The Greek Coffin Mystery

Chapter 4. Gossip

Edmund Crewe was so perfectly the picture of the absent-minded professor that Joan Brett only with difficulty repressed an alarming impulse to laugh aloud in his horsy lugubrious face, pinched nose and lustreless eyes. Mr. Crewe, however, began to speak, and the impulse died aborning.

“Owner of the house?” His voice was like a wireless spark, pungent and crackling.

“He’s the guy that kicked off,” said Velie.

“Perhaps,” said Joan, a little abashed, “I can be of service.”

“How old’s the house?”

“Why, I―I don’t know.”

“Step aside, then. Who does?”

Mrs. Sloane blew her nose daintily in a tiny scrap of lace. “It’s―oh, eighty years old if it’s a day.”

“It’s been remodelled,” said Alan eagerly. “Sure. Remodelled. Loads of times. Uncle told me.”

“Not specific enough.” Crewe was annoyed. “Are the plans still in existence?”

They looked doubtfully at each other.

“Well,” snapped Crewe, ‘does anybody know anything?”

No one, it seemed, knew anything. That is, until Joan, pursing two excellent lips, murmured, “Oh, wait a moment. Is it blueprints and things you want?”

“Come, come, young woman. Where are they?”

“I think . . . “ said Joan thoughtfully. She nodded like a very pretty bird and went to the dead man’s desk. Pepper chuckled appreciatively then she rummaged through the lowest drawer and emerged finally with a battered old cardboard filing-case bursting with yellowed papers. “An old paid-bill file,” she said. “I think . . . “ She thought clearly, for in no time at all she found a white slip of paper with a folded set of blueprints pinned to it. “Is this what you want?”

Crewe snatched the sheaf from her hand, stalked to the desk and proceeded to burrow his pinched nose into the blueprints. He nodded from time to time, then suddenly rose and without explanation left the room, the plans in his hand.

Apathy settled again, like a palling mist.

“Something you ought to know, Pepper.” Velie drew Pepper aside and grasped Woodruff’s arm with what he considered gentleness. Woodruff whitened. “Now, listen, Mr. Woodruff. The will’s been grabbed off by somebody. There’s got to be a reason. You say it was a new will. Well, who lost what by it?”

“Well―”

“On the other hand,” said Pepper thoughtfully, “I can’t see that the situation, aside from its criminal implications, is very serious. We can always establish intention of testator from your office copy of the new will, Mr. Woodruff.”

“The hell you can,” said Woodruff. He snorted. “The hell you can. Listen.” He drew them closer to him, looking around cautiously. “We can’t establish the old man’s intention! That’s the funny part of it. Now get this. Khalkis’s old will was in force up to last Friday morning. The provisions of the old will were simple: Gilbert Sloane was to inherit the Khalkis Galleries, which includes the art-and-curio business as well as the private art-gallery. There were two trust-funds mentioned―one for Khalkis’s nephew Cheney and one for his cousin Demmy, that halfwitted yokel over there. The house and personal effects were bequeathed to his sister, Mrs. Sloane. Then there were the usual things―cash bequests to Mrs. Simms and Weekes, to various employees, a detailed disposition of art-objects to museums and so on.”

“Who was named executor?” asked Pepper.

“James J. Knox.”

Pepper whistled and Velie looked bored. “You mean Knox the multi-millionaire? The art-bug?”

“That’s the one. He was Khalkis’s best customer, and I would say something of a friend, too, considering the fact that Khalkis named him executor of his estate.”

“One hell of a friend,” said Velie. “Why wasn’t he at the funeral to-day?”

“My dear Sergeant,” said Woodruff, opening his eyes, ‘don’t you read the papers? Mr. Knox is a somebody. He was notified of Khalkis’s death and intended to come to the funeral, but at the last minute he was called to Washington. This morning, in fact. Papers said it was at the personal request of the President―something to do with Federal finance.”

“When’s he get back?” demanded Velie truculently.

“No one seems to know.”

“Well, that’s unimportant,” said Pepper. “Now how about the new will?”

“The new will. Yes.” Woodruff looked very cunning. “And here is the mysterious part of it. Last Thursday night, about midnight, I got a telephone call from Khalkis. He told me to bring him on Friday morning―the next morning―the complete draft of a new will. Now get this: the new will was to be an exact duplicate of the existent will except for one change: I was to omit the name of Gilbert Sloane as beneficiary of the Khalkis Galleries and leave the space blank for the insertion of a new name.”

“Sloane, eh?” Pepper and Velie studied the man surreptitiously. He was standing like a pouter pigeon behind Mrs. Sloane’s chair staring glassily into space, and one of his hands was trembling. “Go on, Mr. Woodruff/

“Well, I had the new will drawn up first thing Friday morning and chased over here with it considerably before noon. I found Khalkis alone. He was always a pretty rocky sort of codger―cold and hard and businesslike as you please―but that morning he was upset about something. Anyway, he made it plain right away that nobody, not even your humble servant, was to know the name of the new beneficiary of his Galleries. I fixed up the will in front of him so that he’d fill in the blank space conveniently―he made me cross over and stand on the other side of the room, mind you!―and then he scribbled a name, I suppose, in the space. He blotted it himself, closed the page quickly, had Miss Brett, Weekes and Mrs. Simms witness his signature, signed the will, sealed it with my assistance, and put it into the small steel box he kept in his safe, locking the box and the safe himself. And there you are―not a soul but Khalkis himself knew who the new beneficiary was!”

They chewed upon that. Then Pepper asked: “Who knew the provisions of the old will?”

“Everybody. It was common gossip about the house. Khalkis himself didn’t make any bones about it. As for the new will, Khalkis hadn’t specifically made a point of keeping quiet about the fact that he was making a new testament, and I didn’t see any reason to hush it up. Naturally, the three witnesses knew it, and I suppose they spread the word around the house.”

“The Sloane guy know it?” rasped Velie. Woodruff nodded. “I should say he did! In fact, that afternoon he called at my office―evidently he’d already heard that Khalkis had signed a new will―and wanted to know if the change affected him in any way. Well, I told him that somebody was taking his place, who exactly nobody knew but Khalkis himself, and he―”

Pepper’s eyes flashed. “Damn it all, Mr. Woodruff, you had no right do do that!”

Woodruff said weakly: “Well, now, Pepper, mzybe it wasn’t the . . . But you see, I figured that maybe Mrs. Sloane was the new beneficiary, and in that case Sloane would get the Galleries through her, so he wouldn’t be losing anything anyway.”

“Oh, come now,” said Pepper with a snap in his voice, “it was an unethical thing to do. Ill-advised. Well, no use crying over spilt milk. When you looked at the new will in the box five minutes before the funeral, did you find out then who the new beneficiary was?”

“No. I didn’t mean to open the will until after the funeral.”

“You’re sure it was the authentic document?”

“Positive.”

“Did the new will have a revocation clause?”

“It did.”

“What’s that?” growled Velie suspiciously. “What’s that mean?

“Plenty to give us a headache,” said Pepper. “The inclusion of a revocation clause in a new will is made to establish the intention of testator to revoke all previous testaments. That means that the old will in force up to last Friday morning is voided whether the new will is found or not. And,” he added grimly, “if we don’t find the new will and can’t establish the identity of the new beneficiary for the Galleries, Khalkis will be considered to have died intestate. A rotten mess!”

“That means,” said Woodruff gloomily, ‘that Khalkis’s estate will have to be apportioned by law strictly according to the tenets of inheritance.”

“I get it,” rumbled Velie. “This Sloane guy comes in for his cut no matter what happens, just as long as that new will isn’t found. Khalkis’s next of kin is his sister, Mrs. Sloane, I reckon . . . Pretty smart!”

Edmund Crewe, who had been slipping in and out of the library like a wraith, hurled the blueprints on the desk and approached the three men. “Well, Eddie?” demanded Velie.

“No can find. No panels or secret closets. No interstices in the walls left by improper mating of two rooms. Ceilings and floors solid―they made “em that way in the old days.”

“Damn!” said Pepper.

“No, sirree,” continued the architectural expert. “If the will isn’t on any one person in this house, you take it from me that it isn’t in the house at all.”

“But it must be!” said Pepper with exasperation.

“Well, it isn’t, younker.” Crewe marched out of the room and they heard the bang of the front door a moment later.

The three men said nothing, eloquently. Velie without explanation thundered out of the study, to return some minutes later harder-jawed than ever. A sour helplessness radiated from his mammoth bulk. “Pepper,” he said dourly, “I give up. Just went over that court and graveyard myself. Nothing doing. Must’ve been destroyed. How do you stand?”

“I have an idea,” said Pepper, “but that’s all. I’ll have to talk it over with the Chief first.”

Velie thrust his fists into his pockets, surveying the battleground. “Well,” he grumbled, “I’m washed up. Listen, folks.” They had been listening; but all vitality had been drained out of them by the cloying wait, and they stared at Velie with doggy eyes. “When I leave this house, I’m closing up this room and those two others beyond. Understand? Nobody is to come in here. Nobody is to touch Khalkis’s room either, or Demetrios Khalkis’s―leave everything exactly as it is. And one more thing. You can come and go in and out of the house as you please, but you’ll be searched every single time, so don’t anybody try any funny stuff. That’s all.”

“I say.” Some one had spoken in a cavernous voice. Velie turned slowly. Dr. Wardes was coming forward―a man of middle height, bearded like one of the old prophets, but with a physique almost simian. His very bright brown eyes, set closely together, regarded Sergeant Velie almost with humour.

“What do you want?” Velie bristled, wide-legged, on the rug.

The physician smiled. “Your orders will not put any of the regular residents of this house to great inconvenience, don’t you know, Sergeant, but they will affect me most unpleasantly. You see, I’ve been merely a guest here. Must I intrude on the hospitality of this very sad establishment indefinitely?”

“Say, who are you anyway?” Velie moved a ponderous step forward.

“My name is Wardes, and I am a citizen of Great Britain and a humble subject of His Majesty the King,” replied the bearded man, twinkling. “I’m a medico―eye specialist. I’ve been having Mr. Khalkis under observation for some weeks.”

Velie grunted. Pepper moved to his side and whispered. Velie nodded, and Pepper said: “Naturally, Dr. Wardes, we don’t want to embarrass you or your hosts. Yon are perfectly free to leave. Of course,” he continued smiling, “you won’t object to a last formality―a thorough search of your person and luggage on going away?”

“Object? Certainly not, sir.” Dr. Wardes played with his shaggy brown beard. “On the other hand―”

“Oh, do stay, Doctor!” shrilled Mrs. Sloane. “Don’t leave us in this dreadful time. You’ve been so kind . . . “

“Yes, do, Doctor.” This was a new voice, and it proceeded from the deep chest of a large handsome woman―a dark bold beauty. The physician bowed and murmured something inaudible, and Velie said nastily, “And who are you, Madame?”

“Mrs. Vreeland.” Her eyes sparked warning; her voice had coarsened, and Joan, perched on the edge of Khalkis’s desk in woeful resignation, swallowed a smile bravely; her blue eyes went appraisingly to Dr. Wardes’ powerful shoulder-blades. “Mrs. Vreeland. I live here. My husband is―was―Mr. Khalkis’s travelling representative.”

“I don’t get you. What do you mean―travelling representative? Where is your husband, Madame?”

The woman flushed darkly. “I don’t like your tone! You have no right to speak to me in such a disrespectful tone!”

“Can it, sister. Answer my question.” Velie’s eyes grew cold, and when Velie’s eyes grew cold they grew very cold indeed.

The little mutter of anger sputtered away. “He’s―he’s in Canada somewhere. On a scouting trip.”

“We tried to locate him,” said Gilbert Sloane unexpectedly. His pomaded black hair, small mathematical moustache, pounced watery eyes gave him an incongruously dissipated appearance. “We tried to locate him―the last we heard, he was operating from Quebec as a base, on the trail of some old hooked rugs he’d heard about. We haven’t heard from him yet, though we left word at his last hotel. Perhaps he’ll see the news of Georg’s death in the papers.”

“And perhaps he won’t,” said Velie shortly. “Okay. Dr. Wardes, you staying?”

“Since I am requested to do so―yes. I shall be very happy to.” Dr. Wardes moved back and contrived to stand near Mrs. Vreeland’s stately shape.

Velie looked at him darkly, motioned to Pepper and they walked out into the corridor. Woodruff almost trod on their heels, he followed so quickly. Everyone shuffled out of the library and Pepper shut the door carefully behind him. Velie said to Woodruff, “What’s on your mind now, Woodruff?”

They had turned to face him near the foyer door. The lawyer said in a sharp tone, “Look here. Pepper saw fit to accuse me of an error of judgement a while ago. I’m not taking any chances. I want you to search me too, Sergeant. Yourself. I wasn’t tackled in there, you know.”

“Now, don’t take it that way, Mr. Woodruff,” said Pepper in a soothing voice. “I’m sure it isn’t―”

“I think it’s a damned good idea,” said Velie unpleasantly. Without ceremony he gave Woodruff such a pounding, scraping and pinching as Woodruff, to judge from his expression, had hardly anticipated. And Velie went very carefully indeed through all the papers the lawyer had in his pockets. Finally, he surrendered his victim. “You’re clean, Woodruff. Come along, Pepper.”

Outside the house they found Flint, the brawny young plain-clothesman, bantering with the dwindled group of reporters, a handful clinging tenaciously to the sidewalk gate. Velie promised Flint a relief for himself and Johnson in the rear, and for the matron he had left inside, and doggedly ploughed through the gate. Like a cloud of gnats the reporters swarmed about him and Pepper.

“What’s the angle, Sarge?”

“What’s up?”

“Give us a break, you mug!”

“Come on, Velie, don’t be a thick flattie all your life.”

“How much was your cut for keeping quiet?”

Velie shook their hands off his big shoulders; and he and Pepper took refuge in a police car waiting at the kerb.

“How’m I gonna tell the Inspector?” groaned Velie, as the car lurched forward. “He’ll crown me for this.”

“Which Inspector?”

“Richard Queen.” The sergeant stared morosely at the back of the chauffeur’s crimson neck. “Well, we did what we could. Left the house under a kind of siege. And I’ll send one of the boys over to look at the safe for fingerprints.”

“Much good that’ll do.” Pepper’s brightness had dissipated; he sat gnawing a fingernail. “The D.A.H probably give me hell, too. I think I’ll stick pretty close to the Khalkis house. Drop in to-morrow to see wbax’s doing, I will. And if those palookas in the house want to make trouble about our restricting their movements that way―”

“Aw, nuts,” said Velie.