The Devil To Pay

XX Everything But the Truth

Walter went to the telephone and called police headquarters. He waited patiently, his back to Valerie. His tall figure shimmered; and Val sat down, rubbing her eyes. She wished she could go to bed and sleep and sleep for months, years.

He spoke to Inspector Glücke in a rather listless tone, telling him about the disappearance of Mibs Austin and the false telephone call, the appointment for the corner of Cahuenga and Sunset... Everything had drained out, Valerie felt. What was the use of fighting?

“Let’s go, Val.”

“All right, Walter.”

Neither spoke on the journey downtown. There didn’t seem to be anything to say. The saucy child-face of Mibs Austin with its dip and crown of blondness danced before Val, obscuring the streets. She closed her eyes, but Mibs remained there like a face on a bobbing balloon.

Glücke received them in state, with two police stenographers occupying chairs beside his desk and District Attorney Van Every enthroned to one side, all silence and alertness.

“Did you find out anything?” asked Walter abruptly.

“We’re working on it now,” said the Inspector. “What makes you think the girl was snatched?”

“Because she had certain information which the murderer of my father didn’t want known.”

Glücke laughed. “Sit down, Miss Jardin. Is this another of your fairy stories, Spaeth? If you’ve got anything to tell me, say it now. And make it stick this time.”

“I see,” said Walter, “you’re all ready for me.” Val looked down at her hands, and they stopped twisting. “All right. I’m glad to get this off my chest. What I said—”

A scuffling sound from an adjoining room stopped him. One of the doors burst open and Rhys Jardin appeared, struggling in the arms of a detective.

“Walter!” he cried. “It’s a trick! The girl wasn’t abducted at all! Glücke had her—”

“Stubborn to the end,” remarked the District Attorney wryly. “Too bad, Glücke.”

“Pop!” Val flew to him. The detective released Jardin, puffing.

“Do you mean to say,” growled Walter, “that you cooked this up, damn you?”

The Inspector made a furious sign and the detective went back into the room and came out with Mibs Austin. The girl’s eyes were red and swollen, and she kept them averted, refusing to look at the Jardins, at Walter. And suddenly she began to weep.

Rhys Jardin said curtly: “It was just a trick to make you talk, Walter. That newspaperman, King, found out about my alibi—”

“King?” cried Val. “The beast! I knew he’d spoil everything!”

“He told Glücke and Glücke arranged for the ‘abduction’ of Miss Austin. He wanted to scare Walter into talking.”

“Can the chatter,” said the Inspector harshly. “All right, it didn’t work. But I’ve got this girl, and she’s talked plenty. Want to hear what she said, Spaeth?”

“Oh, Miss Jardin,” sobbed Mibs, “I couldn’t help it. They got a police matron or... or somebody to call me, and I thought you were in trouble and went down to... to—”

“It’s all right, Mibs,” said Val steadily. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

“And they brought me up here and... and made me tell. I was so frightened I didn’t know what to do. They made me tell—”

“Just a minute,” said Walter. “If you know about Rhys Jardin’s alibi, Inspector, then you know he’s innocent.”

Rhys said simply: “I’m a free man, Walter.”

“That,” said Walter, “is a different story.”

“Miss Austin says,” snapped Glücke, “that she spoke to you on the ’phone at five-thirty-five Monday afternoon, and that you were talking from your father’s house. That’s three minutes after the murder!”

“My advice to you, young fellow,” said Van Every soberly from his corner, “is to come clean.”

Walter stood facing them, hands jammed in his pockets. He wore a faint grin. The stenographers poised their pencils.

But just then the door opened and Mr. Hilary King appeared, breathing hard, as if he had been running. He was carrying a long object wrapped in brown paper which had a rather curious shape.

He stopped short on the threshold, taking in the situation at a glance. “Looks like Scene Two, Act Three,” he grunted. “Well, who’s said what?”

“It won’t be long now,” announced the Inspector triumphantly. “Spaeth’s ready to talk.”

“Oh,” said Ellery. “Is he?”

“Am I?” murmured Walter. “And the answer is: no.”

“What?” yelled Glücke. “Again?”

“I kept my mouth shut before because I didn’t know about Rhys’s alibi and thought I had to protect him—”

“Not knowing about his alibi,” murmured Ellery, “what information did you possess which made you think Jardin killed your father?”

Walter ignored him. “Today, when I thought Miss Austin was in danger, I felt I had to talk. But now? Nuts to all of you.” And he grinned.

“That’s final?” demanded the Inspector.

Walter said lightly: “You’ll have to speak to my lawyer.”

Ellery grimaced. “You’re making me do a lot of unnecessary work, Walter. Glücke, time’s a-wastin’. It’s two o’clock.”

Glücke scowled at him. The District Attorney drew him off to a corner and they conferred earnestly. Ellery joined them, waving his package as if he were arguing.

“All right,” grumbled Glücke at last. “I suppose there’s plenty of time to attend to Spaeth. We’ll look this Ruhig bird over and see where he fits in.”

“Ruhig,” said Val intensely. “You’ve told them!” Ellery looked guilty. “You know what you are? You’re a filthy traitor!”

Glücke nodded to two men, and they took places on each side of Walter. “It’s between you and Ruhig, Spaeth. I warn you right now, I’ve got two warrants in my pocket. One for you and one for Ruhig. My own hunch is you, but King seems to think we ought to give Ruhig the once-over first.”

“Come on,” said Ellery impatiently. “You’re keeping fifty million dollars waiting.”

Inspector Glücke engineered their entry into Sans Souci with artistic efficiency. Mr. Anatole Ruhig, who had been under secret police observation, had not yet made his unsuspecting appearance; but it was necessary to keep Miss Winni Moon, who was on the premises, in darkness. A hole had been hacked in the willow fence in a remote corner of the grounds; they crept through, constantly admonished to make no noise, and were led to the empty Jardin house from the far side, out of sight of the Spaeth house.

They caught Pink, purple-eyed and haggard from lack of sleep, completely by surprise. He jumped up with a foolish, trapped look, ready to fight; but when everybody ignored him and Glücke seized the earphones, he scratched his head and lit a cigaret and wandered about asking questions which no one bothered to answer. He did not see Rhys Jardin at first. When he did, the cigaret fell out of his mouth and Rhys stepped on it and punched his shoulder. After that Pink stayed close to Jardin with a pathetic tenacity.

Glücke’s men vanished, apparently pre-instructed. There was nothing to do but wait.

Val and Walter sat down on the floor and talked to each other in undertones, ignoring the others. Ellery paced up and down, smoking tasteless cigarets. Rhys Jardin leaned against a wall, and Pink helped him lean. No one said anything.

Glücke kept looking at his watch. Two-fifty. Fifty-five. Three o’clock. The earphones were dead. He glanced at Ellery with an interrogatory scowl. Three-five...

“Here he comes!”

They scrambled toward him then, listening intently.

The closing of a door.

“They’re in Spaeth’s study,” muttered Ellery, peering through the glass wall.

Mr. Anatole Ruhig’s voice grumbled through the receiver. “I’m taking a terrible chance, Winni.”

“You don’t fool me, Anatole Wuhig!” said Winni coldly. “If there’s a will, show it to me.”

“You’re a fool.”

“How do I know what you told me was twue? You said you got into the gwounds over the fence when you couldn’t find that man Fwank — I don’t even believe that. You going over a wall!”

“What’s come over you?” asked the lawyer irritably. “I thought we had this all straightened out. My two assistants were with me that first time, at five-fifteen; I knew Spaeth didn’t like to be kept waiting, so they boosted me over the wall and followed. I saw Spaeth, and he signed the new will and it was properly witnessed. Then we left.”

“Yes,” said Winni in an excited voice. “And if that’s twue, maybe you and your gangsters killed him!”

“Don’t get notions now,” said Ruhig with a dangerous softness. “I wasn’t in there more than five minutes. He had the will all made out. I was outside Sans Souci before five-thirty — had to go back over the wall, blast it; the gate was locked. When I left, Spaeth was very much alive.”

“Then why did you come back? You came back after six.”

“Spaeth told me to. There was other business he wanted to go over, and he said he expected Walter right away and wanted to talk to him alone...”

Glücke glanced up at Walter with a twisted smile. Val gripped Walter’s arm convulsively, and Walter went pale.

“Well, I think it’s a pack of lies,” sniffed Winni.

“Oh, for God’s sake. I swiped the will right out of Spaeth’s drawer when that fool Walewski and I found the body. I did it under his nose and he never knew the difference!”

“Well, show it to me, if you’re so smart. Don’t talk — just show it to me.”

“One moment,” said Ruhig’s voice, and there was a snarling quality in it that brought a queer exclamation from the invisible Winni. “What made you think I was lying to you?”

“Keep away from me. My own mind, that’s what.”

“Your mind?” said the lawyer. “Isn’t that a little boastful?” There was a silence, as if he were backing away, looking around. “I’m a gullible cluck. Come on, tell me! This wasn’t your idea, you dumb Swede!”

“If you must know,” said Winni in a frightened yet defiant little rush, “Walter Spaeth warned me!”

“It’s a plant!” yelled Ruhig.

And then everything happened at once. The receivers scratched and squealed, and there were confused sounds of toppling furniture, men’s hoarse exclamations, scuffling.

“Let’s go!” shouted Glücke, tearing the receivers from his ears. But Ellery was already sprinting around the pool in a dash for the Spaeth terrace, the long package clamped under his arm.

The Inspector scrambled after him and the others, after a stunned moment, streamed along behind.

They found Counselor Ruhig, very pallid and pasty-faced, standing lax in the grip of two detectives; and Winni lying in a faint over Solly Spaeth’s most beautifully brocaded chair.

Another detective was waving a piece of folded foolscap exultantly. “Got him with his pants down. It’s the will!”

“Tried to tear it up,” said one of the men holding Ruhig, “but we stopped that.” He shook the little man ungently.

Glücke grabbed the paper. As he was reading it, District Attorney Van Every hurried in. “Everything under control? Ah, Ruhig. Does my heart good to see you looking so gay. Let’s see that, Inspector.”

He read the paper very carefully. “Chalk up one more for Mr. King. This is getting monotonous. I’m afraid, Spaeth, this will comes a little too late to do you any good.”

“Is it—” began Val, but she could not go on.

“It’s a will properly dated, signed, and witnessed, revoking all previous wills and leaving the entire estate to Walter Spaeth.”

Winni popped out of her faint. “It’s a lie!” she screamed. “Solly left it to me!”

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Miss Moon.”

“But I owe thousands to the dwess shops!” she wailed, jumping up and down. She glared spitefully at Val. “Now she’ll get it — that sawed-off, pink little wunt!” And she collapsed in the chair again in another faint.

Van Every shrugged, and Glücke said with a smack of his lips: “This gives us about all we need, Van. Motive’s all clear now. And Ruhig’s testimony that Spaeth told him he was expecting his son jibes perfectly—”

“I’ll make a deal,” jabbered Ruhig. “Forget this business and I’ll testify I saw Spaeth—”

“Spaeth came,” said Glücke, ignoring him “—we know he was in this house through Miss Austin’s statement — his father showed him the new will, tried to make friends. But the skunk bumped his father off to get that dough.”

“No!” shrieked Val, holding on to Walter.

“Inspector,” pleaded Rhys, “for heaven’s sake don’t go off half-cocked. This boy wouldn’t kill his own father. Walter, tell him what happened. He’ll believe you. He’s got to believe you!”

“He can talk all he wants when I get through,” Glücke said coldly. “We’ve got his prints on the rapier, his own confession that he wore your coat, Jardin — which has human blood on it — and he had opportunity to plant the coat and sword in your closet at the La Salle.”

Winni opened one eye, saw that nobody was paying any attention to her, and tried to creep out unobserved. But a detective forced her into a chair and she sat there whimpering.

Walter made a helpless gesture; the flesh around his lips was oyster-white. “I suppose it won’t do any good to deny I murdered my father. But I warn you, Inspector — and you, Van Every — you’re heading for trouble. You don’t know a quarter of what really happened in this room last Monday afternoon. You don’t even know the truth about—”

“No, you don’t,” said a peevish voice; and they all looked around to find Ellery glaring at them. “After all the trouble you’ve put me to, my dear Galahad, and all the blankets of silence you’ve wrapped yourself up in, you’re not going to rob me of the little glory I’ve earned.”

“King, are you crazy? Keep out of this!” barked Glücke.

“And that,” said Mr. King in the same peevish tone, “goes for you two as well.” And he glared at Rhys and Valerie.

“King—” spluttered the Inspector threateningly.

“Relax. Walter, do you know who killed your father?” Walter shrugged. “Do you know who killed Spaeth, Jardin? You, Val?”

“I’m not speaking to you — turncoat!”

Ellery looked whimsically at the long, brown-papered object in his hands. Then he turned and went to the glass door, opened it, stepped out on the terrace.

“Come out here,” he said.

XXI The Sport of King

There was such a majestic confidence in his voice that District Attorney Van Every whispered in Glücke’s ear, and Glücke nodded glumly and motioned everybody out.

Ellery stood off to one side, the package tucked under one arm, waited patiently. They took positions about the terrace, some perched on the low terrace railing, others standing against the wall. Curiosity was reflected from each face — the anxious, hopeful ones of Val and Rhys; the gaping ones of the detectives, Winni, Pink; the watchful ones of Glücke and Van Every; the bitter ones of Ruhig and Walter.

The sky was blue, the garden sizzled with bees, a red hydroplane droned past high overhead. There was a strange otherworld overtone to everything, as if time had stopped still and something splendid and dreadful was about to happen.

And Ellery took a tubular object from his breast pocket and unwrapped it and said in a dreamy, mood-preserving voice: “I have here a fragment of canvas which I cut out of this awning only today.” He nodded towards the rectangle of light in the awning overhead.

“In this fragment you will find a slit, or tear, or rip, or whatever you choose to call it. It is a clean sharp incision and it runs — as you can see — parallel with the green and yellow stripes. The upper edges of the rip — that is to say the edges on the side which lay exposed to the sun — are slightly stained molasses-brown.”

Glücke and Van Every ran toward him.

“No,” said Ellery dryly, “don’t touch it. This thing is a little like Medusa’s head — one careless exposure and it turns you to clay. I had Bronson — charming fellow — analyze the stain only a couple of hours ago, and he says it is composed of thoroughly mixed molasses and potassium cyanide.”

“Let’s see that,” said Glücke excitedly, bending over the square of canvas. “That slit — it looks—”

“About a half-inch long.”

“So was the incision the sword made in Spaeth’s chest!”

“And the same poison—” muttered the District Attorney.

“Then this cut in the awning was made by the same rapier that killed Spaeth,” exclaimed the Inspector. He looked up. He dragged a chair over and stood on it and put his nose as close to the hole in the canvas as he could get it. Then he stepped down, looking frustrated. “But how the dickens could a sword have got up there? If the stain’s on top of the canvas, that means the sword came in through the canvas from above. That’s screwy.”

“It’s not only screwy,” said Ellery. “It didn’t happen.”

“Wait.” Glücke jumped down the terrace steps and stared up at the house. “It could have been dropped out of one of the upper windows!”

Ellery sighed. “Come here, Inspector.” Glücke came back. Ellery stood on the chair and fitted the fragment into the empty space. “See where this places the rip on the awning? Now look at the wall here. Do you notice this fresh nick in the stone? Curious place for a nick, isn’t it — away over the tallest man’s head? Could hardly have got there by accident, could it?”

“Well? Well?” Glücke craned with the others.

“Now observe the relative positions of the nick in the wall and the tear in the awning. About four inches apart. And the tear is slightly — not much — higher from the floor than the nick. Line up nick and tear and what have you? A sharp object with a blade width of about a half-inch which went through the awning from above and struck the wall four inches inside the awning, causing the nick.

“If the sword had been dropped from a window, it would have naturally come down in a vertical position. But since the line between the rip and nick is almost parallel with the terrace floor, it’s obvious that the sharp object pierced the awning almost horizontally in relation to the floor.”

He jumped down, wrapped the fragment of cloth carefully, and handed it to the Inspector, who did not seem to know what to do with it.

“I don’t get this at all, King,” he complained.

“Use your head, brother. Did some one stand or lie on top of the awning and stick a sword through the awning almost where it meets the wall, just for the purpose of making a nick in the stone there?”

“That’s nonsense,” said Van Every slowly.

“Agreed; sheer nonsense. So let’s wander on. The stripes of the awning run from top to bottom; the rip is parallel with the stripes; the nick is a little lower but directly behind the rip. Therefore from what direction did the weapon come?”

“Through the air,” muttered Van Every, “from a point directly facing this terrace.”

“A rapier?” asked Ellery, raising his brows. “Through the air?”

“No,” mumbled Glücke. “That can’t be. Say — a knife! Somebody threw a knife!”

“At least,” smiled Ellery, “not the rapier. We’re in agreement that it’s absurd to suppose somebody stood on the ground out there and hurled a sword at the awning? Very well. Then it wasn’t a sword that pierced the awning. But whatever it was, it had all the characteristics of the wound in Spaeth’s chest — a sharp cutting edge about a half-inch wide and coated with the same poisonous concoction that killed him.”

“You mean,” cried Glücke, “that Spaeth wasn’t killed with that rapier at all?”

“How eloquently you put it, Inspector.”

The Inspector opened his mouth wide. The others watched with a sort of horrible fascination.

“Now,” said Ellery briskly, “we know one more important fact — that whatever the weapon was, it came from a point, as the District Attorney says, directly facing this terrace. What directly faces this terrace?”

“The rock garden,” said Ping eagerly.

“The pool,” said the Inspector.

“And beyond the pool?”

“The old Jardin house.”

“Or, to be precise, the terrace of the old Jardin house, which is exactly opposite this one.”

Fitzgerald came puffing around the Spaeth house. “Hey! Wait for baby! What’s happened? Did Ruhig—”

“Ah, Fitz. Glad you made it. You’re just in time for a little demonstration. Inspector, would you mind clearing the terrace?”

“Clear it?”

“C-l-e-a-r,” said Ellery sympathetically. “A five-letter word meaning get the hell out of the way. Pink, I need you.”

Pink stumbled forward with that expression of bewilderment which seemed chronic with him whenever Ellery spoke. Ellery took a leather-covered pillow from a chair and propped it up against the rear wall, resting on an iron table. Then, holding the oddly shaped package in one hand, he grasped Pink’s elbow with the other and led him off the terrace, speaking earnestly. Pink ambled along, nodding. They skirted the pool and made their way toward the Jardin terrace.

“Hey!” shouted Ellery across the garden. “Didn’t you hear me? Get off that terrace!”

They moved, then, leaving the terrace hurriedly. And finally they were on the ground, at the side of the house, staring out across the pool toward the two men on the opposite terrace.

Ellery unwrapped the package, still talking to Pink, who was scratching his head. Ellery turned and waved them still farther to one side.

They saw Pink pick up the thing from the package with his right hand and fit something into it and draw back his left arm. There was a queer cwang! and something slender flashed through the air over the Jardin rock garden, over the pool, over the nearer garden, and plunked into the leather pillow on the Spaeth terrace, striking the stone wall beyond with a vicious ping.

“Creepers,” said the Inspector hoarsely.

Pink grinned as Ellery clapped him on the shoulder, and then the two of them came trotting back, Pink lugging the bow and a sheaf of arrows proudly.

Ellery ran up on the terrace and tore the arrow from the pillow. “Good shot, Pink! Damn sight better than the one that hit the awning Monday afternoon.”

They scurried back to the terrace again. “An arrow?” said Van Every incredulously.

“It was the only possible answer. Because it was the only answer which explained why the murderer of Spaeth should have smeared the point of his weapon with poison.”

Ellery lit a cigaret.

“If the weapon were the rapier in veritate, using poison on the tip was absurd. The only purpose in poisoning the tip could have been to make sure Spaeth died. With the weapon an arrow, and the archer fifty yards away, the situation clarifies: while an expert archer could be pretty sure of hitting his victim at fifty yards, he couldn’t be positive of striking a vital spot. But with poison on the tip of the arrow even a superficial scratch would have caused death.

“No, Spaeth wasn’t killed by that rapier at all. Nor was he killed in the study. He was standing out here on the terrace and his murderer shot two poisoned arrows from the Jardin terrace across the way. The first went too high and struck the top of the awning. The second hit Spaeth squarely in the heart.”

“But how can you be sure it was an arrow?” asked Van Every stubbornly. “There’s something in what Glücke said about a knife. The killer could have been standing in the garden and thrown two knives. Such a theory would fill the bill just as satisfactorily as yours.”

“Not by a long shot. Spaeth was killed by an archer, not a knife-thrower, and I can prove it. Pink, let me have that glove.

Pink stripped something leathery off his left hand. “I had quite a job hunting up a bow and arrows this afternoon,” chuckled Ellery, “but when I located ’em — lo! the salesman brought out this glove. Look at it.”

He tossed it to Glücke. It was a queer-looking glove. It had only three leather fingers — the middle three, providing no protection for the thumb and little finger. There was a strap which fastened about the wrist to hold the glove tight.

“Remember those two prints on the iron table of the Jardin terrace? A thumb and little finger. A person doesn’t usually lean on just his thumb and little finger. Miss Jardin thought the two prints indicated a two-fingered man. But when you postulate an archer, the prints can only mean that they were made by some one wearing an archer’s shooting glove, as it’s called, the leather preventing the middle fingers from leaving an impression.

“Somebody wearing an archer’s shooting glove was on the Jardin terrace. So the weapon must have been an arrow.”

“That’s absolutely uncanny,” muttered Walter.

“Uncanny?” roared Fitzgerald. “It’s colossal! Keep talking, King!”

“I’m afraid that from now on,” replied Ellery with a certain grimness, “my conversation may take on a deadly tone, Fitz.” There was an answering silence then of no superficial extent. “Walter.”

Walter looked intensely at him, and Val felt a great shame.

“When you entered the study Monday afternoon dressed in Jardin’s coat, you didn’t find your father stabbed to death in that room; you found him with an arrow in his chest on this terrace. There was another arrow hanging from the tear in the awning up there.

“You removed the arrow from your father’s body, you removed the arrow hanging from the awning. Then you dragged the body into the study and sat it down in the corner near the fireplace, where it was later found. The wristwatch had probably smashed on this stone floor when your father fell dead; you swept up the fragments and deposited them near him in the study. Is that a reasonable reconstruction?”

Walter nodded wordlessly.

“You wanted it to look as if your father had been murdered with a sword. So you needed a sword with a blade-point approximately the same size and shape as the arrowhead. The only one that matched, judging by the eye, was the Italian rapier. So you ignored all the other swords and took down the rapier from the collection hanging over the fireplace.

“You took the arrows away with you, and the sword too — you knew it would be missed, and that the police would assume it had been the murder weapon; you couldn’t leave it behind because you were afraid an expert comparison of the width of its blade with the width of the wound might show a discrepancy.

“And all the time you were doing this, the archer across the way was watching through the binoculars. He could even see what you were doing in the study, because of the glass wall.”

Walter could not tear his gaze away.

“Why did you want it to look as if your father had been murdered with a sword? For the simplest reason imaginable: because you didn’t want it known that he had been killed with an arrow! But what was so damning about an arrow?

“There can be only one answer. The arrows implicated some one you wanted to protect. And whom have you been trying to protect since Monday? Your future father-in-law.” Jardin’s brown face twitched. “Then those two arrows must have been identifiable as Jardin’s, and you knew it. I remembered the auction catalogue, the collection of medieval arrowheads which had been withdrawn from the sale and presented to the Museum. They were museum pieces, then; as such, undoubtedly known to collectors and therefore traceable directly to their owner, Jardin.

“So you took the arrows away and tried to make it look like a sword crime because you thought Jardin had killed your father. They were his arrows and he is an expert archer. Didn’t he win an archery tournament in California last spring?”

“Why should he cover up his old man’s murderer?” asked Glücke plaintively. “That doesn’t wash, King.”

“It does,” said Ellery, “if you remember that his old man ruined thousands of people, including Jardin, and that his old man’s murderer is the father of the girl he wants to marry.”

“You mean,” frowned Van Every, “that Jardin actually—”

“I’m only telling you what Walter was thinking,” said Ellery, as if that were a simple matter, “since he didn’t want to tell you himself. Well, Walter, am I right?”

“Yes,” muttered Walter; he looked dazed. “I recognized them as two arrowheads from Rhys’s collection. Of course whoever stole them had fitted them into modern shafts; but the arrowheads couldn’t be mistaken.”

“They were two identical arrowheads of polished steel,” said Rhys steadily. “Japanese, dating from the fourteenth century. Like many medieval Japanese arrowheads these had decorative designs in the steel which would have identified them as mine beyond question. Walter’s told me about it since. Whoever the maniac was, he stole them because he wanted to frame me for Spaeth’s murder.” He paused, and then said lightly: “I’d like to get my hands on his throat.”

“I couldn’t talk,” said Walter wearily, “because my story would have implicated Rhys. I didn’t know about his alibi.”

“And we didn’t talk,” cried Val, “because we knew Walter had been in this house at the time of the murder and we thought that— Oh, Walter, Mr. King knows you didn’t do it!”

“Not so fast,” growled Glücke. “How do I know this man didn’t shoot those arrows himself? Couldn’t he have been on the Jardin terrace and then dashed over to be in here when that five-thirty-five ’phone call came in?”

“He couldn’t have been,” said Ellery politely, “and he wasn’t. Let me go on. Walter left the house with the arrows and sword, followed by the archer, who attacked him just outside the grounds after Walter climbed the fence, using the Indian club as a weapon. The club, remember, came from the Jardin house, where the archer had been. It was the archer, of course, who dropped the club down the sewer.”

“Why’d he slug Walter at all?” demanded Fitz.

“Because he wanted those arrows back. Walter had spoiled his plan — his plan to murder Spaeth and frame Jardin for the crime. He wanted to retrieve the arrows, undo what Walter had done, and leave the scene of the crime as it had been before Walter changed it. But after he struck Walter, he must have found himself unable to go through with the revised scheme. Because we did find the scene as Walter left it. Obviously, then, the arrows were gone by the time he reached Walter near the sewer.”

“I’d already dropped the arrows down the sewer,” said Walter, “when he hit me.”

“So that was it! It puzzled me. But you hadn’t had time to drop the sword through, as you intended, nor Jardin’s coat. So friend archer took sword and coat, smeared both with the blood streaming out of your own head, went off, coated the sword with poison, and planted both objects in Jardin’s closet. If he couldn’t frame Jardin with arrows — you’d spoiled that — he was going to use your own little refinements and frame Jardin with the coat and sword. He knew Jardin would find the sword and handle it; and he was the one who wired headquarters with the tip to search Jardin’s apartment, so timing his tip that discovery of the sword and coat and search by the police would be almost simultaneous. Very pretty, the whole thing.”

The Inspector made a helpless gesture, like a man trying to stop an avalanche.

“His frame-up of Jardin was now complete — in a different form but still effective, even more effective. He couldn’t have counted on Frank’s identification of Walter as Jardin, it is true; but the rest he was almost positive of.”

Ellery took the cigaret from his mouth and said calmly: “You asked before, Inspector, how I could be sure Walter hadn’t killed his father. There was one conclusive reason: Walter is right-handed, as he demonstrates unconsciously all the time. But the archer wasn’t. The archer was left-handed.”

“How do you figure that?” demanded Glücke.

“I don’t figure it; it’s a fact. In archery, as in any other sport, the favored arm is called upon to do the most work. A right-handed archer will draw back the string of the bow with his right hand. Obviously a left-handed archer will draw it back with his left. Now the shooting glove is always worn on the hand which draws back the bow. On which hand did the murderer wear his shooting glove?”

“The left!” cried Val. “I remember we talked about those prints—”

“Yes, the thumb and little-finger smudges on the table from their relative shape and position came from a left hand, as you accurately observed. Then a left hand wore the shooting glove. Then the murderer was left-handed. That lets Walter out.”

Walter shook his head, grinning a little, and Val ran over to him and seized him, her face shining.

“Now let me show you a little trick,” murmured Ellery out of a spurt of smoke. “What do we know about the murderer?

“One — he’s an expert archer. Fifty yards to hit a man in the heart is no mean feat, even after one bad shot.

“Two — he’s left-handed.

“Three — and this is important — he knew Jardin’s coat had a rip in it.”

“I don’t follow, I don’t follow,” said the Inspector in a fit of irritable excitement.

“He took the coat from Walter and planted it on Jardin, didn’t he? To do that, he had to know it was Jardin’s coat. But how could he have known it was Jardin’s coat? Walter was wearing it — a fact ordinarily sufficient to establish an assumption that it was his. Both men owned identical camel’s-hairs. There were no distinguishing marks. No, the only means of identifying the coat as Jardin’s was by the rip under the pocket, which had been made that very afternoon. The archer, then, recognized the coat by the rip. So he must have known in advance of the crime that the coat was ripped in that specific place.

“Four — and this is also a delicate point,” said Ellery with a slight smile, “the murderer, in order to have been able to use the Indian club on Walter’s head, had to know where to find it.”

“Say that again?” implored Glücke, who was having a hard time all around.

Ellery sighed. “Visualize our homicidal friend. He has just seen Walter leaving with the sword and arrows. He wants to get those arrows back. What to do? He hasn’t anything against Walter personally; he’s not out for Walter’s blood. A tap on the head will be sufficient. What should he use for a bludgeon?

“We know he used one of the Indian clubs. That means he ran along the terrace, forced the door of the ex-gymnasium, went to the wall-closet where the two clubs hung, opened the closet, and took out the undamaged club.

“What made him force the door of the gymnasium? There were lots of other rooms to investigate if he wanted to find a bludgeon. Even if he went to the gymnasium first by mere chance, and forced the door, there was nothing to be seen but a small pile of débris. For Miss Jardin told me Wednesday afternoon that the closet door had been left closed when they moved out of the house.

“No, when he forced that door and went to the closed closet and opened it, he knew what he was going to find. He knew there were two Indian clubs in that closet.”

Ellery threw away his cigaret.

“I think we have enough now to paint a picture of our ‘compleat criminal.’ To our knowledge, who fits all four qualifications I’ve laid down?

“Who is an expert archer, and left-handed, and knew Jardin’s coat was ripped, and knew the Indian clubs were in the gymnasium closet?”

For a moment, by some communal telegraphic instinct, the very bees stopped humming; and a final silence fell that was uncomfortably not of this world.

Then Pink burst into laughter, doubling up as he clutched the bows and arrows. “But jeeze,” he gasped, “you’re ’way off your base. That’s me!”

Inspector Glücke looked at Ellery with an anxiously questioning triumph, as if to say: “There, smart guy. What do you say to that?”

And Ellery said to that: “Yes, Pink. That’s you.”

“Oh, no,” said Valerie, holding on to Walter’s arm. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” said Ellery. “I knew Pink was an expert archer — wasn’t he runner-up to Jardin when Jardin won the California Archery Tournament last spring? You mentioned that yourself Monday night, Inspector. And besides, he’s just beautifully demonstrated his markmanship.

“Left-handed? Ample evidence of that, plus the fact that he just shot an arrow left-handedly.

“He was one of the five persons who were present when Jardin’s coat was ripped.

“And he was one of the three who knew about the clubs being left in the closet.

“On the archery point, the only other known archer in the group is Jardin, whose alibi lets him out. On the coat-ripping point, the other four witnesses were Jardin, Valerie, Walter, and the gateman Frank. Jardin and Valerie are eliminated because of their alibis. Walter is right-handed. And Frank has only one arm, so he couldn’t possibly have been an archer.

“And on the Indian-club point, the other two were the Jardins, eliminated before.

“Pink is the only one who fits all four characteristics. So he must have murdered Solly Spaeth.” Ellery sighed. “Take it away, Inspector. I’ve shot my bolt, too.”

During this peroration, they stood motionless, too surprised to think, to take the simplest defensive measure. As for Pink, his crimson neck grew more crimson, and the cords expanded and became visible, and the look of the hunted animal slowly emerged from the sluggish morass of his brain.

But at a certain point something snapped, and Pink demonstrated his amazing nervous and physical versatility. Before they could move a muscle he had bounded off the terrace to a point fifteen feet away and whirled like a tightly wound mechanical toy with an arrow fitted into the bow, the string taut, and the arrowhead pointed directly at Mr. Ellery Queen’s petrified breast.

“Don’t move,” said Pink thickly. “Nobody make one little move.”

They were strung out in a straggly line along the terrace, no one behind another. It was absurd, in the sun, with the bow gleaming like a plaything. And yet nobody moved.

“You can get me with a gun,” said Pink in the same thick, dreary voice, “but this guy gets it through the heart first. So don’t move. He’s got something coming to him.” He stopped, and then he said: “He fooled me.”

And nobody laughed, even at the childish petulance, the plaintive wonder in Pink’s voice. His red hair flamed. With his legs widespread and solidly planted in the earth, and the bow grotesquely arched, he was a fascinating object; and faintly in a remote chamber of his brain Mr. Ellery Queen began to recite a small, foolish prayer.

Pink’s left arm drew back a little farther and his eye glared at Ellery’s breast with an awful fixity.

“Pink,” said Valerie. She happened to be standing with Walter near the top step of the terrace. “Pink.”

Pink’s eye did not waver. “Keep out of this, Val. Keep away.”

“Pink,” said Val again. Her cheeks were almost blue. Walter made a convulsive movement and she breathed: “Walter. Don’t move. He’ll kill you. He won’t touch me.” And slowly she stepped forward and slowly she went down the steps.

“Val,” cried Pink, “Val, I swear — go back!”

“No, Pink,” said Val in a quiet soothing tone. Slowly, slowly. She hardly touched the ground. She drifted toward him, never taking her eyes from him. It was as if Pink had been a sliver of gold leaf balanced on the tip of a needle; the merest quiver of the ground, the merest breath would send it tumbling. “Don’t, Pink. I know there’s something horribly wrong in all this. You’re not a criminal. You may have killed Spaeth, but I know you must have had a good reason — in your own mind, Pink...”

Fat drops appeared on Pink’s red forehead. His body trembled as he stood rooted in the garden, shaken by an invisible wind.

“Pink,” said Val, and she went up to him and took the bow out of his hand.

And Pink did a curious thing. He sank down among the flowers and began to weep.

When it was all over and Pink, with a dead look in his eyes, was led away to wait in a police car for Inspector Glücke, Ellery went into Solly Spaeth’s study and opened a liquor cabinet and drank standing up from a full brown bottle.

Then, with the bottle in his hand, he went over to Val and kissed the tip of her ear.

“Just like a woman,” he said. Val was crying bitterly in Walter’s arms and Rhys was sitting, a little shrunken, and looking old. “You saved my life,” said Ellery.

Val sobbed against Walter’s chest. Walter glanced at Ellery significantly and he turned away. Walter drew Val off to a corner and sat her down on his lap; she clung to him. “Pink. He was... Oh, I can’t believe it!”

“It’s all right, darling. We’ll get him off,” crooned Walter in her ear. “No jury will ever convict him in this county.”

“Oh, Walter...”

Ellery raised the bottle again, and Inspector Glücke said something, and Ruhig and Winni Moon were sent off in custody with their conspiracy to defraud hanging heavy over their heads. And after a while District Attorney Van Every left with a bewildered look; and Fitz, clapping his forehead like a man awakening from a trance, grabbed the telephone, spluttered into it, dashed out, dashed back, found his hat, threw it away, and dashed out again.

Glücke rubbed his jaw. “King, I don’t know how to—”

Ellery lowered the bottle. “Who killed Cock Robin?” he sang. “I, said the sparrow, with my little bow and arrow... It’s like a resurrection! Have I sprouted any gray hairs in the last ten minutes?”

“Mr. King.” Rhys Jardin rose, working his jaws. For a moment there was no sound except Val’s sobbing and Walter’s crooning in her ear.

Ellery sighed: “Yes?” He was not feeling terribly fit; there was a bitterness on his tongue not liquorish.

“There’s one thing I’ll never believe,” said Rhys in a troubled voice. “I’ll never believe Pink framed me for Spaeth’s murder. I couldn’t be wrong. He was my friend. I treated him like a member of my own family. It just can’t be, Mr. King.”

“Look,” said Ellery. “A friend may become a greater enemy than an enemy. He was your friend, and you were his. You had advised him to put all his savings in Ohippi. When Ohippi fell, he was furious with Spaeth; and so long as he thought you were Spaeth’s victim, too, he remained your friend.

“But Monday morning, in packing your things in the gym across the way, he found a bankbook in your golf-bag which seemed to indicate that you had salted away five million dollars. Were you still his friend? Not if you doublecrossed him by pretending to be broke while you had five millions to keep you warm against a rainy day. Pink is a primitive soul and he didn’t stop to ask questions. In his mind you became one with Spaeth — two crooks who had defrauded him of his life’s savings.

“He planned things then and there. He had to take that collection of arrowheads down to the Museum, didn’t he? On the way he took two of the arrowheads out of the package, delivering the rest. He fitted them out with shafts, preparing his little broth of molasses and potassium cyanide—”

“But ever since,” cried Val’s father, “he’s been so damned — so damned solicitous! He couldn’t have been acting.”

“He wasn’t. When you explained to him late Monday night about the five million, after the crime, after the planting of the rapier and coat in your closet — when he realized that you’d been with him the entire day on which the five millions were deposited, Pink saw what an awful thing he’d done to you. But it was too late. The crime, the frame-up, were faits accomplis. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t recall that wire he’d sent headquarters only a few minutes before — probably by dodging downstairs to the lobby while Val and Walter were in her bedroom and telephoning the wire from the public booth there.

“No, he just had to sit and take it. Every emotion of his since Monday night has been genuine.”

Ellery turned to find Val and Walter before him. Val was still sniffling with her handkerchief to her nose, but she looked calmer. “I can’t thank you, Mr. King. None of us can. But—”

“Feel better, Walter?”

“We’re still a little dazed,” said Walter, “but you might be interested to learn that Val and I have decided to do something constructive with my father’s money.”

“I know,” sighed Ellery. “You’re going to put it all back into Ohippi and rehabilitate the plants.”

“How did you know?” they cried together.

“Because,” said Ellery, “you’re that kind of damned fool.”

“That reminds me,” murmured Rhys. “That five million properly belongs to you now, Walter. I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” Walter smiled faintly. “I hope you’ll find me a better partner than my father was.”

“Look,” said Inspector Glücke, who was still hanging about. “I’ve got work to do. But I’ve got to tell you, King—”

Walter said suddenly: “King? Let me show you a trick, Inspector.”

“I’ve had all the tricks I want. King—”

“No, no, you’ll enjoy this one.” Walter seized a piece of paper from the desk and with a soft pencil began to sketch a face with great rapidity. Glücke looked puzzled. “So what? That’s King. I haven’t time to look at pictures—”

“You have for this.” Walter erased the shaded glasses and replaced them with pince-nez. Over the face he smudged a beard. And he put the hair-part in a different place. “Who’s that?”

The Inspector gaped from the drawing to Mr. Hilary King. “My God,” he screamed, “the pest!”

“I think I knew it,” shrugged Walter, “from the moment I saw him. You might fool others, Queen, but you couldn’t fool an artist. I sketched your face at the auction.”

“Mr. Queen?” said Val, wide-eyed. “So that’s how you knew what went on here Monday night!”

“I’ll be damned,” said Jardin, staring.

Ellery reached hastily for the telephone and gave the operator a number. “Magna Studios? Connect me with Mr. Jacques Butcher’s office.” As he waited, he said apologetically: “As long as I’m unmasked I may as well go back to work... Hello, Butcher?... Who?” He swallowed hard. “Now look here, young woman. This is Ellery Queen, and I — want — Butcher!.. He is there? Put him on!” He said exultantly: “Can you imagine? Butcher at last!” There was a buzzing noise in the receiver and he slowly sucked his lean cheeks in. “Oh, is that so?” he yelled. “So he can’t see me — yet? Well, you tell your Mr. Butcher—” But there was a click. He stared at the dead telephone and then hurled the whole thing away.

“Uh— Queen,” said the Inspector nervously. “I want to apologize — I mean, you’ve cracked this case and the credit is really—”

Ellery waved his hand. “Don’t want any,” he said grumpily. “Leave me out of it... Can’t see me, hey?”

“That’s white of you,” beamed Glücke. “Say, I take it all back. How’d you like to meet the Chief of Police and the Mayor? And we could put you up—”

“He’s staying with me,” said Walter. “That’s definite.”

“Or maybe you’d like to be appointed Honorary Chief?” glowed the Inspector. “I’ve got a drag—”

“Wait,” said Ellery, frowning. “You’re grateful, eh, Inspector?”

“What do you think?”

“You’d have the City run a banquet for me, I suppose?”

“Hell, yes. We could—”

“I wouldn’t have to pay any traffic fines, either?”

“Leave it to me.”

“You could even see that I met the Governor, couldn’t you?”

Inspector Glücke said earnestly: “The Governor, or the President, or anybody.”

“It’s tougher than that,” said Ellery in a despairing voice. “Get me in to see Butcher.”