really wasn’t blind and, two, that only two people were in the study last Friday night. The second Mr. Knox and Miss Brett have already exploded; I have every reason to believe that I shall be able to explode the first myself in a few moments. In other words, provided we can demonstrate that Khalkis was really blind that night, we no longer have any more reason for suspecting Khalkis of Grimshaw’s murder than any one else. In fact, we can eliminate Khalkis as a suspect; the only one who had reason to leave the false clews was the murderer; the clews were left after Khalkis’ death; and moreover were designed to make Khalkis appear as the criminal. So, Khalkis at least was innocent of Grimshaw’s murder.

“Now, from Mr. Knox’s story, it is evident that Grimshaw was murdered for a motive connected with the stolen Leonardo—not a far cry from my former inference,” continued Ellery. “One thing that tends to bear out this stolen painting motive is: that when Grimshaw was found in the coffin, the promissory note which Khalkis had given him, as Mr. Knox related, was missing from his wallet and clothes—obviously appropriated by his murderer at the time he strangled Grimshaw. The murderer would then be able to hold this promissory note over Khalkis’ head, for remember that Grimshaw was killed before Khalkis died. When Khalkis died unexpectedly, however, the note became virtually valueless to the murderer; for such a document presented for payment to any one but Khalkis himself, now dead, would be so suspicious as to cause an investigation necessarily perilous to the murderer. When he stole the promissory note from Grimshaw, then, the murderer did it on the basis of Khalkis’ remaining alive. In a way, Khalkis by dying did his rightful heirs a good turn, saving his dwindling estate the considerable sum of half a million dollars.

“But an even more important fact arises.” Ellery paused and looked about the office. The door to the Inspector’s room was shut; he crossed over, opened it, peered about, closed it again and returned. “This is so important,” he explained bitterly, “that I don’t want even a clerk to hear it.

“Attend. The only person, as I said a moment ago, who had reason to divert guilt onto the head of the dead man, Khalkis, was naturally the murderer. Whereupon there are two characteristics which the murderer must possess: one, to have been able to plant the false tea-cup clew, the murderer
must
have had access to the Khalkis house after the funeral, between Tuesday afternoon when Miss Brett saw the two clean cups and Friday when we found the three dirty cups; two, the whole deception of the dirty tea-cups, to make it appear that only two people were involved, absolutely
depended
—mark this point—absolutely depended on Mr. Knox’s remaining silent about the fact that he was the third man, the fact obviously that there was a third man at all.

“Let me enlarge on this latter point. There were, as we now know, three people present that night. Whoever later made it appear by the tea-cups that only two had been present, obviously knew that three had been present, and who they were. But observe. He wanted the police to believe that only two had been present; therefore each of the three men actually there must be made to preserve silence, or the deception would be unsuccessful. Now the planter of the two-present idea could depend, at the time he laid the false trail between Tuesday and Friday, on the silence of two of the three men—Grimshaw, murdered, and Khalkis, dead of natural causes. That left only the third man, Mr. Knox, as a potential informer whose information would break down the two-present deception. Yet, despite Mr. Knox’s remaining alive, healthy and unmolested, the plotter deliberately went ahead with his deception. In other words, he felt that he could
depend
on Mr. Knox’s remaining silent. Is this clear so far?”

They nodded, alert to every syllable. Knox was watching Ellery’s lips with a curious intentness. “But how could the planner have been
able
to depend on Mr. Knox’s silence?” continued Ellery crisply. “Only if he knew the whole story of the Leonardo,
only if he knew that Mr. Knox possesses the painting under circumstances of an illicit nature.
Then, and then only, could he be certain that Mr. Knox in self-protection would keep quiet about having been the third man in the Khalkis house last Friday night.”

“Smart, young man,” said Knox.

“For once.” Ellery did not smile. “But the most significant feature of this analysis is still to come. For who could know the whole story of the stolen Leonardo and your connection with it, Mr. Knox?

“Let us eliminate.

“Khalkis, by his own letter, had told no one, and he is now dead.

“You, Mr. Knox, have told no one except a single person—and we can eliminate him by pure logic: you told your expert—the expert who yesterday examined the painting for you and pronounced it the work of some one other than Leonardo Da Vinci; but you told him only last night—too late for him to have planted the clews! The clews were planted
before
last night, since I found them yesterday morning. This eliminates your expert, the only one who knows of your possession of the painting through you, Mr. Knox. … This may seem unnecessary analysis; your expert scarcely enters the picture; certainly it is beyond reason that he is the criminal; yet I choose to be very careful to make my point on the basis of irrefutable logic.”

He stared glumly at the wall. “Who is left? Only Grimshaw, and he is dead.
But
—according to your related story of Grimshaw’s own words that night at Khalkis’, Mr. Knox, Grimshaw said he had told
only one person
—the only other person ‘in the world’, I believe was your transmission of Grimshaw’s statement, whom he had told about the stolen painting. That single person was Grimshaw’s partner, by his own admission. And that single person is therefore the only outsider who knew enough about the story of the stolen painting and your possession of it to have planted the false clew of the three used teacups, for one thing, and to have been able to depend upon your silence, for another!”

“Right, right,” muttered Knox.

“What is the conclusion from this?” went on Ellery in colorless tones. “Grimshaw’s partner being the only individual who
could
have planted the false clews, and the murderer being the only individual who had
reason
to plant the false clews—Grimshaw’s partner then must be the murderer. And, according to Grimshaw’s own story, Grimshaw’s partner was the man who accompanied him to his Hotel Benedict room the night before the fatal events—and the man who, we may presume, met Grimshaw after you and Grimshaw emerged from the Khalkis house last Friday night, at which time he could have learned all about the offer of the new will, the promissory note and everything else that had transpired during the visit to Khalkis.”

“Of course,” said the Inspector reflectively, “that’s progress, but it really doesn’t get us anywhere at this time. The man who accompanied Grimshaw last Thursday night might have been any one. We have no description of him, son.”

“True. But at least we have clarified certain issues. We know where we are going.” Ellery ground out his cigaret, looking at them wearily. “One significant point I have thus far deliberately omitted to discuss. And that is—that the murderer was fooled: Mr. Knox
didn’t
keep silent. Now, why didn’t you keep silent, Mr. Knox?”

“Told you that,” said the banker. “The Leonardo I have isn’t a Leonardo at all. Practically worthless.”

“Precisely. Mr. Knox talked because he had discovered that the painting is practically worthless—to put it crudely, he has an ‘out’ for himself and feels free to confess the entire story. But he has told his story only to ourselves, gentlemen! In other words, the murderer, Grimshaw’s partner, still believes we know nothing about the painting, still believes that the Khalkis solution, if we snatch at his false clews, is acceptable to us. Very well—we shall oblige him in one thing and disoblige him in another. We cannot publicly accept the Khalkis solution—we know it to be wrong. But we want to feed our murderer, give him rope, see what he will do next, perhaps trap him in some way by forcing him to continue—how shall I put it?—to continue doing things. Therefore, let us give out the Khalkis solution, then publicize Miss Brett’s testimony which burst the bubble of the Khalkis solution; in all this, let us say nothing about Mr. Knox’s coming forward with his story—not one word. The murderer will believe then that Mr. Knox has kept silent, will continue to depend upon his silence, as it were, having no inkling that the painting is not a genuine Leonardo worth a million dollars.”

“He’ll be forced to cover himself up,” muttered the District Attorney. “He’ll know we’re still hunting a murderer. Good idea, Ellery.”

“We run no risk of frightening our quarry,” continued Ellery, “by exposing the Khalkis solution as false on the basis of Miss Brett’s new testimony. The murderer will be constrained to accept this, because after all he took the risk from the beginning that some one would observe the discrepancy in the appearance of the tea-cups. The fact that some one did observe the discrepancy will appear to him an unlucky but not necessarily disastrous circumstance.”

“How about Cheney’s disappearance?” asked Pepper.

Ellery sighed. “Of course, my very brilliant inference that Alan Cheney buried Grimshaw’s body was based entirely on the hypothesis that Khalkis, his uncle, was the murderer. We now have reason to believe, with the new facts, that Grimshaw was buried by the same person who murdered him. In any event, we cannot ascribe any reason, on the basis of available data, to Cheney’s disappearance. That will have to wait.”

An inter-office communicator buzzed and the Inspector rose to answer it. “Send him in. Keep the other outside.” He turned to Ellery. “Well, there’s your man, son,” he said. “Weekes brought him.”

Ellery nodded. A man opened the door to admit the tall shambling figure of Demetrios Khalkis, decently and soberly attired; but the hideous vacant grin distorted his lips and he looked more idiotic than ever. They could see Weekes, the butler, his derby clutched to his old chest, sitting uneasily in the Inspector’s anteroom; the outer door opened and greasy Trikkala, the Greek interpreter, hurried in.

“Trikkala! Come in!” Ellery shouted, and turned to eye the tiny packet clasped in Demmy’s bony fingers. Trikkala shuffled in with an inquiring look on his face; some one shut the door of the office from the anteroom.

“Trikkala,” said Ellery, “ask this imbecile if he has brought what he was told to bring.”

Trikkala, at whose entrance Demmy’s face had lighted, fired a clatter of words at the grinning idiot. Demmy nodded vigorously, holding up the packet.

“Very well.” Ellery was subdued, watchful. “Now ask him, Trikkala,
what
he was, told to bring.”

A short interchange of the fiery syllables, and Trikkala said: “He says he was to bring a green necktie, one of the green neckties from his cousin Georg’s wardrobe at home.”

“Admirable. Ask him to produce this green necktie.”

Trikkala said something sharp to Demmy, who nodded again and with clumsy fingers began to undo the strings about his packet. It took him a long time—an interval during which all eyes were silently concentrated on those large fumbling digits. Finally he was victorious over a stubborn knot, carefully coiled the string and put it into one of his pockets, then undid the folds of the packet. The paper fell away—and Demmy held up a
red
necktie. …

Ellery silenced the hubbub that ensued, the excited exclamation of the two lawyers, the mild curse of the Inspector. Demmy stared at them with his vacant grin, mutely seeking approval. Ellery turned and pulled open the top drawer of his father’s desk, rummaging. Finally he straightened up, holding a blotter—a green blotter.

“Trikkala,” said Ellery steadily, “ask him what the color of this blotter is.”

Trikkala complied. Demmy’s response in Greek was decisive. “He says,” reported the interpreter in a wondering tone, “he says the blotter is red.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Trikkala. Take him out and tell the man waiting in the anteroom that they may go home.”

Trikkala grasped the imbecile’s arm and piloted him from the office; Ellery closed the door behind them.

“That, I think,” he said, “explains how I misled myself in my cocksure logic. I did not take into account the remote possibility that Demmy was—color-blind!”

They nodded. “You see,” he continued, “I presumed that if Khalkis had not been
told
the tie he was wearing was red, and if Demmy had dressed him according to schedule, that Khalkis knew the color of the tie because he could
see
it. I did not take into consideration the fact that the schedule itself might have been misleading. According to schedule, Demmy should have handed Khalkis a green tie last Saturday morning. Yet we now find that to Demmy the word ‘green’ means red—that he is colorblind. In other words, Demmy is afflicted with a common case of partial color-blindness in which he consistently sees red as green and green as red; Khalkis knew that Demmy was so afflicted, and arranged the schedule on that basis, as far as these two colors were concerned. When he wanted a red tie, he knew he must ask Demmy to fetch a ‘green’ one. The schedule served exactly the same end. To sum up—that morning, despite the fact that Khalkis was wearing a tie whose color differed from the physical color prescribed by the Saturday schedule, he knew without having to be told and without being able to see for himself that he was wearing a red tie. He didn’t ‘change’ his tie—he was wearing the red one when Demmy left the house at nine o’clock.”

“Well,” said Pepper, “that means Demmy, Sloane and Miss Brett told the truth. That’s something.”

“Very true. We should also discuss the delayed question of whether the plotter-murderer knew that Khalkis was blind, or actually believed, from the data on which I myself went astray, that Khalkis wasn’t blind. It’s rather a fruitless conjecture now; although the probabilities lie in the direction of the latter; he probably did not know that Demmy is color-blind; probably believed, and still believes, that at the time Khalkis died he could see. In any event, we can get nothing out of it.” Ellery turned to his father. “Has any one kept a list of all visitors to the Khalkis house between Tuesday and Friday?” Sampson replied: “Cohalan. My man stationed there. Got it, Pepper?”