Greek Coffin Mystery (39 page)

After a half hour’s work, he nodded pleasantly and Ellery and Pepper laid the canvas over the desk again. Knox expelled a soft grudging sigh; his eyes were fixed on the expert’s face.

“There is a peculiar story attached to this work,” said Johns at last. “It has a distinct bearing on what I am about to say.” They were hanging on his every precise word. “We have known for many years,” Johns continued, “indeed for several centuries, that there were two paintings of this particular subject, identical in every detail except one. …”

Some one muttered something beneath his breath.

“Every detail except one. One is known to have been painted by Leonardo himself. When Piero Soderini persuaded the great master to come to Florence and make a battle-piece to decorate one of the walls in the new council-hall in the Palace of the Signory, Leonardo chose as his subject an episode in the victory won by the generals of the Florentine republic in 1440 over Niccolo Piccinino near a bridge at Anghiari. The cartoon itself—the technical term applied to the original sketch—on which Leonardo worked preliminarily is often called, in fact,
The Battle of Anghiari.
This was the great mural competition, incidentally, in which Michelangelo also participated, working on a Pisan subject. Now, as Mr. Knox probably knows, Leonardo did not complete the mural; it was halted after the detail of the battle for the standard had been executed. For the paint ran and scaled after the baking process was applied to the wall, virtually ruining the work.

“Leonardo quit Florence. It is presumed that he was disappointed with the failure of his labor, and painted an oils version of his original cartoon as a sort of artistic self-justification. At any rate, this oils was rumored, but ‘lost,’ until a very few years ago, when a field-worker for the Victoria Museum of London discovered it somewhere in Italy.”

They kept horribly quiet, but Johns seemed not to notice. “Now,” he said with vocal zest, “many contemporary copies of the
cartoon
were made, notably by the young Raphael, Fra Bartolommeo and others, but the cartoon itself seems to have been cut up after serving as an example for the copyists. The cartoon disappeared; and the original mural in the signory hall was covered by fresh Vasari frescoes in 1560. Consequently, the discovery of—so to speak—Leonardo’s own copy of the original cartoon was a find of cosmic proportions in the world of art. Which brings us to the queer part of the story.

“I said a moment ago that there are two paintings of this subject extant, identical in every respect but one. The first was discovered and exhibited very long ago; its authorship was never definitely established until the Victoria discovery of six years or so ago. Now here’s the rub. The experts had never been able to decide whether the first one found was a Leonardo; in fact, it was commonly believed to have been the work of Lorenzo di Credi, or of one of Lorenzo’s pupils. As in all controversial matters in the art-world, there was much scoffing, sneering, and backbiting; but the discovery of the Victoria’s painting six years ago cleared the matter up.

“There were certain old records. These records said that there were two oils of the same subject: one by Leonardo himself and one a copy—the records were vague on the copy’s authorship. Both, the legend ran, were identical except for one thing: a shade of difference in the flesh-tints of the figures immediately surrounding the standard. The legend had it that the Leonardo possessed the darker flesh-tints—a subtle distinction enough, since the record insisted that only by placing the two paintings side by side could the Leonardo be determined beyond any doubt. So you see—”

“Interesting,” muttered Ellery. “Mr. Knox, did you know this?”

“Of course. So did Khalkis.” Knox teetered on his heels and toes. “As I said, I had this one, and when Khalkis sold me the other, it was a simple enough matter to put them together and see which one was the Leonardo. And now—” he scowled—“the Leonardo’s gone.”

“Eh?” Johns looked disturbed. Then he smiled again. “Well, I suppose it’s none of my business. At any rate, the two were together long enough for the Museum, to its vast relief, to determine that the one their field investigator had found was the real Leonardo. Then the other one, the copy, disappeared. Rumor had it that it was sold to a rich American collector who had paid a tidy sum for it despite the fact that it was established as the copy.” He shot a quizzical glance at Knox, but no one said anything.

Johns squared his trim little shoulders. “Consequently, if the Leonardo in the Museum should be lost sight of for some time, it would be difficult—I should say impossible—to decide whether either one, examined by itself, was the original. With only one to judge by, you could never be certain. …”

“And this one, Mr. Johns?” asked Ellery.

“This,” replied Johns with a shrug, “is certainly one or the other, but without the companion-piece …” He stopped and smote his forehead. “Of course! I’m being stupid. This
must
be the copy. The original is in the Victoria Museum overseas.”

“Yes, yes. Quite so,” said Ellery hastily. “If the paintings are so much alike, Mr. Johns, why is one valued at a million and the other at only a few thousands?”

“My dear sir!” exclaimed the expert. “Really a—what shall I say?—a very childish question. What is the difference between a genuine Sheraton and a modern replica? Leonardo was the master; the author of the copy, probably a pupil of Lorenzo, merely duplicated the masterpiece from Leonardo’s finished work, as the legend goes. The price-difference is the difference between the
chef-d’oeuvre
of a genius and the perfect copy by a tyro. What if Leonardo’s brush-strokes were exactly imitated? You wouldn’t say that a photographic forgery of your own signature, Mr. Queen, has the same authenticity as the signature itself?”

Johns was working his little old body into a gesticulating frenzy, it seemed; and Ellery, thanking him with, proper humility, herded him toward the door. It was not until the expert, his equanimity partially restored, had departed that the others came to life.

“Art! Leonardo!” said the Inspector with disgust. “Now it’s more messy than before. The detective racket is going to pot.” He threw up his hands.

“It isn’t really so bad,” said the District Attorney thoughtfully. “At least Johns’ story substantiates Mr. Knox’s explanation, even if no one knows which is which. Now we know at least that there
are
two paintings in existence, not one as we thought all along. So—we’ll have to look for the thief of the other painting.”

“What I can’t understand,” said Pepper, “is why the Museum didn’t say anything about this second painting. After all—”

“My dear Pepper,” drawled Ellery, “they
had
the original. Why should they bother their heads about the copy? Not interested in the copy. … Yes, Sampson, you’re perfectly correct. The man we’re seeking is the man who stole the other painting, who wrote the blackmail letters to Mr. Knox, who used the promissory notes as notepaper and therefore must have been the framer and murderer of Sloane and, as Grimshaw’s partner, the killer of Grimshaw and the framer of Georg Khalkis.”

“An excellent summation,” said Sampson sarcastically. “Now that you’ve added up what we all know, suppose you tell us what we
don’t
know—that is, the identity of this man!”

Ellery sighed. “Sampson, Sampson, you’re always on my trail, trying to discredit me, trying to expose my foibles to the world. … Would you really like to know the name of your man?”

Sampson glared, and the Inspector began to look interested. “Would I really like to know, he asks me!” cried the District Attorney. “Now
that’s
a smart question, isn’t it? … Of course I want to know.” His eyes sharpened and he stopped short. “I say, Ellery,” he said quietly, “you don’t
really
know, do you?”

“Yes,” said Knox. “Who the devil is it, Queen?” Ellery smiled. “I’m glad you asked me that, Mr. Knox. You must have run across it in your readings, because a number of illustrious gentlemen have repeated it variously—La Fontaine, Terence, Coleridge, Cicero, Juvenal, Diogenes. It’s an inscription on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi and has been attributed to Chilo of Thales, Pythagoras and Solon. In Latin it is:
Ne quis nimis.
In English it is:
Know thyself.
Mr. James J. Knox,” said Ellery is the most genial voice in the world, “you’re under arrest!”

S
URPRISED? DISTRICT ATTORNEY SAMPSON
professed not to be. He maintained all of that hectic night that he had had a lurking suspicion of Knox from the beginning. On the other hand, his immediate thirst for elucidation was significant. “Why? How? He even looked worried. Evidence—where was the evidence? His busy brain was already marshaling the prosecutor’s case … and was heckled by the disturbing conviction that here was a sturdy nut indeed to crack.

The Inspector said nothing. He was relieved, but he persisted in stealing furtive glances at his son’s uncommunicative profile. The shock of the revelation, Knox’s instant and sickening physical collapse and then his almost miraculous recovery, Joan Brett’s gasp of unbelieving horror. …

Ellery dominated the stage without an excess of exultation. He refused with mulish shakings of the head to explain while Inspector Queen summoned aid from Headquarters and James J. Knox was led quietly away. No, he would say nothing that night; to-morrow morning … yes, perhaps to-morrow morning.

On Saturday morning, then, the sixth of November, the actors in this intricate drama foregathered. Ellery had insisted that it was no more than just to explain not only to officialdom but to those harassed persons connected with the Khalkis case—and, of course, to the clamorous gentlemen of the press. The Saturday morning papers ran bulging headlines announcing the great man’s arrest; it was rumored that a personal inquiry from some dignitary close to the President had been addressed to the Mayor of New York City—which was probably true, for the Mayor kept his wires humming all morning, demanding an explanation of the Commissioner, who knew less than he; of District Attorney Sampson, who was gradually becoming frantic; of Inspector Queen, who shook his weary old head and merely said to all official interrogators: “Wait.” The painting from Knox’s radiator-coil had been put in Pepper’s charge for custody by the District Attorney’s office until the trial; Scotland Yard had been notified that the painting would be required as evidence in the legal battle which loomed, but that it would be forwarded with due precautions as soon as a jury of his peers decided Mr. James J. Knox’s fate.

Inspector Queen’s office was far too small to contain the swollen assemblage of potential critics insisted upon as an audience by Ellery. A select group of reporters, the Queens, Sampson, Pepper, Cronin, Mrs. Sloane, Joan Brett, Alan Cheney, the Vreelands, Nacio Suiza, Woodruff—and in a most unobtrusive manner of entrance the Police Commissioner, the Deputy Chief Inspector and a very uneasy gentleman who kept running his finger under his collar and was identified as the Mayor’s closest political friend—were consequently grouped in a large room at Police Headquarters especially set aside for the meeting. Ellery, it appeared, was to preside—a most unorthodox proceeding, and one at which Sampson chafed and the Mayor’s representative looked bleak and the Police Commissioner scowled.

But Ellery was not to be ruffled. The room had a dais, and on this dais he stood—like a schoolmaster about to address a classroom of staring children; there was a blackboard behind him!—very erect and dignified, his
pince-nez
freshly polished. At the rear of the chamber Assistant District Attorney Cronin whispered to Sampson: “Henry, old boy, this’d better be good. Knox has retained the Springarn outfit, and what they won’t do to a lousy case I shudder to think!” Sampson said nothing; there was nothing to say.

Ellery began quietly, outlining in swift prose all the facts and deductions of former analyses for the benefit of those who were unfamiliar with the internal mechanism of the case thus far. After explaining the incidents surrounding the arrival of the blackmail letters, he paused and moistened his dry lips; drawing a deep breath, he plunged into the heart of his new argument.

“The only individual who could have sent the blackmail letters,” he said, “was some one who knew that James Knox had in his possession the stolen painting, as I’ve just pointed out. The fact that James Knox had in his possession the stolen painting was fortunately kept a secret. Now, who besides the investigating party—ourselves—knew this? Two persons, and two persons only: one, Grimshaw’s partner, who by former analyses has been proved the murderer of Grimshaw and Sloane, who furthermore knew that Knox had the painting by virtue of his partnership with Grimshaw and by virtue of Grimshaw’s own admission that this partner, and this partner only, knew the whole story; and the second, of course, was Knox himself, something that none of us considered at the time.

“Very well. Now the fact that the blackmail letters were typed on halves of the promissory note absolutely proved that the sender of the letters was the murderer of Grimshaw and Sloane—that is, Grimshaw’s partner—for the murderer was the only one who could have possessed the promissory note taken from Grimshaw’s body. Please bear this in mind; it is an important block in the logical structure.

“Further. What do we find on examination of the typewritten blackmail notes themselves? Well, the first blackmail note was typed on an Underwood machine, the same machine used by the murderer to send the anonymous letter, incidentally, which revealed Sloane to be Grimshaw’s brother. The second blackmail note was typed on a Remington. In the typing of this second note was the salient clew. For the typist had made a mistake on the figure 3 in the group-figure $30,000; and from the error it was apparent that the upper-register character of the 3-key was not the usual standard-keyboard character. Let me show you graphically how the figures $30,000 appeared in the note itself, and that will help to explain the point I am making.”

He turned and rapidly chalked on the blackboard the following symbol:

30,000