The Dragon’s Teeth

XII. Silence, Please

But Kerrie did not see him. She was still blind from the brilliance of those three red flashes slashing over her head into the throat and eye and cheek of Margo. Blind, deaf, stunned with the three sounds of a world tumbling.

“She’s dead,” Kerrie said in a clear voice. “Margo’s dead. Her eye is dead. Blood on her neck. She has one eye. See how funny she looks. See how funny—”

Beau stood in the doorway trying to speak.

“One moment she was alive. Then she was dead. She died over my head. I heard her gurgle her life away. I heard her die behind me.” Kerrie began to laugh.

Beau stumbled in. “Kerrie!”

He dropped beside her. He could think of nothing to do but put his arms about her and press her face against his chest. He couldn’t bear to look at her face. It was white, fixed, a plaster-of-Paris mask made by a crude workman. Her eyes were shiny with something not fear, not panic, not horror; something inscrutable and dead, like the eyes of a wax-works figure.

At his touch she stopped laughing. “She came to laugh at me. Said you and she had planned the whole thing. Our elopement. Marriage. She said you told her where you were taking me. That’s how she knew where to find me. Your plan. You didn’t love me, she said. You loved her, she said. This was your scheme to get hold of the money Uncle Cadmus left me. To share it with her. The two of you...”

“Kerrie, stop.”

“She began to talk about the attacks. She admitted she had made them. She and some one else—”

“Some one else!” muttered Beau. “Who?”

“She didn’t get a chance to tell me. She began to. But then the three shots from the window...”

The window. Beau got to his feet, walked stiff-legged to the window by the armchair. Open. The blind blowing. Kerrie in the chair, Margo standing behind the chair — direct line of fire — in the throat, the eye... Revolver.

“Revolver,” he said hoarsely. “What happened?”

“It’s mine,” said Kerrie, as in a dream. “Mine. I bought it. When you — warned me to be careful. It was stolen from the pocket of my car. Must have been some time yesterday, because I missed it when I was locked in the garage.”

“Yours!” Beau took a forward step, and stopped. “But if it was stolen—”

She looked up at him in a dumb way. “Hand. Or fingers. Threw it from that window. In here. Right after the shots.” She looked down at her own hand in the same way, the hand which still gripped the pearl-handled .22.

Beau jumped at her. Her head flapped on her shoulders as he shook her.

“Don’t you see?” he cried. “It’s a frame-up! Someone shot her and is trying to frame you with the gun! Get up! We’re getting out of here.”

“What?” She didn’t understand. She was trying to, her face twisted with the effort.

He lifted her to her feet, slapped her cheeks hard. “Kerrie! For God’s sake get a grip on yourself! I’ve got to get you out of here before—”

“Stand still”

Beau stood still, Kerrie limp in his arms, the revolver dangling from her fingers.

Hadn’t even taken the gun out of her hand. Couldn’t do anything now. Her gun-hand was in full view of the doorway. You dope. You damned dope. Hadn’t even shut the door.

“I’ve got you covered.”

They were blocking the doorway. One was the hotel manager — Beau recognized him by the tuxedo, the aster, and the half-moon sacs under his eyes. Suspicious-looking guy. Husky. The other was the house dick. Big boy with an iron hat and a .38 in his fist.

No dice. Think of something else.

The windows... Seventeen floors from the street. Escape. Screwy idea, anyway. They were registered. Think. You’ve been a prize poop so far. Think this through.

The house detective came in on a straight line, his eyes on the revolver in Kerrie’s hand. His right hand trained the cannon on them, his left went into his pocket and came out with a handkerchief.

He knew his business. He didn’t try to take the gun from her himself.

“Drop that heater.”

Kerrie looked blank.

“Drop it,” said Beau in her ear. “The gun.”

“Oh.” She dropped it.

“You. Big guy.” The detective shifted his eyes from Kerrie’s hand to Beau’s hands now. “Just push it with your toe. Gentle, Mister. In my direction.”

Beau pushed it. It slid three feet across the rug and stopped by the detective’s large feet. He stooped without looking at it and spread the handkerchief over it, fumbling.

Beau whispered in Kerrie’s ear: “Kerrie, you listening?”

Her head against his breast stirred slightly. She held on to him.

“I’m going to make a break for it. Understand?”

Her arms tightened about him in a convulsive rebellion.

“Say nothing. Not a syllable. Whatever they ask you, say you don’t know. The cops’ll be here in a few minutes. But you don’t know anything till I come back and say it’s all right to talk. Savvy?”

He felt her head wag over his heart, faintly.

“What you two whisperin’ about?” demanded the detective. He was on his feet again, the .22 swathed in his handkerchief.

“Is it all right to move now, Commissioner?” asked Beau. “I’m getting stiff standing still like this.”

“Come here. Leggo the dame. Hold your hands up.” Shrugging, Beau obeyed. Kerrie stumbled over to the armchair and fell into it. The hotel manager moved over quickly and shut the window beside her; he stood there looking down at her.

The house detective slapped Beau all over, grunted. “Okay. Stand over there and be a good boy.”

He dropped to his knees beside Margo’s body and put his ear to her chest. “I guess she’s dead, Mr. O’Brien. You better ’phone Police Headquarters while I—”

The door to the hall slammed. Both men whirled. Beau was gone.

The detective cursed and leaped for the door, while the manager put his hands on Kerrie’s shoulders and held her down with all his strength, as if he expected her to try to escape, too.

“Please,” said Kerrie. “You’re hurting me.”

The manager looked abashed. He grabbed the telephone and shouted a description of Beau to the hotel operator.

“Don’t let that man get out of the hotel!”

Kerrie hugged herself. She felt cold and hungry.

Beau took the emergency stairway four steps at a stride, going up. They would expect him to go down.

He scaled his hat into a corner of the twentieth floor landing and slipped into the main corridor. No one in sight. He walked over to the nearest elevator and pressed the Down button. The operators coming down couldn’t have heard the alarm.

An elevator stopped, and he got in. There were three passengers in the car, looking sleepy. The operator paid no attention to him.

He got off at the mezzanine floor.

From the balcony he could see the lobby seething. The house detective was down there yelling to a patrolman. The cop looked startled and ran out into the street.

Beau slipped into a telephone booth and dialed a number.

“Yes?” said a sleepy voice.

“Ellery! This is Beau.”

“Well?” Mr. Queen’s voice became alert.

“Can’t talk. I’m at the Villanoy, with the whole hotel on my tail.”

“Why? What’s the trouble?”

“Murder—”

“Murder!”

“Margo’s been shot to death.”

“Margo?” Mr. Queen was speechless, but only for an instant. “But how did she— Who shot her?”

“Don’t know.” Tersely Beau recounted the story of the evening, and how he had found Kerrie, and what Kerrie had told him before they were interrupted by the manager and the detective.

Mr. Queen muttered: “Where’s Kerrie now?”

“Upstairs in 1724. In a daze. El, you’ve got to come over.”

“Of course.”

“Nobody knows about that other room except you, Kerrie, me, and the killer. And I told Kerrie to keep her mouth shut. We’ve got to search that room before the cops!”

“What’s the number of the room?”

“It’s just around the corner of 1724, in the transverse corridor. I think it’s 1726. Can you get into the hotel without being collared?”

“I’ll try.”

“Step on it. I think they’re searching the mezzanine now—”

“How are you and Kerrie registered?”

“As Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen.”

Mr. Queen the First groaned. “Do you realize that an old gent by the name of Queen is going to have to take charge of this homicide?”

“My God,” said Beau. He hung up slowly.

After a moment he stepped out of the booth and strolled over to the marble railing, lighting a cigaret. The house detective and the patrolman Beau had seen dart out of the lobby were hurrying from writing desk to writing desk, scanning the startled features of the correspondents. They were on the opposite side of the mezzanine.

Beau sauntered towards them and said: “Can I be of service, gentlemen?”

The detective’s heavy jaw dropped. He screeched: “That’s him, Fogarty!” and the two men jumped on Beau.

He stiff-armed the policeman and caught the house man’s gun-hand at the wrist. “Why the rough stuff? I gave myself up, didn’t I?”

They looked baffled. A crowd had collected and Beau stood there grinning at them in an apologetic way.

“All right, wise guy,” panted the detective, shaking his hand free. “What was the idea of lamming?”

“Who, me?” said Beau. “Come on, boys. We mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”

“Who’re you? What’s your name?”

“Queen. Ellery Queen. Want to make something of it?”

“Queen!” The policeman gaped at him. “Did you say Ellery Queen?”

“That’s the ticket, Officer.”

Fogarty looked awed. “Sam, you know who this is? Son of Inspector Queen of the Homicide Squad!”

“Mistakes will happen, boys,” said Beau grandly. “And now, shall we return to the scene of the crime?”

“Inspector Queen’s your old man?” demanded Sam.

“You heard Fogarty.”

“Well, I don’t give a damn,” said Sam doggedly. “Fogarty, this is the guy was in 1724 with the dame when O’Brien and me busted in. She was holdin’ the rod, but how do we know he ain’t a, now, accomplice?”

“Inspector Queen will identify me,” said Beau.

“Suppose he does? Suppose he does?” said the house detective hotly. “I don’t care who you are, Mister; you were caught in that room—”

“What’s the argument about?” asked Beau. “Sam, you’re making a spectacle of yourself. Wow, look at those laws pour in! Come on upstairs before the press gives you the razz. Are you coming, or do I have to go up alone?”

“Don’t worry,” said Sam, taking a fresh grip on his .38. “I’m with you, baby.”

They took a special elevator up to the seventeenth floor. Outside Room 1724 a policeman held back a crowd of pushing people. Inside, there were two radio-car officers and a detective from the West Forty-seventh Street precinct. They were all asking questions at the same time.

Kerrie was still seated in the armchair, in the same position.

“This him?” said the precinct man.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “In person.”

“Well, the girl gives him an out. She says he wasn’t even here when the shots were fired. He came in right after.”

“Kerrie,” growled Beau. She had answered questions. He had told her not to.

She glanced at him in a calm, remote way.

“She admit givin’ the other dame the business?” asked Sam eagerly.

“She don’t admit nothin’.”

Beau shook his head warningly at Kerrie. She placed her hands, palms up, in her lap and stared out the window.

“Lucky stiff,” said Sam to Beau with a scowl.

“Yeah,” said Beau, looking steadily at Kerrie’s profile. “Am I lucky.”

When the call came from Centre Street, Inspector Richard Queen was in Doc Prouty’s office playing a hot game of two-handed klabiatsch with Sergeant Velie. He was waiting for the Medical Examiner’s autopsy report on Hunk Carnucci, the nation-wide search for whom had ended that very evening at the bottom of the East River.

“What?” said the Inspector into the telephone; and Sergeant Velie saw his superior’s gray mustache quiver and his little bird-like face blanch. “Yes. Yes. All right. Now listen. No reporter gets into that room, see? Grab the registration card, too. I’ll have your scalp if there’s a leak... Right away!”

He hung up, looking ill.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Sergeant.

“Plenty.” Inspector Queen rose. “A woman’s been knocked off at the Villanoy.”

The Sergeant looked puzzled. “So what?”

In the squad car, rushing towards Times Square with the siren screaming, the Inspector told him so what.

“I don’t believe it,” protested Velie. “It’s a gag.”

“They’re registered as Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen, I tell you!” snarled the old man.

“But who’s the dame? And the one that was shot?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows yet.”

“When’d you see Ellery last?”

“This morning. He didn’t say anything to me about his getting married. I thought he acted funny, though.” The Inspector gnawed his mustache. “To do a thing like this to me! Step on her, will you?”

“Boy, the papers,” groaned Velie.

“Maybe there’s a chance to keep it quiet,” said the old man feverishly. “Step on it, you baboon!”

The Sergeant looked at him pityingly.

At the Villanoy the Inspector shook off reporters, had the lobby cleared, listened to several reports, nodded to one of his squad, who was waving a registration card, and commandeered an elevator.

In the elevator he surreptitiously examined the fateful card. “Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Queen.” His eyes narrowed even as he sighed with relief. The handwriting was not Ellery’s. But it was almost as bad — it was Beau Rummell’s.

“What’s the bad news?” whispered Sergeant Velie.

“Stand by, Thomas,” muttered the old man. “There’s something queer going on. It’s Beau Rummell, not Ellery; he’s using Ellery’s name.”

“The nervy sprout!”

“We’ll play along for a while. Pass the word along to the squad. No cracks about who Beau is.”

The instant Inspector Queen entered 1724 Beau seized his hand. “’Lo, dad! How’s the old man? I’ll bet you never expected to find sonny-boy in a spot like this!” He winked.

The Inspector deliberately took a pinch of snuff. He glanced at the body, and then at Kerrie, and then at Beau.

“I’ll bet I didn’t,” he said dryly, and turned to one of the precinct men. “All right, Lieutenant. Clear the room. Witnesses outside till I call.” Then he took Beau by the arm and steered him into the bedroom.

“Thanks, pop!” said Beau, grinning. “That was fast thinking. Thanks a million. Now look, I’ve got to scram out of here—”

“You do?” The Inspector eyed him coldly. “What’s the idea of using Ellery’s name and who’s the brunette?”

“It’s a long story. Too long to tell now. She’s my wife—”

“Your what!” gasped the old man. “I thought that ‘Mr. and Mrs.’ business was—”

“With her? Say, we were married late this evening. There was a reason — I mean, why I couldn’t use my own name.”

“Ellery know?” snapped the old man.

“Yes.”

He was silent.

“I’ve got to get out of here for a half-hour, pop!”

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I won’t leave the hotel.”

“Beau.” The Inspector looked him in the eye. “Did you have anything to do with that woman’s murder in there?”

Beau looked back and said simply: “No, pop.”

“Did your wife?”

“No.”

“How d’ye know?” asked the old man in a flash. “I’m told you walked in on her after the murder — your wife said so herself.”

“I can’t tell you how I know,” muttered Beau. “For Pete’s sake, pop, let me go now, will you? It’s important!”

“I’m a fool,” snarled the Inspector.

“Pop, you’re a prince!”

Beau strolled back into the sitting room, which was cleared except for the Inspector’s squad. He sauntered over to Kerrie and whispered into her ear: “I’ve got to go now, kid, for a little while. Remember what I said. Don’t talk. Not a word. Not even to — my old man.”

“What?” Her eyes were swimming in tears. “I mean...”

Beau swallowed. She looked so helpless he felt like jumping through the window. He had to do something! Get into that room from which the shots had come. After that... improvise. Keep going. It was toughest on her.

“I’ll be back soon.”

He kissed her and went out.

With him went the Do Not Disturb placard which had been hanging by its chain on the inside of the sitting-room door. He thrust it casually into his pocket.

Outside, a group of hotel employees and police looked at him curiously. Detective Flint, at the door, said it was all right. He went to the elevator and rang the Down bell. An elevator stopped. He got in and said: “Sixteenth.”

He got out on the sixteenth floor and bounded up the steps of the emergency stairway to the seventeenth floor again. The exit gave on a different corridor. He stole out. Clear sailing.

He made his way on tiptoe to Room 1726. Around the corner he could hear the group before 1724 talking excitedly.

Beau set his ear to the door of 1726. Then he slipped the Do Not Disturb sign over the knob and tried the door noiselessly. It gave. He pushed the door in quickly and softly, stepped inside, and closed the door again, careful to make no sound.

When the door was shut he turned the catch sidewise, locking the door from the inside.

Only then did he heave a sigh and turn round.

He crouched.

Some one was smoking a cigaret in the darkness of the room.

The murderer!

He rasped: “Don’t move. I’ve got you covered!”

“Really?” drawled Mr. Queen from behind the glowing tip of the cigaret. “Bluffer.”

XIII. Mr. Queen and Mr. Queen in Room 1726

“Nerves,” said Mr. Queen. “From which I gather you’ve been having a rough time of it.”

“Damn you,” said Beau. “How’d you get in?”

“As you see, in one piece. Oh, you don’t. Then let’s have some light. We both seem to need a lot of that.” Mr. Queen groped, found the light-switch, and snapped it on.

They blinked at each other, and then about the room.

“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Queen, noting the object of his partner’s scrutiny. “I shut the window at once, and of course the blind was drawn when I got here.”

“Prints?”

“I’m wearing gloves. As for you, don’t touch anything. When we’re through, there’s still the law.”

“You’d never know it,” grunted Beau. “Maybe with the light on, though — it’s only a few feet across the angle of the court to the window of the sitting room there—”

“No danger,” said Mr. Queen cheerfully. “This room is reserved, did you know that?”

Beau stared.

“Oh, you didn’t. Well, it is.”

“How d’ye know?”

“I asked.”

“You mean you just walked into the hotel—”

“Certainly. Always carry a badge or two. Detective What-You-Call-It, of H.Q. — at your service. I got in all right, and even made a few ‘official’ inquiries at the desk. Beat all around the mulberry bush to find out what I wanted to know without tipping my hand. At any rate, some one reserved Room 1726—”

“Man or woman?”

“No information. Reserved this room at about a quarter to nine this evening.”

“A quarter to nine? Why, Kerrie and I only checked in around half-past eight!”

Mr. Queen frowned. “That’s fast work. Followed you, do you suppose?”

“I don’t see how it’s possible. El, there’s been a leak!”

“Who knew you were coming to the Villanoy?”

“Only Margo. You know how I pretended to cook up that scheme with her. She fell for it, but insisted on knowing just where I was going, because she wanted to make sure I didn’t doublecross her. She even made me promise I wouldn’t spend the night with Kerrie — jealous as hell. Only Margo knew — so she’s the one who talked.”

“To whom?”

“To the same one she gave Kerrie’s gun to! How was the reservation made?”

“By wire, in an obviously false name — L. L. Howard. Of course, ‘Howard’ didn’t show up to claim the room — officially. Simply made sure the room would be unoccupied by reserving it, then let himself in with a skeleton key, I suppose, the way I did. How’s Kerrie?”

“Never mind,” said Beau miserably. “Let’s go.”

“You’re sure she didn’t bop Margo herself?”

“I told you what she told me! Don’t badger me. If we find evidence that some one was in this room, it’s a confirmation of her story, isn’t it?”

“It won’t mean much legally. Not a terribly inspiring room, is it?”

It was an ordinary single room-and-bath, with a bed, a dresser, two chairs, and a writing-table. The bed was prepared for the night, its spread neatly folded at the foot, and blankets turned down at one corner; but the pillows were plump and unwrinkled and the blankets smooth.

“Those ashes—” began Beau, pointing to the rug.

“Mine,” said Mr. Queen. “Also that butt in the tray on the desk. The other trays are clean, I see. Well, let’s begin with the bathroom. Look, but don’t touch.”

They went to work in silence. The bathroom was speckless — fresh towels laid out, clean bath-mat, paper-wrapped soap, shower-curtain, wash-rag. Nothing in the medicine chest. Nothing in the hamper. The washbowl was dry.

“That’s one,” said Mr. Queen, and they went back into the bedroom.

“Closet’s as clean as the bathroom,” announced Beau. “Not a sign. How you doin’?”

Mr. Queen crawled out from under the bed, “Remarkably efficient cleaning women in this hotel! Beau, start at the door and work towards the window. I’ll start at the window and work towards the door.”

“What on?”

“The rug.”

They crept towards each other in a weaving route — from one side of the room to the other. When they met in the middle of the room they glanced at each other and then rose.

“This,” remarked Mr. Queen, looking about, “is going to be tough.”

He went through the writing-desk and the dresser, not because he hoped but because he was thorough.

“That’s that,” he said. “Beau, what have we missed?”

“The window? Shade?”

“I went over them while you were in the closet. The only evidence that might be there is fingerprints, and while I can’t be sure, I’ve a feeling friend ‘Howard’ wore gloves.”

“But there must be something,” scowled Beau. “This guy was in here at least an hour, maybe more. You just can’t occupy a room for that length of time without leaving some trace of yourself.”

“‘Howard’ seems to have done it, though.”

“Well, let’s go. It’s a washout.” Beau turned disconsolately to the door.

“Wait, Beau. My fault!” Mr. Queen whirled.

“What’s your fault?”

“I overlooked something on this side of the room.”

“What?”

“The radiator.”

Beau joined him at the window. The cold steam-radiator stood directly beneath the sill.

Mr. Queen stooped over the coils, trying to peer between them. Then he lay down on the rug, twisting so that he might see clearly the narrow patch of rug just beneath the coils.

He stiffened. “Here’s something!”

“Hallelujah! Fish it out, Brother Queen!”

Mr. Queen reached in and, after a moment, delicately, between gloved thumb and gloved forefinger, drew out a longish slender object which tapered to a point.

It was black and made of a hard rubber composition. An automatic pencil.

The gold clip was loose.

“Simple enough to reconstruct what happened,” observed Mr. Queen after examination. “Whoever fired those shots at Margo Cole had to shoot through this window. So he was standing at the window — perhaps for a long time, watching from behind the drawn shade in the dark. At some point during that vigil, he stooped; and, the clip being loose, the pencil dropped from his pocket.

“By a miracle it missed both the sill and the radiator, falling through the space between them to the rug without making a sound. And it rolled several inches under the radiator. He had no reason to use a pencil, consequently he left without discovering his loss. Very considerate of him.”

“That’s all true the way you say it,” argued Beau. “But suppose it was dropped by some one who occupied this room yesterday, or last week, or last year?”

“Improbable. The room was prepared for occupancy late this evening, after the wired reservation. We know that, because the bed’s made up for the night. That means a maid cleaned up in here later than 8.45 tonight. And a maid who left not a speck of dust under a bed would scarcely have overlooked a pencil under a radiator. No, Beau, this pencil was dropped by ‘Howard,’ whoever he is.”

“Not much of a clue,” growled Beau. “Just a plain, ordinary, garden variety of automatic pencil. He might just as well have dropped nothing.”

“Well, now, I don’t, know,” murmured Mr. Queen. “Doesn’t anything about this pencil strike you as familiar?”

Beau stared at it. “Not guilty.”

“You’ve never seen one like it before?”

“I’ve seen thousands like it before,” retorted Beau. “That’s just the trouble.”

“No, no, not a pencil. Don’t you recall another writing implement of hard black rubber composition, with a gold clip?”

“Cole’s fountain-pen?” Beau laughed shortly. “That’s quite a deduction. Are you trying to tell me that, just because Cole’s pen was hard black rubber stuff and had a gold clip, this pencil was part of Cole’s pen-and-pencil set?”

“I’m trying to tell you exactly that,” said Mr. Queen, “but not for the reason you give, although the similarity of construction and appearance are striking. Where are your eyes?”

He held the pencil up. Beau looked it over without touching it — from its leaded point, where Ellery was gripping it, up its body to the eraser-cap.

And just below the cap he saw something that made him exclaim. The hard rubber was considerably scratched and dented in a sort of arced pattern; some of the nicks were deep.

“Those nicks look like the ones in Cole’s pen... But that’s impossible!”

“Disregarding philosophical considerations,” said Mr. Queen with a certain excitement, “I think we may prove or disprove the theory by completely material means.”

He laid the pencil carefully down on the rug between them and produced his wallet. From an inner pocket of the wallet he extracted a series of tiny squares of film.

“The microphotographs of the nicks in Cole’s pen I asked you to take,” he explained.

“But I thought they were in the office.”

“Too valuable to be left lying about. I’ve been carrying them in my wallet ever since.” Mr. Queen compared the photographs with the pencil on the rug. Then he handed the films to Beau.

When Beau looked up there was an expression of incredulity in his eyes. “The same!”

“Yes, the marks on this pencil and the marks on Cole’s pen were created by the same agency. Consequently this pencil is a companion of Cole’s pen.”

“Cole’s pencil,” mumbled Beau. “Cole’s!”

“Without a doubt.”

Beau got to his feet. Mr. Queen squatted on his hams Buddha-like, musing over the photographs and the pencil.

“But it can’t be,” Beau said.

“There’s the evidence.”

“But — Cole’s been dead for nearly three months! Unless the pencil’s been lying here—”

“I explained before,” replied Mr. Queen with a trace of impatience, “why that’s probably not so. But if you insist on confirmation, run your hand over the rug and patch of flooring under the radiator and between the radiator and wall. You’ll find it completely free of dust. Indicating that the rug and floor have been cleaned very recently. No, this pencil was dropped tonight by the person who shot Margo Cole.”

“By Cole, I suppose?” Beau laughed shortly. “You’ll be asking me to believe in the boogey man next!”

“There are other possibilities,” murmured Mr. Queen. “But if you insist on being argumentative — why not by Cole?”

“What?” cried Beau.

“Well, why not?” Mr. Queen stared at his partner impassively. “What proof have we that Cole is dead?”

Beau looked groggy. “It’s beyond me. Cole not dead?”

“I’m not asserting a fact, I’m posing a question. We have only one person’s word for the alleged fact that Cole died — Edmund De Carlos’s. Captain Angus, the crew — every one who could possibly substantiate De Carlos’s story is gone. No body was produced — ‘buried at sea,’ wasn’t the report?”

“But...”

“Is the reason Cole hired us three months ago beginning to emerge? Has Cole been hanging around all this time under the cloak of the perfect disguise — death and burial?”

“It’s true,” muttered Beau, “that we wouldn’t know him even if he were alive — no, that’s not true. We did see him. In our office. So that doesn’t wash. Then that would mean he’s hiding out somewhere. But why?”

“I can think of at least two reasons,” replied Mr. Queen, “either of which is perfectly sensible and makes the theory very attractive — very.”

“You mean you think Cole’s behind the whole business — the attacks on Kerrie, the murder of Margo? Then why did he hire us in the first place? Or, if he’s alive, where do the heirs fit in? Heirs can’t inherit from a living man; if they do, if that’s what he planned...” Beau shouted: “I’m going nuts!”

Mr. Queen said nothing.

“Wait! We’re both crazy. Of course there’s the simplest explanation! Cole is dead. This is his pencil, all right, but somebody else got hold of it and has been using it. Whoever that was is our man. Phew! For a few minutes there you had me going.”

Mr. Queen still said nothing. He wrapped the pencil in his breast-pocket handkerchief and tucked it away. Then he rose.

“Here! What are you doing?” demanded Beau. “Hand over that pencil.”

“I think not,” said Mr. Queen, buttoning his coat.

“But it’s our only evidence that some one was in this room. We’ve got to give it to your old man, Ellery.”

“We shan’t even tell him about it yet.”

“But — for the love of Pete, why not?”

“The trail’s a little too involved for the regular police mind,” said Mr. Queen egotistically. “Acute as dad is. And we’re not destroying evidence — we’re merely suppressing it temporarily. By itself it means little; we’ve got to make it mean more. And handing it over to the police means inevitably publication of its discovery. We can’t afford to warn off our man before all the cards are in our hands.”

“But — Kerrie!” stormed Beau. “Where’s the poor kid come in? At least that pencil establishes that some one was in this room tonight. To that extent it bolsters her story of the shots having come from this window.”

Mr. Queen looked grave. “If I really thought the pencil would clear her, Beau, I’d tell dad myself. But it won’t, and you know it won’t. She’s in a tight spot; the circumstances under which she was found are so damning by contrast with the tenuous reasoning from the pencil that she’s bound to be held. Let her tell her story by all means, truthfully; exactly as it happened. Dad will examine this room and find” — he grinned— “a burnt match-stick and the ashes and butt of my cigaret. That’s even better evidence than the pencil that the room was occupied tonight — the maid would certainly have removed those if they’d been present when she cleaned up.”

“You mean we don’t even tell him we’ve been in here?”

“He’ll probably guess it,” said Mr. Queen comfortably. “And then there’s the light in here. But he can’t prove it’s my butt if we don’t talk, can he?”

Beau stared at him. “You’d doublecross yourself, I swear, if you thought some good would come of it!”

“Dad and I have been on opposite sides of the fence before,” said Mr. Queen in a thoughtful way, “although I will admit this business tonight is in the nature of a dirty trick.”

“My God! He’s actually got a conscience!”

“So long, Beau. Let me know in the morning exactly what happened.”

XIV. Inspector Queen Inspects

When Beau stepped past the detectives on guard in 1724 he found Kerrie gone from the sitting room and the door to the bedroom shut.

Inspector Queen was alone. He was seated in the armchair by the window, a sheaf of reports before him. The debris of flash-bulbs cluttered the floor.

The body of Margo Cole was gone.

“Where’s Kerrie?” asked Beau, alarmed.

The Inspector looked at him. “Why don’t you stick around and find out?”

“Where is she?”

“In the bedroom in charge of the hotel doctor and a nurse. And one of my men. And a friend of hers, a Violet Day.”

Beau blinked. “Vi! How did she get here?”

“Your wife kept calling for her, told us where Miss Day was stopping... No, don’t go in yet. I want to have a talk with you.”

“But if Kerrie’s sick... Let me see her for a minute!”

“She isn’t sick; she just fainted. She’s all right now.”

Beau was silent. Then he said: “Did she talk?”

“You told her not to,” said the old man dryly, “so she didn’t. She must like you a lot, Beau, because she’s in one big kettle of fish.”

“She’s in no spot she can’t explain! Do you know who she is?”

“Sure. Kerrie Shawn. And the dead woman was her cousin, Margo Cole.”

Beau sat down suddenly. “Look, pop. Let’s not spar around. What have you got?”

The Inspector sneezed over a pinch of snuff, and then regarded Beau unwinkingly. “Your wife’s own admission establishes the fact that you weren’t here when the Cole woman arrived. In fact, that you didn’t get here till after the shooting. That lets you out for the record.

“Your wife was the only one in this room with Margo Cole — unless,” said the Inspector, “she can produce a third person. Point number one.”

“She can produce me,” said Beau quickly. “I tell you I was here. She said I wasn’t because she didn’t want to involve me.”

“Nothing doing. I’ve got a witness who saw you leave the hotel, Beau, and one who saw you come back. I know the exact times you went and returned. You couldn’t have been in this room when it happened. The elevator boy who landed you on the seventeenth floor says he heard the shots just as you stepped out of his elevator.”

“I tell you—”

“No, not you, Beau,” said the old man patiently. “Somebody else — if there was somebody else. But I’m pretty sure there wasn’t.”

“There was!”

“Who?”

Beau looked down. “I don’t know — yet.”

“I see.” Inspector Queen paused. “Well, let’s go on. Point number two: The house dick and O’Brien, manager of the hotel, both saw your wife holding the revolver which shot Margo Cole — holding it over the dead body. The house man says the barrel was still warm when he wrapped the gun in his handkerchief. Doc Prouty, who’s been here and gone, dug one of the three bullets out of the body. The slug came from a .22. The revolver your wife was holding is a .22. I’m having comparison tests made downtown right now, but I’m pretty sure without the report that those slugs came from the same weapon.”

“There were three bullets fired from the .22?”

“Yes. And, of course, your wife’s fingerprints are on it, too. And no others. That’s point number three.” The Inspector waited, but when Beau said nothing he went on. “Four: A quick check-up with the pistol-permit records has established that the .22 belongs to your wife.”

“But it was stolen from her,” protested Beau.

“Exactly when? Under what circumstances?”

Beau drooped. “Never mind. We can’t prove when or where. She only missed it yesterday.”

“Why didn’t she report the theft?”

“She hasn’t had time! She missed it yesterday, I tell you.”

The Inspector shook his head. “Thin, Beau. The picture looks — well, good. Her weapon, sole opportunity, caught red-handed a matter of minutes after the shooting, caught over the body with the proved weapon in her hand... The only thing we’ve got to fill in is motive.”

“Yeah, motive,” exclaimed Beau. “You say Kerrie killed Margo. Why should she?”

“That’s what I asked De Carlos.”

Beau sprang to his feet. “You talked to that — Where is he? What did he have to say, the hairy ape?”

“I notified De Carlos and Goossens by telephone of the murder; they’ll both be here soon. I asked De Carlos about a possible motive, and he was very helpful.”

“I’ll bet,” growled Beau. “What did he say, damn him?”

“Oh, you don’t like him? Why, several things. He said if you and Kerrie Shawn hadn’t run off to be married tonight, he could think of a dandy motive. At Margo’s death Kerrie would inherit the dead woman’s share of the income from the Cole estate, you see.”

Beau nodded gloomily.

“But, of course,” continued the Inspector, “he explained — and Goossens confirmed it when I asked him later — that Kerrie’s marriage automatically cut her out of all participation in the estate — her own share as well as Margo’s. So that motive is out.”

“So what are you battin’ about?” grumbled Beau.

“But he mentioned something,” drawled the old man, “about some ‘accidents’ to your wife in the past few weeks which didn’t quite come off — a horse that threw her and almost broke her neck, that little business in the garage last night...”

“What? What’s that? What about it?”

“And then I had a little chat with Miss Day a few minutes ago,” replied the Inspector mildly. “And she told me they weren’t accidents — something about nails having been loosened in the horse’s foreshoe, and the locking in of your wife in that garage having been deliberate, and something about some one having climbed into Miss Shawn’s bedroom not long ago during the night for a little exercise with a knife—”

“That blabbermouth,” said Beau hoarsely.

“And Miss Day also said it was both her opinion and Kerrie’s that all those ‘accidents’ had been staged by Margo Cole.”

Beau sat down again. “I don’t get you.” Then he rose.

“No? Then I’ll explain it to you.” The Inspector leaned back. “If your wife thought Margo Cole was trying to kill her — whether Margo Cole was or not, mind you! — then wouldn’t it be natural for your wife to buy a gun — as she did — and wouldn’t it be natural for her to shoot Margo Cole when Margo showed up in this room tonight and the two of them were alone? Yes, sir, that sounds like a motive to me.”

It’s an out, thought Beau desperately; a possible out. “Even if that’s so,” he shouted, “it’s self-defense, isn’t it?”

“My job is to get the facts. It’s the D.A.’s job to put them together.” The old man eyed Beau. “By the way, don’t you think it’s time you hired a good criminal lawyer?”

Beau began to race around the room.

“It’s as strong a circumstantial case as I’ve ever seen, Beau,” said the Inspector soberly.

“You’ve got it all wrong, I tell you. When you hear Kerrie’s story, you’ll see!”

“It will have to be more than a story, I’m afraid.” The Inspector rose. “Beau, you know how friendly your father and I were. And I’ve always looked on you as a sort of second son. Why don’t you tell me what you know, so I can help you?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” snapped Beau. “Nor does Kerrie!”

“There’s something else behind this. Where did you go a while back? What were you looking for? Who’d you see? Beau, you can trust me—”

Beau was silent.

“You’re putting me in a rotten spot,” said the Inspector gently. “You registered here in Ellery’s name and, even granting it was with El’s permission, that drags in a lot of personal considerations. I may even have to step out of the case because you did that. I’ve suppressed facts myself tonight. I’ve taken possession of the registration card and threatened all sorts of extra-legal punishments to those in the hotel who know the name you registered under. The newspaper boys are still in the dark about that. But they won’t be for long. At least tell me why you used my son’s name, so I’ll be prepared with an explanation.”

“Pop, I can’t,” said Beau hoarsely. “Pop... did you tell Kerrie?”

“Your wife?” The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me your own wife doesn’t know who you are?”

“She thinks I’m Ellery Queen,” confessed Beau. “Ellery knows about it. In fact, it was his idea.”

Inspector Queen stared at him; then, shaking his head, he went to the bedroom door.

Kerrie lay on one of the twin beds holding on to Violet Day’s hand. A nurse and a doctor stood by. There was a pungent odor of ammonium carbonate in the air. Leaning against the wall was Sergeant Velie.

Kerrie was the first to move. Her head swivelled, froze. But a moment later she sat up eagerly.

“Darling, you were so long.” She sounded tired.

Beau started for the bed, but the Inspector touched his arm. “No.”

Kerrie remained in a sitting position.

“Doc, would you mind waiting in the next room?” said the Inspector. “You, too, Nurse.”

They left the bedroom, Sergeant Velie carefully closing the door behind them.

“Well, I’m waiting,” said Inspector Queen.

Kerrie moistened her dry lips.

“It’s all right, Kerrie,” said Beau in a low voice. “It’s all right to talk now. Tell just what happened.”

Her glance was grateful. Vi took her hand again. Inspector Queen nodded to the Sergeant, who took a notebook and pencil out and prepared to write.

Kerrie told simply of the attempts to murder her, her suspicions of Margo, her purchase of the revolver, her discovery in the garage when she was trapped that the revolver had been stolen from the pocket of her roadster. She told of Beau’s proposal, and of their elopement.

“One moment.” The Inspector glanced at Beau. “You thought the Cole woman was behind these attacks, too?”

“I know she was.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me so.”

“What!” The Inspector was incredulous.

“I made love to her,” said Beau flatly. “I pretended to be on her side... for a price. I told her I was going to marry Kerrie, so that Kerrie’s share of the estate would be lost and would revert to Margo. We made a deal in which Margo was to kick back a certain part of Kerrie’s share to me.”

“Why?” demanded the old man. “Why’d you do this?”

“Because my chief concern was to save Kerrie’s life. Margo hated her, because of me and because of the money. If I could put the dough in her hands and convince her I loved her, not Kerrie, Kerrie’s life would be safe.”

Kerrie’s eyes were on his lips.

“The only thing I didn’t know,” continued Beau, “was that Margo was working with some one else. Go on, Kerrie.”

Kerrie went on. She told about their arrival at the Villanoy, how Beau left her, and how Margo came.

“I was sitting in the armchair by the window and she came over and stood behind me, still gloating over the trick she said she and Ellery” — the Inspector winced — “had played on me. Somehow she got round to talking about the attacks on my life—”

“Yes? What did she say, exactly?”

“As far as I remember, she said Ellery saved my life by marrying me. ‘If you hadn’t been lucky,’ she said, ‘you’d have been dead long before now.’ And she went on to say that the visit to my room that night, the accident to my horse, my being locked in the garage and nearly gassed, were not accidents at all. When I said I suspected all along she was responsible, she laughed and said: ‘But it wasn’t only I who planned those attacks. It was I — and somebody else.’ And just as she was about to tell me who the other one was — the shots...”

She stopped, her chin quivering.

“Ah, the shots,” said the Inspector politely. “But I thought you two were alone in the sitting room.”

“We were,” she said in a faint voice. “The shots came across the court, through my window, over my head, striking Margo who was standing behind my chair. That other window, my window, I, Margo, were all in one straight line.”

The Inspector glanced pityingly at Beau. But Beau was lighting a cigaret with shaking hands.

“Suppose you show me just how it happened,” the old man sighed.

Beau jumped forward to help Kerrie off the bed. Her fingers coiled tightly in his. The inspector looked away, and Sergeant Velie opened the door for them. They all went into the sitting room.

Inspector Queen spent some time over Kerrie’s story. He had her sit in the armchair as she claimed to have sat at the moment of the shooting. He checked the position of the body. He made Kerrie retell her story four times.

“A hand threw the gun in through my window, I tell you!” moaned Kerrie. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“But you don’t seem to know whether the hand was a man’s or a woman’s.”

“I was in the light, and the court and that room there were in darkness. I could hardly see. But I made out the flash of a hand. How could I tell whether it was a man’s or a woman’s?”

The Inspector grunted. The doctor gave him a warning look and insisted on Kerrie’s returning to the bedroom to lie down again. The old man nodded and, glancing at Sergeant Velie, who winked, went outside without explanation.

But Beau knew he had gone to examine Room 1726. He went back into the bedroom with Kerrie and sat down on the bed, and she curled up in his arms and closed her eyes. Neither said anything.

Lloyd Goossens arrived shortly after the Inspector went out, and considerably later, Edmund De Carlos marched in.

Goossens was smoking his pipe with nervous embarrassment, rubbing his unshaven cheeks; he had apparently, been roused from his bed by the Inspector’s summons. De Carlos’s skin was leaden, his beard gaunt. But there was a queer sparkle in the wide eyes behind his spectacles.

The Sergeant kept them in the sitting room, where they occupied themselves chiefly in endeavoring to avoid the blood-stained spot on the rug as they paced in aimless circles.

Beau came out of the bedroom and the two men bombarded him with questions. He told them what had happened and then took Goossens aside, to De Carlos’s annoyance. “What do you think?”

Goossens shook his head. “It looks bad, Mr. Queen. A hard story to believe. Especially without evidence to confirm it. If I were you, I’d engage the best lawyer in New York. In fact, if you’d like me to suggest counsel for Mrs. Queen—”

“Thanks. Don’t you think it’s a bit premature?” said Beau curtly.

When the Inspector returned, he conferred with De Carlos and the lawyer for some time in the sitting room. Finally they all went into the bedroom.

It was a bad moment, De Carlos and Goossens hanging back, avoiding Kerrie’s staring eyes. But the Inspector was brisk.

“I’ll be frank with you,” he said to Kerrie and Beau. “There’s no evidence of 1726 having been occupied tonight except a cigaret butt, a burnt match-stick, and some ashes. The maid on duty says she prepared the room late this evening, and there’s a record of a wired reservation. But the maid isn’t sure she mightn’t have overlooked the cigaret, and there’s a clear record that no one showed up tonight to occupy the room. Beau.”

“Well?”

“There was a light in 1726 this evening. Is that where you went? Is that your cigaret butt in there?”

Beau said: “Who, me?”

The Inspector shrugged. “Anyway, the evidence doesn’t begin to bolster the story.”

“But it’s true,” said Kerrie slowly. “I tell you—”

Beau shook his head at her.

The Inspector stroked his mustache with an agitated forefinger. “I’ll have to hold you,” he said.

XV. The De Carlos Entente

When the inspector had left, hurriedly and with a murderous glance at Beau, Goossens coughed and said: “Mrs. Queen, as — as co-executor of the Cole estate it’s my duty to inform you that your marriage today eliminates you from further participation in the income from your uncle’s estate. There are certain matters, papers... If there’s anything I can do in the way of legal advice, of course... Dreadfully sorry...”

He left, like the Inspector, in a sort of flight.

Kerrie was sobbing on Beau’s shoulder, and Vi was tearing a handkerchief methodically to pieces by the window.

“What are you hanging around for, pop-eyes?” demanded Beau, eying De Carlos with angry dislike.

De Carlos smiled nervously. “I’d like... I’d like to speak to you alone, Mr. Queen.”

“Scram.”

“I must. It’s a private matter—”

“It’ll have to wait. Beat it, will you?”

De Carlos said in a soft voice: “But it’s quite urgent.”

Beau glared at him. The man made a weird picture with his brushlike hair, his beard, his glittering teeth and spectacles, a certain air of mingled intentness, triumph, and anxiety.

“Meet you in my office in Times Square in half an hour,” said Beau on impulse. “I’ll leave word with the night man to let you in.”

“Thank you.” De Carlos bowed to Kerrie, smiling or seeming to smile in his beard, and scurried out.

“Ellery. Don’t go,” said Kerrie tiredly. Her arms were dead weights about his neck.

“I’ve got to, funny-face.” Beau signalled to Vi over Kerrie’s head. “Vi won’t leave you. Will you, Vi?”

“What do you think I am? Of course not!” said Vi with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I don’t like the dump I’m in, anyway.”

“You get the doc to give you a shot of something,” Beau told Kerrie gently. “You need a pocketful of sleep.”

She hung on to him, whimpering.

“Kerrie. You know I love you, don’t you?” She hugged him. “You don’t believe a single word of what — she told you tonight, do you?” Kerrie shook her head violently. “You know I’m in there batting for you a thousand percent, don’t you?” She nodded, empty of words. “Then leave everything to me, and don’t worry.”

He kissed her and rose. Kerrie twisted her body on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Beau cracked his knuckles in a sort of baffled agony. Then he kissed her again and ran out.

Beau stopped on the sidewalk outside the hotel to cup his hands around a cigaret.

He glanced swiftly about. The street was deserted. An occasional cab cruised by. By his wristwatch it was almost four o’clock. He tossed the match away and began to walk briskly towards Broadway. The night air had a chilly touch; he turned the collar of his jacket up.

He slipped into an all-night drug store, went into a phone booth, shut the door tightly, and called Mr. Ellery Queen’s home telephone number.

Ellery answered almost at once.

“It’s Beau. Weren’t you in bed?”

“I’ve been thinking. What’s up?”

“Plenty. Listen, El, De Carlos showed up at the Villanoy and says he’s got to have a private chin with me. I played a hunch and told him to meet me at the office right away. You want to sit in?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Mr. Queen with a certain grimness. “Any idea what’s stirring?”

“No. Grab a cab and get down here fast as you can.”

“I’ll be there in time. How’s Kerrie?”

Beau hung up.

He strode to Times Square, crossed the street, pounded on the door of his office-building.

A yawning watchman admitted him. “Hey, Joe. I expect a man by the name of De Carlos to blow in soon. Let him in. He’ll ask for Mr. Queen. Take him up to our office.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rummell. Say, don’t you ever sleep?”

“Don’t answer any questions. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Beau let himself into the Queen office, switched on the lights, threw open the windows, and took a bottle from a desk-drawer.

Ten minutes later there was a knock at the reception-room door. He put the bottle down and went out.

The knocker was De Carlos, alone.

“Come in,” said Beau. He locked the door. “You’re early. I’ve telephoned my partner to come down; he’ll be here soon.”

“Your partner?” De Carlos did not look pleased.

“Yes. Uh — guy by the name of Beau Brummell — I mean, Rummell. We’re like that.” Beau rubbed his eyes and led the way to the inner office. “Have a snifter?”

“But I wanted to speak to you privately.”

“No secrets between Beau and me,” growled Beau. He waved towards the bottle as he lit a cigaret. De Carlos licked his red lips, looking about for a glass. There was none in sight, and Beau did not offer one. De Carlos tilted the bottle. Beau watched him cynically. The man drank and drank. When he set the bottle down his gray cheek-bones had turned pink.

He smacked his lips and said: “Now—”

“Not now,” said Beau. “Have another.”

De Carlos waved gaily. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He picked up the bottle again.

De Carlos was drunk when Mr. Queen unlocked the front door and entered the inner office.

The bearded man lay sprawled in the “client’s chair,” waving the bottle and leering glassy-eyed at Beau.

“Ah, the pardner,” said De Carlos, trying to rise. He fell back in the chair. “’Do, Mis’er Rummell. Lovely night. I mean sad. So sad. Have seat, Mis’er Rummell.”

Ellery glanced at Beau, who winked. “This is Mr. Edmund De Carlos, Rummell,” said Beau to Ellery in a voice loud enough to pierce the clouds of alcohol on Mr. De Carlos’s brain. “One of the trustees of the Cole estate, you know.”

“Siddown, Mis’er Rummell,” said Mr. De Carlos cordially, waving the bottle. “Pleasure, ’m sure. Siddown!”

Ellery sat down behind the desk. “I understand you’ve something important to say to us, Mr. De Carlos.”

De Carlos leaned forward confidentially. “Impor’nt an’ worth money, Mis’er Rummell. Pots o’ money, y’un’erstan’.”

“Go on, spill,” said Beau.

“We’re frien’s. We’re all frien’s here. An’ we’re men of the worl’, hey?” De Carlos giggled. “Know what it’s all about. Now I know de... de-tec-tive a’ncies, gen’l’men, an’ I know de-tec-tives. Bought — can all be bought. Jus’ a madder o’ price, I say. Jus’ a madder o’ price... tha’sh all.”

“Do I understand that you want to engage us to investigate a case for you, Mr. De Carlos?” asked Ellery.

De Carlos stared at him owlishly, then burst into laughter. “Very good, Mis’er Rummell. I wanna ’ngage you not to inveshtigate a cashe!”

Beau and Ellery exchanged glances. Then Beau said: “You want what?”

De Carlos grew immediately serious. “Now look, Mis’er Queen. Le’s shpread cardsh on table, huh? I know you married li’l Kerrie tonight ’caush you wash in a deal wi’ Margo. You marry Kerrie, she loshes income from eshtate, Margo gets it, you share with Margo — nishe work, Mis’er Queen, nishe work. But wha’ happensh? Your wife goesh and shpoilsh it all. Putsh three bulletsh in Margo. Woof! Margo’sh dead.” He wagged his head solemnly. “An’ then where are you, Mis’er Queen? Holdin’ the bag, Mis’er Queen, hey?”

“You can that kind of talk,” said Beau in a hard voice. “You might get hurt. You heard the story!”

“Nishe shtory, Mis’er Queen,” leered De Carlos, “but it won’t go. No, shir, it’sh fan — fantastic. Sure she killed Margo — she’sh guilty ash hell, Mis’er Queen. Whadda you care, anywaysh? Tha’sh not the point. Tha’sh—”

Beau spanned the space between him and De Carlos in a split second. He grabbed De Carlos by the throat.

Ellery said: “Hold it, Brains,” and Beau relaxed his grip sheepishly. De Carlos stared up at him, frightened.

“No sense in going off half-cocked,” said Ellery smoothly. “You’ll have to excuse my partner, Mr. De Carlos. He’s had a trying night.”

“Got no call shtrangling people,” muttered De Carlos, feeling his Adam’s-apple.

“You were about to say?”

De Carlos struggled out of the chair, eying Beau warily. “You gen’l’men been jockeyed out of a lot o’ money by Kerrie — by shome one killing Margo.” He shook his forefinger at Ellery. “’S a shame, I shay. Y’oughta be recom — recompenshed, I shay. An’ Edmund De Carlos’s the man to do it! Good frien’s, huh? I make it up to you, huh?”

“Huh,” said Beau. “The piece of cheese. And we’re the rats. I didn’t get it, and I still don’t. What’s the gag, Blackbeard?”

“No gag, gen’l’men! Oh, coursh if I do somethin’ for you, you gotta do somethin’ for me. Tha’sh on’y fair, hey?” He peered anxiously at them. “Hey?”

“Hey, hey,” said Ellery, with a warning glance at Beau. “I should say. Now, as I understand it, you’re worried over our loss in the Margo deal, and you’d like to make it up to us financially. In return for your little contribution to our agency account you want us to do something for you in return. And what might that be, Mr. De Carlos?”

De Carlos beamed. “’S a pleasure to do bushiness with you, Mis’er Rummell. Why, you gotta do nothin’, shee. Tha’sh what I shaid before. I’m payin’ you not to inveshtigate a cashe! You shtep out. ’Way, way out. You forget you ever heard of Cadmus Cole, or the Cole eshtate, or... or anything. Shee what I mean?”

Beau growled deep in his throat, but Ellery rose quickly and came forward to step between the two men. He kicked Beau’s shin not gently with his left heel and took De Carlos’s arm.

“I think we understand, Mr. De Carlos,” he said with a leer to match their visitor’s. “You feel we’ve been snooping about a bit too freely, and you’d breathe more easily if we directed our agency energies elsewhere. How much did you say our stepping out was worth to you?”

“I didn’t shay.” De Carlos peered up at him with a bleary shrewdness. “Shall we shay — ten thoushand dollars?”

“Come, come, Mr. De Carlos. We’d have made a good deal more than that in the Margo Cole deal.”

“De Carlos-boy’sh bein’ held up, held up,” De Carlos grunted. “Now don’ hoi’ me up, gen’l’men. Fifteen.”

“Now you’re bruising my feelings, Mr. De Carlos.”

“Aw ri’,” grumbled De Carlos, “shall we shay twen’y thoushand?”

“Shall we rather say twenty-five, Mr. De Carlos?”

De Carlos muttered to himself. Finally he growled: “’S a deal. Twen’y-fi’ thoushand. Robbersh!”

“Just-business,” Ellery assured him. “Now how is this little payment to be made? Cash, I trust?”

“Cash! I don’t carry that mush cash aroun’ me,” said De Carlos irritably. “Give you a sheck.”

“Checks bounce,” reflected Mr. Queen.

“Well, thish one won’t! An’ if it doesh, you’re protected. You don’t have to go through with our ’greement.”

“Before that logic we bow. A check it shall be. Chair, Mr. De Carlos?”

He helped the reeling man around the desk and sat him down in the swivel-chair, reaching over to switch on the powerful desk-lamp.

De Carlos fumbled in his clothes and brought out a checkbook. He opened it, stared at the last stub morosely, then groped in his pockets again. Finally his hand emerged with a fountain-pen.

He unscrewed the cap, pushed it onto the other end of the pen, leaned over and, tucking his tongue in one cheek, began laboriously to write out a check.

If he had taken a bomb from his pocket Mr. Queen and Mr. Rummell could not have been so startled.

Their eyes fixed in a fascinated amazement at the pen in De Carlos’s lax, blundering fingers.

It was a black hard-rubber fountain-pen, fat and scarred, and it was trimmed in gold.

On the cap, etching-sharp in the bold light of the lamp, there were certain curious scratchy marks and dents in an arced pattern — a familiar pattern, a pattern Messrs. Queen and Rummell had seen twice before... once earlier that evening in Room 1726 at the Villanoy on the pencil they had found behind the radiator, and once months before in that very office, at that very desk.

The identical pen.

Under the identical circumstances.

It was Cadmus Cole’s fountain-pen!