QED (6 page)

Happily inundated with information, Ellery finally interrupted the curator's flow long enough to ask for a sheet of paper on which to make notes. The curator obliged with a piece of museum stationery; and Ellery, preparing to notate, forced himself back from the dark tribalisms of Africa.

The inscription on the museum letterhead was arranged in two lines. The top line was simply the initials of the museum; the line below spelled out the full name: Merrimac University Museum.

The top line … MUM.

Thorp had excused himself for a moment; and folding the paper, clean of unnoted notes, Ellery took from his pocket the anonymous letter he had picked up from the salver that morning. He was about to insert the museum letterhead into the envelope when his attention was caught by the envelope's scrawled salutation.

To Ellery
.

No, that was wrong!

To
was correct enough, as he had read it, but not
Ellery
. The final letter had a long tail on it; this tail had been the cause of his mistaken reading. On re-examination the
ry
was not an
ry
at all; it was a straggle-tailed
n
.

To Ellen
.

It was Ellen who knew something dangerous to the killer.

It was Ellen who was being threatened.

Wolcott Thorp, returning, was astounded to see his visitor clap a hand to his head, jam a letter into his pocket, and dart out without so much as a fare-thee-well.

Crouched over the wheel of the station wagon, Ellery roared back to Wrightsville and the Mumford house, cursing every impediment that forced him to slacken speed. He left the car in the driveway and clattered past an alarmed Margaret Caswell and up the stairs in the longest leaps his long legs could manage.

He burst into Ellen's room.

Ellen, propped up on a chaise longue by a picture window in some flowing garment that might have been designed for a painting by Gainsborough, was sipping hot chocolate from what could only have been—even in his agitation Ellery noticed it—a bone-china mustache cup.

“Am I supposed to be flattered, Mr. Queen,” asked Ellen in a her-Ladyship-is-not-amused sort of voice, “by your boorish intrusion?”

“Beg pardon,” panted Ellery. “I thought you might be dead.”

Her Wedgwood eyes blued further. She set the antique cup down on an end table. “Did you say
dead
?”

He extended the anonymous letter. “Read this.”

“What is it?”

“It's for you. I found it on the salver this morning and opened it by mistake, thinking it was addressed to me. I'm thankful I did. And you may be, too, before we're finished.”

She took the letter and read it swiftly. The paper slipped from her hand, struck the edge of the chaise, and fluttered to the floor.

“What does it mean?” she whispered. “I don't understand.”

“I think you do.” Ellery stooped over her. “You know something dangerous to your father's murderer, and your father's murderer knows you know it. Ellen, tell me what it is, for the sake of your own safety. Think! What do you know that would explain a threat like this?”

He read in her eyes the immediate qualification of her terror. A slyness crept into them, and the lids slid halfway down.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“It's foolhardy of you to hold it back. We have a murderer on our hands and he's getting edgy. Tell me, Ellen.”

“There's nothing to tell. I know nothing.” She turned away. “Now will you please leave? I'm not exactly dressed for entertaining.”

Ellery retrieved the note and left, damning all idiots. In addition to his other commitments he would now have to undertake the thankless task of acting as the woman's watchdog.

What was Ellen concealing?

Christopher, sighting the pale sun over the top of a pine, recited the opening lines of
Snowbound
.

“Whittier,” he explained. “I still have a childish fondness for the old boy.”

Joanne laughed, a sound of sleigh bells. “Delivered like a pro. Bravo.”

“Not really. A pro gets fairly steady employment.”

“You could, too, if you tried. Really tried.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“You know something? So do I. But only when I'm with you.”

“I'm glad.”

“Enough to cleave to my bosom?”

“I don't quite know,” said Joanne cautiously, “how to take that, Chris.”

“Take it as an interim proposal. I don't want to tie you up in knots until I've made it all the way. You make me feel life-size, Jo. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I need you.”

Jo smiled, but inside. She slipped a little mittened hand into his glove, and they strolled toward the pines and the pale sun.

Wolcott Thorp came down from the university and Chief Newby drove over from headquarters after dinner, both at Ellery's invitation.

“What's up?” Newby asked Ellery, aside. “Have you come up with something?”

“Have you?” asked Ellery.

“Not a damn thing. I'm not the Wizard of Oz, the way you're supposed to be. No miracles yet?”

“No miracles, I'm afraid.”

“Then what's cooking tonight?”

“A mess. I'm going to fling it at them, and see who runs for the mop—if any.”

They joined the others in the drawing room.

“I've taken the liberty of asking Chief Newby to drop by,” Ellery began, “because we need, I think, to redefine our position. Especially in reference to the dying message.

“When Chief Newby and I first found M-U-M on the scene, we made the natural assumption that Godfrey Mum-ford had left it as a clue to his killer's identity. Further thought compromised this theory, at least as far as I was concerned. The clue had so many possible interpretations that I shifted to the theory that it meant the safe combination. That worked out fine but accomplished nothing. I opened the safe, and the safe proved to be empty.”

Ellery paused, seeming to wing far off. But his vision was in focus, and he could see nothing in their faces but attentiveness and bafflement.

“Now, after thinking it over again, I've changed my mind again,” he went on. “If Godfrey had wanted to leave the combination, all he had to write down was 13-21-13. It would have been almost as easy to write as M-U-M, and there would have been no chance of its being misunderstood. So now I've gone back to the original theory, which Newby has never abandoned—namely, that the message points to the murderer's identity. If so, to whom?”

He paused again; and most of his captive audience waited in varying stages of nervousness for revelation.

“The Chief,” said Ellery, with a side glance at Mrs. Caswell, who alone seemed unmoved, “is convinced of that identity. And, of course, from a strictly logical point of view, it is certainly possible.”

“It is certainly
stuff
,” said Mum; then pulled her head back in like a turtle.

“If it's stuff, Mrs. Caswell,” smiled Ellery, “what's coming is pure moonshine. Yet—who knows? I'm not going to turn my back on a theory simply because it sounds like something out of Lewis Carroll. Bear with me.

“From the beginning this case has exhibited a remarkable series of what I have to call, for want of a more elegant term, ‘doubles.'

“For example, there have been at least four ‘doubles' connected with the murdered man: Godfrey had developed a famous chrysanthemum with a
double
blossom on one stem; the party he gave was to celebrate a
double
event, New Year's Eve and his seventieth birthday; his wall safe cost about
double
what it should have cost; and his children, Ellen and Christopher, are twins—another
double
.

“Further, let's not overlook the most significant
double
in the case: the double mystery of who killed Godfrey and what happened to the Imperial Pendant.

“What's more, we can go on through a great many more doubles. Because, if you interpret the dying message as a clue to the killer, each of you has at least two connections with MUM.

“For instance, Ellen.” Ellen gave a visible start. “One, her maiden name was Mumford—first syllable,
Mum
. Second, she's married to an Egyptologist. Egyptology connotes pyramids, the Sphinx—and
mum
mies.”

Ellen reacted with a double sort of sound, like a jeer crossed with a neigh. “Rubbish! Nonsense!”

“It is, isn't it? Yet this thing gets curiouser and curiouser. Take Christopher. Again, the first syllable of
Mum
ford. And second, Chris, your profession.”

“My profession?” asked Christopher, puzzled. “I'm an actor.”

“And what are other words for actor? Player, performer, thespian, trouper …
mum
mer.”

Christopher's handsome face reddened; he seemed torn between the impulse to laugh and the need to fume. As a compromise he simply threw up his hands.

Chief Newby was looking embarrassed. “Are you serious, Ellery?”

“Why, I don't know whether I am or not,” said Ellery gravely. “I'm just trying it on for size. You're next, Mr. Thorp.”

The elderly curator immediately looked frightened. “I? How do I fit in?”

“First, the initials of the museum as they appear on your stationery: Merrimac University Museum—M-U-M. Second, your special interest in the culture of West Africa and its artifacts: fetishes, masks, charms, talismans—oh, and pompons.”

“I fail,” said Thorp coldly, “to see the connection.”

“The pompon is a variety of chrysanthe
mum
. And if you want still another cross-reference, Mr. Thorp, there's a phrase to describe your special field. Surely you know it?”

Here Thorp's erudition was apparently wanting. He shook his head.

“
Mum
bo jumbo,” Ellery solemnly told him.

Thorp looked astonished. Then he chuckled. “How true. In fact, the very words come from the language of the Klassonke, a Mandingo tribe. What a quaint coincidence!”

“Yes,” said Ellery; and the way he said it re-established the mood the museum man's laughter was shattering. “And Mrs. Caswell. I remind you again that Chief Newby has all along thought the dying message points to you.
Mum
Caswell.”

Margaret Caswell's features took on the slightest pallor. “I hardly think this is the time to be playing games, Mr. Queen. But—all right, I'll play, too. You said that each of us has at least two connections with Godfrey's word on that pad. What's the other one of mine?”

Ellery's tone was positively apologetic. “I've noticed that you're fond of beer, Mrs. Caswell, particularly German beer. One of the best-known of the German beers is called
mum
.”

And this at last brought Joanne to her feet, her little hands clenched. Her anger gave her a charming dimension.

“At first this was plain ridiculous,” stormed Jo. “Now it's—it's criminally asinine! Are you purposely making fun of us? And if I may ask a silly question—and no doubt I'll get a pair of silly answers—what are
my
two connections with MUM?”

“There,” mourned Ellery, “you have me, Jo. I haven't been able to spot one connection, let alone two.”

“Quite amusing, I'm sure,” Ellen said. “Meanwhile, we're neglecting the important thing. What happened to the pendant?”

All Christopher's dissatisfaction with the Queen performance burst out at finding a target he felt free to attack. “
Important
thing,” he cried. “I can't make head or tail of what's going on here, but don't you consider it important to find out who killed father, Ellen? Aren't you concerned with anything but that damned pendant? You make me feel like a ghoul!”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Ellen said to her twin. “You're nothing so impressive as a ghoul, Chris. What you are is a bloody ass.”

He turned his back on his sister; and regal as a Borgia, she stalked from the room. From the stairway her complaint came to them distinctly: “You'd think father would have installed a lift instead of making us climb these antediluvian stairs.”

“Yes, your Majesty!” yelled Christopher.

While Mr. Q murmured to Chief Newby, “Ellery in Blunderland. Through the Magnifying Glass …”

“What are you,” snarled the Chief of Police, grabbing his coat and hat, “a nut or something?”

January 13
: The one morning of the week when Ellen could be relied on to come down for breakfast was Sunday. Invariably she descended to a kipper and a slice of dry toast (except on communion days), after which, trailing High Church clouds of glory, she strode off to join her Anglican co-worshipers.

It was therefore a matter of remark that on this particular Sunday morning she failed to appear.

It was especially remarkable to Ellery, who had been barred by the proprieties from passing the night guarding her bedside. Enlisting Margaret Caswell's chaperonage, he rushed upstairs, kicked open the uplocked door, and dashed in.

Ellen was still in bed. He listened frantically to her breathing; he took her pulse; he shook her, shouting in her ear. Then he damned her perversity and the unlocked door, which was an example of it.

“Phone Conk Farnham!” he bellowed at Mrs. Caswell.

There followed a scene of chaos, not without its absurdity, like an old Mack Sennett comedy. Its climax came when, for the umpteenth time in ten days, Dr. Farnham arrived on the run with his little black bag. It was surely Conk's opinion, thought Ellery, that he was hopelessly trapped in the antics of a houseful of lunatics.

“Sleeping pills,” the doctor said. “Slight overdose. No need for treatment; she didn't take enough. She'll come out of it by herself soon—in fact, she's coming out of it now.”

“This must be it on the night table,” Ellery mumbled.

“What?”