The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 15. Maze

Now it will be seen that, while Ellery Queen until October the ninth was little more than a wraith haunting the fringes of the Khalkis case, that memorable Saturday afternoon found him, through the mercurial chemistry of his unpredictable nature, plunged very solidly into the heart of the problem―no longer an observer, now a prime mover.

The time was ripe for revelations; the stage was so faultlessly set that he could not resist the temptation to leap into the spotlight. It will be remembered always that this was a younger Ellery than has heretofore been encountered―an Ellery with a cosmic egotism that is commonly associated with sophomores. Life was sweet, there was a knotty problem to solve, a tortuous maze to stride confidently through, and, to add a pinch of drama, a very superior sort of District Attorney to bait.

It began, as so many portentous events have since begun, in the inviolacy of Inspector Queen’s office in Center Street. Sampson was there, thrashing about like a suspicious tiger; Pepper was there, looking very thoughtful; the Inspector was there, slumped in his chair, seething fires in his grey old eyes and his lips as tight as a purse’s mouth. Who could resist, indeed? Especially since, in the midst of an aimless Sampsonian summation of the case, Inspector Queen’s secretary scurried in, out of breath with excitement, to announce that Mr. James J. Knox, the James J. Knox―possessor of more millions than it was decent for any man to amass―Knox the banker, Knox the Wall Street king, Knox the-friend-of-the-President―was outside demanding to see Inspector Richard Queen. Resistance after that would have been superhuman.

Knox was really a legend. He used his millions and the power which accompanied them to keep himself out of, rather than in, the public eye. It was his name, not himself, that people knew. It was only human, therefore, for Messieurs the Queens, Sampson, and Pepper to rise as one man when Knox was ushered into the office, and to exhibit more deference and fluster than the strict conventions of democracy prescribe. The great man shook their hands limply and sat down without being asked.

He was the drying hulk of a giant―nearly sixty at this time and visibly drained of his fabulous physical vigour. The hair of his head, brows, and moustache was completely white; the trap of his mouth was a little slack now; only his marbly grey eyes were young.

“Conference?” he asked. His voice was unexpectedly soft―a deceptive voice, low-pitched, and hesitant.

“Ah―yes, yes,” said Sampson hastily. “We’ve been discussing the Khalkis case. A very sad affair, Mr. Knox.”

“Yes.” Knox looked squarely at the Inspector. “Progress?”

“Some.” Inspector Queen was unhappy. “It’s all mixed up, Mr. Knox. A great many threads to untangle. I can’t say we see daylight yet.”

This was the moment. The moment, perhaps, which a still younger Ellery may have envisioned in his day-dreams―the baffled representatives of the law, the presence of mighty personality . . . . “You’re being modest, dad,” said Ellery Queen. Nothing more at the moment. Just the gently chiding tone, the little gesture of deprecation, the precise quarter-smile. “You’re being modest, dad,” as if the Inspector knew what he was talking about.

Inspector Queen sat very quietly indeed, and Sampson’s lips parted. The great one looked from Ellery to his father with judicious inquiry. Pepper was staring open-mouthed.

“You see, Mr. Knox,” Ellery went on in the same humble tone―oh, it was perfect! he thought; “you see, sir, while some odds and ends are still strewn about the landscape, my father neglects to say that the main body of the case has taken definitely solid shape.”

“Don’t quite understand,” said Knox encouragingly.

“Ellery,” began the Inspector, in a tremulous voice . . .

“It seems clear enough, Mr. Knox,” said Ellery with whimsical sadness. Heavens, what a moment! he thought. “The case is solved.”

It is at such instants snatched out of the racing mill-stream of time that egotists achieve their noblest riches. Ellery was magnificent―he studied the changing expression on the faces of the Inspector, Sampson, Pepper like a scientist watching an unfamiliar but anticipated test-tube reaction. Knox, of course, grasped nothing of the by-play. He was merely interested.

“The murderer of Grimshaw―” choked the District Attorney.

“Who is he, Mr. Queen?” asked Knox mildly.

Ellery sighed and lit a cigarette before replying. It would never do to hurry the denouement. This must be cherished to the last precious moment. Then he allowed the words to trickle through a cloud of smoke. “Georg Khalkis,” he said.

District Attorney Sampson confessed long afterward that, had James J. Knox not been present during this drama, he would have picked up one of the telephones on the Inspector’s desk and hurled it at Ellery’s head. He did not believe. He could not believe. A dead man―a man, moreover, blind before he had died―as the murderer! It defied all the laws of credibility. It was more than that―the smug vapourings of a clown, the chimera of a heated brain, the . . . Sampson, it will be noted, felt very strongly about it.

Restrained, however, by the Presence, he merely shifted in his chair, looking ill, his busy brain already wrestling with the problem of covering up this statement of utter lunacy.

Knox spoke first, because Knox required no emotional recovery. Ellery’s pronunciamiento made him blink, it is true, but an instant after he said, in his soft voice, “Khalkis . . . . Now, I wonder.”

The Inspector then found his tongue. “I think,” he said, licking his old red lips quickly, “I think we owe Mr. Knox an explanation―eh, son?” His tone belied his glance; his glance was furious.

Ellery leaped from his chair. “We certainly do,” he said heartily. “Especially since Mr. Knox is personally interested in the case.” He perched on the edge of the Inspector’s desk. “Really a unique problem, this one,” he said. “It has some positively inspired points:

“Please attend. There were two principal clues: the first revolving about the necktie Georg Khalkis was wearing on the morning of his collapse from heart-failure; the second concerning the percolator and tea-cups in Khalkis’s study.”

Knox looked slightly blank. Ellery said: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Knox. Of course you’re unfamiliar with these things,” and rapidly outlined the facts surrounding the investigation. When Knox nodded his comprehension, Ellery continued. “Now let me explain what we were able to glean from this business of Khalkis’s neckties.” He was careful to pluralize himself; Ellery, although this had been questioned by malicious persons, possessed a strong family pride. “On Saturday morning a week ago, the morning of Khalkis’s death, you will observe that Khalkis’s imbecile valet Demmy prepared his cousin’s raiment, by his own testimony, according to schedule. It was to be expected, therefore, that Khalkis should have been wearing the precise items of clothing specified in the regular Saturday schedule. Refer to the Saturday schedule, and what do you find? You find that, among other articles, Khalkis should have been wearing a green moire necktie.

“So far, so good. Demmy, concluding his morning ritual of assisting his cousin to dress, or at least of laying out the scheduled clothing, leaves at nine o’clock. Fifteen minutes elapse, an interval during which Khalkis, fully attired, is alone in his study. At nine-fifteen Gilbert Sloane enters to confer with Khalkis about the day’s projects. And what do we find? We find, according to Sloane’s testimony―not emphasized, of course, but there nevertheless―that at nine-fifteen Khalkis is wearing a red tie.”

He had his audience now; his feeling of satisfaction manifested itself in a bawdy chuckle. “An interesting situation, eh? Now, if Demmy told the truth, we are confronted with a curious discrepancy which pules for explanation. If Demmy told the truth―and his mental condition obviates mendaciousness―Khalkis therefore must have been wearing the scheduled, or green, tie at nine o’clock, the time Demmy left him.

“How explain the discrepancy, then? Well, this is the inevitable explanation: in the fifteen-minute period in which he was alone, Khalkis, for some reason we shall probably never know, went into his bedroom and changed his tie, discarding the green one given him by Demmy for one of the red ties hanging on the rack in his bedroom wardrobe.

“Now we also know from Sloane’s testimony that, during his confabulation with Khalkis some time after nine-fifteen that morning, Khalkis fingered the tie he was wearing―which Sloane had already noticed, on originally entering the room, to be red―and said, in these exact words: “Before you leave remind me to call Barrett’s and order some new ties like the one I’m wearing .”” His eyes were bright. “The verbal italicization is mine. Now observe. Just as Miss Brett was leaving Khalkis’s study much later, she heard Khalkis call the number of Barrett’s, his haberdasher. Barrett’s, as a check-up later established, delivered―according to the testimony of the clerk who spoke to Khalkis―exactly what Khalkis ordered. But what was it that Khalkis had ordered? Obviously, what had been delivered. But what had been delivered? Six red ties!”

Ellery leaned forward, pounding the desk. “To sum up: Khalkis, to have said he was going to order neckties like the one he was wearing, and then to have ordered red ties, must therefore have known that he was wearing a red tie. Fundamental. In other words, Khalkis knew the colour of the necktie that was draped around his neck at the time Sloane conferred with him.

“But how could he, a blind man, have known the colour, since it was not the colour called for by the Saturday schedule? Well, he might have been told the colour by someone. But by whom? Only three people saw him that morning before he put in the call to Barrett’s―Demmy, who dressed him according to schedule; Sloane, whose word-for-word conversation concerning the ties did not once refer to them by colour; and Joan Brett, whose one reference to the ties that morning, addressed to Khalkis, also omitted mention of its colour.

“In other words, Khalkis wasn’t told the colour of the changed tie. Was it mere accident, then, if he himself had changed from the scheduled green to the red one he later wore―was it mere accident that he picked a red tie from the rack? Yes, that’s possible―for remember that the cravats on the rack in the wardrobe were not arranged by colours―they were mingled in a confusion of colours. But how account for the fact that, whether he picked the red tie by accident or not, he knew―as his subsequent actions proved―that he had picked a red tie?”

Ellery ground his cigarette slowly against the bottom of an ashtray on the desk. “Gentlemen, there is only one way in which Khalkis could have known he was wearing a red tie. And that is―he could distinguish its colour visually―he could see!

“But he was blind, you say?

“And here is the crux of my first series of deductions. For, as Dr. Frost testified and Dr. Wardes corroborated, Georg Khalkis was afflicted by a peculiar type of blindness in which sight might return spontaneously at any time!

“What is the conclusion, then? That last Saturday morning, at least, Mr. Georg Khalkis was no more blind than you or I.”

Ellery smiled. “Questions arise at once. If he could suddenly see after an authentic period of blindness, why didn’t he excitedly inform his household―his sister, Sloane, Demmy, Joan Brett? Why didn’t he telephone his doctor―in fact, why didn’t he inform Dr. Wardes, the eye-specialist then visiting in his house? For only one possible psychological reason: he did not want it known that he could see again; it suited some purpose of his own to continue leading people to believe that he was still blind. What could this purpose have been?”

Ellery paused and drew a deep breath. Knox was leaning forward, his hard eyes unwavering; the others were stiff with attentiveness.

“Let’s leave it there for the moment,” said Ellery quietly, “and tackle the clue of the percolator and the tea-cups.

“Observe the superficial evidence. The tea-things found on the tabouret indicated clearly that three persons had drunk tea. Why doubt it? Three cups showed the usual signs of usage by their dried dregs and the ring-stains just below the rims inside; three dried tea-bags were in evidence and prodding them in fresh water elicited only a weak tea-solution, proving that these bags had actually been employed in making tea; three desiccated, squeezed pieces of lemon were there; and three silver spoons with a cloudy film, indicating use―you see, everything tended to show that three persons had drunk tea. Furthermore, this substantiated what we had already learned; for Khalkis had told Joan Brett on Friday night that he expected two visitors, the two visitors had been seen arriving and entering the study―and this made, with Khalkis himself, three people. Again―superficial corroboration.

“But―and it’s a leviathan “but”, gentlemen―” grinned Ellery, “how superficial the indications were was at once revealed when we looked into the percolator. What did we see there? A percolator, to put it tersely, with too much water. We set about proving our surmise that there was too much water. By draining the water from the percolator we discovered that it filled five cups―the fifth not quite full, to be sure, since we had previously drawn off a tiny sample of the staled water in a vial for later chemical analysis. Five cupfuls, then. Later, when we refilled the percolator with fresh water, we drained off exactly six cupfuls when the tap ran dry. This meant, then, a six-cup percolator―and the stale water had filled five cups. But how was this possible if three cupfuls had been used for tea by Khalkis and his two visitors, as all the superficial signs indicated? According to our test, only one cupful had been taken from the percolator, not three. Does this mean that only a third of a cup of water had been used for each of the three men? Impossible―there was a circular tea-stain around the inner rim of the cup, indicating that each cup had been full. Well, then, was it possible that three cupfuls actually had been drained from the percolator, but that later somebody had added water to the water already in the percolator to make up the difference of the two missing cupfuls? But no―an analysis of the stale water from the little vialful I had taken indicated by a simple chemical test that no fresh water was present in the percolator.

“There was only one conclusion: the water in the percolator was authentic but the evidences on the three cups were not. Some one had deliberately tampered with the tea-things―the cups, the spoons, the lemon―to make it appear that three people had drunk tea. Whoever tampered with the tea-things had made just one mistake―he had used the same cupful of water for each cup, instead of taking three separate cupfuls out of the percolator. But why go to all this trouble to make it appear that three people were there when it was accepted that three were there―from the two visitors and Khalkis’s own instructions? For only one possible reason―emphasis. But if three people were there, why emphasize what is established?

“Only because three people, strange as it seems, were not there.”

He fixed them with the feverish glittering eye of triumph. Someone―Ellery was amused to see that it was Sampson―sighed appreciatively. Pepper was profoundly absorbed in the discourse, and the Inspector was nodding his head sadly. James Knox began to rub his chin.

“You see,” continued Ellery in his sharpest lecture-voice, “if three people had been present and all had drunk tea, there would have been three cupfuls of water missing from the percolator. Suppose now, that all had not drunk―people sometimes refuse such mild refreshment in these days of American prohibition. Very well. What’s wrong in that? Why go through this tortuous rigmarole of making it appear that all had drunk? Again, only to substantiate the accepted belief, fostered by Khalkis himself, please note, that three were present in that study a week ago Friday night―the night Grimshaw was murdered.”

He went on rapidly. “We are therefore faced with this interesting problem: if three were not present, how many were? Well, there might have been more than three: four, five, six, and number of people might have slipped into that study without being seen after Joan Brett admitted the two visitors and went upstairs to tuck the bibulous Alan in his little bed. But, since the number cannot by any means at our disposal be fixed, the theory of more than three leads nowhere. On the other hand, if we examine the theory that there were fewer than three present, we find ourselves on a heated trail.

“It couldn’t have been one, for two were actually seen entering the study. We have shown that, whatever it was, it was not three. Then, according to the only alternative in the second theory―the theory of fewer than three―it must have been two.

“If two people were there, what are our difficulties? We know that Albert Grimshaw was one―he was seen and later identified by Miss Brett. Khalkis himself was, by all the laws of probability, the second of the two. If this is true, then, the man who accompanied Grimshaw into the house―the man “all bundled up”, as Miss Brett described him―must have been Khalkis! But is this possible?”

Ellery lit another cigarette. “It is possible, decidedly. One curious circumstance seems to bear it out. You will recall that when the two visitors entered the study, Miss Brett was not in a position to see into it; in fact, Grimshaw’s companion had shoved her out of the way, as if to prevent her from catching a glimpse of what was―or what was not―in the interior of the room. There may be many explanations for this action, but certainly its implication is in tune with the theory of Khalkis being the companion, for he naturally would not want Miss Brett to look into the study and notice that he was not there when he should have been there . . . . What else? Very well―what are the characteristics of Grimshaw’s companion? Physically he approximated Khalkis’s size and build. That’s one thing. For another, from the incident of Mrs. Simms’ precious puss, Tootsie, Grimshaw’s companion could see. For the cat, perfectly still, lay on a rug before the door and the bundled man checked himself with one foot in the air and then deliberately walked around it; if he were blind, he could not have avoided stepping on the tabby. This checks, too; for from the necktie deductions we have demonstrated that Khalkis was not blind the following morning, but was pretending to be―and we have every reason to postulate the theory that his sight may have returned to him at any time after a week ago Thursday, on the basis of the fact that the last time Di Wardes examined Khalkis’s eyes was on that day―the day before the incident of the two visitors.

“But this provides the answei to my former question, which was: Why did Khalkis keep silent about his recovery of sight? The answer is: If Grimshaw were discovered murdered, if suspicion pointed in Khalkis’s direction, he would have the alibi oi blindness to support his innocence―for it would be said that Khalkis, blind, could not have been the unknown man, the murderer of Grimshaw. The explanation of how Khalkis engineered the physical elements of his deception is simple: after he had ordered the tea-things that Friday night and Mrs. Simms had retired, he must have slipped into his overcoat and derby and stolen out of the house, met Grimshaw probably by prear-rangement, and re-entered with Grimshaw as if he were one of the two expected visitors.”

Knox had not stirred in his chair; he seemed about to speak, then blinked and maintained his silence.

“What confirmations have we of Khalkis’s plot and deceptions?” continued Ellery blithely. “For one thing, he himself fostered the idea of three people―by this instructions to Miss Brett―deliberately saying that two visitors were expected, that one of them wished to keep his identity secret. For another, he deliberately withheld the information that he had recovered his sight―a damning circumstance. For another, we know positively that Grimshaw was strangled from six to twelve hours before Khalkis died.”

“Damned funny mistake to make!” muttered the District Attorney.

“What was that?” asked Ellery pleasantly.

“I mean this business of Khalkis using the same watei to fill each of the faked cups. Pretty dumb, I’d say, considering how clever the rest of it was.”

Pepper interrupted with a boyish eagerness. “It seems to me, Chief,” he said, “with due respect for Mr. Queen’s opinion, that it may not have been a mistake after all.”

“And how do you figure that, Pepper?” asked Ellery with interest.

“Well, suppose Khalkis didn’t know that the percolator was full. Suppose he took it for granted that it was only half-full or something. Or suppose he didn’t know it was a percolator that normally held six cups when full. Either one of these suppositions would account for his seeming stupidity.”

“There’s something in that.” Ellery smiled. “Very well. Now this solution does leave certain loose ends, none of which we can settle conclusively, although we can hazard reasonable inferences. For one thing, if Khalkis killed Grimshaw, what was his motive? Well, we know that Grimshaw visited him, alone, the night before. And that this visit gave rise to Khalkis’s instructions to Woodruff, his attorney, to draw up a new will―in fact, he telephoned Woodruff late that night. Urgency, then―pressure. The new will changed the legatee of the Khalkis Galleries, a considerable inheritance, and nothing else; who this new legatee was Khalkis took scrupulous pains to keep secret―not even his attorney was to know. It isn’t far-fetched, I think, to say that Grimshaw, or possibly someone Grimshaw represented, was the new legatee. But why should Khalkis do this amazing thing? The obvious answer is blackmail, considering the character of Grimshaw and his criminal record. Don’t forget, too, that Grimshaw was connected with the profession; he had been a museum attendant, he had been jailed for the unsuccessful theft of a painting. Blackmail by Grimshaw would mean a hold on Khalkis, who is also in the profession. That to me seems the probable motive; Grimshaw had something on Khalkis, something in all likelihood connected with a shady phase of the art-business or some nefarious transaction involving an art-object.

“Now let me reconstruct the crime with this admittedly suppositional motive as a foundation. Grimshaw visited Khalkis Thursday night―during which visit we may assume that the ultimatum, or the blackmail project, was launched by the jail-bird. Khalkis, either for Grimshaw or Grimshaw’s factor, agreed to alter his will in payment―you will probably find Khalkis to have been in straitened financial circumstances, unable to pay cash. Khalkis, after instructing his lawyer to draw up a new will, either felt that the change of will would still leave him open to future blackmail, or suffered a complete change of heart: in any event, he decided to kill Grimshaw rather than pay―and this decision, incidentally, points strongly to the fact that Grimshaw was acting for himself and not for someone else, otherwise Grimshaw’s death would be of little avail to Khalkis, since there would still be someone in the background to take up the blackmail cudgels for the murdered man. At any rate, Grimshaw returned the next night, Friday, to see the new will for himself, fell into Khalkis’s trap as indicated, and was killed; Khalkis hid his body somewhere in the vicinity, perhaps, until he could permanently dispose of it. But then fate stepped in and Khalkis, from the excitement of the racking events, died of heart-failure the following morning before he was able to finish the job of permanently getting rid of the body.”

“But, look here―” began Sampson.

Ellery grinned. “I know. You want to ask me: If Khalkis killed Grimshaw and then died himself, who buried Grimshaw in Khalkis’s coffin, after the Khalkis funeral?

“Obviously, it must have been someone who discovered Grimshaw’s body and utilized Khalkis’s grave as a permanent hiding-place. Very well―why didn’t this unknown gravedigger produce the body instead of burying it secretly, why didn’t he announce his discovery? We may suppose that he suspected where the guilt lay, or perhaps had an erroneous suspicion, and took this means of disposing of the body to close the case forever―either to protect the name of a dead man or the life of a living one. Whatever the true explanation is, there is at least one person in our roster of suspects who fits the theory: the man who drew all his money from his bank and disappeared when he was specifically instructed to keep available; the man who, when the grave was unexpectedly opened and Grimshaw’s corpse found, must have seen that the jig was up, took fright, lost his nerve and fled. I refer, of course, to Khalkis’s nephew, Alan Cheney.

“And I think, gentlemen,” concluded Ellery with a smile of satisfaction that bordered on smugness, “I think that when you find Cheney you will have cleared up the case.”

Knox had the queerest look on his face. The Inspector spoke for the first time since Ellery had begun his recital. He said querulously: “But who stole the new will from Khalkis’s wall-safe? Khalkis was dead by that time―he couldn’t have done it. Was it Cheney?”

“Probably not. You see, Gilbert Sloane had the strongest motive for the theft of the will in the first place, since he was the only one of our suspects affected by it. This means that the theft of the will by Sloane has nothing to do with the crime itself―it’s merely a fortuitous detail. And naturally we have no evidence with which to pin the theft to Sloane. On the other hand, when you find Cheney you will probably discover that he destroyed the will. When he buried Grimshaw, he must have found the new will hidden in the coffin―where Sloane had put it―read it, saw that Grimshaw was the new beneficiary, and took it away, box and ail, to destroy it. The destruction of the will would mean that Khalkis died intestate, and Cheney’s mother, Khalkis’s next of kin, would inherit most of the estate through later apportionment by the Surrogate.”

Sampson looked worried. “And how about all those visitors to Grimshaw’s hotel-room the night before the murder? Where do they fit?”

Ellery waved his hand. “Mere froth, Sampson. They aren’t important. You see―”

Someone rapped on the door and the Inspector said with irritation, “Come!” It opened to admit the small, drab detective named Johnson. “Well, well, Johnson?”

Johnson quickly crossed the room and bent over the Inspector’s chair. “Got the Brett gal outside, Chief,” he whispered. “She insisted on coming down here.”

“To see me?”

Johnson said apologetically, “She did say she wanted to see Mr. Ellery Queen, Chief . . . .”

“Show her in.”

Johnson opened the door for her. The men rose. Joan was looking especially lovely in something grey-and-blue, but her eyes were tragic and she faltered at the door.

“You wanted to see Mr. Queen?” the Inspector asked crisply. “We’re engaged at the moment, Miss Brett.”

“It’s―I think it may be important, Inspector Queen.”

Ellery said swiftly: “You’ve heard from Cheney!” but she shook her head. Ellery frowned. “Stupid of me. Miss Brett, may I present Mr. Knox, Mr. Sampson . . . .” The District Attorney nodded briefly; Knox said: “Had the pleasure.” There was a little awkward silence. Ellery offered the girl a chair, and they all sat down.

“I―I scarcely know where or how to begin,” Joan said, fumbling with her gloves. “You will think I’m silly. It seems so ridiculously petty. And yet . . . “

Ellery said encouragingly, “Something you’ve discovered, Miss Brett? Or something you forgot to tell us?”

“Yes. I mean―something I forgot to tell you.” She spoke in a very small voice, a ghost of her full voice. “Something―something about the tea-cups.”

“The tea-cups!” The words shot out of Ellery’s mouth like a missile.

“Why―yes. You see, when I was originally questioned, I really didn’t recall . . . . It’s only just come to me. I’ve been―I’ve been thinking things over, you see.”

“Go on, please,” said Ellery sharply.

“It was the―the day when I moved the tabouret with the tea-things from the desk to the alcove. I moved it out of the way―”

“You told us that once before, Miss Brett.”

“But I didn’t tell you everything, Mr. Queen. I remember now that there was something different about those teacups.”

Ellery sat on his father’s desk like a Buddha perched on a mountain-top. Grotesquely still . . . . All his poise had fled. He was staring at Joan idiotically.

She went on with a little rush. “You see, when you found the tea-cups in the study there were three dirty cups―” Ellery’s lips moved soundlessly. “And now I recall that when I moved the tabouret out of the way, the afternoon of the funeral, there was only one dirty cup . . . .”

Ellery rose abruptly. All the humoui had fled his face, and its lines were harsh, almost unpleasant. “Be very careful, Miss Brett.” His voice cracked. “This is extremely important. You say now that last Tuesday, when you shifted the tabouret from the desk to the alcove, there were two clean cups on the tray―that only one showed signs of having been used?”

“Exactly. I’m frightfully sure. In fact, I remember now that one cup was nearly full of stale cold tea; there was a piece of dried lemon in the saucer, and a dirty spoon. Everything else on the tray was perfectly clean―unused.”

“How many pieces of lemon were there in the lemon-plate?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Queen, I can’t recall that. We Britishers don’t use lemon, you know. That’s a filthy Russian habit. And teaballs!” She shuddered. “But I’m positive about the cups.”

Ellery asked doggedly: “This was after Khalkis’s death?”

“Yes, indeed,” sighed Joan. “Not only after his death, but after his funeral. Tuesday, as I said.”

Ellery’s teeth dug into his lower lip; his eyes were like stone. “Thank you a thousand times, Miss Brett.” His voice was low. “You have saved us from a most embarrassing situation . . . . Please go now.”

She smiled timidly, looked about as if for warm commendation, a word of praise. Nobody paid the slightest attention to her; they were all looking quizzically at Ellery. She rose without another word and left the room; Johnson followed her and closed the door softly behind him.

Sampson was the first to speak. “Well, my boy, that was a fiasco.” He said kindly, “Come now, Ellery, don’t take it so hard. We all make mistakes. And yours was a brilliant one.”

Ellery waved one limp hand; his head was on his chest and his voice was muffled. “Mistake, Sampson? This is utterly inexcusable. I should be whipped and sent home with my tail between my legs . . . .”

James Knox rose suddenly. He examined Ellery shrewdly, with a glint of humour. “Mr. Queen. Your solution depended upon two major elements―”

“I know, sir, I know,” groaned Ellery. “Please don’t rub it in.”

“You’ll learn, young man,” said the great one, ‘that there can be no success without failure . . . . Two elements. One was the tea-cups. Ingenious, very ingenious explanation, Mr. Queen, but Miss Brett has exploded it. You now have no reason to claim that only two people were present. You said from the tea-cups that only two were involved from first to last, Khalkis and Grimshaw; that a deliberate attempt had been made to make it appear that three were involved; that there never was a third man, but that Khalkis himself was the second.”

“That’s right,” said Ellery sadly, “but now―”

“That’s wrong,” said Knox in his soft voice, “because there was a third man. And I can prove it by direction, not inference.”

“What’s that?” Ellery’s head snapped up as if it were set on springs. “What’s that, sir? There was? You can prove it? How do you know?”

Knox chuckled. “I know,” he said, “because I was the third man!”