Footprints on the Ceiling

Chapter Nineteen: UPSIDE DOWN

Mr. X, under this sudden glare of attention, looked at his feet and moved them uneasily.

Gavigan barked at him with impatient ferocity. “What’s your name?”

Mr. X gave him a frightened, bewildered look, glanced nervously at Merlini, and replied, “Nem beselek Engolul.”

“Your cross-examination is going to be difficult, Inspector,” Merlini broke in. “Unless you speak Hungarian.”

The Inspector’s expression said clearly that he did no such thing. Even his English seemed to have deserted him.

Merlini grinned at Burt. “Did you get his story?”

“Yes. One of the Whirling Hungarians goes so far as to speak English. We got it finally.”

“Whirling Hungarians?” Gavigan’s ability to speak came back with a rush.

“A rather special sort of Hungarian,” Merlini said. “He made those footprints. Can you give a demonstration, Burt?”

Burt nodded. “I think so. But outside. Too slippery on this landing.” He jerked a thumb at Mr. X, and they started out. Merlini followed, dropping a few additional crumbs of information over his shoulder as Gavigan, Gail, and myself tagged after him.

“The footprints were to be Madame Rappourt’s mediumistic tour-de-force, the much heralded yet mysterious piece de resistance that failed to — shall I say materialize? — at last night’s séance. Her maiden name, you remember, was Svoboda — Another Hungarian, though not a whirling one. Mr. X is her brother, Sandor Svoboda. That slate message with the ‘D.D.H.’ signature tipped me oft — that and Rappourt’s cryptic remark to Linda, ‘Home will come tonight.’ She was referring, as both Colonel Watrous and myself realized at once, to Daniel Dunglas Home, the astonishing English medium of the 60’s, whose levitation feats were so good that even Sir William Crookes, the famous physicist, swore he had passed his hands beneath Home’s feet while the latter rested in mid-air two feet above the floor. Linda knew about him, naturally, and Rappourt intended to impress her and Lamb by materializing his spirit and having it perform a Home levitation. Medium materializes medium — a new high in something or other. In the darkened room, steps would be heard going across the ceiling and, when the lights went up, the footprints would be found as evidence, along with that ‘Can you not believe now?’ slate message. Too bad it didn’t come off because Ross might have gotten some very lovely infra-red shots. Ready, Burt?”

The Man Who Turns Himself Inside Out nodded, and faced Mr. X on the grass beside the house. They grasped each other’s hands firmly, palm to palm. Sandor placed his right foot against the upper part of Burt’s thigh close to the hip. He grunted, “Hup,” and swung forward and up. Burt’s arms straightened rigidly above his head and Mr. X, balanced on his hands, slowly began to upend. His feet pushed up above his head; his back arched. Burt took a careful tentative step forward, then a second and a third, and walked across the lawn, with Mr. X maintaining a graceful, unwavering handstand atop Burt’s hands.

“An acrobat!” Gavigan’s tone was the same a gardener uses in referring to a Japanese beetle.

“And a good one, too,” Merlini grinned. “You might have deduced that — Mr. X was so expert at slithering out windows open at the top. You really should attend the circus oftener, Inspector. Great educational institution. The Whirling Hungarians are one of the Big Show’s star acrobatic acts. Sandor does the somersault from the teeter-board to a three-high tower of fellow countrymen stacked up on one another’s shoulders and also the triple somersault.” (See circus program on page 18.)

Merlini stopped, watching. Burt said, “Hup,” stepped out from under, and his upside-down partner dropped, turning as he fell, to land on his feet, bouncing like a rubber ball.

“The idea wasn’t original with Rappourt,” Merlini went on. “She swiped it from an old, possibly apocryphal, story about Houdini. He is said to have once topped Home’s famous out-the-window levitation in the manner just demonstrated. He sneaked two acrobat friends into the darkened séance room. And the Boston Boys, a two-man acrobatic team touring England in the ’90’s, used to use the same stunt to get room rate reductions. They’d pick out a landlady who was superstitious. They’d stay one night and call her in first thing next morning. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Stubbs,’ they’d say. ‘Renting us a haunted room! We’re leaving. We can’t stay here — not at this price anyway.’ ‘Haunted?’ the good lady would ask. ‘Yes. We didn’t get a wink of sleep. Something was walking about on the ceiling. Look!’ And they’d point to bare footprints that crossed and recrossed the ceiling.”

“Who was Rappourt’s other little helper?” The Inspector scowled suspiciously at Burt, who, having dropped his handkerchief on the ground just behind his heels, was employing a somewhat roundabout, though quite efficient method of retrieving it. He leaned backward in a complete circle and picked it up with his teeth. I got a kink in my back watching him. Sandor, more cheerful now, grinned and did a back flip.

“I suspect Brooke was the other half of the acrobatic team,” Merlini answered. “He’s not as young as he once was, though younger than he pretends; and he has the build and the acrobat’s same springy walk. Right, Burt?”

“Yes.” Burt unfolded himself. “Svoboda says he used to play the carnival circuit. With the Colonel Barnes outfit in ’15. I’d like to get a look at him. I was the Colonel’s star grindshow attraction that season, but I don’t remember any acrobat named. Brooke unless he was the guy who left the show in Willard, Ohio, one jump ahead of the cops, because he’d gone in for cat burglary on the side.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Gavigan said. “What sort of story did you get out of this whirling dervish? After it had been clawed out of Hungarian.”

Burt clicked his heels. “Operative Q94 reporting,” he said. “Brooke picked him up yesterday afternoon off 42nd Street. He had a motorboat. Svoboda—”

“Time?” Gavigan broke in.

“Two o’clock. Svoboda faked a sprained back after Thursday night’s show as an excuse to skip school next day. Rappourt had promised him a hundred bucks. They came to the island, parked the motorboat here under the house, and Brooke went out to the houseboat in a row-boat. He picked up Rappourt and they came back here and put on a dress rehearsal.”

“And in that top room because the ceilings are all too high in the others,” Merlini added.

“They knocked a few boards off the window,” Burt went on, “so Svoboda could crawl out. He was going to finish the act at the séance that way. Disappear out the window at the top, lights up quick, footprints on the ceiling, applause. They were here from 3 to 5:30, practiced the ceiling walk, and got their cues set for the evening performance. Then Rappourt and Brooke went back to the house by way of the houseboat, where they were supposed to be all the time. Svoboda was to sit tight until dark and then come down to the house ready to sneak in on cue. But at 8:15 Brooke came hurrying out, got into the motorboat, and headed for town. Brooke doesn’t speak Hungarian, and he gave Svoboda a note Rappourt had written telling him Brooke had received a phone call and had to go into town, but would be back in time for the séance. He doesn’t know what Brooke went in for.

“Just an hour after Brooke left, Svoboda heard someone making a hell of a racket at the front door. Smashing it in. Then, footsteps up the stairs. Slow, heavy ones. Sandor didn’t like it. He comes from the part of Hungary where they still have werewolves and vampires. He swung out the window on to the eaves in double-quick time. The vampire came straight up to the third-floor room. Seeing that it had a flashlight, Sandor figured he might not be one of the ‘undead’ after all, and he took a look. Almost fell off the roof. Saw a tall, white-faced guy carrying a stiff over his shoulders — a lady stiff. Flashlight or not he knew it was a vampire then. You should see the gestures when he tells it.”

I looked at Gavigan. Arnold’s story seemed to be getting a generous helping of corroboration.

“Never mind the gestures,” Gavigan said, “go on.”

“The vampire was only there a few minutes; and, as soon as it had gone, Svoboda laid plans to get the hell out. He swung in the window and started for the door, stopping just long enough to get one eyeful of corpse. He had reached the second-floor hallway when the front door opened again. Maybe you know if it’s on the up and up. Sounds to me like he’s seen too much Frankenstein in the movies. Anyway, since all the doors on that floor were locked, he had to scoot back upstairs again. He oozed out his window again just in time and stayed quiet like a mouse. The guy was in the room for nearly 10 minutes this time, walking back and forth nervous as hell. Finally, he went out in a big hurry. Svoboda sat tight waiting for the front door to creak again. But it didn’t. He waited 10 minutes by his watch; and he finally heard the guy leave by the cellar door, the one he and Rappourt and Brooke had come in by.”

“One of them have a key?” Gavigan asked.

Burt nodded. “Merlini told me to ask that. Yes. Brooke.”

“Go on.”

“Wait, Burt,” Merlini cut in. “Did you add up those times, Inspector?”

“Yeah. I don’t think the Hungarian can count. Brooke left at 8:45. Arnold shows half an hour later, at 9:15. Which checks with the story he gave us; but he couldn’t have come back, spent 10 minutes pacing up and down that room and then another 10 in the cellar — fixing the lighter. That makes it 9:35 when he cleared out, and Arnold has witnesses to say he was back at the other house a good 15 minutes before that.”

“That’s what I had in mind, Inspector. Did he notice the scarf, Burt?”

“Yes. He waited on the roof another five minutes to be sure the coast was clear and then, when he came in the window he took another look at the body, wondering what Dracula had been up to. He noticed the scarf had been ripped off the dress. And you should hear him describe the teethmarks he thinks he saw on her neck.”

“It must have been his light we saw,” I suggested.

“It was. He heard your boat coming. He thought it was Brooke and a chance to get off the blasted island. But as it pulls in under the house, he sees there are three men in it. Then he’s afraid it’s Brooke with cops and that he’s been decoyed out there to be put on the spot for a killing. He starts down the stairs again, with a real case of jitters now, and just as he reaches the top of the main stairway Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi pop out of the cellar.” Burt grinned at Merlini. “You and Ross. You barged into the lower hallway and he nearly had heart failure. He flattened out on the floor to duck your flashlights. Then you met another guy at the front door — Colonel Watrous, to judge from his description — and you all went into a big room at the foot of the stairs. Svoboda is just about to ease up off the floor and start back for his window when — I still think he’s seen too many movies — a big spider starts to crawl across his face. He doesn’t like ’em — not even baby ones. He started batting at it and let go his flash. It rolled down the stairs. He was halfway up the second flight before it hit bottom. He was perching on his roof again, when you found the body and discovered the fire. Close enough, he said, to bite off Harte’s ear when he poked his head out the window.”

I felt a cold chill skid down my back as I realized how near I’d come to getting conked if I had happened to look up instead of down. Svoboda obviously packed a hefty wallop, and he must have been on the scared edge of running amok.

“When you all dashed down to see about the fire,” Burt continued, “he finally did get out of the house. He was scared pink now, and all he wanted to do was to get off the island. But Brooke, as far as he knew, hadn’t come back with the motorboat. So he went down to the other house to try and contact Rappourt. He got there just as the lights went out. He prowled around waiting for the séance to fold because he hadn’t shown up to do his act. About 10 minutes later, as he’s sneaking across the terrace, impatiently trying to get a look in at a window, the lights suddenly came on, and he heard Harte’s voice inside. Just as he ducked into the shrubbery, another guy hurried up from the direction of the boathouse. The French window opened, and the white-faced vampire came out and took him in.”

“Which absolves you, Dr. Gail, of prowling,” Merlini said. “Then he found the boat, Burt?”

“Yes. He got a glimpse of Brooke through the window, realized he was back, and started looking for the boat. He stuck to the shore and worked around. The rain caught him, and he had no light, but about 10 minutes later he found it parked over there.” Burt pointed. “He showed me when we came in. The outside shore of that point of land that sticks out around the houseboat.”

“Where I found the guineas!” Doctor Gail exclaimed.

“Uh-huh,” Gavigan muttered. “Brooke’s got a lot to get off his chest.”

“That’s all,” Burt finished. “Brooke had left the keys in the boat, and Svoboda pushed out. He headed straight across and ran her aground at 130th Street. He played his afternoon performance today, but he missed on the triple somersault and almost did get a twisted back. When I arrived, he was just about ready to take a fast freight out. He’d have done it before except that the other five Whirling Hungarians would have slapped hell out of him if they ever caught up with him. It would have queered the act.”

“And I’m going to queer an act or two right now,” the Inspector said heavily. “Come on.” He turned hastily and almost bolted down toward the other house. We scurried after him, silent at first, watching the tangled path underfoot as the twilight deepened, the red sun dropping swiftly behind the serrated skyline of Manhattan.

“You mean Brooke?” Merlini asked when we came out on the smoother going of the long lawn.

“For one, yes. But I’ve got several things on the fire that may have come to a boil by now. You’d be surprised.”

“I hope so,” Merlini said sincerely. “There’s still a thing or two I want to know badly. The house lights have come up, and most of the mirrors and wires and a lot of the sleight-of-hand is pretty obvious now, but—”

“Know who the murderer is, of course.” Gavigan watched him.

“Yes. Told you I knew that this morning, but before you put the screws on me about that, can I—”

“I happen to know, too.”

Merlini blinked. “I see. Know what the motive was?”

“I can think of one that’ll do, though it’s not necessary. My candidate would just as soon rub someone out as not. To keep in practice.”

“Um. But wouldn’t the D.A. be a lot happier if you furnished him with a nice tailored one? And had you thought of asking the one person who ought to know — the person you very seldom get a chance to question in a murder case—the victim? Should think you’d jump at the chance. The poison Linda got was intended for Rappourt — and she’s still alive. Or was, last I knew.”

“You think—”

“The murderer might try to correct his little error if he so much as suspects we’re on to it. I wish you’d put her through your inquisitorial wringer again before you do another thing.”

Gavigan nodded. “That’s why I put Brady on her tail. So she’d keep. Is that you, Grimm?”

As we came up on to the terrace, a dark figure hurried around the coiner of the house coming up from the boat-house path. Grimm’s voice answered, “Yes, sir.”

Inspector Gavigan’s eyes fastened with interest on the Gladstone bag he carried. Then he snatched it out of Grimm’s hands and sailed into the living-room. Malloy, Sigrid, Dr. Gail, and Quinn were there. Gavigan didn’t even see them. He took the case to a table across the room and opened it hurriedly. As Merlini and I moved forward, he waved us back.

“This is my pigeon,” he said. “You keep—”

For an instant, then, I thought he must have opened the lid of the original Pandora’s box. The arc through which his jaw dropped certainly indicated that he saw nothing much less than a two-headed hippocampus. “I’ll be damned!” The explosive force of his exclamation nearly jarred the room.

He bent instantly over the contents of the suitcase, examining something with almost frantic haste. And then he grinned widely. Merlini, a burning match halfway toward the cigarette in his mouth, stood motionless as granite and stared with a hypnotic concentration, as if trying, by some conjurer’s X-ray vision, to penetrate the sides of the suitcase and fathom its contents. He didn’t look as if he were having any great success. Gavigan seemed to be the one who was dealing himself aces now.

Then Grimm began speaking rapidly in the Inspector’s ear, in a fervent, excited whisper. What he said stimulated the Inspector even more — so much that I expected the ecstatic glow on his face would burst into incandescence at any moment. Once during Grimm’s recital he glanced across at me and grinned broadly. The man seemed not only to have cornered all the aces but the court cards as well!

When Grimm finished, Gavigan slapped the suitcase shut and said, “Are you all set for the grand finale, Merlini?”

Merlini brought the match up to his cigarette finally, just in time. Then he shook his head. “No. Not quite.” He turned to Sigrid and Gail. “Would you mind leaving us for just a moment? Thank you.”

They went into the library and closed the door. Merlini added, “I want to hear just one answer from Rappourt first.”

“Okay.” Gavigan beamed at him indulgently and waved his hand as if he were presenting the Metropolitan Museum with two new wings, fully stocked. “I don’t mind. Go get her, Grimm.”

“Just a minute.” Merlini stopped him. “Where is she?”

Malloy answered. “In her room. And boiling because Brady moved in with her.”

“And the others?”

“Arnold just went out to the kitchen. Domestic conference. Mrs. Henderson wanted to know how many for dinner. Watrous is lying down in his room says his head still bothers him — and Brooke’s in his, with Hunter on duty. Muller’s downstairs watching Lamb polish off the Scotch at that bar.”

“Very good. Do you mind if we see Rappourt in her room? And I’d appreciate it if Grimm would station himself on the sun deck outside and keep an eye on her window.”

It was Gavigan’s turn to look disconcerted now. But he shrugged and said, “Do that, Grimm.”

“And, Burt, you bring our friend, Mr. X.” Merlini started up the stairs. He reached Rappourt’s door first, pushed it open, and said, “Brady, will you station yourself in the hall here at this door, please?”

Brady, who was parked on the window seat with a newspaper, came forward quickly. Merlini stood aside and the rest of us filed in. Madame Rappourt sat in an easy chair as far from where Brady had been as she could get. She glowered at us and started to speak; but her mouth closed again, abruptly, without a word. Mr. X had entered.

“You know each other, I think?” Merlini said casually. Rappourt’s head started a negative motion, but Sandor burst out with a flood of what sounded like apologetic Hungarian. Rappourt’s black eyes snapped at him. Then she cut him off suddenly with a few biting phrases that I knew wouldn’t have been complimentary in any language.

Merlini didn’t give Gavigan a chance to take over. “That answers that question,” he said, his voice rising above its normal tones. “There is one other. You’re not going to like it at first, but I think you’ll answer it. As you can guess, we know how the footprints were made, and with whose help. We know what use you intended to put them to. We know that Watrous’s trick chair didn’t hinder your production of fraudulent psychic phenomena because there should have been two, with Brooke locked in the other. I know how the writing got on that slate. Instead of the more customary chalk, you used a well-sharpened slate pencil. Brooke did the writing by inserting the point through the loosely woven fabric of the bag. That accounts for the wobbly character of the writing. The sealing wax, the careful knotting and tying, and the signatures were merely so much misdirection on the general principle: Give the suckers so much to think about they can’t think straight. Also, we’ve found Floyd, and we know how he died. We know who moved his body and who, with a forged letter, tried to make it appear that he was still alive. We’ve found a suitcase full of 1779 guineas that are counterfeit and some very interesting Hussar relics that are genuine, but stolen. Do you have anything to say to all that?”

Rappourt simply looked at him. There was a defeated slump to her shoulders, but her eyes blazed.

Merlini, strangely enough, seemed satisfied with her attitude. “We’ve discovered more than that,” he went on, firing his words at her. “Something that even you haven’t realized. The poison that killed Miss Skelton was in the capsule you gave her. And it wasn’t scopolamine — or sugar. It was cyanide. And yet—” his voice slowed—“I think you believed you were telling the truth when you swore it held nothing but sugar. Do you see what that means?”

On Rappourt’s face fear sprang suddenly and mounted.

“Someone,” Merlini said carefully, “was trying to poison you, Madame Rappourt, not Linda. You should know who that was. You escaped the first time. You might not be so fortunate again — if that person remains at large. I think you had better tell us.”

Merlini stopped there, and waited. Rappourt was motionless. Her eyes flickered once across all our faces and then stared again at Merlini — and beyond him. She said nothing for a moment. Then, when I was beginning to fear she wouldn’t speak at all, her lips moved.

“I—” And she got no further.

Behind Merlini the dark window exploded with a brilliant crash! The sound was close, blasting.

I heard Rappourt’s scream and saw the round dark hole in the window pane in the same instant. Jagged, radiating lines surrounded it.

Gavigan thundered, “Get those lights, somebody!”

I saw the switch and jumped for it.

“Grimm!” Gavigan shouted. “Where the hell—” He pushed up the window, and then threw himself aside as another shot cracked, “The other way, Malloy. Quick!”

Malloy must have simply lowered his head and charged toward the door. I got a smack that left me gasping.

I heard the creak of a window sash and then Watrous’s voice, high, excited, crying, “There he goes!” Quick footsteps pounded on the sun deck, and the Colonel’s short figure dashed past the window making for the sun-deck stairs.

“The damn fool!” Gavigan said. “He’ll get—” But no more shots came. Gavigan went through the window then, and I wasn’t far behind him. Detective Grimm was stretched out, flat and quiet, several feet away. The Inspector and I looked down over the sun-deck rail and saw Watrous in the square of light thrown on the ground from the living-room’s large French window. He stopped and picked up something at his feet. He turned toward the trees. The thing in his hand spit fire, loudly. He fired twice and stopped. Gavigan started over the rail.

“Saw him in the tree,” Watrous said quickly. “He climbed down, threw away his gun, and ran toward—”

From the direction in which Watrous had fired, another shot came. And, as Gavigan and I landed together heavily on the ground, Watrous took one backward step that was never completed. He fell slowly, his body turning. Then Gavigan’s gun exploded.

The sound of running, retreating footsteps came clearly. Gavigan shot forward from his crouching position like a runner leaving the mark, hurdled the still body lying in the center of the yellow square of light, and ran toward the trees.

I reached Watrous an instant later and saw the dark liquid stain spreading across his breast. I pulled the gun from his limp fingers, and ran after Gavigan.

I heard his gun crack out again, and then suddenly we were on the boathouse path. Before us was a dark figure, running. It stopped briefly, two bright flashes flared back at us, and the figure vanished in the deep shadows at the side of the path. I felt my own gun kick back suddenly with solid force against my palm. I heard footsteps pounding behind us and Malloy’s voice, “He’s trying to make the boathouse!”

As my longer legs began leaving Gavigan behind, he said, “Sprint for it, Ross. Carter has no gun!”

I did my best. I didn’t tell Gavigan that I’m a lousy shot. I was within 20 feet of the boathouse when I saw our quarry again. He jumped suddenly into view, crossing the open space toward the wooden steps that led down the 10-foot drop to the landing. He was going great guns as he reached the head of the stairs and then — he seemed to do an odd sort of D.D. Home levitation and immediately vanished, like Merlini’s half dollar, into thin air!

I put all I had into those last few yards. A glow of light appeared below me as I pulled up short at the head of the steps. On the boards at my feet, and trailing off down the steps, lay a length of rope. Carter stood just at the foot of the steps. He held a flashlight and was addressing a prone figure on the walk before him.

“The Great Indian Rope Trick,” he was saying. “Hope you liked it.”

Gavigan, breathing heavily, stopped beside me, looked, and then vaulted down the steps.

Carter looked up. “Got him, Inspector. Figured he’d head this way. Rigged a line across the top of the steps and pulled it tight when he arrived. First-rate somersault he did, too. But he landed wrong way up.” There was no sympathy in Carter’s voice.

Gavigan knelt down. I saw the shine of handcuffs and heard the metallic clicking of the ratchet as it was drawn tight. The still figure stirred slightly, and groaned.

“And that,” Gavigan said bitterly, “will be enough out of you, Mr. Charles Lamb.”