Halfway House (5 page)

De Jong chuckled. “Got all that, Murph? That’s dandy, Mr. Queen; couldn’t have put it better myself. But when it’s all added up, what the devil have you got?”

“More,” retorted Ellery, “than you apparently realize. You have a house in which the occupant neither slept nor ate—a place with extraordinarily few of the characteristics of a dwelling and all the indications of… a transient shelter, a wayside convenience, the merest stopover. Moreover, from various signs you can deduce the quality of the occupant. This fawn rug is the only one of the accouterments here which doesn’t date from the squatter era—much too regal and costly. I should say whoever has been using this place picked it up somewhere second-hand at a respectable price. A concession to sheer luxury in taste—that’s significant, don’t you think? This tendency to Sybaritism is borne out by the clothes on that rack, by the curtains on the windows—rich stuffs, but badly hung… the masculine touch, of course. Finally, the interior is almost meticulously clean; there isn’t a speck of dirt or ashes anywhere on the rug, the fireplace is clean as the proverbial whistle, no dust visible to the prying eye. What kind of man does all this paint?”

Bill turned from the window; his eyes were rimmed with red. “It doesn’t paint Joe Wilson,” he said harshly.

“No,” said Ellery. “It certainly does not.”

De Jong’s smile faded. “But that doesn’t jibe with what Wilson told Angell over the ’phone today—that nobody but himself knew about this place!”

“Nevertheless,” said Ellery in a queer tone, “I think that another man entirely is involved.”

The voices were loud outside. De Jong scrubbed his chin and looked thoughtful. He said: “That sounds like the goddamned press,” and went away.

“Now let’s see,” said Ellery softly, “what friend De Jong has found in poor Wilson’s pockets.”

The pile on the table was composed of the usual assortment of odds and ends a man carries about with him: a bunch of keys; a worn wallet which contained two hundred and thirty-six dollars in bills—Ellery glanced at Bill, who still stared out the window; a number of miscellaneous scraps of paper; several registered-letter receipts; a driver’s license in Wilson’s name; and two snapshots of a very pretty woman standing before an unpretentious little frame house. Ellery recognized her as Bill’s sister Lucy, more buxom than he remembered her, but still the warm and vivid creature he had known in his university days. There was a receipted bill from a Philadelphia gas company; a fountain pen; and a few empty old envelopes addressed to Wilson on the backs of which were various numerical computations. Ellery picked up a bankbook and opened it; it had been issued by a leading Philadelphia savings bank and it indicated a balance of a little over four thousand dollars.

“The saving sort, I see,” he remarked to Bill’s motionless back. “There hasn’t been a withdrawal in years. And although the deposits are modest, they’re quite steady.”

“Yes,” said Bill without turning, “he saved his money. I think he had some money in the Postal Savings, too. Lucy really hasn’t lacked anything for a woman married to a man in Joe’s position.”

“Did he own any bonds or stocks?”

“My dear Ellery, you forget we’re the lower middle class in the fifth year of the Depression.”

“My error. How about a checking account? I don’t see a checkbook.”

“No. No, he didn’t have one.” Bill paused. “He always said he didn’t need one in his business.”

“How very odd,” said Ellery in a tone touched with astonishment. “It’s—” Then he stopped and looked over the pile of articles again. But there was nothing more.

He picked up the fountain-pen, unscrewed its cap, and tried to write on one of the papers. “Hmm. Pen’s run dry. Clarifies that business of where the gift card was written. Certainly not here. No pencils on him, pen’s empty, and I’m sure from my little reconnaissance that there’s neither writing equipment nor ink anywhere in the shack. That seems to suggest…”

Ellery circled the table and knelt by the dead man, fixed to his patch of rug as if pinned there. And he went about a curious business: he turned Wilson’s empty pockets inside out and examined with the glare of a jeweler the detritus in the seams. When he rose he went to the rack and repeated his examination in the empty pockets of the four suits hanging there. And he nodded with a satisfaction that held the merest suggestion of puzzlement. He returned to the body and lifted the dead hands, intently studying the rigid fingers. Then he set himself, grimaced, and with difficulty parted the dead lips to reveal the fiercely clenched teeth behind. He rose and nodded again to himself.

Ellery was sitting on the table frowning down at Joseph Wilson’s distorted face when De Jong stamped in, followed by several detectives. “Well, that takes care of the Fourth Estate for a while,” said the Chief briskly. “Been enjoying yourself some more, Mr. Queen? I guess you’d like to hear what we’ve found out.”

“Thanks. Very kind of you.”

Bill turned from the window. “I suppose you realize, De Jong, that while you’ve been waltzing around here that woman in the Cadillac’s got clean away?”

De Jong winked at Ellery. “Just a small-town cop, eh? Now, Angell, keep your pants on. I sent an alarm out five minutes after I got here. No reports yet, but the whole State Police force is combing the highways. Colonel Merry of the Troopers is in charge himself.”

“She’s probably in New York already,” said Ellery dryly. “It’s getting late, De Jong. Well, what have you found?”

“Plenty. On those two driveways outside.”

“Ah, the tire marks,” said Ellery.

“Meet Sergeant Hannigan.” A cow-faced man bobbed his head. “Hannigan’s made a sort of private study of automobile tracks. Spill it, Hannigan.”

“Well, sir,” said the Sergeant, addressing Ellery, “this main driveway in front of the house—the curved one, where Mr. Angell saw the Cadillac parked—there are three sets of tire marks in the mud.”

“Three?” croaked Bill. “I saw only that Cadillac and I didn’t run my own car onto the front driveway at all.”

“Three sets o’ marks,” repeated Hannigan firmly. “Not three cars. Matter of fact, there were two cars. Two of the sets were made by the same boat, the Cadillac. Distinctive treads—that was a big Caddy, all right, Mr. Angell. The third set was made by peewee Firestones. I wouldn’t say for sure, but they prob’ly came from a Ford. Tires are marked up and kind of worn, so it’s prob’ly a ’31 or ’32 Ford. But don’t bank on that.”

“I shan’t,” said Ellery. “How do you know that the ‘two sets’ of Cadillac marks aren’t really one?”

“Well, it’s an easy figure,” said the Sergeant. “First there’s the tracks of the Caddy, see? Over some of the Caddy marks there’s the marks of the Firestones. That shows the Caddy was there first. But over the marks of the Firestones there’s the tracks of the Caddy again in some places. That means the Caddy was there and went away, then the Ford came and went away; then the Caddy came back.”

“I see,” said Ellery. “Quite ingenious. But how do you know the two sets of big-car marks were made by the same car? Mightn’t the first set have been made by another car using the same kind of tires?”

“Not a chance, sir. Those tires left fingerprints.” The Sergeant coughed at his fancy phrase. “There’s a gash across one of the treads that shows up the same on both sets. Same car, all right.”

“How about the directions involved?”

“Right smart question, sir. The Caddy came from Trenton way the first time, stopped by the stone step and later drove on around the curve and went off in the direction of Camden. The Ford came from the Camden side, stopped by the stone step, kept on around the drive and made a sharp turn onto Lamberton Road to
go back
to Camden, the way it’d come. Then the Cadillac came back from Camden, stopped by the stone step— and Mr. Angell saw it drive off past him toward Trenton again.”

Ellery removed his pince-nez and tapped them against the cleft in his chin. “Splendid, Sergeant; that’s a graphic story. How about this dirt driveway to the side of the shack?”

“Nothin’ special there. The old Packard Mr. Angell says belonged to Wilson drove in from the direction of Trenton. Wet marks in the mud, so I’d say the Packard got here after the rain started.”

“More probably after the rain stopped,” murmured Ellery. “Otherwise the tracks would have been washed out.”

“That’s right, sir. And that goes for the other ones, too. The rain stopped a little before seven this evening, so I guess we can say all the cars came here startin’ with seven o’clock… Only other marks in the side driveway are from Mr. Angell’s Pontiac—once driving in and once backing out. And that’s the story.”

“And a good one, Sergeant. Any footprints approaching the house?”

“Nary one, except yours on that fifteen-foot stretch,” said De Jong. “We boarded that over, too, coming in here. All right, Hannigan, see that those tire marks are cast up.” The Sergeant saluted and left. “Not a footprint anywhere around the house or on the two drives. Both of ’em lead right to the little porches and I suppose whoever came here tonight hopped from their cars to the porches without stepping on the ground.”

“And the footprints in that lane leading to the boathouse?”

De Jong glanced down at a detective who was crouched behind the table fussing with the dead man’s feet. “Well, Johnny?”

The man looked up. “Stiff made ’em, all right, Chief. Must ’a’ scraped his shoes off on the side porch before comin’ in here. But his shoes made those prints outside, like we figured.”

“Ah,” said Ellery. “Then it was Wilson who walked down to the river. And returned to his death. What’s in that shack down there, De Jong? It
is
a boathouse, isn’t it?”

The big policeman frowned down at Wilson’s still face. “Yeah.” His cold eyes were puzzled. “And it sure looks like you were right about another man using this shack. There’s a small sailboat down there with an outboard motor—pretty expensive toy, looks to me. Motor’s still warm. One of the men at the Marine Terminal’s come forward to testify that he saw a man answering Wilson’s description sailing the boat out of the landing below at a quarter after seven tonight.”

“Joe? Joe sailing a boat?” muttered Bill.

“That’s the ticket. This man also saw Wilson coming back—says it was around half past eight, and he had his motor going on the trip in. He was just sailing on the trip out. Wind died around seven-thirty, you’ll remember.”

Ellery rubbed the back of his neck. “Odd… Wilson was alone?”

“That’s what this Terminal man says. It’s a small craft with no cabin, so he couldn’t be wrong.”

“Out for a sail. Hmm.” Ellery looked at the dead face. “An appointment with his brother-in-law on a matter of extreme urgency for nine—he goes out for a sail two hours before… nervous, the need for reflection, solitude… I see, I see. Of course, De Jong,” he added strangely, not looking at Bill, “you realize that his use of the boat doesn’t mean it belonged to him.”

“Sure, sure. Only”—De Jong’s eyes flickered—“this man says he’s seen Wilson out sailing on a number of occasions in the past. And always alone. Fact, he seems to regard Wilson as a sort of fixture around here.”

“Joe’s been here before?” cried Bill.

“For years.”

Somebody outside laughed.

“I don’t believe it,” said Bill. “There’s a devilish mistake somewhere. It can’t possibly be true—”

“And not only that,” continued De Jong without changing expression, “but in the shed back there there’s another car.”

Ellery said mercifully, “Another car? What do you mean?” Bill’s cheeks turned the color of dirty clay.

“Lincoln sports roadster, latest model. Key in the ignition. But the motor’s dead cold, and there’s a swanky tarpaulin over the car. No owner’s license inside, but it’s going to be pie tracing the serial number, gents, just apple pie.” De Jong grinned at them. “That car must belong to this fawn-rug guy who’s been using the shack. Looks like a real live lead. Yes,
sir
… And there’s something more. Pinetti!”

“Good Lord,” said Bill in a strangled voice, “what next?”

One of the silent men behind De Jong stepped forward and handed his superior a small flattish suitcase. De Jong opened it. It was untidily packed with cards displaying cheap jewelry—necklaces, rings, bracelets, cuff-links, fraternal emblems. “That’s Joe’s.” Bill licked his lips. “Samples. Stock.”

De Jong grunted. “Came from his Packard; that’s not what I meant. Pinetti, that other thing.”

The detective produced a metal object. De Jong held it up, turning it over in his fingers with a false preoccupation. Then his cold eyes shot up to the level of Bill’s face.

“Ever see this before, Angell?” He slammed it into Bill’s hand.

It was very curious. As if De Jong’s question had been composed of oil, Bill’s manner altered, smoothing out to a blank and glassy stillness. Ellery was astonished, and De Jong’s eyes narrowed. They could actually see the metamorphosis as Bill’s bare fingers gripped the thing: features settling back into normal lines, the frown vanishing from the forehead, leaving it calm and inscrutable, eyes hardening into marbles.

“Of course,” he smiled. “On hundreds of cars.” And he turned the object slowly over in his hands. It was part of the radiator-cap of an automobile—the rust-flecked figurine of a running naked woman, metal hair and arms streaming behind her. The figure had been broken off at the ankles, leaving two rusty jagged ends of metal where the tiny feet had been attached to the threaded plug.

De Jong snorted and snatched the figurine away. “That’s a clue, gentlemen. It was found in the main driveway right in front of the house, half-buried where—Hannigan says—the Ford ran over it. I’m not saying it mightn’t have been lying there for a month. But then again,” his lips curled away from his mouth in a leer, “it mightn’t have. See what I mean?”

Bill said coolly: “You’ve put your finger on the weak spot of that exhibit as evidence, De Jong. Your prosecutor would have a sweet time proving that that was broken off the cap of a car on the evening of June first, even if you found the car it came from.”

“Oh, sure,” said De Jong. “I know you lawyers.”

Ellery glanced absently from the little naked woman to Bill’s face, blinked, and walked around the table. He stooped over the dead man, his eyes riveted to Wilson’s fingers, caught by death as they clawed the rug… No rings. No rings. That, he thought, was good. He remained in his stooped position, unmoving except for his eyes, which went to Wilson’s chill face for the twentieth time that evening and with the same faint expression of annoyance. De Jong was saying with exultation, “So I’m getting after the car this came from right away, get me? And when I find it…”