The Devil To Pay

XIV Storm over Glücke

Val looked so preoccupied that Ellery took the wheel of her sedan. She sat still, staring ahead. He could not decide whether she was frozen with stupefaction or shocked stiff by the high voltage of some more personal emotion. Her body did not sag even while the sedan squealed around corners. As for Pink, having heard the news, he kept his mouth open all the way downtown.

Inside police headquarters Val broke into a trot. And in the anteroom to Inspector Glücke’s office, while the police clerk spoke into his communicator, she pranced. When he nodded she flew to the Inspector’s door — and slowly opened it.

Walter sat with outstretched legs beside Glücke’s big desk, blowing smoke rings.

There were two others in the office — the Inspector and a thin whippy gentleman of indecipherable age who sat quietly in a corner grasping a stylish stick. Glücke looked grim and alert, as if he were set for some emergency; but the thin man was composed and his eyes had a cynical glitter.

“Hello,” grinned Walter. “Val to the rescue.”

“Oh, Walter,” said Val, and she went to him and put her hand on his shoulder in a proud, tender way.

“What is this,” said the Inspector dryly, “Old Home Week? What d’ye want, King?”

“So I’ve been reported by the demon sleuth team in the black sedan, curse it,” said Ellery. His name was King, was it?

“Take a powder, King. No reporters here.”

“It’s all right with me,” said Mr. King indifferently. “I was on my way to the office anyway with the dope I’ve turned up.”

“What’s that? What dope?”

“If you’d devote less time to playing follow-the-leader and more to examining Sans Souci you’d show a better homicide record. Come on, Pink, let’s amble.”

“Just a moment,” said the thin man with a smile. “I think we can manage this without ruffled feelings, Glücke.” He rose. “My name is Van Every. You say you’ve turned up something at Sans Souci?”

“Ah, the D.A.” They examined each other politely. “I do, but I’m not spilling till I find out what friend Spaeth’s been up to.”

Van Every glanced at Glücke, and Glücke growled: “Okay.” He drew his brows together. “Well, here she is, Spaeth.”

“Wait,” said Val quickly. “Walter, I want to—”

“It’s no use, Val.”

“Walter, please.”

Walter shook his head. “I told you, Inspector, on Monday night that I didn’t enter the Sans Souci grounds. That’s not true. I did enter. I had a key to the gate, and Frank was in his booth reading a paper, so I let myself in and walked up the drive—”

“And he spotted you from the back and thought you were Rhys Jardin because you were wearing Jardin’s torn coat. You’ve told me that already,” said Glücke impatiently. “Answer some questions. So you weren’t hit on the head as you got out of your car?”

“No. I was attacked after—”

“Walter!” Val put her palm over his mouth. He shook his head at her, but she kept her hand where it was. “Inspector, I want to talk to Mr. Spaeth.”

Walter removed her hand gently. “Let me clear this damned thing up, Val.”

“Walter, you zany! You darling idiot... I insist on speaking to Walter alone, Inspector.”

Glücke and the District Attorney exchanged glances, and Glücke waved his hand.

Val pulled Walter out of the chair and drew him off to a far corner. The Inspector’s large ears twitched as he leaned forward, and Pink looked from Walter and Valerie to the Inspector and back again with a confused but hopeful air. But the thin man and Ellery did not stir.

Val linked her arms about Walter’s neck, pressing her body close to him, her mouth an inch from his ear. Her back was toward them and they could not see her face; but they saw Walter’s. As she whispered, the lines of his face stretched and vanished, as if a hot iron had passed over wrinkled damp cloth.

Val stopped whispering, and for a moment she remained pressed to him. He turned his head and kissed her on the mouth.

They came forward side by side. “I want to see Rhys Jardin.” His voice was fresh and untroubled.

“Jardin?” The Inspector was astonished. “What for?”

“Never mind what for. I want to talk to him.”

“Quit stalling and go into your dance!”

“I don’t talk until I’ve seen Jardin.”

“I’ve had just about enough of this playing around,” rasped Glücke. “You walked in here of your own free will with a yarn that, if it’s true, cracks this case wide open. Now that you’re here you’ll talk — and talk fast!”

“I think,” said the thin man smoothly, “that Mr. Spaeth’s story will keep for an hour, Inspector. If he wants to see Jardin — why not?”

Glücke opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. His brilliant eyes suddenly became cunning. “All right. Tell you what I’ll do. You go down to the City Jail—”

Val surreptitiously jerked Walter’s jacket.

“No,” said Walter. “Have him brought here.”

“Listen!” roared Glücke. “Are you going—”

“Here,” said Walter.

Glücke looked baffled. He turned aside and again his eyes sought the District Attorney, and again the District Attorney made a small, clear sign.

The Inspector pressed a lever of his communicator. “Boley. Have Rhys Jardin brought to my office right away.”

Val looked triumphant, and Walter grinned.

Rhys Jardin appeared between two detectives, blinking as if he were unaccustomed to strong light. He stopped short on seeing Valerie and Walter but gave no other sign of recognition.

“Yes?” he said to Inspector Glücke.

The two detectives left the room and Glücke said quickly: “Just a moment, please.” He hurried to District Attorney Van Every and bent over him, speaking in a vehement undertone. Ellery strolled across the room, pushed his preposterous hat back on his head, and sat down behind Glücke’s desk.

“Jardin,” said Glücke. “Walter Spaeth has come in with a funny story, but before he talks he wants a private confab with you.”

“Story?” said Rhys, looking at Walter.

“He claims that he was the man in the camel’s-hair Frank identified as you Monday afternoon.”

“Did he say that, now?” said Rhys.

“Now of course,” continued Glücke in a friendly way, “this is important testimony and it changes a lot of things. But we don’t want to put on the squeeze. So suppose you three straighten yourselves out, and then we’ll all sit down like sensible people and get to the truth, once for all.”

“I have literally nothing to say,” said Rhys.

“Pop,” said Val. He looked at her then.

“I’ll tell you what,” the Inspector went on, growing more friendly with every word. “We’ll clear out of here and leave you folks alone. When you’re ready, sing out.” He nodded to Van Every and went to one of the several doors leading out of his office. “We’ll be waiting in here.”

Ellery produced a cigaret, lit it, and coughed out a volcano of smoke. He leaned over Glücke’s desk in a spasm.

“If you don’t mind,” said Walter politely, “I think we’d rather talk somewhere else.” And he opened another door, looked in, nodded, and beckoned Val and her father.

The Inspector’s ears flamed. Nevertheless he said amiably: “All right. It doesn’t make any difference.”

Rhys Jardin crossed the room and the three of them entered the room Walter had selected. He shut the door very carefully.

“Would you gentlemen mind waiting outside?” said the District Attorney suddenly. “Inspector Glücke and I—”

“I get it,” said Ellery. He rose. “Your mouth is open, Pink. Come on.” He slouched over to the door at which the Inspector was standing. Pink scratched his head and followed. They entered a small room which contained four walls, three chairs, and one desk; and Ellery loudly banged the door shut.

The next instant he was at the desk opening drawers. “Transparent as cellophane,” he said gleefully. “Glücke wanted them to gabble in the big office so that he could overhear their conversation. Dictograph, of course. And since this is the room he seemed so eager to wait in... Ah!” Pink heard the click of a switch.

He sprang about in a left-handed fighter’s crouch as Van Every’s voice came out of thin air. “Can you hear anything?” And then Glücke’s voice, similarly disembodied: “Not a ripple. He must have smelled a rat.”

Pink looked foolish. “How the hell—”

“I saw through the trick and managed to locate the machine,” chuckled Ellery. “There’s a switch under his desk, and it was open. Now shut up and let’s hear what they’re saying.”

“Say, you’re a cute finagler,” growled Pink suspiciously. But Ellery was crouched over the desk, paying no attention. So Pink sat down and listened, too.

The instrument was so clear they could hear Glücke’s footsteps as he walked up and down his office.

“I don’t know what you gave me the high sign for, Van,” said Glücke fretfully. “It’s a funny way—”

“Don’t be dense, Glücke,” said Van Every. “This isn’t an ordinary investigation. In fact, I’m beginning to think we’ve made a mistake in rushing matters.”

“How come?”

“There’s some secret relationship among those three,” said the thin man thoughtfully, “we’re not aware of. It’s painted all over them. And until we know, I’m afraid—”

“Afraid what?”

“That we’ll have to go slow. I won’t bring Jardin to trial until I’ve got him tied up in knots.”

The Inspector cursed impotently and for a while nothing came through the transmitter. Then they heard him say: “Damn them! They’re talking so low I can’t hear a word through this damn’ door. Cagy punks!”

“Watch your blood-pressure. Who’s this man King?”

“Legman for Fitzgerald of the Independent. He’s new to L.A.”

“Any idea what he’s turned up?”

“Go on, he’s bluffing to get a story.”

“Let’s talk to him anyway. By the way.”

“Yeah?”

“This afternoon one of my men discovered a bank account of Jardin’s we didn’t know anything about.”

“I thought he was busted!”

“So did I. The auction fooled me. But he’s got five million dollars salted away in the Pacific Coastal, Spaeth’s old bank. So the auction must have been a cover-up.”

“Five million!”

“Deposited last Wednesday.”

“But cripe, Van, that blows a hole in the motive.”

“I’m not so sure. Anyway, a private dick came in today, scared as the devil. Did a confidential job for Jardin not long ago; and when Spaeth was murdered he decided that maybe he’d better talk.”

“Well!”

“He claims he found out that Spaeth had monkeyed with Ohippi’s cash position and had sent out a prospectus falsifying their financial standing. He reported that to Jardin early last week.”

Glücke stared. “Jardin was broke, threatened to expose Spaeth, blackmailed him. Spaeth gave him the five million to shut him up. Jardin thought it wasn’t enough — Spaeth made ten times that. They had a couple of serious quarrels. So Jardin bumped Spaeth off to get a whack. How’s that?”

“It’s a damn lie!” said Pink, clenching his left fist.

“Shut up,” hissed Ellery.

“How’s this yarn of Walter Spaeth’s hit you?” mumbled the Inspector.

“I’m not sure.”

“Spaeth and the girl are nuts about each other. He’s screwy as hell, anyway. I wouldn’t put it past that loony galoot to stick his head in a noose just to protect her old man.”

“Well, let’s see how they act when they come out. Our only smart course is to give them rope.”

“Maybe,” said the Inspector hopefully, “they’ll hang one another.”

“There’s another angle on that five million,” said the District Attorney after another pause. “Right now Jardin’s a tin god to the public — it’s the most popular crime this country’s ever had, damn it. But they’re for him only because they think he was a victim of Spaeth’s rapacity, too. If we hold back the evidence of that five-million deposit until just before the trial, we’ll swing public opinion against him when the swing will do us the most good.”

“That’s smart, Van! Hold it. Here they come.”

Ellery turned the dictograph receiver off. “Finis.”

Pink snarled: “The bastards!”

“Pink, did you know about that five million?”

“Found the bankbook in Rhys’s golf-bag Monday morning, while I was packin’ up. Hey!”

“What’s the matter?” asked Ellery innocently.

“You ask too damn’ many questions!”

“I’m on your side, Pink,” said Ellery in a soothing voice. “What did Rhys say?”

“Well... Late Monday night he swore he didn’t know a thing about it. And I believe him, too!”

“Of course, Pink. Of course.”

“He reminded me that last Wednesday, when the deposit was made, he and I were away all day tryin’ to sell the yacht to a guy down in Long Beach. The bankbook was a plant.”

“Spaeth,” said Ellery thoughtfully.

“That’s what Rhys says, too.”

“Uh... Pink, have you any idea what the Jardins and Spaeth have been talking about in there?”

“They didn’t tell me anything, so it’s none of my business. Or,” said Pink, eying him stonily, “yours.”

“But I want to help them, Pink.”

Pink grabbed Ellery’s red-and-blue necktie with his freckled left fist. “Listen, mugg. Lay off or I’ll cripple you!”

“My, my, such muscles,” murmured Ellery. “Well, let’s see what the conferees have decided.”

In Inspector Glücke’s office the two Jardins and Walter were standing close together, like people threatened with a common peril and united in a common defense.

The Inspector was saying incredulously: “What?”

“You heard me,” said Walter.

Glücke was speechless. District Attorney Van Every rose and said sternly: “Look here, Spaeth, you can’t pull a stunt like this and hope to get away with it. You said—”

“I know what I said. I was lying.”

“Why?”

Walter put his right arm about Val. “Rhys Jardin happens to be my fiancée’s father.”

“You don’t expect me to believe that you’d deliberately say you were on the scene of a murder when you weren’t — just for sentimental reasons! That happens in books.”

“I’m an incurable romantic,” sighed Walter.

“Well, you’re not getting away with it!” shouted Glücke.

“Please,” smiled Rhys. “Walter’s a quixotic young fool. Naturally I can’t let him sacrifice himself for me—”

“Then you admit you murdered Spaeth?” snapped the District Attorney.

“Nothing of the sort, Van Every,” said Rhys coolly. “I’m not saying anything, as I’ve told you before. But I won’t allow Walter to get himself in trouble on my account. My troubles are my own.”

Van Every tapped his mouth pettishly. The Jardins, Walter, stood very still.

Then Glücke stamped to the main door. “Take Jardin back to his cell. As for you,” he went on, eying Walter malevolently, “if you ever pull a stunt like this again I’ll send you up for obstructing justice. Now beat it.”

The two detectives closed in on Rhys and took him away. Walter and Val, who wore a demure expression, sauntered after. Pink glared from the Inspector to the retreating figures, jammed on his hat, and ran after them.

Ellery sighed and closed the door.

“What’s on your mind, King?” snapped the Inspector. “Let’s have that phony information of yours and then scram.”

“Don’t you think we ought to discuss this new development first?”

“Who’s we? Say, you’re one fresh jigger!”

“You won’t lose anything by letting me coöperate with you,” murmured Ellery.

“I’ll be damned,” said Glücke in amazement.

“Let the man talk,” said the thin man with a smile. “I rather like the cut of his jib. How does this retraction of Spaeth’s strike you, King?”

Ellery made a face.

“Oh, he lied all right,” said the Inspector disgustedly.

“On the contrary,” said Ellery, “he told the exact truth. He lied when he took the admission back. If you ask me, boys, you’re further from a solution of this case now than you were Monday night.”

“Go on,” said the District Attorney, intent.

“There aren’t enough facts to play with, but I’m convinced Walter Spaeth was the man in Jardin’s camel’s-hair coat and furthermore that he knows enough about what went on in his father’s study Monday afternoon to settle this grimy business in five minutes.”

“It’s all balled up,” muttered the Inspector. “Jardin’s attitude, how Spaeth figures, that closed corporation of theirs. By God, could they be accomplices?”

“Tell me something,” said Ellery suddenly. “Did your crew search Sans Souci thoroughly, Inspector?”

“Sure.”

“Then how is it,” said Ellery, taking the handkerchief-wrapped binoculars out of his pocket, “that they missed this?”

He unfolded the handkerchief. Glücke licked his lips. “Where?” he asked hoarsely.

Ellery told him. Glücke turned a deep scarlet.

“Some one,” said Ellery, lighting a cigaret, “was on the Jardin terrace Monday afternoon watching Spaeth’s study through these glasses. Whoever it was, he left the imprint of a thumb and a little finger on that iron table. You might have that table examined.”

“Yeah. Sure,” said Glücke with a stricken look.

“And the binoculars.”

“And the binoculars.”

“I’m beginning to fill up with notions,” Ellery continued. “I snooped about the grounds yesterday and tried to locate the spot where Walter Spaeth parked his car and was slugged. Wasn’t it on the south side, near a sewer?”

“Yeah.”

“Was the sewer searched?”

“Was the sewer searched? Well, now—”

“If I were you — of course I’m not,” murmured Ellery, “but if I were, mind you, I’d open that sewer and give it the twice-over.”

“Open it,” said the Inspector. “Yeah.”

Ellery yawned. “Goodbye,” he said, and strolled out.

Glücke sat at his desk, crushed.

“Let that,” said District Attorney Van Every dryly, rising, “be a lesson to you.”

XV Earthly Discourse

Val came into Fitzgerald’s office Thursday morning waving the front page of a late Wednesday night edition of the Los Angeles Independent.

“Who’s responsible for this story?” she raged, pointing to the scarehead.

“If it’s you, King,” said Walter from the doorway, “you’re a damned busybody!”

“Isn’t anything sacred to you?” cried Val.

“Stand up and take it,” growled Pink, pushing Walter aside.

“Desist,” said Ellery.

“Shut the door,” said Fitz.

“What are you sore about?” said Ellery.

“This story — Walter’s admission, retraction...”

“Is it true?” said Ellery.

“Did it happen?” said Fitz.

“I resign!” cried Val.

“Put up your mitts, lug,” said Pink.

“Oh, pipe down, the lot of you,” said Ellery. “You’re all too damned self-righteous for your own good.”

Val looked at Walter, and Walter looked at Val, and Pink looked at both of them for a clue to his attitude. Finally the three of them sat down.

Ellery uncoiled himself from Fitz’s desk and began to stride up and down, smoking furiously.

Walter and Val hitched their chairs closer. Ellery, watching them from under his blue glasses, was reminded of their drawing together in Glücke’s office the evening before. At the first hint of danger they flowed into a common meeting-place. There was mystery, secrecy, stubbornness written all over their young faces.

“I don’t know what you two were up to last night,” he said finally, “but I’m convinced of one thing — in a sort of inspired idiocy you’re trying to solve a crime that should properly be left to trained people.”

“Like you,” sniffed Val.

“Like Glücke and Van Every. You are, aren’t you?”

Val and Walter glanced at each other again.

“For heaven’s sake,” exploded Ellery, “can’t you two do anything on your own? Must you have a conference before every speech?”

“What if we are trying to solve it?” said Val defiantly.

“Let him rave,” said Walter. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Val.”

Ellery glared at them. “That’s lovely. Babes in the woods! Next thing you know you’ll be playing G-man with a Buck Rogers atomic pistol!”

“This is very interesting,” said Walter, “but I’ve got work to do. Let’s go, Val.”

“Sit down! Where are you going? Do you know what to do? Do you know where to look? Answer me!” They were silent. Fitz beamed at the loudly dressed product of his imagination. The bewildered, sullen look was creeping over poor Pink’s face again. “You don’t. Well, I’ll tell you. We’re going after Mr. Anatole Ruhig in a big way.”

“Ruhig?” frowned Val.

“We?” said Walter, raising his eyebrows.

“Do you remember what I told you yesterday about Ruhig and the will?” Val nodded despite herself. “We came to the conclusion that Ruhig had lied, that he’d got into Sans Souci on his first visit at five-fifteen, that it was at that time, just before Spaeth died, that Ruhig’s men must have witnessed the signing of a new will.”

“What’s this?” exclaimed Walter.

“Oh, Walter,” wailed Val, “I forgot to tell you!”

“The Moon woman is left everything,” said Ellery softly, “and almost before your father’s body is cold, Walter, Ruhig announces that he and she are going to be married. Why?”

“Any dope could figure that out,” said Pink with a disgusted look. “He wants that dough she’s falling into.”

“Very lucidly put,” drawled Ellery. “Any dope could figure out why he wants to marry her. But could any dope figure out why she wants to marry him?”

“I never thought of that,” mumbled Val. “That’s true. Why should she marry him?”

“There are three common reasons for relinquishing the sacred heritage of liberty,” said Ellery dryly. “One, money. But the fifty millions are hers, not his. Two, to spite some one. Perhaps a reluctant swain is hanging around somewhere; but I question Miss Moon’s dividing fifty million dollars just to make him feel sorry. Three, love, or whatever they call it in California. But you’ve seen friend Ruhig. Do you suppose any woman could feel romantically drawn to him?”

Walter jumped up and began to race up and down.

“I don’t know about that,” said Pink. “To look at me you wouldn’t think a dame—”

“Shut up, Pithecanthropus,” growled Fitz.

“The only reasonable explanation is that Winni knows her inheritance of that fifty million dollars depends upon Ruhig. If Ruhig could control her inheritance, if some action of his could either give her the millions or take them away, then Winni’s willingness to marry him becomes understandable.”

“That new will we were talking about!” cried Val.

“Exactly. With the other inferences we made yesterday, it’s a cinch that Solly Spaeth signed a new will Monday afternoon, before his murder, which seriously reduced, or cut out completely, Winni’s share in his estate. That will Ruhig has suppressed.”

“The dirty dog,” said Walter. “The skunk!”

“Ruhig undoubtedly went to Winni and told her he had it in his power to see she didn’t get a cent; but that if she’d marry him he’d destroy the latest will, and the older one giving her the fortune would remain in force.”

“And he’s holding that will over her head!” cried Walter. “He couldn’t destroy it, or his hold over her would be gone. Until they’re married he’s got to hold on to that new will!”

“And she won’t marry him until the old will is probated,” said Val breathlessly.

“Certain interesting questions,” murmured Ellery, “arise. For instance, exactly when did Ruhig leave the Spaeth house Monday afternoon? Before Spaeth’s murder — or after?”

“You mean—”

“Nothing at all.” Ellery shrugged. “But certainly Ruhig realizes that if he’s caught with that new will now he’s in the worst kind of jam. The police would interpret it as a Ruhig motive for murder. The will’s hot — almost too hot to handle. Yet holding on to it means twenty-five million dollars to him. My guess is that he’s taking a chance, at the same time safeguarding himself as much as he can.”

“He certainly can’t have that will in his actual possession,” said Walter thoughtfully.

“Then how are we ever going to find it?” asked Val in dismay.

Fitz said briskly: “We’ve got to trick Ruhig into producing it. At the same time he mustn’t suspect for a second that anybody knows the will exists.”

“Otherwise,” nodded Ellery, “rather than be tagged for a murder, he’ll destroy it.”

“So,” said Fitz, glaring at Pink, “we’ve got to keep this talk a deep, dark, dirty secret. I won’t print a line of it, and you’re not to talk about it even in your sleep.”

“Obviously,” said Ellery, “strategy is called for. Mr. Ruhig’s vulnerable spot is the incomparable Winni. Consequently we’ll work through her.”

“How?”

“It all depends on how much Ruhig has told her. It seems unlikely that he actually showed her the new will. He wouldn’t carry it around with him one second longer than necessary. We’ll have to assume she hasn’t seen it.

“Now. If we can somehow plant the proverbial bug in her ear that little Anatole was lying all the time, that such a will has never existed, that he just invented it to make her marry him and cut himself in on the fifty million, what will Winni do?”

“Demand to see the will!” cried Val.

“Right. And Ruhig will have to show it to her or risk losing everything. When he does — we pounce.”

“Smart,” said Walter curtly.

“And you’re the man for the job, Walter. She knows you well — I think she even likes you.”

“I guess so,” said Walter, flushing. Val examined her fingernails.

“Meanwhile, we’ve got to be in a position to follow developments. That calls for a little scientific eavesdropping.”

“And that’s where yours truly comes in,” said Fitz. “I’ve got connections, and I can get hold of a dictograph under cover. We plant it in the house there and lead the wires over to the empty Jardin house.”

“That’s a swell idea,” said Val, her eyes shining. “And then we keep listening on the other end—”

“Lemme in on this,” pleaded Pink. “Look, guys, I can do anything. I used to be an electrician once. I can get in and plant the machine and—”

They broke into an excited gabble. Ellery opened Fitz’s drawer and helped himself to the Scotch. Fitz got busy writing out a note to one of his “connections,” and Pink boasted that he was as good as any second-story man that ever lived, and Val coached Walter in exactly what he was to say to the unsuspecting Winni.

“Remember!”

“Don’t worry, honey.”

“Walter, get the hell out there and make a stab at your cartoon, will you? They’ll think it’s a Cabinet meeting in here.”

“Where you going?”

“To see pop.”

“Gimme that note!”

Finally Walter and Val and Pink were gone, each to a different place. Ellery hastily put the bottle down on Fitz’s desk and ran after Val.

“Peace,” said Fitz, reaching glassy-eyed for the Scotch. “It’s wonderful.”

XVI Quest for the OP

Ellery caught up with Val on the street.

“Mind if I tag along?”

Val stopped abruptly on the busy corner of Spring and First. The crowd flowed around them. “I certainly do!”

“That’s not polite.”

“See here, Mr. King,” snapped Val. “We... I appreciate what you’re trying to do, and all that, but there are certain things... I mean, please don’t be annoying. I want to see my father.”

“My skin,” said Ellery, taking her arm, “is one part rhinoceros hide and two parts armored plate.”

Val helplessly permitted herself to be pulled along. If only she could get away from him! He was too quick, too smart. He knew too much already. The way he had analyzed the Ruhig situation. He might find out everything. He might find out that Walter...

There was no examination at the City Jail this morning. The shabby man was on hand, but he did not follow them. And the guard unlocked Rhys’s cell door and departed at once.

Rhys was calmly playing solitaire and smoking a cigar. His eyes narrowed when he saw the flamboyant figure with Valerie, but he kissed her and shook hands with Hilary “Scoop” King when Val introduced them and invited him to sit down on his pallet, brushing the cards aside.

“I don’t know what’s the matter,” he complained with a grin. “But my friends Glücke and Van Every are ignoring me completely. Do you suppose they’ve got cold feet?”

He patted the scattered cards into a neat stack.

“Absolutely frozen,” nodded Ellery. “Keep it up, Mr. Jardin. You’ve got ’em buffaloed. They’ve never had a prisoner who’s seemed so happy with his lot.”

“It’s the clean life I’ve led. Don’t worry, eat three squares a day, and get plenty of exercise. That’s the only thing I miss here. Otherwise, it’s ideal.”

“Oh, pop,” said Val.

“Why the long face, puss?”

Val said something perfunctory, and for a few minutes they chattered about inconsequentials. Ellery sucked on a cigaret. There was something in the aristocracy of blood after all. It made things difficult for a seeker after truth whose success must depend upon the agglomeration and synthesis of facts. He kept his eyes dull but aware.

And very soon after Val opened her bag and took out a handkerchief and put it to her nose in a dainty, unnecessary gesture and closed her bag and opened it again; and Ellery, squatting on the end of the pallet, knew that something was happening. He rose and turned his back.

Val kissed her father and got up, too, and Rhys offered his hand to Ellery with a charming smile, and in a moment they were out in the corridor, walking.

And Ellery thought it strange that cards which had been decorated with a schooner should, between their coming and their going, have magically changed into cards decorated with a Dutch windmill.

Now why should an otherwise honest young woman palm one deck of cards and leave another in its place?

“I wish,” said Val outside, “that you would make yourself extremely scarce, Mr. King.”

“Don’t be that way.”

“You’re getting me very angry. I don’t know what you think you’re accomplishing by following me, but I assure you you’re wasting your time.”

“I like you,” sighed Ellery. “You send chills down my spine. Do you call that a waste of time?”

“That’s not very funny. If you don’t stop following me, I’ll get Fitz to. I warn you!”

She walked rapidly away, heading for the parking lot. Ellery watched her for a moment. Then he hurried around the corner.

When Val drove northwest on First Street, a small green coupé was behind her, one of that breed of rented cars which overrun Los Angeles like mice. And when Val parked outside the La Salle and walked into the lobby, there was Hilary “Scoop” King, his elbows on the desk, waiting for her.

Val said contemptuously: “You worm!” and made for the telephone booth in the lobby.

Mibs Austin stuck her head around the switchboard and called out. Val stopped. “Yes, Mibs?”

“Mr. Spaeth left a note for you.”

Val came back. The switchboard girl handed her a hotel envelope and she tore it open.

Mr. King heaved away from the desk and quickly went to the telephone booth.

“Fitzgerald... Fitz? King talking,” he said rapidly. “I haven’t time for explanations. Do me a favor.”

“For you, Master-Mind — anything!”

“In five minutes call up Val Jardin at the La Salle.”

“Why?”

“Shut up, will you? I’m in a hurry. Call her up and tell her to come down to the Independent office right away.”

“But what for?”

“How should I know? But make the excuse stand up. I don’t want her to get wise.”

“Trust me, sweetheart.”

Ellery hung up and stepped out of the booth. Val was gone.

He went to the desk and said to the blonde girl: “Where did Miss Jardin go?”

“Who wants to know?” said Mibs with a hostile look.

“Give, sister. We work on the same rag.”

“Oh. She went upstairs to her apartment.”

“I’ll show you my etchings some time.”

He left the lobby ostentatiously and strolled alongside the building until he came to a tradesman’s entrance. Then, with a swift look around, he ducked down the flight of stone steps, ran through an alley, and emerged into the back yard of the hotel. It took him a moment to locate the windows of the Jardin apartment. He jumped for the iron ladder of the fire-escape and clambered noiselessly to the third floor.

The Venetian blind in one of the living-room windows was raised an inch from the sill and he cautiously knelt and peered through the opening. Val was seated on the sofa, her hat still on, fumbling with the catch of her bag. She got it open, reached in, and took out a deck of cards — he saw the schooner on the top card clearly. She dropped her bag and began to spread the cards. But at that moment the telephone rang.

She jumped up, cards in her hand.

“But why?” Ellery heard her ask. There was a buzzing in the telephone. “No! Fitz, it’s not possible!.. Yes, yes. I’ll be right down!”

She dropped the ’phone, threw the cards into the drawer of the refectory table — Ellery sighed with relief — grabbed her purse, and dashed out of sight. A second later he heard the front door slam.

He reached in, found the cord, yanked, and crawled over the sill.

Ellery took the loose deck of cards out of the refectory drawer, pulled a chair over to the table, and sat down.

Turning the deck curiously over in his hands he noticed odd, scattered little pencil markings on the long edges.

So that was it. The ancient playing-card code!

“The trick is” he mused, “to find the proper rearrangement of the cards. Assuming such novices in chicanery as Valerie and her father... some simple arrangement... ascending suits in bridge rotation...”

He separated the cards into the four suits and built the spades up from the deuce to the ace. He saw at once that he was on the wrong track. So he built them down from the ace to the deuce. The markings sprang into significant groupings.

Ellery grinned. Child’s play! He rearranged the hearts, diamonds, and clubs, put them all together, and read the message.

Ellery shuffled and reshuffled the cards, shuffled them again. He spread them, pushed them together, dropped them on the floor, picked them up. No point in arousing Valerie’s suspicions. He was sure she had not had time to rearrange the cards and read the message before Fitzgerald’s telephone call.

Op. Op. Queer. It might mean “operative.” Operative? Private investigator. Detective. Detective! Whom did Jardin mean? Could he possibly be referring to a gentleman who called himself Hilary King? Had they seen through his shrieking sport jacket? “Keep op from talking.” No, that didn’t gel.

He shook his head and returned the cards to the refectory drawer.

He was about to put his leg over the sill when he caught sight of a piece of white paper stuck between one of the cushions of the sofa and its back.

So he went back and pulled the paper out. It was a hotel envelope with “V. Jardin” scrawled on its face in pencil. Ellery fished under the cushion and soon found a crumpled sheet of hotel stationery.

Walter Spaeth’s note to Valerie Jardin. Without qualm, and with relish, Ellery read it.

The note was signed “Walter” and at the bottom of the sheet there was a gargantuan “X” which Ellery, who knew everything, recognized as the universal lover’s shibboleth for “kiss.” He had the grace to feel ashamed of himself.

But only for a moment. He replaced the sheet and envelope exactly, climbed out the window, reached in and pulled the cord and lowered the Venetian blind to its precise position before his illegal entry, and went down the fire-escape.

Valerie trudged into the lobby of the La Salle a long time later.

“What was it, Miss Jardin?” asked Mibs Austin eagerly.

“Mibs, you listened in!” Val sighed. “It wasn’t anything. Mr. Fitzgerald heard a rumor that my father was about to be released. But when I got downtown I found out nobody knew anything about it.”

Ellery, hidden in the music-room off the lobby, chuckled to himself. Rather a dirty trick. But then Fitz was remorseless, with the efficiency and moral temperament of a Japanese war-lord.

He kept himself hidden while Val went to the elevator. He timed her movements. Now she was getting out at the third floor. Now she was at the door of 3-C. Now she was locking it from inside. Now she was at the refectory table. Now she was arranging the cards. Now she was reading the message...

The switchboard buzzed. Ellery hid behind a drape, listening.

“What?” he heard Mibs Austin say. “Okay, Miss Jardin. I’ll be right up.”

There was a scrambled noise and then the blonde girl called: “Mr. Max! Take the board a minute, will you? I’ll be right back.”

And a moment later Mibs Austin passed the doorway of the music room bound for the elevator.

Op... Operator. Telephone operator. Mibs Austin!

So it was imperative to continue to keep Mibs Austin from talking, was it?

Ellery lit a cigaret and quietly went through the lobby to the street. He was about to step into his green coupé when another coupé darted into the curb and Walter Spaeth jumped out.

“Hullo!” Walter’s lean face was flushed with excitement. “King, we’ve pulled it off!”

“Good for you.”

“It was easy. There’s only one detective on duty at Sans Souci and Pink and I got in without being spotted. Winni was out, so we had a clear field.”

“You planted the dictograph?”

“It’s all set. We took along a couple of spare transmitters, just to be on the safe side. We’ve got one hidden in the study, one in Winni’s quarters upstairs, and one in the living-room. And we led the wires over to the empty Jardin house.”

“Where’s Pink?”

“In the Jardin house stripped for action.”

“When are you going to tackle Winni?”

“Tonight.”

“Make it eight o’clock and I’ll be there to listen in.”

“Right.” And Walter raced into the La Salle.

XVII Alarums and Discursions

Ellery shut Fitz’s door and made for one of the five telephones on Fitz’s desk. “Get me Inspector Glücke at headquarters, please.”

“What’s doing?” asked Fitz eagerly.

“Glücke? This is Hilary King of the Independent.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Plenty. Can you take a friendly tip and keep your mouth shut?”

“Try me,” said the Inspector.

“Investigate the telephone records of all calls from the La Salle switchboard on Monday afternoon starting around five o’clock.”

“What’s up?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Work through the manager and warn him to keep it under his hat. It’s especially important not to tip off the switchboard operator, a girl named Austin. She mustn’t know the records are being inspected.”

“I get you,” said the Inspector slowly.

“Any luck with that fingerprint investigation of the iron table and the binoculars?”

“The rain spoiled the prints. Well, thanks for the tip, King.”

“I’ll be around to collect ’em in person.”

Ellery hung up and sat down in Fitz’s best chair, rubbing his chin. Fitz opened a drawer and produced a bottle and two glasses. They drank two quick ones.

“Well, Fitz,” said Ellery, “your little white-haired figment of the imagination is beginning to smell a large rodent.”

“You’re worse than the State Department! What’s on the fire, for the love of Mike?”

Ellery tipped his absurd hat over his tinted glasses. “Let me think a while.”

“I want news, not ratiocination,” growled Fitz. “You’re beginning to get my goat.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Ellery. He reached for one of Fitz’s ’phones again. “Get me the Magna Studios — Mr. Jacques Butcher.”

“What’s Butcher got to do with this?”

“Nothing. Hello! Butcher?... I don’t want his secretary, damn it all! I want Butcher himself, in the flesh, Little Napoleon, the Genius...” Ellery sat up excitedly. “My dear young lady, you haven’t heard any language. I’m reserving my choicest words for that vanishing American you work for. Goodbye!”

He sat back, snorting, and tipped his hat over his eyes again. Fitz looked disgusted and took another drink.

When Ellery left the Independent building Fitz was with him, grumbling that he’d get some news if he had to leg it all over the pueblo himself.

They found Inspector Glücke communing darkly with his thoughts. He jumped up when he saw Ellery.

“What’s behind this, King?” he exclaimed. “Oh, Fitzgerald.” He scowled.

“You take a flying leap at the moon,” snarled Fitz, planting himself in the best chair.

“Peace,” said Ellery. “What did you turn up, Inspector?”

“The La Salle telephone records show that a call was made Monday at five-thirty-five to Hillcrest 2411!”

“The Spaeth number,” said Fitz with awe. He got up and sat down again.

“To whom was the call charged?”

“3-C — the Jardins.”

“So what?” asked Fitz after a moment.

“That,” said Glücke, “is what I’d like to know.”

But Ellery did not seem disturbed. In fact, he began to beam. “Inspector, are you game to play a long shot?”

“What’s this — something else I missed?” grumbled Glücke.

“Call in Rhys Jardin and tell him the charges against him are being withdrawn.”

“What!” exploded Glücke. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

Fitz stayed up this time. “Go ahead, Glücke — see what this screwball’s got!”

“You don’t have to mean it,” said Ellery soothingly. “Just to see how he reacts. What do you say?”

“Aw, nuts,” said the Inspector with bitterness, and he barked an order into his communicator.

Twenty minutes later Rhys Jardin was brought into Inspector Glücke’s office. The Inspector was alone.

“I’ve got news for you, Jardin,” said Glücke abruptly.

“Anything would be better than the Coventry I’ve been subjected to,” said Jardin with an amiable smile.

“Van Every and I have been talking your case over and we think we’ve pulled a boner.”

“A boner?” Glücke was astounded to see that, far from receiving the news joyfully, Jardin seemed positively depressed.

“We’ve just about decided to withdraw the murder charge and let you go.” Jardin half-raised his hand. “As soon as the formalities—”

“Inspector — I’m going to make an unusual request.”

“What?”

“Don’t withdraw the charge.”

“You mean you want to stay in the can?” asked Glücke in amazement.

“I can’t explain. But there are certain reasons—”

The Inspector gaped. Then he shook his head and opened the door. The two detectives came in and Jardin’s features relaxed into their usual pleasant lines.

“Thanks a lot,” he said earnestly, and marched off as another man would have marched to freedom.

The Inspector closed the door and Ellery and Fitzgerald came out of one of the adjoining rooms. “Can you tie that!”

“Give,” said Fitz impatiently, his thick stubby nostrils vibrating in Ellery’s direction.

Glücke wagged his head. “I swear it’s the first time I ever heard of a man asking to be kept in jail for murder!”

“This copper-rivets it,” said Ellery with satisfaction. “That’s all I wanted to know. The five-thirty-five telephone call Monday from the La Salle plus Jardin’s conduct just now tell a plain story.”

“It’s Greek to me.”

“Why should Jardin be so anxious to remain in Jail? Why should he ask to be held on the murder count?”

Understanding leaped into Fitz’s eyes. “My God!” he shouted. “He’s got an out!”

The Inspector paled. “An out?” he echoed feebly.

“Certainly,” said Ellery. “It’s probably an ironclad alibi. I’ve discovered that Jardin warned his daughter to make sure Mibs Austin kept her mouth shut. Now if that five-thirty-five call Monday was made either by Jardin himself or, as seems more likely from the facts, by Val Jardin with Jardin at her side near the switchboard in sight of the Austin girl, then the whole thing becomes clear.”

“Jardin would have an alibi for almost the exact moment of the murder,” cried Fitz. “And if the Austin wench testified in court... zowie!”

Glücke looked ill. “If that’s true,” he muttered, “he doesn’t want the alibi spilled now, so he warns his daughter to keep the Austin girl quiet. This is wonderful.” But there was no appreciation on his face.

“Why the hell should he keep the alibi secret?” asked Fitz, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” drawled Ellery, “if he’s trying to protect some one.” The two men stared at him. “Don’t you see that that’s the exact point? He’s keeping the heat on himself while the one he’s shielding remains unsuspected. He’s protecting Walter Spaeth.”

“Spaeth!” exclaimed the Inspector.

“Of course. Didn’t Walter admit last night he was the man Frank saw wearing Jardin’s coat? He was all ready to talk when Val Jardin shut him up; and after the three of them had their council of war he retracted his admission. That can only mean that Walter didn’t know about Jardin’s alibi until the Jardins told him about it in this office last night. He didn’t know Jardin had an out. So up to last night he was protecting Jardin — at least, he thought he was.”

“From what?” demanded Fitz.

“I don’t know.” Ellery frowned, shrugged. “And now that they’ve all shut up in concert, it’s evident that the Jardins are protecting Walter.”

“From what?” asked Fitz doggedly.

“God only knows, and I’m not His confidant. If they’d only talk, the tight-mouthed idiots! One thing is sure, though — while Jardin has his alibi to protect him, Walter Spaeth is in no such enviable position. They seem to think he’s in a tough spot. Otherwise Jardin wouldn’t be acting so contrary to common sense.”

“Spaeth, huh,” said Glücke in a savage mumble. Fitz drew his bushy brows together, shaking his head a little.

“Yes, Spaeth,” snapped Ellery. “Have you stopped to ask yourself whom Valerie Jardin could have been telephoning when she called the Spaeth house Monday afternoon?”

“Cripe! If it could have been young Spaeth himself—”

“Who else? I think Walter was in his father’s house at five-thirty-five and that the Jardins have known it all along!”

“If he was,” cried the Inspector, “it puts him in the murder room three minutes after the killing! Well, maybe not in the room, but we could track that down. But it’s a cinch now that he, not Jardin, was the only outsider to enter the grounds during the crime period. He was wearing Jardin’s coat, and we’ve got that coat — stained with human blood.” He looked sly. “And another thing — if he killed his old man, then he also tried to frame Jardin for the crime.”

“Horse manure,” said Fitz.

“Didn’t I let him go Monday night before the Jardins? Couldn’t he have beat it back to the La Salle and planted the coat and sword in Jardin’s closet? Besides — I never released this — Walter Spaeth’s fingerprints were found on the rapier as well as Jardin’s. Prints on the weapon!”

“What!” said Ellery in a shocked voice.

“I didn’t see any point,” said Glücke sheepishly, “in sort of confusing the Jardin issue—”

“Walter’s prints on the rapier,” muttered Ellery.

“Anyway, the motive still stands — disinherited, wasn’t he? And always scrapping with his old man, too.” The Inspector rubbed his hands. “It’s a case, boys. It’s got the makings of a case. All I need for Van Every is a couple of witnesses in the right places—”

“Excuse me,” said Fitz, making for the door.

Ellery pounced on him. “Where are you going?”

“To make newspaper history, my fine-feathered friend,” said Fitz gleefully. “My God, this yarn will sell a million papers!”

“Fitz,” said Ellery in a ferocious voice, “if you dare print one syllable of what you’ve just heard—” He whispered the rest in Fitz’s ear.

Fitz looked pugnacious. Then he looked surprised. Then he began to grin.

Ellery dragged him back to Glücke’s desk.

At eight o’clock that night ghosts walked in the Jardin house at Sans Souci.

They were ponderable and fleshly ghosts with the air of conspirators, moving restlessly about in the room off the terrace which had served as Rhys Jardin’s study. An electric-battery lantern on the floor threw long shadows to the bare walls; no light escaped through the glass wall to the terrace, for the lantern was shielded.

The chief spectre was Pink, crouched Indian-fashion on his hams with a pair of receivers over his ears, tinkering with a small apparatus before him in the light of the lantern. A pile of cans variously labeled “Soup,” “Corn,” and “Minced Ham” lay beside him, several open and empty.

A tall thin wraith named Queen trod the boards at one side of the room, and a large square one named Fitzgerald patrolled the other. Kneeling beside Pink was a female ghost in riding breeches — queer note in ghostly fashions — with a long tear along one thigh, as if a leg had caught on a sharp stake at the top of a fence.

“Shhh!” hissed Pink suddenly. “Here they come!”

Ellery and Fitz skittered forward. But Val was quicker. The two men fought over the last pair of earphones. Ellery won, leaving Fitz to glare and press his beefy face close to Val’s ear.

Through the membranes came the sound of a door closing and Winni Moon’s voice, half-frightened and half-seductive. “In here, Wally, darling. We’re alone here.”

“Winni the Glut,” whispered Val vindictively.

“Are you sure there’s nobody around to overhear?” said Walter’s voice.

Winni’s voice was no longer frightened and altogether seductive. “Not a soul, darling. Nobody comes near me. I’m weally the loneliest person—”

“I can’t stay long, Winni. No one must know I came here. So I’ll have to say it fast.”

“Say what, Walter?” She was frightened again.

“Do you think I’m your friend?”

They could almost see her pout. “I’ve twied awfully hard to get you to be, but you never weally showed that—”

“I’m enough a friend of yours to come out in the open, instead of skulking around in the dark like a rat!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” complained Winni.

“I’ve been doing some spying on my own. And I know,” said Walter, accenting each word, “all about that little business arrangement between you and Ruhig.”

“Oh!” said Winni. The gasp smashed against the receivers.

“I know that Ruhig told you there was a later will in existence. I know he told you that, unless you married him, he’d produce that will and you’d see those fifty millions pulled right out of your lap!”

“Walter... How... how did you know that?”

The listeners let out their breaths.

“Jeeze,” said Pink.

“He’s wonderful,” moaned Val.

“Shut up,” howled Fitz. “Let’s get this!”

“Please,” groaned Ellery.

“—mind how I know. Well, I hate Ruhig’s guts. I know you do, too. Winni, he’s making a jackass out of you!”

She was silent.

“He’s lying, Winni,” said Walter gently. “There never was such a will. He’s just trying to scare you into marrying him and sharing the fifty millions with him.”

Her voice came through strangely distorted. “Walter, do you mean to tell me it was all — it was all—”

“He invented the whole thing,” said Walter in an earnest, friendly way. “You never saw that will he spoke about, did you?”

“N-no.”

“There! Doesn’t that prove it? Listen, Winni. Forget that fellow; tell him to go to the devil. You and I might make some other arrangements — a settlement. Or maybe even...”

His voice trailed off into a mumble, as if he were whispering intimately into her ear.

Val bit a hole in the corner of her handkerchief.

The rest for the most part was inaudible. Within a short time Walter said something about having to get away, and they heard the click of the door, receding footsteps.

“Whee!” cried Val, jumping up.

“I’ll be a cockeyed dinglehoofer,” said Pink slowly. “It worked.”

“Quiet,” urged Ellery. “Let’s see what happens. If I’ve got that blonde baby figured right, she’ll make straight for the telephone.”

They listened eagerly. Two minutes passed. They heard the sound of a door closing again. Whether it was the study door or some other they could not tell. There were more footsteps, quick nervous ones, for five long minutes. And then suddenly the sound of some one running and another click.

“Opewator!” It was Winni’s voice, hard and angry.

“I’ll be damned,” said Fitz. He took a flask out of his hip pocket and drank thirstily.

“Wuhig? Anatole Wuhig!.. Wuhig! This is Winni... Never mind that gweasy line! Listen to me, you. I’ve been thinking things over and I think you’re taking me for a wide... Yes, a wide! Why should I split all that money with you? I’m not going to mawwy you, and that’s final!”

There was another long silence, as if Ruhig was talking slowly, voluminously, and persuasively.

“Don’t give me that will stuff! I don’t think there ever was another will!.. I will so discuss it. Yes, and wight this minute! You’re a faker and a liar!.. Oh, you’re still twying to pull the wool over my eyes, are you? Well, if there is a will and you’ve got it, why didn’t you show it to me?... Yes, show it to me! And none of your fakes, either! I know Solly’s handwriting. And I don’t want any what-you-call-’ems — photostatic copies. You bwing the weal thing over this second!.. I know you don’t cawwy it awound in your pocket... All wight, pick your own time. I don’t care. There’s no such will, anyway. I’m fwom Missouwi, Mister Wuhig... Thwee o’cwock tomowwow afternoon? In this house... Yes!”

Thunder crashed — the receiver being restored to its place.

“Just goes to show,” sighed Ellery. “I guess I’m a remarkable fellow.”

“Do you think Ruhig’s bluffing?” asked Val anxiously.

“Not at all. It’s evening, which explains why he can’t bring the will over now. He would if he could.”

“How’s that?” demanded Fitz.

“Obviously it’s in a safe-deposit vault — he’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get his hands on it. And he’s giving himself plenty of time tomorrow to think the situation over. However, I believe Counselor Ruhig will be here per schedule.”

They all started. For out of the earphones burbled a snarl scarcely recognizable as Miss Winni Moon’s voice.

“Filthy little cwook!”

XVIII Rape of the Awning

Val awoke Friday morning with a buzzing in her ears, which quickly turned out to be the front-door bell.

She scrambled out of bed and ran through the living-room, pulling a negligée on hastily. It might be Walter. She hoped it was Walter. They had sat up half the night making love and drinking sherry. There had hardly been time, between sips and kisses, to talk. As she ran, Val wondered if she oughtn’t to go back and fix herself up. But then she thought he might just as well get used to seeing her fresh out of bed, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes and no powder or lipstick. Besides, she looked prettier that way. Rhys always said so. Rhys always said that she looked nicer with cold cream on her face and a tissue in her hand than most other women looked ready for presentation at the Court of St. James’s. Rhys always said—

“In a minute,” she called gaily, fumbling with the latch. She got the door open and smiled her most ravishing smile.

“Oh,” said Val. “Oh. Mibs. Why, what’s the trouble?”

Mibs leaped past her into the foyer and leaned against the wall, pressing her hand to her heart.

“Shut the door,” she gasped. “Oh, shut it!”

Val shut it. “What’s the matter, Mibs?”

“Wait — till — I get my breath!”

“You poor thing. Come in here and sit down. Why, you’re shaking!”

The blonde girl sank into Rhys’s armchair, licking her pale lips. “Miss Jardin, I... I’m scared to death.”

“Nonsense,” said Val, sitting down on the arm of the chair. “Why should you be? Let me get you something.”

“No. No, I’ll be all right. It’s just that—” She looked at Val piteously. “Miss Jardin, I’m being... followed.”

“Oh,” said Val, and she got up and went to the sofa and sat down herself.

“I wish Pink were here,” whimpered the girl. “He’d know what to do. Where is he? Why hasn’t he been—”

“Pink’s off on a special sort of job,” said Val slowly. “Tell me all about it, Mibs.”

Mibs drew a quavery breath. “I’ve been nervous ever since you spoke to me Monday night about — about your father and my seeing him Monday afternoon and speaking to Mr. Spaeth... I went out to the drug store yesterday for a soda and — and I thought somebody was following me. On the way back, too. Some Hollywood wisenheimer, I thought. I didn’t see him. But last night, too. When I went home. The same thing. And now, this morning, on my way to work... Somebody’s after me, Miss Jardin!”

Val sat still, thinking. She tried to look unconcerned, but her own heart was pounding. If Mibs was being followed, that might mean... Could somebody actually be...

“We’ll have to be careful, Mibs,” she said in a tone she tried to make light.

“I’m so scared I... I...” The girl was almost hysterical.

Val went to her again and put her arms about the girl. “Have you a family, Mibs?”

Mibs was crying. “N-no. I’m all alone. I’ve only got Pink. I come from St. Lou, and I’ve been here two years and Pink’s been my only f-friend...”

“Hush. You don’t think we’d let anybody harm you, Mibs!” The girl sobbed. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, honey,” said Val in a bright voice. “Suppose you stay with me for a few days until this blows over. I mean — I’m alone here, and you can sleep in my father’s bed, or with me if you’d like that better—”

“Oh, could I?” cried Mibs, raising a streaked face.

“Of course, silly. It will be lots of fun. You don’t even have to go back to your own place for your things. I’ve got heaps of underwear and stockings and things—”

“Can I have my meals here, too?”

“Certainly. Here, here’s an extra key. Now dry your eyes and fix yourself up and go downstairs as if nothing happened.”

“Yes,” sniffled Mibs.

“I may have to go out later, but I’m sure no one’s going to do anything to you in your own lobby!”

“No. That’s right,” said Mibs, smiling faintly.

“There! Isn’t that better? Now go wash your face.” And Val led the blonde girl to her bathroom with a reassuring laugh and a stomach that felt like one vast, painful vacuum.

“Tell you why I called you,” said Inspector Glücke to Ellery. He stooped over a small safe in his office.

“Nothing’s happened?” began Ellery quickly.

“No, no, we’re in the clear. It’s this.” The Inspector opened his safe and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper, something with the shape of a large bottle. “It was on your tip that we found it,” he said gruffly, “so you’re entitled to get in on it, King. I guess we owe you a lot.”

“What is it?” asked Ellery in an avid voice.

Glücke began carefully removing the folds of tissue. “We had quite a time searching that sewer outside Sans Souci but we finally fished this out of the muck. It got stuck near the bottom of the sewer.”

It was an Indian club, soiled and evil-smelling. A red-brown clot adhered to part of the bulging end.

“Is that,” frowned Ellery, “blood?” He flicked the clot with one fingernail.

“Nothing else but.”

“Any prints?”

“Some very old ones — just traces of ’em. Jardin’s, the girl’s.”

Ellery nodded, sucking his lower lip.

“What made you tell me to search that sewer?” asked the Inspector slowly.

“Eh? Oh — a minor reasoning process. By the way, did you find anything else of interest in the sewer?”

“Not a thing.”

Ellery shook his head.

He parked his coupé outside the gate at Sans Souci, much to Atherton Frank’s surprise. Indeed, he was even assisted by the detective on duty, who seemed oddly friendly. Frank scratched his head, swinging his half-arm in an interrogatory manner.

But no one enlightened him, and Ellery sauntered up the drive toward the Spaeth house. A sense of desolation smote him. It was like coming into the main street of a ghost-city.

But he shook his head in impatience at himself and applied his mind to the problem at hand. It was a knotty one; something told him that the key-knot was missing, the discovery of which would unravel the whole puzzle fabric.

He avoided the porte-cochère and circled the Spaeth house, trudging along under the geometric row of royal palms and wrestling with thoughts that persisted in slipping through the fingers of his brain. He mounted the terrace steps and sat down almost against the wall in Solly Spaeth’s most elaborate summer chair, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms.

A hiss brought his head up. Across the rock garden the head of Valerie Jardin protruded from the doorway of the empty Jardin study. She motioned angrily, but he shook his head, smiling. After a moment she slipped down the Jardin terrace steps and ran across to the Spaeth house.

“She’ll see you!” she whispered, darting up under the protection of the terrace awning. “Are you mad?”

“Never saner,” said Ellery. “Winni the Moocher is out stuffing her gullet. It seems she’s sick of preparing her own meals. At least that’s what the detective on duty says.”

“Did you come in through the gate?” asked Val, horrified.

“Why not?” said Ellery innocently. “Didn’t you?”

Val gazed ruefully at her ripped riding-habit. “Over the fence again. At that, Mr. King, you took an awful chance. If Ruhig should be watching—”

“He isn’t.”

“How do you know that?” asked Val suspiciously.

“Silence. I’m trying to concentrate.”

Val looked at him in a dubious way but he merely lay back in the chair, resting his neck against the back. He folded his hands across his chest. Val experienced a twinge of bafflement. He certainly was the queerest man. Concentrate? He was just snoozing!

“Better come away from here,” she said, taking a tentative step towards the stairs. “If you want to sleep, you can join Pink. He’s taking a nap back there. At least Winni won’t come back and find you.”

“Leave this comfortable chair?” murmured Ellery. “Not on your life.” He opened one eye.

“You are by all odds the most—” Val stopped, watching him in bewilderment.

The single eye, naturally invisible to her behind the tinted glasses, nevertheless contrived to communicate a certain fixity, a surface tension, to his figure. He sat up abruptly, his shoes thumping on the flagged floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Val, puzzled.

It was noon, and the sun poised high. Ellery rose, looking up at the awning overhead, his Adam’s apple quivering delicately. His gaze was directed toward a sliver of blinding light in the awning. He stepped on the chair and raised the blue glasses to his forehead, examining the rupture closely.

“What’s wonderful about that?” demanded Val. “You’re the oddest creature! It’s only a rip in the awning.”

He slipped the glasses back over his eyes and stepped down, smiling. “I’m sensitive to sudden flashes of light. Go away, will you, darling?”

He settled back in the chair again. Val threw up her hands and descended to the garden. He watched her from under the glasses. She darted off on a tangent bound for the far boundary of Sans Souci, where the bushes and trees were thick and the fence could be climbed without benefit of witness. After a moment her slender figure, boyish in the jodhpurs, disappeared beneath the palms.

Ellery lay quiet for some time, watching the palms, the terrace of the Jardin house. Cicadas sawed away somewhere; the garden before him crawled and hummed with bees. There was no sign of human life anywhere.

So he got out of the chair again and stepped up on it and once more examined the slit in the awning overhead.

The colored stripes ran from top to bottom of the awning, the slit lying neatly parallel between a yellow stripe and a green one.

“Tear roughly a half-inch long,” he mumbled to himself. “Well, well,” and he took a penknife out of his pocket and was about to employ surgery on the awning when he caught sight of something else, and he stopped.

On the stone wall of the house proper, not three feet to the side of the glassed area which served as the fourth and outer wall of the study, there was a sharp, clean, fresh-looking nick. Something with a keen point had chipped away a fragment of stone. He looked at the nick in the stone, and he looked at the tear in the canvas. The nick was high on the wall, and the tear was high on the awning. Tall as he was, and standing on the chair, he still had to crane directly upwards to see them closely. Yes, the tear was a little higher than the nick, and directly in front of it, judging it by the eye with the flagged floor as a base. And tear and nick were a mere four inches apart. Four inches!

Muttering excitedly to himself, he proceeded to mutilate the unoffending awning. He slashed ruthlessly away in a rough rectangle with the penknife until he was able to pull a piece about five inches square out of the awning.

He dropped to the flags, holding the canvas scrap gingerly. In the stronger light near the edge of the terrace he thought he detected a faint brown stain on the upper edges of the slit.

Golden-brown. Molasses-brown. Molasses. Molasses and potassium cyanide?

And what would an Italian rapier be doing sticking its smeared nose through a nice, clean, summery awning?

That, said Mr. Hilary-Ellery King-Queen to himself as he rolled up the canvas square with cautious fingers, was the Question.

He wrapped the roll in a handkerchief and, holding the tubular result like a twist of diamonds under his coat, he made his way from the terrace along the row of palms to the gate, trying to look unconcerned but not succeeding.

“Well, Bronson?” said Ellery, leaning over the laboratory table.

The Chemist nodded. “Molasses and cyanide, all right. Say, I’ve heard about you, King, around headquarters here. Where did you get hold of this piece of canvas?”

“If you’re thinking of ’phoning Glücke,” said Ellery hastily, rewrapping the scrap of awning with fingers that trembled a little, “don’t bother. I’ll be seeing him soon myself.”

“But look here—” began Bronson.

“Goodbye. Oh, isn’t it a lovely day?” said Ellery, hurrying out.

XIX Blonde in the Woodpile

Valerie crossed the La Salle lobby, vaguely noticing that the manager of the hotel, a small dark man, was seated before the switchboard with Mibs Austin’s earphones clamped about his head.

She supposed the telephone girl was upstairs and made her way to the elevator, sighing. The poor thing had been so terrified. If she only knew what really hung over her!

She unlocked the door of 3-C. “Mibs, are you here?”

The door swung to and the slam echoed. There was no other sound.

“Mibs?” Val stepped into the living-room. It was empty.

“Mibs!”

The color drained out of her cheeks. She ran into her bedroom, into Rhys’s room, the bathrooms, the kitchen...

Mibs was not there.

She clawed at the front door and flew down the emergency stairway to the lobby.

“Where’s Miss Austin?” she cried shrilly.

The manager removed the earphones. “Why, I thought—”

“Where is she!”

“Don’t you know?” asked the manager, surprised.

Val was furious in her panic. “You fool, if I knew would I ask you? Where is she!”

The man looked annoyed. “Didn’t you call her up an hour or so ago? I’ll have to give her a talking to. She can’t make excuses like that to take time off.”

“Say that again,” said Val, speaking with distinctness. “She told you I telephoned her?”

“That’s what the snip said. She said you called her and asked her to meet you right away at the corner of Cahuenga and Sunset on an important matter. So naturally—”

Val groped for the support of the desk. “Oh, yes,” she said faintly. “Thank you.” And she went over to a divan and sat down under the dwarf palm, her thighs quivery with weakness.

Call... She hadn’t made any call. Some one had telephoned Mibs, using her name. An appointment!

The manager went back to the switchboard, looking angry. Val felt like laughing. Angry! Oh, Mibs, you fool... Val managed to get out of the divan and go to the telephone booth. It took her a long time to fish out the coins from her purse; her fingers seemed incapable of holding on to anything.

“Walter Spaeth,” she said, when she was connected with the Independent. It was supposed to be a calm, unconcerned alto; but somehow it came out a dry croak.

“Spaeth talking,” said Walter’s blessed voice.

“Walter. Something terrible’s happened.”

“Darling! What’s the matter? Has Winni — Ruhig—”

“It’s... it’s Mibs. Mibs Austin.” Val clung to the telephone. “Walter... she’s gone.”

Walter made a funny little sound at the other end of the wire. “Gone? I thought you said she’d agreed not to— I mean, that she wasn’t to leave—”

“You don’t understand, Walter,” said Val stiffly. “Somebody... somebody telephoned her an hour ago using my name and telling her to meet me at Cahuenga and Sunset. But... I... didn’t — ’phone her!”

“Oh,” said Walter. Then he said: “Hold tight, funny-face. I’ll be right down.”

Val hung up and stood in the hot booth for a moment. Then she went out and toiled upstairs to wait for Walter. She felt like an old, old woman.

Walter was there in thirty minutes, and she let him in and bolted the door behind him. They went into the living-room and Walter sat down. Val went to the window mechanically and let down the Venetian blinds. That done, she moved the Chinese vase a half-inch to the left on the refectory table. Then she moved it back again.

Walter sat silently, the flesh over his eyes bunched into little knots. His fist was pounding up and down on his knee.

“Do you think,” said Val in a tight voice, “do you think she’s—”

Walter got up and tramped around the room, red in the face. “What I can’t understand is how the little fool ever let a trick like that take her in,” he muttered. “Good lord, doesn’t she know your voice?”

“I haven’t had much to do with her, Walter,” replied Val listlessly.

“The damned fool!”

“Walter.” Val twisted her fingers. “She may be — she might be...” It was hard to say. It was impossible to say.

Walter sat down again and buried his face in his hands. “We’re up against it, Val. For fair, this time.” Val nodded wordlessly. How well she knew! “Now we’ve got blood on our hands.”

“Walter,” she moaned.

But it was true. Their scheming, their crazy impetuous scheming, their frantic effort to stave off the inevitable — Walter, Walter’s predicament, Walter in the shadow of a tall gaunt thing made of wood... It had cost the life of an innocent person.

Val said with a faint nausea: “Do you think she’s—” But she could not get the word out.

Walter rubbed his palms together in a meaningless sort of way. “Whoever’s behind this, hon, won’t stop at anything. Somehow he found out about your father’s alibi, and he’s put the Austin kid out of the way to destroy it.” His voice rose. “I can’t. I simply can’t understand such damned brutality, such savagery! How could any one hate another man so much?”

“It’s our fault, Walter,” whispered Val.

His face softened and he went over to her and pulled her to him. “Look, Val.” He cupped her chin and made her look up at him. “Let’s finish this mess here and now. We’re miserable failures at this thing — we’re wriggling like worms trying to get away from something that’s bound to get us in the end.”

“Not us,” cried Val. “You!”

“You’ve done too much for me already, you and Rhys. And meanwhile we’ve done something to an innocent person we’ll never be able to undo.”

Val, thinking of the blonde girl, began to cry. “How could we have let her take such chances—”

“Stop crying, Val,” he said gently. “The first thing we’ve got to do is report her disappearance to the police.” Val nodded, sobbing. “Maybe it isn’t too late,” he said encouragingly. “Maybe she’s still alive. If she is, we can’t waste a second.”

“But we’ll have to tell them all about... all about you—”

“High time, too!” And he grinned a little.

“No, Walter.” She pressed her face against his coat.

“If I don’t — what about your father?” he said in the same gentle voice. “Remember, with Mibs’s disappearance he has no alibi. No alibi, Val.”

“Oh, Walter, what an awful, awful mess!”

“Now let’s go downtown and tell Glücke the truth.”

She raised her head, agonized. “But if you do, Walter, they’ll arrest you! They’ll say you murdered your father!”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?”

“I can’t let you do it!”

“And that I’ve dreamed about you every night for a year?”

Walter or Rhys. Rhys or Walter. It went round and round in her head like a phonograph record. It might slide off to some other place, but it always came back to the same place... She dropped her arms helplessly.