The Siamese Twin Mystery

“It is as if you batter away at a stubborn door with all your strength and after exhaustive effort break it down. For a moment the light blinds you and you think you are seeing reality. Then your eyes become inured and you see that the details had been wispiest illusion, that it is merely an empty compartment with another stubborn door on the opposite side... I daresay that every investigator of crime has experienced this same feeling on a case which has more than the average subtlety.”

— From Rambles in the Past (p. 233)

by RICHARD QUEEN

Chapter XI The Graveyard

The change which came over the face of Mrs. Xavier was remarkable. It was as if her features, one by one, were turning to stone. Her skin hardened first, and then her mouth and chin; the skin smoothed and flattened like poured concrete and the whole woman filled out like a mold. In a twinkling, with the alchemy of instant readjustment peculiar to her she regained the agelessness of her youth.

She even smiled, the old half-smile of the Gioconda. But she did not reply to Ellery’s head-cocked question.

The Inspector turned slowly to survey the faces of the customary puppets. They were always puppets, he reflected — damned wooden-faced ones, when they wanted to keep something back. And they all wanted to keep something back in a murder investigation. There was nothing to be learned from all those guilty countenances. But guilt, he knew from the bitter wisdom of experience, was only a comparative quality of the human animal. It was the heart, not the face, which told the guilty tale. He sighed and almost wished for the lie-detecting apparatus of his friend the Columbia University professor. In one case notably...

Ellery straightened and removed his pince-nez. “So we are to meet with silence on the single item of importance, eh?” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you realize, Mrs. Xavier, that by refusing to speak you’re making yourself an accessory after the fact?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” she said in a low impassioned voice.

“Indeed? At least you comprehend the obscure fact that you’re no longer held for murder?”

She was silent.

“You won’t talk, Mrs. Xavier?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“El.” The Inspector moved his head shortly and Ellery, with a shrug, retreated. The old gentleman stepped forward and eyed Mrs. Xavier with an odd antagonism. After all, she had been his catch. “Mrs. Xavier, the world is full of funny people, and they do all sorts of cussed things and generally it’s hard to tell why they do ’em. Human beings are inconsistent. But a copper can tell you why some people do certain things, and standing the gaff for somebody else’s capital crime is one of them. Shall I tell you why you were willing to accept the blame for a murder you didn’t commit?”

She pressed back against the pillows; her hands shoving hard on the bed. “Mr. Queen has already...”

“Well, maybe I can take it a little further, you see.” The Inspector rubbed his jaw. “I’m going to be brutal, Mrs. Xavier. Women of your age—”

“What about women of my age?” she demanded her nostrils flaring.

“Tch, tch, there’s a female for you! I was going to say that women of your age will make the greatest personal sacrifices for one of two reasons — love or passion.”

She laughed hysterically. “You distinguish between them, I see.”

“I certainly do. I had a definite difference in mind. By love, I mean the highest kind of spiritual — ah — feeling...”

“Oh, rubbish!” She half turned away.

“You say that as if you mean it,” muttered the Inspector. “No, I suppose you would be capable of sacrificing yourself for, say, your children—”

“My children!”

“But you haven’t any, and that’s why I’ve come to the conclusion, Mrs. Xavier,” his voice crisped, “that you’re protecting a — lover!”

She bit her lip and began to pluck at the sheet.

“I’m sorry if I have to make a speech about it,” continued the old gentleman calmly, “but as an old bull with plenty of experience I’d sort of bet on it. Who is he, Mrs. Xavier?”

She glared at him as if she would gladly strangle him with her own white hands. “You’re the most despicable old man I’ve ever met!” she cried. “For God’s sake, let me alone!”

“You refuse to talk?”

“Get out, all of you?”

“That’s your last word?”

She was working herself up to a pitch of empurpling passion. “Mort’ dieu,” she whispered, “if you don’t get out...”

“Duse,” said Ellery with a scowl and, turning on his heel, stalked out of the room.

They stifled in the evening heat. From the terrace, to which they had repaired by common consent after a dinner of tinned salmon and silence, the whole of the visible sky was peculiarly red, a rubaceous backdrop framing the mountainous scene and made dull and illusory by the clouds of smoke which soared from the invisible burning world below. It was a little difficult to breathe. Mrs. Carreau’s mouth and nose were muffled by the flimsiest of gray veils, and the twins succumbed to a depressing tendency to cough. Specks of orange light whirled into the sky from below on the wings of the updraught of wind, and their clothes were grimy with cinders.

Mrs. Xavier, marvelously restored to health, sat by herself, a deposed empress, at the far western end of the terrace. Swathed in black satin, she merged with the evening and became a disturbing presence felt rather than seen.

“Good deal like old Pompeii, I should imagine,” remarked Dr. Holmes at last, after the steepest of silences.

“Except,” said Ellery savagely, swinging his leg against the terrace rail, “that it and we and the whole world are slightly cockeyed. The crater of Vesuvius is where the town ought to be, and the Pompeiians — meaning this brilliantly conversational company — are where the crater ought to be. Quite a spectacle! Lava flowing upward: I think I shall write to the National Geographic Society about it when I get back to New York.” He paused; he was in the bitterest of moods. “If,” he added with a dry smile, “I ever do. I’m beginning seriously to doubt it.”

“So,” said Miss Forrest with a quiver of her capable shoulders, “am I.”

“Oh, there’s really no danger, I’m sure,” said Dr. Holmes quickly, hurling an irritated glance at Ellery.

“No?” drawled Ellery. “And what shall we do if the fire gets worse? Take wing and fly away, like good little pigeons?”

“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Mr. Queen!”

“I’m making a fire — which is already burning satisfactorily — out of a mountain... Come, come. This is stupid. No sense in arguing. I’m sorry, Doctor. We’ll be frightening the ladies half to death,”

“I’ve known it now,” said Mrs. Carreau quietly, “for hours.”

“Known what?” muttered the Inspector.

“That we’re really in the most frightful position, Inspector.”

“Oh, nonsense, Mrs. Carreau.”

“It’s chivalrous of you to say so,” she smiled, “but there’s no sense trying to disguise our predicament, now, is there? We’re trapped like — like flies in a bottle.” Her voice was a little tremulous.

“Now, now, it isn’t as bad as all that,” said the Inspector with a hearty attempt at raillery. “Just a matter of time, Mrs. Carreau. This is a pretty tough old mountain.”

“Covered by singularly inflammable trees,” said Mark Xavier in mocking tones. “After all, maybe there’s such a thing as divine justice. Maybe this entire affair has been arranged from on high for the express purpose of smoking out a murderer.”

The Inspector flung him a sharp glance. “There’s a thought,” he growled, and turned to stare out upon the gray-red sky.

Mr. Smith, who had not uttered a word all afternoon, kicked back his chair suddenly, startling them. His elephantine bulk loomed disgustingly in shadows against the white walls. He thundered to the edge of the steps, descended a step, hesitated, and turned his huge head toward the Inspector.

“I suppose there’s no harm in my walking around the grounds for a while?” he rumbled.

“If you want to break a leg over these stones in the dark, that’s up to you,” said the old, gentleman disagreeably. “I don’t care a whoop. You can’t get away, Smith, and that’s all that concerns me.”

The fat man began to say something, smacked his thin lips together, and tramped heavily down the steps. They heard his large feet crunching against the gravel on the drive long after he was no longer visible.

Ellery, in the act of lighting a cigarette, by chance caught a glimpse of Mrs. Carreau’s face in the glow that fell upon the terrace through the foyer doorway. Its expression froze him into immobility. She was staring, straining, after the vast back of the fat man, a humid terror in her soft eyes. Mrs. Carreau and the unknown quantity, Smith!... The match burned down to his fingertips and he dropped it, swearing beneath his breath. He thought he had noticed something there in the kitchen... And yet he would have sworn that Smith had been afraid of this charming petite dame from Washington. Why should there be terror in her eyes? It was preposterous to believe that they were afraid of each other! This gross hostile creature with the trace of a lost culture in his manner and speech, and this gentlewoman from the land of misfortune... Not impossible, to be sure. Strange lives mingled in the waters of the past. He wondered, with a certain rising excitement, what the secret might be. Did the others—? But the most searching scrutiny of the faces about him failed to detect an expression of recognition or secrecy. Except perhaps in the case of Miss Forrest. Peculiar young woman. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to avoid looking at Mrs. Carreau’s set face. Did she know too, then?

They heard Smith’s ponderous step on the gravel, returning. He mounted the steps and sat down in the same chair, his froggy eyes inscrutable.

“Find what you were looking for?” grunted the Inspector.

“Eh?”

The old gentleman waved his hand. “Never mind. This is one layout that doesn’t call for the services of a police patrol.” And he chuckled rather bitterly.

“I was merely taking a walk,” said the fat man in an offended rumble. “If you think I’m trying to get away—”

“Perish the thought? Though I shouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“By the way,” remarked Ellery, squinting at the tip of his cigarette, “I’m correct, I take it, in assuming that you and Mrs. Carreau, Smith, are, old acquaintances?”

The man sat still. Mrs. Carreau fumbled with the wisp of veil over her mouth. Then he said: “I don’t understand. Why the devil should you assume that, Queen?”

“Oh, an idle fancy. Then I’m wrong?”

Smith fished a fat brown cigar, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply, from the caverns of his clothes and stuck it very deliberately into his mouth. “Why not,” he said, “ask the lady?”

Ann Forrest jumped to her feet. “Oh, this is intolerable!” she cried. “Aren’t we ever to have any rest from this endless questioning? Sherlock, let’s do something. Bridge, or — or anything. I’m sure Mrs. Xavier won’t mind. We’ll go crazy just sitting here tormenting one another this way!”

“Bully idea,” said Dr. Holmes eagerly, rising. “Mrs. Carreau—?”

“I should love to.” Mrs. Carreau rose and hesitated. “Mr. Xavier, you play a stirring game, I’ve noticed.” Her voice was very light. “Will you be my partner?”

“I suppose I may as well.” The lawyer got to his feet tall and uncertain in the dim light. “Anybody else?”

The four waited a moment and then, when no one replied, they shuffled through the French windows into the game-room. The lights flashed on and their voices, pitched a little unnaturally, came to the ears of the Queens on the terrace.

Ellery was still squinting at his cigarette; he had not stirred. Neither had Mr. Smith. Watching him covertly, Ellery could have sworn that there was relief on the man’s lunar face.

Francis and Julian Carreau suddenly appeared in the glow from the foyer. “May we—” began Francis with a quaver. The twins looked frightened.

“May you what?” asked the Inspector kindly.

“May we go in, too, sir?” said Julian. “It’s a little — sort of — dull out here. We’d like to play some billiards, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Why should I mind?” smiled the Inspector. “Play billiards, eh? I shouldn’t think—”

“Oh, we can do m-most everything,” stammered Julian. “I usually use my left arm, but tonight I guess I’ll have to squirm about a bit and use my right. We’re rather good, you know, sir.”

“Don’t doubt it for a moment. Go ahead, youngsters. Have a good time. Lord knows there’s little enough for you to do around here.”

The boys grinned gratefully and disappeared through the French windows, moving with their graceful rhythm.

The Queens sat in silence for a long time. From the game-room came the sound of shuffling cards, restrained voices, the click of billiard balls. Mrs. Xavier, shrouded in darkness, might not have existed. Smith, cold cigar stuck between his lips, seemed to be dozing.

“There’s something,” remarked Ellery at last in a low tone, “I really want to see, dad.”

“Hey?” The old gentleman started out of a reverie.

“I’ve been meaning to have a peep at it for some time now. The laboratory.”

“What in time for? We saw it when—”

“Yes, yes. That’s what gave me the notion. I think I saw something... And then Dr. Holmes made a rather significant remark. Coming?” He rose and flicked the cigarette away into the darkness.

The Inspector got to his feet with a groan. “Might as well. Oh, Mrs. Xavier!”

There was a baffling little sound from the murk at the end of the terrace.

“Mrs. Xavier!” repeated the Inspector, alarmed. He went quickly to where the invisible woman was sitting and peered down at her. “Oh, I’m sorry. You really shouldn’t do that, now.”

She was sobbing. “Oh... please. Haven’t you tormented me enough?”

The old gentleman was distressed. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I know. It’s all my fault and I apologize for it. Why don’t you join the others?”

“They... they don’t want me. They all think...”

“Nonsense. It’s our nerves. A little chatter will do you good. Come on, now. You don’t want to be out here alone.”

Under his fingers he felt her shiver. “No. God, no.”

“Come along, then.”

He assisted her to her feet and a moment later they drifted into the light. Ellery sighed. The tall woman’s face was wet with tears and her eyes were red. She paused and fumbled for a handkerchief. Then she dabbed at her eyes, smiled, and sailed from the terrace.

“What a woman!” murmured Ellery. “Remarkable. Any female is who cries her eyes out and then neglects to powder the ravaged countenance... Coming?”

“Go on, go on,” said the Inspector irritably. “Less gab and more action. I’ll live to see the end of this business yet!”

“Let us sincerely hope so,” said Ellery, moving toward the foyer. There was no levity in his tone.

Avoiding the game-room, they walked down the main corridor to the cross-hall. Through the open door of the kitchen ahead they caught a glimpse of Mrs. Wheary’s broad back and the motionless figure of Bones, who was standing at one of the two kitchen windows staring out at the Stygian night.

The Queens turned right and stopped before a closed door midway between the crossing of the halls and the door of Dr. Xavier’s study. The Inspector tried the door; it gave. They slipped into the black room.

“Where the devil’s the switch?” grumbled the Inspector. Ellery found it and the laboratory blazed with light. He closed the door and set his back against it, looking around.

Now that he was at leisure to inspect the laboratory, he felt a stronger recurrence of the impression of scientific modernism and mechanical efficiency which had struck him earlier in the day when he had been party to the gruesome business of stowing Dr. Xavier’s body away. The place bristled with awe-inspiring apparatus. To his untrained eye it was the last word in research laboratories. Notoriously unscientific, ignorant of the application of most of this glittery and queerly shaped equipment, he surveyed the array of cathode-ray tubes, electric furnaces, twisted retorts, racks of giant test tubes, bottles of evil-looking broths, microscopes and chemical jars and odd tables and X-ray machines with vast respect. Had he seen an astronomical telescope he should have not felt surprise. The variety and complexity of the equipment meant little more to him than that Dr. Xavier had been conducting chemical and physical, as well as biological, researches.

Both father and son avoided that corner of the room which housed the refrigerator.

“Well?” growled the Inspector after a time. “I don’t see anything for us here. Most likely the murderer never even set foot in this room last night. What’s bothering you?”

“Animals.”

“Animals?”

“I said,” repeated Ellery firmly, “animals. Dr. Holmes earlier today mentioned something about experiments with diverse creatures and their capacity for noise, in connection with the soundproofing of these rooms. Now I’m very curious about experimental animals, have an unscientific horror of vivisection.”

“Noise?” frowned the Inspector. “I don’t hear any.”

“Probably mildly anesthetized. Or sleeping. Let’s see... The partition, of course!”

At the rear of the laboratory there was a boarded-off cubicle which reminded Ellery vaguely of a butcher’s icebox. A heavy door with a chromium latchet provided entrance. He tried the door; it was unlocked. Opening it, he went in, groped for an overhanging bulb, turned on the switch, and blinked, about him. The compartment was shelved; on the shelves stood cages of various sizes. And in the cages was the queerest assortment of creatures he had ever seen.

“Lord!” he gasped. “It’s... it’s colossal! Make the fortune of a Coney Island freak-show impresario. Dad! Look at this.”

The light roused them. Ellery’s last word was drowned in a torrent of animal voices: squeaks and tiny barks and the raucous screeching of fowl. The Inspector, faintly alarmed, pushed into the small compartment and his eyes widened even as his nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Pfui! Smells like the Zoo. Well, I’ll be bedeviled!”

“More,” corrected Ellery dryly, “like the Ark. All we need now is an old gentleman with a flowing beard and patriarchal robes. In pairs! I wonder if they’re consistently male and female!”

Each cage housed two creatures of the same species. There were two queer-looking rabbits, a pair of ruffle-feathered hens, two pinkish members of the guinea-pig tribe, two solemn-faced marmosets... The shelves were full, and upon them were cages inhabited by the weirdest collection of creatures outside an animal trainer’s nightmare, many of which they failed to recognize.

But the miscellaneous nature of the collection was not what startled them. It was the fact that, as far as they could see, each pair of creatures was composed of twins — Siamese twins of the animal kingdom.

And some of the cages were empty.

They quit the laboratory rather in haste, and when the Inspector closed the corridor door behind them he heaved a sigh of relief. “What a place! Let’s get away from here.” Ellery did not reply.

When they reached the juncture of the two corridors, however, he said quickly: “Just a second. I think I’m going to gabble a little with friend Bones. There’s something...” He hurried toward the open kitchen door, the Inspector trotting wearily behind.

Mrs. Wheary whirled at the sound of Ellery’s step. “Oh!... Oh, it’s you, sir. Gave me a turn.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ellery cheerfully. “Ah, there, Bones. I’m panting to ask you a question.”

The emaciated old man glowered. “Go ahead and ask,” he said sullenly. “I can’t stop your asking.”

“Indeed you can’t. Bones,” said Ellery, leaning against the jamb, “are you by chance a horticulturist?”

The man stared. “A what?”

“A devotee of Mother Nature, with special reference to the old lady’s flowers. I mean to say, are you trying to cultivate a garden in that stony soil outside?”

“Garden? Hell, no.”

“Ah,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “I judged not, despite what Miss Forrest said. And yet this morning you appeared from the side of the house carrying a pickax and spade. I have since investigated that side of the house and there is no sign of the simple aster, the exalted orchid, or the lowly pansy. What the devil were you burying this morning, Bones?”

The Inspector gave voice to an astonished grunt.

“Burying?” The old man did not seem perturbed: rather more surly than before, that was all. “Why, those animals.”

“Bull’s eye,” murmured Ellery over his shoulder. “Empty cages are empty cages, eh?... And why did you have to bury animals, my good Bones? — Ah, that name! I’ve solved it! You were Dr. Xavier’s keeper of the ossuary, as it were. Eh? Well, why did you have to bury animals? Come, come, speak up.”

The yellow snags of teeth showed in a grin. “There’s a smart question. They were dead, that’s why!”

“Quite right. Stupid question. Yet one never knows, Bones... They were the twin animals, weren’t they?”

For the first time something frightened twitched across the man’s wrinkled face. “The twin — the twin animals?”

“I’m sorry if I speak indistinctly,” said Ellery gravely. “The twin animals — t-w-i-n, twin. Eh?”

“Yes.” Bones glared at the floor.

“You buried yesterday’s quota today?”

“Yes.”

“But no longer Siamese, eh, Bones?”

“Don’t know what you mean.”

“Ah, but I’m afraid you do,” said Ellery sadly. “I mean this: Dr. Xavier has for some time been experimenting upon Siamese-twin creatures of the lower species — where in the name of heaven did he get them all? — in an earnest, quite unfiendish, and very scientific attempt to sever them surgically without loss of life to either. Is that right?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” muttered the old man. “You’ll have to ask Dr. Holmes about all that.”

“Scarcely necessary. Some — most — perhaps all of these experiments have been unsuccessful. Whereupon we find you in the unique role of animal undertaker. How much of a graveyard have you out there, Bones?”

“Not much. They don’t take up much space,” said Bones sullenly. “Only once, though, there was a big pair — cows. But mostly little ones. It’s been going on, on and off for over a year. The doctor did do some good ones, I know that.”

“Ah, some were successful? That was to have been expected from a man of Dr. Xavier’s reputed skill. And yet— Well, thank you, old-timer. Good night, Mrs. Wheary.”

“Wait a minute,” growled the Inspector. “If he’s been burying things out there... How do you know it isn’t something—?”

“Something else? Nonsense.” Ellery pulled his father gently out of the kitchen. “Take my word for it, Bones is telling the truth. No, it isn’t that that interests me. It’s the appalling possibility...” He fell silent and walked on.

“How’s that for a shot, Jule?” came the ringing voice of Francis Carreau from the game-room. Ellery stopped, shook his head, and went on. The Inspector followed, biting his mustache.

“It does look queer,” he muttered.

They heard the heavy tread of Smith on the terrace.

Chapter XII Beauty and the Beast

It was the most stifling night either man had ever experienced. They tossed side by side for three hours in a hell compounded of sticky darkness and acrid air, and then by mutual consent gave up the effort to woo sleep. Ellery crawled out of bed, groaning, and snapped the light on. He groped for a cigarette, pulled a chair to one of the rear windows, and smoked without savor. The Inspector lay flat on his back, cropped mustache moving up and down in a champing mutter, staring at the ceiling. The bed, their nightclothes, were soaked in perspiration.

At five o’clock, with the black sky lightening, they took turns under the shower. Then they dressed listlessly.

Morning dawned brazenly. Even the first faint streaks were dipped in molten heat. Ellery, at the window, blinked out over the valley.

“It’s worse,” he said gloomily.

“What’s worse?”

“The fire.”

The old gentleman put his snuffbox away and went quietly to the other window. From the perpendicular edges of the back of Arrow Mountain thick streamers, mile-long lengths of fluttering gray flannel, curved and lifted to the sun. But the smoke was no longer at the base of the Arrow; it had advanced with silent menace so much farther upward that it seemed to both men to be tickling the summit. The valley was almost invisible. They were floating in air — the summit, the house, themselves.

“It’s like Swift’s island in the sky,” muttered Ellery. “Looks bad, eh?”

“Bad enough, son.”

Without another word they went downstairs.

The house was dipped in silence; no one was about. The crisp chill of a mountain morning strove vainly to get at their damp cheeks as they stood on the terrace and gazed moodily at the sky. Ash and cinders rained steadily now; and although from their vantage point they could see nothing of the world below, the whirling debris of the fire brought up by the winds that incessantly spiraled the mountain told them that the blaze had made alarming progress.

“What the devil are we going to do?” complained the Inspector. “This is getting so damn serious I’m afraid to think about it. We’re in one hell of a jam, El.”

Ellery cupped his chin in his hands. “I’ll admit that the death of one human being doesn’t seem cosmically important, under the circumstances... What the deuce was that?”

They both started up, straining their ears. From somewhere at the east of the house came a series of metallic sounds, muffled and baffling.

“I thought nobody could—” The old gentleman stopped growling. “Come on.”

They hurried down the steps, and sped along the gravel drive in the direction of the sounds. Rounding the left side of the house, they stopped short. The drive branched off here and the branch led to a low, rambling wooden building, the garage. The two wide doors were open, and from the interior of the garage came the noise. The Inspector darted forward and cautiously peered into the dim interior. He beckoned to Ellery, who tiptoed along the margin of vegetation flanking the gravel and joined his father.

There were four cars in the garage, neatly lined up. One of them was the low-slung Duesenberg belonging to the Queens. The second was a magnificent black limousine with a long hood — unquestionably the property of the late Dr. Xavier. The third was a powerful sedan with foreign lines; it could only have belonged to Mrs. Carreau. The fourth was the battered Buick which had borne the dead weight of Mr. Frank J. Smith of New York City up the steep Arrow Mountain road.

From the rear of Smith’s car came the deafening din of metal upon metal. The author of the din was hidden by the body of the car.

They edged between the Buick and the foreign automobile and pounced forward upon the stooping figure of a man who was wielding a rusty hand ax on the gasoline tank of the fat man’s car. The metal was already slashed in several places and the rich, dark, odorous liquid was gushing to the cement floor in streams.

The man uttered a frightened squeal, dropped the ax, and came up fighting. It took the Queens several minutes of rough work to subdue him.

It was old Bones, glaring sullenly as usual.

“What on earth,” panted the Inspector, “do you think you’re doing, you crazy fool?”

His bony shoulders sagged, but he said defiantly: “Taking his gas away from him!”

“Sure,” snarled the Inspector. “We can see that. But why?”

Bones shrugged.

“And why didn’t you drain it off, instead of trying to make scrap iron out of the tank?”

“He couldn’t refill it this way.”

“You’re a rotten Nihilist,” said Ellery sadly. “He could take one of the other cars, you know.”

“I was going to put them out of commission, too.”

They stared. “Well, I’ll be damned,” said the Inspector after a moment. “I believe you would, at that.”

“But it’s so silly,” protested Ellery. “He can’t get away, Bones. Where would he go?”

Bones shrugged again. “It’s safer this way.”

“But why so anxious to impede the departure of Mr. Smith?”

“I don’t like his damn fat face,” rasped the old man.

“Now there,” cried Ellery, “is a reason! Look here, my friend; you let us catch you fiddling around these cars again and, by thunder, we’ll... we’ll annihilate you!”

Bones shook himself, lifted his withered lips in a sneer, and shuffled rapidly out of the garage.

The Inspector threw up his hands and followed, leaving Ellery to dip his toe into the gasoline thoughtfully.

“As long as we’re frying,” growled the Inspector after breakfast, “we may as well fry working as idling. Come along.”

“Working?” echoed Ellery blankly. He was smoking his sixth cigarette of the morning and gazing upon vacancy. He had been frowning for an hour.

“You heard me.”

They left the game-room where the others were apathetically congregated under the hot breeze of an electric fan, and the Inspector led the way down the hall to the door of Dr. Xavier’s study. He used the skeleton key from his key ring and opened the door. The room looked exactly as they had last seen it the day before.

Ellery closed the door and leaned against it. “Now what?”

“I want to look at his papers,” muttered old Queen. “You never can tell.”

“Oh,” Ellery shrugged and went to one of the windows.

The Inspector went through the study with the practised ruthlessness of a lifetime of experience. The cabinet, the desk, the bookcase — he explored each nook and cranny, glancing hastily over memoranda, old letters, a gibberish of medical notations, receipted bills — the usual mess. Ellery contented himself with staring at the trees wavering in the fierce heat outdoors. The room was a furnace and both men were wet to the skin.

“Nothing,” announced the old gentleman glumly. “Nothing but a lot of junk, that is.”

“Junk? Now, that’s something else again. I’m always interested in the scrap heap of a man’s property.” Ellery strolled to the desk where the Inspector was going through the last drawer.

“It’s a scrap heap, all right,” grunted the Inspector.

The drawer was full of odds and ends. Stationery supplies, a broken and rusty surgical instrument, a box of checkers, a score or more of pencils of varying size, most of them with broken points; a solitary cuff link with a tiny pearl inset in the center — apparently the sole survivor of a pair; at least a dozen tie clips and stick pins, most of them tarnished green; shirt studs of rather bizarre design, an old fraternity pin with two diamond chips missing, two watch chains, an elaborate silver key, a polished animal tooth yellow with age, a silver toothpick... The drawer was the tomb of a man’s accumulated trinkets.

“Gay sort of chap, wasn’t he?” murmured Ellery, “Lord, how can a man amass such a mess of perfectly useless adornments! Come, come, dad, we’re wasting time.”

“I s’pose,” grumbled the Inspector. He slammed the drawer shut, sat annoying his mustache for a moment, and then with a sigh rose.

He locked the door behind them and they trudged down the hall.

“One minute.” The old gentleman suddenly peered into the game-room through the cross-hall door. He withdrew his head at once. “It’s all right; she’s in there.”

“Who’s in there?”

“Mrs. Xavier. Gives us a chance to sneak up to her bedroom for a quiet little look-see.”

“Oh, very well. But I can’t imagine what you hope to find.”

They toiled upstairs, sweltering in the heat. Across the hall from the landing they could see Mrs. Wheary’s broad back bent over the bed in Mrs. Carreau’s room. She neither saw nor heard them. They went quietly into Mrs. Xavier’s room and shut the door.

It was the master bedroom, the largest chamber on the floor. It was predominantly feminine in character — a tribute, as Ellery remarked dryly, to the overpowering personality of its mistress. Very little of Dr. Xavier struck the eye.

“No wonder the poor fellow spent his days and nights in the study. I’ll wager he’s slept many a night away on that battered old couch downstairs!”

“Stop jabbering and keep an ear on the hall,” grunted the Inspector. “Rather not have her catch us in here.”

“You will save a lot of time and perspiration if you tackle that chiffonier. All the other pieces are unquestionably filled with Parisian fripperies of the genus female.”

The massive piece in question was, like the other furniture, of French design. The Inspector went through its compartments and drawers like an aged Raffles.

“Shirts, socks, underwear, the usual junk,” he reported. “And gewgaws. Lord, what gewgaws! Whole top drawer crammed full of ’em. Only these look new, not like those relics downstairs. Who says a medical man can’t be frivolous? Didn’t that poor fool know that stickpins went out of style fifteen years ago?”

“I told you it was a waste of time,” said Ellery irritably. Then a thought struck him. “No rings?”

“Rings?”

“I said rings.”

The Inspector scratched his head. “Now, by ginger, that is queer. You’d think a man with his fondness for trinkets would at least have one ring, wouldn’t you?”

“That was in my mind. I don’t recall any on his hands, do you?” said Ellery with a sharp note in his voice.

“No.”

“Hmm. This business of the rings is the oddest feature of the whole affair. We’d better watch our own or we’ll be losing them one of these fine days. Not that they’re worth anything, but then that’s what someone’s apparently after — rings that aren’t worth anything. Pshaw! It’s nutty... How about Mrs. Xavier? Do a Jimmy Valentine and go through her jewel box, will you?”

The Inspector obediently rifled Mrs. Xavier’s dressing table until he found the box. Both men examined its contents with practised eyes. And although it contained several diamond bracelets and two necklaces and a half-dozen pairs of earrings, all of them clearly expensive, there were no rings at all, not even cheap ones.

The Inspector closed the box thoughtfully and put it back where he had found it. “What’s it mean, El?”

“I wish I knew. It’s queer, deucedly queer. No rhyme nor reason really...”

A step outside caused them simultaneously to whirl and race noiselessly toward the door. They pressed close to each other behind it, scarcely breathing.

The knob moved a little, and stopped. There was a click as it moved again, and then the door very slowly pushed inward. It stopped half ajar and they could hear someone’s hoarse breath through the crack. Ellery squinted through it and stiffened.

Mark Xavier was standing with one foot in his sister-in-law’s room and the other in the corridor. He was pale and his body rigid with tension. He stood there that way without stirring for a full minute, as if he were debating whether to go in or go back. How long he would have remained that way Ellery was never to know; for of a sudden he whirled, hastily closed the door, and from the sound of his footsteps made off on a run down the hall.

The Inspector pulled the door open and peered out. Xavier was padding along the carpeted corridor toward the farther end, where his room lay. He fumbled with the knob for a moment, pulled his door open, and vanished.

“Now what did that mean?” murmured Ellery, emerging from Mrs. Xavier’s room and closing the door behind his father. “What scared him, and why did he want to sneak in there at all?”

“Somebody coming,” whispered the Inspector. The two men sped across the hall to their own room. They wheeled and walked leisurely back again, as if they were just going downstairs.

Two neatly brushed young heads appeared from below. It was the twins coming upstairs.

“Ah, boys,” said the Inspector genially. “Going in for a nap?”

“Yes, sir,” said Francis; he seemed startled. “Uh — you been up here long, sir?”

“We thought—” began Julian.

Francis paled; but something must have flashed between him and his brother, for Julian stopped.

“A little while,” smiled Ellery. “Why?”

“Did you see anybody — come up, sir?”

“No. We’ve just come out of our bedroom.”

The boys grinned rather feebly, shuffled their feet for a moment, and then went into their own room.

“Proving,” murmured Ellery as they descended the staircase, “that boys will be boys.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“Oh, it’s most obvious. They saw Xavier make for the upper floor and followed him out of sheer curiosity. He heard them coming up and ran. Did you ever know a normal boy who didn’t love to wallow in mysteries?”

“Hunh,” said the Inspector, compressing his lips. “That may be, but how about Xavier? What devilment was he up to?”

“What devilment was he up to,” said Ellery soberly, “indeed.”

The house wilted under the noon sun. Everything was hot to the touch and slithery with ash grime. They lolled about in the comparative coolness of the game-room, too listless to talk or play. Ann Forrest sat at the grand piano and fingered a meaningless tune; her face was moist with perspiration and her fingers were wet upon the keys. Even Smith had been driven from the furnace of the terrace; he sat by himself in a corner near the piano, sucking a cold cigar and blinking his froggy eyes from time to time.

Mrs. Xavier for the first time in over a day awakened to her responsibilities as a hostess. For hours now she had seemed to be emerging from a bad dream; her face was softer and her eyes not so agonized.

She rang for the elderly housekeeper. “Luncheon, Mrs. Wheary.”

Mrs. Wheary was visibly distressed. She wrung her hands and paled. “Oh, but, Mrs. Xavier, I... I can’t serve,” she whispered.

“And why not?” demanded Mrs. Xavier coldly.

“I mean I can’t serve a formal luncheon, Mrs. Xavier,” wailed the old lady. “There... there isn’t really enough variety... enough to eat, you see.”

The tall woman sat up straight. “Why— You mean we’ve run out of provisions?” she said slowly.

The housekeeper was surprised. “But you must have known, Mrs. Xavier!”

She passed her hand over her forehead. “Yes, yes, Mrs. Wheary. Perhaps I... I didn’t notice. I’ve been a little upset. Isn’t there — anything?”

“Just some canned things, Mrs. Xavier — salmon and tuna and sardines; there’s plenty of that; and just a few tins of peas and asparagus and fruit. I’ve baked bread this morning — there’s still a little flour and yeast — but the eggs and butter and potatoes and onions are gone, and the—”

“Please. Make up some sandwiches. Is there any coffee left?”

“Yes, Madam, but no cream.”

“Tea, then.”

Mrs. Wheary flushed and went away.

Mrs. Xavier murmured: “I’m so sorry. We were a little short to begin with, and now that the grocer’s missed the weekly delivery, and the fire—”

“We quite understand,” said Mrs. Carreau with a smile. “This isn’t the usual situation and we shouldn’t stand on the usual ceremony. Don’t distress yourself—”

“We’re all good soldiers, anyway,” said Miss Forrest gaily.

Mrs. Xavier sighed; she did not look directly at the small woman across the room.

“Perhaps if we went on short rations,” began Dr. Holmes hesitantly.

“It looks as if we’ll have to!” cried Miss Forrest, banging out a horrible chord, and then she blushed and fell silent.

No one said anything for a long time.

Then the Inspector said softly: “Look here, folks. We may as well face the facts. We’re in one devil of a fix. Up to now I’d hoped those people down there might do something with the fire.” They were regarding him furtively, striving to mask their alarm. He added in haste: “Oh, they undoubtedly will yet...”

“Did you see the smoke this morning?” said Mrs. Carreau quietly. “I saw it from my bedroom balcony.”

There was another silence. “At any rate,” said the Inspector hurriedly, “we mustn’t give up. As Dr. Holmes suggests, we’ll have to go on a very strict diet.” He grinned. “That ought to suit the ladies, eh?” They smiled feebly at that. “It’s the sensible thing to do. It’s just a question of holding out as long — I mean, until help comes. Just a question of time, you see.”

Ellery, buried in the depths of a big chair, sighed noiselessly. He felt horribly depressed. This slow, slow waiting... And yet his brain would not give him rest. There was a problem to be solved. The persistent wraith was annoying him again. There was something...

“It’s very bad, isn’t it, Inspector?” said Mrs. Carreau softly. Her eyes strayed to the twins sitting quietly opposite her, and the queerest pain came into them.

The Inspector made a helpless little gesture. “Yes, it’s — Well, it’s bad enough.”

Ann Forrest’s face was as white as her sports dress. She stared at him and then looked down and clasped her hands to conceal their trembling.

“Damn!” exploded Mark Xavier, springing from his chair. “I’m not going to sit here and be smoked out like a rat in a hole! Let’s do something!”

“Take it easy, Xavier,” said the old gentleman mildly. “Don’t let it get you. I was just going to suggest that — action. Now that we all know where we stand there’s no sense dawdling around, as you say, and doing nothing. We’ve not really looked, you know.”

“Looked?” Mrs. Xavier was startled.

“I mean we haven’t even gone over the ground. How about that cliff at the back of the house — is there any way down, even a dangerous way? Just,” he added hurriedly, “in case it comes to that. I always like to have an emergency exit. Ha-ha!”

No one responded to his feeble laugh. Mark Xavier said grimly: “A mountain goat couldn’t get down that declivity. Get that out of your head, Inspector.”

“Hmm. It was just a thought,” said the old gentleman weakly. “Well, then!” He rubbed his hands with a false briskness. “There’s only one thing to be done. After we’ve had a sandwich, we’re going on a little tour of exploration.”

They watched him with a rising of hopes, and Ellery in his chair felt a sick helplessness in the pit of his stomach. Ann Forrest’s eyes began to sparkle.

“You mean — go into the woods, Inspector?” she asked eagerly.

“There’s a smart young woman! That’s exactly what I do mean, Miss Forrest. The ladies, too. Everybody get into the roughest clothes you have — knickers, if you’ve got ’em, or a riding habit — and we’ll split up and search these woods from rim to rim.”

“That’ll be jolly!” cried Francis. “Come on, Jule!”

“No, no, Francis,” said Mrs. Carreau. “You... you mustn’t, you two—”

“And why not, Mrs. Carreau?” said the Inspector heartily. “There isn’t a particle of danger and it will be fun for the lads. Fun for all of us! Get some of this gloom out of our bones... Ah, Mrs. Wheary, that’s fine! Dig in, everybody! Sooner we get started, the better. Sandwich, El?”

“I suppose so,” said Ellery.

The Inspector stared at him, then shrugged and bustled about chattering like an old monkey. In a few moments they were all smiling and chatting amiably, even gaily, with one another. They ate very fastidiously and carefully, savoring each mouthful of the butterless fish sandwiches. Ellery, watching them, felt the sickness in his stomach increase. Everybody seemed to have forgotten the crisp, cold corpse of Dr. Xavier.

The Inspector marshaled his forces like a latter-day Napoleon, making a game of their proposed explorations and at the same time shrewdly planning their movements so that not a yard of the silent smoky woods below them would go unsurveyed. Even Mrs. Wheary was impressed into the ranks, and the saturnine Bones. He placed himself on the extreme west of the semicircle of forest, Ellery on the extreme east, and the others at spaced intervals between them. Mark Xavier took the halfway position; between him and the Inspector were Miss Forrest, Dr. Holmes, Mrs. Xavier, and the twins; between Xavier and Ellery were Mrs. Carreau, Bones, Smith, and Mrs. Wheary.

“Now remember,” shouted the Inspector when they were all in their places except himself and Ellery. “Keep going straight down, straight as you can. Naturally you’ll keep getting farther and farther away from one another as you go down — mountain widens the farther you go from the top. But keep your eyes open. When you get close to the fire — don’t go too close — peel a sharp eye for a way through. If you find anything that even looks promising, yodel and we’ll all come running. All set?”

“All set!” yelled Miss Forrest, very handsome in a pair of knickerbockers which she had borrowed from Dr. Holmes. Her cheeks were glowing and she was more naturally effervescent than the Queens had ever seen her.

“Then go!” And sotto voce the Inspector added: “And may God help the lots of you.”

They plunged into the woods. The Queens heard the Carreau boys whooping like young Indians as they crashed through the underbrush and vanished.

For a moment father and son measured each other in silence.

“How now, old Roman?” murmured Ellery. “Satisfied?”

“Well, I had to do something, didn’t I? And,” the Inspector added defensively, “how do you know we won’t find a way down? It’s not unlikely!”

“It’s most unlikely.”

“Let’s not argue about it,” snapped the old gentleman. “Reason I placed you at the east and myself opposite is that those are the two likeliest places, no matter what you say. Keep as close to the edge of the cliff as you can. That’s where the trees grow thinnest, probably, and that’s where there’ll be a way out, if any.” He fell silent for a moment, and then he shrugged. “Well, get going. Good luck.”

“Good luck,” said Ellery soberly, and turned and made for the rear of the garage. He looked back before he rounded the house and saw his father clumping dejectedly along toward the west.

Ellery loosened his necktie, wiped his streaming forehead with a damp handkerchief, and went on.

He started at the lip of the precipice to the side of the house, behind the garage, and made his way into the woods as closely to the edge of the cut as he could. The hot foliage closed over his head and instantly he felt new beads of perspiration spring out of his pores all over his body. The air was stifling, unbreathable. It was filled with an impalpable smoke, invisible but choking. His eyes soon began to stream. He lowered his head and plunged on doggedly.

It was hardy going. Although he had dressed himself in jodhpurs and soft riding boots, the underbrush was so thick and treacherous underfoot that the leather was soon scratched in hundreds of places and tiny tears appeared in the tough material above his knees. The dry brush cut like knives. He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sharp assaults on his thighs. He began to cough.

It seemed to him that he slipped and slid and scratched his hands and face and stepped into mold-filled pits for a century. Each sliding step downward brought him into thicker, fouler atmosphere. He kept repeating to himself that he must be very careful, for there was no telling what vagary of the jagged side of the cliff which he was skirting under the trees might shear the cliff off beneath his feet and topple him into the abyss below. Once he stopped and leaned against a tree to catch his breath. Through a rift in the leaves he could see over the next valley — remote and tantalizing as a dream. Only occasionally could he descry details; the smoke was dirty wool in the valley now, or at least between the valley and his vantage point; and even the strong hot winds which swirled about the mountain could not dissipate its stubborn layers.

He became conscious all at once of a dull, earth-shaking boom.

It was difficult to determine its direction or distance. There it was again! At a different point... He wiped the sweat off his face, puzzling a little dazedly over the phenomenon. Then he had it. Blasting! They were dynamiting sections of the woods in a desperate effort to check the conflagration.

He went on.

He staggered downward, it seemed to him, endlessly — a blundering figure condemned like Ahasuerus to wander alone in his especial hell of smoke, heat, and cinders. The heat was raw, searing, unendurable; he gasped and choked under the fierce intensity of it. How long, O Lord? he thought with a tortured smile; and plunged on.

And then he saw it.

He thought at first that it was an optical illusion, that his streaming eyes were peering through a fourth dimension into a grotesque unearthly pit in some fantastic etheric plane. Then he knew that he had reached the fire.

It was crackling and blazing steadily below him, a monstrous orange thing constantly changing shape like a phantasmagorical creature out of a madman’s dream. It crept insidiously upward, feeding upon the lorn waterless drooping woods, sending out advance guards — feelers of flame which licked quickly at the undergrowth and then raised themselves like pseudopods with uncanny intelligence along dry boles and lower branches to ignite them in a flash, leaving glowing lines of fire, red neon tubes, behind. And then came the main column of the fire itself to consume with irresistible ferocity what was left.

He staggered back, shielding his face. For the first time the full horror of their predicament struck him. The remorseless advance of the flames... It was Nature in her most rapacious mood, awful and nauseating. He felt the impulse to turn and run blindly — anywhere — away from the conflagration; he had to dig his nails into his palms to control himself. Then the heat blasted into his face again and with a gasp he scrambled back, slipping on the crumbling leaf mold.

He made for the south, laterally along the line of fire, toward the spot where the side of the declivity must lie. There was desperation in his heart now, a cold, leaden lump striving to burst from the internal pressure of fear. There must be a way... Then he stopped, clutching at a slender trunk of birch to keep himself from falling. He had reached the cut.

For a long time he stood there, blinking with smarting eyes over the smoke-filled valley. He might have been standing on the lip of an active volcano staring into the crater.

The trees grew to the margin of the jagged stone. And a little below, where the precipice cropped out in an arc so that he could see it, those trees were burning as furiously as the others.

By this road, at least, there was no escape.

He never knew how long it took him to climb the Arrow and return to the summit. The ascent was worse than the descent had been; it was back-breaking, heart-bursting, lung-shattering work. His legs in their protecting boots felt petrified, and his hands were raw messes of bleeding skin. He crept upward with a blank brain, breathing in hoarse short gasps, eyes half closed, refusing to think of the horror below. It took him, he knew later, hours.

Then at last he could breathe more easily and could see the last dense clump of trees at the summit. He struggled to the edge of the woods and collapsed against a cold bole with dumb gratitude. His bloodshot eyes lifted to the skies. The sun was low. It was not so hot as it had been. Water, a blessed bath, iodine for his wounds... He closed his eyes and strove to muster sufficient strength to negotiate the last few yards to the house.

He opened them reluctantly. Someone was crashing through the underbrush not far to his right. One of the party returning... And then he crouched and very swiftly slipped into the thicker protection of the trees behind, all his fatigue and soreness of heart vanishing in a tingling alertness.

The gross head of the fat man, Smith, was protruding from the fringe of woods a little to the west, cautiously surveying the summit. He was disheveled, gray, and even from the distance as scratched and torn as Ellery. But it was not the fact that the mysterious and elderly gorilla was returning, wounded and tired, from the hunt, that caused Ellery to conceal his presence.

It was rather the fact that beside him, her delicate face as drawn and scratched as her companion’s, was Mrs. Carreau.

The odd pair searched the open terrain about the house for a moment with provocative furtiveness. Then, apparently assured that they were the first to return, they stepped out of the woods boldly and tramped over to a flat-topped boulder, upon which Mrs. Carreau sank with an audible sigh. She clasped her chin in one small fist and gazed inscrutably up at her colossal companion. The big bulging man leaned against the nearest tree, his little eyes roving.

The woman began to speak. Ellery, straining, could see her lips move; but he was too far away to hear what she said, and he silently cursed the fate which had brought him near the pair but not near enough to overhear their conversation. The man was restive, shifting ponderously from foot to foot, collapsed against the tree and, it seemed to Ellery, squirming under the lash of the woman’s tongue.

She spoke rapidly for some time, and not once did he open his mouth to respond. Then suddenly she rose, the picture of scornful dignity, and extended her right hand.

For a moment Ellery thought that Smith meant to strike her. He bounced away from the tree, his massive jaws twitching and his jowls vibrating as he rumbled something at her. His paw was half raised. The woman did not stir, nor did her hand fall. All the while he spoke it was extended, motionless.

And finally his rage collapsed like a pricked balloon and he fumbled in the breast pocket of his limp jacket. He produced a wallet with shaking fingers, took something out of it — Ellery could not see what — and slammed it into her small, white, red-streaked palm. Without another glance at her he lurched off toward the house.

Mrs. Carreau stood still for a long time, not looking at her clenched hand, pale and stiff as a statue. Then her left hand came up and met the right, and her fingers uncurled, and with a deliberate motion she began tearing what Smith had so unwillingly thrust upon her. She tore it into tiny pieces, savagely, and finally hurled the fragments violently away from her, toward the woods. Then she turned and stumbled after Smith, and Ellery could see her shoulders shake. She went blindly on, her face hidden in her hands...

After a while Ellery sighed, straightened, and strode over to the spot the man and woman had just deserted. He looked around quickly. Both had disappeared in the house and the clearing was empty of life. So he stooped and proceeded to pick up every fragment he could find. They were of paper, as he had guessed, and one glance at a single scrap told him part of what he wished to know. He spent ten minutes crawling about, and when he had finished he went into the woods, sat down on the ground, took an older letter from his pocket, and using the outspread sheet as a table began to piece the fragments together.

For some time he sat with narrowed eyes scrutinizing the result of his labor. It was a check on a Washington bank, dated the day on which the Queens had encountered the fat man in the Buick on the narrow Arrow road. It was made out to Cash and in a spidery feminine hand was signed Marie Carreau.

The check had been drawn to the amount of ten thousand dollars.

Chapter XIII The Test

Ellery, outstretched on his bed perfectly naked, luxuriating in the cool sheets, a smoldering cigarette in his hand, stared up at the white ceiling in the deepening gloom of evening. He had bathed and treated his numberless cuts and scratches with iodine from the lavatory medicine chest, and physically he felt refreshed. But through his brain flashed stubbornly recurring pictures. One was of a deck of playing cards. Another was of a finger smudge. And dominating the two, despite all his efforts to dislodge its lurid details, was the flickering vision of the hellfire raging below.

As he lay there at ease, thinking and smoking, he heard from time to time the weary steps in the corridor outside of the returning members of the household. The tonal quality of the sounds told their story with laconic eloquence. There was no sound of human voices. The steps were heavy, dragging, hopeless. Doors snicked laboriously shut. At the far end of the hall... that would be Miss Forrest, no longer the ebullient creature embarking on a gay adventure. Soon after steps across the corridor — Mrs. Xavier. Then the slow shuffling of four rhythmic feet — the twins; no shouting now. Finally Dr. Holmes and Mark Xavier, and lagging behind them yet continuing after the others had ceased, two pairs of plodding feet... Mrs. Wheary and Bones bound for their rooms on the attic floor.

There was a long interval of complete silence then and Ellery wondered, through the maze of his thoughts, where his father was. Still hoping against hope, no doubt; still searching for a way out which did not exist. A new thought struck him and he forgot everything as he pursued it with fierce concentration.

He was roused by a slow dragging step outside the door. He covered himself hastily with the sheet. The door opened and the Inspector appeared on the threshold, a ghost with dead eyes.

The old man said not a word. He shuffled into the lavatory and Ellery heard him bathing his face and hands. Then he shuffled out and sat down in the armchair and stared at the wall with the same haggard eyes. There was a long angry red scratch on his left cheek, and his wrinkled hands were pricked with wounds.

“Nothing, dad?”

“Nothing.”

Ellery could barely hear his voice; it was cracked with fatigue.

And then the old man muttered: “You?”

“Lord, no... It was horrible, wasn’t it?”

“It was — that.”

“Hear the booming on your side?”

“Yes. Blasting. Puny scum!”

“Now, now, dad,” said Ellery gently. “They’re doing their best.”

“How about the others?”

“I heard them all returning.”

“Nobody said anything?”

“The sound of their footsteps spoke for them... Dad.”

The Inspector raised his head a trifle. “Hey?” he mumbled lifelessly.

“I saw something damned significant.”

Hope flared into the old man’s eyes; he jerked around. “The fire—?” he cried.

“No,” said Ellery quietly, and the gray head drooped again. “I’m afraid we’ll have to put ourselves into — other hands for that. If we’re lucky...” He shrugged. “One becomes resigned to what appears to be the inevitable. Even when the inevitable is the end of all things. I suppose you realize that our chances—”

“Slim.”

“Yes. We may as well keep our heads. There’s nothing we can do, really. The other thing—”

“The murder? Pah!”

“Why not?” Ellery sat up, hugging his knees. “It’s the only decent — well, the only sane thing, at any rate. Normal occupation keeps men — and women — out of the insane asylums.” The Inspector grunted feebly. “Yes, dad. Don’t let it put you under. The fire’s taken something out of us, addled us a bit. I’ve never believed in, always scoffed at what I thought was bilgewater — that ‘Carry on!’ spirit of the romanticized Englishman. But there’s something in it... There are two things I must tell you. One is what I saw when I was coming back to the house.”

A sparkle of interest crept into the old man’s eye. “Saw?”

“Mrs. Carreau and Smith—”

“Those two!” The Inspector started from the chair, eyes snapping.

“That’s better,” chuckled Ellery. “Now you’re yourself again. They had a secret confab when they thought they were unobserved. Mrs. Carreau demanded something from Smith. Smith was defiant, the big ape, and then something she said took all the bluster out of him. He gave her what she demanded like a lamb. She tore it into bits and threw it away. It was a check for ten thousand dollars made out to cash and signed by Marie Carreau. I’ve the pieces in my pocket.”

“Good lord!” The Inspector jumped up and began to pace the floor.

“It’s fairly clear, I think,” mused Ellery. “Explains a lot of things. Why Smith was so anxious to leave the mountain the other night, why he was so reluctant to face Mrs. Carreau when he had to come back, why they met in secret this afternoon. Blackmail!”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Smith came up here, having trailed Mrs. Carreau, and managed to see her alone, or possibly with the Forrest girl present. He soaked her for ten thousand dollars. No wonder he was anxious to get away! But when the murder occurred and we popped into the scene, and no one could leave, events took a different turn. Don’t you see?”

“Blackmail,” muttered the Inspector. “It might be the kids...”

“What else? So long as the fact that she was the mother of Siamese twins remained unknown, she was glad to pay any amount of hush money to keep Smith’s mouth shut. But with a murder, an investigation, the certainty that when the road was open and the official police came upon the scene the story would come out — well, there was no longer any reason to pay Mr. Frank J. Smith for silence. Consequently she has just mustered up enough courage to demand the return of the check. Smith sees the light, returns it... and there you are.”

“I wonder—” began the Inspector thoughtfully.

“Oh, there are all sorts of possibilities,” murmured Ellery. “But that’s not the important thing, dad. There’s something else. I’ve been thinking—”

The Inspector grunted.

“Yes, thinking, and after an exhaustive bout with my memory I’ve come to a certain conclusion. Let me go over it for you—”

“About the murder?”

Ellery reached for the fresh underclothes draped over the footboard. “Yes,” he said, “very decidedly about the murder.”

It was a fire-scarred and woebegone company which assembled in the game-room after Mrs. Wheary’s mandatory dinner of tinned tuna, preserved plums, and withered tomatoes. They all showed signs of their frightful passage through the woods, and a more patched and iodine-stained assembly of human creatures Ellery had never seen. But it was the internal wounds which depressed the corners of their mouths and brought the glint of desperation into their eyes. Even the twins were subdued.

The Inspector began abruptly. “I’ve called you people together for two reasons. One is to take stock, and the other will come in a moment. First, did anybody find anything down there?”

The misery on their faces was answer enough.

“Well, there’s nothing to do then but sit and wait. Meanwhile,” continued the Inspector in a sharp voice, “I want to remind you that the same state of affairs exists now as existed before. There’s a corpse in this house, and a murderer.”

Ellery saw that most, if not all, of them had quite forgotten. The pressure of their own danger had banished it from their minds. Now the old restraints came back and an instant readjustment of facial expressions. Smith sat very still. Ann Forrest flashed a warning glance at Mrs. Carreau. Mark Xavier nervously snapped a cigarette in two. Mrs. Xavier’s black eyes glittered. The twins, breathed more quickly, Dr. Holmes paled, and Mrs. Carreau twisted her handkerchief into a crumpled ball.

“We assume,” the Inspector went on shortly, “the best, not the worst. By that I mean that I’m taking for granted that somehow we’ll all get out of this mess. Consequently, we’re going to proceed as if there were no fire but just a delay in the arrival of the regular officer having jurisdiction over this patch of mountainside. Do you understand?”

“The old line,” sneered Mark Xavier. “Going to put one of us on the cat-o’-nine-tails, I suppose. Why don’t you confess that you’re stumped, that someone’s put it over you and the rest of us, and that you’re just acting officious to surprise one of us into giving himself away?”

“Ah,” murmured Ellery, “but it’s not a question of blundering in the dark, old chap. Not at all. We know.”

The man’s fair skin went slowly gray. “You — know?”

“I see you’re no longer quite so certain,” drawled Ellery. “Dad, I think we understand each other?... Ah, Mrs. Wheary. Come in. And you, Bones. We mustn’t neglect you two.”

They all turned mechanically to the foyer door; the housekeeper and the man-of-all-work were hesitating on the threshold.

“Come in, come in, good folk,” said Ellery briskly. “We want a full cast. Sit down. That’s better.”

The Inspector leaned on one of the open bridge tables, glaring from one face to another. “You’ll remember that Mr. Queen here bilked that pretty plan to have Mrs. Xavier accused of her husband’s murder. She was framed, and whoever framed her murdered Dr. Xavier. You’ll remember that?”

Unquestionably they remembered that. Mrs. Xavier lowered her eyes, paling, and the others after a quick glance at her looked away. Mark Xavier’s eyes were nearly closed, so intently was he watching the Inspector’s lips.

“Now we’re going to put you people through a test—”

“A test?” said Dr. Holmes slowly. “I say, Inspector, isn’t—”

“Hold your horses, Doc. I said a test, and a test I mean. When it’s all over and the smoke’s cleared away,” he paused, grimly, “we’ll have our man. Or,” he added after another pause, “our woman. We’re not particular so long as we get the guilty party.”

No one answered; their eyes were trained upon his unsmiling lips. Then Ellery stepped forward, and the eyes twitched to his. The Inspector retreated and took up his stand near the French windows. They were open to admit what little air there was. His erect little figure was framed in the blackness of the night outside.

“The revolver,” said Ellery sharply, and extended his hand to his father. The Inspector produced the long-barreled revolver which they had found on the floor of Dr. Xavier’s study; he snapped it open, inspected its empty chambers, snapped it shut again, and placed it without comment into Ellery’s hand.

They watched this silent play in breathless bewilderment.

Ellery hefted the weapon with an enigmatic smile and then dragged the bridge table to the foreground and a chair, placing the chair behind the table in such a position that whoever might sit in it would be facing the company.

“Now I want you to pretend,” he said crisply, “that this is Dr. Xavier’s study, that the table is Dr. Xavier’s desk, and the chair his chair. Clear so far? Very well.” He paused. “Miss Forrest!”

Under the whip of her sharply enunciated name the young woman jumped, her eyes widening with apprehension. Dr. Holmes half rose in protest and then sank back, watching with narrowed eyes.

“M-me?”

“Precisely. Stand up, please.”

She obeyed, clutching the back of her chair. Ellery crossed the room to the far side, placed the revolver on the grand piano, and returned to his position beside the table.

“B-but what—?” the girl whispered again, blanching.

He sat down in the chair. “I want you, Miss Forrest,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “to re-enact the shooting.”

“Re-enact the sh-shooting!”

“Please. You must pretend that I’m Dr. Xavier — a consummation no doubt devoutly to be wished. I want you to go into the cross-hall through that door behind you. When I give the signal, please come in. You will be standing a little to my right, facing me. I’m Xavier, and I shall be at my desk playing solitaire. When you enter, you are to reach over to the piano, pick up the revolver, face me squarely, and pull the trigger. I might add that the revolver is not loaded. Please see that it... ah... remains that way. Understand?”

The girl was sickly pale. She tried to speak, her lips trembling, then abandoned the effort, nodded quickly, and left the room by the door Ellery had indicated. It clicked shut behind her, leaving staring eyes and silence.

The Inspector stood by the French windows, grimly watching.

Ellery folded his arms on the edge of the table before him, and called out: “Now, Miss Forrest!”

The door opened slowly, very slowly indeed, and Miss Forrest’s white face appeared. She hesitated, came in, closed the door behind her and her eyes at the same moment, shuddered and opened them and went reluctantly to the piano. For an instant she stared down with loathing at the revolver and then, seizing it, she pointed it in the general direction of Ellery, cried: “Oh, this is ridiculous!” and snapped the trigger back. She dropped the weapon, sank into the nearest chair, and began to weep.

“That,” said Ellery briskly, rising and making his way across the room, “was really excellent. All except the gratuitous remark, Miss Forrest.” He stopped, retrieved the revolver, and said to His father: “You caught that, of course?”

“I did.”

Their mouths were open now and Miss Forrest forgot to weep as she raised her head to join in the general staring.

“Now,” continued Ellery, “Mr. Smith.”

The united battery instantly focused upon the fat man’s face. He sat still, blinking and working his jaws like a stupid cow.

“Stand up, please.” Smith struggled to his feet and stood shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Take this!” snapped Ellery, and thrust the revolver toward him. He blinked again, drew a billowing breath, and took it. It hung loosely from his fingers.

“What do I do?” he asked huskily.

“You’re a murderer—”

“A murderer!”

“Only for purposes of our little experiment. You’re a murderer and you’ve just shot — let’s say — Dr. Xavier. The smoking weapon is still in your hand. The weapon belonged to Dr. Xavier, so there is no point in your attempting to dispose of it. Still, you naturally don’t care to leave fingerprints. So — you take out your handkerchief, wipe the gun clean, and then very carefully drop it to the floor. Got that?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then do it.”

Ellery stepped back and watched the fat man with cold eyes. Smith hesitated and then became very busy, as if his sole concern was to get his part of the proceedings over with as soon as possible. He gripped the butt firmly, whipped out a napkin-like handkerchief, polished butt and barrel and trigger and guard very expertly indeed, and then, holding the weapon in his swathed hand, dropped the gun. He stepped back, sat down, and wiped his forehead with slow swoops of his vast arm.

“Very good,” murmured Ellery. “Very good indeed.” He picked up the fallen weapon, shoved it in his pocket, and retraced his steps. “Now you, Dr. Holmes.” The Englishman stirred uneasily. “Once more, in my miraculous way, I am a corpse. Your role in our little drama is to enact the medico examining my cold and outraged corpse. I believe you understand without necessity of further explanation.” Ellery sat down in the bridge chair, slumped forward on the table, his left hand flat against the tabletop, his right arm dangling to the floor, his left cheek resting on the table. “Come on, old chap, come on; I don’t relish this characterization, you know!”

Dr. Holmes rose and stumbled forward. He stooped over Ellery’s motionless figure, felt the nape of his neck, the muscles of his throat, rolled his head to examine the eyes, grasped and felt the arms and legs... went through a rapid expert examination.

“Is that quite enough?” he asked at last in a strangled voice. “Or is there more to this ghastly farce?”

Ellery jumped up. “No, that’s sufficient, Doctor. But please don’t be careless with your terms. This is, far from a farce, the most dreadful sort of tragedy. Thanks... Mrs. Wheary!”

The housekeeper clutched her bosom. “Y-yes, sir?” she faltered.

“I want you to rise, cross the room, and turn off that electric-light switch near the foyer door.”

“T-turn it off?” she stuttered, getting to her feet. “But won’t... won’t it be dark, sir?”

“I should think so,” said Ellery grimly. “Quickly, Mrs. Wheary.”

She licked her lips, looked at her mistress as if for guidance, and then shuffled forward toward the foyer. At the wall she hesitated and Ellery signaled her impatiently to proceed. She shuddered and fumbled with the switch. The room was suddenly drenched in darkness, a darkness thick as chocolate syrup. What starlight there was above Arrow Mountain could not penetrate the weaving clouds of smoke outside. They might have been buried five miles beneath the sea.

Then, after an age, Ellery’s clear voice crackled through the silence. “Bones! Have you a match?”

“Match?” croaked the old man.

“Yes. Strike one, please, at once. Hurry, man, hurry!”

They heard the scratch of a match and a tiny light flared up, revealing Bones’s ghostly hand and part of his wrinkled sullen face. No one said anything until the light flickered and went out.

“All right, Mrs. Wheary. You may switch the lights on again,” murmured Ellery.

The lights blazed on. Bones was sitting where he had been sitting, staring at the blackened stump of wood in his hand. Mrs. Wheary quickly returned to her chair.

“And now,” continued Ellery equably, “for you, Mrs. Carreau.”

She rose, pale but self-controlled.

Ellery opened the shallow drawer on the table and brought out a brand-new deck of cards. He ripped off the seal, crumpled and threw to one side the glassine envelope, and thumped the deck down on the table. “You play solitaire, I suppose?”

“I know the game,” she replied in an astonished voice.

“You play simple solitaire? I mean — thirteen closed cards, four open cards in a row, and the eighteenth card above them to build on?”

“Yes.”

“Superb. Please take these cards, Mrs. Carreau, sit down at this table and play a game!”

She stared at him as if she doubted his sanity, and then came quietly forward and sat down at the table. Her fingers groped for the deck. She shuffled the cards slowly, dealt thirteen, placed them face down in a pile, laid out the next four cards face up and side by side, and the next card above them. Then she took the remainder of the deck and began to play, exposing every third card and searching the ones above...

She played quickly now, nervously, her fingers flashing and hesitating in stops and starts. Twice she made mistakes, and Ellery silently pointed these out before she proceeded. They watched with bated breath. What was coming?

It was a fortuitous arrangement of cards and the game seemed endless. The cards above the four staggered piles grew... Suddenly Ellery put his hand over the woman’s fingers.

“That’s enough,” he said gently. “The gods are kind. I thought we should have to try more than one game before the desired effect would be achieved.”

“Effect?”

“Yes. You see, Mrs. Carreau, that in the fourth staggered row appears — between a red five and a red seven — the telltale six of spades!”

Mrs. Xavier uttered a plangent sound.

“Now, now, don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Xavier. This isn’t another frame-up.” Ellery smiled at Mrs. Carreau. “That’s all for you, please... Mr. Xavier!”

For some time the tall lawyer had not been in the sneering mood. His hands were quivering and his mouth slack. Chap needs a stiff hooker of red eye, thought Ellery with satisfaction.

“Well?” said Xavier hoarsely, coming forward.

“Well!” smiled Ellery. “We’ve a very interesting little experiment for you, Mr. Xavier. Will you please pick the six of spades out of the exposed cards?”

He started. “Pick—”

“Please.”

He obeyed with fingers that shook. “What... what now?” he said with a sickly attempt at smiling.

“Now,” said Ellery sharply, “I want you to tear that card in two — quickly! Yes, now! Don’t hesitate! Tear it!” Startled, Xavier obeyed before he could think. “Throw away one of the halves.” He dropped a piece as if it burned his fingers.

“Well?” he muttered, licking his lips.

“Just a moment,” came the Inspector’s dry impersonal voice from behind. “Stay where you are, Xavier. El, come here.”

Ellery went to his father’s side and they conversed in an earnest undertone for some minutes. Finally Ellery nodded and turned back to the company.

“I must announce after proper consultation a most successful set of tests,” he said cheerfully. “Mr. Xavier, you might sit down at the table here. This may take a few minutes.” The lawyer sank into the bridge chair, still clutching the piece of pasteboard. “Good. Now listen carefully, all of you.”

It was an unnecessary injunction; they were sitting forward, enthralled spectators at a gripping play.

“If you will recall my little lecture in legerdemain not long ago,” continued Ellery, taking off his pince-nez and polishing the lenses, “no doubt you remember that I demonstrated several things of importance. I demonstrated for one thing that since Dr. Xavier was right-handed the piece of card we found in his right hand was wrongly placed; that had he torn the card the fragment would have remained in his left hand, since his right hand would have done all the work of tearing, crumpling, and throwing away. I concluded from this, too, that since the card was in the wrong hand Dr. Xavier had not torn the card; consequently, it was not he who left a ‘clue’ to the identity of the murderer. The card pointed to Mrs. Xavier as the murderer. But if the victim had not left the clue, then the clue is not authentic, is not evidence, and in effect becomes merely the inspired machination of one who attempted to frame Mrs. Xavier for the murder of her husband, trying to make it appear that he had accused her by this fantastic method. Who, I said in conclusion, could that one be — who but the murderer himself! You recall?”

They recalled. The evidence of their fascinated eyes answered.

“The problem resolved itself, then, into this: Find the person who really tore that six of spades in half, and we should have our murderer.”

Mr. Smith astonished them all, including the Queens, by rumbling at this point in a mocking basso profundo: “That’s a good trick — if you can do it.”

“My dear Mr. Smith,” murmured Ellery, “it has been done!”

Mr. Smith shut his mouth very abruptly.

“Yes,” continued Ellery with a dreamy survey of the ceiling, “there was a nice clue pointing to the murderer’s identity, you know. It was before my eyes for so long that I blush now to think, of my blindness. But I suppose one can’t see everything.” He lit a cigarette deliberately. “However, it is now very clearly seen indeed. The clue, needless to say, is on the card — the torn card, the torn half of the card crumpled by the murderer and thrown to the floor near the dead body of Dr. Xavier. What is the clue? Well, he must thank the fire for its existence. The finger smudge on the card, caused by the universal soot.”

“The smudge,” muttered Xavier.

“Precisely. Now how was the smudge placed? How had the murderer torn the card? How does anyone tear a card? Well, you demonstrated one of the two methods a moment ago Mr. Xavier; I’ve been doing it for hours now, and I think we may say that in tearing a card in half one of two methods is used. The more common method is to place the tips of the thumbs together on the edge to be torn, so that the thumb-tips meet and the thumbs are at an acute angle to each other; the other fingers are on the other side of the card. Now we tear — with our thumbs fortunately sooty. What happens? The pressure of the thumbs in tearing — or rather of one thumb in holding the card firm and the other in exerting the pull or push — leaves oval thumb-marks: one in the upper right-hand corner of the left half, which is to say the print of the left thumb; the other in the upper left-hand corner of the right half, which is to say the print of the right thumb. In designating right and left I am imagining, of course, that I am holding the card squarely before me and that what I call the left-half of the card is on my left, you see.” He puffed thoughtfully for a moment. “The other method is virtually the same as the first, except that the thumbs at the top of the card point diagonally downward toward each other, rather than diagonally upward. The oval thumbmarks remain in the same corners I have just described, except of course that they point down toward each other, not up. In any event, the effect — the effect I am about to describe — is substantially the same. What have we?”

They were hanging intently on every word.

“Well,” drawled Ellery, “let’s re-examine the crumpled half found on the floor of Dr. Xavier’s study. Let’s smooth it out, turn it around so that the thumb print is at the top. Why at the top? Because everyone tears from the top down, not from the bottom up. That’s why I said the second method doesn’t substantially differ in effect from the first. The thumbprint, despite the difference in angle, is still relatively in the same corner of the card, and it’s the thumbprint of the same hand. Now, holding the smoothed piece in the position it must have taken when the card was torn, what do we see?” He puffed again. “That the torn edge of the card is on the right, that the thumbprint is pointing diagonally upwards toward the upper right-hand corner or, to express it in other words, that it was the left thumb which left its smudge there, and consequently the left hand which held that torn and crumpled half of the card!”

“You mean,” whispered Miss Forrest, “that a left-handed person—”

“You’re sharp, Miss Forrest,” smiled Ellery. “That’s exactly what I do mean. The murderer’s left hand had held that half. The murderer, then had crumpled that half in his left hand and thrown it away with his left hand. The left hand, then, did all the work. Ergo, as you say, the murderer of Dr. Xavier and the framer of Mrs. Xavier was left-handed.” He paused briefly to study their puzzled faces. “The problem resolved itself, therefore, into discovering which of you ladies and gentlemen, if any, was left-handed.” The puzzlement vanished, to be replaced by alarm. “That was the purpose of our slightly grotesque tests tonight.”

“A trick,” said Dr. Holmes indignantly.

“But an extremely essential one, Doctor. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t so much a test to acquire knowledge as a little research into the psychology of guilt. I knew before we conducted the tests who was right-handed and who was not, purely from recollected observations. I knew, too, from the same source that none of you is ambidextrous. Now there were three people whom we’ve neglected to test tonight: Mrs. Xavier and the Carreau boys.” The twins started. “But Mrs. Xavier, aside from the fact that she was framed and would scarcely have framed herself, is also right-handed, as I’ve had occasion to note many times. As for the twins, preposterous as even the theoretical notion of their guilt is, Francis on the right is naturally right-handed, as I’ve also observed; and Julian on the left, who is left-handed, has his left arm broken and in a cast, making digital manipulation impossible. And,” he added dryly, “since I’m thorough in all things, I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that the only way the lads could have achieved the effect of those thumbprints under the circumstances would have been by crossing their adjoining hands and tearing — a procedure so pointless that it need not be considered... Well, now!” His eyes glittered. “Who among the rest of you is left-handed? Do you recall what you did tonight, all of you?”

They stirred uneasily biting their lips, frowning.

“Ill tell you what you did,” continued Ellery softly. “Miss Forrest, you picked up the revolver and attempted to discharge it with you right hand. Mr. Smith, you held the revolver in your left hand. But polished it clean with your right. Dr. Holmes, you conducted your mock-examination of my theoretically dead body, I am happy to report, with your right hand almost exclusively. Mrs. Wheary, you snapped the switch with your right hand, and you, Bones, struck a match with your right hand. Mrs. Carreau held the deck of cards in her left hand and dealt with the right—”

“Hold up,” grunted the Inspector, coming forward again. “We’ve got just what we want now. I might explain that Mr. Queen conducted these experiments for my benefit, to prove who was right-handed and who wasn’t. I hadn’t noticed before.” He produced a pencil and paper from one of his pockets and suddenly slapped them down upon the bridge table before the astonished lawyer. “Here, Xavier, I want you to act as our recording secretary. This is a little memorandum to the Sheriff of Osquewa, Winslowe Reid — if and when he gets here.” He continued irritably without pausing: “Come, come, man, don’t sit there dreaming. Write, will you?”

It was all so neat and smooth and noiselessly efficient. The whole psychological effect had been calculated to the last nice detail The irritability of the Inspector, impersonally directed at his head, caused Xavier to snatch up the pencil, his lips working, and poise it above the sheet.

“Write this now,” growled the Inspector, pacing up and down. “ ‘My brother, Dr. John S. Xavier—’ ” the lawyer wrote quickly, with brutal jabs of the pencil, his face pale as death — “ ‘murdered in his study on the ground floor of Arrow Head, his residence situated on Arrow Mountain in Tuckesas County, fifteen miles from the nearest seat of jurisdiction, Osquewa, met his death by shooting at the hand of—’ ” the Inspector paused, and the pencil in Mark Xavier’s left hand trembled, “ ‘at the hand of myself!’ Now sign your name, damn you!”

For a suspended moment, an interval without duration, there was utter silence. They sat forward in their chairs bleakly, without movement, struck dumb.

The pencil dropped from Xavier’s fingers and his shoulders humped with an instinctive defensive contraction of his muscles. His bloodshot eyes were glassy. Then before any of them could stir he was out of the chair, a coordinated organism of terrified nerves and unmanned flesh. The table turned over as he leaped. He bounced the few steps to the French window nearest the table and crashed out upon the terrace.

The Inspector woke up. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop, I tell you! Or I’ll stop you with a bullet!”

But Xavier did not stop. He scrambled over the terrace rail, landing with a crunching thud on the gravel below. His figure began to fade out as he receded farther from the light shining from the game-room.

They rose in unison, without moving from their places, and craned out into the darkness, mesmerized. Ellery stood very still, cigarette checked an inch before his lips.

The Inspector uttered a curious sigh, reached into his hip pocket, drew out his service revolver, snapped the safety catch off, leaned against the side of one of the tall windows, aimed at the ghostly dodging figure, and deliberately fired.

Chapter XIV Cheater Cheated

They were all to carry the ghastly memory of that fantastic scene for the remainder of their lives. Themselves turned to stone, the gray little old gentleman leaning against the window, revolver, incredibly in hand, the snort of flame and smoke, the crashing report, the staggering of the almost invisible man running for cover... and then his single scream, sharp and unpleasant as a harpy’s, ending in a thick bubbling gurgle as abruptly as it had begun.

Xavier vanished.

The Inspector adjusted the safety catch, stowed the weapon in his hip pocket, brushed his lips with the same deadly hand in a queer gesture, and then trotted out onto the terrace. He clambered over the rail and with difficulty lowered himself to the ground below.

Ellery awoke, then, and darted out of the room. He vaulted the terrace rail and sped past his father into the darkness.

Their movement broke the spell. In the game-room Mrs. Carreau swayed and steadied herself on Francis’s shoulder. Miss Forrest, wholly colorless, uttered a choked little cry and sprang forward at the same time that Dr. Holmes, with a gasp, urged his leaden legs toward the window. Mrs. Xavier sank into her chair, her nostrils fluttering. The twins remained rooted to the floor, stricken.

They found the crumpled figure of Xavier on the rocks outside, prone and still. Ellery was on his knees, feeling for the man’s heart.

“Is he... he—?” panted Miss Forrest, stumbling up.

Ellery looked up at his father, who was staring down. “He’s still alive,” he said tonelessly, “and there’s blood on the tips of my fingers.” Then he got slowly to his feet and examined his hands in the quarter light.

“Take care of him, Doc,” said the Inspector quietly.

Dr. Holmes was on his knees, fingers probing. He looked up almost at once. “Can’t do anything here. You must have touched his back, Queen, because that’s where he’s wounded. He’s still conscious, I think. Help me, please, quickly.”

The man on the ground groaned once and from his lips came another bubbling gurgle. His limbs twitched spasmodically. The three men raised him gently and carried him up the steps of the porch, across the terrace and into the game-room. Miss Forrest followed hastily, with one sick glance over her shoulder into the darkness.

In silence they deposited the wounded man on a sofa near the piano, face down. In the full light of the room his broad back became the focal point of their eyes. A little to the right below the shoulder blade there was a dark round hole raggedly circled by a dark red stain.

His eyes on the stain, Dr. Holmes was stripping his coat off. As he rolled up his sleeves he murmured: “Mr. Queen. My surgical kit on one of the tables in the laboratory. Mrs. Wheary, a large pan of hot water at once, please. The ladies had better go away.”

“I can help,” said Miss Forrest swiftly. “I’ve been a nurse — Doctor.”

“Very well. The others please go. Inspector, have you a knife?”

Mrs. Wheary blundered from the room and Ellery went out of the doorway leading into the cross-hall, opened the corridor door to the laboratory, stumbled about until he found the switch, and immediately saw upon one of the laboratory tables a small black bag with the initials P. H. lettered upon it. He avoided looking in the direction of the refrigerator. Snatching up the bag he ran back to the game-room.

None of them had moved, despite Dr. Holmes’s admonition. They seemed fascinated by the physician’s deft fingers, the low groans of Xavier. Dr. Holmes was ripping the lawyer’s coat up the back with the keen blade of the Inspector’s penknife. When he had severed the coat he slit the wounded man’s shirt and undershirt, revealing the naked bullet-hole.

Ellery, stonily watching Xavier’s face, saw his left cheek twitch. There was a bloody foam in his lips and his eyes were only half closed.

Dr. Holmes opened his bag as Mrs. Wheary stumbled in with a huge pan of steaming water. Ann Forrest took this from the old lady’s shaking hands and deposited it upon the floor near the physician’s kneeling figure. He ripped a large piece of absorbent cotton from a roll, dipped it into the water...

The eyes opened full suddenly and glared without seeing anything. Twice the jaws worked soundlessly, and then they heard him gasp: “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it,” over and over and over, as if it were a lesson he had learned which must be repeated endlessly in some dim schoolroom of his imagination.

The Inspector started. He leaned over Dr. Holmes and said in a whisper: “How bad is he?”

“Bad enough,” replied Dr. Holmes shortly. “Looks like the right lung.” He was bathing the wound quickly but gently, wiping the blood away. A strong odor of disinfectant rose.

“Can we — talk to him?”

“Ordinarily, I should say no. What he needs is absolute quiet. But in this case—” The Englishman shrugged his slim shoulders without pausing in his work.

Hastily the Inspector went to the head of the sofa and dropped to his knees in front of Xavier’s white face. The lawyer was still mumbling: “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,” with a sort of dull persistence.

“Xavier,” said the Inspector urgently. “Can you hear me?”

The slurred syllables stopped and the head jerked. His eyes shifted ever so little to focus upon the Inspector’s face. Intelligence came into them and a swift spasmodic pain. He whispered: “Why did you — shoot me, Inspector? I didn’t do it. I didn’t—”

“Why did you run?”

“Lost my — head. I thought — Went to pieces. Stupid... I didn’t do it, I didn’t!”

Ellery’s fingertips cut into his palms tightly. He bent forward and said sharply: “You’re a very sick man, Xavier. Why lie now? We know you did. You’re the only left-handed person in the house who could possibly have torn that six of spades as it was torn.”

Xavier’s lips trembled. “I didn’t — do it, I tell you.”

“You tore that six of spades and put it into your brother’s dead hand to frame your sister-in-law!”

“Yes...” gasped Xavier. “That’s — true. I did. I framed her. I wanted — but—”

Mrs. Xavier rose slowly, horror in her eyes. She put her hand to her mouth and kept it there, staring at her brother-in-law as if she were seeing him for the first time.

Dr. Holmes was working quickly now, with the silent assistance of white-lipped Miss Forrest. The cleansed wound kept oozing blood. The pan of water was crimson.

Ellery’s eyes were mere slits; his own lips were working and there was the oddest expression on his face. “Well, then—” he said slowly.

“You don’t understand,” panted Xavier. “I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed around. There was a book I wanted in the library downstairs... What’s — that pain in my back?”

“Go on, Xavier. You’re being fixed up. Go on!”

“I... put my dressing gown on and went down to the—”

“What time was this?” demanded the Inspector.

“Two-thirty... I saw light from the study when I got to the library. The door was closed but the cracks — I went in, found John — cold, stiff, dead... So... so I framed her, I framed her—”

“Why?”

He tossed about, writhing. “But I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill John. He was dead when I got there, I tell you, sitting at the desk, dead as a stone—”

There was a dressing on the wound now, and Dr. Holmes was filling a hypodermic.

“You’re lying,” rasped the Inspector.

“I’m telling God’s own truth! He was dead — when I got there... I didn’t kill him.” His head lifted an inch, the cords of his neck white and ropy. “But — I know now who — did... I know who — did...”

“You do?” roared the Inspector. “How do you know? Who was it? Speak up, man!”

There was a rich stillness in the room. It was as if all breathing had ceased and time had stopped flowing and they stood suspended in the vast dark reaches of interstellar space.

Mark Xavier tried very hard. He made a superhuman effort. It was sickening to watch him try. His left arm bulged with the strain of raising himself. The red glare in his eyes became redder, hotter, wilder.

Dr. Holmes gripped the skin of Xavier’s naked left arm, hypodermic poised — an impersonal automaton.

“I—” It was the sole result of his effort. His white face went gray, a bubble of blood materialized between his lips, and he sank back unconscious.

The needle bit into his arm.

Then they breathed and stirred again, and the Inspector struggled to his feet and stood wiping his moist cheeks with his handkerchief.

“Gone?” said Ellery, licking his lips.

“No.” Dr. Holmes had risen, too, and was gazing moodily down upon the still figure. “Just out. I’ve given him morphine. Just enough to relax his muscles and keep him quiet.”

“How bad is he?” asked the Inspector huskily.

“Dangerous. I should say he has a chance. It’s all a matter of his condition. The bullet is lodged in his right lung—”

“Didn’t you get it out?” cried Ellery, appalled.

“Probe for it?” The physician raised an eyebrow. “My dear chap. That would be almost certainly fatal. As I say, his chances depend upon his condition. Off-hand I should say his condition is none too good, although I’ve never given him a physical examination. He’s a rather greedy toper, you know, and he runs a little to flesh. Seedy. Well!” He shrugged and turned to Miss Forrest, his expression softening. “Thank you — Ann. You were very helpful... And now, gentlemen, please help me get him upstairs. Be very careful. We don’t want to induce hemorrhage.”

The four men — Smith stood stupefied in a corner — raised the limp body and bore it upstairs to the bedroom in the western corner of the house overlooking the drive. The others trooped behind, huddled together as if for protection. No one seemed to relish being left alone. Mrs. Xavier was dazed; the horror had not left her eyes.

The men undressed him and got him after delicate work into his bed. Xavier was breathing hoarsely now, but he no longer twitched and his eyes were closed.

Then the Inspector opened the door. “Come on in and don’t make any noise. I’ve got something to say and I want all of you to hear it.”

They obeyed mechanically, their eyes drawn to the quiet figure beneath the sheet. A lamp on a night table beside the bed shed a glow over Xavier’s left cheek and the contour of his left side under the bedclothes.

“We seem,” said the Inspector quietly, “to have pulled another boner. I’m not sure yet, and I haven’t really made up my mind whether Mark Xavier was lying or not. I’ve seen men lie three seconds before they passed out. There’s no assurance that because a man knows he’s dying he’s going to tell the truth. At the same time there was something — well, convincing in what he said. If he merely framed Mrs. Xavier and didn’t kill Dr. Xavier, then there’s still a murderer on the loose in the house. And I want to tell you,” his eyes glittered, “that the next time there won’t be any mistake!”

They continued to stare.

Ellery snapped: “Do you think he’ll regain consciousness, Doctor?”

“Possible,” murmured Dr. Holmes. “When the effects of the morphine have passed off, he may come out of it without warning.” He shrugged. “Or he may not. There are all sorts of considerations. As to death, as well. He may get a hemorrhage after several hours, or he may linger and contract an infection — although I’ve cleansed and disinfected the wound — or succumb to disease.”

“Pleasant,” grunted Ellery. “Aside from that, he has a chance, eh? But what I’m interested in is the fact that he’ll probably regain consciousness. When he does—” He glanced significantly about.

“He’ll tell,” cried the twins suddenly and then, abashed by the sound of their own voices, shrank back against their mother.

“Yes, my lads, he’ll tell. A most intriguing prospect. Consequently I think, dad, that it would be best to leave nothing to chance.”

“I was just thinking that myself,” replied the Inspector grimly. “We’ll take turns watching him tonight — you and I. And,” he added after a pause, “no one else.” He turned sharply to Dr. Holmes. “I’ll take the first watch, Doctor, until two a.m., and then Mr. Queen will relieve me until morning. If we should want you—”

“At the first sign of returning consciousness,” said Dr. Holmes stiffly, “notify me at once. At once, please; every second may be important. My room is at the other end of the corridor, you know, next to yours. There’s nothing you can do for him, really, now.”

“Except protect whatever life he’s got left in him.”

“We’ll notify you,” said Ellery. He eyed the others for a moment and added: “For the benefit of anyone who may be contemplating desperate measures, I should like to announce that the man on watch beside this bed tonight will be armed with the same weapon which brought poor Xavier down... That’s all.”

When they were alone with the unconscious man the Queens felt a curious restraint. The Inspector sat down in a comfortable bedroom chair and loosened his collar, becoming very busy doing nothing of consequence. Ellery smoked gloomily by one of the windows.

“Well,” he said at last, “this is a fine mess we’re in.” The Inspector grunted. “Old Dead-Eye Dick himself,” continued Ellery bitterly. “Poor chap!”

“What are you talking about?” grumbled the Inspector uneasily.

“Your propensity for quick, straight, and thoughtless shooting, esteemed sire. It really wasn’t necessary, you know. He couldn’t have escaped.”

The Inspector looked uncomfortable. “Well,” he muttered, “maybe not, but when a man’s charged with murder and promptly takes a run-out powder, what the devil is a poor dumb cop to think? That’s as good as a confession. Naturally I warned him, and then took a potshot at him—”

“Oh, you’re very good at that,” said Ellery dryly. “The heavy years haven’t impaired your eagle’s eye and your marksmanship in the slightest. But still it was a reckless and unwarranted thing to do.”

“Well, suppose it was!” exploded the Inspector, red with exasperation. “It’s as much your fault as mine. You led me to believe—”

“Oh, hell, dad, I’m sorry,” said Ellery contritely. The old gentleman sank back, mollified. “You’re quite right. As a matter of fact, it was more my fault than yours. I assumed — damn my cocksureness! — that because someone had framed Mrs. Xavier for her husband’s murder that that someone must have been the murderer. Of course, on inspection, that’s a wholly unwarranted assumption. Yes, it’s rather far-fetched, but then fantastic facts are no excuse for fantastic logic.”

“Maybe he did lie—”

“I’m sure he didn’t.” Ellery sighed. “But there I go again. I’m not sure. I can’t be sure. Of that or anything. This affair hasn’t found me precisely shining... Well! Keep a sharp eye out. I’ll be back at two.”

“Don’t worry about me.” The Inspector glanced at the wounded man. “In a way, this is a sort of penance. If he doesn’t come out of this I guess...”

“If he or you or anyone,” said Ellery cryptically, his hand on the doorknob.

“Now what do you mean by that?” muttered the Inspector.

“Take a peep outside through that lovely window,” said Ellery dryly, and left the room.

The Inspector stared at him, rose, and went to the window. He sighed at once. The sky above the treetops was a ruddy dark glow. He had quite forgotten the fire in the excitement of the evening.

The Inspector turned the shade of the lamp on the night table to direct more light upon the wounded lawyer. He gazed gloomily down upon the parchment of Xavier’s skin and then with another sigh returned to his armchair. He shifted it so that by merely a half-turn of his head he could see both the single door and the man on the bed. After a moment he thought of something, made a wry face, and took his service revolver from his hip pocket. He looked at it soberly for a moment and placed it in the right-hand pocket of his jacket

He slumped back in the chair in the half light and folded his hands on his flat stomach.

For more than an hour there were intermittent sounds — doors closing, people walking up the corridor, the murmur of low voices. Then silence, gradually, in a subsidence of dull familiar noises, which soon became so complete that the Inspector might have fancied himself a thousand miles from the nearest conscious human being.

He lay in the chair, relaxed, but alert as he had never been in his life. He realized with the penetration of a lifetime’s study of human desperation where the danger lay. A man was dying, and in the power of that feeble tongue lay the danger. No measure, no matter how rash, would be too much for a murderer... He half wished, as he sat there, that he might have the freedom now to steal into all those darkened rooms about him and surprise someone still awake, or crouching in the gloom. But he would not leave the dying man for an instant. A sudden qualm made him tighten his grip on the weapon in his pocket; then he rose and went to the windows. But access to the bedroom was impossible from that source. Reassured, he returned to his chair.

Time dragged. Nothing changed. The man on the bed lay still.

Once, long after, the little gray man thought he detected a sound from the corridor outside. It was almost, he thought as he sat up tingling in every fiber, as if someone had closed or opened a door. With the thought he sprang noiselessly from the chair, switched off the lamp on the night table, and in the darkness sped to the door. Revolver in hand, he turned the knob without sound, pulled quickly, leaped aside, and waited.

Nothing happened.

He closed the door softly, switched on the lamp again, and returned to his chair. He was not particularly surprised. Even trained nerves were prone to jangle in the black reaches of the night. The sound had probably existed only in his imagination, an echo of his own fears.

Nevertheless, because he was a practical man in all things, he did not put the revolver back into his pocket. Instead, he let it lie loosely in his lap, ready to be snatched up the split second after an alarm.

The night deepened without further sound or incident. His lids began to feel monstrously heavy and from time to time he shook himself awake. It was less hot now than it had been, but it was still stifling enough and his clothes stuck miserably to his body... He wondered what the hour was and dragged out his heavy gold watch.

It was twelve-thirty. He put the watch away, sighing.

Almost precisely at one — he consulted his watch again the instant after it occurred — his nerves were tingling again. But this time not from real or fancied sounds outside. This sound came from the bed a few feet away. It emanated from the dying man.

Jamming his watch back, the Inspector jumped up and bounded across the rug to the bed. Xavier’s left arm was stirring, and the sound was the thick burble he had heard hours before downstairs. There was even a movement of the head. The burble rose in volume, ending in a raucous cough. The Inspector thought the whole house must be aroused, it ripped out so harshly and loudly. He bent over Xavier, whose face was turned away from the light, and gently tugged until he worked his right arm under the man’s neck. With his left arm he managed to turn Xavier over without permitting the wounded back to touch the bed; so that finally, when he straightened, the recumbent figure lay on its left side, face to the light. The eyes were still closed, although the sounds continued.

Xavier was slowly regaining consciousness.

The Inspector hesitated. Should he wait, make the man talk? Then he remembered Dr. Holmes’s admonition, and the thought that delay might well deal the wounded man his death blow made him hurry to the chair, snatch up the revolver, and run to the door. He could not leave Xavier alone even for an instant, he thought quickly. No one was going to take advantage of him while he slipped out to summon the doctor. He would open the door, stick out his head, and yell for Holmes. If the others wakened, the hell with them.

He grasped the knob, turned it noisily, and pulled the door open. He thrust out his head and opened his mouth.

To Ellery it seemed that he was struggling upward along the black glassy side of an animate abyss, striving to keep from slipping back to the cauldron of fire raging below. He battered his hands and bruised his fingers on the hard smooth jeering walls, and in his head was an inferno that matched the blaze in intensity. His head began to puff, to swell, to burst. He was sliding, sliding... He awoke with a start, bathed in cold perspiration.

The room was dark and he fumbled on the night table for his wrist watch. By its luminous dial he saw that it was five minutes past two. He crept groaning out of bed, his body an aching mess of damp flesh and protesting muscles, and groped for his clothes.

The house was very still as he slipped out of his room and made his way up the corridor. The landing bulb was burning and to his blinking eyes everything seemed normal. All doors were shut.

He reached the end of the corridor and paused outside Xavier’s room. He had made no noise walking, the door was shut, and there was no reason to suppose that anyone, including his father, had heard him. The thought filled him with a sudden surge of alarm. Lord, what applied to him might very well have applied to someone else! Suppose the old gentleman...

But the old gentleman, as he knew from varied and pleasant experience, was quite capable of taking care of himself. And then there was the revolver, which already had—

Shaking aside his fears as childish, he opened the door and said softly: “El, dad. Don’t be alarmed.” There was no response. He pushed the door farther and then froze to the spot, his heart stopping.

The Inspector lay on the floor near the door, face down, the revolver a few inches from his motionless hand.

Dazedly he shifted his gaze to the bed. The drawer of the night table before it was open. Mark Xavier’s right hand dangled to the floor, clutching something. His body lay half out of the bed, head hanging horribly. What Ellery could see of the face sickened him — twisted features back in a grin to expose the teeth and oddly bluish gums.

The man was dead.

But he had not died of the festering bullet in his lung. Ellery divined that even before he glimpsed the evidence. The tortured face, as if Xavier had died in exquisite agony; significant. And significant, too, the empty vial that lay on the rug some feet from the bed, dropped there by a defiant hand.

Mark Xavier had been murdered.