The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 19. Expose

Weekes reported at once, as the Queens and Sergeant Velie stood in the foyer of the Khalkis house, that everyone in the Khalkis household was at home. The Inspector gruffly commanded the presence of Gilbert Sloane, Weekes hurried away toward the staircase at the rear of the hall, and the three men went into the Khalkis library.

The Inspector immediately proceeded to one of the telephones on the desk, called the District Attorney’s office, and spoke to Pepper briefly, explaining the discovery of what seemed to be the missing Khalkis will. Pepper shouted that he was on his way. The old man then called Police Headquarters, roared a few questions, listened to a few replies, and hung up fuming. “No results on that anonymous letter. No fingerprintes at all. Jimmy thinks the writer was damned careful―Come in, Sloane, come in. Want to talk to you.”

Sloane hesitated in the doorway. “Something new, Inspector?”

“Come in, man! I shan’t bite you.”

Sloane walked in and sat down on the edge of a chair, white trim hands folded tensely in his lap. Velie lumbered off to a corner and flung his overcoat on the back of a chair; Ellery lit a cigarette and studied Sloane’s profile through the curling smoke.

“Sloane,” began the Inspector abruptly, “we’ve caught you in a number of downright lies.”

Sloane paled. “What is it now? I’m sure I―”

“You’ve claimed from the beginning that the first time you ever laid eyes on Albert Grimshaw was when Khalkis’s coffin was hauled up in the graveyard outside,” said the Inspector. “You maintained that obviously false stand even after Bell, the night-clerk at the Hotel Benedict, identified you as one of a number of persons who visited Grimshaw on the night of September thirtieth.”

Sloane muttered: “Of course. Of course. It wasn’t true.”

“It wasn’t, eh?” The Inspector leaned forward and rapped him on the knee. “Well, Mr. Gilbert Grimshaw, suppose I tell you that we have found out you were Albert Grimshaw’s brother?”

Sloane was not a pretty sight. His jaw dropped foolishly, his eyes popped, his tongue crept over his lips, beads of perspiration sprang into moist life on his forehead, and his hands twitched uncontrollably. He tried twice to find his tongue, and each time succeeded only in emitting an unintelligible splutter.

“Nipped you that time, eh, Sloane? Now, you come clean, Mister.” The Inspector glowered. “What’s it all about?”

Sloane finally discovered how to co-ordinate thought with larynx. “How―how on earth did you find out?”

“Never mind how. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Sloane’s hand went to his brow and came away greasy. “Yes, but I don’t see yet how you―”

“Start talking, Sloane.”

“Albert was―was my brother, as you say. When our mother and father died, many years ago, we were left alone. Albert―he was always in trouble. We quarrelled and separated.”

“And you changed your name.”

“Yes. My name was Gilbert Grimshaw, of course.” He gulped; his eyes were watery. “Albert was sent to prison―some petty offence. I―well, I couldn’t stand the shame and notoriety. I took my mother’s maiden name of Sloane and started all over again. I told Albert at the time that I wanted nothing further to do with him . . . “ Sloane squirmed; his words came slowly, pressed out by some inner piston of necessity. “He didn’t know―I didn’t tell him I had changed my name. I got as far away from him as I could. Came to New York, got into business here . . .

But I always kept an eye on him, afraid he’d find out what I was doing, make more trouble, extort money from me, proclaim publicly his relationship . . . He was my brother, but he was an incorrigible rascal. Our father was a schoolteacher―taught drawing, painted himself; we grew up in a refined, a cultural atmosphere. I can’t understand why Albert should have turned out so badly―”

“I don’t want ancient history; I want immediate facts. You did visit Grimshaw that Thursday night at the hotel, didn’t you?”

Sloane sighed. T suppose it won’t do any good to deny it now . . . Yes. I had kept an eye on him all during his rotten career, saw him go from bad to worse―although he didn’t know I was watching. I knew he was in Sing Sing, and I waited for his release. When he got out that Tuesday, I found where he was stopping and Thursday night went to the Benedict to talk to him. I didn’t like the idea of having him in New York. I wanted him―well, to go away . . . “

“He went away, all right,” interrupted Ellery. Sloane jerked his head sideways, startled as an owl. “When was the last time you saw your brother before that Thursday night visit to his room?”

“Face to face, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I hadn’t actually met and talked to him during the entire period in which my name has been Sloane.”

“Admirable,” murmured Ellery, applying himself to his cigarette again.

“What happened between you that night?” demanded Inspector Queen.

“Nothing, I swear! I asked him, pleaded with him to leave town. I offered him money . . . . He was surprised and I could see maliciously glad to see me, as if seeing me were the last thing in the world he had dreamed of, and it wasn’t so unpleasant after all . . . . I realized at once I’d made a mistake in coming, that I should have been better off to have let sleeping dogs lie. Because he told me himself he hadn’t even thought of me for years―had nearly forgotten he had a brother―his exact words, mind you!

“But it was too late. I offered him five thousand dollars to get out of town and stay out. I’d brought the money with me in small bills. He promised, snatched the money, and I left.”

“Did you see him alive after that at any time?”

“No, no! I thought he’d gone away. When the coffin was opened and I saw him there . . . “

Ellery drawled: “And during your conversation with the ubiquitous Albert, did you tell him the name you now go by?1

Sloane seemed horrified. “Why, no. Of course not. I was keeping that as a kind of―well, self-protection. I don’t think he even suspected that I wasn’t still calling myself Gilbert Grimshaw. That’s why I’m so surprised―the Inspector saying he had discovered we were brothers―I can’t understand how on earth . . . “

“You mean,” said Ellery swiftly, “no one knew that Gilbert Sloane was Albert Grimshaw’s brother?”

“Exactly.” Sloane wiped his forehead again. “In the first place, I’ve never told a soul about having a brother, not even my wife. And Albert couldn’t have told anyone, because while he knew he had a brother somewhere, he didn’t know that I was called Gilbert Sloane. Didn’t know that, in fact, even after I went to his room that night.”

“Funny,” muttered the Inspector.

“Isn’t it,” said Ellery. “Mr. Sloane, did your brother know you were connected with Georg Khalkis?”

“Oh, no! I’m sure he didn’t. In fact, he even asked me what I was doing, in a jeering sort of way, and I naturally put him off. I didn’t want him looking me up.”

“One thing more. Did you meet your brother somewhere that Thursday night and enter the hotel with him?”

“No. I was alone. I got into the lobby almost in the wake of Albert and another man who was bundled up . . . “

The Inspector uttered a little exclamation.

“ . . . bundled up. I didn’t see this man’s face. I wasn’t following Albert all night, and didn’t know where he was coming from. But, seeing him, I asked at the desk for his room-number, got it, and followed Albert and his companion up. I waited in a branching corridor on the third floor for a while, hoping the other fellow would go away so that I could go in, talk to Albert, and get away from the place . . . .”

“Did you have the door of Room 314 under observation?” asked Ellery sharply.

“Well, yes and no. But I suppose Albert’s companion slipped out when I wasn’t looking. I waited for a few moments; then I went to the door of 314 and knocked. Albert opened the door for me after a few moments―”

“And the room was empty?”

“Yes. Albert didn’t mention having a previous visitor, and I assumed it must have been a hotel acquaintance of his who had left before I came in, while I was waiting.”

Sloane sighed. T was too anxious to get the hideous business over and to get, away, to ask questions. Then we said what I told you, and I left. I was very much relieved.”

The Inspector said suddenly: “That’s all.”

Sloane jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Inspector, thank you for your splendid consideration. You too, Mr. Queen. Not what I’ve been led to believe―these third degrees and things . . . “He touched his necktie and Velie’s shoulders quivered like the slope of Mount Vesuvius during an eruption. “I guess I―I’ll be getting along,” he said feebly. “Catch up on some work at the Galleries. Well . . . “

They kept silent, looking at him; Sloane muttered something, gave birth to a sound astonishingly like a giggle, and slipped out of the library. A few moments later they heard the slam of the front door.

“Thomas,” said Inspector Queen, “I want you to get me a complete transcript of the hotel register of the Benedict, showing who was stopping there on Thursday and Friday, the thirtieth and the first.”

“Then you think,” asked Ellery with amusement, as Velie left the study, “you think there’s something in that business of Grimshaw’s companion having been a guest at the hotel, as Sloane suggested?”

The Inspector’s pale face reddened. “And why not? Don’t you?”

Ellery sighed.

It was at this moment that Pepper, coat tails flying, burst in upon them, ruddy face made ruddier by the wind, eyes bright, demanding to see the fragment of the will they had fished from the furnace next door. Ellery sat by, musing, as Pepper and the Inspector examined the scrap by a stronger light over the desk. “Hard to tell,” said Pepper. “Offhand, I see no reason why this shouldn’t be the remains of the authentic document. The handwriting seems to be the same.”

“We’ll check that.”

“Of course.” Pepper took off his coat. “If we do establish this as a fragment of the last Khalkis testament,” he continued reflectively, “and couple that with Mr. Knox’s story, we’re going to find ourselves involved, I’m afraid, in one of those deuced testamentary tangles that make fife so interesting for the Surrogate.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, unless we can prove that this will was signed by the testator under circumstances indicating duress, the Khalkis Galleries will go to the estate of Albert Grimshaw, deceased!”

They stared at each other. The Inspector said slowly: “I see. And with Sloane probably the nearest of Grimshaw’s kin . . . “

“Under suspicious circumstances,” murmured Ellery.

“You mean you think Sloane would feel safer inherting through his wife?” asked Pepper.

“Wouldn’t you, Pepper, if you were in Sloane’s place?”

“There’s something in that,” muttered the Inspector. He shrugged his shoulders and related the substance of Sloane’s testimony a few moments before; and Pepper nodded. They looked again at the small burnt scrap in a sort of helplessness.

Pepper said: “The first thing to do is to see Woodruff and compare this fragment with his office copy. That ought to establish, with a comparison of handwritings . . . “

They all turned swiftly at the sound of a light step in the hall outside the study-door. Mrs. Vreeland, attired in a shimmering black gown, stood in the doorway in an attitude suggestive of pose. As Pepper hastily thrust the scrap into his pocket, the Inspector said easily: “Come in, Mrs. Vreeland. Did you want to see me?”

She replied in almost a whisper, “Yes,” peering up and down the hall outside. Then she came in quickly and shut the door behind her. There was something furtive in her manner―a repressed emotion the men could not define, but which heightened the colour of her cheeks and the sparkle in her large eyes, and set her breast to rising and falling in long surges of breath. Somehow, there was malice in that handsome face―little dagger-points in those bold eyes.

The Inspector offered her a chair, but she refused, choosing to stand straight against the closed door, her manner openly cautious―as if she were straining to catch sounds from the hall outside. The Inspector’s eyes narrowed, Peppper frowned, and even Ellery watched her with interest.

“Well, what is it, Mrs. Vreeland?”

“Just this, Inspector Queen,” she whispered. “I’ve been withholding something . . . “

“Yes?”

“I have a story to tell―a story that ought to prove very interesting to you.” Her moist black lashes swept down over her eyes, concealed them; when they swept up again, the eyes were hard as ebony. “On Wednesday night, a week ago―”

“The day after the funeral?” asked the Inspector swiftly.

“Yes. On Wednesday night last, very late, I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. “Insomnia―I suffer often from insomnia, you know. I got out of bed and went to my window. My bedroom window overlooks the court at the rear of the house. And I happened to see a man sneaking down the court to the gate of the graveyard. He went into the graveyard, Inspector Queen!”

“Indeed,” said the Inspector gently. “This is very interesting, Mrs. Vreeland. Who was the man?”

“Gilbert Sloane!”

It came out with an intensity that was―unquestionably―venomous. She held them with her staring black eyes, something that was almost a voluptuous leer curving her lips. In that moment the woman was horrible―and earnest. The Inspector blinked, and Pepper clenched one fist exultantly. Only Ellery was unmoved―studying the woman as if she were a bacterium under the lens of a microscope.

“Gilbert Sloane. You’re sure of this, Mrs. Vreeland?”

“Positive.” The word lashed out like a whip.

The Inspector drew his thin shoulders up. “Now this is, as you say, a very serious matter, Mrs. Vreeland. You must be careful to give exact information. Tell me just what you saw―no more and no less. When you looked out of the window, did you see where Mr. Sloane was coming from?”

“He appeared from the shadows below my window. I couldn’t tell whether he walked out of the shadows of this house or not, but I suppose he came from the Khalkis basement. At least, I got that impression.”

“How was he dressed?”

“In a felt hat and overcoat.”

“Mrs. Vreeland.” Ellery’s voice twisted her head about. This was very late?”

“Yes. I don’t know exactly what hour. But it must have been a good deal past midnight.”

“The courtyard is extremely dark,” said Ellery gently, “in the wee hours.”

Two cords in her neck strained outward. “Oh, I see what you think! You think I really didn’t know him! But it was he, I tell you!”

“Did you actually catch a glimpse of his face, Mrs. Vreeland?”

“No, I didn’t. But it was Gilbert―I’d know him anywhere, any time, under any circumstances . . . “ She bit her lip, Pepper nodded sagely, and the Inspector looked grim.

“Then, if it became necessary, you would swear,1 said the old man, ‘that you saw Gilbert Sloane that night in the court, going into the graveyard.”

“Yes. I would.” She glared sideways at Ellery.

“Did you stay by the window after he disappeared into the graveyard?” asked Pepper.

“Yes. He reappeared in about twenty minutes. He walked quickly, looking about him as if he didn’t want to be seen, and jumped into the shadows directly under my window. I’m sure he went into this house.”

“You saw nothing else?” persisted Pepper.

“My God,” she said bitterly, “wasn’t that enough?”

The Inspector stirred, his sharp nose aimed squarely at her breast. “When you first saw him going into the graveyard, Mrs. Vreeland―was he carrying anything?”

“No.”

The Inspector turned away to conceal his disappointment. Ellery drawled: “Why haven’t you come forward with this pretty tale before, Mrs. Vreeland?”

Again she glared at him, detecting in his detached, judicious, and slightly acid attitude a note of suspicion. “I don’t see that that’s important!”

“Ah, but it is, Mrs. Vreeland.”

“Well―I didn’t recall it until just now.”

“Hmm,” said the Inspector. “That’s all, Mrs. Vreeland?”

“Yes.”

“Then please don’t repeat the story to anyone, anyone. You may go now.”

Some iron skeleton within her rusted and crumbled on the instant―her tension colllapsed and suddenly she looked old. Going slowly to the door, she whispered: “But aren’t you going to do anything about it?”

“Please go now, Mrs. Vreeland.”

She turned the knob of the door in a tired way and went out without a backward glance. The Inspector closed the door after her and rubbed his hands together in a curious washing motion. “Well,” he said briskly, ‘that’s a horse of a different colour. The wench was telling the truth, by heaven! And it’s beginning to look as if―”

“You will observe,” said Ellery, ‘that the lady did not actually see the gentleman’s physiognomy.”

“You think she’s lying?” asked Pepper.

“I think she told what she conceives to be the truth. Feminine psychology is a subtle thing.”

“But you’ll admit,” said the Inspector, ‘that there’s a good chance it was Sloane?”

“Oh, yes,” said Ellery wearily, waving his hand.

“There’s one thing we ought to do right this minute,” said Pepper, clicking his jaws together. “And that’s to go through Mr. Sloane’s rooms upstairs.”

“I quite agree with you,” replied the Inspector grimly. “Coming, El?”

Ellery sighed and followed the Inspector and Pepper from the room, without too much hope on his features. As they emerged into the corridor, they caught sight of Delphina Sloane’s slight figure hurrying along, at the front of the hall, looking back with flushed face and feverish eyes. She disappeared through the door leading into the drawing-room.

The Inspector stopped in his tracks. “I hope she wasn’t listening,” he said in alarm. Then, shaking his head, he led the way along the corridor to the staircase, and they mounted to the upper floor. At the head of the stairs the old man paused, looked about, then skirted the stairway railing to his left. He knocked upon a door. Mrs. Vreeland appeared at once. “You’d oblige me, Madame,” whispered the Inspector, “if you’d go downstairs to the drawing-room and keep Mrs. Sloane busy until we come back.” He winked and she nodded breathlessly. She closed the door of her room and ran down the stairs. “At least,” said the old man contentedly, “we shan’t be interrupted. Come along, boys.”

* * *

The private apartment of the Sloanes on the upper floor was divided into two rooms―a sitting-room and a bedroom.

Ellery refused to participate in the search; he stood idly by watching the Inspector and Pepper go through the bedroom―through drawers, wardrobe, and closets. The Inspector was very circumspect; he allowed nothing to escape him; he dropped to his old knees and probed beneath the rug, tapped the walls, explored the interior of the closet. But all for nothing. There was no scrap of anything which either he or Pepper considered worth looking at twice.

Whereupon they returned to the sitting-room and began all over again. Ellery leaned against a wall, watching; he took a cigarette from his case, stuck it between his thin lips, struck a match―and shook the light out without igniting the cigarette. This was no place to smoke. He put cigarette and burnt match carefully into a pocket.

It was not until failure loomed imminent that the discovery was made. It was made by a very inquisitive Pepper poking about the carved old desk in a corner of the room. He had rifled every drawer without finding anything of moment; but, on standing over the desk and staring hypnotically down at it, a large tobacco-humidor seemed to draw his eye, and he lifted the lid. The jar was filled with pipe-tobacco. “This would be a good place,” he muttered . . . and stopped short as his hands, dipping and sifting in the moist tobacco, met some cold metallic object

“By God!” he exclaimed softly. The Inspector, fussing about the fireplace, raised his head, wiped a soot-smudge from his cheek and ran over to the desk. Ellery’s nonchalance vanished, and he hurried over in the Inspector’s wake.

In Pepper’s trembling hand, to which clung a few shreds of tobacco, reposed a key.

The Inspector snatched it from the Assistant District Attorney. “This looks―” he began. His hps clamped together and he tucked they key into a vest pocket. “I think this is plenty, Pepper. Let’s get out of here. If this key fits where I think it does, by heaven, there’ll be merry hell popping!”

They left the sitting-room quickly and cautiously. Downstairs they found Sergeant Velie.

“Sent a man for that Hotel Benedict register,” rumbled Velie, “and it ought to be here―”

“Never mind that now, Thomas,” said Inspector, grasping Velie’s paw. The old man peered about; the corridor was empty. He extracted the key from his vest pocket and pressed it into Velie’s hand, whispering something into the sergeant’s ear. Velie nodded and strode down the hall toward the foyer; a moment later they heard him leave the house.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the Inspector gleefully, inhaling snuff with gusty vigour, “well, gentlemen”―sniff! sneeze!―”it looks like the good old McCoy. Here, let’s go into the library and out of the way.”

He herded Pepper and Ellery into the study and stood by the door, which he had left open to the tiniest crack. They were silent, waiting; and there was a look of tired expectancy on Ellery’s lean face. Suddenly the old man opened the door and tugged; and Sergeant Velie materialized at the end of the Inspector’s arm.

He closed the door at once. Velie’s sardonic lineaments showed distinct evidences of excitement. “Well, Thomas―well, well?”

“It’s the one, sure enough!”

“Jerusalem!” cried the Inspector. “That key from Sloane’s humidor fits the basement door of the empty Knox house!”

The old man was chirping like an aged robin. Velie, standing guard against the closed door, resembled a condor with glittering eyes. Pepper was a hopping sparrow. And Ellery, as might be expected, was the lugubrious raven of black plumage and unuttered croakings.

“This key business means two things,” the Inspector was saying, with a grin that split his taut face in two. “Taking a leaf out of your book, my son . . . . It indicates that Gilbert Sloane, who had the strongest motive for stealing the will in the first place, owns a duplicate key to the basement in which the will-scrap was found. This means that he must have been the one who attempted to destroy the will there in the furnace. You see, when he stole the will originally from the wall-safe in this room the day of the funeral, he slipped it into the coffin―with the box still unopened probably―and retrieved it either Wednesday or Thursday night.

“The second indication is confirmation. The smelly old trunk, the key to the basement―confirmation that the body of Grimshaw was kept there before burial in Khalkis’s coffin. That empty basement next door would be a safe place . . . . By God, I’ll have Ritter’s hide for incompetence! Imagine missing that scrap in the furnace!”

“It begins to look interesting,” said Pepper, rubbing his jaw. “Damned interesting. My job’s clear―I’ll have to see Woodruff at once and compare the burnt remnant with his office copy. Got to make sure the scrap is genuine.” He went to the desk and dialled a number. “Busy line,” he said, hanging up for a moment. “Inspector, it looks to me as if somebody bit off more than he could chew. If we can only establish . . . .” He dialled again and succeeded in getting Woodruff’s house on the wire. Woodruff’s valet regretted that the lawyer was out, but he was expected back within a half-hour it seemed. Pepper instructed the valet to have Woodruff wait for him, and clamped down the dumbell instrument with a bang.

“You’d better make it snappy,” twinkled the Inspector. “Or you’ll miss the fireworks. Anyway, it’s necessary for us to be sure the scrap is genuine. We’ll wait here a while, and then―You let me know as soon as you find out, Pepper.”

“Right. We’ll probably have to go down to Woodruff’s office and snag the copy, but I’ll come back here as soon as I can.” Pepper snatched up his hat and coat and hurried out.

“Pretty smug about this thing, Inspector,” remarked El-lery. The humour was gone from his face; he looked worried.

“And why not?” The old man sank into Khalkis’s swiv-el-chair with a luxurious little sigh. “It looks like the end of the trail―for us and for Mr. Gilbert Sloane.”

Ellery grunted.

“Here’s one case,” chuckled the Inspector, “in which your high-falutin methods of deduction aren’t worth a tinker’s dam. Just good old-fashioned straight thinking―no fancy stuff, my son.”

Ellery grunted again.

“The trouble with you is,” continued the Inspector slyly, “you think every case has to be a mental wrestling-match. You won’t give your old man credit for a little common-sense. Heck, that’s all a detective needs, anyway―common-sense. You’re beyond your depth, boy.”

Ellery said nothing.

“Now you take this case against Gilbert Sloane,” went on the old man. “It’s open-and-shut. Motive? A-plenty. Sloane bumped Grimshaw for two reasons: one, Grimshaw was dangerous to him, maybe even tried to blackmail him for all we know. But that isn’t the important motive. Because Grimshaw, as beneficiary of the Khalkis Galleries by Khalkis’s new will, was doing Sloane out of his inheritance. With Grimshaw out of the way, the will destroyed for the reason you pointed out―that Sloane wouldn’t want it known he was Grimshaw’s brother, wouldn’t want to inherit in a dangerous way―well, with the will destroyed Khalkis would be considered to have died intestate and Sloane would get his cut through his wife anyway. Slick!”

“Oh, very.”

The Inspector smiled. “Don’t take it so hard, younker . . . . I’ll bet you an investigation of Sloane’s personal affairs will show he has money troubles. He needs the old do-re-mi. All right. That takes care of motive. Now for another tack.

“As you pointed out before, in your analysis about Khalkis as the criminal, it’s dead certain that whoever choked Grimshaw must have planted those false clues against Khalkis later, and therefore must have known of Khalkis’s possession of the painting to have depended on his silence. All right. Yet the only outsider, as you also showed, who could have planted the false clues and known of Knox’s possession of the Leonardo was Grimshaw’s phantom “partner”. Right?”

“Gospel.”

“Now then,” continued the old man with a judicious frown, placing the tips of his fingers together, “―Thomas, stop fidgeting!―now then, that being the case, Sloane to be the murderer must also have been Grimshaw’s “unknown” partner―something I find it easy to believe, in the light of the fact that they were brothers.

Ellery groaned.

“Yes, I know,” said his father indulgently, “it means that Sloane therefore was lying in two important points of his spiel a while ago. First, if he was Grimshaw’s partner, then Grimshaw must have known that Sloane, as Sloane, was his brother, and therefore knew Sloane’s position in the Khalkis business. Second, Sloane must have been the one who came into the Benedict with Grimshaw, not the man who followed directly after, as he claimed to us. This means that Sloane having been Grimshaw’s unknown companion, the single unidentified visitor must have been the second―and where he fits in the Lord alone knows, if he fits in at all.”

“Everything should fit,” said Ellery.

“And well you know it, eh?” grinned the Inspector. “But this satisfies me, my boy. In any event, if Sloane is the murderer and Grimshaw’s partner, the will motive was the vital one, getting rid of Grimshaw as a personal menace was a contributing motive, and clearing the field for realizing by blackmail on Knox’s illegal possession of the Leonardo, still a third motive.”

“An important point,” remarked Ellery. “We must watch for that particularly. Now that you have arranged everything to your satisfaction, I should appreciate a reconstruction of the crime. This seems to be an object-lesson for me, and I crave further instruction.”

“Why not? It’s as simple as a,b,c. Sloane buried Grimshaw in Khalkis’s coffin last Wednesday night―the night Mrs. Vreeland saw him snooping about the court. I suppose she saw him on a second trip, which would account for the fact that she didn’t see him carrying the body. He must’ve already lugged it into the graveyard.”

Ellery shook his head. “I have no argument at my command to refute anything you say, dad, but―it doesn’t ring true.”

“Fiddlesticks. Sometimes you’re as stubborn as a mule. Rings true to me. Naturally Sloane buried Grimshaw before he had any reason to believe the coffin would be opened by the law. When he dug it up to put the body inside he probably took out the will at the same time to make sure of destroying it. No extra risk to himself―the coffin was open already―get the idea? Sloane must also have taken the promissory note from Grimshaw’s body at the time he murdered him, and destroyed it later to protect the estate, which he was going to inherit indirectly anyway, against any claim if the note were found and presented for payment by someone else. Boy, it fits like a glove!”

“You think so?”

“I know so, darn it! Why, that basement duplicate key in Sloane’s tobacco-jar―that’s evidence. The burnt scrap of will in the furnace next door―that’s evidence. And then on top of that―the fact that Grimshaw and Sloane were brothers . . . . Son, wake up. You can’t shut your eyes to a case like that.”

“Sad, but true,” sighed Ellery. “But please leave me out of this, dad. Take all the credit for this solution, I want none of it. I’ve had my fingers burnt once by clues which turned out to be deliberate plants.”

“Plants!” The Inspector snorted derisively. “You mean you think that key was stuck in Sloane’s humidor by somebody in order to frame the man?”

“My reply must be cryptic. Please observe, however that my eyes are as wide open as nature permits,” said Ellery, rising. “And although I can’t see clearly what lies ahead, I pray le bon dieu to grant me that ‘double pleasure” of which La Fontaine speaks so eloquently: the pleasure of deceiving the deceiver . . . de tromper le trompeur.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried the Inspector, springing from Khalkis’s swivel-chair. “Thomas, get on your hat and coat and collect some of the boys. We’re going to pay a little visit to the Khalkis Galleries.”

“You mean you’re going to confront Sloane with what you’ve found?” asked Ellery slowly.

“Yes, sirree,” said the Inspector. “And if Pepper brings an authentification of the will-scrap, Mr. Sloan will be behind nice shiny bars in the Tombs to-night charged with murder!”

“Only,” rumbled Sergeant Velie, ‘they ain’t so shiny.”