The Dragon’s Teeth (18 page)

Mr. Queen said nothing.

“Wait! We're both crazy. Of course there's the simplest explanation! Cole
is
dead. This
is
his pencil, all right, but somebody else got hold of it and has been using it. Whoever that was is our man. Phew! For a few minutes there you had me going.”

Mr. Queen still said nothing. He wrapped the pencil in his breast-pocket handkerchief and tucked it away. Then he rose.

“Here! What are you doing?” demanded Beau. “Hand over that pencil.”

“I think not,” said Mr. Queen, buttoning his coat.

“But it's our only evidence that some one was in this room. We've got to give it to your old man, Ellery.”

“We shan't even tell him about it yet.”

“But—for the love of Pete, why not?”

“The trail's a little too involved for the regular police mind,” said Mr. Queen egotistically. “Acute as dad is. And we're not destroying evidence—we're merely suppressing it temporarily. By itself it means little; we've got to make it mean more. And handing it over to the police means inevitably publication of its discovery. We can't afford to warn off our man before all the cards are in our hands.”

“But—Kerrie!” stormed Beau. “Where's the poor kid come in? At least that pencil establishes that some one was in this room tonight. To that extent it bolsters her story of the shots having come from this window.”

Mr. Queen looked grave. “If I really thought the pencil would clear her, Beau, I'd tell dad myself. But it won't, and you know it won't. She's in a tight spot; the circumstances under which she was found are so damning by contrast with the tenuous reasoning from the pencil that she's bound to be held. Let her tell her story by all means, truthfully; exactly as it happened. Dad will examine this room and find”—he grinned—” a burnt match-stick and the ashes and butt of my cigaret. That's even better evidence than the pencil that the room was occupied tonight—the maid would certainly have removed
those
if they'd been present when she cleaned up.”

“You mean we don't even tell him we've been in here?”

“He'll probably guess it,” said Mr. Queen comfortably. “And then there's the light in here. But he can't prove it's my butt if we don't talk, can he?”

Beau stared at him. “You'd doublecross yourself, I swear, if you thought some good would come of it!”

“Dad and I have been on opposite sides of the fence before,” said Mr. Queen in a thoughtful way, “although I will admit this business tonight is in the nature of a dirty trick.”

“My God! He's actually got a conscience!”

“So long, Beau. Let me know in the morning exactly what happened.”

XIV.
Inspector Queen Inspects

When Beau stepped past the detectives on guard in 1724 he found Kerrie gone from the sitting room and the door to the bedroom shut.

Inspector Queen was alone. He was seated in the armchair by the window, a sheaf of reports before him. The debris of flash-bulbs cluttered the floor.

The body of Margo Cole was gone.

“Where's Kerrie?” asked Beau, alarmed.

The Inspector looked at him. “Why don't you stick around and find out?”

“Where is she?”

“In the bedroom in charge of the hotel doctor and a nurse. And one of my men. And a friend of hers, a Violet Day.”

Beau blinked. “Vi! How did she get here?”

“Your wife kept calling for her, told us where Miss Day was stopping.… No, don't go in yet. I want to have a talk with you.”

“But if Kerrie's sick … Let me see her for a minute!”

“She isn't sick; she just fainted. She's all right now.”

Beau was silent. Then he said: “Did she talk?”

“You told her not to,” said the old man dryly, “so she didn't. She must like you a lot, Beau, because she's in one big kettle of fish.”

“She's in no spot she can't explain! Do you know who she is?”

“Sure. Kerrie Shawn. And the dead woman was her cousin, Margo Cole.”

Beau sat down suddenly. “Look, pop. Let's not spar around. What have you got?”

The Inspector sneezed over a pinch of snuff, and then regarded Beau unwinkingly. “Your wife's own admission establishes the fact that you weren't here when the Cole woman arrived. In fact, that you didn't get here till after the shooting. That lets you out for the record.

“Your wife was the only one in this room with Margo Cole—unless,” said the Inspector, “she can produce a third person. Point number one.”

“She can produce me,” said Beau quickly. “I tell you I
was
here. She said I wasn't because she didn't want to involve me.”

“Nothing doing. I've got a witness who saw you leave the hotel, Beau, and one who saw you come back. I know the exact times you went and returned. You couldn't have been in this room when it happened. The elevator boy who landed you on the seventeenth floor says he heard the shots just as you stepped out of his elevator.”

“I tell you—”

“No, not you, Beau,” said the old man patiently. “Somebody else—if there was somebody else. But I'm pretty sure there wasn't.”

“There was!”

“Who?”

Beau looked down. “I don't know—yet.”

“I see.” Inspector Queen paused. “Well, let's go on. Point number two: The house dick and O'Brien, manager of the hotel, both saw your wife holding the revolver which shot Margo Cole—holding it over the dead body. The house man says the barrel was still warm when he wrapped the gun in his handkerchief. Doc Prouty, who's been here and gone, dug one of the three bullets out of the body. The slug came from a .22. The revolver your wife was holding is a .22. I'm having comparison tests made downtown right now, but I'm pretty sure without the report that those slugs came from the same weapon.”

“There were three bullets fired from the .22?”

“Yes. And, of course, your wife's fingerprints are on it, too.
And no others.
That's point number three.” The Inspector waited, but when Beau said nothing he went on. “Four: A quick check-up with the pistol-permit records has established that the .22
belongs to your wife.”

“But it was stolen from her,” protested Beau.

“Exactly when? Under what circumstances?”

Beau drooped. “Never mind. We can't prove when or where. She only missed it yesterday.”

“Why didn't she report the theft?”

“She hasn't had time! She missed it yesterday, I tell you.”

The Inspector shook his head. “Thin, Beau. The picture looks—well, good. Her weapon, sole opportunity, caught red-handed a matter of minutes after the shooting, caught over the body with the proved weapon in her hand.… The only thing we've got to fill in is motive.”

“Yeah, motive,” exclaimed Beau. “You say Kerrie killed Margo. Why should she?”

“That's what I asked De Carlos.”

Beau sprang to his feet. “You talked to that—Where is he? What did
he
have to say, the hairy ape?”

“I notified De Carlos and Goossens by telephone of the murder; they'll both be here soon. I asked De Carlos about a possible motive, and he was very helpful.”

“I'll bet,” growled Beau. “What did he say, damn him?”

“Oh, you don't like him? Why, several things. He said if you and Kerrie Shawn hadn't run off to be married tonight, he could think of a dandy motive. At Margo's death Kerrie would inherit the dead woman's share of the income from the Cole estate, you see.”

Beau nodded gloomily.

“But, of course,” continued the Inspector, “he explained—and Goossens confirmed it when I asked him later—that Kerrie's marriage automatically cut her out of all participation in the estate—her own share as well as Margo's. So that motive is out.”

“So what are you battin' about?” grumbled Beau.

“But he mentioned something,” drawled the old man, “about some ‘accidents' to your wife in the past few weeks which didn't quite come off—a horse that threw her and almost broke her neck, that little business in the garage last night.…”

“What? What's that? What about it?”

“And then I had a little chat with Miss Day a few minutes ago,” replied the Inspector mildly. “And she told me they weren't accidents—something about nails having been loosened in the horse's foreshoe, and the locking in of your wife in that garage having been deliberate, and something about some one having climbed into Miss Shawn's bedroom not long ago during the night for a little exercise with a knife—”

“That blabbermouth,” said Beau hoarsely.

“And Miss Day also said it was both her opinion and Kerrie's that all those ‘accidents' had been staged by Margo Cole.”

Beau sat down again. “I don't get you.” Then he rose.

“No? Then I'll explain it to you.” The Inspector leaned back. “If your wife thought Margo Cole was trying to kill her—whether Margo Cole was or not, mind you!—then wouldn't it be natural for your wife to buy a gun—as she did—and wouldn't it be natural for her to shoot Margo Cole when Margo showed up in this room tonight and the two of them were alone? Yes, sir, that sounds like a motive to me.”

It's an out, thought Beau desperately; a possible out. “Even if that's so,” he shouted, “it's self-defense, isn't it?”

“My job is to get the facts. It's the D.A.'s job to put them together.” The old man eyed Beau. “By the way, don't you think it's time you hired a good criminal lawyer?”

Beau began to race around the room.

“It's as strong a circumstantial case as I've ever seen, Beau,” said the Inspector soberly.

“You've got it all wrong, I tell you. When you hear Kerrie's story, you'll see!”

“It will have to be more than a story, I'm afraid.” The Inspector rose. “Beau, you know how friendly your father and I were. And I've always looked on you as a sort of second son. Why don't you tell me what you know, so I can help you?”

“I don't know anything about it,” snapped Beau. “Nor does Kerrie!”

“There's something else behind this. Where did you go a while back? What were you looking for? Who'd you see? Beau, you can trust me—”

Beau was silent.

“You're putting me in a rotten spot,” said the Inspector gently. “You registered here in Ellery's name and, even granting it was with El's permission, that drags in a lot of personal considerations. I may even have to step out of the case because you did that. I've suppressed facts myself tonight. I've taken possession of the registration card and threatened all sorts of extra-legal punishments to those in the hotel who know the name you registered under. The newspaper boys are still in the dark about that. But they won't be for long. At least tell me why you used my son's name, so I'll be prepared with an explanation.”

“Pop, I can't,” said Beau hoarsely. “Pop … did you tell Kerrie?”

“Your wife?” The Inspector's eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me your own wife doesn't know who you are?”

“She thinks I'm Ellery Queen,” confessed Beau. “Ellery knows about it. In fact, it was his idea.”

Inspector Queen stared at him; then, shaking his head, he went to the bedroom door.

KERRIE lay on one of the twin beds holding on to Violet Day's hand. A nurse and a doctor stood by. There was a pungent odor of ammonium carbonate in the air. Leaning against the wall was Sergeant Velie.

Kerrie was the first to move. Her head swivelled, froze. But a moment later she sat up eagerly.

“Darling, you were so long.” She sounded tired.

Beau started for the bed, but the Inspector touched his arm. “No.”

Kerrie remained in a sitting position.

“Doc, would you mind waiting in the next room?” said the Inspector. “You, too, Nurse.”

They left the bedroom, Sergeant Velie carefully closing the door behind them.

“Well, I'm waiting,” said Inspector Queen.

Kerrie moistened her dry lips.

“It's all right, Kerrie,” said Beau in a low voice. “It's all right to talk now. Tell just what happened.”

Her glance was grateful. Vi took her hand again. Inspector Queen nodded to the Sergeant, who took a notebook and pencil out and prepared to write.

Kerrie told simply of the attempts to murder her, her suspicions of Margo, her purchase of the revolver, her discovery in the garage when she was trapped that the revolver had been stolen from the pocket of her roadster. She told of Beau's proposal, and of their elopement.

“One moment.” The Inspector glanced at Beau. “You thought the Cole woman was behind these attacks, too?”

“I know she was.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me so.”

“What!” The Inspector was incredulous.

“I made love to her,” said Beau flatly. “I pretended to be on her side … for a price. I told her I was going to marry Kerrie, so that Kerrie's share of the estate would be lost and would revert to Margo. We made a deal in which Margo was to kick back a certain part of Kerrie's share to me.”

“Why?” demanded the old man. “Why'd you do this?”

“Because my chief concern was to save Kerrie's life. Margo hated her, because of me and because of the money. If I could put the dough in her hands and convince her I loved her, not Kerrie, Kerrie's life would be safe.”

Kerrie's eyes were on his lips.

“The only thing I didn't know,” continued Beau, “was that Margo was working with some one else. Go on, Kerrie.”

Kerrie went on. She told about their arrival at the
Villanoy,
how Beau left her, and how Margo came.

“I was sitting in the armchair by the window and she came over and stood behind me, still gloating over the trick she said she and Ellery”—the Inspector winced—“had played on me. Somehow she got round to talking about the attacks on my life—”