Greek Coffin Mystery (37 page)

“Hey? Looks legitimate enough to me,” ejaculated the Inspector.

“I’m not referring precisely to legitimacy. But observe that our murderer-blackmailer has a nice taste in figures. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that he demands
thirty
thousand dollars? Have you ever encountered a blackmailing case in which such a sum was demanded? It’s generally ten, or twenty-five, or fifty, or a hundred thousand!”

“Pish!” said Sampson. “You’re quibbling. Can’t see anything odd about it.”

“Shan’t argue. But that isn’t all. Miss Lambert pointed out an interesting thing.” He picked up the second blackmail letter and flicked a fingernail at the figures representing thirty thousand dollars. “You will note,” said Ellery as the others crowded about him, “that where these figures are typed, the writer made a common typist’s error. Miss Lambert’s opinion is that the writer was nervous. On the surface it seems the reasonable explanation.”

“Of course,” said the Inspector. “What of it?”

“The error,” said Ellery equably, “consists in this: having just depressed the shift-key for the dollar-sign, it was necessary to release the shift-key in order to strike the figure 3, which occurs always on the lower bank of characters. Now, from the evidence we have before us, it is apparent that the writer had not entirely released the shift-key when he struck the 3, and this resulted in a first impression which was unclear, compelling the typist to back-space and retype the 3. Most interesting—most interesting.”

They studied the figures, which presented the following appearance:

$30,000

“What’s interesting about it?” demanded Sampson. “I may be thick, but I can’t see that it indicates anything except what you’ve just said—the typist made an error, and corrected it without erasing. Miss Lambert’s conclusion that the error was the result of haste, or nervousness, is quite in keeping with the facts.”

Ellery smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “The interesting element, my dear Sampson, is not the error—although that titillates my grey cells a bit, too. It’s the fact that the Remington typewriter used in composing this note
hasn’t a standard keyboard.
I suppose it’s relatively unimportant.”

“Hasn’t a standard keyboard?” repeated Sampson in a puzzled way. “Why, how do you arrive at that?”

Ellery shrugged again.

“At any rate,” interrupted the Inspector, “we mustn’t arouse the suspicions of this rascal. Well nab him when he shows up for the money at the Times Building tonight.”

Sampson, who was eying Ellery with a trace of uneasiness, shook his shoulders—as if to rid them of an impalpable burden—and nodded. “Have to watch your step, Q. Knox must make a pretense of depositing the money as ordered. You’ll take care of all the arrangements?”

“Leave those to me,” grinned the old man. “Now, we’ll have to talk this business over with Knox, and we’ll have to be careful about how we get into his house. Our man may be on the watch.”

They left the Inspector’s office, commandeered an undistinguished police car, and were driven to the side-street servants’ entrance to the Knox mansion uptown. The police chauffeur was circumspect, completely circling the block before pulling up before the side-entrance; there were no suspicious-looking characters about; and the Queens, Sampson, and Pepper hurried through the high fence-gate and into the servants’ quarters.

They found Knox in his glistening den, masterfully unruffled, dictating to Joan Brett. Joan was demure, particularly with Pepper; Knox excused her, and when she had retreated to her desk in the corner of the den, District Attorney Sampson, the Inspector, Pepper and Knox discussed the plan of attack for the evening.

Ellery did not join in the whispering of the cabalists; he wandered about the room, whistling, and contrived to saunter over to Joan’s desk, where she sat quietly typing, without seeming purpose. He peered over Joan’s shoulder, as if to examine what she was doing, and whispered in her ear: “Keep that very innocent schoolgirl expression, my dear. You’re doing splendidly, and things are really perking up.” “Indeed?” she murmured without moving her head; and Ellery, smiling, straightened and strolled back to join the others.

Sampson was saying shrewdly—a hard bargainer, Sampson, when he was master of a situation!—to James Knox: “Of course, Mr. Knox, you realize that the tables have turned. After to-night you will be under very heavy obligation to us. We’re placed in the position of protecting you, a private citizen, whereas you repay us by refusing to turn over that painting …”

Knox threw up his hands suddenly. “All right, gentlemen. I give in. This is just about the last straw, anyway. Got a bellyful of that damn’ painting. This blackmail mess. … Take the cursed thing and do what you want with it.”

“But I thought you said it
wasn’t
the painting stolen from the Victoria Museum,” said the Inspector calmly. If he was relieved, he did not show it.

“I still say so! That painting’s mine. But you can have it for expert examination—anything. Only if you find I told the truth, please return it to me.”

“Oh, we’ll do
that,”
said Sampson.

“Don’t you think,” put in Pepper anxiously, “that we ought to worry about this blackmailer first, Chief? He might—”

“You’re right there, Pepper,” said the Inspector with complete good humor. “The good old collar first, by jiminy! Here. Miss Brett.” The old man crossed the room and stood over Joan; she looked up with an inquiring smile. “Suppose you be a good little girl and take a cable for me. Or—wait a moment. Got a pencil?”

Submissively she provided pencil and paper. The Inspector scribbled hastily for several moments. “Here, my dear—copy this message right off. It’s important.”

Joan’s typewriter began to click. If her heart leaped at the words she was typing, her face gave no sign. For the message trickling out from beneath her fingers was:

INSPECTOR BROOME

SCOTLAND YARD LONDON CONFIDENTIAL


LEONARDO IN POSSESSION OF REPUTABLE AMERICAN COLLECTOR WHO PAID £150,000 IN GOOD FAITH WITHOUT KNOWLEDGE IT WAS STOLEN. SOME QUESTION AS TO WHETHER ONE UNDER OBSERVATION IS PAINTING BELONGING TO VICTORIA MUSEUM BUT CAN NOW GUARANTEE RESTORATION TO MUSEUM AT LEAST FOR EXAMINATION. FEW DETAILS TO BE CLEARED UP ON THIS SIDE. WILL NOTIFY WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EXACT DATE OF DELIVERY.

INSPECTOR RICHARD QUEEN


When the message had been passed around for approval—Knox merely glanced at it—the Inspector returned the sheet to Joan, and she telephoned the cable at once to a telegraph office.

The Inspector outlined again the exact plans for the evening; Knox nodded with weary understanding; and the visitors donned their coats. Ellery, however, made no move toward his overcoat. “Aren’t you coming along, son?”

“I’ll venture to impose upon Mr. Knox’s sadly abused hospitality for a few moments longer. You run along with Sampson and Pepper, dad. I’ll be home shortly.”

“Home? I’m going back to the office.”

“Very well, I’ll be at your office, then.”

They looked at him curiously; he was smiling, perfectly at ease. He waved them gently toward the door, and they went out without speaking.

“Well, young man,” said James Knox, when the door had closed upon them, “I don’t know what your game is now, but you’re welcome to stay if you like. The plan seems to be that I go to my bank personally and pretend to draw the thirty thousand. Sampson seems to think our man may be watching.”

“Sampson thinks of everything,” smiled Ellery. “You’re very kind.”

“Not at all,” said Knox abruptly, and shot a peculiar glance at Joan, who was sitting at her machine typing with the deaf-and-dumb air of the perfect secretary. “Only don’t seduce Miss Brett. I’d be blamed for it.” Knox shrugged and left the room.

Ellery waited for ten minutes. He did not speak to Joan, nor did she pause once in her rapid manipulation of the keys. He passed the time very idly—looking out of the window, in fact. Then he saw Knox’s tall gaunt figure stride out under the
porte-cochere
—the window at which Ellery watched was in an ell of the main building, and every detail of the facade was visible to his eye—and climb into his waiting town-car. The car rolled away down the drive.

Ellery came alive instantly. So, for that matter, did Miss Joan Brett. Her hands dropped from the keys and she sat and looked at him expectantly, with a little wicked smile.

Ellery came briskly over to her desk. “Heavens!” she cried in mock horror, shrinking away from him. “You’re not going to take Mr. Knox’s acute suggestion so
soon,
Mr. Queen?”

“Perish the thought,” said Ellery. “Now some questions, my dear, while we’re alone.”

“I’m simply enchanted by the prospect, sir,” murmured Joan.

“Considering your sex. … Look here, milady. How many menials are employed in this voluptuous establishment?”

She looked disappointed, and pursed her lips. “A queer one, m’lord, a jolly queer one to ask a lady who’s anticipating a struggle for her virtue. Let me think.” She counted silently. “Eight. Yes, eight. Mr. Knox has a quiet household. He doesn’t entertain often, I think.”

“Have you learned anything about these servants?”

“Sir! A woman learns everything. … Fire away, Mr. Queen.”

“Are there any recently employed servants here?”

“Horrors, no. This is a very hoity-toity establishment,
du bon vieux temps.
I understand that each of the servants has been with Mr. Knox at least five or six years, and some of them for as long as fifteen.”

“Does Knox trust them?”

“Implicitly.”

“C’est bien!”
Ellery’s voice was crisp.
“Maintenant, Mademoiselle, attendez. Il faut qu’on fait l’examen des serviteurs
—
des bonnes, des domestiques, des employés. Tout de suite!”

She rose and curtsied.
“Mais oui, Monsieur. Vos ordres?”

“I shall step into the next room and close the door—that is,” said Ellery rapidly, “leaving only the merest crack through which to observe these people as they come in. You are to ring for them, one by one, on one pretext or another, and keep them here in my line of vision sufficiently for me to examine their faces thoroughly. … By the way, the chauffeur won’t respond, but I’ve seen his face. What’s his name?”

“Schultz.”

“Is he the only chauffeur employed here?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.
Commencez!”

He stepped quickly into the next room and stationed himself at the thin crack he had left open. He saw Joan ring. A middle-aged woman in black taffeta whom he had never seen before entered the den. Joan asked her a question, she replied, and then the woman left. Joan rang again; and three young women in dainty black maids’ costumes entered. They were followed in quick succession by the tall thin old butler; a small pudgy man with a smooth face, snugly attired; and a large and perspiring Gallic gentleman decked out in the spotless finery of the conventional chef’s rig. When the door closed upon this last man, Ellery stepped out of his hideaway.

“Splendid. Who was the middle-aged woman?”

“Mrs. Healy, the housekeeper.”

“The maids?”

“Grant, Burrows, Hotchkiss.”

“The butler?”

“Krafft.”

“The little chap with the stoical face?”

“Mr. Knox’s personal valet, Harris.”

“And the chef?”

“Boussin, a Parisian
émigré
—Alexandre Boussin.”

“And that’s all? You’re certain?”

“With the exception of Schultz, yes.”

Ellery nodded. “All total strangers to me, so that’s … You recall the morning of the receipt of blackmail letter number one?”

“Perfectly.”

“Who has stepped into this house since that morning? Outsiders, I mean?”

“A number have stepped in, as you say, but not a breathing soul has got beyond the reception room downstairs. Mr. Knox hasn’t consented to see any one at all since then—most of them have been turned away at the door with a polite ‘Not at home,’ by Krafft.”

“Why is that?”

Joan shrugged. “Despite his nonchalant and sometimes bluff exterior, I really believe Mr. Knox has been nervous since that first blackmail note came. I often wondered why he didn’t employ private detectives.”

“For the very good reason,” said Ellery grimly, “that he doesn’t want any one—or
didn’t
want any one—smeared with the familiar police tar-brush to set foot in this house. Not with that Leonardo or Leonardo copy floating about.”

“He hasn’t trusted any one. Not even old friends of his, or acquaintances or clients of his many business interests.”

“How about Miles Woodruff?” asked Ellery. “I thought Knox had retained him to attend to the legal end of the Khalkis estate.”

“So he did. But Mr. Woodruff hasn’t been here in the flesh. Although there
are
daily conversations over the telephone.”

“Is it possible?” murmured Ellery. “Such luck—such miraculous, astounding luck.” He grasped her hands tightly, and she uttered a little scream. But Ellery’s intentions, it seemed, were purely platonic. He squeezed those dainty hands with an almost insulting impersonality, and said: “This has been a fruity morning, Joan Brett, a fruity morning!”

And despite Ellery’s assurance to his sire that he would return to the Inspector’s office “shortly,” it was not until midafternoon that he strolled into Police Headquarters, smiling at some comforting inner sense of well-being.

Fortunately, the Inspector was immersed in work and had no opportunity to ask questions. Ellery lolled about for a decent interval, rousing out of his lethargic daydreaming only when he heard the old man instruct Sergeant Velie specifically about the rendezvous of detectives at the Times Building basement for that evening.

“Perhaps,” said Ellery—and the old man seemed surprised to see him there—“perhaps it would be more feasible to meet at Knox’s place on the Drive to-night at nine.”

“Knox’s place? What for?”

“For reasons. By all means have your bloodhounds sniffing about the scene of the potential capture, but the official party should really convene at Knox’s. We don’t have to get to the Times Building until ten, anyway.”