The Siamese Twin Mystery (13 page)

“That,” replied the Englishman stiffly, “is beside the point.” He glanced at the Carreau twins with the oddest mixture of affection and pain.

There was another silence. The old gentleman took a turn about the room. The boys were perfectly quiet, but alert.

The Inspector halted. “Did you boys like Dr. Xavier?” he said abruptly.

“Oh, yes!” they said in instant unison.

“Did he ever—well, hurt you?”

Mrs. Carreau started, alarm flooding her soft eyes.

“No, sir,” replied Francis. “He just examined us. Made all kinds of tests. With X rays and special foods and injections and things.”

“We’re used to
that
sort of thing, all right,” said Julian darkly.

“I see. Now about last night. Slept well, did you?”

“Yes, sir.” They were very solemn now and breathing a little more rapidly.

“Didn’t hear any peculiar sounds during the night, I suppose? Like guns going off?”

“No, sir.”

The old gentleman rubbed his chin for a moment. When he spoke again he was grinning. “Had your breakfast, both of you?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Wheary brought it up to us early this morning,” said Francis.

“But we’re hungry again,” added Julian quickly.

“Then suppose you two young men trot out into the kitchen,” said the Inspector amiably, “and get Mrs. Wheary to rustle you some grub.”

“Yes,
sir
!” they exclaimed in chorus and rose, kissed their mother, excused themselves, and left the room with the peculiarly graceful rhythm imparted to their bodies by the act of walking.

A
BENT FIGURE APPEARED
on the terrace beyond one of the French windows, and peered into the living room.

“Oh, Bones,” called the Inspector; the man started. “Come on in here. I want you in on this.”

The old man slipped through the window. His lugubrious face was set in even more savage lines than before and his long, skinny arms dangled and jerked, the fingers curling and uncurling.

Ellery studied his father’s bland face thoughtfully. There was something up. An idea, a suddenly snatched and half-formed idea, was stewing in the Inspector’s brain.

“Mrs. Xavier,” began the old man in a mild voice, “how long have you lived here?”

“Two years,” said the woman lifelessly.

“Your husband bought this house?”

“He built it.” Fear had begun to creep back into her eyes. “He retired at that time, purchased the summit of Arrow Mountain, had it cleared and the house constructed. Then we moved in.”

“You’ve been married only a short time, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” She was startled now. “About six months before—before we came here to live.”

“Your husband was a wealthy man, wasn’t he?”

She shrugged. “I have never inquired deeply into his finances. He gave me, always, the best of everything.” The feline glare returned for an instant as she added: “The best of material things.”

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff elaborately; he seemed very sure of himself. “I seem to recall that your husband had never been married before, Mrs. Xavier. How about you?”

She tightened her lips. “I was a widow when I—met him.”

“No children from either marriage?”

She sighed queerly. “No.”

“Hmm.” The Inspector crooked his finger at Mark Xavier. “You ought to know something about your brother’s financial condition. Well off, was he?”

Xavier started out of a profound reverie. “Eh? Oh, money! Yes. He was well-cushioned.”

“Tangible assets?”

The man lifted his shoulders. “Some of it in real estate, and you know what realty values are today. Most of it, however, in solid government securities. He had some money from our father when he began practising medicine—as I did—but he’s made most of what he has … had … in his profession. I was his attorney, you know.”

“Ah,” said the Inspector. “Glad you mentioned that. I was wondering how we’d jump the testamentary hurdle all bottled up this way. … So you’re an attorney, hey? He left a will, of course.”

“There’s a copy in his bedroom safe upstairs.”

“Is that right, Mrs. Xavier?”

“Yes.” She was oddly quiet.

“What’s the combination?” She told him. “All right. Please remain where you are. I’ll be back shortly.” He buttoned his jacket with nervous fingers and hurried from the room.

He was gone a long time. The living room was very quiet. From the rear came the cheerful shouts of Julian and Francis, apparently applying themselves to the cream of Mrs. Wheary’s larder with gusto and enthusiasm.

Once there was a heavy step in the hall and they all turned to the door. But it remained shut, and the step continued to tramp toward the foyer. A moment later they spied the gorillalike figure of Mr. Smith on the terrace; he was staring out over the bleak rocky ground before the house.

Ellery sulked in a corner and sucked a fingernail. For some reason too nebulous to grasp he felt disturbed. What on earth was his father up to?

Then the door opened and the Inspector appeared. His eyes were sparkling. In his hand he held a legal-looking paper.

“Well,” he said benevolently, closing the door. Ellery studied him, frowning. There was something in the wind. When the Inspector became benevolent during the progress of an investigation, there was something decidedly in the wind. “I’ve found the will, all right. Short and sweet. By your husband’s will, Mrs. Xavier, I find that you’re practically his sole beneficiary. Did you know that?” He waved the document.

“Of course.”

“Yes,” continued the Inspector briskly, “except for a small bequest to his brother Mark and a few to various professional societies—research organizations and such—you inherit the bulk of his estate. And, as you said, Xavier, it’s considerable.”

“Yes,” muttered Xavier.

“I see too that there won’t be any trouble about probating the will and settling the estate,” murmured the old gentleman. “No chance for a legal contest; eh, Xavier?”

“Of course not! There’s no one to contest.
I
certainly shan’t, even if I had grounds—which I haven’t—and I’m John’s only blood relative. As a matter of fact, although it isn’t pertinent, my sister-in-law has no living relatives, either. We’re the last on both sides.”

“That makes it very cozy, I must say,” smiled the Inspector. “By the way, Mrs. Xavier, I suppose you and your husband had no real differences? I mean—you didn’t quarrel about the various things that split up late marriages?”

“Please.” She put her hand to her eyes. And
that’s
very cozy, too, thought Ellery grimly. He kept watching his father, alive in every nerve now.

Unexpectedly the man Bones rasped: “That’s a lie. She made his life one long hell!”

“Bones,” gasped Mrs. Xavier.

“She was always nagging him,” went on Bones, the cords of his throat taut; his eyes were blazing again. “She never gave him a minute’s peace, damn her!”

“That’s interesting,” said the Inspector, still smiling, “and
you’re
an interesting sort of coot to have around the house, Bones, old boy. Go on. I take it you were pretty fond of Dr. Xavier?”

“I’d have died for him.” His bony fists tightened. “He was the only one in this rotten world ever lent a hand when I was down, the only one ever treated me like a man, not some—some scum. … She treated me like dirt!” His voice rose to a scream. “I tell you she—”

“Right, right, Bones,” said the Inspector with a touch of sharpness. “Hold it. Now listen to me, all of you. We found in Dr. Xavier’s dead hand a torn half of playing card. He’d evidently found strength enough before he died to leave a clue to his murderer’s identity. He tore off half a six of spades.”

“Six of spades!” panted Mrs. Xavier; her eyes were protruding from their shadowed sockets.

“Yes, Madam, a six of spades,” said the Inspector, regarding her with some satisfaction. “Let’s do a little figuring. What could he have meant to tell us? Well, the cards came from his own desk; so it isn’t a question of ownership. Now, he didn’t use a whole card; only a half. That means the card as a card wasn’t the important thing; it was the piece, or what was on the piece.”

Ellery stared. There was something in association, after all. You could teach an old dog new tricks. He chuckled silently.

“On the piece,” continued the Inspector, “was the number 6, in the border of the card, and a few—what d’ye call it?”

“Pips,” said Ellery.

“Pips—spades. Spades mean anything to any of you?”

“Spade?” Bones licked his lips. “
I
use a spade—”

“Whoa,” grinned the Inspector. “Don’t let’s get into fairy tales. That would be too much. No, he didn’t mean you, Bones.”

“Spade,” said Ellery briefly, “if it meant anything at all, which I doubt, signified death. It always has, you know.” His eyes were narrowed and he was paying attention only to his father.

“Well, whatever it meant it’s not the main thing. The main thing is the number 6. Number 6 mean anything to any of you?”

They stared at him.

“Evidently not,” he chuckled. “Well, I didn’t think it would. As a number I don’t see how it could refer to anyone here. Might in one of these, now, detective stories with secret societies and such tripe; but not in real life. Well, if 6 as a number doesn’t mean anything to you, how about 6
as a word
?” He stopped grinning and his face hardened. “Mrs. Xavier, you have a middle name, haven’t you?”

Her hand was at her mouth. “Yes,” she said faintly. “Isère. My maiden name. I am French. …”

“Sarah Isère Xavier,” said the Inspector grimly. He whipped his hand into his pocket and produced with flourish a small sheet of delicately tinted personal stationery, monogrammed at the top with three capital letters. “I found this piece of writing paper in your desk in the big bedroom upstairs, Mrs. Xavier. Do you admit it’s yours?”

She was on her feet, swaying. “Yes. Yes. But—”

He held the paper high, so that all their wide eyes could see it. The monogram read:
S I X.
The Inspector dropped the sheet and stepped forward. “Dr. Xavier in his fast living moment accused
S I X
of murdering him. I saw the light when I remembered that two of your initials were
S X.
Mrs. Xavier, consider yourself under arrest for the murder of your husband!”

For one horrible moment Francis’s merry laugh rang faintly in their ears from the kitchen. Mrs. Carreau was white as death, her right hand on her breast. Ann Forrest was trembling. Dr. Holmes was blinking at the tall woman swaying before them with disbelief, nausea, mounting rage. Mark Xavier was rigid in his chair, only the muscles of his jaw working. Bones stood like a mythological figure of vengeance, glaring with awful triumph at Mrs. Xavier.

The Inspector snapped: “You knew that on the death of your husband you would come into a pot of money, didn’t you?”

She took a small backward step, breathing thickly. “Yes—”

“You were jealous of Mrs. Carreau, weren’t you? Insanely jealous? You couldn’t stand seeing them together conducting what you thought was an affair right before your nose, could you?—when all the time they were just discussing Mrs. Carreau’s sons!” He advanced steadily, never taking his hard eyes from hers, a little gray nemesis.

“Yes, yes,” she gasped, retreating another step.

“When you followed Mrs. Carreau downstairs last night and saw her slip into your husband’s study and after a while slip out again, you were mad with jealous rage, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You went in, snatched the revolver from the drawer, shot him, killed him, murdered him; didn’t you, Mrs. Xavier?
Didn’t you
?”

The edge of the chair stopped her. She tottered and fell into the seat with a thud. Her mouth was working soundlessly, like the mouth of a fish seen through the glass window of an aquarium.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Her glazedly black eyes rolled over once; then she shuddered convulsively and fainted.

I
T WAS A TERRIBLE
afternoon. The sun was overpowering. It poured its fierce liquefying strength upon the house and the rocks and turned both into infernos. They wandered about the house like materialized ghosts, scarcely speaking, avoiding each other, physically wretched from the dampness of their clothing and the heaviness of their limbs, mentally sick and exhausted. Even the twins were subdued; they sat quietly by themselves on the terrace and watched their elders with round eyes.

The unconscious woman had been turned over to the mercies of Dr. Holmes and Miss Forrest; that surprising young woman, it developed, having had considerable professional experience as a nurse in the years preceding her employment by Mrs. Carreau. The men carried the heavy figure of Mrs. Xavier upstairs to the master—now masterless—bedroom.

“You’d better give her something to keep her asleep for a while, Doc,” said the Inspector thoughtfully as he gazed down upon the handsome recumbent figure. There was no triumph, only distaste in his eyes. “She’s the nervous type. They go off the handle at the least emotional disturbance. Might try to do away with herself when she comes to. Not that it wouldn’t be the best thing for her, poor devil. … Give her a hypo or something.”

Dr. Holmes nodded silently; he went down to the laboratory and returned with a filled hypodermic. Miss Forrest fiercely banished the men from the bedroom. She and the physician alternated at the sleeping woman’s bedside for the remainder of the afternoon.

Mrs. Wheary, informed of the culpability of her mistress, wept briefly and not convincingly; she had always known, she informed the Inspector through squeezed tears, that “it couldn’t turn out well; she was too jealous. And him such a kind, good, handsome man, poor lamb, who didn’t even look at other women! I was, his housekeeper before his marriage, sir, and when
she
came to live with us she started right away. Jealous! She was just crazy.”

The Inspector grunted and became practical. None of them had had a mouthful of food since the previous night. Could Mrs. Wheary so compose herself as to scrape together a passable luncheon? He personally was on the verge of starvation.