The Devil To Pay (17 page)

“How do you get the gateman’s booth by telephone?” he asked in reply.

“Dial one-four.”

He dialed. “This is that reporter again. It’s five after six, so Walewski ought to be there. Is he?”

“So what?” rasped the detective’s voice.

“Put him on. What’s your name?”

“David Greenberg. Say, listen, pal, if—”

“I’ll remember that, Dave. Put Walewski on.” He waited, saying meanwhile: “That’s the hell of these post-mortem investigations. If there was any clue in this room, the police have ruined it…. Walewski? I’m a reporter. You remember Monday a few minutes past six, when Mr. Ruhig drove up to the gate?”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” came Walewski’s quavering voice.

“Was he alone in his car? Or were there two men with him?” Val jumped. She ran to the desk, listening for the answer.

“No, sir,” said Walewski. “He was all alone.”

“Thanks.” Ellery hung up and Val stared at him. Then he rose and said lightly: “What’s out here? Ah, a terrace. Let’s imbibe some fresh air.”

The study wall facing the terrace was completely glass. They went out through the glass doors. The terrace was deserted, and its gaily striped awning, bright furniture, cushions, rattan, wrought-iron chairs, and pastel flagstones looked a little forlorn. Ellery handed Val gallantly into the slide-swing and stretched himself out in a long summer chair. “I think, my brave colleague,” he said, settling himself comfortably and gazing out over the rock gardens and the empty pool below, “we have our Mr. Ruhig neatly figured.”

“He was alone when he came back, Walewski says!”

“Exactly. Let’s see what we have. Pink discovers that Ruhig left his office around four-thirty Monday afternoon, in his car, accompanied by two assistants. This checks with other facts—that the previous week when he drew up, and Spaeth signed the will which cut Walter Spaeth off, Ruhig also came with two assistants, to serve, as he himself said, as witnesses to the signature.”

“How do you know that?” frowned Val. “You weren’t present when he told that to the Inspector Monday night.”

“I—uh—I read it in the papers. Now. From Ruhig’s office to
Sans Souci
is a good forty-minute drive through traffic; so Ruhig probably told the truth when he said he reached here at five-fifteen Monday. With, mind you, his two assistants. He says he couldn’t get in and drove away and returned at six-five or so. Why? Obviously, if he hadn’t got in at five-fifteen, then he still had to handle the change of will for Spaeth. But when he returned at six-five, presumably for this purpose, his two men weren’t with him! What does that suggest?”

Val wrinkled her brow. “I can’t imagine.”

“Obviously
that he no longer needed them
. But why had he brought his assistants in the first place? To witness a new will. Then if he no longer needed them at six-five, it seems to me highly indicative that the assistants had already served their purpose by six-five. In other words, to reduce it to specifies, that they had witnessed a new will between five-fifteen, when Ruhig first came, and five-thirty-two, when Spaeth died.”

“A new will!” cried Val. “Oh, lord. Then that means—”

“Hush! We don’t want Winni hearing this. We don’t know exactly what this means in terms of the will. But we can be pretty sure Spaeth signed a new will before he died, and that Ruhig and his men were in this study at approximately the murder-period.”

Val sat thinking furiously. It did sound logical. And it changed everything. Any new will would have affected Winni Moon’s gigantic legacy. Where did Walter enter the picture? Did he find that will? Was he—was he protecting Winni? What real part did that oily little Ruhig play?

“What’s that?” asked Ellery sharply, sitting up.

“What’s what?” asked Val in an absent way.

Ellery pointed. Fifty yards from where they sat, directly beyond the pool, was the rear terrace of the old Jardin house. Something was winking there, flashing prismatic colors in the rays of the sinking sun.

“I can’t imagine,” said Val. “That’s the terrace of our old house. We didn’t leave anything there except an odd piece or two or porch furniture we didn’t want.”

Ellery rose. “Let’s go look-see.”

They stole down the stone steps and made their way without noise across the rock garden, around the pool, to the Jardin house. The awning still hung over the terrace, which was largely in shadow; but the sun illuminated an area several feet deep along the entire length of the terrace; and in this sunlit area stood an old wrought-iron porch table. They saw at once what had caused the fiery flashes. A pair of battered binoculars lay on the table, its lenses facing the sun. “Oh, shoot,” said Val, disappointed. “It’s just that old pair of binoculars.”

“Here!” said Ellery sharply. “Don’t touch that table.” He was crouched over, studying its surface with narrowed eyes. “You mean you left them here when you moved?”

“Yes. One of the lenses is cracked.”

“Did you leave it on this table?”

“Why, no,” said Val, surprised. “It wasn’t left here at that. We went over a lot of stuff—pop likes the races, and we have several pairs of binoculars—and we just threw this one out.”

“Where did you leave it?”

“There’s a pile of junk in the gym.”

“Then what is it doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said Val truthfully. “But what difference does it make?”

Ellery did not reply. He indicated the glass doors which led to the vacant study; they stood slightly ajar.

“That’s funny,” said Val slowly. “Those doors were locked when we left. Unless the landlord had some one come in and—”

“If you’ll look closely, you’ll find the lock broken,” said Ellery, “indicating a basic disrespect for the rights of property.”

“Oh!” cried Val, pointing to the table. “Those marks!”

She bent over the table and Ellery smiled faintly. The surface was covered with mottled dust. There seemed to be two layers of dust, deposited at different times. Val was studying two oval marks—they were more like smudges—under the upper dust-stratum. One was larger than the other, and they were separated by several inches. “Damn those rains,” said Ellery. “The table didn’t get the full force of it, being under the awning, but it did get a fine spray, enough to remove any fingerprints that may have been here.”

“But those marks,” said Val. “They
look
like fingerprints. Like the marks of two fingers—a thumb and a little finger.”

“That’s what they are. They were deposited on an already dusty surface. Then more dust settled, and the rain messed things up, but they’re still visible because the dust-layer is thinner where they are than on the rest of the table. However, there don’t seem to be any distinguishing whorls—probably the rain. He took out a handkerchief and carefully lifted the binoculars. Where they had lain was a slightly dusty surface, lighter than the surrounding surface. “Binoculars and fingermarks made at about the same time.” He wrapped the binoculars in the folds of the handkerchief and calmly dropped the whole thing into the pocket of his sport-jacket.

Val did not notice. She was striding excitedly up and down. “I’ve got it! It was still light at the time of the murder, and the glasses show some one stood right here on this terrace watching what was going on in Spaeth’s study! He could easily see, because of the glass walls, like these here.
There was a witness to the murder!
”

“Excellently spoken,” said Ellery. “I mean—you said a mouthful there, baby.” But he was still studying the two finger-smudges on the table in a puzzled way.

“Then some one knows who killed Spaeth. Some one
saw!
”

“Very likely.” Ellery looked around. “Did you say a lot of junk was left in the gym? Where’s the gym?”

“A few doors down,” said Val, hardly knowing what she was saying. Then she took a deep breath. “Here, I’ll show you.” She led him along the terrace to the door of the empty gymnasium. This door, too, had been forced. “There it is,” said Val.

Ellery went over to a small pile of débris and poked it apart with his foot. But there was nothing of interest in the pile. He was about to return to the terrace when he spied a small closet set into one of the walls. The closet-door was closed. He walked over and opened it. Inside, on a rack, hung a lone Indian club. He took it out, frowning, and examined it. It was cracked. “Funny,” he said. “Very funny.” He weighed the club thoughtfully, glancing over at the pile of débris.

“What is it? What’s the matter now?” asked Val, waking from her trance.

“This Indian club. Indian clubs come in pairs, weighed and matched. Why on earth should you have taken along the mate to this, when this cracked one was left behind?”

“The mate?” Val wrinkled her forehead. “But we didn’t. We left them both here in the closed closet.”

“Really?” said Ellery dryly. “Well, one of them is gone.”

Val stared, then shrugged. Ellery replaced the cracked club in the rack and, frowning, shut the closet-door. “And another thing,” said Val, as they returned to the terrace. “Whoever it was who watched, it was somebody with only two fingers on his left hand—a two-fingered man! That
is
a left-hand marking, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Two fingers!”

Ellery smiled the same faint smile. “By the way, I think you’d better telephone police headquarters.”

“What for?”

“To tell them about this table. Shocking neglect on the part of Glücke—not examining your old house!”

“Why, the binoculars are gone!” cried Val.

“Only as far as my pocket. I’d put the table in there, too, only it won’t fit comfortably. Call Glücke. He ought to send a fingerprint man down here right away on the off-chance that some prints
are
left.”

They went quietly back to the Spaeth house and Ellery sat down on the terrace again while Val tiptoed into the study to telephone. He heard her get her connection and ask for Inspector Glücke, but he was not listening too closely. Those marks… He jumped at a choking sound from the study. He ran in and found Val staring at the telephone, her face a pale, pale gray. “All right,” she said weakly. “I’ll be right down,” and she replaced the instrument on its base with a thud, as if it were too heavy for her.

“What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

“It’s Walter. Walter,” said Val. It was always Walter. Whenever anything happened, it was Walter. “You know—I told you about—
him
. The one who ran into Ruhig’s office—”

“Well, well?”

“Inspector Glücke just told me....” She shivered suddenly and drew her coat more closely about her. “He says Walter has cleared my father. Walter’s—cleared—pop!”

She began to giggle. Ellery shook her violently. “None of that! What do you mean—cleared your father?”

Val giggled and giggled. It became a laugh, and then a shout, and finally it choked up and turned into a whisper. “He—just—confessed to Glücke that—
he
was the one—who wore my father’s coat Monday afternoon… that he was the one—Frank saw…. Oh, Walter!”

And she buried her face in her hands. Ellery pulled her hands way. “Come on,” he said gruffly.

V
AL
looked so preoccupied that Ellery took the wheel of her sedan. She sat still, staring ahead. He could not decide whether she was frozen with stupefaction or shocked stiff by the high voltage of some more personal emotion. Her body did not sag even while the sedan squealed around corners. As for Pink, having heard the news, he kept his mouth open all the way downtown. Inside police headquarters Val broke into a trot. And in the anteroom to Inspector Glücke’s office, while the police clerk spoke into his communicator, she pranced. When he nodded she flew to the Inspector’s door—and slowly opened it. Walter sat with outstretched legs beside Glücke’s big desk, blowing smoke rings. There were two others in the office—the Inspector and a thin whippy gentleman of indecipherable age who sat quietly in a corner grasping a stylish stick. Glücke looked grim and alert, as if he were set for some emergency; but the thin man was composed and his eyes had a cynical glitter.

“Hello,” grinned Walter. “Val to the rescue.”

“Oh, Walter,” said Val, and she went to him and put her hand on his shoulder in a proud, tender way.

“What is this,” said the Inspector dryly, “Old Home Week? What d’ye want, King?”

“So I’ve been reported by the demon sleuth team in the black sedan, curse it,” said Ellery. His name was King, was it?

“Take a powder, King. No reporters here.”

“It’s all right with me,” said Mr. King indifferently. “I was on my way to the office anyway with the dope I’ve turned up.”

“What’s that? What dope?”

“If you’d devote less time to playing follow-the-leader and more to examining
Sans Souci
you’d show a better homicide record. Come on, Pink, let’s amble.”

“Just a moment,” said the thin man with a smile. “I think we can manage this without ruffled feelings, Glücke.” He rose. “My name is Van Every. You say you’ve turned up something at
Sans Souci?
”

“Ah, the D.A.” They examined each other politely. “I do, but I’m not spilling till I find out what friend Spaeth’s been up to.”

Van Every glanced at Glücke, and Glücke growled: “Okay.” He drew his brows together. “Well, here she is, Spaeth.”

“Wait,” said Val quickly. “Walter, I want to—”

“It’s no use, Val.”

“Walter,
please
.”

Walter shook his head. “I told you, Inspector, on Monday night that I didn’t enter the
Sans Souci
grounds. That’s not true. I did enter. I had a key to the gate, and Frank was in his booth reading a paper, so I let myself in and walked up the drive—”

“And he spotted you from the back and thought you were Rhys Jardin because you were wearing Jardin’s torn coat. You’ve told me that already,” said Glücke impatiently. “Answer some questions. So you weren’t hit on the head as you got out of your car?”

“No. I was attacked after—”

“Walter!” Val put her palm over his mouth. He shook his head at her, but she kept her hand where it was. “Inspector, I want to talk to Mr. Spaeth.”

Walter removed her hand gently. “Let me clear this damned thing up, Val.”