Greek Coffin Mystery (35 page)

Mrs. Sloane, it should be noted, shone in a belated glory. Her precious family honor was repolished, and it now glittered brightly in the tardy but welcome sunlight of public
apologia
made by the press, the police, and the District Attorney. Mrs. Sloane was not an ungrateful lady; she sensed that behind Nacio Suiza’s story there had been the fine intellectual hand of Ellery Queen, and embarrassed that young man by gushing effusions to the delighted gentlemen of the press.

As for Sampson, Pepper, Inspector Queen … the less said about them the better. Sampson attributes several of his silvery hairs to this period in his official career, and the Inspector has always maintained that Ellery, by his “logic” and persistence, drove him nearly to the grave.

O
N TUESDAY, OCTOBER TWENTY-SIXTH
, exactly one week after Mrs. Sloane had inadvertently begun the chain of events which led to the snapping of the Sloane solution, Mr. Ellery Queen was awakened at ten o’clock in the morning by the clamor of his telephone-bell. The caller was his father. A tense situation, it seemed, had arisen that morning regarding the exchange of cablegrams between New York and London. The Victoria Museum was getting ugly.

“Conference in Henry Sampson’s office in an hour, son.” The old man seemed old and weary this morning. “Thought you might like to be present.”

“I’ll be there, dad,” said Ellery; and added softly, “Where’s that Spartan spirit of yours, Inspector?”

Ellery found in the District Attorney’s private office an hour later a bristling assemblage. The Inspector was angry and morose; Sampson was irritable; Pepper was silent—and, sitting there as on a throne, his hard old face set in adamantine lines, was the eminent Mr. James J. Knox.

They, barely acknowledged Ellery’s greeting; Sampson indicated a chair with a flirt of his hand and Ellery slipped into it, eyes dancing with anticipation.

“Mr. Knox.” Sampson strode up and down before the throne. “I’ve asked you to come down here this morning because—”

“Yes?” asked Knox in his deceptively soft voice.

“Look here, Mr. Knox.” Sampson took another tack. “I haven’t been taking active part in this investigation, as you perhaps know—too busy with other affairs. Mr. Pepper, my assistant, has been handling things on my end. Now, with all respect to Mr. Pepper’s capacities, matters have reached the pass where I am forced personally to take official cognizance of the situation.”

“Really.” Knox’s word was neither a sneer nor an accusation. He seemed to be waiting, mentally crouched for the spring.

“Yes,” said Sampson, almost with a snarl. “Really! Do you want to know why I’ve taken things out of Mr. Pepper’s hands?” He stopped before Knox’s chair and glared. “Because, Mr. Knox, your attitude is brewing a serious international complication, that’s why!”

“My attitude?” Knox seemed amused.

Sampson did not reply at once. He went to his desk and picked up a sheaf of white half-sheets clipped together—Western Union cablegrams, their messages pasted onto the paper in thin strips of yellow.

“Now, Mr. Knox,” continued Sampson in a choking voice—he was making
opera bouffe
efforts to control his tongue and temper, “I’m going to read you a number of cablegrams, in sequence. This series of messages represents correspondence between Inspector Queen here and the Director of the Victoria Museum in London. At the end there are two cables from neither of these gentlemen, cables which, as I pointed out, may very well result in an international mess.”

“Really, you know,” murmured Knox, smiling faintly, “I can’t see why you think
I’m
interested in this thing. But I’m a public-spirited citizen. Go ahead.”

Inspector Queen’s face convulsed; but he caught himself and sank back in his chair, his pale face as red as Knox’s necktie.

“The first one,” continued the District Attorney in a fiercely conversational voice, “is Inspector Queen’s original cablegram to the Museum after learning your story—at the time the Khalkis solution was exploded. Here is what the Inspector cabled.” Sampson read the uppermost cablegram loudly, very loudly.

“IN LAST FIVE YEARS
(it ran)
WAS VALUABLE LEONARDO DA VINCI PAINTING STOLEN FROM YOUR MUSEUM”

Knox sighed. Sampson went on after a baffled moment of hesitation. “This is the Museum’s reply after the lapse of some time.” The second ran:

“SUCH PAINTING STOLEN FIVE YEARS AGO. FORMER ATTENDANT KNOWN HERE AS GRAHAM REAL NAME PROBABLY GRIMSHAW SUSPECTED OF THEFT BUT NO TRACE EVER FOUND OF PAINTING. OBVIOUS REASONS CAUSED SUPPRESSION OF THEFT. YOUR INQUIRY LEADS US TO BELIEVE YOU KNOW WHEREABOUTS OF LEONARDO. COMMUNICATE AT ONCE. KEEP CONFIDENTIAL.”

“All a mistake. All a mistake,” said Knox genially. “You think so, Mr. Knox?” Sampson was purple. He slapped the second cablegram over and read the third.

This was Inspector Queen’s reply:

“IS THERE ANY POSSIBILITY STOLEN PAINTING WAS NOT BY LEONARDO BUT BY PUPIL OR CONTEMPORARY OF SAME AND THEREFORE WORTH ONLY FRACTION OF CATALOGUED VALUE?”

Reply from the Director of the Victoria Museum:

“PLEASE ANSWER QUESTION PREVIOUS CABLE. WHERE IS PAINTING? SERIOUS ACTION CONTEMPLATED IF PAINTING NOT RETURNED AT ONCE. AUTHENTICITY OF LEONARDO VOUCHED FOR BY MOST EMINENT BRITISH EXPERTS. VALUE ON DISCOVERY PLACED AT TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS.”

Inspector Queen’s reply:

“PLEASE ALLOW US TIME. NOT SURE OF OUR GROUND. WE ARE TRYING TO AVOID UNPLEASANT NOTORIETY AND COMPLICATIONS FOR YOUR SAKE AS WELL AS OURS. CONFLICT IN OPINION SEEMS TO INDICATE PAINTING WE ARE INVESTIGATING NOT A GENUINE LEONARDO.”

Museum’s reply:

“CANNOT UNDERSTAND SITUATION. IF PAINTING UNDER DISCUSSION IS QUOTE DETAIL FROM BATTLE OF THE STANDARD UNQUOTE LEONARDO WORK IN OILS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN EXECUTED BY THE MASTER AFTER PALAZZO VECCHIO FRESCO PROJECT WAS ABANDONED IN FIFTEEN HUNDRED AND FIVE THEN IT IS OURS. IF AVAILABLE FOR AMERICAN EXPERT OPINION ITS WHEREABOUTS MUST BE KNOWN TO YOU. MUST INSIST RETURN IRRESPECTIVE OF AMERICAN CONCEPTION OF ITS VALUE. THIS WORK BELONGS TO VICTORIA MUSEUM BY RIGHT OF DISCOVERY AND ITS PRESENCE IN THE UNITED STATES IS RESULT OF THEFT.”

Inspector Queen’s reply:

“OUR POSITION DEMANDS MORE TIME. PLEASE HAVE CONFIDENCE.”

District Attorney Sampson paused significantly. “Now, Mr. Knox, we come to the first of the two cables which may very well result in headaches for us all. It comes as a reply to the cable I just read to you and is signed by Inspector Broome of Scotland Yard.”

“Very interesting,” said Knox dryly.

“Damned right it is, Mr. Knox!” Sampson glared and resumed his reading in a trembling voice. The Scotland Yard cable ran:

“VICTORIA MUSEUM CASE IN OUR HANDS. PLEASE CLARIFY POSITION NEW YORK POLICE.”

“I hope,” choked Sampson, flipping over the white half-sheet, “I
sincerely
hope, Mr. Knox, you begin to see what’s facing us. Here’s Inspector Queen’s reply to
that.”

The cable said:

“LEONARDO NOT IN OUR POSSESSION. INTERNATIONAL PRESSURE AT THIS TIME MAY RESULT IN COMPLETE LOSS OF PAINTING. ALL ACTIVITY HERE CONDUCTED IN EXCLUSIVE INTERESTS OF MUSEUM. GIVE US TWO WEEKS.”

James Knox nodded: he twisted about to face the Inspector, who was gripping the edge of his chair, and said with bland approval: “Excellent reply, Inspector. Very clever. Very diplomatic. Good work.”

There was no answer to that, Ellery noted with growing amusement, although he possessed the delicate good sense to keep a straight face. The Inspector swallowed hard, and Sampson and Pepper exchanged glances whose vitriol was surely not intended for each other. Sampson went on, in tones
so
tight the words could barely be made out: “And here’s the last cable. Just arrived this morning, also from Inspector Broome.”

This cable ran:

“REQUEST FOR TWO WEEKS TIME GRANTED BY MUSEUM. WILL DEFER ACTION UNTIL THEN. GOOD LUCK.”

There was silence as Sampson flung the sheaf of cablegrams back on his desk and faced Knox, arms akimbo. “Well, Mr. Knox, there you are. We’ve put
our
cards on the table. For God’s sake, sir, be reasonable! Meet us halfway—at least let us get a look at the painting in your possession, let us have it examined by impartial experts. …”

“Shan’t do any such nonsensical thing,” replied the great man easily. “No necessity for it. My expert says it’s not the Leonardo, and he ought to know—he gets enough money from me. To hell with the Victoria Museum, Mr. Sampson. These institutions are all the same.”

The Inspector jumped to his feet, unable to contain himself. “Big bug or little bug,” he shouted, “I’ll be eternally blasted, Henry, if I let this—this …” He strangled. Sampson gripped his arm and pulled him into a corner; he whispered rapidly to the old man. Some of the color left the Inspector’s face, and artfulness replaced it. “Sorry, Mr. Knox,” he said contritely, returning with Sampson. “Lost my temper. Why don’t you be a regular scout and return that dingus to the Museum? Take your loss like a good sport. You’ve dropped twice that in the market before this without batting an eyelash.”

The smile flew out of Knox’s face. “Good sport, hey?” He got heavily to his feet. “Is there any reason under God’s good sun why I should return something for which I paid three-quarters of a million dollars? Answer that, Queen. Answer that!”

“After all,” said Pepper with swift tact before the Inspector could frame a retort, “after all your collector’s enthusiasm can’t be at stake, sir, since according to your own expert the painting in your possession is virtually worthless as a work of art.”

“And you’ve compounded a felony,” put in Sampson.

“Prove it. Just try to prove it.” Knox was angry now; his jawline was taut and ridged. “I tell you the painting I bought isn’t the one stolen from the Museum. Prove that it is, by God! If you push me, gentlemen, you’ll find yourselves with a nice scrap on your hands!”

“Now, now,” began Sampson helplessly, when Ellery asked in the mildest voice imaginable: “By the way, Mr. Knox, who
is
your expert?”

Knox wheeled in his tracks. He blinked a moment, then he laughed shortly. “My business entirely, Queen. I’ll produce him when I feel it’s necessary. And if you people get too frisky, I’ll deny even owning the damned thing!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” said the Inspector. “No, sir, I wouldn’t do that. We’d charge you with perjury, too, by Christmas!”

Sampson pounded his desk. “Your stand, Mr. Knox, puts me and the police in a serious predicament. If you persist in this childish attitude, you’ll force me to turn the case over to the Federal authorities. Scotland Yard won’t stand for any nonsense, and neither will the United States District Attorney.”

Knox picked up his hat and stamped toward the door. There was finality in that broad back.

Ellery drawled: “My dear Mr. Knox, do you intend to fight the United States government and the British government, too?”

Knox turned on his heel; he jammed his hat on his head. “Young man,” he said grimly, “you can’t
imagine
whom I’d fight for something that cost me three-quarters of a million. That’s no chicken-feed even for Jim Knox. I’ve fought governments before—and won!” And the door slammed.

“You should read your Bible more often, Mr. Knox,” said Ellery softly, looking at the shivering door. “‘God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things that are mighty. …’”

But no one was paying attention. The District Attorney groaned: “We’re in a worse mess now than we were before. What the devil can we do now?”

The Inspector tugged at his mustache fiercely. “I don’t think we ought to dilly-dally any more. We’ve been yellow long enough. If Knox doesn’t give up that damned blob of paint within a few days, you ought to put the matter into the hands of the Federal D.A. Let
him
have it out with Scotland Yard.”

“Have to take possession of the painting by force, I guess,” said Sampson glumly.

“And suppose, my masters,” suggested Ellery, “suppose Mr. James J. Knox conveniently can’t find it?”

They chewed upon that and found it, to judge from their expressions, a bitter morsel. Sampson shrugged. “Well,
you
generally have an answer for everything. What would you do in this extraordinary mess?”

Ellery looked at the white ceiling. “I should do—precisely nothing. This is one situation in which the policy of
laissez faire
is justified. To press Knox now would be merely to aggravate him; he’s essentially a hard-headed business man, and if you give him some time. … Who knows?” He smiled and rose. “Give him at least the two weeks’ grace you yourselves have been granted by the Museum. Undoubtedly the next move will be Knox’s.”

There was sad reluctance in, their nods.

But Ellery, once again in this case of consistent contradictions, was entirely wrong. For the next move, when it came, proved to be from another source … a move, moreover, which far from settling the case seemed to complicate it more than ever.

T
HE BLOW FELL ON
Thursday, two days after James J. Knox had signified his entire willingness to come to grips with both the United States and Great Britain. The idleness or activity of the great man’s boast was destined never to be tested in the crucible of the courts. For on Thursday morning, as Ellery lounged in his father’s office at Police Headquarters gazing out of the window at the sky most unhappily, Mercury in the form and figure of a weazened telegraph messenger delivered a communication which was to ally the bellicose one with the forces of law and order in no uncertain manner.

The telegram was signed by Knox, and conveyed a cryptic intelligence:

“PLEASE HAVE PLAINCLOTHESMAN PICK UP PACKET FROM ME WAITING AT THIRTY THIRD STREET OFFICE WESTERN UNION STOP OBVIOUS REASON CANNOT COMMUNICATE WITH YOU BY MORE DIRECT MEANS.”

They looked at each other. “Here’s a pretty howdy-do,” muttered the Inspector. “You don’t think he’s taking this way of sending that Leonardo back to us, do you, El?”