The Siamese Twin Mystery (14 page)

Mrs. Wheary sighed, wiped away the last arid tear, and turned back to her kitchen cabinet.

“Though I will say,” she moaned as the Inspector turned to go, “that there isn’t any too much food in the house, sir, begging your pardon.”

“What’s that?” said the Inspector sharply, halting.

“You see,” sniffed Mrs. Wheary, “we’ve got some canned goods and things, sir, but the more perishable vittles—milk and eggs and butter and meats and fowl—we’ve about run out of ’em, sir. The grocer at Osquewa delivers once a week, sir; terrible long trip it is on these blessed mountain roads. He was due yesterday, but with this awful fire and all—”

“Well, do the best you can,” said the old gentleman mildly, and went away. In the gloom of the corridor, where he was unobserved, his mouth drooped. Things looked far from promising, despite the solution of the case. He bethought himself of the telephone and trotted with rising hope to the living room.

He put the instrument down after a while, his shoulders sagging. The line was dead. The inevitable had occurred; the fire had reached the telephone poles and brought the wires down. They were completely cut off from the outside world.

No use getting the others in more of a state than they were, he thought, stepping out onto the terrace and smiling mechanically at the twins. He cursed the fate that had induced him to take his vacation. As for Ellery …

He came to with a start just as Mrs. Wheary plodded out of the foyer to announce luncheon.

Where
was
Ellery? thought the Inspector. He had disappeared not long after they had taken Mrs. Xavier upstairs.

He went to the edge of the porch and squinted over the tumbled rocks in the devastating sunlight. The place was as barren and ugly and grim as the surface of another and lifeless planet. Then he caught a glimpse of white beneath the nearest tree off the left side of the house.

Ellery was sprawled full-length in the shade of an oak, hands behind his head, staring intently up at the green leaves above him.

“Lunch!” yelled the Inspector, cupping his hands.

Ellery started. Then he wearily picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, and trudged toward the house.

It was a dismal meal, eaten for the most part in silence. The fare was poor and wonderfully diversified, but it seemed to make little difference, for they all munched away without appetite, scarcely noticing what they were putting into their mouths. Dr. Holmes was missing; still upstairs with Mrs. Xavier. When Ann Forrest finished, she rose quietly and went away. A few moments later the young physician appeared, sat down, and began to eat. No one said anything.

After luncheon they dispersed. Mr. Smith, who could be called a ghost only by the most generous stretch of the imagination, nevertheless contrived to look like one. He had not joined the others in the dining room, having already been fed by Mrs. Wheary. He kept strictly to himself and no one ventured near him. He spent most of the afternoon tramping heavily about the terrace chewing a damp cigar as gorrillalike as himself.

“What’s eating you?” demanded the Inspector when he and Ellery retired to their room after luncheon for a shower and fresh clothing. “You’ll crack your jaw pulling that long face!”

“Oh, nothing,” muttered Ellery, flinging himself on the bed. “I just feel annoyed.”

“Annoyed! At what?”

“At myself.”

The Inspector grinned. “For not spotting that sheet of stationery? Well, you can’t have the luck all the time.”

“Oh, not that. That was very clever, and you needn’t be so modest about it. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“That,” said Ellery, “is what annoys me. I don’t know.” He sat up nervously, rubbing his cheek. “Call it intuition—it’s a convenient word. But something is trying to crawl past my conscious defenses and make contact. The merest wraith of a something. And what it is I’m blessed if I know.”

“Take a shower,” said the Inspector sympathetically. “Maybe it’s just a headache.”

When they had redressed Ellery went to the rear window and scowled out over the abyss. The Inspector moved about, hanging his clothes on hooks in the wardrobe.

“Getting set for a long stay, I see,” murmured Ellery, without however turning.

The Inspector stared. “Well, it gives me something to do,” he grunted at last. “I have a hunch we won’t be so damn idle in a few days.”

“Meaning?”

The old man did not reply.

After a while Ellery said: “We may as well be thoroughly technical about this affair. Did you lock that study downstairs?”

“The study?” The Inspector blinked. “Why, no. What the deuce for?”

Ellery shrugged. “You never can tell. Let’s amble down there; I’ve a yen anyway to soak in a little of the gory atmosphere. Maybe that wraith will materialize.”

They went downstairs through an empty house. Except for Smith on the terrace no one was about.

They found the scene of the crime as they had left it; Ellery, obsessed by the vaguest twinges of alarm, went over the room thoroughly. But the desk with the cards on it, the swivel chair, the cabinet, the murder weapon, the cartridges—everything was untouched.

“You’re an old lady,” said the Inspector jovially. “Although it
was
dumb to leave that gun around. And the cartridges. I think I’ll get ’em in a safer place.”

Ellery was regarding the top of the desk gloomily. “You might put those cards away, too. After all, they’re evidence. This is the
craziest
case. Corpse has to be stuffed into a refrigerator, evidence held for the proper officials, nice little blaze toasting—figuratively—our toes. … Pah!”

He shoved the cards together, went through them to get all their faces turned the same way, stacked them together and handed them to his father. The torn piece of card with the six of spades showing, and the crumpled remainder, he tucked after a moment of hesitation into his own pocket.

The Inspector found a Yale key sticking into the lock on the laboratory side of one study door, closed the doors and locked them from the study, locked the library door with an ordinary steel key of the skeleton type from his own key ring, and used the key again on the outside of the cross-hall door.

“Where are you going to cache the evidence?” murmured Ellery as they began to mount the stairs.

“Don’t know. Have to get a fairly safe place.”

“Why didn’t you leave it in the study? You took plenty of trouble to lock the three doors.”

The Inspector grimaced. “Doors from the hall and library any kid could open. I locked ’em just for effect. … What’s this?”

A little knot of people was crowded about the open door of the master bedroom. Even Mrs. Wheary and Bones were there.

They pushed their way through to find Dr. Holmes and Mark Xavier bending over the bed.

“What’s the trouble?” snapped the Inspector.

“She come out of it,” panted Dr. Holmes, “and I’m afraid she’s a bit violent. Hold her, Xavier, will you! Miss Forrest—get my hypo. …”

The woman was struggling desperately in the men’s grip, her arms and legs threshing like flails. Her eyes were glaring at the ceiling, wide open and blind.

“Here,” muttered the Inspector. He leaned over the bed and said in a crackling clear voice: “Mrs. Xavier!”

The threshing ceased and sense crept back into her eyes. She brought her chin down and looked about her rather dazedly.

“You’re acting very foolishly, Mrs. Xavier,” the Inspector went on in the same sharp tone. “It won’t get you anywhere, you know. Snap out of it!”

She shuddered and closed her eyes. Then she opened them and began very softly to weep.

The men straightened up with deep sighs of relief, Mark Xavier wiping his damp brow and Dr. Holmes turning away with dejected, drooping shoulders.

“She’ll be all right now,” said the Inspector quietly. “But I shouldn’t leave her alone, Doctor. As long as she’s tractable, you understand. If she gets fractious again, put her to sleep.”

He was startled to hear the woman’s voice, husky but controlled, from the bed. “I shall not make any more trouble,” she said.

“That’s fine, Mrs. Xavier, that’s fine,” said the Inspector heartily. “By the way, Dr. Holmes, you’d probably know. Is there any place in the house here where I can put something for safekeeping?”

“Why, the safe in this room, I should think,” replied the physician indifferently.

“Well … no. It’s the—evidence, y’see.”

“Evidence?” growled Xavier.

“Those cards from the doctor’s desk in the study.”

“Oh.”

“There’s an empty steel cabinet in the living room, sir,” ventured Mrs. Wheary timidly from the group in the corridor. “It’s a sort of safe, but the doctor never kept anything in it.”

“Who knows the combination?”

“No combination, sir. It’s got some kind of funny locks and things, with just one funny key. Key’s in the big table drawer.”

“Fine. The very thing. Thanks, Mrs. Wheary. Come along, El.” And the Inspector strode out of the bedroom followed by a battery of eyes. Ellery sauntered after, frowning. When they were on the stairs descending to the ground floor he glanced at his father with a quizzical eyebrow.

“That,” he murmured, “was a mistake.”

“Hey?”

“Mistake, mistake,” repeated Ellery patiently. “Not that it makes a particle of difference.
I’ve
got the important evidence right here in my pocket.” He tapped the pocket which held the halves of playing card. “At that it may be interesting. Sort of baited trap. Is that what you had in mind?”

The Inspector looked sheepish. “Well … not exactly. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe you’re right.”

They went into the deserted living room and sought out the cabinet. It was imbedded in one of the walls near the fireplace, its face painted to match the wooden paneling of the wall, but frankly a hiding-place. Ellery found the key in the top drawer of the big table; he regarded it for a moment, shrugged, and tossed it to his father.

The Inspector caught the key, hefted it with a frown, and then unlocked the cabinet. The mechanism worked with a convincing series of complex clicks. The deep recess inside was empty. He took the loose pack of cards from his pocket, regarded it for a moment, sighed, and then slapped it down on the floor of the recess.

Ellery swung on his heel at a slight sound from the terrace. The gross figure of Mr. Smith appeared beyond a French window, bulbous nose flattened against the glass, frankly spying upon them. He started guiltily at Ellery’s movement, jerked upright, and disappeared. Ellery heard his elephantine step resound on the wooden flooring, of the terrace.

The Inspector took the murder weapon from his pocket and the box of cartridges. He hesitated, then returned them to his pocket. “No,” he muttered. “That’s too chancy. I’ll keep ’em on me. Have to find out if this is the only key to the cabinet. Well, here goes,” and he slammed the door shut and locked it. The key he put on his own key ring.

Ellery was increasingly silent as the afternoon wore on. The Inspector, yawning, left him to his own devices and trudged upstairs to their room for a nap. As he passed the door of Mrs. Xavier’s bedroom he saw Dr. Holmes standing at one of the front windows, hands clasped behind his back, and the woman lying wide-eyed and quiet in bed. The others had disappeared.

The Inspector sighed and went on.

When he emerged an hour later, feeling distinctly refreshed, the bedroom door was closed. He opened it softly and peered in. Mrs. Xavier lay as he had last seen her. Dr. Homes had apparently not stirred from his position by the window. But Miss Forrest now had made her appearance; she lay in a chaise longue near the bed, eyes closed.

The Inspector closed the door and went downstairs.

Mrs. Carreau, Mark Xavier, the twins, and Mr. Smith were on the terrace. Mrs. Carreau was making a pretense of reading a magazine, but her eyes were cloudy and her head did not move from side to side. Mr. Smith was still patrolling the terrace chewing the ragged end of his cigar. The twins were engrossed in a game of chess, which they were playing on a maganetized pocket board with metal pieces. Mark Xavier half-lay on a chair, head on his breast, apparently asleep.

“Have you seen my son around?” asked the Inspector of the world at large.

Francis Carreau looked up. “Hullo there, Inspector!” he said cheerfully. “Mr. Queen? I think I saw him go down there under the trees about an hour ago.”

“He was carrying a pack of cards,” added Julian. “Come on, Fran, it’s your move. I think you’re going to be licked.”

“Not,” retorted Francis, “when I can give you a bishop and take your queen, I won’t. How d’ye like that?”

“Shucks,” said Julian disgustedly. “I give up. Let’s have another.”

Mrs. Carreau looked up, smiling faintly. The Inspector smiled back at her, looked up at the sky, and then descended the stone steps to the gravel path.

He turned left and made for the trees, in the direction of the spot where Ellery had reclined before luncheon. The sun was low, and the air was still and sticky. The sky was like a brazen disc gleaming in colored lights. He sniffed suddenly and stopped short. A feeble breeze had conveyed an acrid odor to his nostrils. It was—yes, the smell of burning wood! Startled, he glanced at the sky just above the trees. But he could see no smoke. The direction of the wind had changed, he thought moodily, and now they would probably smother with the foul smell of the resinous fire until the wind changed direction again. As he strode on a large flake of ash settled softly upon one of his hands. He brushed it off quickly and went on.

He gained the shady cover of the marginal trees and peered into the gloom, his eyes tingling after the brilliance of the open terrain. Ellery was nowhere to be seen. The Inspector remained quietly where he was until his pupils adjusted themselves to the shadows, and then stepped forward listening with cocked ears. The trees closed in over him, stifling him with their hot green odor.

He was about to shout Ellery’s name when he heard an odd tearing sound from his right. He tiptoed in that direction and cautiously peeped around the trunk of a large tree.

Fifteen feet away Ellery leaned against a cedar, occupied with a curious business. He was surrounded by a scattering of ripped and crumpled playing cards. His hands were raised before him at the instant the Inspector caught sight of him, forefinger and thumb of each hand delicately gripping the top edge of a card. His eyes were trained earnestly upon the topmost branch of the tree opposite. Then he ripped the card, almost negligently. In the same motion he crumpled one of the pieces and threw it away. He lowered his eyes at once to study the torn half remaining in his hand, grunted, tossed it to the ground, dipped his hand into one of his coat pockets, drew out another card, and began to repeat the whole incredible process of gripping, looking away, tearing, crumpling, examining, and so on.