The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 3. Enigma

Assistant District Attorney Pepper was a personable young man. Matters proceeded very smoothly indeed from the moment he stepped into the Khalkis house a half-hou. after Woodruff’s telephone call. He possessed the gift of making people talk, for he knew the value of flattery―a talent that Woodruff, a poor trial-lawyer, had never acquired. To Woodruff’s surprise, even he himself felt better after a short talk with Pepper. Nobody minded in the least the presence of a moon-faced, cigar-smoking individual who had accompanied Pepper―a detective named Coha-lan attached to the District Attorney’s office; for Cohalan, on Pepper’s warning, merely stood in the doorway to the study and smoked his black weed in complete, self-effacing silence.

Woodruff hurried husky Pepper into a corner and the story of the funeral tumbled out. “Now here’s the situation, Pepper. Five minutes before the funeral procession was formed here in the house I went into Khalkis’s bedroom”―he pointed vaguely to another door leading out of the library―”got hold of Khalkis’s key to his steel box, came back in here, opened the safe, opened the steel box, and there it was, staring me in the face. Now then―”

“There what was ?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I must be excited.” Pepper did not say that this was self-evident, and Woodruff swabbed his perspiring face. “Khalkis’s new will! The new one, mind you! No question about the fact that it was the new will in the steel box; I picked it up and there was my own seal on the thing. I put it back into the box, locked the box, locked the safe, left the room . . . .”

“Just a moment, Mr. Woodruff.” From policy Pepper always addressed men from whom he desired information as “Mister”. “Did any one else have a key to the box?”

“Absolutely not, Pepper, absolutely not! That key is the only one to the box, as Khalkis told me himself not long ago; and I found it in Khalkis’s clothes in his bedroom, and after I locked the box and the safe, I put the key into my own pocket. On my own key-ring, in fact. Still have it.” Woodruff fumbled in his hip-pocket and produced a key-wallet; his fingers were trembling as he selected a small key, detached it, and handed it to Pepper. “I’ll swear that it’s been in my pocket all the time. Why, nobody could have stolen it from me!” Pepper nodded gravely. “There was hardly any time. Right after I left the library, the business of the procession came up, and then we had the funeral. When I got back instinct or something, I guess, made me come in here again, open the safe―and, by God, the box with the will in it was gone!”

Pepper clucked sympathetically. “Any idea who took it?”

“Idea?” Woodruff glared about the room. “I’ve got plenty of ideas, but no proof! Now get this, Pepper. Here’s the situation. Number one: everyone who was in the house at the time I saw the will in the box is still here; nobody permanently left the house. Number two: all those in the funeral party left the house in a group, went in a group through the court to the graveyard, were accounted for all the time they were there, and had no contact with outsiders except the handful of people they met at the grave. Number three: when the original party returned to the house, even these outsiders returned with them, and they’re also still here.”

Pepper’s eyes were gleaming. “Damned interesting setup. In other words, if someone of the original party has stolen the will, and passed it to one of these outsiders, it will do him no good, because a search of the outsiders will disclose it if it wasn’t hidden somewhere along the route or in the graveyard. Very interesting, Mr. Woodruff. Now who were these outsiders, as you call them?”

Woodruff pointed to the little old lady in the antiquated black bonnet. “There’s one of them. A Mrs. Susan Morse, crazy old loon who lives in one of the six houses surrounding the court. She’s a neighbour.” Pepper nodded, and Woodruff pointed out the sexton, standing trembling behind Reverend Elder. “Then there was Honeywell, the shrinking little fellow―sexton of the church next door; and those two working men next to him, the gravediggers, are employees of that fellow over there―Sturgess the undertaker. Now, point number four: while we were in the graveyard, no one entered the house or went out―1 established that from some reporters who’ve been hanging about outside. And I myself locked the doors after that, so no one has been able to go out or come in since.”

“You’re making it tougher, Mr. Woodruff,” said Pepper, when an angry voice exploded behind them, and he turned to find young Alan Cheney, more flushed than ever, brandishing a forefinger at Woodruff.

“Who’s this?” asked Pepper.

Alan was crying, “Look here, Off”cer, don’t believe him. He didn’t ask the reporters! Joan Brett did―Miss Brett over here did. Di”n’t you, Joanie?”

Joan had what might be termed the basis for a chilly expression―a tall slender English body, a haughty chin, a pair of very clear blue eyes and a nose susceptible of tilting movement. She looked through young Cheney in the general direction of Pepper and said with icy, chiming distinctness, “You’re potted again, Mr. Cheney. And please don’t call me “Joanie”. I detest it.”

Alan stared blearily at an interesting shoulder. Woodruff said to Pepper, “He’s drunk again, you see―that’s Alan Cheney, Khalkis’s nephew, and―”

Pepper said, “Excuse me,” and walked after Joan. She faced him a little defiantly. “Was it you who thought of asking the reporters, Miss Brett?”

“Indeed it was!” Then two little pink spots appeared in her cheeks. “Of course, Mr. Cheney thought of it, too; we went together, and Mr. Woodruff followed us. It’s remarkable that that drunken young sot had the manliness to give a lady credit for ..

“Yes, of course.” Pepper smiled―he had a winning smile with the fair sex. “And you are, Miss Brett―?”

“I was Mr. Khalkis’s secretary.”

“Thank you so much.” Pepper returned to a wilted Woodruff. “Now, Mr. Woodruff, you were going to tell me―”

“Just going over the whole ground for you, Pepper, that’s all.” Woodruff cleared his throat. “I was going to say that the only two people in the house during the funeral were Mrs. Simms, the housekeeper, who collapsed at Khalkis’s death and has been confined to her room ever since; and the butler Weekes. Now Weekes―this is the unbelievable part of it―Weekes was in the library all the time we were gone. And he swears that no one came in. He had the safe under observation all the time.”

“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Pepper briskly. “If Weekes is to be believed, we can now begin to limit the probable time of the theft a bit. It must have occurred during the five minutes between the time you looked at the will and the time the funeral party left the house. Sounds simple enough.”

“Simple?” Woodruff was not quite certain.

“Sure. Cohalan, come here.” The detective slouched across the room, followed by eyes that were chiefly blank. “Get this. We’re looking for a stolen will. It must be one of four places. It’s either hidden in the house here; or it’s on the person of someone now in the house; or it’s been dropped somewhere along the private court route; or it will be found in the graveyard itself. We’ll eliminate them one by one. Hold up a sec while I get the Chief on the wire.”

He dialled the number of the District Attorney’s office, spoke briefly to District Attorney Sampson, and returned rubbing his hands. “The D.A. is sending police assistance.

After all, we’re investigating a felony. Mr. Woodruff, you’re appointed a committee of one to hold all persons in this room whie Cohalan and I go over the courtyard and graveyard. One moment, please, everybody!” They gaped at him: a stupefaction of indecision, of mystery, of bewilderment had crept over them. “Mr. Woodruff is going to stay here in charge and you’ll please co-operate with him. Don’t leave the room, anyone.” He and Cohalan strode out of the room.

Fifteen minutes later they returned, empty-handed, to find four newcomers in the library. They were Sergeant Thomas Velie, black-browed giant attached to Inspector Queen’s staff; two of Velie’s men, Flint and Johnson; and a broad and ample police matron. Pepper and Velie held earnest colloquy in a corner, Velie noncommittal and cold as usual, while the others sat apathetically waiting.

“Covered the court and graveyard, have you?” growled Velie.

“Yes, but it might be a good idea if you and your men go over the ground again,” said Pepper. “Just to make sure.”

Velie rumbled something to his two men, and Flint and Johnson went away. Velie, Pepper and Cohalan began a systematic search of the house. They launched the search from the room they were in, Khalkis’s study, and worked through to the dead man’s bedroom and bathroom, and Demmy’s bedroom beyond. They returned and Velie, without explanation, went over the study again. He ferreted about in the safe, in the drawers of the dead man’s desk on which the telephones stood, through the books and bookshelves lining the walls . . . . Nothing escaped his attention, not even a small tabouret standing in an alcove, on which were a percolator and various tea-things; with utter gravity Velie removed the tight lid of the percolator and peered inside. Grunting, he led the way out of the library into the hall, from which they spread to search the drawing-room, the dining-room, and the kitchens, closets and pantry to the rear. The sergeant examined with particular care the dismantled trappings furnished for the funeral by Undertaker Sturgess; but he discovered nothing. They mounted the stairs and swept through the bedrooms like Visigoths, avoiding only Mrs. Simms’ sanctuary; then they climbed to the attic and raised clouds of dust rummaging through old bureaux and trunks.

“Cohalan,” said Velie, ‘tackle the basement.” Cohalan sucked sadly at his cigar, which had gone out, and trudged downstairs.

“Well, Sergeant,” said Pepper as the two men leaned, puffing, against a bare attic wall, “it looks as if we’ll have to do the dirty work at that. Damn it, I didn’t want to have to search those people.”

“After this muck,” said Velie, looking down at his dusty fingers, ‘that’ll be a real pleasure.”

They went downstairs. Flint and Johnson joined them. “Any luck, boys?” growled Velie.

Johnson, a small drab-looking creature with dirty-grey hair, stroked his nose and said, “Nothing doin”. To make it worse, we got hold of a wench―maid or somethin”―in a house on the other side of the court. Said she was watch in” the funeral through a back window, and she’s been snoop-in” there ever since. Well, Sarge, this jane says that with the exception of two men―Mr. Pepper and Cohalan, I guess―nobody’s come out of the back of this house since the funeral party returned from the graveyard. Nobody’s come out of the back of any house on the court.”

“How about the graveyard itself?”

“No luck there either,” said Flint. “Gang of newspaper leg-men’ve been hanging around outside the iron fence on the Fifty-fourth Street side of the graveyard. They say there hasn’t been a damn” soul in the graveyard since the funeral.”

“Well, Cohalan?”

Cohalan had succeeded in relighting his cigar, and he wore a happier expression. He shook his moon-face vigorously. Velie muttered, “Well, I don’t see what there is to laugh about, you dumb ox,” and strode into the centre of the room. He raised his head and, quite like a parade-sergeant, roared,” Tention!”

They sat up, brightening, some of the weariness fleeing their faces. Alan Cheney crouched in a corner, head between his hands, rocking himself gently. Mrs. Sloane had long since dabbed away the last decorous tear; even Reverend Elder wore an expectant expression. Joan Brett stared at Sergeant Velie with anxious eyes.

“Now get this,” said Velie in a hard voice. “I don’t want to step on anybody’s toes, y”understand, but there’s a job to be done and I’m going to do it. I’m going to have everyone in this house searched―down to the skin, if necessary. That will that was stolen can be in only one place―on the person of somebody right here. If you’re wise, youll take it like sports. Cohalan, Flint, Johnson―tackle the men. Matron,” he turned to the brawny police-woman, “you take the ladies into the drawing-room, close the doors and get busy. And don’t forget! If you don’t find it on one of “em, tackle the housekeeper and her room upstairs.”

The study erupted in little conversations, assorted comments, half-hearted protests. Woodruff twiddled his thumbs before the desk and eyes Nacio Suiza benevolently; Suiza thereupon grinned and offered himself to Cohalan as the first victim. The women straggled out of the room; and Velie snatched one of the telephones. “Police Headquarters . . . Gimme Johnny . . . Johnny? Get Edmund Crewe down to Eleven East Fifty-fourth right away. Rush job. Snap into it.” He leaned against the desk and watched frostily, Pepper and Woodruff by his side, as the three detectives took the men one by one and explored each male body with a thoroughness and impersonality that was shameless. Velie moved suddenly; Reverend Elder, quite uncomplaining, was due to be the next victim. “Reverend . . . Here, Flint, none o” that! I’ll waive a search in your case, Reverend.”

“You will do nothing of the kind, Sergeant,” replied the minister. “According to your lights I am as much a possibility as any of the others.” He smiled as he saw the indecision on Velie’s hard face. “Very well. I’ll search myself, Sergeant, in your presence.” Velie’s scruple at laying irreverent hands on the cloth did not prevent him from watching with keen eyes as the pastor turned out all his pockets, loosened his clothes and forced Flint to pass his hands over his body.

The matron trudged back with a laconic grunt of negation. The women―Mrs. Sloane, Mrs. Morse, Mrs. Vreeland, and Joan―were all flushed; they avoided the eyes of the men. “The fat dame upstairs―housekeeper?―she’s okay too,” said the matron.

There was silence. Velie and Pepper faced each other gloomily; Velie, confronted by an impossibility, was growing angry and Pepper, behind his bright inquisitive eyes, was thinking hard. “There’s something screwy somewhere,” said Velie in an ugly voice. “You’re dead sure, matron?”

The woman merely sniffed.

Pepper grasped Velie’s coat-lapel. “Look here, Sergeant,” he said softly. “There’s something vitally wrong here, as you say, but we can’t butt our heads against a stone wall. It’s possible that there’s a secret closet or something in the house that we didn’t find. Crewe, your architectural expert, will certainly locate it if it exists. After all, we’ve done the best we can, all we can. And we can’t keep these people here forever, especially those who don’t live in the house . . . .”

Velie scuffed the rug viciously. “Hell, the Inspector’ll murder me for this.”

Things happened swiftly. He stepped back, and Pepper politely suggested that the outsiders were free to leave, while those who lived in the house were not to quit the premises without official permission and without being searched thoroughly each time. Velie crooked his finger at the matron and Flint, who was a muscular young man, and led the way out into the hall and to the foyer, where he grimly took his stand by the front door. Mrs. Morse uttered a little squeal of terror as she shuffled toward him. “Search this lady again, matron,” growled Velie . . . . The Reverend Elder he favoured with a bleak smile; but Honeywell the sexton he examined himself. Meanwhile Flint was again searching Undertaker Sturgess, his two assistants, and a bored Nacio Suiza.

As in all former searches, the result was empty air.

Velie stamped back to the library after the outsiders left, stationing Flint on guard outside the house, where he could watch both the front door and the front basement door below the stone steps. Johnson he dispatched to the back door at the top of a flight of wooden steps leading down into the court; Cohalan he sent to the rear door level with the court, which led out of the rear of the basement.

Pepper was engaged in earnest conversation with Joan Brett. Cheney, a much chastened young man, rumpled his hair and scowled at Pepper’s back. Velie swung a horny finger at Woodruff.