The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 9. Chronicles

A loud knock on the door, and Sergeant Velie opened it an inch. He nodded, admitted a man, and closed the door again.

The newcomer was a roly-poly, greasy individual; Inspector Queen discovered that he was Trikkala, the Greek interpreter, and at once set him to questioning Demmy concerning the imbecile’s movements on Friday night of the previous week.

Alan Cheney contrived to slip into a seat near Joan Brett. He gulped, then whispered shyly, “Evidently my mother’s talent for interpreting Greek isn’t trusted by the Inspector”―obviously as an excuse for speaking to Joan; but she turned her head to give him a frigid stare and he smiled weakly.

Demmy’s eyes took on a flicker of intelligence. He was apparently unaccustomed to being the object of public interest, and some amorphous emotion of vanity stirred within him, for his dull face became wreathed in smiles and his Greek stuttered faster than before.

“He says,” reported Trikkala, in a voice as greasy as himself, “he says that his cousin sent him to bed that night, and that he saw and he heard nothing.”

The Inspector peered curiously at the tall shambling caricature of a man standing by the interpreter. “Now ask him what happened the next morning when he awoke―Saturday, last Saturday, the day his cousin died.”

Trikkala fired a mouthful of harsh syllables at Demmy; Demmy, blinking, replied in a more halting version of the same language. The interpreter turned to the Inspector. “He says his cousin Georg’s voice woke him up that morning, calling to him from his bedroom next door. He says he got up, he dressed, he went into his cousin’s bedroom, he helped his cousin to rise and dress.”

“Ask him what time that was,” directed the old man.

A brief colloquy. “He says it was half past eight in the morning.”

“How is it,” inquired Ellery sharply, ‘that this man Demmy had to dress Georg Khalkis? Miss Brett, didn’t you say before that Khalkis was not helpless, despite his blindness?”

Joan shrugged her cleanly curved shoulders. “You see, Mr. Queen, Mr. Khalkis took his blindness very hard. He was always an energetic person, and he would never admit, even to himself, that the loss of his sight made any difference in his normal life. That’s why he insisted on keeping a tight rein on the welfare of his Galleries. That’s why, too, he insisted that no one ever touch a single article in this room or his bedroom. Nobody has ever so much as moved a chair out of its accustomed place in here during Mr. Khalkis’s life as a blind man. In this way he always knew where everything was and could get about his own little series of rooms with perfect facility, just as if he could see.”

“But you’re not answering my question, Miss Brett,” said Ellery gently. “It would seem, from what you’ve just said, that he would refuse assistance in such a simple matter as getting out of bed and dressing. Surely he could dress himself?”

“You’re so terribly keen, aren’t you, Mr. Queen?” Joan smiled and Alan Cheney rose suddenly and returned to his old place by the wall. “It would seem so. I don’t think that Demmy meant to convey the idea that he actually assisted Mr. Khalkis out of bed, or even helped him physically to dress. You see, there was one thing Mr. Khalkis couldn’t do, and had to have help in doing.”

“And what was that?” Ellery was toying with his pince-nez, his eyes alert.

“Selecting his clothes!” she said triumphantly. “He was an extremely fastidious person. His clothes had to be top-hole. And, being blind, he could not select his day’s wardrobe. So Demmy always did that for him.”

Demmy, who had been gawping at this incomprehensible interlude in his questioning, must have felt neglected, for he suddenly erupted in a shower of Greek. Trikkala said: “He wants to proceed with his story. He says he dressed his cousin Georg according to schedule. He―”

The Queens interrupted simultaneously: “According to schedule?”

Joan laughed. “It’s a pity I can’t speak Greek . . . . You see, Inspector, Demmy has never been able to assimilate the intricacies of Mr. Khalkis’s wardrobe. As I said, Mr. Khalkis was very finical about his clothes―he had many suits and always wore something different every day. A completely new ensemble. If Demmy had been a valet of ordinary intelligence, the problem would have been simple. But Demmy is naturally feeble-minded and, to save himself the bother of commanding a new ensemble each morning, Mr. Khalkis had cleverly arranged a written schedule, in Greek, prescribing for Demmy’s edification a definite ensemble for each day in the week. This put no tax on poor Demmy’s stunted brain. The schedule was flexible. If Mr. Khalkis desired to alter any day’s prescribed ensemble, he gave Demmy oral instructions in their native language.”

“The schedule was used over and over again?” asked the Inspector. “I mean, did Khalkis make out a new schedule every week?”

“Oh, no! It was a seven-day schedule, repeated each week. When his suits showed signs of wear―or what Mr. Khalkis thought were signs of wear from his sense of touch; he was very stubborn about those things and wouldn’t take anyone’s word―he merely had the worn garment exactly duplicated by his tailor. He followed the same plan with his haberdasher, hooter, and so on. In this way, the schedule has remained the same ever since Mr. Khalkis’s blindness.”

“Interesting,” murmured Ellery. “I suppose it prescribed evening ensembles also?”

“No indeed. Mr. Khalkis religiously wore strict evening clothes every night; this was something which didn’t strain Demmy’s memory, and so it wasn’t in the schedule.”

“All right,” growled the Inspector. “Trikkala, you ask this halfwit what happened next.”

Trikkala’s hands described a few heated arcs, and the words flew out of his mouth. Demmy’s face became almost animated. He held forth at length, quite amiably, and Trikkala finally stopped him, wiping his forehead desperately. “He says he dressed his cousin Georg according to schedule. It was about nine o’clock when he and his cousin left the bedroom and went into the library.”

Joan said: “It was Mr. Khalkis’s custom to confer with Mr. Sloane in the study at nine each morning. When he was finished talking over the day’s affairs with Mr. Sloane, I used to take his dictation.”

Trikkala continued: “This man says nothing about that.

He says he left his cousin sitting at the desk here and went away from the house. I cannot exactly make out what he tries to say, Inspector Queen. It is something about a doctor, but his speech is mixed up. He is not all there, hey?”

“No, he isn’t,” grumbled the Inspector, ‘darn the luck. Miss Brett, do you know what he’s trying to tell the interpreter?”

“I fancy he meant to say that he went to visit Dr. Bellows, the psychiatrist. You see, Mr. Khalkis tried always to improve Demmy’s mental condition, although he’d been told repeatedly that Demmy’s case was quite hopeless. Dr. Bellows became interested, secured someone who knew how to speak Greek, and he has kept Demmy under observation at his office, a few squares away. Demmy visits Dr. Bellows twice a month, on Saturdays. He must have gone to Dr. Bellows’ office. At any rate, he returned at about five in the afternoon. Mr. Khalkis had died meanwhile, and nobody had thought in the confusion of the afternoon to notify Demmy. So when he reached home he knew nothing about his cousin’s death.”

“It was very sad,” sighed Mrs. Sloane. “Poor Demmy! I told him, and he took on dreadfully. He whimpered like a child. In his own poor feeble-minded way, he was very fond of Georg.”

“All right, Trikkala. Tell him to stay here, and stand by, yourself. We may need him again.” The Inspector turned to Gilbert Sloane. “Evidently you were the next after Demmy to see Khalkis last Saturday morning, Mr. Sloane. Did you meet him here at nine, as usual?”

Sloane cleared his throat nervously. “Not exactly,” he said in his slightly simpering voice. “You see, while I met Georg in the study here every morning strictly at nine, last Saturday I overslept―I’d worked particularly late at the Galleries the night before. So I didn’t get downstairs until a quarter after nine. Georg seemed a little―well, put out because I had kept him waiting. He was very cross and grumpy; he’d become unusually so in late months, probably because of his growing feeling of helplessness.”

Inspector Queen applied snuff to his thin nostrils, sneezed, and said very deliberately, “Was there anything amiss in this room when you came in that morning?”

“I don’t see . . . Why, of course not. Everything was as usual. Normal, I should say.”

“Was he alone?”

“Oh, yes. He did remark that Demmy had gone out.”

“Tell me exactly what happened while you were with him.”

“Nothing important, Inspector, I assure you―

The Inspector snapped: “Everything, I said. I’ll judge what’s important and what isn’t, Mr. Sloane!”

“As a matter of fact,” commented Pepper, “nobody here seems to consider anything important, Inspector.”

Ellery murmured, in a jingly rhythm: “

“Wie machen wir’s, dass alles frisch und neu―Und mit Bedeutung auch gefallig sei?”” *

Pepper blinked. “Eh?”

“Goethe in a twinkling mood,” said Ellery gravely.

“Oh, don’t mind him . . . . Well, we’ll change their attitude about that, Pepper!” The Inspector glared at Sloane. “Go on, Mr. Sloane. Go on. Spill it all. Even if it’s a matter of Khalkis having cleared his throat.”

Sloane looked bewildered. “But . . . Well, sir, we went through the business of the day quickly. Georg seemed to have something on his mind aside from sales and collections.”

“Good!”

“He was brusque with me, very brusque. I was quite put out, I assure you, Inspector. I didn’t like his tone, and I told him so. Yes. He half-apologized in the growl he used when he was angry. Perhaps he felt that he’d overstepped himself, because he changed the subject abruptly. He was fingering the red tie he was wearing, and he said, in a much calmer tone: “I think this tie is losing its shape, Gilbert.” Of course, he was just making conversation. I reassured him, saying: “Oh, no, Georg, it looks quite all right.” He said, “Well, it’s flabby―I can feel it’s flabby, Gilbert. Before you leave remind me to call Barrett’s and order some new ties like the one I’m wearing.” Barrett’s is his haberdasher―I should say “was’ . . . . Well, that was Georg’s way; there was nothing wrong with the necktie, but he was very fussy about his appearance. I don’t know if all this―” he said doubtfully.

Before the Inspector could speak, Ellery said sharply: “Go on, Mr. Sloane. And did you remind him before you left?”

Sloane blinked. “Naturally. I think Miss Brett will bear me out. You remember, don’t you, Miss Brett?” he asked anxiously, turning to the girl. “You had come into the room just before Georg and I finished talking over the day’s affairs―you were waiting to take some dictation.” Joan nodded emphatically. “There, you see?” said Sloane in a triumphant voice. “That’s just what I was about to say. Before I left, I said to Georg: “You asked me to remind you, Georg, about the ties.” He nodded, and I left the house.”

“And that’s all that happened between you and Khalkis that morning?” demanded the Inspector.

“That’s all, sir. Everything exactly as I’ve told you―our exact words. I didn’t go to the Galleries at once―I had a business appointment downtown―so it wasn’t until I got to the Galleries two hours later that I was informed by one of our employees, Miss Bohm, that Georg had died not long after I’d left the house. Mr. Suiza here had already gone to the house. I went back at once―the Galleries are only a few blocks away, you know, on Madison Avenue.”

Pepper whispered to the Inspector, Ellery stuck his head into the circle, and the three men had a hurried conference. The Inspector nodded and turned to Sloane with a gleam in his eye. “I asked you before, Mr. Sloane, whether you noticed anything amiss in his room last Saturday morning and you said no. A few minutes ago you heard Miss Brett testify that the man we found murdered, Albert Grimshaw, called upon Khalkis the night before Khalkis died, with a mysterious fellow who tried hard to keep his identity secret. Now what I’m getting at is this: That mysterious fellow may be an important lead. Think hard: Was there anything in the library here, on the desk perhaps, that shouldn’t have been here? Something that this secretive man may have left―something that might give us a clue to his identity?”

Sloane shook his head. “I don’t recall anything like that. And I was seated right by the desk. I’m sure that if there was something there which didn’t belong to Georg I should have noticed it.”

“Did Khalkis say anything to you about his having had visitors the night before?”

“Not a word, Inspector.”

“All right, Mr. Sloane. Stick around.” Sloane sank into a chair beside his wife with a relieved sigh. The Inspector beckoned familiarly to Joan Brett, a little smile of benevolence on his grey face. “Now, my dear,” he said in a fatherly voice, “you’ve been very helpful thus far―you’re a witness after my own heart. I’m really interested in you. Tell me something about yourself.”

Her blue eyes sparkled. “Inspector, you’re transparent! I assure you I haven’t a dossier. I’m just a poor menial, what we call in England “lady help”.”

“Dear, dear, and such a nice young lady,” murmured the old man. “Nevertheless―”

“Nevertheless you want to know all about me,” she smiled. “Very well, Inspector Queen.” She arranged her skirt primly over her round knees. “My name is Joan Brett. I worked for Mr. Khalkis for slightly over a year. I am, as perhaps my British accent, now a little blurred by your hideous New Yorkese, had already told you―I am a lady, a lady, Inspector!―of English extraction. Shabby gentility, you know. I came to Mr. Khalkis with a recommendation from Sir Arthur Ewing, the British art-dealer and expert, for whom I had worked in London. Sir Arthur knew Mr. Khalkis by reputation and gave me a very nice character indeed. I arrived at an opportune time; Mr. Khalkis required assistance badly; and he engaged me, at a jolly honorarium, I assure you, to act as his confidential secretary. My knowledge of the business swayed him, I fancy.”

“Hmm. That’s not quite what I wanted―”

“Oh! More personal details?” She pursed her lips. “Let me see, now. I’m twenty-two―past the marrying age, you see, Inspector―I have a strawberry on my right hip, I’ve a perfectly frightful passion for Ernest Hemingway, I think your politics are stuffy, and I just adore your undergrounds. Cela suffit?”

“Now, Miss Brett,” said the Inspector in a feeble voice, “you’re taking advantage of an old man. I want to know what happened last Saturday morning. Did you notice anything in this room that morning that might have indicated the identity of the previous night’s mysterious visitor?”

She shook her head soberly. “No, Inspector, I did not. Everything seemed quite in order.”

“Tell us just what occurred.”

“Let me see.” She placed her forefinger on her pink lower lip. “I entered the study, as Mr. Sloane has told you, before he and Mr. Khalkis had finished talking. I heard Mr. Sloane remind Mr. Khalkis about the cravats. Mr. Sloane then left and I took Mr. Khalkis’s dictation for about fifteen minutes. When he had finished, I said to him: “Mr. Khalkis, shall I telephone Barrett’s and order the new cravats for you?” He said: “No, I’ll do that myself.” Then he handed me an envelope, sealed and stamped, and asked me to post it at once. I was a bit surprised at this―I generally attended to all his correspondence ..

“A letter?” mused the Inspector. “To whom was it addressed?”

Joan frowned. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I really don’t know. You see, I didn’t examine it very closely. I do seem to recall that the address was in pen-and-ink, not typewriting―that would be natural, anyway, for there’s no typewriter down here―but . . . “ She shrugged. “At any rate, just as I was leaving the room with the letter, I saw Mr. Khalkis pick up his telephone―he always used the old-fashioned instrument by which the operator gets your number; the dial telephone was for my convenience―and I heard him give the number of Barrett’s, his haberdasher. Then I went out to post the letter.”

“What time was this?”

“I should say a quarter to ten.”

“Did you see Khalkis alive again?”

“No, Inspector. I was upstairs in my own room a half-hour later when I heard someone scream from below. I dashed down and found Mrs. Simms in the study, in a faint, and Mr. Khalkis dead at his desk.”

“Then he died between a quarter to ten and ten-fifteen?”

“I fancy so. Mrs. Vreeland and Mrs. Sloane both rushed downstairs after me, spied the dead body and began to bellow. I tried to bring them to their senses, finally persuaded them to look to poor Simmsy, and at once telephoned Dr. Frost and the Galleries. Weekes came in then from the rear of the house, Dr. Frost appeared in a remarkably short time―just as Dr. Wardes appeared; he’d slept late, I believe―and Dr. Frost prounced Mr. Khalkis dead. There was really nothing for us to do but drag Mrs. Simms upstairs and revive her.”

“I see. Hold up a moment, Miss Brett.” The Inspector drew Pepper and Ellery aside.

“What do you think, boys?” asked the Inspector guardedly.

“I think we’re going somewhere,” murmured Ellery.

“How do you figure that out?”

Ellery looked at the old ceiling. Pepper scratched his head. “I’m blamed if I can see anything in what we’ve learned so far,” he said. “I got all these facts about what happened Saturday long ago, when we were digging into that will business, but 1 couldn’t see ..

“Well, Pepper,” chuckled Ellery, “perhaps, being American, you’re classed in the last category of the Chinese adage which Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy mentions: to wit, “The Chinese say that we Europeans have one eye, they themselves two, all the world else is blind.”

“

“Quit being fancy,” growled the Inspector. “Listen, you two.” He said something very decisive. Pepper lost a little of his colour, looked uncomfortable, but squared his shoulders and made, to judge from his expression, a mental decision. Joan, perched on the edge of the desk, waited patiently. If she knew what was coming, she gave no sign. Alan Cheney grew tense.

“We’ll see,” concluded the Inspector aloud. He turned back to the others and said to Joan, dryly, “Miss Brett, let me ask you a peculiar question. Exactly what were your movements this past Wednesday night―two nights ago?”

A veritable silence of the tomb descended on the study. Even Suiza, long legs sprawled to their full length along the rug, cocked his ears. A jury of eyes sat in judgement on Joan as she hesitated. At the instant of Queen’s question, her slim leg ceased its pendulum movement, and she grew very still indeed. Then it resumed its swing, and she replied in a casual tone: “Really, Inspector, it’s not a peculiar question at all. The events of the preceding few days―Mr. Khalkis’s death, the confusion in the house, the details of the funeral and the funeral itself―had left me rather worn out. Wednesday afternoon I ambled about Central Park for a breath of air, had an early dinner, and retired immediately after. I read in bed for an hour or so, and turned in at about ten o’clock. That’s quite all.”

“Are you a sound sleeper, Miss Brett?”

She said with a little laugh: “Oh, very.”

“And you slept soundly all that night?”

“Of course.”

The Inspector placed his hand on Pepper’s rigid arm and said: “Then how do you account for the fact, Miss Brett, that at one o’clock in the morning―an hour after Wednesday midnight―Mr. Pepper saw you prowling about this room, and tampering with Khalkis’s safe?”

If the silence had been thunderous before, it was earth-shaking now. For a long moment no one drew a normal breath. Cheney was staring wildly from Joan to the Inspector; he blinked and then focused an unholy glare on Pepper’s white face. Dr. Wardes had allowed a paper-knife, with which he had been playing, to slip from his fingers; and his fingers remained in a clutching position.

Joan herself seemed the least disturbed of them all. She smiled and addressed Pepper directly. “You saw me prowling about the study, Mr. Pepper―you saw me poking in the safe? Are you sure?”

“My dear Miss Brett,” said Inspector Queen, patting her shoulder, “it won’t do you the slightest good to stall for time. And don’t place Mr. Pepper in the embarrassing position of calling you a liar. What were you doing down here at that hour? What were you looking for?”

Joan shook her head with a bewildered little grin. “But, my dear Inspector, I don’t know what either of you is talking about, really!”

The Inspector eyed Pepper slyly. “Only I was talking, Miss Brett . . . . Well, Pepper, were you seeing a ghost or was it the young lady here?”

Pepper kicked the rug. “It was Miss Brett, all right,” he muttered.

“You see, my dear,” continued the Inspector genially, “Mr. Pepper seems to know what he’s talking about. Pepper, what was Miss Brett wearing, do you recall?”

“I certainly do. Pyjamas and a neglige.”

“What colour was the neglige?”

“Black. I was sitting, dozing, in the big chair there, across the room; I suppose I wasn’t visible. Miss Brett stole in, very cautiously, closed the door and turned the switch on that small lamp on the desk. It gave me light enough to see what she was wearing and what she did. She rifled the safe. She went through every paper there.” The last sentence came out in a torrent, as if Pepper were very glad indeed to get his recital over.

The girl had grown perceptibly paler with each successive word. She sat biting her lip with vexation; tears had sprung into her eyes.

“Is that true, Miss Brett?” asked the Inspector evenly.

“I―I―no, it isn’t!” she cried, and, covering her face with her hand, she began to weep convulsively. With a strangled oath young Alan sprang forward and laid muscular hands on Pepper’s clean collar. “Why, you rotten liar!” he shouted, “implicating an innocent girl―!” Pepper, his face crimson, shook himself out of Cheney’s grip; Sergeant Velie, for all his bulk, was at Cheney’s side in a flash and had grasped that young man’s arm so sternly as to make him wince.

“Now, now, my boy,” said the Inspector in a gentle voice, “control yourself. This isn’t―”

“It’s a frame-up!” yelled Alan, twisting in Velie’s hand.

“Sit down, you young whelp!” thundered the Inspector.

“Thomas, you park that hellion in a corner and stand over him.” Velie grunted with as close an expression of joy as he ever exhibited, and herded Alan effortlessly into a chair on the farther side of the room. Cheney subsided, muttering.

“Alan, don’t.* Joan’s words, low and choked, startled them. “Mr. Pepper is telling the truth.” Her voice caught on a little sob. “I―I was in the study late Wednesday night.”

“That’s more sensible, my dear,” said the Inspector cheerfully. “Always tell the truth. Now, what were you looking for?”

She spoke rapidly, without raising her voice. “I―I thought it might be difficult to explain if I admitted . . . It is difficult. I―oh, I awoke at one o’clock and suddenly remembered that Mr. Knox, the executor or whatever he is, would probably want an itemization of certain―well, bonds that Mr. Khalkis owned. So I―I went downstairs to list them and―”

“At one o’clock in the morning, Miss Brett?” asked the old man dryly.

“Yes, yes. But when I saw them in the safe I realized, yes, I realized how foolish it was to do that at such an unearthly hour, so I put them back and went upstairs to bed again. That’s it, Inspector.” Rosy blotches appeared in her cheeks; she kept her eyes steadfastly on the rug. Cheney stared at her with horror; Pepper sighed.

The Inspector found Ellery at his elbow, tugging at his arm. “Well, son?” he asked in a low tone.

But Ellery spoke aloud, a little smile on his lips. “That sounds reasonable enough,” he said heartily.

His father stood very still for an instant. “Yes,” he said, ‘so it does. Ah―Miss Brett, you’re a trifle upset; you need a little diversion. Suppose you go upstairs and ask Mrs. Simms to come down at once?”

“I’ll be―very glad to,” replied Joan in the tiniest voice imaginable. She slid off the edge of the desk, flashed a damply grateful look at Ellery, and hurried out of the library.

Dr. Wardes was examining Ellery’s face in a very pensive way.

* * *

Mrs. Simms appeared in state, attired in a shrieking wrapper, Tootsie padding at her worn heels. Joan slipped into a chair near the door―and near young Alan, who did not look at her but studied the grey corona of Mrs. Simms’ head with fierce concentration.

“Ah, Mrs. Simms. Come in. Have a seat,” exclaimed the Inspector. She nodded regally and flounced into a chair. “Now, Mrs. Simms, do you remember the events of last Saturday morning, the morning Mr. Khalkis died?”

“I do,” she said, with a shudder that set in motion a vast number of fleshy ripples. “I do, sir, and I’ll remember them to my dying day.”

“I’m sure of that. Now, Mrs. Simms, tell us what happened that morning.”

Mrs. Simms raised and lowered her beefy shoulders several times, like an old rooster mustering the energy for a rousing cockadoodledoo. “I came into this room at a quarter past ten, sir, to clean up, take away the tea-things of the night before, and so on―my usual morning chores, sir. As I came through the door―”

“Er―Mrs. Simms.” Ellery’s voice was gently deferential; a little smile immediately wreathed her puffy lips. This was a nice young man! “You’ve been doing the chores yourself?” His tone implied incredulity that such an important person as Mrs. Simms should be required to do menial labour.

“Only in Mr. Khalkis’s private rooms, sir,” she hastened to explain. “You see, Mr. Khalkis had a holy horror of young maids―snippy young idiots, he used to call them. He always insisted that I straighten out his personal quarters myself.”

“Oh, then you usually put Mr. Khalkis’s bedroom in order also?”

“Yes, sir, and Mr. Demmy’s too. So I meant to be doing these chores last Saturday morning. But when I came in I―” her bosoms heaved like the sea―”I saw poor Mr. Khalkis a-lying on his desk; which is to say, sir, his head was a-lying on the desk. I thought he was asleep. So―God have mercy on me!―I touched his poor hand, and it was cold, so cold, and I tried to shake him, and then I screamed and that’s all I remember, sir, on the Book.” She regarded Ellery anxiously, as if he doubted the facts as she had stated them. “The very next thing I knew, there was Weekes here and one of the maids a-slapping and a-pum-melling my face and giving me smelling-salts and whatnot, and I saw I was upstairs in my very own bed.”

“In other words, Mrs. Simms,” said Ellery in the same deferential tone, “you really didn’t touch anything either in the library here or in the bedrooms.”

“No, sir, that I did not.”

Ellery whispered to the Inspector, and the Inspector nodded. The old man said, “Did any one in this household other than Miss Brett, Mr. Sloane, and Demetrios Khalkis see Khalkis alive last Saturday morning before he died?”

All heads shook vigorously; there was no hesitation anywhere.

“Weekes,” said the Inspector, “you’re sure you didn’t enter these rooms between nine and nine-fifteen last Saturday morning?”

The cotton-balls above Weekes’ ears trembled. “I, sir? No, sir!”

“A matter of possible moment,” murmured Ellery. “Mrs. Simms, have you touched any of these rooms since Khalkis’s death seven days ago?”

“I haven’t laid finger to them,” quavered the housekeeper. “I’ve been ill, sir.”

“And the maids who left?”

Joan said in a subdued voice: “I think I told you before, Mr. Queen, that they left the day of Mr. Khalkis’s death. They refused even to step into these rooms.”

“You, Weekes?”

“No, sir. Nothing was touched up to Tuesday, the day of the funeral, sir, and after that we were told not to touch anything.”

“Oh, admirable! Miss Brett, how about you?”

“I’ve had other things to do, Mr. Queen,” she murmured.

Ellery encompassed them all with a sweeping glance. “Has anybody at all touched these rooms since last Saturday?” No response. “Doubly admirable. In other words, this seems to be the situation. The immediate resignation of the maids left the menage shorthanded; Mrs. Simms was confined to her bed and touched nothing; the house being in an uproar, there was no one to clean up. And after the funeral on Tuesday, with the will discovered stolen, nothing was disturbed in these rooms by Mr. Pepper’s orders, I believe.*

“The undertakers worked in Mr. Khalkis’s bedroom,” ventured Joan timidly, “fixing―fixing up the body for burial.”

“And during the will search, Mr. Queen,” put in Pepper, “although we ransacked the rooms, I can assure you personally that nothing was taken away or radically disturbed.”

“I think we may discount the undertakers,” said Ellery. “Mr. Trikkala, will you check up with Mr. Khalkis here?”

“Yes, sir.” Trikkala and Demmy went into frenzied conference again, Trikkala’s questions sharp and explosive. A visible pallor spread over the imbecile’s sagging face, and he began to stammer and splutter in Greek. “He is not clear, Mr. Queen,” reported Trikkala with a frown. “He is trying to say he did not so much as set foot in either bedroom after his cousin’s death, but there is something else . . . “

“If I may presume to interrupt, sir,” put in Weekes, “I think I know what Mr. Demmy is trying to say. You see, he was so put out by Mr. Khalkis’s death, so upset, I might say, sort of like a child fearing the dead, that he refused to sleep in his old room next to Mr. Khalkis’s inside, and by Mrs. Sloane’s order we prepared one of the empty maids’ rooms upstairs.”

“He’s been staying there,” sighed Mrs. Sloane, “like a fish out of water ever since. Poor Demmy is a problem sometimes.”

“Please make sure,” said Ellery in quite a different voice. “Mr. Trikkala, ask him if he has been in the bedrooms since Saturday.”

It was not necessary for Trikkala to translate Demmy’s horrified negative. The imbecile shrank within himself and shambled to a corner, standing there, biting his nails, looking about him with the uneasy glare of a wild animal. Ellery studied him thoughtfully.

The Inspector turned to the brown-bearded English physician. “Dr. Wardes, I was speaking to Dr. Duncan Frost a few moments ago and he said that you had examined the body of Khalkis immediately after death. Is that correct?”

“Quite right.”

“What is your professional opinion as to cause of death?”

Dr. Wardes raised his full brown brows. “Exactly what Dr. Frost ascribed it to in the death-certificate.”

“Fine. Now, a few personal questions, Doctor.” The Inspector took snuff and smiled benignly. “Would you mind relating the circumstances which find you in this house?”

“I believe,” replied Dr. Wardes indifferently, ‘that I touched upon that not long ago. I am a London specialist on diseases of the eye. I had been visiting in New York on a sorely needed sabbatical. Miss Brett visited me at my hotel―”

“Miss Brett again.” Queen shot a shrewd glance at the girl. “How is that―were you acquainted?”

“Yes, through Sir Arthur Ewing, Miss Brett’s former employer. I treated Sir Arthur for a mild trachoma and made the young lady’s acquaintance in that way,” said the physician. “When she learned through the newspapers of my arrival in New York, she visited me at my hotel to renew our acquaintance and broached the possibility of getting me to look at Khalkis’s eyes.”

“You see,” said Joan in a breathless little rush, “when I saw the announcement of Dr. Wardes’ arrival in the ship news, I spoke to Mr. Khalkis about him and suggested that he might be induced to examine Mr. Khalkis’s eyes.”

“Of course,” continued Dr. Wardes, “I was properly in blighty―my nerves aren’t up to snuff at present―and at first I didn’t feel like turning my vacation into a busman’s holiday. But Miss Brett was hard to refuse and I finally consented. Mr. Khalkis was very kind―insisted I be his guest during my stay in the States. I had the man under observation for a little more than a fortnight when he died.”

“Did you agree with the diagnosis of Dr. Frost and the specialist on the nature of Khalkis’s blindness?”

“Oh, yes, as I think I told the good Sergeant here and Mr. Pepper a few days ago. We know very little about the phenomenon of amaurosis―complete blindness―when it is induced by haemorrhage from ulcerous or cancerous stomach. Nevertheless, it was a fascinating problem from the medical standpoint, and I tried a few experiments of my own in an effort to stimulate a possible spontaneous recovery of sight. But I met with no success―my last rigorous examination was a week ago Thursday, and his condition remained unchanged.”

“You’re certain, Doctor, that you’ve never seen the man Grimshaw―the second man in the coffin?”

“No, Inspector, I have not,” replied Dr. Wardes impatiently. “Furthermore, I know nothing about Khalkis’s private affairs, his visitors, or anything else you may consider pertinent to your investigation. My only concern at the moment is to return to England.”

“Well,” said the Inspector dryly, “you didn’t feel that way, I understand, the other day . . . . It isn’t going to be so easy, Doctor, to leave. This is a murder inquiry now.”

He cut short a protest on the physician’s bearded lips and turned aside to Alan Cheney. Cheney’s replies were curt. No, he could add nothing to the testimony given so far. No, he had never seen Grimshaw before, and what was more, he added viciously, he didn’t care a hoot if Grimshaw’s murderer were never found. The Inspector raised a mildly humorous eyebrow and questioned Mrs. Sloane. The result was disappointing―like her son, she knew nothing and cared less. Her only concern was to have the household restored to at least a semblance of propriety and peace. Mrs. Vreeland, her husband, Nacio Suiza, Woodruff were equally unproductive of information. No one of them had laiown or even seen Grimshaw before, it seemed. The Inspector pressed the butler Weekes particularly on this point; but Weekes was positive, despite his eight years’ service in the Khalkis house, that Grimshaw had never appeared on the premises prior to the visits of the week before, and even then he, Weekes, had not seen him.

The Inspector, a Napoleonic little figure of despair, stood in the centre of the room as if it were his Elba. There was an almost frantic glitter in his eye. The questions rattled out of his grey-moustached mouth. Had anyone seen possibly suspicious activity in the house after the funeral? No. Had any of them visited the graveyard since the funeral? No. Had any of them seen anyone go into the graveyard since the funeral? And again, a climax of thunderous negation―no I

Inspector Queen’s fingers curled in an impatient little gesture and Sergeant Velie tramped over. The Inspector was very short-tempered now. Velie was to foray out into the silence of the graveyard and personally question Sexton Honeywell, Reverend Elder and other attaches of the church. He was to discover if possible someone who might have witnessed something of interest in the graveyard since the funeral. He was to quiz neighbours and servants in the Rectory across the court and in the four other private residences which gave rear exit to the court. He was to be mighty sure that he missed no possible witness to a possible visit by a possible suspect to the graveyard, particularly at night.

Velie, accustomed to his superior’s tantrums, grinned a frozen grin and barged out of the library.

The Inspector bit his moustache. “Ellery!” he said with a paternal irritation. “What the devil are you doing now?”

His son made no immediate reply. His son, it might be said, had discovered something of piquant interest. His son, it should be concluded, was for no sensible reason―and it seemed most inappropriately―whistling the thematic tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony over a very ordinary-looking percolator perched on a tabouret in a slight alcove across the room.