The Siamese Twin Mystery

“Psychology never errs. The chief difficulty is knowing your subject. Psychology is an exact science with infinite ramifications.”

— Minds Human and Inhuman

by S. STANLEY WHYTE, D.Sc.

Chapter V The Six of Spades

A ripple starting from the neckline of Mrs. Xavier’s low-cut gown flowed downward and disappeared in a flutter of crimson skirt. She was leaning against the terrace rail, her hands gripping the rail on each side of her strong body. The olive knuckles grayed, looking like lumps of cartilage. Her black eyes were washed cherries about to pop out. But she made no sound at all, and the expression on her face did not change. Even the horrible smile remained.

Miss Forrest’s eyes rolled until only a shadow arc of pupil showed against the elliptical whites. She made a sick noise and started from her chair, only to fall back with a thud.

Mark Xavier crushed the red tip of his cigarette between his forefinger and thumb and lunged off the rail. He lurched by the motionless figure of Dr. Holmes into the house.

“Murdered?” said the Inspector slowly.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Miss Forrest, biting the back of her right hand and staring at Mrs. Xavier.

Then Ellery sprang after Xavier and they all stumbled after Ellery, across the game-room through a door into a book-lined library, through another door into...

Dr. Xavier’s study was a small square room with two windows which overlooked the narrow fringe of rocky ground and the margin of trees at the right of the house. There were four doors: the one from the library; a door sharply to the left, as they faced into the room, which led to the cross-hall; a third on the same wall, but giving upon the surgeon’s laboratory; and a fourth directly across the room also leading into the laboratory. This last door was wide open, disclosing a segment of the white-walled, full-shelved laboratory beyond.

The study was modestly, even monastically, furnished. Three towering mahogany bookcases with glass windows, an old armchair, a lamp, a hard black-leather couch, a small cabinet, a silver cup in a glass case, a long poor group picture jammed with dinner-jacketed men — framed, on the wall; and in the center of the room a wide mahogany desk facing the library door.

Behind the desk was a swivel chair, and in the swivel chair was Dr. Xavier.

Except for the fact that his rough tweed coat and red woolen necktie lay carelessly in a heap on the armchair, he was dressed as they had last seen him on the previous night. His head and breast lay limply on the desktop before him, left arm from the elbow down resting beside his head, long fingers rigidly outstretched, palm flat against the mahogany. His right arm below the shoulder was out of sight, hanging below the desk-level. His collar was unfastened and lay away from his gray-blue neck.

His head rested on the left cheek, mouth pursed and contorted, eyes glaring wide open. The upper part of his torso was half twisted away from the surface of the desk; a splatter of thick dark red was visible on the shirt-front at the right breast. In the coagulated welter of crimson were two blackish holes.

The top of the desk was bare of the usual desktop accessories. Instead of a blotting pad and an inkwell and pen tray and paper there were only scattered playing cards, arranged in rather curious order. Most of them, in small piles, were concealed by the surgeon’s body.

At the margin of the green rug which covered the floor, in the corner near the closed door which led into the cross-hall, lay a long black revolver.

Mark Xavier was leaning against the jamb of the library door, glaring into the study at the quiet figure of his brother.

Mrs. Xavier, over Ellery’s shoulder, said “John,” thickly.

Then Ellery said: “I think you had all better go away. Except Dr. Holmes. We’ll need him. Please, now.”

“We’ll need him?” echoed Mark Xavier harshly. Lids blinked over his bloodshot eyes. He swayed away from the jamb. “What d’ye, mean — we? Who the devil do you think you are, anyway?”

“No, Mark,” said Mrs. Xavier mechanically; she tore her eyes away from her husband’s corpse and smothered her lips in a red cambric handkerchief.

“Don’t Mark me, damn you!” snarled Xavier. “Well, you... you... Queen—”

“Tut, tut,” said Ellery mildly. “I think your nerves are a little shot, Mr. Xavier. This is no time for argument. Be a good chap and take the ladies away. There’s work to be done.”

The big man clenched his fist and stepped forward to glower in Ellery’s face. “I’ve a good mind to smash you one! Haven’t you two butted in enough? Best thing for both of you to do is beat it. Get out!” Then a thought seemed to strike him; it lit up his blood-streaked eyes like a fork of lightning. “There’s something damned queer about you two,” he said slowly. “How do we know that you—?”

“Oh, you talk to the idiot, dad,” said Ellery impatiently, and stepped into the study. He seemed fascinated by the cards on which the torso of Dr. Xavier rested.

The big man’s face was reddening and darkening and his mouth worked soundlessly. Mrs. Xavier leaned against the door suddenly and covered her face with her hands. Neither Dr. Holmes nor Miss Forrest had so much as stirred a muscle; both looked and looked and looked at the dead man’s motionless head.

The old gentleman felt about in one of his inner pockets and produced a worn black case. He snapped the lid open and held up the case. Inside lay a round embossed-gold shield.

The red drained slowly out of Mark Xavier’s face. He stared at the shield as if he had been blind from birth and was seeing a thing of color and three dimensions for the first time.

“Police,” he said with difficulty, moistening his lips.

At the word Mrs. Xavier’s hands fell away. Her skin was almost green and her ebony eyes a blazing black pain, the pain of naked agony. “Police?” she whispered.

“Inspector Queen of the Homicide Squad, New York Police Department,” said the old gentleman in a matter-of-fact voice. “I daresay it sounds like something out of a book or an old-time melodrama. But there you are and we can’t change it. We can’t change a lot of things.” He paused to regard Mrs. Xavier fixedly. “At that I’m sorry I didn’t announce last night that I’m a copper.”

No one answered. They were all staring at him and at the shield with expressions of mingled terror and stupefaction.

He snapped the lid down and returned the case to his pocket. “Because,” he said, and the old sharpness of the manhunt was glittering in his eyes, “if I had, I’m dead certain Dr. John Xavier would be alive and kicking this morning.” He turned slightly and looked into the study. Ellery was bent over the dead man, touching his eyes, the nape of his neck, the rigid left hand. The Inspector turned back and continued in conversational tones: “This morning. It’s a beautiful morning, at that. Too damned beautiful to be dead in.” He searched them all impartially with eyes that were not only liquid with suspicion but weary with experience.

“B-but,” stammered Miss Forrest, “I d-don’t...”

“Well,” said the Inspector dryly, “people don’t generally commit murders when they know there’s a policeman under the same roof, Miss Forrest. Too bad — for Dr. Xavier... Now all of you listen to me.” Ellery was moving quietly about the study now. The Inspector’s voice tightened; a whiplash note sprang into it and the two women instinctively shrank back. Mark Xavier did not even stir. “I want Mrs. Xavier, Miss Forrest, and you, Xavier, to stay right here, in the library. I’m going to keep the door open, and I don’t want any of you to leave the room. We’ll attend to Mrs. Wheary and this fellow Bones later. Nobody can get away, anyway; not with that handy little blaze down the mountain stopping up the exits... Come in here with me, Dr. Holmes. You’re the only one on the premises who can make himself useful.”

The little old gentleman stepped into the study. Dr. Holmes shivered, closed his eyes, opened them again, and followed.

The others did not blink or move or make any outward sign that they had heard. They remained precisely where they were, as if they had been frozen to the floor.

“Well, El?” murmured the Inspector.

Ellery rose from his knees behind the desk and absently lit a cigarette. “Very interesting. I think I’ve seen most of it already. Queer affair, dad.”

“It would be with this bunch of lunatics mixed up in it.” He scowled. “Well, whatever it is, it’ll keep for a couple of minutes. A few things to do right off the bat.” He turned to Dr. Holmes, who had paused before the desk and was gazing glassy-eyed at the body of his colleague. The Inspector shook the young Englishman’s arm, not unkindly. “Snap out of it, Doc. I know he was your friend and all that, but you’re the only medical man available and we’ve got to have medical help.”

The staring look ebbed out of Dr. Holmes’s eyes and he turned his head slowly. “Just what do you want me to do, sir?”

“Examine the body.”

The young man paled. “Oh, God, no! Please. I can’t!”

“Come, come, youngster, get a grip on yourself. Don’t forget that you’re a professional man. You’ve handled plenty of stiffs in the lab, no doubt. I’ve had this happen before. Prouty, friend of mine in the Medical Examiner’s office in Manhattan, once had to perform an autopsy on the body of a man he used to play poker with. He was a little sick afterward — but he did it.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Holmes hoarsely, licking his lips. “Yes, I understand.” He shuddered. Then he set his jaw and said more quietly: “Very well, Inspector,” and trudged around the desk.

The Inspector examined his squared shoulders for an instant, murmured: “Good boy,” and flung a glance at the group beyond the door. They had not stirred from their positions.

“Here a moment, El,” grunted the. Inspector. Ellery, his eyes extraordinarily bright, drifted to his father’s side. “We’re in something of a funny position, son. We’ve got no proper authority at all, even to touch the body. We’ve got to notify Osquewa — I suppose that’s where the jurisdiction lies.”

“That had occurred to me, of course,” frowned Ellery. “But if they can’t break through the fire—”

“Well,” said the Inspector a little grimly, “it won’t be the first time we’ve handled a case ourselves — and on vacation, too.” He jerked his head in the direction of the library doorway. “Keep an eye on those people. I’m going to the living room and buzz Osquewa. See if I can’t get hold of the sheriff.”

“Right.”

The Inspector trotted past the revolver on the rug as if he did not see it and disappeared through the doorway leading into the cross-hall.

Ellery eyed Dr. Holmes for an instant. The physician, white but composed, had undone the dead man’s shirt, exposing the two bullet wounds. The edges of the holes were blue beneath the dry blood. He peered at them intently without moving the position of the body, flashed a glance diagonally across the room toward the door by which the Inspector had just left the room, nodded, and began to finger the dead man’s arms.

Ellery nodded and sauntered over to the same door. He stooped and picked up the revolver by its long barrel. He held it up to the light streaming in through the windows and shook his head.

“Even if we had some aluminum powder—” he muttered.

“Aluminum powder?” Dr. Holmes did not look up. “I suppose you mean to make a fingerprint test, Mr. Queen.”

“Scarcely necessary. This is a very nicely polished butt, and the trigger shines. As for the barrel—” He raised his shoulders and broke open the weapon. “Whoever used this exercised the usual care and wiped the gun clean of prints. Sometimes I think there should be a law against detective stories. Gives potential criminals too many pointers. Hmm... Two chambers empty. I suppose there’s no doubt this was the offending weapon. However, you might probe for the slugs, Doctor.”

Dr. Holmes nodded. A moment later he rose, went into the laboratory, and returned with a shining instrument. He bent over the body again.

Ellery turned his attention to the small cabinet. It occupied a part of the wall which was pierced through for the library door, and stood between the library door and the door to the cross-hall. The top drawer was slightly open. He pulled it out. A scratched and discolored leather holster, its belt missing, lay in the drawer; at the rear was a box of cartridges. The box contained only a few cartridges.

“Perfectly suicidal,” he murmured, eying the holster and box. Then he shut the drawer. “I suppose, Doctor, this was Dr. Xavier’s own revolver? I note from the holster and weapon itself that it’s an old U.S. Army weapon.”

“Yes.” Dr. Holmes looked up briefly. “He was in the service during the War. Captain of infantry. He kept the gun, he once told me, as a memento. And now—” He fell silent.

“And now,” remarked Ellery, “it’s turned upon him. Odd how things work out... Ah, dad. What’s the news, if any?”

The Inspector closed the cross-hall door abruptly. “Managed by dumb luck to catch the sheriff in town while he was back for forty winks. It’s as we figured.”

“Can’t break through, eh?”

“Not a chance. Fire’s getting worse. And even if he could, he said, he’s too busy now. They need all the help they can get. Three people have been burned to death already, and from the way he sounded over the wire,” said the Inspector grimly, “he couldn’t get very excited about another corpse.”

Ellery examined the silent figure of the tall blond man against the jamb. “I see. And so?”

“When I introduced myself over the wire he jumped at the chance and made me a special deputy with full authority to conduct the investigation and make the arrest. He’ll get up here with the county coroner as soon as it’s possible to break through the fire... And so it’s up to us.”

The man in the doorway uttered a curious sigh — whether of relief, despair, or sheer fatigue Ellery could not decide.

Dr. Holmes straightened; his eyes were deadly dull. “Quite finished now,” he announced in a flat voice.

“Ah,” said the Inspector. “Good man. What’s the verdict?”

“Precisely what,” demanded the physician, resting the knuckles of his right hand on the edge of the card-cluttered desk, “do you want to know?” He spoke with difficulty.

“Shots cause death?”

“Yes. No other marks of violence on the body, on superficial examination. Two bullets in the right breast, a little to the left of the sternum, one rather high. One smashed the third sternal rib and ricocheted into the summit of the right lung. The other was lower and passed between two ribs into the right bronchus, near the heart.”

From beyond the doorway came a sick gulp. The three men paid it no attention.

“Hemorrhage?” snapped the Inspector.

“Quite so. Bloody froth on the lips, as you can see.”

“Death instantaneous?”

“I should say not.”

“I could have told you that,” murmured Ellery.

“How?”

“Get to it in a moment. You haven’t had a really good look at the body, dad. Tell me, Doctor — what about the direction of the shots?”

Dr. Holmes passed his hand over his mouth. “I scarcely think there’s any mystery about that, Mr. Queen. The revolver—”

“Yes, yes,” said Ellery impatiently. “We can see that very clearly, Doctor. But do the angles of fire bear it out?”

“I should say so. Yes, unquestionably. Both passages show the same angle of direction. The weapon was fired from approximately that spot on the rug where you picked up the revolver.”

“Good,” said Ellery with satisfaction. “A little to Xavier’s right, but facing him. He could scarcely have been unaware of the presence of his murderer, then. By the way, you’ve no idea, I suppose, whether the weapon was in that drawer yesterday evening?”

Dr. Holmes shrugged. “I’m sorry, no.”

“It’s not really important. Probably it was. All the indications point to a crime of impulse. At least as far as the question of preparations is concerned.” Ellery explained to his father that the revolver had come from the cabinet drawer, had belonged to Dr. Xavier, and had been wiped clean of fingerprints after the crime.

“It’s easy enough, then, to figure out what happened,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “No way of telling through which of the four doors the murderer entered: chances are it was through the library or hall. But this much is clear: when the murderer came in here the doctor was playing cards with himself right where he is now. Murderer opened the drawer, took out the gun... Was the gun kept loaded?”

“I believe so,” said Dr. Holmes dully.

“Took out the gun, standing just about at the cabinet there near the hall door, fired twice, wiped the gun clean, dropped it on the rug, and beat it into the cross-hall.”

“Not necessarily,” remarked Ellery.

The Inspector glared. “Why not? Why cross the room and go out by a far door when there’s one right behind you?”

Ellery said mildly: “I merely said ‘not necessarily.’ I suppose that’s what occurred. It still tells nothing. No matter which door the murderer used to enter the room and leave, there’s nothing to be learned from specific determination. None of these doors leads into a room from which there is no other exit. All of them were accessible to anyone in the house who descended unobserved to this floor, say, from upstairs.”

The Inspector grunted. Dr. Holmes said wearily: “If that’s all you want me for, gentlemen... The bullets are here.” He indicated two battered slugs coated with blackish blood which he had tossed to the desk.

“The same?” demanded the Inspector.

Ellery examined them indifferently. “Yes, same make as the ones in the revolver and cartridge box. Nothing there... Before you go, Doctor.”

“Yes?”

“How long has Dr. Xavier been dead?”

The young man consulted his wrist watch. “It’s almost ten now. Death occurred, I should judge, no later than nine hours ago. Roughly at one A.M. this morning.”

For the first time Mark Xavier in the doorway moved. He jerked his head up and drew in his breath with a whistling sound. As if this were a signal, Mrs. Xavier moaned and tottered back to a library chair. Ann Forrest, biting her lip, bent over her and murmured something sympathetic. The widow shook her head mechanically and leaned back, fixing her eyes upon the rigid left hand of her husband, just visible to her through the doorway.

“One a.m.,” frowned Ellery. “It must have been a little past eleven when we retired last night. I see... You omitted something, dad. No slightest sign of a struggle. That means he probably knew his murderer and didn’t suspect foul play until it was too late.”

“Fat lot of good that does us,” grunted the Inspector. “Sure he knew who bumped him. He knew everybody on this mountainside.”

“You mean to say, of course,” said Dr. Holmes in a strained voice, “in this house?”

“You got me the first time, Doc.”

The corridor door opened and Mrs. Wheary’s neat gray head poked in. “Breakfast—” she began, and then her eyes widened and her jaw sagged ludicrously. She screamed once and almost fell through the doorway. The emaciated figure of Bones sprang into view from behind her, throwing out his long arms to catch her fat body. Then he, too, caught sight of Dr. Xavier’s still figure and his gray wrinkled cheeks became grayer. He almost dropped the housekeeper’s figure.

Ellery leaped forward and caught the woman in his arms. She had fainted. Ann Forrest stepped gingerly into the study, hesitated, swallowed hard, and ran forward to help. Between them they managed to drag the heavy old woman into the library. Neither Mark Xavier nor the widow moved.

Leaving the housekeeper in the young woman’s charge, Ellery strode back into the study. The Inspector was scrutinizing the haggard old man with impersonal minuteness. Bones was gaping at his employer’s dead body, and he looked more like a corpse than the corpse itself. Snags of yellow teeth showed against the black of his open mouth. His eyes were glassy, goggling. Then sense came back into them, and a curious mounting rage. He worked his lips soundlessly for several moments until he forced a hoarse animal cry out of his wrinkled throat. Then he turned and plunged through the doorway. They heard him blundering along the cross-hall, repeating the senseless cry like a man stricken insane.

The Inspector sighed. “He takes it pretty, pretty,” he muttered. “Attention, everybody!”

He stalked to the library door and looked out at them. They looked back at him. Mrs. Wheary, revived, was sobbing quietly in a chair beside her mistress.

“Before we go ahead with a more thorough examination,” said the Inspector coldly, “there are a few things need clearing up. I want the truth, mind. Miss Forrest, you and Dr. Holmes left the game-room last night just before we did. Did you go right up to your room?”

“Yes,” said the girl in a low voice.

“Right to sleep?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“You, Dr. Holmes?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Xavier, did you go right to your room last night when we left you on the landing, and did you stay there all night?”

The widow raised her extraordinary eyes; they were dazed. “I... yes.”

“Did you go right to bed?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you discover during the night that your husband hadn’t come up to sleep?”

“No,” she said slowly. “I did not. I slept through until morning.”

“Mrs. Wheary?”

The housekeeper sobbed: “I don’t know anything at all about this, sir, as God is my judge. I just went to bed.”

“How about you, Xavier?”

The man licked his lips before replying. When he spoke his voice was cracked. “I didn’t stir from my bedroom all night.”

“Well, I might have expected it,” sighed the Inspector. “So nobody here saw the doctor after Mr. Queen, Mrs. Xavier and I left him in the game-room last night, hey?”

They shook their heads almost eagerly.

“How about the shots? Anybody hear them?”

Blank stares.

“It must be the mountain air,” said the Inspector sarcastically. “Although at that maybe I’m a little harsh. I didn’t hear them myself.”

“These are soundproof walls,” said Dr. Holmes lifelessly. “Specially constructed — the study and laboratory. We did a lot of experimenting with animals, Inspector. The noise, you know—”

“I see. These doors down here are always unlocked, I suppose?” Mrs. Wheary and Mrs. Xavier nodded simultaneously. “Now how about the gun? Anybody here who didn’t know there was a weapon and ammunition in that little cabinet in the study?”

Miss Forrest said quickly: “I didn’t, Inspector.”

The old gentleman grunted. Ellery smoked reflectively in the study, scarcely listening.

The Inspector eyed them for a moment, then he said briefly: “That’s all for now. No,” he added in a caustic tone, “don’t move. There’s a lot more. Dr. Holmes, you stay with us; we may need you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” began Mrs. Xavier, half rising. She looked haggard and old. “Can’t we—?”

“Stay where you are, please, Madam. There are a lot of things that have to be done. One of them,” said the Inspector grimly, “is to get that hidden guest of yours, Mrs. Carreau, down for a little chin-chin.” And he began to shut the door in their gaping, stricken faces.

“And,” said Ellery gravely, “the crab. Please don’t forget the crab, dad.”

But they were too stupefied for speech.

“Now, Doctor,” continued Ellery briskly, when the door was closed, “how about rigor mortis? He looks stiff as a board to me. I’ve had some experience examining dead bodies, and this one looks remarkably well advanced.”

“Yes,” muttered Dr. Holmes. “Rigor is complete. In fact, rigor has been complete for nine hours.”

“Here, here,” frowned the Inspector. “Are you sure of that, Doctor? It doesn’t sound kosher—”

“I assure you it’s so, Inspector. You see, Dr. Xavier was—” he licked his lips — “badly diabetic.”

“Ah,” said Ellery softly. “We meet the diabetic corpse once more. Remember Mrs. Doom in the Dutch Memorial Hospital, dad? Go on, Doctor.”

“It’s quite the usual thing,” said the young Englishman with a weary shrug. “Diabetics may go into rigor as early as three minutes after death. Special blood condition, of course.”

“I remember now.” The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, inhaled deeply, sighed, and put the box away. “Well, it’s interesting but not helpful. Just park yourself on that couch, Dr. Holmes, and try to forget this business for a while... Now, El, let’s see all this queer stuff you were gabbling about.”

Ellery flung his half-smoked cigarette out the open window and went around the desk to stand beside the swivel chair in which Dr. Xavier’s body sat.

“Look at that,” he said, pointing toward the floor.

The Inspector looked; and then, with a rather startled expression, squatted on his hams and grasped the hanging right arm of the dead man. It seemed made out of steel; he had the greatest difficulty moving it. He grasped the dead hand.

The hand was clenched. Three fingers — middle finger, ring finger, and little finger — were curled tightly into the palm. Between the extended forefinger and the thumb the dead surgeon held a ragged fragment of stiff paper.

“What’s this?” muttered the Inspector, and he tried to pull the fragment from between the two dead digits. The fingers held tenaciously. Grunting, the old gentleman grasped the thumb in one hand and the forefinger in the other and exerted all his wiry strength. After a struggle he managed to loosen the grip to the extent of perhaps a sixteen of an inch. The stiff paper fluttered to the rug.

He picked it up and rose.

“Why, it’s a torn piece of card!” he exclaimed, a note of disappointment in his voice.

“So it is,” said Ellery mildly. “You sound fearfully disgruntled, dad. Needn’t be. I’ve the feeling that it’s considerably more significant than it looks.”

It was half a six of spades.

The Inspector turned it over; the back was a gaudy red design of intertwined fleurs-de-lis. He glanced at the cards on the desk; their backs were of the same design.

He looked inquiringly at Ellery, and Ellery nodded. They stepped forward and tugged at the dead man. Managing to raise him a little from the surface of the desk, they pushed the swivel chair back a few inches and lowered the body again, so that only the head rested on the edge. Virtually the entire spread of cards was revealed.

“The six of spades came from this desk,” murmured Ellery, “as you can see.” He pointed to a row of cards. Dr. Xavier had apparently been playing, before his murder, the common type of solitaire in which thirteen cards are stacked in a pile as a source from which the player may draw, and then four cards are place face up in a row, with a fifth card placed face up on a line by itself. The game was well advanced. The second card of the group of four was a ten of clubs. Beneath it, covering most of the ten, lay a nine of hearts; beneath the nine, similarly placed, lay an eight of spades; then a seven of diamonds; then a considerable space; and finally a five of diamonds.

“The six was between the seven of diamonds and the five of diamonds,” muttered the Inspector. “All right. So he picked it out of that row. I don’t see... Where’s the rest of this six of spades?” he demanded suddenly.

“On the floor behind the desk,” said Ellery. He circled the desk and stooped. When he stood up he held in his hand a crumpled ball of card. He smoothed it out and fitted it to the fragment from the dead man’s right hand. It matched perfectly, beyond the remotest possibility of duplication.

As on the fragment from the dead man’s hand, there was an oval finger smudge on the crumpled piece. It was obviously the smudge of a thumb, like the other. When the halves were fitted together the two smudges faced each other, each pointing diagonally upward to the line of tearing.

“Smudges are from his fingers when he tore the card, of course,” went on the Inspector thoughtfully. He examined the dead man’s thumbs. “Yes, they’re dirty. That damned soot, I guess, from the fire; it’s all over everything. Well, El, I see now what you mean.”

Ellery shrugged and turned to the window to stare out. Dr. Holmes was bent almost double on the black couch, holding his head between his hands.

“He was shot twice and the murderer beat it, leaving him for dead,” continued the Inspector slowly. “But he wasn’t dead. In his last conscious moments he picked that six of spades out of the solitaire game he’d been playing, deliberately tore off half the card, crumpled the other half and threw it away, and then passed out. Why the devil did he do that, now?”

“You’re asking an academic question,” said Ellery without turning. “You know as well as I do. You’ve observed, of course, that there’s no paper or writing implements on the desk.”

“How about in the top drawer there?”

“I looked. The cards came from there — the usual clutter of games inside. Paper, but no pen or pencil.”

“None in his clothes?”

“No. It’s a sports suit.”

“And the other drawers?”

“They’re locked. He hasn’t a key on his person. I suppose it’s in another suit, or if it’s somewhere about he didn’t have the strength to get up and look for it.”

“Well, then,” snapped the Inspector, “it’s plain enough. He didn’t have the means of writing the name of his murderer. So he left the card — the uncrumpled half of the card — instead.”

“Exactly,” murmured Ellery.

Dr. Holmes’s head came up; his eyelids were angry red. “Eh? He left—?”

“That’s it, Doc. By the way, I take it Dr. Xavier was right-handed?”

Dr. Holmes stared stupidly. Ellery sighed. “Oh, yes. I checked on that the very first thing.”

“You checked—?” began the old gentleman, astonished. “But how—”

“There are more ways,” said Ellery wearily, “of killing a cat than one, as any exterminator will tell you. I looked through the pockets of his discarded coat there on the armchair. His pipe and tobacco pouch are in the right-hand pocket. I patted his trouser pockets, too; there’s change in the right pocket, and the left one is empty.”

“Oh, he was right-handed, right enough,” muttered Dr. Holmes.

“Well, that’s good, that’s good. Checks with the card found in his right hand and the direction of the smudge on the corner. Swell! So we’re as well advanced as we were before — not a jot more. What in the name of all that’s holy did he mean by that piece of card? Doc, do you know whom he might have had in mind, leaving a six of spades that way?”

Dr. Holmes, still staring, started. “I? No, no. I couldn’t say, really I couldn’t.”

The Inspector strode to the library door and flung it open. Mrs. Wheary, Mrs. Xavier, the dead man’s brother — they were exactly as he had left them. But Miss Forrest had disappeared.

“Where’s the young woman?” said the Inspector harshly.

Mrs. Wheary shuddered and Mrs. Xavier apparently did not hear; she was rocking to and fro with a staccato motion.

But Mark Xavier said: “She went out.”

“To warn Mrs. Carreau, I suppose,” snapped the Inspector. “Well, let her. None of you can get away, glory be! Xavier, come on in here, will you?”

The man got slowly out of position, straightened, squared his shoulders, and followed the Inspector into the study. There he avoided looking at his dead brother, swallowing hard and shifting his gaze from side to side.

“We’ve an ugly job here, Xavier,” said the old gentleman crisply. “You’ll have to help. Dr. Holmes!”

The Englishman blinked.

“You ought to be able to answer this. You know that we’re all stuck up here until the sheriff of Osquewa can get through to us, and there’s no telling when that will be. In the meantime, in the case of a capital crime although I’ve been deputized by the sheriff to conduct an investigation I’ve no authority to bury the body of the victim. That must be held for the usual inquest and legal release. Do you understand?”

“You mean,” said Mark Xavier hoarsely, “he... he’s got to be kept this way? Good God, man—”

Dr. Holmes rose. “Fortunately,” he said in a stiff tone, “we — there’s a refrigerator in the laboratory. Used for experimental broths requiring frigid temperatures. I think,” he said with an effort, “we — can make it.”

“Good.” The Inspector clapped the young man on the back. “You’re doing fine, Doc. Once the body’s out of sight I know you’ll all feel better... Now lend a hand, Xavier; and you, Ellery. This is going to be a job.”

When they returned to the study from the laboratory, a vast irregularly shaped room crammed with electrical apparatus and a fantastic growth of weirdly shaped glass vessels, they were all pale and perspiring. The sun was very high now and the room was insufferably hot and stuffy. Ellery threw the windows up as far as they would go.

The Inspector opened the door to the library again. “And now,” he said grimly, “we’ve got time to do a little real sleuthing. This, I’m afraid, is going to be good. I want every one of you to come upstairs with me and—”

He stopped. From somewhere at the rear of the house came the sounds of clashing metal and strident shouting. One of the voices, shrill with rage, belonged to the man-of-all-work, Bones. The other was a deep desperate bellow of vaguely familiar tone.

“What the devil,” began the Inspector, whirling about. “I thought nobody could get—”

He tugged at his service revolver, dashed through the study, and plunged down the cross-hall in the direction of the furious sounds. Ellery was at his heels, and the rest followed with stumbling, bewildered eagerness.

The Inspector turned right where the cross-hall met the main corridor and darted to the far door at the rear which he and Ellery had glimpsed on their entrance to the house the previous night. He flung open the door, revolver raised.

They were in a spotless tiled kitchen.

In the center of the kitchen, amid a clutter of dented pans and broken dishes, two men were struggling, locked in a desperate embrace.

One was the emaciated old man in overalls, eyes starting from his head, screaming curses and tugging at his adversary with maniacal strength.

Over Bones’s shoulder, gross and monstrous, glared the fat face and froggy eyes of the man the Queens had encountered on the dark Arrow Mountain road the night before.

Chapter VI Smith

“Oh, so it’s you,” muttered the Inspector. “Stop it!” he said sharply. “I’ve got you covered and I mean business.”

The fat man’s arms dropped and he stared stupidly.

“Ah, our friend the motorist,” chuckled Ellery, stepping into the kitchen. He slapped the fat man’s hips and breast. “Not heeled. Tsk! Monstrous oversight. Well, what have you to say for yourself, friend Falstaff?”

A purple tongue slithered over the man’s lips. He was stocky and enormous — a wide, wide bulwark of a man with a small round paunch. He took a step forward and his body wobbled like jelly. He looked for all the world like a dangerous, middle-aged gorilla.

Bones was glaring at him with a convulsive hatred that shook his whole angular frame.

“What have I—?” began the stranger in his unpleasant bass voice. Then cunning crept into his little eyes. “What’s the meaning of this?” he boomed with heavy dignity. “This creature attacked me—”

“In his own kitchen?” murmured Ellery.

“He’s lying!” shrieked Bones, trembling with rage. “I caught him sneaking into the house through the open front door and he snooped around till he found the kitchen! Then he—”

“Ah, the grosser appetite,” sighed Ellery. “Hungry, eh? I thought you’d be back.” He whirled suddenly and searched the faces of the group behind him. They were staring at the fat man with baffled eyes.

“Is he the one?” said Mrs. Xavier huskily.

“Yes, indeed. Ever see him before?”

“No, no!”

“Mr. Xavier? Mrs. Wheary? Dr. Holmes... Strange,” murmured Ellery. He stepped closer to the fat man. “We’ll overlook the little raid just now; certain allowances must be made for starving men if only out of sheer humanitarianism. And with that bulk to feed... I daresay you were ravenous to have risked coming back today, after the frantic efforts you must have made all night to get through the fire. Eh?”

The fat man said nothing. His little eyes flicked from face to face and his breathing came in hoarse gasps.

“Well,” said Ellery sharply, “what were you doing on the mountain last night?”

The fat man’s bare chest surged suddenly. “And what’s it to you?”

“Still fractious, eh? I might inform you that you’re a damned live suspect for murder.”

“Murder!” The jowls sagged and all the cunning vanished from the froggy eyes in a twinkling. “Wh... who—?”

“Stop stalling,” snapped the Inspector. The revolver was still in his hand. “Who, eh? I thought a moment ago it didn’t make any difference... Who’d you like it to be?”

“Well!” The fat man sighed hugely, eyes never still. “Naturally... Murder... I don’t know anything about this, gentlemen; how could I? I was wandering around half the night looking for a way — for a way out. Then I parked my car down the road a bit and slept until morning. How should I—?”

“Did you drive back to the house at all when you found you couldn’t get past the road below?”

“Why — no. No.”

“Well, why the hell didn’t you?”

“I... I didn’t think of it.”

“What’s your name?”

The fat man hesitated. “Smith.”

“His name, he says,” remarked the Inspector to the world at large, “is Smith. Well, well. What Smith? Just Smith? Or hasn’t your imagination got to the point of picking a first name yet?”

“Frank — Frank Smith. Frank J. Smith.”

“Where you hail from?”

“Why — ah, New York.”

“Funny,” muttered the Inspector. “I thought I knew every evil pan in the City. Well, what were you doing up here yesterday evening?”

Mr. Smith licked his purple lips again. “Why — I guess I lost my way.”

“You guess?”

“I mean I lost my way, you see. When I... yes, when I got to the top here and saw I couldn’t go any farther, I turned round and drove down again. That’s when you met me, you see.”

“You sang a different tune then,” said the old gentleman disagreeably. “And you sure were in one hell of a hurry. So you don’t know anybody in this house, hey? When you were lost last night, you didn’t think of stopping in here and asking your way, either, did you?”

“N-no.” Mr. Smith’s eyes fidgeted from the Queens to the silent company behind them. “But who, may I ask, was the unfort—”

“Unfortunate who was passed violently from the here to the hereafter?” Ellery squinted at him thoughtfully. “A gentleman named John Xavier, Dr. John S. Xavier. Name mean anything to you?”

The emaciated man-of-all-work began to make threatening sounds deep in his scrawny throat again.

“No,” said Mr. Smith hastily. “Never heard of him.”

“And you’ve never toiled up this Arrow Mountain road before, Mr.... ah... Smith? Last night was the first time — your debut, as it were?”

“I assure you...”

Ellery bent and lifted one of the fat man’s puffy paws. Mr. Smith growled in a startled way and snatched his hand back. “Oh, I’m not going to bite. Just looking for rings, you know.”

“R-rings?”

“But you haven’t any.” Ellery sighed. “I think, dad, we’re... uh... blessed with another guest for some time. Mrs. Xavier — no, Mrs. Wheary might make the necessary arrangements.”

“I guess so,” said the Inspector glumly, putting his revolver away. “Got any duds in your car, Smith, or whatever your name is?”

“Yes, of course. But can’t I—? Isn’t the fire—?”

“You can’t, and the fire isn’t. Get your things out of the car; can’t trust you to Bones — he’s liable to chew your ear off. Good man, Bones. That’s the spirit. Keep your eyes open.” The Inspector tapped the silent old man on his bony shoulder. “Mrs. Wheary, show Mr. Smith to a room on the first floor. There’s an empty, isn’t there?”

“Y-yes, sir,” said Mrs. Wheary nervously. “Several.”

“Then feed him. You stay put, Smith. No funny business.” He turned to Mrs. Xavier, who had shrunken incredibly within herself; her flesh looked withered. “Beg pardon, Madam,” he said stiffly, “for taking charge of your household this way, but in murder cases we haven’t got time to stand on ceremony.”

“That’s quite all right,” she whispered. Ellery examined her with fresh interest. The vitriol seemed to have drained out of her since the discovery of her husband’s corpse. The smoke and fire of her black eyes had been quenched; they were lifeless. And behind them, in the glaze, he thought, lurked fear. She had altered completely — all but the dreadful half-smile. That clung to her lips with the stubborn vitality of physical habit.

“All right, folks,” said the Inspector abruptly. “Now let’s pay a little visit to the society lady upstairs. We’ll all see Mrs. Carreau together and then I’ll get the whole story straight without anyone trying to put one over or keep something back. Maybe well see daylight in this rotten business.”

A low, musical, controlled voice startled them into whirling toward the corridor. “There’s no need of that, Inspector. I’ve come down, you see.”

And in the same flashing instant Ellery, spinning about, caught sight of Mrs. Xavier’s eyes. They were hot, rich black again.

Chapter VII The Weeping Lady

She was leaning on tall Ann Forrest’s arm — a dainty, fragile beauty with the bloom of a delicate fruit. She looked no older than thirty — scarcely that. Her little figure was trim, graceful, slender, sheathed in some gray, soft, clinging material. Her hair was smoky black and she had two straight, determined brows over brown eyes. There was sensitiveness in the thin flare of her nostrils and her little mouth. The lightest of touches had etched tiny wrinkles about her eyes. In her carriage, her poise, the way she stood and the way she held her head Ellery read breeding. A remarkable woman, he thought — quite as remarkable in her way as Mrs. Xavier. The thought swung him about. Mrs. Xavier had miraculously regained her youth. The fires had never been brighter in her extraordinary eyes, and all the drooping muscles had been revitalized. She was glaring with feline intensity at Mrs. Carreau. Fear had been displaced by the frankest, most naked hatred.

“You’re Mrs. Marie Carreau?” demanded the Inspector. If he still felt for her any of the admiration he had voiced to Ellery the night before, he did not show it.

“Yes,” replied the small woman. “That’s quite correct... I beg your pardon.” She turned to Mrs. Xavier, the queerest pain and compassion in the depths of her eyes. “I’m so sorry, my dear. Ann has told me. If there is anything I can do...”

The black pupils dilated; the olive nostrils flared. “Yes!” cried Mrs. Xavier, taking a step forward. “Yes! Get out of my house, that’s what you can do! You’ve made me suffer more... Get out of my house, you and your damned—”

“Sarah!” rasped Mark Xavier, grasping her arm and shaking her roughly. “Don’t forget yourself. Do you realize what you’re saying?”

The tall woman’s voice rose to a scream. “She... she—” A trickle of saliva appeared at one corner of her mouth. Her black eyes were blazing pits.

“Here, here,” said the Inspector softly. “What’s all this, Mrs. Xavier?”

Mrs. Carreau had not stirred; bloodless cheeks were her only sign of emotion. Ann Forrest gripped her round arm more tightly. Mrs. Xavier shuddered and shook her head from side to side. She relaxed limply against her brother-in-law.

“That’s all right, then,” continued the Inspector in the same soft voice. He flashed a glance at Ellery. But Ellery was studying the face of Mr. Smith. The fat man had retreated to the farther side of the kitchen and was striving to hold his breath. He looked as if he were squeezing himself in some fantastic effort to achieve two dimensions. The wattled face was deathly purple. “Let’s go into the living room and talk.”

“Now, Mrs. Carreau,” said the old gentleman when they were all seated stiffly in the big room, the hot sunlight pouring in through the French windows, “please explain yourself. I want the truth, now; if I don’t get it from you I’ll get it from the others, so you may as well make a clean breast of it.”

“What would you like to know?” murmured Mrs. Carreau.

“A lot of things. Let’s get the practical answers first. How long have you been in this house?”

“Two weeks.” Her musical voice was barely audible; she kept her eyes on the floor. Mrs. Xavier was lying in an armchair with closed eyes, deathly still.

“Guest here?”

“You might — call it that.” She paused, lifted her eyes, dropped them again.

“With whom did you come, Mrs. Carreau? Or were you alone?”

She hesitated again. Ann Forrest said swiftly: “No. I came with Mrs. Carreau. I’m her confidential secretary.”

“So I’ve noted,” said the Inspector coldly. “You’ll please keep out of this, young woman. I’ve a score to settle with you for disobeying orders. I don’t like my witnesses running off and passing the word along to — others.” Miss Forrest flushed and bit her lip. “Mrs. Carreau, how long have you known Dr. Xavier?”

“Two weeks, Inspector.”

“Oh, I see. Didn’t you know any of the others before, either?”

“No.”

“Is that right, Xavier?”

The big man muttered: “That’s right.”

“Then sickness brought you up here, eh, Mrs. Carreau?”

She shivered. “In... in a way.”

“You’re supposed to be traveling in Europe now, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were raised now, pleading. “I... I didn’t want my — it known.”

“Is that why you hid last night when my son and I drove up, why these people were so nervous, covered you up?”

She whispered: “Yes.”

The Inspector straightened and thoughtfully took snuff. Not particularly auspicious, he thought. He glanced about, searching for Ellery. But Ellery had unaccountably disappeared.

“Then you never saw anyone here before; just came for medical treatment? For observation maybe?”

“Yes, Inspector, oh, yes!”

“Hmm.” The old gentleman took a turn about the room. No one spoke. “Tell me, Mrs. Carreau — did you leave your room last night for any reason?” He could scarcely hear her reply. “Eh?”

“No.”

“That’s not true!” cried Mrs. Xavier suddenly, opening her eyes. She sprang to her feet, tall and magnificently furious. “She did! I saw her!”

Mrs. Carreau paled. Miss Forrest half rose, eyes snapping. Mark Xavier looked startled and extended his arm in a curious gesture.

“Hold everything,” murmured the Inspector. “And that means, everybody. You say you saw Mrs. Carreau leave her room, Mrs. Xavier?”

“Yes! She slipped out of her room a little after midnight and hurried downstairs. I saw her enter my... my husband’s study. They were there—”

“Yes, Mrs. Xavier? For how long?”

Her eyes wavered. “I don’t know. I... didn’t... wait.”

“Is that true, Mrs. Carreau?” asked the Inspector in the same soft tone.

Tears had sprung into the small woman’s eyes. Her mouth quivered, and then she began to weep. “Yes, oh, yes,” she sobbed, hiding her face on Miss Forrest’s bosom.

“But I didn’t—”

“Just a moment.” The Inspector regarded Mrs. Xavier with a faintly mocking smile. “I thought you told us, Mrs. Xavier, that you retired at once last night and slept through the night?”

The tall woman bit her lip and sat down suddenly. “I know. I lied. I thought you would suspect — But I saw her! It was she! She—” She stopped in confusion.

“And you didn’t wait,” said the Inspector mildly, “to see when she came out. My, my, what are our women coming to! All right, Mrs. Carreau, why did you wait until you thought everyone was asleep to slip down for a chat with Dr. Xavier — after midnight?”

Mrs. Carreau fumbled for a gray-silk handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and set her little chin firmly. “It was stupid of me to lie, Inspector. Mrs. Wheary had come to my room before she retired to tell me that strangers — you gentlemen — were staying the night because of a fire below. She told me Dr. Xavier was downstairs. I was — worried,” her brown eyes flickered, “and went down to talk to him.”

“About my son and me, hey?”

“Yes...”

“And your... er... condition also, hey?”

She reddened, but she repeated: “Yes.”

“How’d you find him? All right? Spry? Natural? As usual? Nothing on his mind?”

“He was quite the same, Inspector,” she whispered. “Kind, thoughtful — as ever. We talked a while, then I went back upstairs—”

“Damn you!” shrieked Mrs. Xavier, on her feet again. “I can’t, I won’t stand it! She’s been off in corners with him every night — since she came — whispering, whispering with that cunning pretty false smile of hers — stealing him away from me — weeping crocodile tears — playing on his sympathies... He never could resist a pretty woman! Shall I tell you why, Inspector, why she’s here?” She pounced forward, leveling a shaking finger at the shrinking figure of Mrs. Carreau. “Shall I? Shall I?”

Dr. Holmes spoke for the first time in an hour. “Oh, I say, Mrs. Xavier,” he mumbled, “I shouldn’t—”

“No, oh, no,” moaned Mrs. Carreau, hiding her face in her hands. “Please, please...”

“You contemptible she-devil!” raged Ann Forrest, jumping to her feet. “You would, you... you wolverine! I’ll—”

“Ann,” said Dr. Holmes in a low voice, stepping before her.

The Inspector watched them with bright, almost smiling eyes. He was very still; barely moved his head from one face to another as they spoke. The big room was noisy with furious voices, heavy breathing... “Shall I?” screamed Mrs. Xavier, madness in her eyes. “Shall I?”

The noise stopped as abruptly as if someone had sheared it off with a bolo. There was a sound from the corridor door.

“There’s really no need, Mrs. Xavier,” said Ellery cheerfully. “We know all about it, you see. Dry your eyes, Mrs. Carreau. This is far from a major tragedy. My father and I shall keep your secret — longer, I fear,” he said with a sad wag of his head, “than some of the others... Dad, I take particular pleasure in introducing to you the... ah... the — what you saw last night, or thought you saw.” The Inspector was gaping. “And, I might add, two of the brightest, nicest, best-mannered and friendliest lads who ever became irked at the necessity of skulking in a bedroom and decided to crawl out into a corridor for a little romantic peep at the terrible men who had blundered into their host’s house. Meet — reading from left to right — Messrs. Julian and Francis Carreau, Mrs. Carreau’s sons. I’ve just made their acquaintance and I think they’re delightful!”

Ellery was standing in the doorway, an arm about the shoulder of each of two tall, good-looking boys whose bright eyes investigated every detail of the tableau before them inquisitively. Ellery, who stood behind then smiling, nevertheless contrived to fix his father with an angry eye. The old gentleman stopped gaping, gulped, and came forward rather shakily.

The boys were perhaps sixteen — strong, wide-shouldered, with sun-browned faces and pleasant regular features quite like their mother’s but in a masculine way. One might have been a brown-plaster model of the other. In every detail of physique and facial feature they were identical. Even their clothes — gray-flannel suits meticulously pressed, sunny-blue neckties, white shirts, black-grained shoes — were identical.

But it was not the fact that they were twins which had brought the Inspector’s jaw to the half-mast. It was the fact that they slightly faced each other, that the right arm of the boy on the right was twined about his brother’s waist, that the left arm of the boy on the left was out of sight behind his brother’s back, that their smart gray jackets met and, incredibly, joined at the level of their breast bones.

They were Siamese twins.

Chapter VIII Xiphopagus

They met the Inspector with rather shy, if boyish, curiosity, each offering his free hand in turn for a hearty grip. Mrs. Carreau had magically revived; she was erect in her chair now and smiling at the boys. What effort it was costing her, Ellery thought with admiration, no one except perhaps Ann Forrest could possibly know.

“Gosh, sir!” exclaimed the twin on the right in a pleasant tenor voice. “Are you a real live Inspector of police, as Mr. Queen says?”

“I’m afraid so, son,” said the Inspector with a feeble grin. “And what’s your name?”

“I’m Francis, sir.”

“And you, my boy?”

“Julian, sir,” replied the twin on the left. Their voices were one. Julian, the Inspector thought was the graver of the two. He looked earnestly at the Inspector. “May we — may we see the gold badge, sir?”

“Julian,” murmured Mrs. Carreau.

“Yes, mother.”

The boys looked at the beautiful woman. They both smiled at once; it was uncanny and delightful. Then, with perfect grace and ease, they walked across the room in step and the Inspector saw their broad, young backs swaying in practised rhythm. He also saw that Julian’s left arm, resting against the small of his brother’s back, was in a cast and strapped to his brother’s body. The boys bent over their mother’s chair and she kissed each one’s cheek in turn. Whereupon they sat down on a divan with gravity and fastened their eyes upon the Inspector, to his immediate embarrassment.

“Well,” he said, somewhat at a loss. “This puts a different complexion on things. I think I see now what this is all about... By the way, youngster — you, Julian — what’s the matter with your flipper?”

“Oh, I broke it, sir,” replied the lad on the left instantly. “Last week. We had a little fall on the rocks outside.”

“Dr. Xavier,” said Francis, “set it for Julian. It didn’t hurt much, did it, Jule?”

“Not much,” said Julian manfully. And they both smiled again at the Inspector.

“Hrrmph!” said the Inspector. “I suppose you know that something’s happened to Dr. Xavier?”

“Yes, sir,” they said together, soberly, and their smiles faded. But they could not conceal the excited glint in their eyes.

“I think,” said Ellery, stepping into the room and closing the corridor door, “that we may as well have a complete understanding. Whatever is told in this room, of course, Mrs. Carreau, goes no further.”

“Yes,” she sighed. “It’s all a little unfortunate, Mr. Queen. I was hoping... I’m not very brave, you see.” She brooded over her sons, eying their straight, big bodies with the queerest mixture of pride and pain. “Francis and Julian were born a little over sixteen years ago in Washington. My husband was still alive at that time. My sons were born perfectly healthy, normal children except,” she paused and closed her eyes, “for one thing, as you see. They were joined at birth. Needless to say, my family was — horrified.” She stopped, breathing a little fast.

“The usual myopia of great families,” said Ellery with an encouraging smile. “As you say, it wasn’t very heroic. I assure you I should feel proud—”

“Oh, I am,” she cried. “They’re the best children — so strong and straight and — and patient...”

“There’s mother for you,” said Francis, grinning. Julian contented himself by staring gravely at his mother.

“But they were too many for me,” continued Mrs. Carreau in a low tone. “I was weak and — and a little frightened myself. My husband unfortunately thought as they did. So...” She made a queer, helpless gesture. It was not difficult to see what must have happened. The publicity-loathing family of aristocrats; family conferences, lavish expenditures of hush money, the infants spirited away from the lying-in hospital, placed in charge of a capable and reliable nurse, an announcement to the newspapers that Mrs. Carreau had had a dead baby... “I saw them often, on secret visits. As they grew older they came to understand. They never complained, dear boys, and were always cheerful and not the least bit bitter. Of course we had the best tutors and medical attention. When my husband died I thought — But they were still too strong for me. And I wasn’t, as I’ve said, particularly courageous. And all the while I wanted — my heart cried—”

“Sure, sure,” said the Inspector, clearing his throat hastily. “I think we understand, Mrs. Carreau. I suppose it wasn’t possible to do anything about it — medically, I mean?”

“We can tell you about that,” said Francis cheerfully.

“Oh, you can, son?”

“Oh, yes, sir. You see, we’re joined at the breastbone by a lig... lig—”

“Ligature,” said Julian, frowning. “You never remember that word, Fran. I should think you would, you know.”

“Ligature,” said Francis, nodding at this severe criticism. “It’s very strong, sir. Why, we can stretch it for about six inches!”

“But doesn’t it hurt?” asked the Inspector, wincing.

“Hurt? No, sir. Does your ear hurt when you stretch it, sir?”

“Well,” replied the old gentleman with a broad smile, “I guess not. I never thought of that.”

“Cartilaginous ligature,” explained Dr. Holmes. “What in teratology we call a xiphoid growth. Most amazing phenomenon, Inspector. Perfectly elastic and unbelievably strong.”

“We can do tricks with it,” said Julian soberly.

“Now, Julian,” said Mrs. Carreau in a weak voice.

“But we can, mother! You know we can. We practised that trick the original Siamese twins used to do; we showed it to you, remember?”

“Oh, Julian,” said Mrs. Carreau faintly, suppressing a smile.

Dr. Holmes’s hard young cheeks shone with a sudden professional glow of enthusiasm. “Chang and Eng — those were the Siamese twins’ names — could support each other’s dead weight by the ligature alone. These lads are very acrobatic about it. Lord, they can do more things than I can!”

“That’s because you don’t exercise enough, Dr. Holmes,” said Francis respectfully. “Why don’t you try punching the bag? We—”

The Inspector was grinning by this time and the atmosphere of the room had cleared miraculously. The entirely normal conversation of the boys, their bright, intelligent air and utter lack of bitterness and self-consciousness dispelled any awkward feeling their presence might theoretically have been expected to arouse. Mrs. Carreau was smiling fondly at them.

“Anyway,” continued Francis, “it would be all right, I guess, if the doctors had only that,” he pointed to his chest, “to worry about, you see. But—”

“Perhaps you’d better let me explain, old boy,” said Dr. Holmes gently. “You see, Inspector, there are three common — common as they are! — types of so-called Siamese twins, all three of which are exemplified by rather medically famous cases. There’s the pyogopagus type — back to back — case of renal juncture; that is, kidneys joined. Probably the best-known example were the Blascek twins, Rosa and Josepha. There was an attempt to sever them surgically—” He stopped his face darkening. “Then there’s the—”

“Was the attempt successful?” asked Ellery quietly.

Dr. Holmes bit his lip. “Well — no. But then we didn’t know as much—”

“That’s all right, Dr. Holmes,” said Francis earnestly. “We know all about these things, you see, Mr. Queen. Naturally our own cases interested us. The Blascek girls died as a result of the attempt. But then Dr. Xavier wasn’t around—”

Mrs. Carreau’s cheeks were paler than the whites of her eyes. The Inspector hurled a furious glance at Ellery and signaled Dr. Holmes to continue.

“Then,” said Dr. Holmes with difficulty, “there’s the xiphopagus — twins joined by the xiphoid process of the sternum. That’s the most famous case of all, of course — the original Siamese twins, Chang and Eng Bunker. Two healthy, normal individuals...”

“Died in 1874,” announced Julian, “when Chang contracted pneumonia. They were sixty-three years old! They were married and had loads of children, and everything!”

“They weren’t really Siamese,” added Francis, smiling, “sort of three-quarters Chinese and one-quarter Malay, or something. They were horribly smart, Inspector Queen. And very rich... That’s the kind we are.” He said hastily: “Xiph-xiphopagus, not rich.”

“We are rich,” said Julian.

“Well, you know what I mean, Jule!”

“Finally,” said Dr. Holmes, “there’s the so-called side-to-side type. The boys, as I said, are front-to-front — joined livers. And, of course, a common blood-stream.” He sighed. “Dr. Xavier had the complete case history. Mrs. Carreau’s personal physician supplied it.”

“But what,” murmured Ellery, “was the purpose of bringing these husky young brutes to Arrow Head, Mrs. Carreau?”

There was a little silence. The atmosphere thickened again. Mrs. Xavier was staring dully at Mrs. Carreau.

“He said,” whispered the small woman, “that perhaps—”

“He gave you hope?” inquired Ellery slowly.

“Not that — exactly. It was just the barest, faintest chance. Ann — Miss Forrest had heard he was doing experimental work.”

“Dr. Xavier,” interrupted the young physician tonelessly, “had been occupying his time here in rather — bizarre experiments. I shouldn’t say bizarre. Unorthodox, perhaps. He was, of course, a very great man.” He paused. “He expended a good deal of time and money on the — experiments. There was some publicity; not a good deal, because he detested it. When Mrs. Carreau wrote—” He stopped.

The Inspector looked from Mrs. Carreau to Dr. Holmes. “I take it, then,” he murmured, “you didn’t share Dr. Xavier’s enthusiasm, Doctor?”

“That,” replied the Englishman stiffly, “is beside the point.” He glanced at the Carreau twins with the oddest mixture of affection and pain.

There was another silence. The old gentleman took a turn about the room. The boys were perfectly quiet, but alert.

The Inspector halted. “Did you boys like Dr. Xavier?” he said abruptly.

“Oh, yes!” they said in instant unison.

“Did he ever — well, hurt you?”

Mrs. Carreau started, alarm flooding her soft eyes.

“No, sir,” replied Francis. “He just examined us. Made all kinds of tests. With X rays and special foods and injections and things.”

“We’re used to that sort of thing, all right,” said Julian darkly.

“I see. Now about last night. Slept well, did you?”

“Yes, sir.” They were very solemn now and breathing a little more rapidly.

“Didn’t hear any peculiar sounds during the night, I suppose? Like guns going off?”

“No, sir.”

The old gentleman rubbed his chin for a moment. When he spoke again he was grinning. “Had your breakfast, both of you?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Wheary brought it up to us early this morning,” said Francis.

“But we’re hungry again,” added Julian quickly.

“Then suppose you two young men trot out into the kitchen,” said the Inspector amiably, “and get Mrs. Wheary to rustle you some grub.”

“Yes, sir!” they exclaimed in chorus and rose, kissed their mother, excused themselves, and left the room with the peculiarly graceful rhythm imparted to their bodies by the act of walking.

Chapter IX The Murderer

A bent figure appeared on the terrace beyond one of the French windows, and peered into the living-room.

“Oh, Bones,” called the Inspector; the man started. “Come on in here. I want you in on this.”

The old man slipped through the window. His lugubrious face was set in even more savage lines than before and his long, skinny arms dangled and jerked, the fingers curling and uncurling.

Ellery studied his father’s bland face thoughtfully. There was something up. An idea, a suddenly snatched and half-formed idea, was stewing in the Inspector’s brain.

“Mrs. Xavier,” began the old man in a mild voice, “how long have you lived here?”

“Two years,” said the woman lifelessly.

“Your husband bought this house?”

“He built it.” Fear had begun to creep back into her eyes. “He retired at that time, purchased the summit of Arrow Mountain, had it cleared and the house constructed. Then we moved in.”

“You’ve been married only a short time, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” She was startled now. “About six months before... before we came here to live.”

“Your husband was a wealthy man, wasn’t he?”

She shrugged. “I have never inquired deeply into his finances. He gave me, always, the best of everything.” The feline glare returned for an instant as she added: “The best of material things.”

The Inspector took a pinch of snuff elaborately; he seemed very sure of himself. “I seem to recall that your husband had never been married before, Mrs. Xavier. How about you?”

She tightened her lips. “I was a widow when I... met him.”

“No children from either marriage?”

She sighed queerly. “No.”

“Hmm.” The Inspector crooked his finger at Mark Xavier. “You ought to know something about your brother’s financial condition. Well off, was he?”

Xavier started out of a profound reverie. “Eh? Oh, money! Yes. He was well-cushioned.”

“Tangible assets?”

The man lifted his shoulders. “Some of it in real estate, and you know what realty values are today. Most of it, however, in solid government securities. He had some money from our father when he began practising medicine — as I did — but he’s made most of what he has... had... in his profession. I was his attorney, you know.”

“Ah,” said the Inspector. “Glad you mentioned that. I was wondering how we’d jump the testamentary hurdle all bottled up this way... So you’re an attorney, hey? He left a will, of course.”

“There’s a copy in his bedroom safe upstairs.”

“Is that right, Mrs. Xavier?”

“Yes.” She was oddly quiet.

“What’s the combination?” She told him. “All right. Please remain where you are. I’ll be back shortly.” He buttoned his jacket with nervous fingers and hurried from the room.

He was gone a long time. The living room was very quiet. From the rear came the cheerful shouts of Julian and Francis, apparently applying themselves to the cream of Mrs. Wheary’s larder with gusto and enthusiasm.

Once there was a heavy step in the hall and they all turned to the door. But it remained shut, and the step continued to tramp toward the foyer. A moment later they spied the gorillalike figure of Mr. Smith on the terrace; he was staring out over the bleak rocky ground before the house.

Ellery sulked in a corner and sucked a fingernail. For some reason too nebulous to grasp he felt disturbed. What on earth was his father up to?

Then the door opened and the Inspector appeared. His eyes were sparkling. In his hand he held a legal-looking paper.

“Well,” he said benevolently, closing the door. Ellery studied him, frowning. There was something in the wind. When the Inspector became benevolent during the progress of an investigation, there was something decidedly in the wind. “I’ve found the will, all right. Short and sweet. By your husband’s will, Mrs. Xavier, I find that you’re practically his sole beneficiary. Did you know that?” He waved the document.

“Of course.”

“Yes,” continued the Inspector briskly, “except for a small bequest to his brother Mark and a few to various professional societies — research organizations and such — you inherit the bulk of his estate. And, as you said, Xavier, it’s considerable.”

“Yes,” muttered Xavier.

“I see too that there won’t be any trouble about probating the will and settling the estate,” murmured the old gentleman. “No chance for a legal contest; eh, Xavier?”

“Of course not! There’s no one to contest. I certainly shan’t, even if I had grounds — which I haven’t — and I’m John’s only blood relative. As a matter of fact, although it isn’t pertinent, my sister-in-law has no living relatives, either. We’re the last on both sides.”

“That makes it very cozy, I must say,” smiled the Inspector. “By the way, Mrs. Xavier, I suppose you and your husband had no real differences? I mean — you didn’t quarrel about the various things that split up late marriages?”

“Please.” She put her hand to her eyes. And that’s very cozy, too, thought Ellery grimly. He kept watching his father, alive in every nerve now.

Unexpectedly the man Bones rasped: “That’s a lie. She made his life one long hell!”

“Bones,” gasped Mrs. Xavier.

“She was always nagging him,” went on Bones, the cords of his throat taut; his eyes were blazing again. “She never gave him a minute’s peace, damn her!”

“That’s interesting,” said the Inspector, still smiling, “and you’re an interesting sort of coot to have around the house, Bones, old boy. Go on. I take it you were pretty fond of Dr. Xavier?”

“I’d have died for him.” His bony fists tightened. “He was the only one in this rotten world ever lent a hand when I was down, the only one ever treated me like a man, not some — some scum... She treated me like dirt!” His voice rose to a scream. “I tell you she—”

“Right, right, Bones,” said the Inspector with a touch of sharpness. “Hold it. Now listen to me, all of you. We found in Dr. Xavier’s dead hand a torn half of playing card. He’d evidently found strength enough before he died to leave a clue to his murderer’s identity. He tore off half a six of spades.”

“Six of spades!” panted Mrs. Xavier; her eyes were protruding from their shadowed sockets.

“Yes, Madam, a six of spades,” said the Inspector, regarding her with some satisfaction. “Let’s do a little figuring. What could he have meant to tell us? Well, the cards came from his own desk; so it isn’t a question of ownership. Now, he didn’t use a whole card; only a half. That means the card as a card wasn’t the important thing; it was the piece, or what was on the piece.”

Ellery stared. There was something in association, after all. You could teach an old dog new tricks. He chuckled silently.

“On the piece,” continued the Inspector, “was the number 6, in the border of the card, and a few — what d’ye call it?”

“Pips,” said Ellery.

“Pips — spades. Spades mean anything to any of you?”

“Spade?” Bones licked his lips. “I use a spade—”

“Whoa,” grinned the Inspector. “Don’t let’s get into fairy tales. That would be too much. No, he didn’t mean you, Bones.”

“Spade,” said Ellery briefly, “if it meant anything at all, which I doubt, signified death. It always has, you know.” His eyes were narrowed and he was paying attention only to his father.

“Well, whatever it meant it’s not the main thing. The main thing is the number 6. Number 6 mean anything to any of you?”

They stared at him.

“Evidently not,” he chuckled. “Well, I didn’t think it would. As a number I don’t see how it could refer to anyone here. Might in one of these, now, detective stories with secret societies and such tripe; but not in real life. Well, if 6 as a number doesn’t mean anything to you, how about 6 as a word?” He stopped grinning and his face hardened. “Mrs. Xavier, you have a middle name, haven’t you?”

Her hand was at her mouth. “Yes,” she said faintly. “Isère. My maiden name. I am French...”

“Sarah Isère Xavier,” said the Inspector grimly. He whipped his hand into his pocket and produced with flourish a small sheet of delicately tinted personal stationery, monogrammed at the top with three capital letters. “I found this piece of writing paper in your desk in the big bedroom upstairs, Mrs. Xavier. Do you admit it’s yours?”

She was on her feet, swaying. “Yes. Yes. But—”

He held the paper high, so that all their wide eyes could see it. The monogram read: S I X. The Inspector dropped the sheet and stepped forward. “Dr. Xavier in his fast living moment accused S I X of murdering him. I saw the light when I remembered that two of your initials were S X. Mrs. Xavier, consider yourself under arrest for the murder of your husband!”

For one horrible moment Francis’s merry laugh rang faintly in their ears from the kitchen. Mrs. Carreau was white as death, her right hand on her breast. Ann Forrest was trembling. Dr. Holmes was blinking at the tall woman swaying before them with disbelief, nausea, mounting rage. Mark Xavier was rigid in his chair, only the muscles of his jaw working. Bones stood like a mythological figure of vengeance, glaring with awful triumph at Mrs. Xavier.

The Inspector snapped: “You knew that on the death of your husband you would come into a pot of money, didn’t you?”

She took a small backward step, breathing thickly. “Yes—”

“You were jealous of Mrs. Carreau, weren’t you? Insanely jealous? You couldn’t stand seeing them together conducting what you thought was an affair right before your nose, could you? — when all the time they were just discussing Mrs. Carreau’s sons!” He advanced steadily, never taking his hard eyes from hers, a little gray nemesis.

“Yes, yes,” she gasped, retreating another step.

“When you followed Mrs. Carreau downstairs last night and saw her slip into your husband’s study and after a while slip out again, you were mad with jealous rage, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You went in, snatched the revolver from the drawer, shot him, killed him, murdered him; didn’t you, Mrs. Xavier? Didn’t you?”

The edge of the chair stopped her. She tottered and fell into the seat with a thud. Her mouth was working soundlessly, like the mouth of a fish seen through the glass window of an aquarium.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Her glazedly black eyes rolled over once; then she shuddered convulsively and fainted.

Chapter X Left and Right

It was a terrible afternoon. The sun was overpowering. It poured its fierce liquefying strength upon the house and the rocks and turned both into infernos. They wandered about the house like materialized ghosts, scarcely speaking, avoiding each other, physically wretched from the dampness of their clothing and the heaviness of their limbs, mentally sick and exhausted. Even the twins were subdued; they sat quietly by themselves on the terrace and watched their elders with round eyes.

The unconscious woman had been turned over to the mercies of Dr. Holmes and Miss Forrest; that surprising young woman, it developed, having had considerable professional experience as a nurse in the years preceding her employment by Mrs. Carreau. The men carried the heavy figure of Mrs. Xavier upstairs to the master — now masterless — bedroom.

“You’d better give her something to keep her asleep for a while, Doc,” said the Inspector thoughtfully as he gazed down upon the handsome recumbent figure. There was no triumph, only distaste in his eyes. “She’s the nervous type. They go off the handle at the least emotional disturbance. Might try to do away with herself when she comes to. Not that it wouldn’t be the best thing for her, poor devil... Give her a hypo or something.”

Dr. Holmes nodded silently; he went down to the laboratory and returned with a filled hypodermic. Miss Forrest fiercely banished the men from the bedroom. She and the physician alternated at the sleeping woman’s bedside for the remainder of the afternoon.

Mrs. Wheary, informed of the culpability of her mistress, wept briefly and not convincingly; she had always known, she informed the Inspector through squeezed tears, that “it couldn’t turn out well; she was too jealous. And him such a kind, good, handsome man, poor lamb, who didn’t even look at other women! I was, his housekeeper before his marriage, sir, and when she came to live with us she started right away. Jealous! She was just crazy.”

The Inspector grunted and became practical. None of them had had a mouthful of food since the previous night. Could Mrs. Wheary so compose herself as to scrape together a passable luncheon? He personally was on the verge of starvation.

Mrs. Wheary sighed, wiped away the last arid tear, and turned back to her kitchen cabinet.

“Though I will say,” she moaned as the Inspector turned to go, “that there isn’t any too much food in the house, sir, begging your pardon.”

“What’s that?” said the Inspector sharply, halting.

“You see,” sniffed Mrs. Wheary, “we’ve got some canned goods and things, sir, but the more perishable vittles — milk and eggs and butter and meats and fowl — we’ve about run out of ’em, sir. The grocer at Osquewa delivers once a week, sir; terrible long trip it is on these blessed mountain roads. He was due yesterday, but with this awful fire and all—”

“Well, do the best you can,” said the old gentleman mildly, and went away. In the gloom of the corridor, where he was unobserved, his mouth drooped. Things looked far from promising, despite the solution of the case. He bethought himself of the telephone and trotted with rising hope to the living room.

He put the instrument down after a while, his shoulders sagging. The line was dead. The inevitable had occurred; the fire had reached the telephone poles and brought the wires down. They were completely cut off from the outside world.

No use getting the others in more of a state than they were, he thought, stepping out onto the terrace and smiling mechanically at the twins. He cursed the fate that had induced him to take his vacation. As for Ellery...

He came to with a start just as Mrs. Wheary plodded out of the foyer to announce luncheon.

Where was Ellery? thought the Inspector. He had disappeared not long after they had taken Mrs. Xavier upstairs.

He went to the edge of the porch and squinted over the tumbled rocks in the devastating sunlight. The place was as barren and ugly and grim as the surface of another and lifeless planet. Then he caught a glimpse of white beneath the nearest tree off the left side of the house.

Ellery was sprawled full-length in the shade of an oak, hands behind his head, staring intently up at the green leaves above him.

“Lunch!” yelled the Inspector, cupping his hands.

Ellery started. Then he wearily picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, and trudged toward the house.

It was a dismal meal, eaten for the most part in silence. The fare was poor and wonderfully diversified, but it seemed to make little difference, for they all munched away without appetite, scarcely noticing what they were putting into their mouths. Dr. Holmes was missing; still upstairs with Mrs. Xavier. When Ann Forrest finished, she rose quietly and went away. A few moments later the young physician appeared, sat down, and began to eat. No one said anything.

After luncheon they dispersed. Mr. Smith, who could be called a ghost only by the most generous stretch of the imagination, nevertheless contrived to look like one. He had not joined the others in the dining room, having already been fed by Mrs. Wheary. He kept strictly to himself and no one ventured near him. He spent most of the afternoon tramping heavily about the terrace chewing a damp cigar as gorilla-like as himself.

“What’s eating you?” demanded the Inspector when he and Ellery retired to their room after luncheon for a shower and fresh clothing. “You’ll crack your jaw pulling that long face!”

“Oh, nothing,” muttered Ellery, flinging himself on the bed. “I just feel annoyed.”

“Annoyed! At what?”

“At myself.”

The Inspector grinned. “For not spotting that sheet of stationery? Well, you can’t have the luck all the time.”

“Oh, not that. That was very clever, and you needn’t be so modest about it. It’s something else.”

“What?”

“That,” said Ellery, “is what annoys me. I don’t know.” He sat up nervously, rubbing his cheek. “Call it intuition — it’s a convenient word. But something is trying to crawl past my conscious defenses and make contact. The merest wraith of a something. And what it is I’m blessed if I know.”

“Take a shower,” said the Inspector sympathetically. “Maybe it’s just a headache.”

When they had redressed Ellery went to the rear window and scowled out over the abyss. The Inspector moved about, hanging his clothes on hooks in the wardrobe.

“Getting set for a long stay, I see,” murmured Ellery, without however turning.

The Inspector stared. “Well, it gives me something to do,” he grunted at last. “I have a hunch we won’t be so damn idle in a few days.”

“Meaning?”

The old man did not reply.

After a while Ellery said: “We may as well be thoroughly technical about this affair. Did you lock that study downstairs?”

“The study?” The Inspector blinked. “Why, no. What the deuce for?”

Ellery shrugged. “You never can tell. Let’s amble down there; I’ve a yen anyway to soak in a little of the gory atmosphere. Maybe that wraith will materialize.”

They went downstairs through an empty house. Except for Smith on the terrace no one was about.

They found the scene of the crime as they had left it; Ellery, obsessed by the vaguest twinges of alarm, went over the room thoroughly. But the desk with the cards on it, the swivel chair, the cabinet, the murder weapon, the cartridges — everything was untouched.

“You’re an old lady,” said the Inspector jovially. “Although it was dumb to leave that gun around. And the cartridges. I think I’ll get ’em in a safer place.”

Ellery was regarding the top of the desk gloomily. “You might put those cards away, too. After all, they’re evidence. This is the craziest case. Corpse has to be stuffed into a refrigerator, evidence held for the proper officials, nice little blaze toasting — figuratively — our toes... Pah!”

He shoved the cards together, went through them to get all their faces turned the same way, stacked them together and handed them to his father. The torn piece of card with the six of spades showing, and the crumpled remainder, he tucked after a moment of hesitation into his own pocket.

The Inspector found a Yale key sticking into the lock on the laboratory side of one study door, closed the doors and locked them from the study, locked the library door with an ordinary steel key of the skeleton type from his own key ring, and used the key again on the outside of the cross-hall door.

“Where are you going to cache the evidence?” murmured Ellery as they began to mount the stairs.

“Don’t know. Have to get a fairly safe place.”

“Why didn’t you leave it in the study? You took plenty of trouble to lock the three doors.”

The Inspector grimaced. “Doors from the hall and library any kid could open. I locked ’em just for effect... What’s this?”

A little knot of people was crowded about the open door of the master bedroom. Even Mrs. Wheary and Bones were there.

They pushed their way through to find Dr. Holmes and Mark Xavier bending over the bed.

“What’s the trouble?” snapped the Inspector.

“She come out of it,” panted Dr. Holmes, “and I’m afraid she’s a bit violent. Hold her, Xavier, will you! Miss Forrest — get my hypo...”

The woman was struggling desperately in the men’s grip, her arms and legs threshing like flails. Her eyes were glaring at the ceiling, wide open and blind.

“Here,” muttered the Inspector. He leaned over the bed and said in a crackling clear voice: “Mrs. Xavier!”

The threshing ceased and sense crept back into her eyes. She brought her chin down and looked about her rather dazedly.

“You’re acting very foolishly, Mrs. Xavier,” the Inspector went on in the same sharp tone. “It won’t get you anywhere, you know. Snap out of it!”

She shuddered and closed her eyes. Then she opened them and began very softly to weep.

The men straightened up with deep sighs of relief, Mark Xavier wiping his damp brow and Dr. Holmes turning away with dejected, drooping shoulders.

“She’ll be all right now,” said the Inspector quietly. “But I shouldn’t leave her alone, Doctor. As long as she’s tractable, you understand. If she gets fractious again, put her to sleep.”

He was startled to hear the woman’s voice, husky but controlled, from the bed. “I shall not make any more trouble,” she said.

“That’s fine, Mrs. Xavier, that’s fine,” said the Inspector heartily. “By the way, Dr. Holmes, you’d probably know. Is there any place in the house here where I can put something for safekeeping?”

“Why, the safe in this room, I should think,” replied the physician indifferently.

“Well... no. It’s the — evidence, y’see.”

“Evidence?” growled Xavier.

“Those cards from the doctor’s desk in the study.”

“Oh.”

“There’s an empty steel cabinet in the living room, sir,” ventured Mrs. Wheary timidly from the group in the corridor. “It’s a sort of safe, but the doctor never kept anything in it.”

“Who knows the combination?”

“No combination, sir. It’s got some kind of funny locks and things, with just one funny key. Key’s in the big table drawer.”

“Fine. The very thing. Thanks, Mrs. Wheary. Come along, El.” And the Inspector strode out of the bedroom followed by a battery of eyes. Ellery sauntered after, frowning. When they were on the stairs descending to the ground floor he glanced at his father with a quizzical eyebrow.

“That,” he murmured, “was a mistake.”

“Hey?”

“Mistake, mistake,” repeated Ellery patiently. “Not that it makes a particle of difference. I’ve got the important evidence right here in my pocket.” He tapped the pocket which held the halves of playing card. “At that it may be interesting. Sort of baited trap. Is that what you had in mind?”

The Inspector looked sheepish. “Well... not exactly. Hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe you’re right.”

They went into the deserted living room and sought out the cabinet. It was imbedded in one of the walls near the fireplace, its face painted to match the wooden paneling of the wall, but frankly a hiding-place. Ellery found the key in the top drawer of the big table; he regarded it for a moment, shrugged, and tossed it to his father.

The Inspector caught the key, hefted it with a frown, and then unlocked the cabinet. The mechanism worked with a convincing series of complex clicks. The deep recess inside was empty. He took the loose pack of cards from his pocket, regarded it for a moment, sighed, and then slapped it down on the floor of the recess.

Ellery swung on his heel at a slight sound from the terrace. The gross figure of Mr. Smith appeared beyond a French window, bulbous nose flattened against the glass, frankly spying upon them. He started guiltily at Ellery’s movement, jerked upright, and disappeared. Ellery heard his elephantine step resound on the wooden flooring, of the terrace.

The Inspector took the murder weapon from his pocket and the box of cartridges. He hesitated, then returned them to his pocket. “No,” he muttered. “That’s too chancy. I’ll keep ’em on me. Have to find out if this is the only key to the cabinet. Well, here goes,” and he slammed the door shut and locked it. The key he put on his own key ring.

Ellery was increasingly silent as the afternoon wore on. The Inspector, yawning, left him to his own devices and trudged upstairs to their room for a nap. As he passed the door of Mrs. Xavier’s bedroom he saw Dr. Holmes standing at one of the front windows, hands clasped behind his back, and the woman lying wide-eyed and quiet in bed. The others had disappeared.

The Inspector sighed and went on.

When he emerged an hour later, feeling distinctly refreshed, the bedroom door was closed. He opened it softly and peered in. Mrs. Xavier lay as he had last seen her. Dr. Homes had apparently not stirred from his position by the window. But Miss Forrest now had made her appearance; she lay in a chaise-longue near the bed, eyes closed.

The Inspector closed the door and went downstairs.

Mrs. Carreau, Mark Xavier, the twins, and Mr. Smith were on the terrace. Mrs. Carreau was making a pretense of reading a magazine, but her eyes were cloudy and her head did not move from side to side. Mr. Smith was still patrolling the terrace chewing the ragged end of his cigar. The twins were engrossed in a game of chess, which they were playing on a magnetized pocket board with metal pieces. Mark Xavier half-lay on a chair, head on his breast, apparently asleep.

“Have you seen my son around?” asked the Inspector of the world at large.

Francis Carreau looked up. “Hullo there, Inspector!” he said cheerfully. “Mr. Queen? I think I saw him go down there under the trees about an hour ago.”

“He was carrying a pack of cards,” added Julian. “Come on, Fran, it’s your move. I think you’re going to be licked.”

“Not,” retorted Francis, “when I can give you a bishop and take your queen, I won’t. How d’ye like that?”

“Shucks,” said Julian disgustedly. “I give up. Let’s have another.”

Mrs. Carreau looked up, smiling faintly. The Inspector smiled back at her, looked up at the sky, and then descended the stone steps to the gravel path.

He turned left and made for the trees, in the direction of the spot where Ellery had reclined before luncheon. The sun was low, and the air was still and sticky. The sky was like a brazen disc gleaming in colored lights. He sniffed suddenly and stopped short. A feeble breeze had conveyed an acrid odor to his nostrils. It was — yes, the smell of burning wood! Startled, he glanced at the sky just above the trees. But he could see no smoke. The direction of the wind had changed, he thought moodily, and now they would probably smother with the foul smell of the resinous fire until the wind changed direction again. As he strode on a large flake of ash settled softly upon one of his hands. He brushed it off quickly and went on.

He gained the shady cover of the marginal trees and peered into the gloom, his eyes tingling after the brilliance of the open terrain. Ellery was nowhere to be seen. The Inspector remained quietly where he was until his pupils adjusted themselves to the shadows, and then stepped forward listening with cocked ears. The trees closed in over him, stifling him with their hot green odor.

He was about to shout Ellery’s name when he heard an odd tearing sound from his right. He tiptoed in that direction and cautiously peeped around the trunk of a large tree.

Fifteen feet away Ellery leaned against a cedar, occupied with a curious business. He was surrounded by a scattering of ripped and crumpled playing cards. His hands were raised before him at the instant the Inspector caught sight of him, forefinger and thumb of each hand delicately gripping the top edge of a card. His eyes were trained earnestly upon the topmost branch of the tree opposite. Then he ripped the card, almost negligently. In the same motion he crumpled one of the pieces and threw it away. He lowered his eyes at once to study the torn half remaining in his hand, grunted, tossed it to the ground, dipped his hand into one of his coat pockets, drew out another card, and began to repeat the whole incredible process of gripping, looking away, tearing, crumpling, examining, and so on.

The Inspector watched his son with bunched brows for some time. Then his foot moved and a twig snapped. Ellery’s head darted round in the direction of the sound.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, relaxing. “That’s bad business, pater. Get you a bullet some time.”

The Inspector glowered. “What in time are you doing?”

“Worthy research,” replied Ellery, frowning. “I’m on the trail of that ectoplasm I spoke about this afternoon. It’s beginning to take recognizable shape. Here!” He thrust his hand into his pocket and produced another card. The Inspector noted that it came from a deck he had observed in the game-room the night before. “Do something for me, will you, dad?” He thrust the pasteboard into his father’s astonished hand. “Tear this card in two, crumple one of the pieces and throw it away.”

“What the devil for?” demanded the old gentleman.

“Go on, go on. This is a new form or relaxation for tired sleuths. Tear it and crumple one piece.”

Shrugging, the Inspector obeyed. Ellery’s eyes remained fixed upon his father’s hand. “Well?” growled the Inspector, surveying the fragment he was holding.

“Hmm. Interesting I thought it would work; but then I couldn’t be sure, being conscious of what I was striving for. That’s the hell of making tests when you know what you want to achieve... Here, wait a moment. If that’s true, and it looks like a Euclidean axiom now, there’s only one other problem...” He sank to the card-cluttered ground at the foot of the cedar, squatting on his heels, sucking his lower lip and gazing abstractedly on the ground.

The Inspector began to fume, thought better of it, and waited more patiently for the result of his son’s profound and no doubt esoteric meditations. Experience had taught him that Ellery rarely acted mysterious without purpose. There was evidently something important going on behind the wrinkles of that tanned forehead. Reflecting over the possibilities, the Inspector was even beginning to see a faint glimmer of light when he was startled by Ellery’s springing to his feet with a wild gleam in his eye.

“Solved!” shouted Ellery. “By George, I might have known. That was child’s play compared with the other. Yes, stands to reason on reconsideration... Must be right. Shining vindication of the sadly abused observational and ratiocinative process. Skoal! Come along, sire. You are about to witness the materialization of a wraith. Somebody’s going to be grateful for the persistence of that little ghost that haunted my brain pan this morning!”

He hurried toward the clearing, sober faced, but quite plainly triumphant. The Inspector pattered along behind, with the merest suggestion of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Ellery bounded up the steps of the porch and looked about, his breath coming a little quickly. “Would you people mind coming upstairs with us for a moment? We’ve something rather important to go over.”

Mrs. Carreau rose, startled. “All of us? Important, Mr. Queen?” The twins dropped their miniature chessboard and jumped up, mouths open.

“Of a surety. Ah — Mr. Smith, you too, please. And Mr. Xavier, we’ll need you. Francis and Julian, of course.”

Without waiting he dashed into the house. The woman, the two men, and the twins looked in some trepidation and bewilderment at the Inspector, but the old gentleman was grimly — and not for the first time — playing his role. He had set his features in very stern and omniscient lines. He followed them into the house, inwardly wondering what it was all about. The sickness in his stomach was distressing.

“Come in, come in,” said Ellery cheerfully, as they paused doubtfully in the doorway of Mrs. Xavier’s bedroom. The confessed murderess was propped on her elbows in bed, staring with a sort of fascinated fear at Ellery’s noncommittal back. Miss Forrest had risen, pale and obviously alarmed. Dr. Holmes was studying Ellery’s profile with enigmatic eyes.

They trooped in, all of them awkwardly avoiding the woman on the bed.

“Nothing formal about this,” continued Ellery in the same light tone. “Sit down, Mrs. Carreau. Ah, you prefer to stand, Miss Forrest? Well, I shan’t weary you. Where’s Mrs. Wheary? And Bones? We must have Bones.” He strode into the corridor and they heard him shouting for the housekeeper and the man-of-all-work. He returned and a moment later the stout woman and the emaciated old man appeared, apprehensively pale. “Ah, come in, come in. Now, I believe, we’re ready for a little demonstration of the niceties of criminal planning. To err is human; thank God we’re dealing with flesh and blood!”

This remarkable speech had an immediate effect. Mrs. Xavier slowly sat up in bed, black eyes staring and hands clutching the sheet.

“What—” she began, and licked her dry lips. “Aren’t you finished with — me?”

“And the divine quality of forgiveness... of course you remember that,” continued Ellery rapidly. “Mrs. Xavier, compose yourself. This may prove slightly shocking.”

“Come to the point, man,” growled Mark Xavier.

Ellery fixed him with a cold eye. “You will please permit me to conduct this demonstration without interference, Mr. Xavier. I should like to point out that guilt is a large and comprehensive term. We are all a tribe of stone-throwers — first-stone-throwers, I might add. You will kindly remember that.”

The man looked puzzled.

“And now,” said Ellery quietly, “for the lesson. I’m going,” he went on, digging his hand into his pocket, “to show you a card trick.” He produced a playing card.

“Card trick!” gasped Miss Forrest.

“A very unusual card trick, to be sure. This is one that immortal Houdini did not include in his repertoire. Please observe.” He held the card up before them, his fingers holding the back, his two thumbs pointing toward each other as they held the face of the card. “I am going to treat this card as if I wanted to tear it in half, and then I am going to crumple one of the halves and throw it away.”

They held their breaths, eyes fixed on the card in his hands. The Inspector nodded to himself and uttered a noiseless sigh.

His left hand holding steady, Ellery made a quick movement of his right hand, ripping off half the card. This, remaining in his right hand, he immediately crumpled and threw away. Then he held up his left hand; in it was the other half of the card.

“You will please observe,” he said, “what has happened. I wanted to tear this card in two. How did I accomplish this simple and yet marvelous digital feat? By exerting force with my right hand, by crumbling with my right hand, by throwing away the unwanted piece with my right hand. This left my right hand empty, and my left hand occupied. Occupied,” he said sharply, “with the piece I had gone through the whole process for. My left hand, which did no work whatever except to counterbalance the exertions of my right, becomes the repository of the uncrumpled half.”

He swept their dazed faces with a stern glance. There was no levity in his demeanor now.

“What is the significance of all this? Simply that I am a dextrous individual; that is, upon my right hand I throw the burden of all manual work. I use my right hand to do manual work instinctively. It is one of the integral characteristics of my physical makeup. I can never achieve left-handed gesture or motion without a distinct effort of will... Well, the point is that Dr. Xavier was right-handed, too, you see.”

And then realization flooded into their faces.

“I see you grasp my meaning,” continued Ellery grimly. “We found the uncrumpled half of the six of spades in Dr. Xavier’s right hand. But I have just demonstrated that a right-handed individual in going through the process of tearing, crumpling, throwing away one half and retaining the other half will retain the other half in his left hand, Since both halves of a playing card are substantially identical it is not a question of mentally preferring one half to the other. Consequently the half retained will always be retained, as I say, in the hand that didn’t do the work. Consequently, we found the retained half of playing card in Dr. Xavier’s wrong hand. Consequently, Dr. Xavier did not tear that card. Consequently, someone else did tear that card and placed it in Dr. Xavier’s hand, making the pardonable mistake of concluding without complete consideration that since Dr. Xavier was right-handed the card should be found in his right hand. Consequently,” and he paused and a look of pity crossed his face, “we all owe Mrs. Xavier the profoundest apology for putting her in excruciating mental distress, for accusing her wrongly of having committed murder!”

Mrs. Xavier’s mouth was open; she blinked like a woman coming out of darkness into dazzling sunlight.

“For, you see,” went on Ellery quietly, “if someone else placed the uncrumpled half of the six of spades in the dead man’s hand, then someone else — not the dead man — was accusing Mrs. Xavier of having murdered her husband. But if the dead man was not the accuser, the whole case collapses. Instead of a guilty woman, we have a wronged woman, a framed woman! Instead of a murderess, we have an innocent victim of the well-known frame-up. And who could the framer be except the real murderer? Who would have motive to throw suspicion of murder upon an innocent person except the murderer himself?” He stooped and picked up the crumpled half of card. Then he put both pieces into his pocket. “The case,” he said slowly, “far from being solved, has just begun.”

There was a cutting silence for some time, and the most silent of all was Mrs. Xavier. She sank back upon the pillow, hiding her face in her hands. The others began quickly and surreptitiously to examine each other’s faces. Mrs. Wheary groaned and leaned weakly against the jamb. Bones glared from Mrs. Xavier to Ellery, utterly stupefied.

“But... but,” stammered Miss Forrest, staring at the woman in bed, “why did she... why—?”

“A very pertinent question, Miss Forrest,” murmured Ellery. “That was the second of the two problems I had to solve. Once I had solved the first and concluded that Mrs. Xavier was innocent, the question naturally arose: If she was innocent, why had she confessed to the crime? But that,” he paused, “becomes self-evident with a little thought. Mrs. Xavier,” he said softly, “why did you confess to a crime of which you are innocent?”

The woman began to sob with hacking heaves of her breast. The Inspector turned and went to the window to stare out. Life seemed very dismal at the moment.

“Mrs. Xavier!” murmured Ellery. He leaned over the bed and touched her hands. They fell away from her face and she stared up at him with streaming eyes. “You are a very great woman, you know; but we really can’t permit you to make the sacrifice. Whom are you shielding?”