The Dragon’s Teeth

XX. Mr. Queen Explains a Logical Fallacy

“You’re both mad,” exclaimed Mr. Edmund De Carlos. “Get out of my way.”

“What?” said Beau blankly, watching Ellery.

“If you don’t let me go, I’ll have you arrested!”

Captain Angus scraped his lean jaws, concealing a smile. “This looks like a private fight. So if you gentlemen will excuse me—”

Mr. Queen wiped his streaming eyes. “Please be good enough to remain, Captain,” he gasped. He began to laugh again.

“What’s so funny about what?” growled Beau. “Anybody would think what happened here tonight’s a joke!”

“It is. Oh, it is, Beau. A great joke, and it’s on me.” Mr. Queen sighed and wiped his eyes once more. “I’d appreciate your remaining too, Mr. De Carlos.”

“I don’t see why I should!”

“Because I ask you to,” said Mr. Queen, smiling. He stared at De Carlos. De Carlos clicked his plate agitatedly. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t discuss this fiasco like civilized people. Drink?”

Captain Angus brightened. “Now, that’s different.”

Ellery produced a fresh bottle of Scotch and several glasses from a desk-drawer. The Captain flung his coat and hat aside, drew up a chair, and accepted a glass companionably.

“You, too, Mr. De Carlos,” said Mr. Queen. “Oh, forget it, man! Mistakes will happen in the best-regulated detective agencies.”

He smiled so disarmingly, and the bottle gave off such a warmly inviting glow under the lamps, that Mr. De Carlos, although surlily, sat down and accepted a glass, too.

“Beau?”

“Don’t I look as if I could use one?” Beau asked disgustedly.

“On that basis, you ought to appropriate the bottle. Gentlemen, a’ toast! To Logic — never sell her short!” Mr. Queen drank and then beamed at them all.

“Where do we go from here?” grunted Beau. “There’s Kerrie back in stir, and we’re as far from an answer as we ever were.”

“Not quite.” Mr. Queen leaned back and surveyed them with bright eyes. “Not quite, Beau. This little experience has taught me a lesson: Always trust the dictates of pure reason. The little voice warned me, and I was very rude. Ignored him. Completely. Shame on me.”

De Carlos suddenly helped himself to another glassful, which he tossed down with a jerk.

“I told you, Beau,” continued Mr. Queen, his eyes on De Carlos, “that there was one discrepancy in the array of facts at our disposal which bothered me. But the identification of poor old De Carlos here as Cadmus Cole seemed so indisputable that it made me commit the unforgivable sin... the sanctioning of a showdown before the case was complete to the last comma. It embarrassed Mr. De Carlos, it embarrassed me, and as for Inspector Queen, my doting parent,” he grimaced, “wait until he gets me alone within the four walls of our loving home. Did you see his expression as he left?”

“I saw it,” groaned Beau. “But, Ellery, how in God’s name could we have been wrong? I still don’t see—”

“We based our conclusion that De Carlos was really Cole on three points: his possession of Cole’s fountain-pen; his perfect resemblance to the man who visited us in this office three months ago, once you eliminated the false teeth, wig, glasses, and beard; and the crusher — the incontrovertible fact that the handwriting of both persons was identical.”

“Do you really, need me?” muttered De Carlos. “I’d prefer—”

“Another drink, Mr. De Carlos?” asked Mr. Queen, glancing at him; and De Carlos reached quickly for the bottle again. “Now the first point, the fountain-pen, was the least decisive of the three... a leading, or build-up, point. And yet it was in this point that the discrepancy lay.”

“What discrepancy?” howled Beau.

“Why, the fact that those peculiar markings on the cap of the pen could only have been made by teeth. Of course, you saw that, Beau? Those arced patterns of dents? Those deep nicks in the hard rubber composition? It was obvious that the markings were impressed into the cap by some one who was in the habit of chewing on the end of his fountain-pen.”

“Why, sure,” said Beau. “So what?”

“The man who used the pen that day in our office was presumably the owner of the pen, and the owner of the pen was unquestionably in the habit of chewing on it. And yet the man who used the pen that day, the man who called himself Cadmus Cole, didn’t have a tooth in his mouth!

“And that was the discrepancy, for I asked myself, not once but dozens of times, and finally wound up by ignoring the question: How can a toothless man make teeth-marks on the cap of a fountain-pen?”

Captain Angus poured another drink for himself; but at the sight of De Carlos’s face he suddenly offered the glass to the bald man. De Carlos accepted it and drank with a sort of desperation; and the Captain’s cold eyes grew colder.

“But De Carlos wears false teeth,” protested Beau. “Couldn’t those marks have been made by false teeth as well as by real teeth?”

“As a matter of fact,” retorted Mr. Queen, “they couldn’t have been — not by Mr. De Carlos’s false teeth, at any rate.”

“Why not?”

“Skip it. Let’s examine, or rather re-examine, the second point: our identification of De Carlos as Cole on the basis of exact facial and physical similarity.”

“But we were wrong. The Captain has identified De Carlos as De Carlos, not as Cole.”

“That’s right,” nodded the Captain. “He is De Carlos.”

“I am De Carlos,” said De Carlos defiantly, glaring about.

“You are De Carlos,” said Mr. Queen in a soft tone. “Exactly. But there is still no doubt, Mr. De Carlos, that the man who visited us three months ago looked exactly like you. Consequently, I must revise our former conclusion. We said that since Cole came that day, and since you look exactly like Cole, then you must be Cole. Now I say that since you are De Carlos, and since the man who visited us three months ago looked exactly like De Carlos, then the man who visited us three months ago was De Carlos!”

“You mean,” boomed Captain Angus, “that De Carlos came here three months ago and posed as Mr. Cole?”

“Precisely.”

“I’ll be damned,” gasped Beau.

“Let’s rather stick to the point,” murmured Mr. Queen. “That’s the revised conclusion, gentlemen, and it’s the correct conclusion. It also clears up another point that troubled me.

“The man who introduced himself to us as Cadmus Cole came to hire our services. When I asked him, not unreasonably, what we had been hired for, he refused to say.

“Later we discovered that we had been engaged for the simplest possible task — merely to locate a couple of missing heirs. That only deepened the mystery. Why did Cole originally refuse to tell us what he was hiring us for, when it was merely to find two missing heirs?

“But now,” grinned Mr. Queen, “you grasp the confirmation of my thesis. Cole made a mystery of why he was hiring us because he didn’t know why himself! But how could Cole not know? Only in one way: if he wasn’t Cole, but some one else!”

De Carlos took still another drink with trembling fingers. His cheeks, where the beard had just been shaven, were deathly pale; his cheekbones and nose, however, were bright red.

“So he was a crook after all,” remarked Captain Angus reflectively. “I always suspected it. Sneaky sort. Couldn’t look you in the eye.” He roared suddenly at De Carlos: “What did you have up your sleeve that time, you black shark?”

“I think I can guess,” said Mr. Queen gently. “The secret of his Cole impersonation three months ago lies in his character. He can carry out orders admirably. He can execute a plan concocted by some one else with remarkable efficiency. But, like most men who are trained to unquestioning obedience, he came a cropper when he pushed out on his own. Isn’t that so, Mr. De Carlos?

“You knew Cole had made out his will, that he was suffering from heart disease. Cole may even have told you that he felt he had only a short time to live and would probably not return from that last West Indian cruise alive. So he sent you into town to deliver his sealed will to Goossens, with orders to stop in at our office as well and engage Ellery Queen for an unstated investigation. That worried you, Mr. De Carlos. What investigation? But you were too discreet to ask Cole. You were worried and you didn’t ask Cole for the same reason: you had prepared a little scheme of your own. And that scheme necessitated impersonating your employer, didn’t it?”

De Carlos burst out: “You know that, but you don’t know why! The Captain could tell you — he knew Cole as well as I did. He was a devil, a... a snake, that man!”

“He had his moments,” admitted Captain Angus with a grim nod.

“For years before his death,” said De Carlos hoarsely, “he amused himself with me. He’d tell me he knew why I was sticking to him so faithfully — why I kept living that ghastly living death at sea.” His face was a uniform mauve now, suffused with passion. “He’d say it was because I expected to come into his fortune when he died. And then he’d laugh and say he was going to leave me a lot of money. And then again he’d seem to change his mind and say he wouldn’t leave me a cent. He kept me on a hook like that for years, playing me like a fish!”

Mr. Queen glanced inquiringly at Captain Angus, and the Captain nodded. “It’s true. I’ll give him that.”

“Things got worse between us,” cried De Carlos. “The last few months he played only one tune — that he’d leave me nothing. I guess he liked to see me try to act indifferent about it, the old devil! When he made out his will — it was the very first document of his I knew nothing about. He had Angus write it out for him. He wouldn’t let me stay in the cabin. So I didn’t even know what the will said.”

“That’s so,” said the Captain. “Mr. Cole called me in and dictated his will. I wrote it out in longhand and then, when it was corrected to his satisfaction, he had me type it out. He made me burn the handwritten draft, and he was laughing.”

“I was frantic,” said De Carlos, clasping and unclasping his hands. “I saw all those years, alone with him, taking his orders, knuckling under to him, enduring his bad temper, having to act a part all the time — wasted, all wasted! Because he didn’t have me make out the will and even kept me out of the cabin, I was positive he had cut me off without a cent. He even said to me when he handed me the sealed will to take ashore: ‘Don’t open it, Edmund. Remember! I’ve enclosed instructions for the lawyer to examine the seal very carefully — to see if it’s been tampered with.’ And he laughed that ugly barking laugh of his, as if it were a great joke.”

“Of course that wasn’t true about the instructions,” said Mr. Queen. “He was toying with you, trying to make you squirm.”

De Carlos nodded, seizing the bottle. He drank deeply and set the bottle down with a bang. “That was when I made my plan,” he said defiantly. “It wasn’t very clear. I was half-crazy... Who knew Cole personally? I said to myself. Nobody but Angus and I and the crew had seen him for eighteen years. If Cole died at sea and Angus was willing to throw in with me, why, we could buy off the crew and the two of us could come back and say it was De Carlos who died and was buried at sea. Because I’d take over the rôle of Cole! Nobody would be the wiser, and Angus and I would divide something like fifty million dollars.”

He stopped short, frightened by Captain Angus’s expression. The seaman seized De Carlos by the collar and said in a low voice: “You dirty rascal. Tell these men this is the first I’ve ever heard of that thieving plan — tell ’em, or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply—” began De Carlos hurriedly. “Mr. Queen, Mr. Rummell, I assure you... the Captain didn’t have the faintest idea of what I had in mind. I hadn’t spoken to him about it at all!”

“That’s better,” scowled the Captain, and he sat down again and helped himself quietly to another drink.

“I see,” murmured Mr. Queen. “So that’s why you impersonated Cole — shaved the gray fringe off your skull, removed your glasses, your dental plate. Made up that way, you corresponded roughly to Cole. Later, when you expected to return, after Cole died at sea, with the story that De Carlos had died, you’d pass yourself off as Cole and there would be three people at least prepared to swear in all sincerity that you were Cole — the three people you had visited ashore in the guise of Cole: Goossens, Rummell, and myself. Grandiose in conception, Mr. De Carlos, but a little optimistic, wasn’t it?”

“I realized that later,” muttered De Carlos with a weak, wry smile. “Anyway, when I got back to the yacht Cole blew up my whole scheme himself without realizing it. He showed me a carbon copy of the will I’d just delivered to Goossens — and I saw that in the will, after all, he’d left me a million dollars. A million! I was so relieved I abandoned my... my plan.”

“But you still weren’t out of the woods,” remarked Mr. Queen. “Because Goossens and Rummell and I had seen you bald, toothless, clean-shaven, and without glasses — really quite denuded, Mr. De Carlos — at the time you passed yourself off as Cole. Obviously, in abandoning your plan, you had to plan to present yourself in our society looking entirely different! You had to get yourself a wig — in Cuba, was it? — put back your plate and glasses, and of course it was immediately after Cole told you he had left you a million that you began to grow a beard.”

“Wait a minute.” Beau frowned. “There’s one thing I don’t get — that handwriting business. This worm did write out a check, signing Cole’s name to it, and the bank did pass it. How come? Even the signature on the will—”

“Ah,” said Mr. Queen, “that was the beautiful part of it — the part that was so slick and pat that upon it we based a wholly erroneous theory. That handwriting business was the crux of your illusion, wasn’t it, De Carlos? It made the whole fantastic project possible. Who would dream that the man who visited us was not Cole when we saw him sign Cole’s name before our eyes and the check went through the bank without a hitch?

“But Captain Angus has already given us the answer to that.” De Carlos slumped in his seat, drunk and sullen. “Cole’s arthritis! Arthritis deformans is a crippling disease of the joints for which, once it has fully developed — and it develops very quickly — there’s no known cure. It’s accompanied by a great deal of pain—”

“Pain?” The Captain made a face. “Mr. Cole used to go near crazy with it. He took from sixty to a hundred and twenty grains of aspirin a day for relief as long as I knew him. I used to tell him he ought to leave the sea, because the damp air only made the pain worse, but I guess he was too sensitive about his crippled hands to go back to a landsman’s society.”

Ellery nodded. “And the Captain said his hands were so badly misshapen that he had to be fed — couldn’t even handle a knife and fork. Obviously, then, he couldn’t write, either.

“But if he couldn’t write, that was the answer to the handwriting problem. Cole was an immensely wealthy man and, even though he had retired, his far-flung holdings must have necessitated an occasional signature on a legal paper. And of course there was the problem of signing checks. He couldn’t carry his fortune about with him in cash. Solution? Good Man Friday, who’d been with him for more than twenty-five years.

“Certainly at the time arthritis struck him — which must have been just before he made his post-War killing in Wall Street — De Carlos had been Cole’s trusted lieutenant long enough to serve as a useful pair of hands in place of the hands Cole found useless.

“So he had De Carlos begin signing the name ‘Cadmus Cole’ to everything, including checks. To save tedious explanation, and because he was sensitive about his deformity, as Captain Angus has indicated, he wished to keep his condition a secret. He had you open new accounts in different banks, didn’t he, De Carlos? So that from the beginning of his monastic existence, his name in your handwriting wasn’t questioned!”

“You mean to say,” demanded Captain Angus, “that De Carlos didn’t tell you gentlemen that?”

“Overlooked it,” said Beau dryly.

“But I don’t see— Why, he signed Cole’s will for the old gentleman! He had to, because Mr. Cole couldn’t even hold a pen, as Mr. Queen says. After I typed out the will, I signed as witness and took the will to the radio operator’s cubby, where Sparks signed, too. Then I brought the will back to Mr. Cole’s cabin, and he sent for De Carlos, and De Carlos signed Mr. Cole’s name, I suppose, after I left. I noticed while I was there,” the Captain chuckled, “that Mr. Cole didn’t let De Carlos see what was in the will. Having his little joke to the last.”

“Just the same,” retorted Beau, “it seems to me for a smart hombre Cole was taking one hell of a chance letting this De Carlos potato sign his checks!”

“Not really,” said Ellery. “I imagine Cole kept a close watch on you, didn’t he, De Carlos? Probably supervised the accounts, and then you were at sea practically all the time, where you couldn’t get into mischief even if you wanted to.”

“Hold!” said Beau. “Hold. There’s another thing. This monkey tried to buy us off. Offered us twenty-five grand to quit poking our noses into the case. Why?”

“Excellent question,” agreed Mr. Queen. “Why?” De Carlos squirmed. “Then I’ll tell you. Because you’d lost most of Cole’s legacy by gambling, ill-advised market speculation, night-clubbing, the cutey route, general all-around helling — it didn’t take you long to run through what was left of the million after taxes were deducted, did it, De Carlos? And so there you were, almost broke, and the golden goose lying fathoms under. You conceived another brilliant idea.”

“You’re the devil himself,” said De Carlos thickly.

“Please,” protested Mr. Queen. “Is that fair to the Old ’Bub? With the woman who posed as Margo Cole dead, and with Kerrie Shawn, the other heiress, arrested and — you fervently hoped — slated for conviction and execution, that left the huge principal of the Cole estate free of heirs and completely in the hands of its trustees. And who were they? Goossens and your worthy self! Does that suggest anything, Mr. De Carlos?”

Beau stared. “Don’t tell me Mr. Smart was going to make another deal to milk the estate — with Goossens, this time!”

“The firm of Ellery Queen, Inc. being out of the picture,” murmured Mr. Queen, “I daresay that was the general idea. And I’ve no doubt whatever but that Mr. Goossens is as ignorant this moment, De Carlos, of your second plan as the good Captain here was of your first.”

De Carlos struggled to his feet. “You’ve been very clever, Mis — Mis’er Queen—”

“Incidentally,” remarked Mis’er Queen, “let me congratulate you on your forbearance. Of course you knew from the very first that Beau Rummell wasn’t Ellery Queen, because you met us both three months, ago in our proper identities, when you were pretending to be Cole. But you couldn’t unmask us without revealing how you came to know, so you maintained a discreet silence. Truly a Chestertonian situation!”

“What you go — going to do about it?” demanded Mr. De Carlos, leering. “Huh, Mis’er Queen?”

“For the present, nothing.”

“Thought sh — so!” said De Carlos contemptuously. “Jus’ a lot o’ wind. Farewell, gen’l’men. C’m’up an’ see me shome — some time!”

He staggered to the door and disappeared.

“I think,” said Captain Angus with a certain grimness, “I’ll accept his invitation right now. Help you keep an eye on him. I’ve nothing better to do, anyway.”

“That would be fine, Captain,” said Mr. Queen heartily. “We can’t have him leaving on a sudden jaunt to Indo-China, can we?”

The Captain chuckled, snatched his coat and hat, and hurried after De Carlos.

“Now that we’re back where we started from, what are we going to do?” Beau hurled a paper-knife at the opposite wall. It stuck, quivering.

“Good shot,” said Mr. Queen abstractedly. “Oh, we’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Sitting here engaged in a furious cerebration. At least I am, and I suggest you buckle down, too. We haven’t much time. We promised dad a prisoner in twenty-four hours, and that gives us only until late tomorrow morning.”

“Quit clowning,” growled Beau. He flung himself at the leather sofa and scowled at the ceiling. “Poor Kerrie.”

“I’m not clowning.”

Beau swung his legs to the floor. “You mean you really think there’s a chance to crack this hazel-nut?”

“I do.”

“But it’s more of a mess now than before!”

“Darkest before the dawn, every cloud has a silver lining, and so on,” murmured Mr. Queen. “There are heaps of new facts. Heaps. Selection is what we need, Beau — selection, arrangement, and synthesis. Everything’s here. I feel it. Don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mr. Rummell rudely. “The only thing I feel is sore. If there were only some one I could punch in the nose! And with Kerrie back in the can, eating her heart out...” He seized the bottle of Scotch and said with a glower: “Well, what are you waiting for? Go ahead and think!”

XXI. The Fruits of Cerebration

Mr. Queen made certain preparations for his engagement with ratiocination.

He opened a fresh package of cigarets and lined the twenty white tubules up on the desk before him, so that they resembled the rails of a picket fence. He filled a water goblet with what was left of the Scotch and set it conveniently at his elbow. Mr. Rummell, sizing up the situation, vanished. He returned ten minutes later bearing another quart of Scotch and a tall carton of coffee.

Mr. Queen barely acknowledged this thoughtfulness. He removed his jacket, laid it neatly on a chair, loosened his necktie, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves.

Then, with the goblet in one hand and a cigaret in the other, he seated himself in the swivel-chair, set his feet upon the desk, and began.

Beau lay down on the sofa and thought desperately.

At one-thirty a.m. the silence was riven by a peculiar series of noises. Mr. Queen started out of deep thought. But it was only Mr. Rummell, on the sofa, snoring.

“Beau.”

The snores persisted. Mr. Queen rose, filled a glass with coffee, went to the sofa, and nudged Mr. Rummell.

“Huh? What? Well, I was listening—” began Mr. Rummell contentiously, his eyes struggling to open.

“Strange,” croaked Mr. Queen. “I wasn’t saying anything. Here, drink this coffee.”

Beau rumpled his hair, yawning. “Ought to be ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of myself. How’s it coming?” He drank.

“There are one or two points,” observed Mr. Queen, “that still elude me. Otherwise, on marche. I beg your pardon. I always break out in a foreign language at this time of the night. Do you think you can keep awake long enough to answer a few questions?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s an odd situation,” said Mr. Queen, beginning a circumambient patrol of the office. “First time in my experience I’ve had to rely completely on the senses of another person. Complicates matters. You were in this from the beginning, and I was on the outside trying to look in. I’ve the feeling that the master-key to this case is hidden in an out-of-the-way place — a chance remark, some innocuous event...”

“I’ll help all I can,” said Beau dispiritedly. “I fell asleep when my limited brain couldn’t hold any more. I’ve shot my bolt, kid. It’s up to you now.”

Mr. Queen sighed. “I’m duly impressed by the responsibility. Now I’m going over the case from the start. At every point where I omit something that actually happened, or where something occurred which you forgot to mention, sing out. Supply the missing link. I don’t care how trivial it is. In fact, the more trivial the better.”

“Go ahead.”

The inquisition began. Mr. Queen kept it up mercilessly, until Beau’s lids drooped again and he had to fight with himself to keep awake.

Suddenly Mr. Queen displayed a ferocious exultancy. He waved Beau back to the sofa and began to race up and down, mumbling to himself excitedly.

“That’s it. That’s it!” He scurried around the desk and sat down. Seizing a pencil, he began to scribble feverishly, setting down facts in order, like a mathematician working out a problem in calculus. Beau lay, exhausted, on the sofa.

“Beau!”

“Well?” Beau sat up.

“I’ve got it.” And Mr. Queen, having delivered this epic intelligence with the utmost calm, the stranger for its having been preceded by such fury, set the pencil down and began to tear up his notes. He tore them into tiny fragments, heaped them in an ashtray, and set fire to the heap. He did not speak again until the scraps were ashes.

Beau searched his partner’s face anxiously. What he saw there seemed to satisfy him, for he jumped off the sofa and exclaimed: “Damned if I don’t think you have! When do I go to work?”

“Instantly.” Mr. Queen sat back beaming. “We have a chance, Beau, an excellent chance. You’ve got to work fast, though. And cautiously.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I know who killed the Bloomer woman. Logically it can be only one person. I’ve ironed out all the discrepancies, and there can’t be the least doubt of the guilt of the person I have in mind.”

“Who is it?” asked Beau grimly.

“Wait, wait; don’t begrudge me my brief hour of triumph.” And Mr. Queen said in a dreamful voice: “Our friend made two mistakes, one of which, I’m afraid, will prove fatal. We can capitalize those mistakes if we jump right in. Any way I look at it — and I’ve looked at it every way — there are three pieces of evidence which we should be able to produce to make the guilt of Ann Bloomer’s murderer stand up in court.”

“Three pieces of evidence?” Beau shook his head. “Either I’m a moron and you’re a genius, or I’m normally intelligent and you’re talking through your hat.”

Mr. Queen chuckled. “Two of them are waiting for us — all we have to do is extend our hands at the proper time and they’re ours. The third...” He rose abruptly. “The third is tough. It’s the vital proof, and the hardest to find.”

“What’s it look like and where is it?”

“I know what it looks like — roughly,” said Mr. Queen with a faint smile. “As for where it is, however, I haven’t the foggiest notion.”

“Then how did you figure out its existence in the first place?” demanded Beau, exasperated.

“Very simply. It must exist. Every consideration of logic cries out its existence. Every fact in the case demands that it exist. It’s your job to locate it, and you have until noon tomorrow to do it!”

“I don’t know what the devil you’re jawing about,” said Beau with impatience, “but tell me what it is, and I’m off.”

Mr. Queen told him. And as he spoke, Mr. Rummell’s black eyes glittered with wonder.

“Holy smoke!” he breathed. “Holy smoke.”

Mr. Queen basked in this eloquent atmosphere of admiration.

“Though how in the world you figured it out—”

“Nothing up my sleeve,” said Mr. Queen airily. “The little gray cells, as M. Poirot is wont to remark. At any rate, there’s no time for explanations now. You’ve got to burn up the wires, rouse people from their beds — what time is it? three o’clock! — cut through several miles of red tape, grease a number of dry and itching palms, gather a crew of assistants... in short, get that evidence by noon!”

Beau grabbed the telephone.

As for Mr. Queen, he stretched out on the sofa with a grunt of pure sensuality and was fast asleep before Beau had finished dialing the first number.

Mr. Queen awoke to find the sun poking at his eyelids and, to judge from its taste, a piece of old flannel mouldering in his mouth.

He groaned and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The office was empty; the litter of glasses and ashes had been cleaned away; and by his wrist-watch it was nine o’clock, so he made the elementary deduction that Miss Hecuba Penny had reported for the day.

He staggered to the door and peered into the reception room. Miss Penny, as deduced, sat primly at her desk knitting the one hundred and fifteenth hexagon of wool which was to go into her third afghan since becoming an employee of Ellery Queen, Inc.

“Morning,” croaked Mr. Queen. “See anything of Mr. Rummell?”

“No, but I found this note for you, Mr. Queen. Can I get you your breakfast?”

“The only thing I crave at the moment is a bath, ’Cuba, and I fear I’ll have to attend to that myself.”

The note, in Beau’s powerful scrawl, said: “Do you snore! I’m hot on the track. I’ll make the noon deadline or bust. How’s the bank account? It’s taking an awful shellacking, because this thing is costing a pile of jack! Beau. P.S. — What bank account? B.”

Mr. Queen grinned and retired to the laboratory for a wash. With his face freshly scrubbed, he felt better. He also experienced a gentle thrill of anticipation as he sat down to the telephone.

“Inspector Richard Queen? This is an old friend.”

“Oh, it’s you,” said the Inspector’s grumpy voice. “Where were you all night?”

“Carousing with the Muses,” replied Mr. Queen grandiloquently. “Just an intellectual lecher... Disappointed, eh? Well, I wasn’t giving you a chance to crow.”

“I’m laughing with tears in my eyes! Sampson and I have been talking the case over all night and — Never mind.” The Inspector paused. “What’s on your celebrated mind?”

“I sense authoritarian confusion,” murmured Mr. Queen, still in the lush vein. “Despite all the fireworks last night — those cerebral Roman candles — you and Sampson can’t be so positive now that Kerrie Shawn lied to you. Poor Authority! Well, that’s life. How would you like to attend a lecture this morning, dad?”

“What, another? I’ve no time for lectures!”

“I believe,” said his son, “you’ll find time for this one. The speaker gave a poor performance last night, I’m told, but he guarantees to lay ’em in the aisles today.”

“Oh.” And the Inspector was silent again. Then he demanded suspiciously: “What have you got this time? Another resurrection from the dead?”

“If you’re referring to the late Cadmus Cole, the answer is no. But I should appreciate your coöperation in a reinvestigation of Ann Bloomer’s murder on the scene.”

“You mean in the Villanoy? In 1724?” The Inspector was puzzled. “More phony melodrama?”

“I said the scene,” said Ellery gently. “That includes Room 1726, father. Don’t ever forget that.”

“All right, including 1726! But both the suite and the single room were gone over with a finecomb. You can’t make me believe there’s still something there we’ve overlooked!”

Mr. Queen laughed. “Now look, dad, don’t be obstreperous. Are you going to play ball with Ellery Queen, Inc., or do I have to appeal directly to the Commissioner?”

“You’d do that to your own father, you scoundrel?” chuckled the Inspector suddenly. “Well, all right. But I warn you. If you fizzle this time, Sampson’s going to go through with an indictment of Kerrie Shawn.”

“If I fizzle it!” said Mr. Queen, plainly astonished. “I like that. Who’s supposed to be solving this case — the Homicide Squad or a picayune, one-horse outfit? But I feel magnanimous today. The agency to the rescue!”

“Disrespectful, ungrateful—”

“Shall we say eleven-thirty at the Villanoy?”

XXII. Mr. Queen and the Dragon’s Teeth

“The old man’s got his sour puss on,” whispered Sergeant Velie to Mr. Queen as they stood in the sitting room of 1726 a little before noon watching the silent procession of Mr. Queen’s audience.

“You’re telling me?” murmured Mr. Queen. “I have to live with that sour puss... Ah, Kerrie. How are you feeling this exceptional morning?”

“Terrible, thank you.” There were bluish circles under her eyes; her skin was a little gray and taut. “Where’s Beau? He hasn’t even—”

“Beau,” replied Mr. Queen, “is on an assignment, but he should be here any moment now. He’s losing a lot of sleep on your account, Kerrie.”

“Not as much as I’ve lost on his, I’ll bet,” retorted Kerrie. “Is this something — important?”

“To you — all-important,” said Ellery cheerfully. “One demonstration, and the nightmare’s over for good. Now sit down there, Kerrie, like a good girl, and do nothing at all but listen.”

“I... think I’ll sit next to Vi. Poor Vi! You’d think, to look at her, that she’s the one who’s charged with... that nasty word.”

“That’s what friends are for. Ah, Sampson. Worried, as usual. How’s the ailing throat?”

“Never mind the state of my health,” said the District Attorney testily. “You’d be better thinking of your own! Is this on the level? Have you really got something this time?”

“Why not wait to see? Come in, Captain Angus! None the worse for your last night’s experience, apparently, which is more than I can say, Mr. De Carlos, about you. How are you feeling this morning? Yes, yes, I know — merrily we roll along and, suddenly, there’s the hangover... Mr. Goossens! Sorry to trouble you again, but I can assure you this is the last of it. And Inspector Queen. Good morning!”

The Inspector said just one word. “Well?”

“You’ll see.”

Mr. Queen glanced at his wrist-watch casually. Where the devil was Beau with the evidence? He smiled, cleared his throat, and advanced to the center of the zoom.

“Yesterday,” he began, “Beau Rummell made a certain promise which I seconded. We promised that within twenty-four hours we should turn over to the authorities the murderer of Ann Bloomer, alias Margo Cole. We’re ready to keep that promise. The murderer of Ann Bloomer is in this room.”

Inspector Queen and District Attorney Sampson stared squarely at Kerrie Shawn. She flushed and looked down at her fingers. Then, defiantly, she stared back at them.

“That person,” continued Mr. Queen, “can save a lot of wear and tear on your servant’s larynx by surrendering now. I can assure you,” he said, glancing pointedly over their heads, “that the ball is over. Will you unmask voluntarily, or shall I have to do it for you?”

Where was Beau?

The Inspector and the District Attorney made an unconscious survey. The objects of their attention were painfully conscious, however. They held their breath until they could hold it no longer; then they expelled it in concert — the innocent with the guilty.

And Inspector Queen and District Attorney Sampson looked troubled, and Mr. Queen went on with a shrug. “Hope,” he remarked, “but I assure you — no charity. Very well, you force me to elucidate. And because your crime was a completely mercenary one, and because you insist upon being discovered, as the antique phrase goes, in the ‘full panoply’ of your guilt, I promise you there will be no mercy, either.”

But again there was only silence.

Where was Beau?

“The case,” said Mr. Queen abruptly, “or, rather, the solution of the case, hinges upon three facts. Three facts, and three pieces of evidence.

“The facts first. They are the three characteristics of the killer of Ann Bloomer which I’ve been able to piece together from an exhaustive analysis of the data at my disposal.

“The first characteristic is really a point of identification. As explained to you last night, Mr. Edmund De Carlos—” here De Carlos choked, and Mr. Queen paused until he had swallowed the obstruction in his throat — “Mr. De Carlos by an oversight left behind him, when he called upon us disguised as Cadmus Cole three months ago, a fountain-pen. This pen was unique in possessing certain identifying marks which distinguished it from all other pens of similar design and manufacture... despite the fact that such pens were, and are, sold by the hundreds of thousand the world over.

“Let me explain that statement. The scratches, and dents — the entire series of little arced patterns on the cap of the pen — could only have been made by human teeth. Now human teeth are, in their modest way, an eloquent symbol of man: they are invariably imperfect. I’m not referring to dental caries or any other pathological manifestation. I’m referring simply to structure and design. No two sets of teeth, no matter how healthy, are identical. The shape of the arch, the size of the individual teeth, the way they lie in the arch in relation to one another, and so on — these all vary with individuals. Two sets of teeth might appear identical to the layman, but any dentist could show you dozens of points of difference after the most casual examination.

“It’s scarcely necessary to belabor the point. In the old days any one could spot a set of false teeth in a stranger’s mouth — the teeth were too regular. Unnaturally so. These days dentists hold a mirror up to Nature. They turn out dental plates which fool most laymen. And why are we fooled? Because modern dental plates exhibit teeth not only natural in color but irregularly aligned and imperfectly shaped as well.

“Criminological science has long recognized the value of teeth-marks as clues to identity. Where clear impressions of teeth can be found, they are as incontrovertible evidence as fingerprints. True, the teeth-marks on the cap of the fountain-pen in question are not the impression of a full set of teeth, or even the substantial number of a full set. The marks of, at most, two or three upper teeth and two or three lowers. But even that is sufficient for the careful observer.”

They were tightly, watchfully quiet, as if each had a deep personal stake in the least word being uttered by Mr. Queen. He glanced at his watch again.

“I must now confess,” he went on with a faint smile, “to have engineered an unquestionably illegal suppression of important evidence. How important I leave you to judge. But I did suppress it when Mr. Rummell and I found it beneath the radiator of Room 1726 only a short time after the murderer of Ann Bloomer fled from it. In short, it was a companion-piece of the fountain-pen — an automatic pencil of the same hard black rubber composition, with similar gold trimming.”

Inspector Queen glared at District Attorney Sampson, who glared back, then both glared at Mr. Queen.

The Inspector rose and roared: “You found what?”

“I’ll take my punishment later, please,” said Mr. Queen. “Meanwhile, may I continue? The facts were these: The room had been prepared for occupancy only a short time before, and was spotless. The pencil had fallen between the radiator and the window and had rolled under the radiator. Since the murderer stood at the window before and during the firing of the murder-weapon, it was obvious that the pencil had been dropped by that worthy accidentally during or directly preceding the commission of the crime. Incidentally, dad, the ashes, burnt match-stick, and cigaret butt were mine. I left them for you — I had to leave something in lieu of the pencil, didn’t I?”

Inspector Queen sank back, purple.

Mr. Queen continued in haste: “Examination of the pencil indicated that it was part of the writing set to which the pen belonged, that the same person had owned both implements, for the bite-marks on the pencil were identical with the bite-marks on the pen.

“Now that,” said Mr. Queen in a sharper tone, “is a scientific fact. I’ve verified that fact by applying for expert opinion since — a concession to legal considerations, for I was satisfied even before consulting authority that the teeth-marks were identical. The person who had the deplorable habit of chewing on his pen and pencil possesses a very long canine in a certain characteristic relation to the tooth below it and the teeth to either side. I could give you the technical picture as it was given to me, but I’m sure it would bore you.

“Just bear in mind that the dent bored by the point of that canine, and the impression of the teeth adjacent to that canine, make identification positive. The identical picture is presented by both pen and pencil. They must have been scarred by the same teeth.

“Now, who dropped that pencil in the room from which the shots were fired which killed Ann Bloomer? The person who occupied the room during the commission of the crime; in other words, the murderer. Or, in still other words — if we can establish the ownership of the pen-and-pencil set, we arrive at once at the identity of the murderer.”

De Carlos was struggling to express himself.

“Yes, Mr. De Carlos?”

“It’s not... it’s not mine,” he gasped. “Not mine!”

“No?” asked Mr. Queen softly. “Then perhaps we can eliminate a deal of gabble right now, Mr. De Carlos. If the pen and pencil aren’t yours, to whom do they belong?”

De Carlos looked about in a sort of bafflement. Then his chin sank, and his eyes, and he muttered: “I’m not talking. I’m not saying a word.”

“Perhaps the moment will come,” murmured Mr. Queen, “when you will feel more disposed to conversation, Mr. De Carlos.

“Second characteristic of the murderer: a very curious point that I almost overlooked. Unfortunately for our bashful marksman, I am a methodical creature. I went back over the ground and saw it — really for the first time — in its proper perspective and proportions.

“The police on the day following Miss Shawn’s and Mr. Rummell’s supposed marriage, received an anonymous tip by telegraph. The obliging tipster indicated that the marriage had been no marriage at all. This information, followed by immediate corroboration when investigation proved the marriage, as advertised, to have been a hoax, supplied the authorities with a perfect motive in the case they were building against Miss Shawn.

“Now who would be interested in copper-riveting the case against Miss Shawn? Obviously the person who had stolen her revolver, who had used it to kill Ann Bloomer, and who had then tossed it into this room across the angle of the court from 1726 — in other words, the thoughtful individual who was trying to frame Miss Shawn for the murder... the murderer in person. If any further corroboration of this deduction were needed, I should merely like to point out that the means employed in tipping off the police — telegraph message given to the telegraph office by telephoning from a pay-station — was exactly the means employed in reserving Room 1726 at the Villanoy on the night of the murder.”

Inspector Queen nodded guiltily, as if this indeed had occurred to him, and the District Attorney reddened, as if it had not.

“Which brings us,” continued Mr. Queen in dulcet tones, “to characteristic number three. On another and less memorable occasion I pointed out, through a strictly logical exercise, that the woman who posed as Margo Cole — that is, Ann Bloomer — must have had a partner... a silent, invisible partner who provided the notorious Miss Bloomer with the various proofs of identity which established her as one of the missing Cole heiresses.

“This silent partner had three motives for killing Ann Bloomer: revenge, if Miss Bloomer after being accepted as Margo Cole refused to split the loot — in the light of Miss Bloomer’s known character, a distinct possibility; fear that she might expose her partner, either deliberately if she should accidentally be discovered to be an impostor, or — as actually occurred — through a slip of the tongue in an unguarded moment; and a third motive which I must again,” Mr. Queen said with an apologetic smile, “hold back as a special tidbit for your future delectation.

“At any rate, discover the identity of Miss Bloomer’s partner, the mysterious shadow behind her false claim, and you obviously discover her murderer.

“What do we find then, in recapitulation? That the person we seek is: A — the owner of the pen-and-pencil set; B — the person who tipped off the police to the fact that the supposed marriage between Miss Shawn and Mr. Rummell was a hoax; and C — Ann Bloomer’s silent partner.

“Or, to put it another way, we must find the one and only person who had criminal opportunity — the pencil places that person in the room from which the fatal shots were fired; who had criminal motive — as Ann Bloomer’s vengeful partner seeking also to seal her lips forever as to his identity; and who wished to frame Miss Shawn — and did so by tipping off the police about the fake marriage.

“That’s a fairly complete picture,” murmured Mr. Queen. “Need I continue? Won’t our friend the silent partner step forward and end this excruciating suspense?”

And in die ensuing silence Mr. Queen thought furiously: “Damn Beau! Why isn’t he here?”

And, also in the silence, as if in response to Mr. Queen’s unexpressed question, the telephone rang.

They started, nervously. But Mr. Queen smiled as he leaped for the telephone. “A call I’ve been expecting. You’ll excuse me?”

A voice said in his ear — a tired but jubilant voice: “Beau Rummell. Who is this?”

“You’re speaking to the proper party,” said Mr. Queen sharply. “Well?”

“I’ve got the goods, my fran’.”

“Well, well.” Mr. Queen expelled a long, ecstatic breath. “How soon can you be here with the... er... merchandise?”

“I’m downtown. Say fifteen minutes. How’s it going?”

“So far, so good.”

“Save the last poke for me. Kerrie all right?”

“Bearing up like a Spartan. Hurry, will you?”

Mr. Queen hung up and turned again to his audience. There was a rustle among them — the strangest little sound. Not of impatience. Nor of fatigue. Nor yet of relief from, the unnatural silence. Rather it was the rendition of a tension, a physical expression to relieve an intolerable strain.

And one face there was ghastly.

Mr. Queen chose to ignore its damning pallor. He remarked cheerfully: “Let’s examine Point B more closely. Who tipped off the police that the marriage was a hoax, thereby driving the last nail into the frame-up of Miss Shawn?

“There were four persons who knew the marriage was a hoax before the tip was sent. And only four.

“One was my partner, Beau Rummell, the ‘bridegroom.’ Well, how about Mr. Rummell as a possibility? No, no, he is eliminated on numerous counts. I need mention only one. At the instant the shots were fired Mr. Rummell was stepping out of the elevator on the seventeenth floor of the Villanoy. The elevator operator has testified to this. Since a body cannot occupy two different sections of space at the same time, Mr. Rummell obviously couldn’t also have been in Room 1726 at that instant. And so he cannot be the person we are looking for.”

Mr. Queen lit a cigaret. “The second person who knew the marriage was a hoax was — myself. I could make out some excellent arguments against the theory that I was Ann Bloomer’s accomplice and subsequent murderer, of course—”

“Keep going,” growled District Attorney Sampson.

“Thank you, Mr. Sampson,” murmured Mr. Queen. “A magnificent compliment. By the way, Miss Day — I believe you’re Miss Day, although I’ve never been formally presented — why are you looking so completely miserable?”

Vi jumped visibly, going pale at having every one’s attention so abruptly focussed upon her. “I... accused Beau Rummell of... Never mind. Of course, I didn’t know—”

“I see.” Mr. Queen smiled. “Mr. Rummell’s told me all about that. Very amusing. I hope you’ll apologize, Miss Day.”

Kerrie smiled and pressed Vi’s hand, and Vi sank back, on the verge of tears.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” murmured Kerrie, “but I... thought pretty much the same thing once.”

“Yes, Beau is a secretive individual. Seems tough. Not really, though. I hope you’ll apologize, too!” Kerrie flushed and lowered her gaze. “I’m sure you will, to Mr. Rummell’s complete satisfaction. Now where was I?

“Oh, yes! That makes two of our four possibilities. The remaining pair are Messrs. Goossens and De Carlos, the trustees of the Cole estate. The evening Mr. Rummell and Miss Shawn registered at the Villanoy as man and wife, the evening of the murder, Mr. Rummell deserted his ‘wife’ almost as soon as they had checked in. Quit her cold, the softie. A gentleman beneath it all, you see. Wouldn’t take advantage of an innocent girl—”

“Get on, get on,” snapped the Inspector.

“Your wish is my command. At any rate, driven to the outer world by his conscience, Mr. Rummell thought of how he might occupy his time. He decided to occupy it usefully. He went up to our office and wrote two letters identical in content — one addressed to Mr. Goossens, one addressed to Mr. De Carlos.

“The letters informed these gentlemen, as co-trustees, that the marriage was a hoax, and begged the recipients to keep this intelligence confidential. Beau wrote only because, had he not informed the trustees of the true state of affairs, they would have had to take immediate steps to cut her out of her uncle’s will. Being in fact unmarried, Miss Shawn was still entitled to her inheritance.

“My partner sent these two letters by special delivery. It was late at night, so of course the letters must have been delivered early the following morning. By the morning after the crime, then, two people more knew that the marriage had been a hoax — the aforesaid Messrs. Goossens and De Carlos. Theoretically, then, either of you two gentlemen,” and Mr. Queen addressed himself with a smile to the two trustees, “could have sent the anonymous tip to die police.”

“I didn’t!” cried De Carlos.

“Nor I,” said Goossens.

“Wait a minute,” barked the Inspector. “You’ve mentioned four, Ellery. There are really five. You’re forgetting this phony Justice of the Peace who performed the fake marriage ceremony. He certainly knew!”

“Now, dad,” said Mr. Queen sadly. “Must you steal my thunder?”

“Five!”

“Four.” Mr. Queen shook his head. “I said four, and I still say four. Acrobatic mathematics, really.”

“Rummell, Goossens, De Carlos, you, and the phony Justice — that makes five!”

“This pains me,” murmured Mr. Queen. “I must dissent: four. Because, you see, I was the phony Justice.”

He grinned at Kerrie, who stared back with parted lips. The Inspector could only wave his fragile hand feebly.

“Go on,” said Lloyd Goossens, lighting his pipe. “It seems Mr. De Carlos and I are to be eliminated by some logical process. I’m curious to hear how you do it.”

“I don’t want to hear!” yelled De Carlos. “I’m getting out of here! I’ve had enough of this—”

“Not quite enough, Mr. De Carlos.” Ellery eyed him and De Carlos collapsed in his chair in a sort of agony. “And since you’re so reluctant to hear, you shall. We must pay special attention to you, Mr. De Carlos. You’ve caused more trouble in this case, I’m sure, than, you’re worth! You’ve been a confuser of issues, a brilliantly red herring, from the very first. And yet, oddly enough, for all the sleepless nights you’ve given me, I must confess this case would never have been solved had you not been a factor in it.”

“I must say,” began De Carlos helplessly, “I must say—”

“I’ll say it for you, shall I?” Mr. Queen smiled. “You see, you’re the man who, in the guise of Cole, brought that blessed, significant, colossal fountain-pen into my life. Did that pen belong to you? Did it?”

“I told you it didn’t!” cried De Carlos. “It didn’t!”

“Oh, I know it didn’t. Not because you say so, however. It can’t be your pen because of your teeth, you see.”

“Certainly, certainly,” said De Carlos with eagerness. “As you know — I have false teeth—”

“Nonsense. A man with a plate in his mouth might have made those identifying marks on the pen. But not a man with your plate, Mr. De Carlos. You should send your dentist an extra fee; he’s really a very bad dentist, for which you should show your gratitude. Because when I examined your plate — remember the incident, Mr. De Carlos? when Mr. Rummell converted you into a human cocktail-shaker and your plate flew out of your mouth? — when I examined it, as I say, I saw that it was a genuine old-timer... one of those hideous plates with inhumanly regular teeth, so regular, so perfectly aligned, that they simply could not have made those deep dents in the pen.

“No, those dents could have been made only by a canine out of line, and longer and more pointed than normal. So I knew the pen wasn’t yours.”

De Carlos wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“Now, then, I asked myself, how did Mr. De Carlos get hold of that pen? Well, the reasonably assumptive source would have been Cole, the man De Carlos was impersonating at the time I first saw the pen in his possession. Was the pen Cole’s?

“It might have been at that time, for all I knew; but Captain Angus scotched that theory last night, and the photographs he produced supported his story: Cadmus Cole didn’t have a tooth in his mouth, and moreover never wore a plate.

“So the pen wasn’t Cole’s. If it wasn’t Cole’s, and it wasn’t yours, Mr. De Carlos, then you must have got hold of it by accident or taken it by mistake, believing it to be yours. A mental leap in the dark — but the gap could be supported by a solid confirmation.

“I knew you were badly myopic. In impersonating Cole three months ago, you had been forced to put aside your spectacles, since Cole didn’t wear any. As a result you were badly handicapped: your vision was blurred, you bumped into the door-jamb twice, you squinted and strained — in fine, exhibited every evidence of acute near-sightedness.

“Now a man who could mistake a door-jamb for empty space might easily mistake one fountain-pen for another. So, I reasoned, if you had visited some one just before coming to our office that day, you might have picked up the wrong pen there. Did you visit some one else before you appeared in our office that day? Oh, yes, indeed. You told us so yourself. You even told us whom you had visited. You had visited Mr. Goossens, for the purpose of delivering into his hands Cadmus Cole’s sealed will.

“Just a moment,” said Mr. Queen swiftly, at the gasp and lightning movement before him, “I’m not finished. Was it Goossens’s pen De Carlos left behind in our office? Let’s see. If De Carlos took Goossens’s pen by mistake, then he probably left his own pen behind in Goossens’s office.”

He darted forward and flipped back the attorney’s coat. Goossens was so astonished his pipe almost fell out of his mouth. Mr. Queen snatched an ordinary black fountain-pen out of the man’s vest-pocket and held it up. There were a few scratches and dents on the cap.

“Still up to your old biting tricks, eh, Goossens?” said Mr. Queen. He turned and held the pen up before De Carlos’s nose. “Mr. De Carlos, is this your property?”

De Carlos pointed with a shaking finger at the tiny initials, E D C, on the body of the pen.

“Then I think it high time, Mr. Lloyd Goossens,” said Mr. Queen in a curt voice, whirling about, “that you stopped play-acting and confessed to the murder of Ann Bloomer!”

XXIII. St. Ellery Slays the Dragon

Inspector Queen and District Attorney Sampson jumped up, and Sergeant Velie moved quickly towards them from the door. But Mr. Queen waved them back.

Goossens stared up at him. Then he shook his head, as if in bewilderment. Finally, he took his pipe out of his mouth and chuckled. “Very amusing, Mr. Queen. A little grisly in its humor, but I’m one man who appreciates a joke.”

But when he saw how those about him were, in a rising horror, pushing their chairs imperceptibly away from his vicinity, he lost his smile and shouted: “You’re mad! Do you think you can get away with this?”

“To the bitter end,” said Mr. Queen reflectively. Then he sighed. “Very well, we’ll go on.” The Inspector, the Sergeant, and Sampson remained standing, however, their eyes on the attorney.

“Mr. De Carlos! You’ll swear, if necessary, that this pen I just removed from Goossens’s pocket belongs to you?”

“Yes, yes,” said De Carlos excitedly. “I’ll tell you just how it happened. While I was in Goossens’s private office delivering Cole’s will, I took out my own pen to write a list of ports we expected to stop at during the coming West Indian cruise. I laid the pen down on his desk. When I left, I must have picked up Goossens’s pen by mistake, because I recall when I came in that he was writing. Neither of us noticed what I did. When your messenger delivered the other pen to the yacht, I received it; I knew it wasn’t mine, and saw what must have happened. But we were sailing and it was too late to do anything about returning it. Later, I forgot the whole incident.”

“And so, I fancy, did Mr. Goossens,” remarked Mr. Queen dryly, leaning against a table and folding his arms on his chest. “Your first mistake, Goossens: not getting rid of De Carlos’s pen. A trivial mistake, but then you didn’t realize the significance of those teeth-marks on your own pen, or that they tied up with the marks on the pencil of your set which you dropped in Room 1726. And since then, falling into your old nervous habit of chewing on the caps of pens, you’ve been maltreating De Carlos’s pen in the same way... Let me see your pipe, please.”

He said it so casually, and walked towards Goossens so idly, and took the pipe from the man’s mouth so very swiftly, that the lawyer was caught unprepared. When he realized the significance of Ellery’s action, he sprang to his feet.

But it was too late. Mr. Queen was examining the stem of the pipe intently, and Goossens’s arms were pinned immovably back by the iron hands of Sergeant Velie.

“Proof number two,” observed Mr. Queen, nodding with satisfaction. “If you’ll compare the end of this pipe-stem with the caps of the fountain-pen and pencil, dad, you’ll find all three bear the identical impressions of his teeth. Beau told me that he never saw Goossens without a pipe, and on the few occasions of my own meetings with him, I remarked the same thing. The habitual pipe-smoker is so accustomed to gripping a pipestem with his teeth that even when he isn’t smoking his pipe he’ll unconsciously try to compensate for the lack by biting on something else. A laboratory examination will prove that Goossens made the same marks on the stem of his pipe as appear on the pen and pencil. Well, Goossens, have you anything to say for publication now?”

And Goossens said quietly: “It’s really all right, Sergeant. You don’t have to keep holding on to me as if I were a... criminal.” He laughed at the absurdity of the notion.

Sergeant Velie glanced at Inspector Queen, who nodded. The Sergeant held on to Goossens’s wrists with one hand and with the other swiftly searched him. When he was satisfied his prisoner was unarmed, he stepped back.

Goossens shook himself. “Do you believe this nonsense, Inspector Queen? Or you, Mr. Sampson? I hope you both realize what a beautiful suit for slander you’re setting up!”

“Not to mention,” drawled Mr. Queen, “one for false arrest. Oh, quite beautiful—”

There was an altercation in the corridor. Sergeant Velie hurried to the door and opened it.

“Oh, there you are!” said Beau Rummell cheerfully. “Velie, tell this floogie I’m one of the best people.”

“Come in, Beau, come in!” called Mr. Queen. “You couldn’t have timed your entrance more dramatically.”

Beau ran in and stopped short when he saw Goossens, on his feet and pale with anger, in the center of the room. “Oh,” he said. “The third act, hey? Well, here’s curtains!”

And, with a yearning glance towards Kerrie, Beau drew Ellery aside, handing him a large manila envelope. Ellery quickly extracted from the envelope what looked like a photostat, while Beau whispered in his ear for some time. And as Mr. Queen both looked and listened, an expression of beatitude overspread his lean countenance.

He advanced towards Goossens, waving the photostat.

Goossens frowned. “It’s all very dramatic, as you say, but is it legal?” He laughed shortly. “Don’t forget, Mr. Queen, I’m a lawyer. If you’re foolish enough to take this before a court, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born — any of you! Your so-called evidence can be blown to bits — teeth-marks. Pen and pencil. An old pipe... Why, no jury in the world would swallow that sort of stuff!”

“Possibly not,” murmured Mr. Queen, “but we’re now in possession of a third item of evidence that a jury will swallow.

“So far I’ve shown that you own the pencil found on the scene of the crime — proving opportunity; and that you could have tipped off the police about the faked marriage — your second error, by the way. Now I’ll prove you had motive — that you, and you alone, fulfill the third requirement of Ann Bloomer’s murderer!

“This third proof will implicate you directly, Mr. Goossens. It will indicate that you were Ann Bloomer’s silent partner. It will indicate that the plot, from the beginning, was your brain-child — the plot to palm off an impostor as Margo Cole. In fact, I think I know when you conceived and executed that part of the plot, Mr. Goossens!”

“Indeed?” sneered the lawyer.

“You got your first flash of inspiration when De Carlos, pretending to be Cole, delivered Cole’s sealed will. You opened that will, Goossens, and you had a reason for opening it — a reason that will be clear to these people when I reveal the nature of my last proof.

“You opened the will, digested its conditions, and saw your opportunity. You left very suddenly on what purported to be a ‘business trip’ — and where did you go? To Europe, Goossens! Your own secretary gave me that information when I telephoned your office a few days after De Carlos’s visit as Cole... in fact, I remember it especially well because just as I set down the telephone my appendix burst. A pathological commemoration of an important event, Goossens! The only trouble was that I didn’t appreciate its significance at the time.

“And why did you go to Europe suddenly? Because you knew that Margo Cole had lived in France. Because you knew so much about Margo Cole’s history that it was evident to your quick, clever, and harried intelligence that an impostor would have to come from France, too. Somehow during that business trip you ran across Ann Bloomer, exactly the type of woman your plan required. And she agreed to go in with you.”

Goossens bit his lip. His cheeks were chalky now.

“You had the proofs of Margo Cole’s identity in your possession. You didn’t give them to the Bloomer woman in France. You probably coached her in Margo Cole’s history then, but you held back the proofs until the last moment — fearing, very justly, a possible doublecross. You handed Ann Bloomer those proofs as she was leaving the Normandie in Quarantine! For it was you, and you alone, brief-case in hand, who boarded the Normandie ostensibly to greet ‘Margo Cole’ and escort her to the cutter in which the rest of us were waiting. Those proofs of Margo Cole’s identity were in YOUR brief-case when you boarded the Normandie. But they were in Ann Bloomer’s bag when you escorted her to the cutter a few minutes later.

“But Ann Bloomer doublecrossed you after all. Entrenched here as Margo Cole, she backed out of her bargain with you. Also, she had probably investigated you undercover, in her canny way, and discovered that you were in a stew of trouble, Mr. Goossens — oh, a veritable salmagundi! You’ve been quite a rounder in your time — you live with your azure-blooded wife for polite reasons only; your real life is replete with women, champagne, gambling parlors, and the like. Your father left you a respectable practise in the administration of estates, but you went through his money quickly... and then you began to race through the moneys entrusted to your stewardship as trustee of estates.

“And so now you had started a vicious circle — constantly stealing from one estate to cover a shortage in another, and you had reached a point where you could conceal your peculations no longer without fresh sources of funds. You were desperate, and that was your motive for leaping at the chance to make a fortune quickly when fate dropped the Cole estate into your lap.

“Somehow Ann Bloomer, I believe, found all this out, and knew she had a powerful weapon against you. One word from her to arouse suspicion that you were fraudulently administering the estate in your trusteeship, and you were ruined. That was the weapon she held over you as she wriggled out of her pact to split the Margo Cole income with you.

“You were probably clever enough not to show your rage. You saw another way: to remove the menace you yourself, a modern Frankenstein, had created — this female monster — and at the same time — your third and last and most important motive — to gain absolute control over the Cole millions!

“Because it was in line with your new goal, you even fell in with Ann’s pleasant little scheme to murder Kerrie. She may have forced you to become her accomplice, using her threat of exposure as a lever; I don’t know; it would be the logical thing for her to do, because as an accomplice you wouldn’t be able to expose her as a murderess.

“At any rate, when the attacks failed, and Ann visited this hotel-room to taunt Kerrie, you shot the woman dead. By doing this you accomplished at one swoop a number of purposes: to revenge yourself on her, to prevent her from revealing your identity as her partner, to be rid of her permanently, to frame Kerrie Shawn for the murder and be rid of her; and the ultimate goal of all — to be free then to administer the Cole estate for charity, since the will provided that if the heirs died, you were still to administer the estate for charitable purposes! In that capacity, you would have a peculative field-day lasting years. And you reasoned — accurately, I think — that you could easily persuade Mr. Edmund De Carlos, your co-trustee, to swing in with you.

“While I may be slightly off in some of the details, I fancy I’ve roughly covered the subject, Goossens?”

Goossens stammered: “You... you talked about a proof of motive.” Then he got a grip on his nerves and deliberately smiled. “And I’ve listened and heard nothing but the ravings of a fantastic imagination. Where’s this wonderful proof of yours?”

“Admirable, Goossens, admirable,” applauded Mr. Queen. “You could have been a great trial lawyer; quite the dramatic flair. Do you deny,” he snapped, “that you put Ann Bloomer up to posing as Margo Cole?”

“I certainly do deny it,” replied the lawyer hoarsely. “I never saw the woman before she showed up on the Normandie. I was taken in just as the rest of you were. You can’t make me the goat, Queen! I thought she was really Margo Cole!”

“Ah,” said Mr. Queen; and his quiet sigh was so fat with satisfaction that Goossens stiffened and grew still. “You really thought she was Margo Cole.” Mr. Queen turned swiftly. “You heard that statement, Sampson? That’s the killer-diller. That’s a demonstrable lie!”

“What do you mean?” whispered Goossens.

“In this manila envelope,” replied Mr. Queen, handing it to the District Attorney, “is the plain evidence of your lie. It’s the third and completely incriminating article of evidence I promised to produce against you.

“It explains how you knew all about Margo Cole even before the Cole will was delivered to you. It explains how you happened to have in your possession all the proofs of Margo Cole’s identity. Shall I explain how that was?

“In 1925, when Margo Cole’s mother died in France, Margo left that country and came to the United States. She was penniless and probably too angry with Cadmus Cole to look him up. She drifted out to California — Mr. Rummell, who has been exceedingly busy in the past eight hours, and being instructed what to search for, has found the evidence and uncovered a good deal of the story. Margo Cole became a waitress in a Los Angeles restaurant.

“And-that’s where you met her, Goossens — while you were attending college in Los Angeles in 1926. You were twenty-five years old and already gorging wild oats. You got drunk one night and married Margo Cole! You kept that marriage secret even from your father. Your wife, the true Margo, died in Los Angeles shortly after, and you had her buried quickly and quietly, no doubt heaving a great sigh of relief at her having considerately got you out of a bad hole.

“In this manila envelope,” cried Mr. Queen, “are the photostats of two documents: Margo Cole’s death-certificate, in which she is recorded as Margo Cole Goossens, and your 1926 marriage license — wired East by radio at the behest of our invaluable Mr. Rummell, who must be pretty tired by this time.

“Of course, since I knew that Ann Bloomer’s partner must have furnished her with the proofs of Margo Cole’s identity, it was an alluring possibility that he possessed those proofs through the most plausible means in the world — marriage to Margo Cole. And it was this conjecture of mine that sent Mr. Rummell on his successful all-night, transcontinental telephone, telegraph, and radio-photographic mission. Satisfied, Goossens?”

But Goossens only sank into his chair, as if the weight of his body were suddenly insupportable, and he covered his face with his trembling hands.

And thus it came to pass that on a certain improbably glorious day in late September Mr. Beau Rummell said to Miss Kerrie Shawn: “Well, funny-face, where do we go from here?”

“First,” said Miss Shawn, “we clean up our affairs — I mean mine. You know, the estate, and all that poky business. Who’s running it now, darling? Of course, Mr. De Carlos and Mr. Goossens—”

“The Surrogate will probably appoint some bank to act as trustee for the estate.”

“It doesn’t make much difference.” Kerrie sighed. “As soon as that’s settled, and the... the trial is over, we’ll find ourselves forgotten, ignored, and poor as church-mice.”

“Poor? You’re barmy!”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’re going to be married. And then we’ll live unhappily ever after. Beau Rummell, you need a shave!”

“Are we back on that marriage theme again?” growled Beau. “After all the trouble I went to to save that beautiful boodle of dough for you. Kerrie, I simply won’t—”

And so, after Lloyd Goossens’s trial and conviction, Mr. Rummell and Miss Shawn were married, and they began to live unhappily ever after. It was an authentic marriage this time, complete with accredited parson, verified license, the proper number of witnesses, and half the reporters in the world, who were curious to see a young woman in this crass age so out of tune with the spirit of man that she would give up “a fortune,” as they unanimously expressed it, “for love.”

Of course, there were gifts. Inspector Queen, who felt he owed Kerrie something, sent a set of handsome Swedish silver cutlery. Violet Day sent — silently — a beautiful Lalique flower-bowl. It took her last cent. The gifts from Hollywood were modest but legion.

Strangely, Mr. Ellery Queen sent nothing. Mr. Rummell was hurt.

“It’s not the idea of the gift, y’understand,” he complained to Kerrie, “but after all—”

“Perhaps he’s sick, Beau.”

“Say, I never thought of that!” Beau became alarmed. “I haven’t seen him for days—”

They took a cab to the Queen apartment. Mr. Queen was out. Mr. Queen was at the office of Ellery Queen, Inc.

“Office?” exclaimed Beau. “He must be sick!”

But they found Mr. Queen ensconced in his swivel-chair the veritable mirror of health and spirits.

“Ah, the newlyweds,” said Mr. Queen, hastening to bestow a partner’s kiss on the bride. “How’s married life?”

“Never mind that,” snapped Beau. “Where you been keeping yourself? You ducked out after the wedding—”

“I’ve been sitting here in this lonely tomb,” murmured Mr. Queen, “reflecting. On life’s little ironies. By the way, why aren’t you two in a nice, expensive place for your honeymoon?”

“Because we can’t afford it,” said Kerrie. “And Atlantic City was so lovely.”

“Yeah, I’m still getting that taffy out of my teeth,” said Beau. “I’d have been around sooner, El, only you know how it is. Just married, have to scout around for a flat—”

“Atlantic City — flat!” Mr. Queen looked horrified. “What are you thinking of?”

“The old budget,” said Beau. He wore the faintly hang-dog look of the hopelessly married man. “I can’t afford to kid around, Ellery. As soon as we get settled, I’ll come back to the office and start peddling the old personality again. You know. Confidential Matters Handled Confidentially? Give Us a Try — We Never Fail. The old grind—”

“Not a bit of it,” said Mr. Queen firmly. “I’m scouting around myself. For a new partner.”

“What?” yelled Beau. “Hey, what is this? What’s the matter with me?”

“My good man, you’re through — fini.”

Beau looked stricken. “But, Ellery... for the love of Mike... I’ve got to make a living, don’t I?”

“Not at all.”

“And besides,” said Beau angrily, “what d’ye mean I’m through! Whose dough is it, anyway, in this dump? You’re one hell of a guy. I never thought you’d—”

Kerrie patted her husband’s swelling biceps gently. “Can’t you see the gentleman has something up his sleeve? Be quiet and listen, Beau!”

“You see,” said Mr. Queen dreamily, while Beau gawped at him, “I sat here after your wedding in a perfect dither of thought, and the main thought ran: What can I give those two idiots for a wedding present?”

Kerrie laughed. Beau blushed.

“Shall it be,” continued Mr. Queen, “a First Folio, or the 1856 British Guiana number thirteen, or one of the crown jewels of some illustrious potentate, or a ten-room house completely furnished, with interior murals by Rivera? No, I said to myself, too common, too mundane. My gift to Mr. and Mrs. Rummell must be of the essence, gargantuan, crème de la crème, epical. And, do you know, I’ve hit it?”

Kerrie clapped her hands. “What is it? I know I’ll just love it!”

“I believe,” murmured Mr. Queen, “you will.”

“Come on, give, you exasperating stand-in for Madam Chairman!” roared Beau.

“I have decided,” said Mr. Queen, beaming, “to present you with a gift worthy of myself. I have decided to give you,” said Mr. Queen, and then he darted off into one of those conversational bypaths he was so fond of treading, “—I haven’t ascertained the exact figure, of course; you’ll have to be patient with me, chickadees, but I should say it will come to — oh, let’s be conservative. Let’s say almost fourteen million dollars.”

“Fourteen—” Kerrie blinked.

Beau said hoarsely: “Come again?”

“Don’t hold me to that figure,” said Mr. Queen hastily. “It may come to no more than a paltry thirteen millions.”

“Oh, he’s joking,” groaned Kerrie.

“Listen, you ape!” bellowed Beau. “What is this?”

Mr. Queen chuckled. “My talents have been chiefly engaged, since your nuptials, in trying to dope out a way to break old man Cole’s will. You two would be married, and that meant, under the will, that Kerrie lost a very helpful five thousand a week for life... now that Margo Cole’s death has been established.”

“You mean you’ve — broken it?” asked Beau in an awed voice.

“We’re getting there, getting there. It revolves about a delicate point, but the best legal authority seems to be on our side. You’re a lawyer, or you were. What is the law’s purpose in requiring that a testator’s signature to a will be attested by witnesses?”

“Why,” said Beau, scratching his newly-shaven cheeks, “to make sure there’s no fraud, I suppose. To have proof that the signature of the testator was his legal signature, and was set down on a specific will at a specific date. Same idea as lies behind the notarization of contracts — proof of signature.”

“Well, the legal technicality on which the will is probably going to be broken involves the attestation of the witnesses.

“According to Captain Angus’s story he and the radio operator signed in attestation of the testator’s signature before the testator’s signature was put down on the will. As a matter of fact, the radio operator, in not signing in Cole’s presence, not only attested a signature which still did not exist, but he can’t even say truthfully that what he signed was a will; or if it was a will, the specific will the testator intended. And then even Captain Angus left the cabin before De Carlos wrote down Cole’s name, so he can’t testify honestly when that signature was written.

“There are other points, but I fancy those will suffice. The Surrogate will probably be only too happy to grasp at the legal technicality and declare the will invalid — it’s an awfully screwy and unfair testament. At any rate, with the will broken, Cole will be considered, as you know, to have died intestate. And since Margo Cole died leaving no issue, and Miss Kerrie Shawn, now Mrs. Beau Rummell, is the only living heiress of the testator — well, you can imagine!

“What do you think of my modest little wedding present, Mrs. Rummell?”

But Mrs. Rummell only began to sniffle, and Beau stood there alternately scowling and grinning like a lunatic...

In the course of time Mr. Queen received letters from Paris, Monte Carlo, Cairo, Bali — very obese letters they were, written on the lush stationery of disgustingly wealthy people, and designed to bring a beam to the sourest countenance. There were even letters from a certain Miss Violet Day who, it appeared, had been re-engaged by Mrs. Rummell to act as secretary-companion and spent most of her time beating the pants off Mr. Rummell at ping-pong, a fact which kept Mr. Rummell in a state of constant rage.

But Mr. Queen only smiled vaguely and proceeded about his business, which was to worry himself to a shadow over another case.

Which case?

Well, that’s another story.