The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 30. Quiz

Cautiously, in furtive pairs, they converged that night under cover of a moonless sky on the Knox house. By the stroke of nine o’clock―all of them having slipped through the servants’ quarters off the side street―they were assembled in Knox’s den: the two Queens, District Attorney Sampson, Pepper, Joan Brett, and Knox himself. Black shades had been drawn; not a chink of light was visible from the outside of the mansion. They were all subdued, on edge, holding themselves in check.

All, that is to say, save Ellery, who, comporting himself with the gravity and decorum that the occasion seemed to warrant, nevertheless contrived to give the impression that he wasn’t worried over the outcome of this portentous evening―no indeed!

“There was nervous talk. “Got the package, Mr. Knox?” The Inspector’s moustache hung limply in tattered wisps.

Knox produced from a drawer of his desk a small bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Just dummy stuff. Paper cut to bill size.” His voice was even, but there was strain beneath those tight features.

“For heaven’s sake,” burst out the District Attorney, after a fog-hung silence, “what are we waiting for? Mr. Knox, you’d better get started. Well follow you. The place is surrounded already and he can’t get―”

“I dare say,” drawled Ellery, ‘that the necessity for visiting the Check Room of the Times Building to-night no longer exists.”

This was another dramatic moment―just such a moment as Ellery had seized upon weeks before with smugness in giving out his Khalkis solution. But if he was apprehensive that again he faced ridicule, it did not show in his face. He was smiling quite pleasantly, as if all the tumultuous preparations, the police cars parked in the vicinity of Times Square, the gathering of the clans, were a matter for mild amusement.

The Inspector jerked his little body six inches higher. “What do you mean by this, Ellery? We’re wasting time. Or is this another of your fancy tricks?”

The smile left Ellery’s face. He looked at them, standing and weighing him with their bewildered eyes. The smile left, and something sharp took its place. “Very well,” he said grimly. “I’ll explain. Do you know why it would be futile―in fact, ridiculous―for us to go downtown?”

“Ridiculous!” snarled the District Attorney. “Why?”

“Because, Sampson, it would be wasted effort. Because, Sampson, your man won’t be there. Because, Sampson, we’ve been neatly tricked!”

Joan Brett gasped. The others gaped.

“Mr. Knox,” said Ellery, turning to the banker, “will you please ring for your butler?”

Knox complied; his forehead was corrugated into stony lines. The tall thin old man appeared at once. “Yes, Mr. Knox?”

But it was Ellery who replied, sharply: “Krafft, are you familiar with the burglar-alarm system in this house?”

“Yes, sir . . . “

“Inspect it at once.”

Krafft hesitated, Knox gestured curtly, and the butler went out. No one said a word until he hurred in again, his composure gone, eyes bulging. “It’s been tampered with―it doesn’t work, sir! And it was all right yesterday, sir!”

“What!” cried Knox.

Ellery said coolly: “Just as I expected. That’s all, Krafft . . . . Mr. Knox, I think I can prove to you and to my doubting colleagues the precise extent to which we have been outwitted. I do think, Mr. Knox, that you had better take a look at that painting of yours.”

Something stirred within Knox. A spark shot out of his hard grey eyes. He showed fear, and on the heels of fear an instantaneous decision. Without a word he sprang forward and dashed out of the room. Ellery followed quickly and the others streamed after.

Knox led the way to a large, long, quiet room on an upper floor―a gallery hung with rich old paintings draped in dark velvets . . . . No one had eyes at this moment for things aesthetic. Ellery himself was on Knox’s heels as he hurried down the gallery to a far corner. He stopped sud-denly at a panel in the wall, fumbled with a wooden curlicue . . . . A large section of the apparently solid wall slid without sound to one side, disclosing a black aperture. Knox thrust his hand in, grunted, peered wildly into the darkness of the interior . . . .

It’s gone!” he cried, his face ashen. “It’s been stolen!”

“Precisely,” said Ellery in a matter-of-fact voice. “A clever ruse, quite worthy of the genius of Grimshaw’s wraithlike partner.”

It gives me more personal pleasure than I can say to inject at this point in the story of The Greek Coffin Mystery my customary challenge to the wits of the reader.

Pleasure, I should explain, because the problems of this mystery provided me with perhaps the knottiest tangle I have ever tried my hand at unsnarling. It is a joy―a very real joy to one who is constantly beset by the jeers of paying customers: “Is that a puzzler?” they demand. “Heavens, I solved it right off!”―it is a joy to say to such as these: “Now, my masters, you may solve to your heart’s content. You’ll be properly fooled nevertheless!”

Perhaps I am over sanguine. At any rate the thing is done, and, ungentle reader, you now have in your possession all the facts pertinent to the only correct solution of the trinitarian problem: the identity of the individual who strangled Albert Grimshaw, shot Gilbert Sloane to death, and stole James Knox’s painting.

I say with all good will and a fierce humility: Garde a vous, and a pox on headache!

Ellery Queen