Footprints on the Ceiling

Chapter Eleven: MESSRS. X, Y, AND Z

Out beyond Long Island where the ocean lay, the new sun pushed up and splashed a fireman’s red across the sky. The early morning air was fresh, washed clean by the storm.

Merlini and I, running across the beach, saw the circling plane coast down in a slow glide and vanish behind the old house. Dr. Gail, who had stopped to exchange slippers for shoes, hurried after us, some distance behind, still in dressing gown and pajamas. Just as we neared the house, the plane’s dying motor picked up suddenly with an angry roar, and the plane came into view again, taxiing out across the water in the channel between North and South, Brother Islands. Red flame spurted from its exhaust as it lifted, skimmed above the dark water, and climbed. Revolver shots came from behind the house.

We rounded the corner together and saw a police cutter racing toward us. One man, gun still raised, looked after the retreating plane. The boat bumped heavily against the stone landing, and several grim-faced men tumbled out to surround another who stood at the water’s edge. We saw his hands go up as one of the men from the boat slapped at his pockets. He saw us first as we ran in.

“Hey,” he called. “Tell these guys to lay off.”

It was Lamb, an expression on his face after all. His dark heavy brows were flattened in an obstinate scowl; there were sleepless circles under his black eyes. I recognized the man who was frisking him — the cynical lean-jawed face of Captain Malloy. Standing back a bit from the huddle was a shorter man who must only just have topped the police requirement for height. He turned at Lamb’s shout and eyed us with frosty blue eyes from under the slanting brim of his fresh gray hat. Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Squad had arrived.

“Hello, Inspector,” Merlini greeted, “I see the Marines have landed. None too soon either.”

Gavigan nodded, a curt 5:30 a.m. nod. “Yes,” he said grumpily, “and I hope you have the situation well in hand? Hello, Ross.”

“No,” Merlini answered, “I’m afraid not. There’s been more plain and fancy hocus-pocus around here in the last few hours than you can shake a wand at. You’re a welcome sight.”

“Don’t tell me The Great Merlini is baffled,” Gavigan said with sudden interest. “We can’t have that. You’ll lose your Magicians’ Union card or something.”

Secretly I think the Inspector would have welcomed that possibility. His straightforward soul abhorred a mystery, and the deft sleight-of-hand of Merlini’s that could and did create impossibilities under his very nose annoyed him intensely. Merlini, puzzled, was a sight for his sore eyes.

Lamb’s voice broke in, protesting irritably, “May I take my arms down now, Inspector?”

Malloy stepped back, holding Lamb’s two guns, just as Dr. Gail hurried around the corner of the house and ran down the steps to the landing.

Gavigan threw the latter a quick look, and then, scowling at the display of armament, said to Lamb, “Cautious aren’t you? Who is he, Merlini?”

“Inspector Gavigan, Mr. Charles Lamb,” Merlini introduced. “And this is Dr. William Gail.”

“Charles Lamb?” Gavigan lifted an eyebrow. “Name’s familiar.”

Lamb was definitely not in a good humor this morning.

He growled, “Skip it. I know; he wrote essays. Sick of hearing about it every time I’m introduced.… What’s the idea of jumping me? What have I done?”

“I don’t know,” Gavigan snapped back. “Murder maybe. Where were you off to in that plane?”

“Me?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere, though I’m beginning to think I’d like to. I heard the plane and ran out to see what it was all about. Thought perhaps I could flag the pilot and tell him we needed help out here. But I see we have it.” His tone of voice indicated that he didn’t think much of it.

“Didn’t take you long to dress and get out here after you heard it, did it?”

“Why pick on me?” Lamb looked at Merlini and myself. “Other people show up damned quick and all dressed. I didn’t have to dress. I didn’t go to bed. Couldn’t sleep after the excitement last night.” He brought out his pill box again and popped another of the pink pills into his mouth.

So excitable he couldn’t sleep — that, I thought, was a laugh, coming from the dead-pan Mr. Lamb.

Gavigan took Merlini by the arm and led him off several paces, where they spoke for several minutes in a hurried undertone. The rest of us were silent, watching.

The Inspector called suddenly, “Brady, Hunter!”

Two detectives went toward him, listened to some rapid orders, and left us on a run.

Gavigan faced Lamb again and asked in a brisk, no-nonsense tone of voice, “Occupation?”

I saw Quinn, the squad’s shorthand expert, move over slightly, out of Lamb’s line of sight, and go to work with notebook and pencil.

Lamb answered flatly, “Unemployed.”

“And before that?”

“I take a flyer in the market now and then.”

“Address?”

“Skelton Island.”

“And before that?”

Lamb seemed to be watching the Inspector’s feet, his eyes hidden behind the heavy lowered lids. He hesitated, then answered, “314 South Front Street, Auckland, New Zealand.”

“Been around a bit, have you?”

Lamb grunted vaguely.

“Ever consider visiting Canada?” Gavigan asked quietly.

Lamb’s eyes came up to meet the Inspector’s. “Canada? No. Recommend it?”

Gavigan was using that smooth, polite tone of his. “This isn’t getting you anywhere, Lamb.”

The fat man’s mouth moved faintly in what might have been the start of a smile. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. That was your idea.”

“You’ll have to talk when I catch up with the pilot of that plane, you know.”

Lamb blew up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he protested scornfully, “I know nothing about that plane or its pilot. I’ve answered all the questions you’ve asked and I don’t intend to answer any more like the last ones. There was a murder around here last night. I’d suggest you start on that.”

“Muller,” Gavigan ordered. “Take him down to the house. And keep him in sight. You”—he looked at Gail—“better get some clothes on. I’ll see you down there later.”

Gail, who had been staring interestedly at Lamb, turned to go. I saw Lamb glance at the guns Malloy still held, and then, without speaking, he walked off, Muller at his heels.

“Now, Merlini,” the Inspector said, “let’s have the rest of it and never mind those dramatic climaxes you’re so fond of. Just give it to me straight.”

Merlini rattled off a quick, concise account to which I listened trying to decide what points he considered the most important. But his recital was as mechanical as a bank statement. When he told about the removal of the body, Gavigan frowned, demanded the roll of film I had exposed, and tossed it, with a batch of orders, at another detective.

“Leach, you get back with the launch. Get those films in to Pressler and tell him I want prints twice as fast as possible. Stop at the house down there on your way, scare up a photo of Floyd Skelton, get it copied, and have prints distributed. Hurry that telephone repairman along. Have someone examine that Grand Central locker — remember the number, Ross?”

“I couldn’t forget it,” I said. “Thirteen.”

“Good,” he turned back to Leach. “Dust the locker and key for prints; you won’t find any that count — it’ll have been used since, but do it. Malloy, give him the numbers off those guns so he can check on the registration.”

“Okay,” Malloy said, “I hope the boys at the lab can get the numbers to come up again. They’ve been filed.”

“Well,” Gavigan said. “No wonder Mr. Lamb was touchy! Take the guns, Leach, and then get back here. Malloy, you go along and have them drop you off at the boathouse. Take Quinn and do a little spadework. Start with the Hendersons. We’ll be down shortly.”

Malloy, Leach, and Quinn boarded the launch. When the roar of their departure had slackened, the Inspector turned to the remaining two detectives.

“Grimm, you snoop around this place on the outside. See if there are any footprints or other traces left after that storm.” He looked up at the house and then at Merlini. “Let’s go.”

We went in through the cellar door opening from the boat landing and on to the space beneath the living-room where the fire had been. Gavigan’s quick eyes examined the floor and the fire’s remains as Merlini talked rapidly, filling in details. The watersoaked rugs had been pulled back and I discovered from Merlini’s account that he and the Colonel had re-examined the cellar after I had gone for help. Once Gavigan poked with his foot at a blackened bit of board, stooped and drew from under it a bedraggled, dark blue, knitted silk scarf. It was a foot and a half long, three or four inches wide, wet, limp, and partially burned.

Merlini said with obvious interest, “Hmm. I missed that.”

“Everything else in this cellar dates back 50 years or more,” was Gavigan’s comment. “This looks a little more recent.”

“It is,” Merlini said. “It was part of the murdered woman’s dress. You’ll see the loose threads at the neck of her dress where it was ripped away.”

“Called an Ascot scarf, I think,” I announced.

Merlini and Gavigan both seemed startled. “Didn’t know you were an authority on women’s wear, Ross,” the latter commented.

“Sure,” I said immodestly. “Copywriters know everything. I ghosted a history of the fashion industry for a rayon account when I had that advertising job. The female copywriter was having a baby that week. I can tell you all about bustles, peplums, and three-way-stretch girdles. What the hell is that scarf doing down here?”

“You just said copywriters knew everything,” Gavigan replied. “You tell me.” He glanced inquisitively at Merlini as he spoke but got no reply from either of us; though, if I knew the signs, I suspected Merlini of harboring an idea. He looked at the scarf too intently and then shrugged his shoulders with too much unconcern.

Gavigan frowned at it once more and then, pocketing it, led the way upstairs. Day had penetrated the shuttered house only in the few places where missing shutter slats allowed thin streaks of light to enter, venturing almost timidly into the cold, dusty gloom.

As Gavigan looked about the kitchen, Merlini said, “Miss Skelton is supposed to have kept this place locked, sightseers discouraged. The smashing of the front-door lock seems to corroborate that. But that cellar door off the boat landing was unlocked and wide open; and, judging from the trampled state of the dust on these floors, there’s been a guide on duty showing tourists through at stated intervals.”

I saw, in the light of the flash Gavigan held, a clearly defined pathway in the dust, leading from the cellar door through the kitchen and out into the hall. The disturbance was much greater than our running about the night before could account for.

Merlini opened a door on the left. “Servants’ stair,” he said. Gavigan’s flash disclosed an even coating of dust on each step, undisturbed except for the small marks of the rats.

We went through the hall and up the front stairs whose treads again showed the disturbed appearance of use. The Inspector took it slowly, watching each riser for isolated prints. He found one halfway up, the small fragmentary imprint of a woman’s heel.

“You’re sure the body was carried up, after death?”

“Yes,” Merlini said. “I’m afraid that print is not hers, though you can compare it. I examined the soles of her shoes last night. Altogether too clean. I doubt if she wore them outside the house at all. She certainly didn’t walk clear across the island yesterday; there’d have been traces of sand or dirt.”

“Someone’s deliberately scuffled up this trail. Obvious sidewise swipes of a foot in several places. Like that before you and the rest of that crowd tramped up and down here last night?”

“Yes. And it was more than just the woman. That looks like a portion of a man’s print on the top step, at the side.”

Gavigan nodded, bending over to look closely. Merlini walked down the hall stopping to peer at the doorknobs of the closed doors. “Nice thick coating of dust on top of each knob,” he said, and then returned, trying each door. “And all locked.”

“Meaning your eavesdropper went on up,” Gavigan said, starting on the second stairway himself. “Just the same we’ll get keys and take a look-see in those rooms.”

When we entered the upper room, Merlini crossed and opened the shutter he had fastened before leaving. The light dispelled much of the shadowy, secretive feel of the room and let it emerge more simply as the dusty, forgotten place that it was. Only those footprints, marching incongruously and as unreal as ever across the ceiling, set that room apart.

The Inspector’s gaze, as he threw his head back to stare at them, held a confused mixture or wonder and skepticism. He said sharply, “Rubbish!” in much the sort of tone he’d have used meeting a hippogriff in Times Square. He turned his attention abruptly to the rest of the room, standing in its center and revolving slowly with his torch, like a lighthouse beacon.

“Body there?” he grunted, indicating the chair.

Merlini nodded and produced the nail-polish bottle that he had taken, corked, and wrapped carefully. The Inspector took charge of it, sniffing once very gingerly before putting it away.

“Cyanide, all right,” he said, and then began a rapid, efficient examination of the room. He investigated the chair, the table, the rickety old couch, and every inch of floor. Climbing finally on the window seat, as I had done previously, he scowled at the top of the window frame and then, putting his head out, at the river down below. After a moment he jumped down, strode determinedly to the table, and hoisting himself to its top, stood and put his nose close against the footprints that ascended the wall. He studied them a moment, then lifted his own foot and placed it against the plaster. The dusty smudge he left differed from the others in that the tip of the toe left no mark.

“They look like walking prints, all right,” he muttered, glaring at them. “Rubber-heel pattern shows enough individual characteristics of wear for identification. Something to work on.” He turned, still standing on the table top, and looked down at Merlini, who had been watching his acrobatics with interest. He jammed his hands down into his coat pockets and demanded, “You’re the famed expert on impossibilities, Merlini. What about it? And don’t tell me those prints mean someone actually walked upside down across that ceiling. Even a magician couldn’t—”

“Does seem to classify as sleight-of-feet, doesn’t it?” Merlini grinned. “But it’s not impossible. I know a young lady who does it twice a day, matinee and evening performances—40 feet up. Circus performer, Anna Merkle.”

“All right. I’m listening. How?” Gavigan said irritably.

“Circular rubber suction cups on the feet, and if you think it’s easy, try it sometime. She falls every now and then, and her only protection is a canvas held up by a crew of prop men beneath her rigging. It’s not new. I’ve a book at home, printed in 1897, which pictures Aimée, The Human Fly, using exactly the same—”

“Those prints aren’t circular,” the Inspector objected, “and they weren’t made by rubber suction cups, and will you please stop injecting anything additional into this mess. Got enough puzzles now for half a dozen murders. Unknown prowler, arson, cut phone, scuttled boats, assault and battery, runaway airplane, screwy footprints, and — a body. I haven’t even got to that yet.”

Merlini added to the list. “The misplaced agoraphobe. How, why, when, and where did she die? Who moved her, when, and why? The unco-operative and well-armed Mr. Lamb. The mysterious inventions of Ira Brooke. What, was scheduled for but didn’t happen at Rappourt’s séance? What’s behind the intriguing adventure of the lost fortune in guineas? And where is Floyd? We do need answers, don’t we?”

“Fat lot of help you are.” Gavigan glared at the ceiling, his hat tipped back on his head. “Someone put shoes on his hands and stood on a stepladder or used a pole. But for God’s sake, why? Those prints aren’t even clues; they don’t mean anything, unless it’s a practical joke. They don’t lead anywhere except out that window and nobody—” He went across, climbed onto the window seat and put his head out again. Then he called, “Grimm! Come up here. Find the trap to the roof and look for traces there.” The Inspector looked carefully at Merlini. “You’re feeling good about something. Mind telling me, or do you want to be held as a material witness? Some day I’m going to do just that. You don’t seem to realize that murder—”

“I was just about to produce an answer or two out of the hat, Inspector. Let’s begin with our prowler of last night. What do we know about him?”

“All I know is what you’ve consented to tell me, which is damn little except that he’s got a seven-hour head start.

“Ross?”

“I had a nice neat little theory last night, but it’s showing wear and tear this morning. It seemed obvious that he was up here when you and Watrous and I came downstairs. He dropped his flashlight and, as we came up after him, ducked down the servants’ stairs to set the fire and thence out the cellar to cut the phone, sink the boats, and light out in a boat of his own. But, unless he sneaked back without anybody hearing him, someone else must have socked the Colonel. And whoever socked the Colonel was the same guy who cut the phone.”

“And the servants’ stairs, now you’ve seen them?”

“He either said, ‘Whisht’ and turned himself into a mouse, or else — it’s—it’s the vanishing man again! He walked into this room only about one jump ahead of us so he must have popped down a secret exit. Concealed elevator in it, too. That fire started so soon after—”

“Not so fast,” Merlini objected. “X came in here. And a minute later he wasn’t here. I’m an authority on trap doors and secret exits. I build ’em. There aren’t any in this room. Where did he go?”

“You said you’d supply the answers,” Gavigan criticized, “not questions. I know what’s coming. Footprints on the ceiling. There are traces on top of that window frame that might possibly mean someone climbed out. You want me to say X is a human fly plus. He walks across the ceiling, down the side of the house and sets the fire. But I wish—”

“Your mind-reading is primitive, Inspector. Stop in at the shop some day and I’ll quote you prices on some surefire methods. Let’s take it slower and straighten it out. Mr. X did go out the window. Only place he could have gone. But he didn’t set that fire. He couldn’t get down there to do it, for one thing. A very agile human fly might have negotiated that climb in daylight, I’ll admit, but not in last night’s special brand of darkness. He’d have broken his fool neck.”

“If he can walk across ceilings,” Gavigan asked, “why not down the side of a house? Only half as impossible.”

We could hear Grimm’s cautious footsteps overhead now on the “widow’s walk.”

Merlini called out the window. “Any luck, Grimm?”

“Yes,” the detective’s voice came down. “Couple of new scratches on the eaves just over that window.”

“Good,” Merlini said. “Mr. X swung out that window and pulled himself up onto the projecting eaves. He squatted there until we ran downstairs to investigate the fire. Then he swung himself in again and left the room finally by the door. I’m afraid things happened a little too fast for me last night. Vanishing man, corpse, and fire all within a couple of minutes. But I did get as far as making sure that, if anyone left after we did, I’d know it. I closed the door as I went out and put a pencil on the floor leaning” up against the door. When we got back, it was lying flat. Mr. X had really gone that time. And, since he was on the roof, he didn’t set the fire. It was burning too well by the time we got there, anyway.”

“He could have set it before you got here, couldn’t he?” Gavigan asked.

“No, on two counts. When you set fire to a house, it’s the last thing you do before you leave, isn’t it? And X was upstairs when we arrived. Besides, if there had been a fire in that front room when Harte and I passed through the rear cellar room, we’d have been aware of the fact. The door between was open. No, whatever else X may have done, he didn’t commit arson.”

“Okay,” Gavigan admitted doubtfully, “but you’re certainly complicating matters. Look at it. Everyone, including X, is alibied for the fire. X on circumstantial evidence, the others on corroborative evidence — that is, assuming Gail’s witness bears him out. That gives you another mystery man. X hides out up here, Y sets the fire, and I suppose Z sank the boats, A committed the murder, B moved the body and C — regular excursion boat that pulled out last night. Anyone can solve a murder that way.”

“I forgot to tell you. Henderson says he got a glimpse of the boat, and there was only one person in it.”

“That gives us half a dozen vanishing men. I suppose you’ve got a reason why X couldn’t have set the fire in advance to start later? There are dozens of ways. Insurance crooks have a lot of cute little tricks along those lines. I’ll have Brady sift that debris — he’s done insurance work — and—”

“Oh, I know what was used to start the fire. This.” Merlini took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it to disclose a gold cigarette lighter, its shiny surface smudged with soot.

“You found it in that mess in the basement?”

“No, not exactly. Colonel Watrous did. When he and I were down there after Harte left. I was wondering if there might be some such gadget as you mention. The Colonel found it — and he didn’t think I saw him. He slipped it into his pocket. I conjured it out again.”