The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 16. Yeast

Years later Ellery Queen was to go back in memory to this moment with the sad remark: “I date my maturity from Knox’s revelation. It changed my entire conception of myself and my faculties.”

The whole delicate structure of his reasoning, so glibly outlined, toppled and shivered into fragments at his feet. This in itself would not have been so disastrous to his ego had it not been coupled with a strong element of personal mortification. He had been ‘smart” about it. He had been so clever and subtle . . . . The very phenomenon―of Knox’s august presence―that originally inspired him to make a show of himself now faced about to leer at him and burn his cheeks with shame.

His mind was working furiously, trying to put down the rebellion of the facts, trying to forget what a sophomoric young fool he had been. Little waves of panic slapped against his brain, filming the clarity of his thoughts. But one thing he knew―he must work on Knox. Knox’s extraordinary statement. Knox the third man. Khalkis―the case against Khalkis based on the tea-cups, the third man―in ruins . . . . The blindness! Was that too composed of the same thin air? Must come back to that, find another explanation . . . .

Mercifully, they ignored him as he crouched in his chair. The Inspector, with feverish questions, held the great man’s attention. What happened that night? How had Knox come to be in Grimshaw’s company? What did it all mean? . . .

Knox explained, his hard grey eyes appraising the Inspector and Sampson. Three years before, it seemed, Khalkis had approached Knox, one of his best clients, with a strange proposition. Khalkis had claimed to have in his possession an almost priceless painting which he was willing to sell to Knox provided Knox promised never to exhibit it. Peculiar request! Knox had been cautious. What was it? And why this secrecy? Khalkis had been apparently honest. The painting, he had said, had been in the possession of the Victoria Museum in London. It was valued by the Museum at a million dollars . . . .

“A million dollars, Mr. Knox?” asked the District Attorney. T don’t know much about art-objects, but I’d say that was a whale of a lot of money even for a masterpiece.”

Knox smiled briefly. “Not for this masterpiece, Sampson. It was a Leonardo.”

“Leonardo Da Vinci?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought all his great paintings are―”

“This one was a discovery of the Victoria Museum’s some years ago. A detail in oils from Leonardo’s uncompleted fresco project for the Hall of the Palazzo Vecchio at Florence in the early part of the sixteenth century. It’s a long story I won’t go into now. A precious find the Victoria called, “Detail from the Battle of the Standard”. A new Leonardo take my word for it, is cheap at a million.”

“Go on, sir.”

“Naturally I wanted to know how Khalkis had got his hooks on it. Hadn’t heard anything about its being on the market. Khalkis was vague―led me to believe he was acting as American agent for the Museum. Museum wanted no publicity, he said―might be a storm of British protest if it was found the painting had left England. Beautiful thing, it was. He hauled it out. Couldn’t resist it. I bought at Khalkis’s price―seven hundred and fifty thousand, a bargain.”

The Inspector nodded. “I think I see what’s coming.”

“Yes. Week ago Friday a man calling himself Albert Grimshaw called on me―ordinarily wouldn’t be allowed in―but he sent in a scribbled note with the words, “Battle of the Standard”, and I had to see him. Small dark man, eyes of a rat. Shrewd―hard bargainer. Told me an amazing story. Gist of it was that the Leonardo I’d purchased from Khalkis in good faith wasn’t offered for sale by the Museum at all―it was stolen goods. Stolen from the Museum five years ago. He, Grimshaw, had been the thief, and he made no bones about it.”

District Attorney Sampson was completely absorbed now; the Inspector and Pepper leaned forward. Ellery did not move; but his eyes were on Knox unblinkingly.

Knox went on, unhurried, coldly precise. Grimshaw, working under the alias of Graham as an attendant in the Victoria Museum, had contrived five years before to steal the Leonardo and make his escape with it to the United States. Daring theft, undiscovered until Grimshaw had left the country. He had come to Khalkis in New York to sell it under cover. Khalkis was honest, but he was a passionate art-lover and he could not resist the temptation to own one of the world’s great masterpieces. He wanted it for himself: Grimshaw turned it over to him for a half-million dollars. Before the money could be paid, Grimshaw was arrested in New York on an old forgery charge and sent to Sing Sing for five years. In the meantime, two years after Grimshaw was imprisoned, it seemed that Khalkis through disastrous investments had lost most of his negotiable fortune; he was desperately in need of cash and had sold the painting to Knox, as already related, for three quarters of a million dollars, Knox purchasing it on the basis of Khalkis’s fictitious story, ignorant of the fact that it had been stolen.

“When Grimshaw was released from Sing Sing a week ago Tuesday,” continued Knox, “his first thought was to collect the half-million Khalkis owed him. Thursday night, he told me, he had called on Khalkis demanding payment. Khalkis, it seemed, had continued to make bad investments; claimed to have no money. Grimshaw demanded the painting. Khalkis ultimately had to confess that he’d resold it to me. Grimshaw threatened Khalkis―said he’d kill him if payment wasn’t made. He left and the next day came to me, as I’ve said.

“Now Grimshaw’s purpose was evident. He wanted me to pay him the half-million Khalkis owed him. Naturally I refused. Grimshaw was ugly, threatened to make public my illegal possession of the stolen Leonardo unless I paid. I became angry, thoroughly aroused.” Knox’s jaws snapped like the jaws of a trap; his eyes shot grey fire. “Angry at Khalkis for having duped me, put me into this horrible position. Telephoned Khalkis, arranged an appointment with him for me and Grimshaw. For that very night―last Friday night. Deal was shady; I demanded protection. Khalkis, broken up, promised over the phone that he would have everybody away, that his own secretary, Miss Brett, who knew nothing about the affair and could be depended upon to be discreet, would admit me and Grimshaw. Wasn’t taking any chances. Nasty business. That night Grimshaw and I went to Khalkis’s house. Admitted by Miss Brett. Found Khalkis alone in his study. Talked turkey.”

The blush, the burn had left Ellery’s cheeks and ears; he was intent now, like the others, on Knox’s recital.

Knox had at once made it clear to Khalkis, he said, that he expected the dealer to appease Grimshaw, at least to the extent of extricating Knox from the tangled situation into which Khalkis had forced him. Nervous and desperate, Khalkis claimed to have no money at all; but the night before, Khalkis had said, after Grimshaw’s first visit, he had thought things over and decided to offer Grimshaw the only payment in his power. Khalkis had then produced a new will which he had had drawn up the same morning, and which he had signed; the new will made Grimshaw legatee of Khalkis’s galleries and establishment, worth considerably more than the half-million he owed Grimshaw.

“Grimshaw was no fool,” said Knox grimly. “Flatly refused. Said he wouldn’t have a chance to collect if the will were contested by relatives―even then he’d have to wait for Khalkis to “kick off”, as he said graphically. No, he said, he wanted his money in negotiable securities or cash―on the spot. He said he wasn’t ‘the only one” in on the deal. He had one partner, he said, the only other person in the world who knew about the business of the stolen painting and Khalkis’s purchase of it; he said that the night before, after seeing Khalkis, he had met his partner and they had gone to Grimshaw’s room at the Hotel Benedict, and he had told his partner that Khalkis had resold the Leonardo to me. They wanted no will, or truck like that. If Khalkis couldn’t pay on the spot, they were willing to take his promissory note, made out to bearer―”

“To protect the partner,” muttered the Inspector.

“Yes. Made out to bearer. Note for five hundred thousand to be met within one month, even if Khalkis had to sell out his business under the hammer to get the money. Grimshaw laughed in his nasty way and said it wouldn’t do either of us any good to kill him, because his partner knew everything and would hound us both if anything happened to him. And he wasn’t telling us who the partner was, either, he said with a significant wink . . . . The man was odious.”

“Certainly,” said Sampson, frowning, ‘this story changes the complexion of things, Mr. Knox . . . . Smart of Grimshaw, or his partner, who probably engineered the business. Keeping the partner’s identity secret was a protection to Grimshaw as well as the partner.”

“Obvious, Sampson,” said Knox. “To get on. Khalkis, blind as he was, made out the promissory note, to bearer, signed it and gave it to Grimshaw, who took it and stowed it away in a tattered old wallet he carried.”

“We found the wallet,” put in the Inspector severely, “and nothing in it.”

“So I understand from the papers. I then told Khalkis I washed my hands of the entire affair. Told him to take his medicine. Khalkis was a broken, blind old man when we left. Over-reached himself. Bad business. We left the house together, Grimshaw and I; didn’t meet anyone on the way out, fortunately for me. Told Grimshaw on the steps outside that so long as he steered clear of me I’d forget everything. Bamboozle me, would they! Mad clear through.”

“When did you see Grimshaw last, Mr. Knox?” asked the Inspector.

“At that time. Glad to be rid of him. Crossed over to the corner of Fifth Avenue, hailed a cab and went home.”

“Where was Grimshaw?”

“Last I saw of him he was standing on the sidewalk looking at me. Swear I saw a malicious grin on his face.”

“Directly in front of the Khalkis house?”

“Yes. There’s more. Next afternoon, after I’d already heard of Khalkis’s death―that was last Saturday―I received a personal note from Khalkis. By the postmark it was mailed that morning, before Khalkis died. Must have written it just after Grimshaw and I left the house Friday night and had it mailed in the morning. Got it with me.” Knox dug into one of his pockets and produced an envelope. He handed it to the Inspector, who took a single sheet of notepaper from it and read the scrawled message aloud:

Dear J. J. K.: What happened tonight must put me in a bad light. But I could not help it. I lost money and my hand was forced. I didn’t mean to involve you, didn’t think this rascal Grimshaw would approach you and try to blackmail you. I can assure you that from now on you will be in no way implicated. I shall try to shut up Grimshaw and this partner of his, although it will mean I shall probably have to sell my business, auctioning off the items in my own galleries and if necessary borrowing against my insurance. At any rate you are safe, because the only ones who know of your possession of the painting are ourselves and Grimshaw―and of course his partner, and I’ll shut those two up as they ask. I’ve never told a soul of this Leonardo business, not even Sloane, who runs things for me . . . K.

“This must be the letter, growled the Inspector, ‘that Khalkis gave the Brett girl to mail last Saturday morning. Scrawly sort of writing. Pretty good for a blind man.”

Ellery asked quietly: “You’ve never told anyone about this affair, Mr. Knox?”

Knox grunted: “No indeed. Up to last Friday naturally I thought Khalkis’s yarn gilt-edged―no publicity on the Museum end, so on. My private collection at home is visited very often―friends, collectors, connoisseurs. So I’ve always kept the Leonardo hidden. And never told a soul. Since last Friday I’ve naturally had even less reason to talk. Nobody on my end knows about the Leonardo, or my possession of it.”

Sampson looked worried. “Of course, Mr. Knox, you realize that you’re in a peculiar position ..

“Eh? What’s that?”

“What I meant to say,” Sampson went on lamely, “was that your possession of stolen property is in the nature of―”

“What Mr. Sampson meant to say,” explained the Inspector, “is that technically you’ve compounded a felony.”

“Nonsense.” Knox chuckled suddenly. “What proof have you?”

“Your own admission that you have the painting.”

“Pshaw! And suppose I chose to deny this story of mine?”

“Now, you wouldn’t do that,” said the Inspector steadily, “I’m sure.”

“The painting would prove the story,” said Sampson; he was gnawing his hps nervously.

Knox did not lose his good humour. “Could you produce the painting, gentlemen? Without that Leonardo you haven’t a leg to stand on. Not a wooden leg.”

The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, Mr. Knox, that you would deliberately secrete that painting―refuse to hand it over, refuse to admit your possession of it?”

Knox massaged his jaw, looking from Sampson to the Inspector. “Look here. You’re tackling this the wrong way. What is this―a murder or a felony you’re investigating?” He was smiling.

“It seems to me, Mr. Knox,” said the Inspector, rising, ‘that you are adopting a very peculiar attitude. It’s our province to investigate any criminal aspect of public relations. If you feel this way about it, why have you told us all this?”

“Now you’re talking, Inspector,” said Knox briskly. “Two reasons. One, I want to help solve the murder. Two, I’ve my own axe to grind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been buffaloed, that’s what I mean. That Leonardo I paid three quarters of a million for isn’t a Leonardo at all!”

“So.” The Inspector eyed him shrewdly. “That’s the angle, is it? When did you find this out?”

“Yesterday. Last night. Had the painting examined by my own expert. Guarantee his discretion―he won’t talk; only one knows I have it; and he didn’t know until late yesterday. He thinks the painting is by a pupil of Leonardo’s, or maybe by Lorenzo di Credi, one of Leonardo’s contemporaries―they were both pupils of Verrocchio. His words I’m quoting. Perfect Leonardo technique, he says―but bases his opinion on certain internal evidence I won’t go into now. Damned thing isn’t worth more than a few thousands . . . I’ve been stuck. That’s the one I bought.”

“In any event, it belongs to the Victoria Museum, Mr. Knox,” said the District Attorney defensively. “It should be returned―”

“How do I know it belongs to the Victoria Museum? How do I know that the one I bought isn’t a copy someone dug up? Suppose the Victoria’s Leonardo was stolen. Doesn’t mean that that’s the one offered to me. Maybe Grimshaw pulled a fast one―believe he did. Maybe it was Khalkis. Who knows? And what are you going to do about it?”

Ellery said, “I suggest everyone here keep perfectly quiet about the whole story.”

They let it go at that. Knox was master of the situation. The District Attorney was a most uncomfortable man; he whispered heatedly to the Inspector, and the Inspector shrugged his shoulders.

“Forgive me if I return to the scene of my ignominy.” Ellery spoke with unfamiliar humility. “Mr. Knox, what actually occurred last Friday night with regard to the will?”

“When Grimshaw refused it, Khalkis mechanically went back to his wall-safe and, locking the will in a steel box there, closed the safe.”

“And the tea-things?”

Knox said abruptly, “Grimshaw and I entered the library. The tea-things were on the tabouret near the desk. Khalkis asked us if we would have tea―he had already, I noticed, started the water in the percolator to boiling. We both refused. As we talked, Khalkis poured himself a cup of tea―”

“Using a tea-bag and a slice of lemon?”

“Yes. Took the tea-bag out again, though. But in the excitement of the conversation that followed, he did not drink. Tea got cold. He didn’t drink all the time we were there.”

“There were three cups and saucers all told, on the tray?”

“Yes. Other two remained clean. No water was poured into them.”

* * *

Ellery said in a bitter-cold voice, “It is necessary for me to adjust certain misconceptions. I seem to be, plainly speaking, the goat of a clever adversary. I have been toyed with in Machiavellian fashion. Made to appear ridiculous.

“On the other hand we must not permit personal considerations to befog the greater issue. Please attend carefully―you, Mr. Knox; you, dad; you, Sampson; you Pepper. If I slip anywhere, catch me up.

“I have been the dupe of an astute criminal who, giving me credit for a laborious mentality, has deliberately concocted such false clues for my edification as I would seize upon in the construction of a “clever” solution―that is, a solution which tended to reveal Khalkis as the murderer. Since we know that for a period of several days after Khalkis’s death there was only one dirty tea-cup, the fixing of the three tea-cups must have been a “plant” left by the murderer. The criminal deliberately used only the water from Khalkis’s full but untouched tea-cup in his process of dirtying the two clean cups, and then poured the tea-water out somewhere, leaving the original water-content of the percolator to provide me with the basis for a false deduction. Miss Brett’s story establishing the time when she saw the cups in their original condition completely absolves Khalkis from having himself left the three-dirty-cups false clue; for at the time Miss Brett saw the cups in their original condition Khalkis was already dead and buried. There is only one person who had the motive for planting such a false clue, and that is the murderer himself―the person who was furnishing me with a made-to-order suspect leading away from himself.

“Now,” continued Ellery in the same bleak voice, ‘the clue which tended to show that Khalkis was not blind . . . The criminal must have taken advantage of a fortuitous circumstance; he discovered or knew what Khalkis’s schedule called for, and he found the packet from Barrett’s on the foyer-table, probably at the same general time when he fixed the tea-cups, and, taking advantage of the discrepancy in the colours, put the packet in the highboy drawer in Khalkis’s bedroom to make sure I would find it there and use it as part of my deductive framework. The question arises: Was Khalkis really blind, despite the “plant”, or was he not? How much did the criminal know? I’ll leave this last consideration for the moment.

“One thing, however, is important. The criminal could not have so arranged matters that Khalkis wore the wrong tie the Saturday morning of his death. The whole chain of reasoning on which I based the deduction that Khalkis had regained his sight is fallacious somewhere, provided we work on the theory now that Khalkis really was blind, although it is still possible that he was not . . . “

“Possible but not probable,” commented Sampson, ‘since, as you pointed out, why did he keep quiet if he suddenly regained his sight?”

“That’s perfectly right, Sampson. It would seem that Khalkis was blind. So my logic was wrong. How account, then, for the fact that Khalkis knew he was wearing a red tie, and yet was blind? Is it possible that Demmy, Sloane or Miss Brett did tell Khalkis he was wearing a red tie? This would explain the facts; on the other hand, if all told the truth, the explanation is still floating about somewhere. If we cannot discover a satisfactory alternative explanation, we shall be forced to conclude that one of the three lied in his or her testimony.”

“That Brett girl,” growled the Inspector, “isn’t my idea of a reliable witness.”

“We’ll get nowhere with unsupported inspirations, dad.” Ellery shook his head. “Unless we are to confess the inadequacy of reasoning, which I am loath to do . . . I have been going over the possibilities mentally during Mr. Knox’s recital. I see now that my original logic overlooked one possibility―a possibility rather amazing, if true. For there is one way in which Khalkis could have known he wore a red tie without having been told and without having been able to see the colour . . . . Easy enough to prove or disprove. Excuse me a moment.”

Ellery went to the telephone and put in a call to the Khalkis house; they watched him in silence. This was somehow, they felt, a test. “Mrs. Sloane . . . . Mrs. Sloane? This is Ellery Queen. Is Mr. Demetrios Khalkis there? . . . Excellent. Please have him come to Police Headquarters in Center Street at once―to Inspector Queen’s office . . . Yes, I understand. Very well, have Weekes bring him, then . . . Mrs. Sloane. Tell your cousin to bring with him one of your brother’s green ties. This is important . . . . No, please don’t tell Weekes what Demmy is bringing. Thank you.”

He joggled the receiver and spoke to the central police operator. “Please locate Trikkala, the Greek interpreter, and have him come to Inspector Queen’s office.”

“I don’t quite see―” began Sampson.

“Please,” Ellery lit another cigarette with steady fingers. “Let me continue. Where do we stand? Here―the entire solution, it must be plain now, with Khalkis as the murderer, collapses. For the solution was based on two points: one, that Khalkis really wasn’t blind and, two, that only two people were in the study last Friday night. The second Mr. Knox and Miss Brett have already exploded; I have every reason to believe that I shall be able to explode the first myself in a few moments. In other words, provided we can demonstrate that Khalkis was really blind that night, we no longer have any more reason for suspecting Khalkis of Grimshaw’s murder than anyone else. In fact, we can eliminate Khalkis as a suspect; the only one who had reason to leave the false clues was the murderer; the clues were left after Khalkis’s death; and moreover were designed to make Khalkis appear as the criminal. So, Khalkis at least was innocent of Grimshaw’s murder.

“Now, from Mr. Knox’s story, it is evident that Grimshaw was murdered for a motive connected with the stolen Leonardo―not a far cry from my former inference,” continued Ellery. “One thing that tends to bear out this stolen-painting motive is: that when Grimshaw was found in the coffin, the promissory note which Khalkis had given him, as Mr. Knox related, was missing from his wallet and clothes―obviously appropriated by his murderer at the time he strangled Grimshaw. The murderer would then be able to hold this promissory note over Khalkis’s head, for remember that Grimshaw was killed before Khalkis died. When Khalkis died unexpectedly, however, the note became virtually valueless to the murderer; for such a document presented for payment to anyone but Khalkis himself, now dead, would be so suspicious as to cause an investigation necessarily perilous to the murderer. When he stole the promissory note from Grimshaw, then, the murderer did it on the basis of Khalkis’s remaining alive. In a way, Khalkis by dying did his rightful heirs a good turn, saving his dwindling estate the considerable sum of half a million dollars.

“But an even more important fact arises.” Ellery paused and looked about the office. The door to the Inspector’s room was shut; he crossed over, opened it, peered about, closed it again and returned. “This is so important,” he explained bitterly, ‘that I don’t want even a clerk to hear it.

“Attend. The only person, as I said a moment ago, who had reason to divert guilt on to the head of the dead man, Khalkis, was naturally the murderer. Whereupon there are two characteristics which the murderer must possess: one, to have been able to plant the false tea-cup clue, the murderer must have had access to the Khalkis house after the funeral, between Tuesday afternoon when Miss Brett saw the two clean cups and Friday when we found the three dirty cups; two, the whole deception of the dirty tea-cups, to make it appear that only two people were involved, absolutely depended―mark this point―absolutely depended on Mr. Knox’s remaining silent about the fact that he was the third man, the fact obviously that there was a third man at all.

“Let me enlarge on this latter point. There were, as we now know, three people present that night. Whoever later made it appear by the tea-cups that only two had been present, obviously knew that three had been present, and who they were. But observe. He wanted the police to believe that only two had been present; therefore each of the three men actually there must be made to preserve silence, or the deception would be unsuccessful. Now the planter of the two-present idea could depend, at the time he laid the false trail between Tuesday and Friday, on the silence of two of the three men―Grimshaw, murdered, and Khalkis, dead of natural causes. That left only the third man, Mr. Knox, as a potential informer whose information would break down the two-present deception. Yet, despite Mr. Knox’s remaining alive, healthy, and unmolested, the plotter deliberately went ahead with his deception. In other words, he felt that he could depend on Mr. Knox’s remaining silent. Is this clear so far?”

They nodded, alert to every syllable. Knox was watching Ellery’s lips with a curious intentness. “But how could the planner have been able to depend on Mr. Knox’s silence?” continued Ellery crisply. “Only if he knew the whole story of the Leonardo, only if he knew that Mr. Knox possesses the painting under circumstances of an illicit nature. Then, and then only, could he be certain that Mr. Knox in self-protection would keep quiet about having been the third man in the Khalkis house last Friday night.”

“Smart, young man,” said Knox.

“For once.” Ellery did not smile. “But the most significant feature of this analysis is still to come. For who could know the whole story of the stolen Leonardo and your connexion with it, Mr. Knox?

“Let us eliminate.

“Khalkis, by his own letter, had told no one, and he is now dead.

“You, Mr. Knox, have told no one except a single person―and we can eliminate him by pure logic: you told your expert―the expert who yesterday examined the painting for you and pronounced it the work of someone other than Leonardo Da Vinci; but you told him only last night―too late for him to have planted the clues! The clues were planted before last night, since I found them yesterday morning. This eliminates your expert, the only one who knows of your possession of the painting through you, Mr. Knox . . . . This may seem unnecessary analysis; your expert scarcely enters the picture; certainly it is beyond reason that he is the criminal; yet I choose to be very careful to make my point on the basis of irrefutable logic.”

He stared glumly at the wall. “Who is left? Only Grimshaw, and he is dead. But―according to your related story of Grimshaw’s own words that night at Khalkis’s, Mr. Knox, Grimshaw said he had told only one person―the only other person “in the world”, I believe was your transmission of Grimshaw’s statement, whom he had told about the stolen painting. That single person was Grimshaw’s partner, by his own admission. And that single person is therefore the only outsider who knew enough about the story of the stolen painting and your possession of it to have planted the false clue of the three used tea-cups, for one thing, and to have been able to depend upon your silence, for another!”

“Right, right,” muttered Knox.

“What is the conclusion from this?” went on Ellery in colourless tones. “Grimshaw’s partner being the only individual who could have planted the false clues, and the murderer being the only individual who had reason to plant the false clues―Grimshaw’s partner then must be the murderer. And, according to Grimshaw’s own story, Grimshaw’s partner was the man who accompanied him to his Hotel Benedict room the night before the fatal events―and the man who, we may presume, met Grimshaw after you and Grimshaw emerged from the Khalkis house last Friday night, at which time he could have learned all about the offer of the new will, the promissory note, and everything else that had transpired during the visit to Khalkis.”

“Of course,” said the Inspector reflectively, ‘that’s progress, but it really doesn’t get us anywhere at this time. The man who accompanied Grimshaw last Thursday night might have been anyone. We have no description of him, son.”

“True. But at least we have clarified certain issues. We know where we are going.” Ellery ground out his cigarette, looking at them wearily. “One significant point I have thus far deliberately omitted to discuss. And that is―that the murderer was fooled: Mr. Knox didn’t keep silent. Now, why didn’t you keep silent, Mr. Knox?”

“Told you that,” said the banker. “The Leonardo I have isn’t a Leonardo at all. Practically worthless.”

“Precisely. Mr. Knox talked because he had discovered that the painting is practically worthless―to put it crudely, he has an “out” for himself and feels free to confess the entire story. But he has told his story only to ourselves, gentlemen! In other words, the murderer, Grimshaw’s partner, still believes we know nothing about the painting, still believes that the Khalkis solution, if we snatch at his false clues, is acceptable to us. Very well―we shall oblige him in one thing and disoblige him in another. We cannot publicly accept the Khalkis solution―we know it to be wrong. But we want to feed our murderer, give him rope, see what he will do next, perhaps trap him in some way by forcing him to continue―how shall I put it?―to continue doing things. Therefore, let us give out the Khalkis solution, then publicize Miss Brett’s testimony which burst the bubble of the Khalkis solution; in all this, let us say nothing about Mr. Knox’s coming forward with his story―not one word. The murderer will believe then that Mr. Knox has kept silent, will continue to depend upon his silence, as it were, having no inkling that the painting is not a genuine Leonardo worth a million dollars.”

“He’ll be forced to cover himself up,” muttered the District Attorney. “He’ll know we’re still hunting a murderer. Good idea, Ellery.”

“We run no risk of frightening our quarry,” continued Ellery, “by exposing the Khalkis solution as false on the basis of Miss Brett’s new testimony. The murderer will be constrained to accept this, because after all he took the risk from the beginning that someone would observe the discrepancy in the appearance of the tea-cups. The fact that someone did observe the discrepancy will appear to him an unlucky but not necessarily disastrous circumstance.”

“How about Cheney’s disappearance?” asked Pepper.

Ellery sighed. “Of course, my very brilliant inference that Alan Cheney buried Grimshaw’s body was based entirely on the hypothesis that Khalkis, his uncle, was the murderer. We now have reason to believe, with the new facts, that Grimshaw was buried by the same person who murdered him. In any event, we cannot ascribe any reason, on the basis of available data, to Cheney’s disappearance. That will have to wait.”

An inter-office communicator buzzed and the Inspector rose to answer it. “Send him in. Keep the other outside.” He turned to Ellery. “Well, there’s your man, son,” he said. “Weekes brought him.”

Ellery nodded. A man opened the door to admit the tall shambling figure of Demetrios Khalkis, decently and soberly attired; but the hideous vacant grin distorted his lips and he looked more idiotic than ever. They could see Weekes, the butler, his derby clutched to his old chest, sitting uneasily in the Inspector’s anteroom; the outer door opened and greasy Trikkala shuffled in with an inquiring look on his face; someone shut the door of the office from the anteroom.

“Trikkala,” said Ellery, “ask this imbecile if he has brought what he was told to bring.”

Trikkala, at whose entrance Demmy’s face had lighted, fired a clatter of words at the grinning idiot. Demmy nodded vigorously, holding up the packet.

“Very well.” Ellery was subdued, watchful. “Now ask him, Trikkala, what he was told to bring.”

A short interchange of the fiery syllables, and Trikkala said: “He says he was to bring a green necktie, one of the green neckties from his cousin Georg’s wardrobe at home.”

“Admirable. Ask him to produce this green necktie.”

Trikkala said something sharp to Demmy, who nodded again and with clumsy fingers began to undo the strings about his packet. It took him a long time―an interval during which all eyes were silently concentrated on those large fumbling digits. Finally he was victorious over a stubborn knot, carefully coiled the string and put it into one of his pockets, then undid the folds of the packet. The paper fell away―and Demmy held up a red necktie . . . .

Ellery silenced the hubbub that ensued, the excited exclamation of the two lawyers, the mild curse of the Inspector. Demmy stared at them with his vacant grin, mutely seeking approval. Ellery turned and pulled open the top drawer of his father’s desk, rummaging. Finally he straightened up, holding a blotter―a green blotter.

“Trikkala,” said Ellery steadily, “ask him what the colour of this blotter is.”

Trikkala complied. Demmy’s response in Greek was decisive. “He says,” reported the interpreter in a wondering tone, “he says the blotter is red.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Trikkala. Take him out and tell the man waiting in the anteroom that they may go home.”

Trikkala grasped the imbecile’s arm and piloted him from the office; Ellery closed the door behind them.

“That, I think,” he said, “explains how I misled myself in my cocksure logic. I did not take into account the remote possibility that Demmy was―colour-blind!”

They nodded. “You see,” he continued, “I presumed that if Khalkis had not been told the tie he was wearing was red, and if Demmy had dressed him according to schedule, that Khalkis knew the colour of the tie because he could see it. I did not take into consideration the fact that the schedule itself might have been misleading. According to schedule, Demmy should have handed Khalkis a green tie last Saturday morning. Yet we now find that to Demmy the word “green” means red―that he is colourblind. In other words, Demmy is afflicted with a common case of partial colour-blindness in which he consistently sees red as green and green as red; Khalkis knew that Demmy was so afflicted, and arranged the schedule on that basis, as far as these two colours were concerned. When he wanted a red tie, he knew he must ask Demmy to fetch a “green” one. The schedule served exactly the same end. To sum up―that morning, despite the fact that Khalkis was wearing a tie whose colour differed from the physical colour prescribed by the Saturday schedule, he knew without having to be told and without being able to see for himself that he was wearing a red tie. He didn’t “change” his tie―he was wearing the red one when Demmy left the house at nine o’clock.”

“Well,” said Pepper, ‘that means Demmy, Sloane, and Miss Brett told the truth. That’s something.”

“Very true. We should also discuss the delayed question of whether the plotter-murderer knew that Khalkis was blind, or actually believed, from the data on which I myself went astray, that Khalkis wasn’t blind. It’s rather a fruitless conjecture now; although the probabilities lie in the direction of the latter; he probably did not know that Demmy is colour-blind; probably believed, and still believes, that at the time Khalkis died he could see. In any event, we can get nothing out of it.” Ellery turned to his father. “Has anyone kept a list of all visitors to the Khalkis house between Tuesday and Friday?”

Sampson replied: “Cohalan. My man stationed there. Got it, Pepper?”

Pepper produced a typewritten sheet of paper. Ellery scanned it quickly. “I see he’s brought it up to date.” The list included those visitors to the house mentioned in the list the Queens had seen on Thursday, the day before the disinterment, plus the additional names of all persons who had visited the house from that time until the investigation directly after the disinterment. This addendum included all members of the Khalkis household and the following: Nacio Suiza, Miles Woodruff, James J. Knox, Dr. Duncan Frost, Honeywell, the Reverend Elder, Mrs. Susan Morse; and several old clients of the dead man besides the Robert Petrie and Mrs. Duke already listed―one Reuben Goldberg, one Mrs. Timothy Walker, one Robert Acton. Several employees of the Khalkis Galleries had also called at the house: Simon Broecken, Jenny Bohm, Parker Insull. The list was concluded with the names of a number of accredited newspaper reporters.

Ellery returned the paper to Pepper. “Everybody in the city seems to have visited the place . . . . Mr. Knox, you’ll be certain to keep the entire story of the Leonardo and your possession of it a secret?”

“Shan’t breathe a word,” said Knox.

“And you’ll keep alert, sir―report to the Inspector any new circumstance the instant it develops?”

“Glad to.” Knox rose; Pepper hastened to help him on with his coat. “Working with Woodruff,” said Knox as he struggled into his coat. “Retained him to take care of the legal details of the estate. All messy, with Khalkis apparently intestate. Hope that new will doesn’t turn up anywhere―Woodruff says it will complicate matters. Got permission of Mrs. Sloane, as nearest of kin, to allow me to assume the job of administrator if the new will isn’t found.”

“Damn that stolen will,” said Sampson pettishly. “Although I do think we have sufficient grounds to base a plea of duress. We’d probably be able to break it after a hell of a fuss. Wonder if Grimshaw had any kin?”

Knox grunted, waved his hand, and was gone. Sampson and Pepper rose, and they looked at each other. “I see what you’re thinking, Chief,” said Pepper softly. “You think Knox’s story about the painting he has not being a Leonardo―is just a story, eh?”

“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised,” confessed Sampson.

“Nor I,” snapped the Inspector. “Big bug or no big bug, he’s playing with fire.”

“Quite likely,” agreed Ellery, “although not particularly important as far as I’m concerned. But the man is a notoriously rabid collector, and he evidently means to keep that painting at all costs.”

“Well,” sighed the old man, “it’s a rotten mess.” Sampson and Pepper nodded to Ellery, and left the office. The Inspector followed them, headed for a conference with police reporters.

They left Ellery alone―an idle young man with a busy brain. He consumed cigarette after cigarette, wincing repeatedly at some memory. When the Inspector returned, alone, Ellery was contemplating his shoes with an absent frown.

“Spilled it,” growled the old man, sinking into his chair. “Told the boys the Khalkis solution and then Joan Brett’s testimony that upset the apple-cart. It’ll be all over the city in a few hours, and the our friend the murderer ought to be getting busy.”

He barked into his communicator, and a moment later his secretary hurried in. The Inspector dictated a cablegram to be marked Confidential, addressed to the director of the Victoria Museum in London. The secretary went away.

“Well, we’ll see,” said the old man judiciously, his hand straying to his snuff-box. “Find out where we stand on this painting business. Just talked it over with Sampson outside. We can’t drop it on Knox’s say-so . . . . “ He studied his silent son quizzically. “Come now, El, snap out of it. The world hasn’t come to an end. What if your Khalkis solution was a flop? Forget it.”

Ellery looked up slowly. “Forget it? Not for a long time, dad.” He clenched one fist and regarded it blankly. “If this affair has taught me one thing above all others, it’s taught me this―and if ever you catch me breaking this pledge put a bullet through my conk: Never again will I advance a solution of any case in which I may be interested until I have tenoned into the whole every single element of the crime, explained every particle of a loose end.” *

This goes far to explain a situation concerning which much conjecture and even criticism has arisen. It has been remarked that, from Ellery’s method as shown in the three novels already given to the public, he has always seemed inconsiderate of his father’s feelings, tightly suppressing what he knew or had reasoned concerning a crime until the last gasp of the solution. When it is recalled that this vow of The Inspector looked concerned. “Come now, boy―”

“When I think of what a fool I’ve made of myself―what a swollen, unmitigated, egotistical jackass of a fool . . .

“I think your solution, false as it was, was darned brilliant,” said the Inspector defensively.

Ellery did not reply. He began to polish the lenses of his pince-nez, staring bitterly at the wall above his father’s head.