The Spanish Cape Mystery

Chapter Sixteen Nudaque Veritas

“Hardest job I’ve ever had to do,” growled Mr. Ellery Queen. He was hunched miserably over the wheel of the Duesenberg, watching the concrete road slip by. They were headed north, for home.

Judge Macklin sighed. “Now you know the problem that often faces a judge. Theoretically in capital crimes a man’s fate is decided by a jury of his peers. But so often the court... We haven’t solved, with all our vaunted civilization, the problem of true equity, my boy.”

“What else could I do?” cried Ellery. “I’ve often boasted that the human equation means nothing to me. But it does, damn it all. It does!”

“If only he hadn’t tried to be so infernally clever about it,” said the Judge sadly. “He claims that he knew very well how Marco had ruined his sister Stella, what the rascal was doing to her peace of mind. And then he saw — or thought he did — what was happening to his niece Rosa. The trouble with the lot of ’em seems to have been that no one confided in any one else. But granted his righteous feeling of anger at Marco and his determination to kill the scoundrel, why didn’t he take a revolver, shoot the man, and be done with it? No jury would have convicted him, especially if he pleaded that it was a crime of impulse, the result of a quarrel. Under the circumstances—”

“That’s the trouble with clever men,” muttered Ellery. “A crime being necessary, according to their lights, they determine to commit it so ingeniously that it will be insoluble. But the cleverer they are and the more complex their schemes, the more danger they run of something going wrong. The perfect crime!” He shook his head wearily. “The perfect crime is the chance killing of an unknown man in a dark alley with no witnesses. Nothing fancy. There are a hundred perfect crimes every year — committed by so-called submoronic thugs.”

They were silent for many miles. Something about the huge rock of Spanish Cape had nauseated the two men; they had almost stolen away, quite as if they had been the criminals. The only word of cheer that had been spoken had come from the lips of Harry Stebbins when they had stopped at his establishment to fill the gasoline tanks.

“I know Mr. Kummer, and he’s a good scout,” Stebbins had said quietly. “If all I hear about this Marco bird is true, there isn’t a jury in this county will convict Mr. Kummer. He’s as good as free right now.”

David Kummer lay in the county jail at Poinsett, still shaken by his authentic experience during the storm, but quietly grim. Godfrey had retained the most eminent counsel in the East to defend him. Spanish Cape glowered under a blight, cheerless in the sudden raw weather which had fallen. Rosa Godfrey had crept into the arms of young Cort, and her mother into the arms of her father. Only Tiller had remained the same — deferential, discreet, and imperturbable.

“You haven’t told me yet,” said the Judge dryly, as they skimmed along, “how this feat of mental legerdemain was accomplished, Ellery. Or was it just a lucky stab in the dark?” He fixed a shrewd eye on his companion, and chuckled as Ellery glared at him.

“Nothing of the sort!” said Ellery wrathfully, and then he grinned and turned a sheepish glance back at the road. “Psychologist!.. And they were such pretty notes, too.” He sighed. “However, I’ve gone over them so often in my mind since last night that I know them by heart. Where the deuce was I when that shipwreck intervened?”

“You had come to the conclusion that only the fifth of your five possibilities with regard to the clothes was true.”

“Oh, yes!” Ellery kept his eyes on the road. “And that was that the criminal took away Marco’s clothes simply because he wanted them as clothes.” The old gentleman’s eyes widened at the simplicity of the conclusion. “But why should the criminal have wanted Marco’s clothes as clothes? To clothe himself. Obviously, then, the criminal had no clothes of his own. Startling, but inevitable. Why did the criminal need clothes after the crime? Obviously again — to effect his escape. They were necessary to his getaway.”

Ellery waved his hand in a rather bitter gesture. “I originally discarded this possibility because I could not see why the murderer should have taken all the garments on Marco and left the cape behind. The cape was, as it were, the most enveloping garment of all. The criminal could hardly have neglected to take this figure-concealing garment — black as the night itself, reaching from throat to ankles — if he had wanted clothes as clothes for the purpose of a getaway. As a matter of fact, with the pressure of haste upon him after a murder, he could easily have dispensed with most, if not all, of the things he actually took — the coat, the shirt, the tie surely, perhaps even the trousers — and taken the cape alone; with the shoes, perhaps, for decent underpinning. Yet he went to the trouble under pressure of taking every stitch of Marco’s clothing and left the cape behind! I could only conclude that my fifth explanation was wrong and that still another existed. I didn’t come back to that line of thought for a long time — more’s the pity; but blundered off into a fog. It was not until Mrs. Marco’s testimony late yesterday afternoon, revealing that the cape had not been on Marco’s body or on the terrace during the crime, that I saw that the fifth explanation — clothes as clothes for a getaway — must be the correct one after all. There had been no cape for the murderer to take. And so I say that the cape has been the most important factor in this case. For lack of the vital bit of information concerning it this case would never have been solved.”

“I see that now,” said the Judge thoughtfully, “although how it gets you to Kummer is still beyond me.”

Ellery pressed his klaxon button savagely and shot around a startled Pierce Arrow. “Wait. I pointed out before that the criminal had no clothes of his own. That required clarification. To what extent, I asked myself, did the criminal have no clothes of his own; that is, in what state of undress was he when he came upon the scene of the intended crime? Now we knew precisely what he had filched from the body after the killing. Consequently I was able to say that he couldn’t have come in anything corresponding to what he had taken from Marco, otherwise he wouldn’t have taken them. That is, when he came he couldn’t have been wearing a shirt, a tie, coat, trousers, shoes, socks, or underwear. True, he had left Marco’s hat and stick behind. But to say that the criminal came with no clothing of the sort I’ve described on his body, and yet did come with a hat or stick or both, is of course preposterous. Apparently he had no need of a stick and hat, and simply left these articles behind. At any rate, he had no hat or stick when he came, either. Well, what possible clothing is left in which he might have come to the beach-terrace to commit the crime?”

“Hmm,” said the Judge. “It seems to me you can’t overlook the possibility that he came in, let us say, a bathing-suit.”

“Quite true. I didn’t overlook it. As a matter of fact, he might have come in a bathing-suit, a bathing-suit and robe, or a robe alone.”

“Well—”

Ellery said wearily: “Now, I’ve already established that he took Marco’s clothing to make his getaway. Could he have made his getaway if he had originally worn a bathing-suit, suit and robe, or robe alone? Certainly.”

“I don’t see that,” protested the old gentleman. “Not if he—”

“I know what you’re going to say. But I’ve analyzed this beyond the possibility of doubt. If he were escaping from the terrace to the house, any one of these classifications — bathing-suit, robe, or both — would have been sufficient for him and he wouldn’t have had to take Marco’s clothes. There would be nothing remarkable, in the observatory sense, in any one’s coming in from a ‘swim’ in the early hours — if he should be noticed. You were going to ask: What if he had escaped, not to the house, but to some remoter place by way of the highway? The answer to that is that bathing-suit or robe, if he had been wearing either or both during an escape by that route, would have been sufficient. Your friend Harry Stebbins said last Sunday morning, you’ll recall, that there’s a local ordinance which permits bathers to use the stretch of highway between the beaches — which takes in the exit from Spanish Cape — clad only in bathing costume. In fact, when we saw him he himself had just come walking back from one of the public beaches in a bathing-suit. But if this is common custom the murderer would have been safe to make his escape in such costume no matter at what hour — he could feel sure of not being stopped. Again, I say, had he worn a bathing-suit and escaped by way of the highway he wouldn’t have needed Marco’s clothes. The only other possible route — besides the house and main highway — is the sea itself. But of course he wouldn’t take clothes to escape by water, and besides there were no footprints in the sand, proving that escape had not been made by way of the Cove.”

“But, if that analysis is correct,” began the Judge in a puzzled way, “I don’t see—”

“Surely the conclusion is inevitable?” cried Ellery. “If the murderer had originally worn a bathing-suit, or suit and robe, or even robe alone, he would not have needed Marco’s clothes to make his getaway. But he did need Marco’s clothes to make his getaway, as I’ve shown. Therefore I had to conclude that the murderer did not originally wear a bathing-suit or robe when he came to the scene of the crime.”

“But that means—” said the old gentleman, shocked.

“Precisely. That means,” said Ellery calmly, “that he originally wore nothing. In other words, when he stole up on Marco and hit him over the head the murderer was as naked as on the day of his birth!’

Both men were silent against the roar of the Duesenberg’s powerful motor.

The Judge murmured after a moment: “I see. John Marco’s nakedness simply became the nakedness of the murderer. Very clever. Very clever indeed! Go on, my boy; this is extraordinary.”

Ellery blinked. He was very tired. Hell of a vacation! he thought. But he went on doggedly: “The question naturally followed, if the murderer came naked: Where did he come from? That was the easiest part of all. He didn’t come naked from the house, obviously. Certainly not from the highway. He could have come naked only from the third of the three possible routes: the sea.”

Judge Macklin uncrossed his long legs deliberately and turned his head to stare at Ellery. “Hmm,” he said dryly. “We seem to have unearthed a human weakness in the paragon. I can’t believe my ears. Here you’ve proved that the murderer must have come from the sea, and yet only Sunday I heard you prove with just as much conviction that the murderer couldn’t have come from the sea!”

Ellery blushed. “Go on; heap coals on my head. You’ll remember I referred only last night to one vital error in my former reasoning. Yes, that’s what I ‘proved,’ and it will stand in my mind as an eternal monument to a moment of thoughtlessness. It just tends to show that few arguments are impervious to fallacy. We merely hope... That was my major slip in this confounded case. You remember my ‘proof was based on two lines of reasoning. The first was that Marco, having begun to write a highly personal letter on the terrace before he was assaulted, dating it at one o’clock and mentioning that he was alone, must therefore have preceded his murderer. But if he preceded his murderer, the murderer came after one o’clock. But at about one o’clock the tide was very low, the beach was uncovered for at least eighteen feet, and there were no footprints in this sand. So I reasoned that the murderer could not have come from the sea, but had come by land, by the path. Don’t you see the fallacy in my reasoning?”

“Frankly, no.”

Ellery sighed. “It’s simple, but tricky. Didn’t see it myself until the final line of reasoning convinced me the first was wrong and caused me to reexamine it. The fallacy is merely that we took Marco’s word for it that he was alone on the terrace at one o’clock. He said he was alone; but the fact that he said it — even granting that he was not lying, had no motive for lying — doesn’t make it true. He simply thought he was alone! Either condition — thinking he was alone or being actually alone — would have caused the same effect: his sitting down to write a personal letter. I stupidly neglected to take the illusory condition into account.”

“By Judas!”

“Now it was evident why the first ‘proof’ went wrong. If he merely thought he was alone, it was possible that he wasn’t alone at the time he wrote the letter; in other words, that he hadn’t come first at all, but that his murderer had come first and was hiding on the terrace, unknown to Marco, in ambush.”

“But where?”

“Behind one of those enormous Spanish jars, of course. It’s the most likely place. Big as a man; you could easily hide behind it. Besides, you’ll remember that the weapon employed to stun Marco was a bust of Columbus from a niche in the wall near one of these Arabian Nights’ jars. The murderer simply reached over, grabbed it, tiptoed — in bare feet — over to Marco from behind while Marco sat writing, and struck the foul fiend over the head. Then he took a coil of wire which he had been carrying around his own neck, or wrist or ankle, and strangled the unconscious man. The use of wire alone — in preference to a more orthodox weapon — was in a way a confirmation that the murderer had come from the sea. Wire would not hamper swimming; it’s light and won’t spoil, like a gun; nor is it as awkward to carry as a knife, which would probably have to be carried between the teeth, making breathing difficult. Of course, this last hazard is unimportant. The important thing was that this reconstruction substantially satisfied all the conditions.”

“But the sand, my boy,” cried the Judge. “It showed no footprints! Then how do you maintain he came—”

“You’re usually more perspicacious,” murmured Ellery. “For if the murderer came first, he may have come at any time before one o’clock, before the tide got so low, before the beach was uncovered to the extent of eighteen feet!”

“But that note,” retorted the old gentleman with a stubborn air. “He couldn’t have come much before one o’clock. The false note actually set the appointment with Marco for one. Why should the murderer have done that, forcing himself to come so early? He could just as easily have made the time—”

Ellery sighed. “Did the note say one o’clock?”

“Of course!”

“Now, now, don’t be hasty. If you’ll recall, there was a scrap of paper missing immediately after the figure 1 in the typed note. Unhappy accident, my dear Judge. The actual figure must have been 12. The 2 dropped off with the missing scrap!”

“Hmm. But how do you know it was 12?”

“It must have been. Had the figure been 11, or 10, Marco certainly wouldn’t have permitted himself to remain involved in a bridge game until half-past eleven. He would have quit early enough to keep his appointment. Obviously, then, the appointment was set for the hour nearest eleven-thirty in point of coming time — which is twelve.”

“I see, I see,” muttered the Judge. “Misfortune for Kummer. Kummer arrived at the terrace a little before midnight, expecting Marco at once. I suppose he swam in naked for the completest freedom of his limbs; and then too the less he had on the less chance there would be, he must have figured, of dropping a clue from his person. But Marco, delayed by Mrs. Godfrey in his room unexpectedly, was held back for a full hour. Imagine having to wait an hour outdoors at night by the sea without clothes on!”

“It was considerably more dreadful than that, from Kummer’s standpoint,” said Ellery dryly. “Apparently you don’t grasp the central implication. It was that unexpected delay of an hour that caused him to take the clothes! If Marco had been on time, there would have been no clue at all to Kummer.”

“Don’t follow,” growled the Judge.

“Don’t you see,” exclaimed Ellery, “that the criminal must have figured on the tides? If he came a little before midnight, the tide was high — at its highest. He could almost step from the water to the lowest step of the stairs leading up to the terrace. No footprints to leave in the sand at all. Had Marco been on time, he would have killed the man and returned by way of the sea — still without leaving footprints. For the tide would still have been high enough — that crime would have taken only a minute or two — for him to leap over the intervening stretch of sand into the breakers. But he was forced to sit helplessly by on the terrace, watching the tide go out; the beach grew larger, and larger still, and still Marco wasn’t there. Yes, yes, a very tough spot for Kummer. He chose to stay and take the hard way out, planning what to do while he waited. I suppose he felt that he wouldn’t have an opportunity again to decoy Marco to a place where the man might be murdered with impunity. The inspiration about taking Marco’s clothes must have arisen from his realization that he and Marco were of a size.

“At any rate, I knew then that the criminal had come from the sea, before midnight, naked. Well, was he living at the house of Godfrey during the immediate period of the murder? But if he was, why should he have swum in from the sea — the long, difficult way around — when the route by land over the path from the house itself would have been infinitely easier?”

The old gentleman scraped his jaw. “Why, if he actually was residing in the house at the time and yet chose to come in swimming, it could only be to make it appear that the murderer was an outsider, had been compelled to come in from the sea by the outside route. In other words, to cover up the fact that he was living at the house.”

“Perfectly put,” applauded Ellery. “But if this had been his motive, he would have made it plain that he had come from the sea, would he not?”

“If that had been his motive — certainly.”

“Of course. He would have emphasized the fact, left an open trail from the sea, forced us to believe what he wanted us to believe. Yet, on the contrary, the murderer had made every effort to conceal the fact that he had come from the sea!”

“I glimpse that vaguely. How do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing he hadn’t taken the obvious escape-route; that is, the way he had come — via beach to water. Had he taken that escape-route lie would have left outgoing footprints in the sand, which would have told us the story at a glance. No, no, he wouldn’t have minded at all leaving such footprints had he been residing in the house at the time. But what did the murderer do in actuality? He made desperate efforts to avoid leaving such footprints! For he undressed the dead man and put on the borrowed clothes — all for the purpose of making his escape by a route other than the sea... In other words, it was evident that the murderer had gone to great lengths to avoid leaving footprints in the sand, that he wanted to conceal the fact that he had come from the sea. But any one living in the Godfrey house during the murder-period would not have wanted to conceal the fact that he had come from the sea. Therefore the criminal was not living in the Godfrey house during the immediate period of the murder. Q.E.D.”

“But only,” chuckled the Judge, “up to a certain point. Where did you go from there?”

“Well,” said Ellery gloomily, “when I knew the criminal wasn’t in the house during the immediate period of the murder it was child’s play. Every one who had been in or about the house on the night of the murder had to be dismissed as the possible murderer. That eliminated Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey, Mrs. Constable, Cecilia Munn and her precious husband, Cort, Tiller, Pitts, Jorum — the whole kit and boodle of ’em with the exception of Rosa Godfrey, Kummer, and Kidd.”

“But how did you arrive at Kummer specifically? Or did you select him as the likeliest possibility? Actually, you had no reason to suspect he wasn’t dead, you know.”

“Peace,” intoned Ellery. “It was demonstrable. For what were the characteristics of the criminal — deducible from the phenomena of his crime? They were six in number, and I listed them with care.

“One: He knew Marco and the Marco relationships intimately. Because he knew enough about the supposedly secret connection between Marco and Rosa to frame Marco with the false appointment, ostensibly made by Rosa, by way of the fake note.

“Two: He knew that Mrs. Godfrey came down early every morning to the beach for a swim. Had he not known this, he would have made his escape by the way he had come — over the beach to the water in the Cove and out to sea, leaving footprints. For the incoming tide in the late morning would have washed away the prints and left no trace. The fact that he did not choose that route tends to show he foresaw Mrs. Godfrey’s appearance before the tide would erase the prints; consequently that he knew she would come.

“Three: He knew the locale so well that he was acquainted with the times of the tides in the Cove.

“Four: He was an excellent swimmer. Since he came from the sea originally, he must have come from a boat anchored offshore — not too close so that it wouldn’t attract attention. But if he came from a boat, then he must have returned to the boat after the crime. He felt compelled, however, to escape by the highway route, as I’ve shown—”

“Wait—”

“Let me go on. To escape by the highway route he needed clothes, since he had no bathing-suit or robe; Stebbins’s place is directly opposite the exit from the Cape — the only spot where he could emerge from the estate by land — and he could take no chance of being seen coming out of that brightly illuminated exit in the nude. So he walked down the highway clothed in Marco’s duds, to one of the public beaches. Each beach is a mile or so from the Cove, as we noticed. What did he do? He undressed on the public beach — deserted at more than one-thirty in the morning — bundled up the clothes (he wouldn’t have risked leaving them there) and swam with the clothes the minimum of one mile back to the boat. Therefore, I say, logic indicated that the murderer was an excellent swimmer.”

“There are loopholes,” pointed out the Judge as Ellery paused for breath. “You say that if he came from a boat he must have returned to the boat. Not necessarily—”

“Most necessarily,” retorted Ellery. “He came naked in the first place, didn’t he? Did he expect to make an escape by land — in the nude? No, he expected to swim back to his boat. If he had planned to, with his getaway means of transportation waiting for him, then he did. But to go on.

“Five: Physically he must have been built like Marco. Why? In order to have been able to wear Marco’s clothes well enough so that had Stebbins seen him or had he met some one on the road during his march to the public beach there would have been nothing incongruous in the fit of the clothing to attract attention to him and probably get him into instant trouble, let alone leaving an indelible impress on a possible witness’s memory. A big man, then — certainly about the general build of Marco.

“And six: The criminal had had previous access to the Godfrey house. That was most important.”

“You mean the note?”

“Of course. He used the Godfrey typewriter in writing the faked note. But the typewriter had never left the house. Consequently the typist must necessarily have visited the house or been a member of the household to have been able to use the machine.”

Ellery slowed down for a red light. “Well,” he sighed, “there I was. Rosa Godfrey, even supposing that we doubted the genuineness of her story about having been tied up in Waring’s shack all night — could she have been the criminal after all? Impossible. She doesn’t swim. She can’t type. And while she might have masqueraded in Marco’s clothes — theoretically — she would certainly have taken his hat to conceal her woman’s hair. But Marco’s hat was not taken. Out on at least three counts, then.

“Kidd? Impossible for the reason that, from the descriptions provided, he was a giant of a man, so extraordinary in size that he could never have got into Marco’s clothes at all. And shoes — do you remember Rosa’s horrified description of the man’s enormous feet? No, no, not Kidd.

“There were,” continued Ellery with a tired, if reminiscent, smile, “certain whimsical possibilities. Constable, for instance — the unfortunate Laura’s invalid husband. But even he could be eliminated on a logical basis. He had never met the Godfreys and so couldn’t have known of Mrs. Godfrey’s natatorial habits; he had never been in the Godfrey house and so couldn’t have typed the ‘Rosa’ note.

“And Waring. The man who owns the cottage and cruiser. Why not he? Well, because he was, from Rosa’s description, a very tiny man; and he had never been — on your own testimony, my dear Solon, within the Godfrey house.

“Only Kummer was left. I didn’t know he was dead and had to consider him. I was startled to find that he satisfied all six conditions. He had intimated to Rosa that he knew about her and Marco. He certainly knew that his sister Stella went for a dip every morning; in fact, she told us he often accompanied her! He was a sportsman — loved the Cape, went sailing; undoubtedly he must have known about the tides. Swim? Very well indeed, according to his sister. Physical ability to wear Marco’s clothes? Oh, yes; he was of a size with the dead man, according to Rosa. And last, he certainly had access to the Godfrey typewriter, since he was a permanent resident in the house. So Kummer, the only one satisfying all these conditions, and moreover having been the only one on the sea (with the exception of Kidd) during the night of the murder, must have been the criminal. And there I was.”

“I suppose,” remarked the Judge after an interval of silence, “it’s really no feat to reconstruct what must have happened — after you’ve arrived at Kummer as the one and only possible criminal.”

Ellery depressed the accelerator viciously, and they whizzed by a caterpillar truck. “Of course. It was plain as a pikestaff. If Kummer was the criminal, then it was evident that the whole incident of the kidnaping had been a plant, pure and simple. A plant of Kummer’s to get himself out of the way under sympathetic circumstances, to make it look as if he was not only emotionally but physically an impossibility as the criminal. Very clever — much too clever.

“It was evident that he must have secretly hired this Kidd scoundrel to kidnap him — probably telling the monster that it was a practical joke of some sort; or if he told him the truth, paying him sufficient blood-money to insure his temporary silence at least. Kummer involved Rosa because he wanted a witness to what happened — a reliable witness who could tell the police after the event how courageously her uncle had acted, and how helpless he had been in the clutches of the gorilla-like Kidd. Then, too, it was expedient to get Rosa out of the way, where she couldn’t spoil the ruse of the false note.

“The whole theatrical business must have been rehearsed between him and Kidd, even to the punch to Kidd’s belly and the blow which rendered Kummer ‘unconscious.’ All for Rosa’s benefit. The touch about Kidd’s apparently mistaking Kummer for Marco — to the extent of actually addressing him as Marco! — was an inspiration designed to prepare the police for the innocence of Kummer and the murder of Marco apparently by an outsider or some one in the house. Kummer was smart enough to realize that the police wouldn’t accept Kidd as the actual murderer of Marco; there was no connection at all between the two. So he had Kidd ‘telephone’ to some one — in Rosa’s hearing, of course; that was very carefully planned, you may be sure — as if Kidd were reporting to an outside employer; as if there were a higher-up (other than Kummer himself, of course). With Kummer lying on the sand ‘unconscious’ while this call was being made, the deception was perfect. What actually happened, I suppose, was that Kidd dialled one of the Godfrey numbers, waited until he heard the click on the other end which signalled that some one had picked up a receiver or plugged in for a call, instantly pressed his thumb down on his own instrument to break the connection, and then calmly proceeded to conduct a one-sided conversation. No, no, we all erred about this wonderful Captain Kidd, as Kummer sardonically expected us to. He must have been anything but stupid to have followed orders so closely and executed them so flawlessly. Bit of a maritime actor.”

“But how did Kummer work the business of the typed note? He was out of the house when it was—”

“Found? Of course. But not when it was planted. He left it in Tiller’s closet downstairs just after dinner and just before he asked Rosa to accompany him outside for a chat. He knew Tiller wouldn’t find the note until nine-thirty — by the way, another qualification of the murderer, this knowledge of Tiller’s habits — when it would be presumed that it had been typed and left after Kidd’s call to his ‘superior.’ You will recall, too, that Cort received an anonymous telephone message the morning we blundered on the young lady in Waring’s cottage, telling Cort where he might find Rosa. That call, of course, came from Kummer. Wherever he had been hiding out along the coast, he risked making a public appearance just for the sake of that call. I imagine he would rather have given himself up than harmed a hair of that girl’s head. He wanted to make sure she was found as quickly as possible.”

“Doesn’t seem like it, considering the fact that he plunged her into hot water by signing her name to the note.”

Ellery shook his head. “He knew she would have a strong alibi: couldn’t type and found trussed up in Waring’s shack. He didn’t mind having the police think the note was framed; in fact, he preferred it for Rosa’s sake. And remember, if Marco hadn’t been careless about the destruction of the note it never would have been found at all and Rosa wouldn’t have been involved in that connection.”

They were approaching a large town and the traffic had thickened to an uncomfortable degree. For some time Ellery occupied himself blasphemously with the business of keeping the Duesenberg out of trouble. Judge Macklin sat nursing his chin, deep in thought.

“How much,” he demanded suddenly, “do you believe is true in Kummer’s confession?”

“Eh? I don’t know what you mean.”

They crawled into a busy main street. “You know, I’ve been wondering about what he said concerning this Kidd monster last night. I mean after he explained that he had taken advantage of the storm to make a dramatic re-entrance, deliberately scuttling the cruiser and swimming for his life to shore. He admitted that in his first story — about having killed Kidd in a fight yesterday evening on the boat — he had been mendacious. Then he said that what really happened was that as soon as they got out of sight of Spanish Cape in Waring’s cruiser Saturday night — after the ‘kidnaping’ — he landed the boat in an isolated spot, paid Kidd off, and sent him packing. Gave us the impression deliberately that Kidd is alive and has departed for parts unknown. But somehow it didn’t ring true.”

“Oh, nonsense,” snapped Ellery, honking his klaxon. His face convulsed as he leaned out of the car and yelled to a crowding taxicab with the righteous wrath of all motormaniacs: “What the hell d’ye think you’re doing?” Then he grinned and pulled his head back. “As a matter of fact, when I had evolved Kummer as the murderer of Marco I naturally asked myself what had become of Kidd. He had obviously been the merest tool. The question was: Had he known the truth, or had Kummer deceived him as to the genuine purpose behind the hocus-pocus of the ‘kidnaping’? And I saw that two things militated against a crime en double... You suspect Kummer has murdered Kidd, too?”

“I will confess,” murmured the Judge with a frown, “that some such thought had entered my mind.”

“No,” said Ellery. “I’m sure he didn’t. For one thing, it was not necessary for Kummer to tell Kidd what he really intended to do. And for another, Kummer is not what is known as a ‘natural’ killer. He is a thoroughly sane human being, as law-abiding as the next fellow. He isn’t the kind of man who would lose his head. He isn’t the kind of man who would deprive a fellow-creature of life merely for the sake of killing or because there was a faint chance mercy would rebound. Kidd, a scoundrel, was no doubt handsomely paid. Even if he has read about the murder somewhere and has considered blackmailing Kummer, he would be deterred by the realization that he himself was an accessory to the crime. This was Kummer’s protection against his hireling. No, no, Kummer told the truth.”

Neither spoke again until they had left the town behind and were on the open road once more. The air had a bite to it that was a foretaste of autumn, and the old gentleman suddenly shivered.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ellery solicitously. “Cold?”

“I don’t know,” chuckled the Judge, “whether it’s a reaction from the murder or the wind, but I believe I am.”

Inexplicably, Ellery stopped the car. He sprang out, opened the crowded rumbleseat, rummaged about, and then brought forth something black, soft, and bulky.

“What’s that?” asked the old gentleman suspiciously. “Where’d you get it? I don’t recall—”

“Drape it around your shoulders, pop,” said Ellery, jumping into the car and flinging the thing over the old man’s knees. “It’s a little memento of our experience.”

“What on earth—” began the Judge, astonished, as he shook the garment out.

“The would-be murderer of justice, the detour on the road of logic,” cried Ellery in oratorical fashion, releasing the handbrake. “Couldn’t resist it. Matter of plain truth, I swiped it from under Moley’s nose this morning!”

Judge Macklin held it up. It was John Marco’s black cape.

The old gentleman shivered again, drew a breath, and then with a brave gesture flung the cape over his shoulders. Ellery heeled the accelerator, grinning. And after a while the old gentleman began to sing in a robust baritone the interminable chorus of Anchors Aweigh.