The Spanish Cape Mystery

Chapter Thirteen Foul Deeds Will Rise

He knocked insistently on the door of Mrs. Godfrey’s sitting-room. To their astonishment it was opened by the millionaire himself, who thrust his ugly face pugnaciously up at them and scowled.

“Well?”

“We must speak with Mrs. Godfrey,” said Ellery. “It’s on a matter of the utmost importance—”

“These are my wife’s private quarters,” snapped Godfrey. “We’ve been hounded from pillar to post until my patience is exhausted. As far as I can see all you’ve accomplished is a lot of talking and running about. Can’t this ‘important’ matter wait until morning?”

“No, it can’t,” said Inspector Moley rudely, although he had no idea what was in Ellery’s mind; and he pushed past the millionaire into the room.

Stella Godfrey rose slowly from a wide couch. She was dressed in something both voluminous and thin, and her mules were on bare feet. She drew her négligée about her with a queer light in her eyes that puzzled them — a soft, dreamy, almost peaceful expression.

Godfrey marched himself in his brocaded dressing-gown to her side, standing a little before her in a protective attitude. The three men exchanged startled glances. Peace had come at last to the house of Godfrey — a peace and understanding that had not existed before. The little man, then, was even more amazingly unpredictable than his reputation... They could not help visualizing at this moment the convulsed fury on the face of Joseph Munn as he loomed over his wife in the gardens. Munn was the beast, the primitive man with a simple psychology — a savage sense of possession, a blind agony venting itself in the impulse to hurt, to batter, to crush when that sense of possession was outraged. But Walter Godfrey’s was a civilized, almost an effete, psychology. For more than a score of years his wife, while faithful to her marriage vows, had virtually not existed for him; and yet when he discovered that at last she had violated those vows, he recognized her existence, apparently forgave her, and began once more to devote himself to her! Of course, it might have been the unfortunate fate of Laura Constable that drew him to her; the stout woman had been a tragic figure, even in silence, and her shocking end had cast a pall over the household. Or perhaps it was the proximity of danger, the overhanging threat of the law, the fusing property of common fears. At any rate, the Godfreys were as tenderly reconciled as the Munns were irremediably ruptured; that much was evident.

“Mrs. Constable,” began Stella Godfrey; the shadows under her eyes had deepened. “She’s — they’ve taken her away?”

“Yes,” said Moley gravely. “She’s committed suicide. At least you ought to be thankful that there’s not another murder to complicate matters.”

“How horrible,” shuddered Mrs. Godfrey. “She was so — so lonely.”

“Frightfully sorry to intrude at such a time,” murmured Ellery. “Violence breeds violence, and no doubt you’re all heartily sick of the whole lot of us. Nevertheless, Mrs. Godfrey, we have a certain duty to perform; and as a matter of fact the more co-operation we get from you the sooner you’ll be rid of us.”

“What do you mean?” she said slowly.

“We believe the time has come to put our cards plainly and openly on the table. Your silence has put us to considerable trouble, but fortunately we’ve been able to learn nearly all the truth in other ways. Please believe me when I say that it’s no longer necessary for you to keep silent.”

The dark woman’s hand groped for her husband’s. “All right,” said Godfrey suddenly. “That’s fair enough. How much do you know?”

“As far as Marco and Mrs. Godfrey are concerned,” said Ellery regretfully, “everything.”

Mrs. Godfrey put her other hand to her throat. “How did you—?”

“We overheard you confess your indiscretion to Mr. Godfrey. A painful breach of hospitality, but we had no choice.”

Her eyes fell; dark color dyed her face. Godfrey said coldly: “We won’t discuss the ethics of the situation. I hope this isn’t for public consumption?”

“Reporters haven’t been told anything,” said Moley. “Come on, Mr. Queen. What’s on your mind?”

“Naturally,” said Ellery, “this is strictly among the five of us... Mrs. Godfrey.”

“Yes?” Then she flung her head up and returned his gaze.

“That’s better,” smiled Ellery. “John Marco was blackmailing you, was he not?”

He watched husband and wife intently. If he had expected Mrs. Godfrey to react with fear, and the millionaire with shock or anger, he was disappointed. It was plain that since the confessional scene in the garden the night before the woman had unburdened herself completely. In a way, he was glad; it simplified matters.

She said: “Yes,” at once, and Walter Godfrey snapped: “Mrs. Godfrey has told me everything, Queen. What’s the point?”

“How many times did you pay him money, Mrs. Godfrey?”

“Five, six. I don’t remember. First in the city, then here.”

“Substantial sums?”

“Quite.” They could hardly hear her voice.

“Come to the point!” rasped Walter Godfrey.

“But your personal bank-accounts are still not exhausted?”

“My wife has a considerable fortune in her own name! Will you come to the point?” shouted Godfrey.

“Please, Mr. Godfrey; I’m asking these questions out of no morbid curiosity, I assure you. Now, Mrs. Godfrey, have you ever told any one — excepting your husband, of course — of this connection between you and Marco, of the money you’ve been paying over to him?”

She whispered, “No.”

“Just a minute, Mr. Queen.” The Inspector leaned forward, and Ellery looked vaguely irritated. “Mrs. Godfrey, I want you to clear up that business of your visit to Marco’s room Saturday night.”

“Oh,” she said faintly. “I—”

“Mrs. Godfrey has told me all about that,” snarled Godfrey. “She went there to plead with him. Earlier in the day he had given her an ultimatum; she was to pay him a very large sum on Monday. She went to his room Saturday night to beg him to stop his demands. She was afraid she could not touch any more money without my discovering it.”

“Yes,” whispered the dark woman. “I... I almost went on my knees to him, begged him... He was cruel. Then I... I asked him about Mrs. Constable, Mrs. Munn. He told me to mind my own business. In my house!” Her face flamed. “And he called me...”

“Yes, yes,” said Ellery hurriedly. “That’s quite satisfactory, eh, Inspector? Now, Mrs. Godfrey, you’re sure no one else knows that you’ve been paying Marco hush-money?”

“No one. Oh, I’m sure no one—”

Rosa said tightly from the open door to Mrs. Godfrey’s boudoir: “I’m sorry, mother, I couldn’t help hearing... That’s not true, Mr. Queen. Mother isn’t telling a lie; she just doesn’t realize how transparent she’s been. To everyone but father, who’s been blind.”

“Oh, Rosa,” moaned Stella Godfrey, and the girl went swiftly to her and caught her in brown arms. Godfrey winced and muttered as he turned away a little.

“What is this?” exploded Moley. “We are learnin’ things! You mean you knew all this was going on between your mother and Marco, Miss Godfrey?”

Rosa murmured: “There, darling,” to her sobbing mother and said quietly: “Yes. No one had to tell me. I’m a woman, and I have eyes. Besides, mother is a poor actress. Every hour of torture she’s gone through since that beast came up here I’ve shared in secret. Of course I knew. We all knew. I’m positive David saw it clearly. I think even Earle — Earle! — knows. And of course all the servants... Oh, mother, mother, why didn’t you confide in me?”

“Then... but—” gasped Stella Godfrey, “that affair between you and—”

“Rosa!” cried the millionaire.

Rosa whispered: “I had to do something. Distract his attention. Anything... I didn’t even dare confide in David, and I’ve always told him everything.

It... it was just a job I felt I had to do alone. Oh, I know I was silly and wrong; I should have gone to mother, to father, made every one face the issue squarely. But like a fool I tried—”

“A gallant fool, at any rate,” said Judge Macklin softly. His eyes were shining.

“Well!” said Ellery, drawing a deep breath. “I’ll wager this will be comforting news to young Mr. Cort... To proceed, for we may not have as much time as we think. Mrs. Godfrey, have you been approached by a mysterious person since the murder of Marco — approached to pay further blackmail for the surrender of whatever tangible evidence Marco possessed of your relationship with him?”

“No!” She was obviously terrified at the mere thought, and she clung to Rosa’s hand as if she were a child.

“What would you do if such a demand should suddenly be made of you?”

“I—”

“Fight!” thundered Godfrey. “Fight it out.” His sharp little eyes glittered. “Look here, Queen, you’ve something up your sleeve. I’ve been watching you, and I like your style. Is this a request for co-operation?”

“It is.”

“Then you’ve got it. Stella, please calm yourself. We’re going to be sensible about this. These people know more about such things than we do and I’m sure they’ll be discreet.”

“Excellent,” said Ellery heartily. “Now, some one has secured possession of the proofs of Mrs. Godfrey’s affair with the dead man. That person will unquestionably get in touch with you, Mrs. Godfrey, at any moment, demanding a lump settlement in return for those proofs. If you do exactly as we tell you, it’s quite possible we may catch your blackmailer and clear away an important obstruction to the solution of this case.”

“Very well, Mr. Queen! I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the spirit; much better this way, you see, Mrs. Godfrey. There’s a strength in unity that our blackmailer won’t suspect—”

“Do you mean,” demanded Godfrey shrewdly, “that this blackmailer is the murderer of Marco?”

Ellery smiled. “Inspector Moley believes— Well, one thing at a time, Mr. Godfrey. Now, Inspector, if you’ll put that experienced brain of yours to work—”

By ten the next morning the anticipated telephone-call to Mrs. Godfrey had not come through. The three men haunted the house, increasingly anxious and silent. Ellery especially was worried. The blackmailer could not possibly have suspected a trap. The creature had called at ten-thirty the previous night, asking for Munn; and Munn, apparently believing himself secure from surveillance, had briefly damned him and hung up. The detective eavesdropping on Moley’s order at the switchboard — despite Ellery’s admonition — had been unable to trace the call. But Ellery knew that nothing the detective had done could have made the caller suspect he was being overheard.

Some of the mystery was dispelled with the arrival of the morning newspapers. The local county sheet and the leading tabloid of the city of Maartens both roared headlines which told substantially the same story: the story of Cecilia Ball Munn’s illicit affair with the late John Marco. Since both papers were under the same ownership, both printed identical proofs — letters and photographs.

“Should have anticipated this, too,” muttered Ellery, throwing the papers down in disgust. “Of course that worm wouldn’t have tried the same stunt twice. This time the proofs were sent to the papers. I must be getting rusty.”

“Not taking the chance,” said the Judge thoughtfully, “that the thing would be hushed up again. Unquestionably his chief motive in sending the Constable documents to Moley and now the Munn documents to the press was not so much the punishment of Mrs. Constable and the Munns as a warning to Mrs. Godfrey. I should say the call will come soon.”

“Sooner the better. I’m getting fidgety. Poor Moley! He’ll never emerge alive from that press conference. Roush tells me they’re all on his neck.” The editorial pages of both papers had speculated openly on the possibility that at last the “dilatory” police had found the motive for Marco’s murder. The suicide of Mrs. Constable was also played up as the alternative theory — the tacit confession of a murderess. But of official confirmation there was no sign. Apparently the Inspector had thought better of his “solution.” With the Munns now the center of interest, Moley had them whisked out of sight and range of the reporters — the woman on the verge of hysteria, the man wary, silent, and dangerous.

The Inspector stamped back, weariness and rage battling for possession of his face. Without speech the three men retired to the alcove in which the switchboard stood. There was nothing to do but wait. The Godfreys were in Mrs. Godfrey’s boudoir; a detective sat at the board with earphones clamped about his head and a stenographic notebook open before him. Extra ‘phones had been plugged into the main line; there were earpieces about the heads of all of them.

The alarm buzzed in their ears at ten-forty-five. At the first syllable Ellery nodded eagerly. There was no mistaking that queer, muffled voice. The voice asked for Mrs. Godfrey; the detective calmly connected the two, picked up his pencil, and waited. Ellery muttered a prayer that the woman would play her part well.

He might have spared his fears. She acted the role of stupefied, submissive victim to perfection — almost with enthusiasm, born out of the surging relief in her heart.

“Mrs. Stella Godfrey?” said the voice with an undercurrent of urgency.

“Yes?”

“Are you alone?”

“Alo— Who are you? What do you want?”

“Are you?”

“Yes. Who—”

“Never mind. I’m in a hurry. Did you see this morning’s Maartens Daily News?”

“Yes! But—”

“Did you read about Cecilia Munn and John Marco?”

Stella Godfrey was silent. When she replied her voice had become cracked and weary. “Yes. What do you want?”

The voice recounted a list of facts, at each one of which Stella Godfrey moaned... It had become strident now, insistent, almost hysterical. It was the oddest thing, and both Inspector Moley and Judge Macklin looked puzzled. “Do you want me to send those things to the papers?”

“No, oh, no!”

“Or to your husband?”

“No! I’ll do anything if you won’t—”

“That’s better. You’re acting sensibly now. I want twenty-five thousand dollars, Mrs. Godfrey. You’re a wealthy woman. You can pay it out of your own pocket, and no one will be the wiser.”

“But I’ve already paid — so many times—”

“This will be the last time,” said the voice eagerly. “I’m not a fool, like Marco. I’m playing square on this. You pay me that money and you’ll have the photographs and documents back in the next mail. I mean this. I’m not double-crossing you—”

“I’ll do anything to get them back,” sobbed Mrs. Godfrey. “Ever since they... oh, my life’s been miserable!”

“Sure it has,” said the voice; it was stronger now, confident. “I understand just how you feel. Marco was a rotten dog and he got what he deserved. But I’m up against it and need money... How soon can you get hold of the twenty-five thousand?”

“Today!” she cried. “I can’t give it to you in cash, but I have in my private safe here...”

“Oh,” said the voice strangely. “That’s no good, Mrs. Godfrey. I want cash in small bills. I’m not taking any chances—”

“But it’s as good as cash!” Mrs. Godfrey had been instructed in this very carefully. “They’re negotiable bonds. Besides, how could I get cash in small bills? It would be suspicious. The police are all over my house. I cannot even leave the grounds.”

“There’s something in that,” muttered the voice. “But if you think you’re going to put one over on me—”

“And have the police find out? Do you think I’m insane? The last thing I want is for any one to — to know. Besides, you don’t have to turn the — the proofs over to me until you’ve cashed the bonds. Oh, please — give me my chance!”

The caller kept quiet, apparently weighing the risks. Then the voice said with a note of desperation: “All right. Let’s leave it that way. I wouldn’t want you to come yourself anyway. And I can’t come to you — not with all those police at your place. Can you mail me the bonds? Can you mail a package without having them find out?”

“I’m sure I can. Oh, I know I can! Where—”

“Don’t write this down. You don’t want anybody finding a note. Remember this address.” The voice stopped, and for a moment the house of Godfrey was a tomb. “J. P. Marcus, care of General Delivery, Central Post Office, Maartens. Repeat that.” Mrs. Godfrey in a trembling voice obeyed. “Right. Send the bonds to that address. Use plain brown paper, sealed. Send it first-class mail. Right away. If you do it now, it should get to the Maartens post office before closing tonight.”

“Yes. Yes!”

“Remember, if you pull a trick those photos and things will be in the hands of the Maartens Daily News editor, and nothing you can do will stop that story from being smeared all over the front page.”

“No! I’m not—”

“See that you don’t. If you’re on the level with me, you’ll have the proofs back in a few days. As soon as I can cash the bonds.”

There was a click and the line went dead. Upstairs, Mrs. Godfrey swayed into the arms of her husband, whose face was strangely tender. At the switchboard the four men removed their earphones and looked at one another.

“Well,” said Moley in a hushed voice, “this looks good, Mr. Queen.”

Mr. Queen said nothing for some time; he was frowning and tapping his lips with the edge of his pince-nez. Then he murmured: “I believe we should enlist the services of Tiller.”

“Tiller!”

“Oh, it’s almost mandatory, if this turns out as I anticipate it will. If it doesn’t there’s no harm done. You needn’t tell him anything vital. Tiller’s one of those rare birds of passage who can exist on the minutest crumb of information.”

Moley stroked his chin. “Well, this is your party, and I s’pose you know what you’re doing.” He gave brusque orders and went upstairs to supervise the now all-important mailing operation.

“There’s only one thing that worries me,” confessed Inspector Moley as they sat back in the tonneau of the big black police car late that afternoon speeding toward Maartens. He glanced at the neat, bowler-topped head of Tiller, who was seated beside the driver before them, and instinctively lowered his voice. “And that’s the photos, deposition, letters, or whatever the hell this blackmailer’s got on Mrs. G. How do we know he hasn’t cached ’em somewhere? We may nab him, but then the proofs may slip through our fingers.”

“Conscience?” said Ellery over his cigaret. “I thought, Inspector, that you rather anticipated catching Marco’s murderer this afternoon. On the plausible theory that — if he was killed for the papers — the present possessor of the papers is the murderer. Don’t tell me you’re suddenly distressed about the feelings of our hostess.”

“Well,” grumbled Moley, “it is a nasty mess for her, and she’s a nice woman underneath. I wouldn’t want to give her any unnecessary heartache.”

“There isn’t much danger of missing those documents,” said Judge Macklin, shaking his head. “They’re much too valuable to that creature to leave lying about. Besides, he knows that if this is a trap — which I greatly doubt, judging from his reactions over the telephone — he has no hope of collecting, anyway. He’s utterly desperate now, now that the Constable and Munn attacks failed. No, no, that threat was for effect only. If you catch him, Inspector, you’ll find the documents on his person.”

They had slipped out of Spanish Cape unobtrusively, on the Inspector’s insistence, and at his orders all vigilance there had apparently been relaxed. A drab-colored but powerful car followed them, filled with men in plain clothes, but another just as drab and quite as powerful lurked in the main road outside Spanish Cape, ready for any contingency. Conversations with the Maartens police had insured instant surveillance of the general post-office building in that city. The clerks had been put on their guard and carefully instructed. The package, filled with dummy bonds, but externally faithful to the blackmailer’s instructions, had been ostentatiously posted in Wye, the nearest town, with other mail by a servant, and permitted to go through the post in the ordinary course. Inspector Moley had left nothing whatever to chance.

The two cars unloaded their passengers several blocks from the Maartens post office. The detectives in the second car made their way singly toward the big marble building, in ten minutes surrounding it with an invisible cordon. Inspector Moley and his companions entered the building secretly through a rear entrance. Tiller, his bright little eyes inquisitive, was stationed in a corner of the large general-delivery cage and given precise instructions.

“The instant you see any one you recognize,” concluded Ellery, “give the clerk the signal. He’ll do the rest. Or give it to us. The clerk will know from the name.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Tiller. “You mean some one connected with the case?”

“Verily. And don’t slip, Tiller; not if you value your life. Inspector Moley is setting enormous store by this afternoon. Keep out of sight but where you can see the faces of the people coming to the window. Our quarry might run like hell on seeing you.”

“You may rely on me,” said Tiller gravely; and he took up his position in the cage. Moley, the Judge, and Ellery concealed themselves behind a partition near a door, set chairs for themselves, and kept their eyes glued upon three unused slots in the wall. Several detectives were stationed in the large room, scribbling at the tables, making out interminable and meaningless money-order blanks. Occasionally one of them walked out into the street, to be replaced instantly by another detective from the outside. Moley inspected his forces with a critical eye, but he could find nothing wrong. The trap was set, it looked perfectly innocent, and there was nothing to do but wait for the victim.

They waited for an hour and twenty minutes, growing tenser with each jerk of the big clock’s hand on the wall. The ordinary business of the post office went on, people passed in and out, stamps and money-orders and parcels passed through the windows, the Postal Savings window was in constant use, long queues of customers formed and vanished and formed again.

Moley’s cheroot had long since gone out; it stuck between his jaws like a snag at low tide. There was no conversation.

And yet, when the moment came, for all their tension and alertness it almost passed them by. The deception was so nearly perfect. Had it not been for the clerk and Tiller — precautions for which Inspector Moley was heartily thankful afterward — precious time would have been wasted during which considerable confusion might have ensued, permitting the intended victim’s escape.

At only ten minutes before the closing hour, when the post office was thronged with homegoing business people, a small thin dark-faced man walked in from the street and made for the General Delivery window. He was dressed quietly; he had a tiny black mustache and a mole under his left eye on the most prominent part of his cheekbone. He took his place in the long line and moved up from time to time like a mouse. If there was anything noticeable about him it was his gait: he walked with a slight hip-swaying motion that was very odd. But otherwise he was a colorless creature who would be swallowed in any crowd.

When the man before him had stepped away from the window he advanced, placed one small dark hand on the ledge, and said in a husky voice, as if he had a cold in his throat: “Anything for J. P. Marcus?”

The three men, peering through the slots, saw the clerk scratch his right ear and turn aside. At the same instant Tiller’s head appeared from around the corner and he whispered: “No mistake. Disguised, sir! But that’s the one.”

The clerk’s signal and Tiller’s whisper brought them to their feet, galvanized. Moley strode to the door, whipped it open noiselessly, and raised his right arm. He was visible to passersby in the street through the huge plate-glass windows. At the same instant the clerk turned back to the window with a small flattish package done up in brown paper, addressed in ink and its stamps properly canceled. The small dark man grasped the package in his thin hand and, stepping aside from the window, half-turned.

He looked up, belatedly warned by a sixth sense, to find himself in a room filled with silent, staring people. He was surrounded by a solid wall of grim men, slowly closing in on him. A curious pallor spread over his face.

“What’s in that package, Mr. Marcus?” asked Inspector Moley pleasantly, clamping his left hand on the man’s shoulder, the right buried deep in his coat-pocket.

The brown parcel slipped out of the thin hand and fell to the floor. The dark man swayed and followed it, crumbling almost in sections. Moley stooped swiftly and slapped at the breast-pocket. A comical expression of stupefaction spread over his face.

“Why, he’s fainted!” exclaimed Judge Macklin.

“Not ‘he’, sir,” said the soft voice of Tiller from behind. “The mustache is false. In a manner of speaking, sir, he’s a she — as I believe the Inspector, sir, has just discovered.” He tittered decorously behind his hand.

“A woman?” gasped the Judge.

“Had me fooled, all right,” said the Inspector triumphantly, rising. “But here’s the goods in her pocket, by God. We’ve done it!”

“Good make-up,” muttered Ellery. “But the characteristic movement of the hips gave her away. This is Mrs. Godfrey’s ex-maid, Tiller?”

“I knew her by the mole, sir,” murmured Tiller. “Dear, dear, how easily some persons stoop to sin! Yes, sir, this is Pitts.”