The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 14. Note

Inspector Queen had reason to remember that fine bright shining October morning. It was also, in a manner of speaking, a gala day for young Bell, a hotel clerk with no delusions of―but a strong yen for―grandeur. To Mrs. Sloane it brought only anxiety. What it meant to the others may be only vaguely conjectured―the others, that is, with the exception of Miss Joan Brett.

Miss Joan Brett experienced, all things considered, a horrible morning. That she was resentful, that resentment ultimately dissolved into pearly tears, is not to be wondered at. Fate had been hard, and it seemed determined, in its customary aimless manner, to become harder still. The soil, paradoxically because of its pleasant watering of tears, was scarcely adapted for the sowing of the seeds of gentle passion.

It was more, in a word, than even a daughter of doughty British character could be expected to endure.

And it all began with the disappearance of young Alan Cheney.

Cheney’s absence did not strike the Inspector at first when he marshalled his forces and commanded, as he sat in the library of the Khalkis house, that his victims be brought before him. He was too absorbed in watching individual reactions. Bell―a very bright-eyed and important Bell now―stood by the Inspector’s chair, the picture of judicial righteousness. They trailed in one by one―Gilbert Sloane and Nacio Suiza, the immaculate director of the private Khalkis art-gallery; Mrs. Sloane, Demmy, the Vree-lands, Dr. Wardes, and Joan. Woodruff arrived a little later. Weekes and Mrs. Simms stood against a wall as far from the Inspector as they could get . . . . And as each one came in, Bell’s sharp little eyes narrowed, and he made a great to-do with his hands and a fierce lip-quiver-ing, and several times he wagged his head solemnly, as inexorable as a son of the Furies.

No one said a word. They all glanced at Bell―and away.

The Inspector grimly smacked his lips. “Sit down, please. Well, Bell, my lad, do you see any one in this room who visited Albert Grimshaw on the night of Thursday, September thirtieth, in the Hotel Benedict?”

Someone gasped. The Inspector moved his head as quickly as a snake, but the author of the gasp had recovered himself instantly. Some looked indifferent, others interested, others weary.

Bell made the most of his opportunity. He slapped his hands behind his back and began to promenade about the room before the seated company―eyeing them critically, very critically. Finally, he pointed a victorious finger at the foppish figure of . . . Gilbert Sloane.

“There’s one of “em,” he said briskly.

“So.” The Inspector sniffed snuff; he was quite collected at this time. “I thought as much. Well, Mr. Gilbert Sloane, we’ve caught you in a little white lie. You said yesterday that you’d never seen the face of Albert Grimshaw before. Now the night-clerk at the hotel where Grimshaw stayed identifies you as a visitor to Grimshaw the night before he was murdered. What have you got to say for yourself?”

Sloane moved his head feebly, like a fish on a grassy bank. “I―” His voice caught on some tracheal obstruction, and he paused to clear it very, very carefully. “I don’t know what the man’s talking about, Inspector. Surely there’s some mistake . . . .”

“Mistake? So.” The Inspector considered that. His eyes twinkled sardonically. “Sure you’re not taking a leaf out of Miss Brett’s notebook, Sloane? You’ll recall she made the same remark yesterday .. Sloane mumbled something, and colour flared into Joan’s cheeks. But she kept sitting motionless, staring before her. “Bell, is there a mistake or did you see this man that night?”

“I saw him, sir,” said Bell. “Him.”

“Well, Sloane?”

Sloane crossed his legs suddenly. “It’s―why, it’s ridiculous. I don’t know anything about it.”

Inspector Queen smiled and turned to Bell. “Which one was he, Bell?”

Bell looked confused. “I don’t exactly recall which one he was. But I’m sure he was one of them, sir! Absolutely sure!”

“You see―” began Sloane eagerly.

“I’ll attend to you some other time, Mr. Sloane.” The Inspector waved his hand. “Go on, Bell. Anybody else?”

Bell began his hunter’s stalk again. His chest swelled again. “Well,” he said, ‘there’s one thing I’ll swear to.” He pounced so suddenly across the room that Mrs. Vreeland uttered a little scream. “This,” cried Bell, “was the lady!”

He was pointing to Delphina Sloane.

“Hmm.” The Inspector folded his arm. “Well, Mrs. Sloane, I suppose you don’t know what we’re talking about either, eh?”

A rich slow flush began to invade the woman’s chalky cheeks. Her tongue flicked out over her lips several times. “Why . . . no, Inspector. I do not.”

“And you said you’d never seen Grimshaw before, either.”

“I hadn’t!” she cried wildly. “I hadn’t!”

The Inspector shook his head sadly, as if in philosophic commentary on the mendaciousness of the Khalkis witnesses in general. “Anybody else, Bell?”

“Yes, sir.” There was no hesitancy in Bell’s step as he crossed the room and tapped Dr. Wardes’ shoulder. “I’d recognize this gentleman anywhere, sir. It isn’t easy to forget that bushy brown beard.”

The Inspector seemed genuinely astonished. He stared at the English physician, and the English physician stared back―quite without expression. “Which one was he, Bell?”

“The very last one,” said Bell positively.

“Of course,” said Dr. Wardes in his cool voice, “you must realize, Inspector, that this is tommyrot. Rank nonsense. What possible connexion could I have had with your American jail-bird? What possible motive could I have had in visiting such a man, even it I did know him?”

“Are you asking me, Dr. Wardes?” The old man smiled.

“I’m asking you. You’ve been identified by a man who meets thousands of people―a man trained by his job to remember faces. And, as Bell says, you’re not particularly hard to remember. Well, sir?”

Dr. Wardes sighed. “It seems to me, Inspector, that the very―ah, singularity of this poor hirsute countenance of mine gives me a potent point of refutation. Dash it all, sir, don’t you realize that it would be the simplest thing in the world to impersonate me, with this beard of mine?”

“Bravo,” murmured Ellery, to Pepper. “Our good leech has a quick mind, Pepper.”

“Too damned quick.”

“That’s very clever, Doctor, very clever indeed,” said the Inspector appreciatively. “And quite true. Very well, we accept your word and we agree that you were impersonated by someone. All you have to do now, sir, is to account for your movements on the night of September thirtieth, in the interval during which this impersonation was taking place. Eh?”

Dr. Wardes frowned. “Thursday night last . . . Let me see.” He mused, then shrugged. “Oh, come now, Inspector, that’s not quite cricket. How can you expect me to recall where I was at a certain hour more than a week ago?”

“Well, you remembered where you were a week ago Friday night,” remarked the Inspector dryly, “now that I come to think of it. It’s true, though, that your memory had to be jogged a bit―”

He turned about at the sound of Joan’s voice; everyone looked at her. She was sitting on the edge of her chair; and smiling fixedly. “My dear Doctor,” she said, “I must say you’re hardly the gallant, or else . . . You defended Mrs. Vreeland in the most cavalier manner yesterday―are you trying to preserve my poor tarnished reputation or have you really forgotten?”

“By Jove I” exclaimed Dr. Wardes instantly, his brown eyes lighting up. “Stupid―dashed stupid of me, Joan. I say, Inspector―curious what a man’s mind is, eh?―I say, sir, I was with Miss Brett during that hour a week ago Thursday night!”

“You were.” The Inspector looked slowly from the physician to Joan. “How nice.”

“Yes,” said Joan quickly, “it was after I had seen Grimshaw being admitted to the house by the maid. I returned to my room, and Dr. Wardes knocked at my door and asked if I shouldn’t enjoy a spot somewhere in town . . . “

“Of course,” murmured the Englishman, “and we left the house soon after, trotted to some little cafe or other on Fifty-seventh Street―I can’t recollect which―had the jol-liest evening, in fact. I believe it was midnight when we returned, wasn’t it, Joan?”

“I believe it was, Doctor.”

The old man grunted. “Very nice. Very nice . . . Well, Bell, do you still think that’s the last man sitting over there?”

Bell said doggedly, “I know he is.”

Dr. Wardes chuckled, and the Inspector rose with a little jump. His good-nature had vanished. “Bell,” he snarled, ‘that accounts―we’ll call it “accounts”―for three: Sloane, Mrs. Sloane, Dr. Wardes. How about the other two men? Do you see either of them here?”

Bell shook his head. “I’m sure neither of them is among these gentlemen sitting about, sir. One of the two was a very big man―a giant, almost. His hair was getting grey, he had a red face all tanned up, sort of, and he spoke like an Irishman. I don’t recall now whether he was the one who came between this lady and that gentleman―” he pointed to Mrs. Sloane and Dr. Wardes―”or whether he was one of the first two men.”

“Big Irisher, hey?” muttered the Inspector. “By Christopher, where does he come in? We haven’t run across a man of that description in this case! . . . All right, now, Bell. Here’s the situation. Grimshaw came in with a man―a man all bundled up. Another man followed. Then came Mrs. Sloane. Then another man, and then Dr. Wardes. Two of the three men remaining are Sloane here and a big Irishman. How about the third man? Isn’t there anybody here who might be that one?”

“I really can’t say, sir,” replied Bell regretfully. “I’m all mixed up on it. Maybe it’s this Mr. Sloane who was the bundled up man, and maybe the other one―the missing one―came later. I-―I . . . “

“Bell!” thundered the Inspector. Bell jumped. “You can’t let it go that way! Can’t you be sure?”

“I―Well, sir, no.”

The Inspector looked around grumpily, weighing his audience in the scale of his sharp old eyes. It was evident that he was searching the room for someone who might have been the man whose description Bell did not recall. And then a wild light leaped into his eyes and he roared, “Damation! I knew there was someone missing! I felt it!―Cheney! Where’s that young whelp Cheney?”

Blank stares.

“Thomas! Who’s been on duty at the front door?”

Velie started guiltily and said in a very small voice, “Flint, Inspector―Queen.” Ellery quickly suppressed a smile; this was the first time he had ever heard the grizzled veteran address the old man by his formal title. Velie was frankly scared; he looked sick.

“Get him!”

Velie went away so quickly that even the Inspector, growling in his tiny throat, was slightly mollified. He brought in a quaking Flint―a Flint, almost as burly as the sergeant, and at the moment just as frightened-looking.

“Well, Flint,” said the Inspector in a dangerous voice, “come in. Come in!”

Flint mumbled, “Yes, Chief. Yes, Chief.”

“Flint, did you see Alan Cheney leave this house?”

Flint swallowed convulsively. “Yes, sir. Yes, Chief.”

“When?”

“Last night, Chief. Eleven-fifteen, Chief.”

“Where did he go?”

“He said somethin” about goin” down to his club.”

The Inspector said calmly: “Mrs. Sloane, does your son belong to a club?”

Delphina Sloane was wringing her fingers; her eyes were tragic. “Why―-no, Inspector, no. I can’t understand―”

“When did he come back, Flint?”

“He―he didn’t come back, Chief.”

“He didn’t come back?” The Inspector’s voice became very quiet indeed. “Why didn’t you report this to Sergeant Velie?”

Flint was in agony. “I―I was just goin” to report it, Chief. I came on at eleven last night and I’m―I’m due to be relieved in a coupla minutes. I was gonna report it, Chief. I thought maybe he was on a bat somewhere. Besides, Chief, he wasn’t carryin” any luggage or anything . . . .”

“Wait for me outside. I’ll attend to you later,” said the old man in the same terrible, calm voice. Flint walked out like a man sentenced to death.

Sergeant Velie’s blue jowls trembled; he muttered: “Not Flint’s fault, Inspector Queen. My fault. You told me to round up everybody. I should have done it myself―would’ve caught it sooner . . . “

“Shut up, Thomas. Mrs. Sloane, has your son a bank account?”

She quavered: “Yes. Yes, Inspector. The Mercantile National.”

“Thomas, call the Mercantile National and find out if Alan Cheney withdrew any money this morning.”

It was necessary for Sergeant Velie to brush by Joan Brett in order to reach the desk. He muttered an apology, but she did not move. And even Velie, immersed in his own private misery, was shocked by the horror and despair in the girl’s eyes. Her hands were clenched in her lap; she barely breathed. Velie fumbled with his big jaw and walked completely around her chair. As he picked up the telephone his eyes were still upon her―the old hard eyes now.

“Haven’t you any idea,” the Inspector was snapping at Mrs. Sloane, “Where your son went, madame?”

“No. I―You don’t think―?”

“How about you, Sloane? Did the boy say anything to you last night about going away?”

“Not a word. I can’t―”

“Well, Thomas?” the old man asked impatiently. “What’s the answer?”

“Getting it now.” Velie spoke briefly to someone, nodded ponderously several times, and finally hung up. He jammed his hands into his pockets and said quietly: “Flew the coop, Chief. Cleaned out his bank account this morning at nine o’clock.”

“By God,” said the Inspector. Delphina Sloane slipped out of her chair, hesitated, looked about wildly and sat down again when Gilbert Sloane touched her arm. “Any details?”

“He had forty-two hundred in his account. Closed it, took the money in small bills. Carried a small suitcase; looked new. Gave no explanation.”

The Inspector went to the door. “Hagstrom!” A detective with Scandinavian features trotted up―he was jumpy, on the quivering alert. “Alan Cheney’s gone. Withdrew forty-two hundred dollars from the Mercantile National at nine this morning. Find him. Find out where he spent the night, as a starter. Get a warrant and take it along with you. Camp on his trail. Take help. He may try to get out of the State. Make tracks, Hagstrom.”

Hagstrom disappeared, and Velie followed him quickly.

The Inspector confronted them again; this time there was no benevolence in his glance as he pointed to Joan Brett. “You’ve had a hand in most everything so far, Miss Brett. Do you know anything about young Cheney’s runout?”

“Nothing, Inspector.” Her voice was low.

“Well―anybody!” snarled the old man. “Why did he skip? What’s behind all this?”

Questions. Steel-tipped words. Hidden wounds that bled internally . . . . And the minutes ticked by.

Delphina Sloane was sobbing. “Surely―Inspector―you aren’t―you can’t be thinking of . . . My Alan’s a child, Inspector. Oh, he can’t be―! There’s something wrong, Inspector! Something wrong!”

“You said a mouthful there, Mrs. Sloane,” said the Inspector with a ghastly grin. He wheeled―Sergeant Velie stood, like Nemesis, in the doorway. “What’s up, Thomas?”

Velie extended his gargantuan arm. In his hand there was a small sheet of note-paper. The Inspector snatched it from him. “What’s this?” Ellery and Pepper moved forward quickly; the three men read the few hurriedly scribbled lines on the sheet. The Inspector looked at Velie; Velie stalked over, and they went into a corner. The old man asked a single question, and Velie replied laconically. They came back to the centre of the room.

“Let me read you something, ladies and gentlemen.” They strained forward, breathing hard. The Inspector said: “I hold in my hand a message Sergeant Velie has just found in this house. It is signed by Alan Cheney.” He raised the paper and began to read, slowly, and distinctly. “The message reads: “I am going away. Perhaps forever. Under the circumstances―Oh, what’s the use? Everything is all in a tangle, and I just can’t say what . . . . Good-bye. I shouldn’t be writing this at all. It’s dangerous for you. Please―for your own sake―burn this. Alan.”

Mrs. Sloane half-rose from her chair, her face saffron, screamed once, and fainted. Sloane caught her limp body as she sagged forward. The room burst into sound―cries, exclamations. The Inspector watched it all with calmness, quiet as a cat.

They managed, finally, to revive the woman. Then the Inspector went up to her and, very smoothly, slipped the paper under the woman’s tear-swollen eyes. “Is this your son’s handwriting, Mrs. Sloane?”

Her mouth was hideously wide. “Yes. Poor Alan. Poor Alan. Yes.”

The Inspector’s voice said clearly: “Sergeant Velie, where did you find this note?”

Velie growled, “Upstairs in one of the bedrooms. It was stuck under a mattress.”

“And whose bedroom was it?”

“Miss Brett’s.”

It was too much―too much for everybody. Joan closed her eyes to shut out the hostile stares, the unspoken accusation, the Inspector’s expressionless triumph.

“Well, Miss Brett?” That was all he said.

She opened her eyes, then, and he saw that they were filled with tears. “I―found it this morning. It had been slipped under the door of my room.”

“Why didn’t you report it at once?”

No reply.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it when we discovered Cheney’s absence?”

Silence.

“More important―what did Alan Cheney mean when he wrote: “It’s dangerous for you” ?”

Whereupon the floodgates that are an anatomical adjunct of womankind’s delicate structure opened with a rush, and Miss Joan Brett dissolved in those pearly tears before noted. She sat shaking, sobbing, gasping, sniffling―as forlorn a young lady as Manhattan emcompassed that sunshiny October morning. It was a spectacle so naked that it embarrassed the others. Mrs. Simms, after an instinctive step toward the girl, feebly retreated. Dr. Wardes looked, for once, violently angry; brown lightnings flashed from his eyes as he glared at the Inspector. Ellery was shaking his head in disapproval. Only the Inspector remained unmoved.

“Well, Miss Brett?”

For answer she sprang from her chair, still not looking at them, one arm shielding her eyes, and ran blindly from the room. They heard her stumbling up the stairs.

“Sergeant Velie,” said the Inspector coldly, “you’ll see that Miss Brett’s movements are carefully watched from this moment on.”

Ellery touched his father’s arm. The old man peered at him slyly. Ellery murmured, so that the others could not hear, “My dear, respected, even venerated father, you are probably the world’s most competent policeman―but as a psychologist . . . .” He shook his head sadly.