The Spanish Cape Mystery

Chapter Five The House of Strange Guests

They found the patio deserted except for two bored policemen, and followed Inspector Moley across the bright flags to an exotic-looking Moorish archway, which brought them into a small arcade decorated with conventional arabesques and finished off with dados of glazed and painted tile.

“You’d never suspect the nabob, from looking at him, of having a passion for Orientalism,” remarked Ellery. “Apparently he instructed his architect to stress the Moorish side of Spanish architecture. Page Freud.”

“I sometimes wonder,” growled the old gentleman, “how you sleep so soundly of nights — with your mind.”

“At the same time,” continued Ellery, pausing to inspect a vivid tile in red, yellow, and green, “I wonder if living in a Saracenic atmosphere — with a hot Spanish sauce added — doesn’t do something to the Nordic mind. At that, it doesn’t take much to kindle apparently dead fires. There’s a certain type of female Occidental, like Mrs. Constable, for instance, who...”

“Come in, come in, gentlemen,” said Inspector Moley fretfully. “There’s a lot to do.”

They were assembled in a vast Spanish living-room which might have been transported whole from the country hacienda of a mediaeval don of Castile. They were all there — Mrs. Constable, her pallor relieved by a faint color, her eyes warily blank now instead of frightened; the Munns, two unsmiling statues; Mrs. Godfrey and her nervous handkerchief; Rosa, her back to an unhappy Earle Cort; and Walter Godfrey, still in dirty slacks, a fat little menial restlessly pacing the brilliant mats on the floor. The shadow of John Marco loomed black and heavy over their heads.

“We’ll look at his room right away,” continued Moley, his eyes distracted. “Now, folks, listen to me. I’ve got my duty to perform, I don’t give a rap who you people are or how sore you get or how many high muckamucks you call up to make your kicks to. We’ve got an honest administration in this County and State. And that goes for you, too, Mr. Godfrey.” The fat little man looked at Moley with smouldering eyes, but he continued his pacing. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this thing and nobody here’s going to stop me. Is that clear?”

Godfrey halted. “No one is trying to stop you,” he snapped. “Quit gabbling, man, and get to work!”

“That’s what I’m doing right now — working,” grinned Moley a little maliciously. “You’d be surprised what hard work it is sometimes to convince people in a murder-case that there won’t be any funny business tolerated. You’re so anxious, Mr. Godfrey; suppose we start with you. Is it true that you didn’t have anything to do with the presence here this summer of the deceased, John Marco?”

Godfrey flashed a queer look at the tense face of his wife. “Did Mrs. Godfrey tell you that?” It was almost as if he were surprised.

“Never mind what Mrs. Godfrey told me. Please answer the question.”

“It’s true, I didn’t.”

“Did you know Marco socially before Mrs. Godfrey invited him to stay here?”

“I know very few people socially, Inspector,” said the millionaire coldly. “I believe Mrs. Godfrey met the man at some function in the city. I was probably introduced to him.”

“Have any business dealings with him?”

“I beg your pardon!” Godfrey looked contemptuous.

“You didn’t have a deal on with him?” persisted Moley.

“Nonsense. I don’t believe I spoke three words to the fellow all summer. I didn’t like him and I don’t care who knows it. But, since I never interfere in Mrs. Godfrey’s social arrangements—”

“Where were you at one o’clock this morning?”

The millionaire’s snaky little eyes hardened. “In bed, asleep.”

“What time’d you go to bed?”

“At ten-thirty.”

Moley barked: “And left your guests still up?”

Godfrey said softly: “They are not my guests, Inspector, but my wife’s; suppose we get that clear at once. If you will question these people, I believe you’ll find that I have had as little to do with them as was physically possible.”

“Walter!” cried Stella Godfrey in an anguished voice; she bit her lip at once. Rosa averted her dark young head; there was sick embarrassment on her face. The Munns looked uncomfortable and the big man muttered something beneath his breath. Only Mrs. Constable did not change expression.

“Then ten-thirty was the last time you saw Marco alive?”’

Godfrey stared at him. “You’re a fool.”

“Hey?” gasped the Inspector.

“If I had seen Marco after ten-thirty, do you think I should admit it?” The millionaire hitched his slacks like a perspiring little laborer and actually smiled. “You’re wasting your time, man.”

Ellery saw Moley’s big hands twitch convulsively and the cords of his thick throat tighten. But he merely turned his head away and demanded, quietly enough: “Who saw Marco last?”

There was an itchy silence. Moley’s eyes swept about, searching. “Well, well?” he said patiently. “Don’t be bashful. I’m just trying to trace the man’s movements last night up to the time he was killed.”

Mrs. Godfrey smiled desperately. “We... we played bridge.”

“That’s better! Who, and at what time?”

“Mrs. Munn and Mr. Cort,” said Stella Godfrey in a low voice, “played against Mrs. Constable and Mr. Marco. Mr. Munn and my daughter, and my brother David and I were also to play; but since Rosa and David didn’t appear, Mr. Munn and I merely watched. We had separated immediately after dinner for a few moments, and finally we gathered in the patio. Then we went into the living-room — came in here, you see — and began to play at about eight, I should say, or a little after. We broke up near midnight. Perhaps a quarter to twelve, to be more accurate. That’s all, Inspector.”

“Then what?”

She lowered her eyes. “Why — we just broke up, that’s all. Mr. Marco was the first to leave. He... he had seemed a little impatient toward the end of the game, and as soon as the last rubber was played he said good-night to everybody and went upstairs to his room. The others—”

“He went up alone?”

“I think-Yes, he did.”

“Is that right, everybody?”

They nodded instantly; with the exception of Walter Godfrey, who had a half-sneer on his ugly little face.

“May I interrupt, Inspector?” Moley shrugged, and Ellery faced them with a friendly smile. “Mrs. Godfrey, were you all in this room constantly between the time the game began and the time it broke up?”

She looked vague. “Oh, I don’t think so. I think that at some time during the evening every one was out of the room for a few moments or so. You don’t notice those things particularly—”

“Did the original four players play continuously all evening? Was there any change of partners, or players?”

Mrs. Godfrey averted her head slightly. “I... don’t recall.”

Mrs. Munn’s hard, beautiful face came alive suddenly. Her platinum hair radiated a sheen in the sunshine pouring through the windows. “I do! Mrs. Godfrey was asked by Mr. Cort at one time — it must have been around nine o’clock — if she wouldn’t like to take his hand. She said no, but suggested that if Mr. Cort didn’t want to play any more maybe Mr. Munn did.”

“That’s right,” said Munn quickly. “That’s right. Clean forgot about that, Cecilia.” His mahogany face was perfectly wooden. “I sat in, and Cort moseyed off somewhere.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” said the Inspector. “Where’d you go, Mr. Cort?”

The young man, his ears flaming, set his lips angrily. “What difference does it make? Marco was still at the table when I left!”

“Where’d you go?”

“Well — if you must know,” muttered Cort in a sullen way, “I went off looking for Rosa — for Miss Godfrey.” Rosa’s back twitched, and she sniffed audibly. “I was worried about her!” burst out the young man. “She’d gone off with her uncle not long after dinner and hadn’t come back. I couldn’t understand—”

“I can take care of myself,” said Rosa coldly, without turning.

“You took care of yourself last night, all right,” retorted Cort with bitterness. “That’s a fine way to take care of yourself—”

“I suppose you’d have been the brave hero and—”

“Rosa dear,” said Mrs. Godfrey helplessly.

“How long was Mr. Cort away?” asked Ellery gently. No one answered. “How long, Mrs. Munn?”

“Oh, a long time!” shrilled the ex-actress.

“And was Mr. Cort the only one who left the table and remained away — a long time?”

Unaccountably, they all looked at one another and then away. Then Mrs. Munn said again, in her high metallic voice: “He was not. Jo — Mr. Marco left, too.”

Dead silence enveloped them. “And what time was that?” asked Ellery in a soft voice.

“A couple of minutes after Mr. Cort left.” Her thin white hand strayed to her hair and she smiled with a sort of nervous coquetry. “He asked Mrs. Godfrey to take his hand, and then he excused himself and went out into the patio.”

“You have a good memory, haven’t you, Mrs. Munn?” grunted Moley.

“Oh, swell — I mean, a very good memory. Joe — Mr. Munn always says to to me—"

“Where’d you go exactly, Cort?” demanded Moley abruptly.

Something flickered in the young man’s hazel eyes. “Oh, I wandered about the grounds. I called for Rosa several times, but there was no answer.”

“Did you come back before Marco quit the game?”

“Well...”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe I can tell you that,” said a soft pleasant male voice from a far doorway, and they turned, startled, toward the sound. A little man dressed in decorously-cut black stood there in a half-bowed attitude that was at once obsequious and self-possessed. He was a colorless midge with tiny hands and feet and a perfectly smooth face that suggested in a vague, elusive way — the bland skin, the faint elongation of the eyes — Oriental blood. But he spoke facile, cultured English and his sober clothes had a London look about them. “Eurasian far back,” thought Ellery.

“And who are you?” growled the Inspector.

“Tiller, you get back where you belong!” shouted Walter Godfrey furiously, advancing upon the little man in black with pudgy doubled fists. “Who asked you to volunteer information? Speak when you’re spoken to!”

The little man said apologetically: “Of course, Mr. Godfrey,” and turned to go; but there was an amused gleam in his eye.

“Here, here, come back here,” said Moley hastily. “And I’ll thank you, Mr. Godfrey, not to interfere.”

“Tiller, I warn you—” snarled the millionaire.

The little man hesitated. Moley said in an even voice: “Come back here, Tiller.” Godfrey shrugged suddenly and retreated to a huge armorial chair in a corner of the room. The little man advanced with silent steps. “Just who are you?”

“I am the house valet, sir.”

“Mr. Godfrey’s, too?”

“No, sir, Mr. Godfrey does not employ the services of a personal valet. Mrs. Godfrey employs me to attend the wants of the gentlemen who visit Spanish Cape.”

Moley fixed him with an expectant eye. “All right. Now what were you going to say?”

Earle Cort glared at him for an instant and then turned away, smoothing his blond hair with a nervous brown hand. Mrs. Godfrey fumbled with her handkerchief. The little man said: “I can tell you about Mr. Cort and Mr. Marco last night, sir. You see—”

“Tiller,” whispered Stella Godfrey, “you’re discharged.”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Oh, no, he isn’t,” said Moley. “Not until this murder is cleared up. What about Mr. Cort and Mr. Marco, Tiller?”

The valet cleared his throat and spoke quietly, his almost-almond eyes fixed upon two crossed Saracen swords on the opposite wall. “It is my custom,” he began in a quaint way, “to take a breath of air in the evening after my dinner, sir. Generally the gentlemen have all been attended to by that time, and I have an hour or so to myself. Sometimes I drop into Mr. Jorum’s cottage for a pipe and chat—”

“The gardener?”

“Quite so, sir. Mr. Jorum has a cottage of his own on the grounds. Last night, while Mrs. Godfrey and her guests were at the bridge table, I walked down to Mr. Jorum’s place as usual, sir. We talked for a while and then I wandered off by myself. I thought I might stroll down to the terrace—”

“Why?” asked Moley quickly.

Tiller looked blank. “I beg your pardon? Oh, no special reason, sir. I like it there; it’s so restful. I hadn’t expected to find any one there. Naturally I know my place, if I may say so, sir...”

“But you did find some one there?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Cort and Mr. Marco.”

“What time was this?”

“I should say at about a few minutes past nine, sir.”

“Were they talking? Did you hear what they said?”

“Yes, sir. They were... er... quarreling, sir.”

“And you listened, damn you,” said young Cort bitterly. “A spy!”

“No, sir,” murmured Tiller in a distressed voice. “I couldn’t help hearing, you and Mr. Marco were speaking so loudly.”

“You could have gone away, damn you!”

“I was afraid you might hear—”

“Never mind that,” rasped the Inspector. “What were they quarreling about, Tiller?”

“Miss Rosa, sir.”

“Rosa!” gasped Mrs. Godfrey. She turned wide, shocked eyes upon her daughter, who went slowly crimson.

“All right, all right,” said young Cort thickly. “I suppose it’s got to come out, now that that rotten little meddler’s spilled the beans. I did lace it into that damned gigolo, good and hot! I told him if ever he laid a hand on Rosa again, I’d—”

“You’d what?” asked Moley softly, as Cort paused.

“I believe,” murmured Tiller, “Mr. Cort mentioned something about a sound thrashing.”

“Oh.” Moley was disappointed. “Marco was annoying Miss Godfrey, then, Cort?”

“Rosa,” whispered Mrs. Godfrey, “you never told me—”

“Oh, you’re impossible, all of you!” cried Rosa, springing to her feet. “And as for you, Mr. Smart-Alec Cort, don’t ever speak to me again! What right did you have to — to quarrel with John... yes, John!... about me? He did not annoy me! Any lib — anything that may have passed between us was with my permission, you may be sure!”

“Rosa,” began the young man miserably, “it’s just that—”

“Don’t speak to me!” Her blue eyes flashed anger and defiance, and she held her head with something very like pride. “If you must know, all of you — yes, and you, too, mother! — John had asked me to marry him!”

“Mar—” Mrs. Godfrey gasped. “And you—”

Rosa said more quietly: “I... well, I’d practically accepted. Not in so many words, but...”

The most remarkable thing happened. Mrs. Constable moved in her chair and said in a husky voice — the first time she had spoken since early morning: “The devil. The cunning, filthy, heartless devil. I saw it coming. You were blind, Mrs. Godfrey. If I had a daughter— He used all his old tricks...” Then she stopped abruptly. Her frozen features had not even twitched.

Something like fear crept into Rosa’s eyes. Rosa’s mother was staring with a hand over her mouth, staring at the tall dark young woman who was her daughter as if she were seeing her for the first time.

Young Cort’s face was gray, but he said with dignity: “I don’t believe Miss Godfrey knew quite what she was letting herself in for, Inspector. I may as well tell you, because if I don’t, Tiller will — since he seems to have hung about near the terrace long enough to hear the whole messy business.

“Marco told me in the course of our argument what Miss Godfrey has just told you: that he had proposed to her just Friday and that she had virtually accepted him, and that he was so sure of the outcome he had made all his plans. He was going to run off with her next week and be married.” He winced a little.

Rosa faltered: “I never— He shouldn’t—”

“He said,” continued Cort quietly, “that it didn’t matter if I told Mr. Godfrey and Mrs. Godfrey and the whole world; they loved each other and nothing would stop them. Besides, he said, Rosa would do anything he suggested. I was a meddling young fool, he said, and an upstart and barely out of diapers. He said a lot of other things not quite so mild. Is that right, Tiller?”

“Quite right, Mr. Cort,” murmured Tiller.

“I’d got him downright angry, I guess; I don’t think he would have spoken so frankly and lost his temper so easily if he’d been his usual self. He seemed very excited. And I was so mad I ran away; I think I’d have killed him if I stayed another minute.”

Rosa tossed her head suddenly and without a word stalked across the room to a door. Moley watched her go without comment.

“Marriage,” said Mrs. Constable bitterly. “Generous of him.” And she said no more.

“Well!” Inspector Moley hunched his shoulders. “This is a nice kettle of fish. Anyway, Marco and you returned to the game?”

“I don’t know about Marco,” muttered the young man, his eyes still on the door, “because I just wandered about the grounds, too ripping mad to be seen in polite company. I guess in my dumb way I must have been looking for Rosa. But when I did cool off and go back, about half-past ten, I found Marco in the game again, jolly as you please, as if nothing had happened.”

“What did happen, Tiller?” demanded Moley.

Tiller coughed behind a little hand. “Mr. Cort ran off up the path, as he says, sir; I heard him clattering up the steps leading to the house a little later. Mr. Marco remained on the terrace for a few minutes, muttering angrily to himself. Then I saw him — the terrace-light was on, sir — fix his clothing (he was in whites at that time, sir), smooth his hair down, adjust his necktie, sort of try out a smile, turn the lights off, and go away. He went straight to the house, I believe, sir.”

“Did he, or didn’t he? Did you follow him?”

“I... Yes, sir.”

“Remarkable observer, Tiller,” smiled Ellery; he had not once taken his gaze from the man’s bland little face. “Excellent reporting. By the way, who answers telephone calls here?”

“Generally the under-butler, sir. The switchboard is in one of the inner halls, sir. I believe—”

Moley put his mouth to Ellery’s ear and said: “I’ve had a man talk to the butler already. And the other regular servants. Nobody remembers a call last night about the time Kidd must have rung up. But that doesn’t mean anything; either they’re lying, or don’t remember.”

“Or the recipient was waiting for it,” said Ellery quietly, “at the switchboard... Thank you, Tiller.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Tiller glanced at him briefly and looked away; but in that cursory inspection he seemed to have seen everything.

“I hope,” said Walter Godfrey acidly from his corner, where he sat grotesquely enthroned, like Soglow’s Little King, “that you’re satisfied with your handiwork, Stella, my dear.” And he rose and followed his daughter out of the living-room. What he meant by this cryptic remark no one — least of all Mrs. Godfrey, who sat steeped in mortification and pain — volunteered to explain.

The detective whom Moley had called Sam hurried in from the patio and said something to the Inspector in an undertone. Moley nodded without enthusiasm, threw a meaning look at Ellery and Judge Macklin — who all this time had been standing stiffly by himself in a corner — and stalked out.

There was an instant raising of tension, as if an electric current had been turned off. Joseph B. Munn silently moved his right foot and drew a noiseless deep breath. An almost human expression came into Mrs. Constable’s gargoyle face and her heavy shoulders shook. Mrs. Munn raised a minute square of cambric to her hard eyes. Cort made unsteadily for a taboret and poured himself a drink... Tiller turned as if to leave.

“If you please, Tiller,” said Ellery pleasantly; Tiller halted, and the current was magically turned on again. “An observer of your calibre can ill be spared. We may have use for your talents in the very near future... Ladies and gentlemen. If I may intrude my unwelcome personality into this sad discussion. My name is Queen, the gentleman at my left is Judge Macklin, and—”

“Who gave you birds permission to horn in?” growled Joe Munn suddenly, rising to his full hard height. “Isn’t one cop enough?”

“I was about to explain,” said Ellery patiently, “that Inspector Moley has requested us to act as... er... consultants. In that capacity, it behooves me to ask a few — I trust — pertinent questions. Suppose we begin with you, Mr. Munn, since you seem impatient. At what hour did you turn in last night?”

Munn stared at him coldly for a few seconds before replying. His black eyes were as steady as the sea-washed rocks at the feet of Spanish Cape. He said: “Around eleven-thirty.”

“I thought the game had broken up at a quarter of twelve?”

“I wasn’t playing for the last half-hour. I excused myself and went on up to bed.”

“I see,” said Ellery quietly. “Then why did you say before, Mrs. Godfrey, that Mr. Marco was the first to retire from the game?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I can’t remember everything. This is so utterly impossible...”

“Quite understandable. But we must get truthful answers, Mrs. Godfrey; a good deal may depend upon the faithfulness of your collective memories... Mr. Munn, when you went upstairs Marco was still in this room playing?”

“That’s the ticket.”

“Did you see him, or hear him, when he followed you upstairs?”

Munn snapped: “He didn’t follow me.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Ellery hastily. “Did you?”

“Naw. I told you I went right to bed. Didn’t hear nothing.”

“And you, Mrs. Munn?”

The beautiful woman cried: “I don’t know why we have to answer questions, questions, questions, Joe!” in her shrill voice.

“Shut up, Cecilia,” said Munn. “Mrs. Munn came upstairs just as I was crawlin’ into bed, Queen. We’ve been sharing the same room here.”

“I see,” smiled Ellery. “Now, Mr. Munn, I take it you’ve known Marco for some time?”

“You can take it, but it won’t do you any good. You’re all wrong, partner. I never saw that lily-faced guy in my life before we came up here.” Munn shrugged his broad shoulders carelessly. “Not much of a loss, I’d say. Down in Rio a gig like him wouldn’t last long among white men. Matter of fact,” he continued with a hard grin, “I don’t cotton to this society stuff at all, now I’ve sampled it — with all due respect to Mrs. Godfrey. Cecilia and me, we’re goin’ to beat it the hell out of here first chance we get, aren’t we, hon?”

“Hush, Joe!” said Mrs. Munn fiercely, casting an anxious look at Mrs. Godfrey.

“Er... but you did know Mrs. Godfrey, of course?”

The big man shrugged again. “Nope. I just got in from the Argentine four, five months ago; met Mrs. Munn in New York and we got hitched, y’see. Made a pile of jack out there, and I guess jack talks in any man’s country. We got an invite to come up here to Spanish Cape, that’s all I know. Sounded kind of funny, but hell! I’m not scared of the tony crowd any more the way I used to be.”

Mrs. Godfrey’s hand came up in a sudden helpless, frightened gesture, as if she were trying to stop Munn or ward off a danger. He looked at her with a sudden narrowing of his bleak eyes. “What’s the matter? Did I let out somethin’ I wasn’t supposed to?”

“Do you mean to say,” demanded Ellery softly, leaning forward, “that you had never met, never heard of the Godfreys before you received an invitation to spend a few days at their summer home?”

Munn stroked his big brown chin. “You’ll have to ask Mrs. Godfrey that,” he said abruptly, and sat down.

“Why—” began Stella Godfrey in a choked voice; her nostrils were pinched and she looked about to faint. “Why — I’m always asking... interesting people out here, Mr. Queen. Mr... Mr. Munn seemed a refreshing personality from what I read about him in the papers, and then I... I’d seen Mrs. Munn when she was Cecilia Ball in several Broadway revues...”

“That’s right,” nodded Mrs. Munn, smiling in a pleased way. “I was in a lot of shows. We show people always get asked to the nice places.”

Judge Macklin shambled forward and said quietly: “And you, Mrs. Constable? Of course, you’re an old friend of Mrs. Godfrey’s?”

The stout woman started and the old panic leaped, newborn, into her eyes. Mrs. Godfrey made a gasping little sound, as if she were dying.

“Y-y-yes,” whispered Mrs. Godfrey, her teeth chattering. “Oh, I’ve known Mrs. Constable—”

“For... years,” breathed Mrs. Constable in her husky monotone; her gigantic bosom heaved like a sweeping sea.

Ellery and Judge Macklin exchanged meaning glances as Inspector Moley strode in from the patio, his heavy brogans clumping on the polished floor. “Well,” he growled below his breath, “nothing doing on Marco’s clothes; that’s about settled. The boys have dragged the water near the rocks, right under the cliffs, all around the Cape. And they’ve covered every inch of the grounds and searched the highway and park in the vicinity. No duds. No duds, that’s all.” He gnawed at his lower lip as if he could not credit the reports of his men. “Why, they’ve even looked over those two bathing beaches — the public ones — on either side of the Cape. And, of course, the whole stretch of the Waring property. Thought there was a chance on those beaches — never can tell. But except for a lot of papers and lunch-boxes and footprints and such, there wasn’t a thing. I can’t understand it.”

“It’s horribly queer,” murmured Judge Macklin.

“Only one thing left for us to do.” Moley set his stubborn jaw. “They’re not goin’ to like it in this high-class dump, but I’m going to do it just the same. Those clothes simply must be here somewhere; how do I know they aren’t in the house?”

“The house? Here?”

“Sure.” Moley shrugged. “I’m having the boys search it on the q.t. There’s a back entrance and some of ’em are upstairs now, rootin’ around in the bedrooms. We’ve covered this Jorum’s shack and the garage and the boat-house and all the outbuildings already. I told ’em to pick up anything that looked promising.”

“No other developments?” asked Ellery absently.

“Not a thing. There’s still no sign of this Captain Kidd guy and David Kummer; the boat’s just disappeared. There’s a Coast Guard cutter on the job right now, and a lot of local cops are on the watch. I’ve just been shooing off a mess of reporters. Place is lousy with ’em. I’ve had ’em all kicked out... About the only lead I’ve got that looks hot is this Penfield in New York.”

“What have you done?”

“Sent one of my best men there to look him up. My man’s got authorizations with him and if necessary he’ll bring Penfield back.”

“Not if I know Penfield,” said Judge Macklin grimly. “He’s a slippery lawyer, Inspector, with plenty of gray matter. Your man won’t bring him back unless he wants to be brought back. At that, he may come along quietly if he thinks it serves his purpose or to avoid a bit of trouble. All you can do is trust in God.”

“Oh, hell,” groaned Moley. “Let’s go up to Marco’s room.”

“After you, Tiller,” said Ellery, smiling at the little man. “I think every one else may as well wait here.”

“I, sir?” murmured the valet, raising his precise little brows.

“Yes, indeed.”

They followed Tiller, who was following the glum Inspector, out of the living-room. Stony faces disappeared behind them. In an adjoining corridor they came to a spacious staircase, at which Tiller nodded, bowed to the Inspector, and led the way upstairs.

“Well?” asked Judge Macklin softly, as they raised and lowered their leaden feet. They both realized at the same instant that they had not slept the night before, and that they were sodden with fatigue. It took excruciating effort to climb the stairs.

Ellery pursed his lips and screwed up his eyes, a little red about the lids from lack of rest. “An extraordinary situation,” he muttered. “I think the plot is vaguely legible, however.”

“If you mean as it concerns the Munns and Mrs. Constable—”

“What do you make of them?”

“As personalities, not much. Munn, from what Rosa told us this morning and from what I observed just now, is a dangerous type. He’s an outdoor man, physically arrogant and quite fearless, besides having lived obviously on familiar terms with violence. But aside from these tangibles he’s a mystery. His wife...” The Judge sighed. “A common enough type, I’m afraid, but then the potentialities of even the common types are often unpredictable. She’s a hard, cheap, mercenary creature who no doubt married Munn as much for his money as for his physical attractiveness. She would be quite capable of conducting an affair du coeur under her husband’s nose... Mrs. Constable is — to me, at least — sheer fog. I can’t make her funk out at all.”

“No?”

“She’s apparently a middle-aged woman of the upper middle classes. No doubt she has a large family, grown and perhaps married, and is a good wife and mother. I should say she’s considerably more than forty, despite the testimony of Rosa Godfrey. We really should talk to her, my boy. She’s as out of place—”

“And yet she’s exactly the kind of American woman,” said Ellery quietly, “whom you will find leering at certain well-built, slim-waisted young dandies across a boulevard café table in Paris.”

“I never thought of that,” murmured the Judge. “By George, you’re right. Then you think she and Marco—”

“This,” said Ellery, “is a strange house, and it has some very strange people in it. The queerest thing about it is the presence of the Munns and Mrs. Constable.”

“Then you saw it, too,” whispered the old gentleman quickly. “She was lying — they all lied—”

“Of course,” shrugged Ellery, pausing to light a cigaret. “A good deal will be explained,” he resumed, blowing smoke, “when we find out why Mrs. Godfrey invited three perfect strangers to her summer home.” They had reached the head of the staircase and now found themselves in a wide, hushed corridor. “And why,” continued Ellery in an odd tone, eying Tiller’s perfect little back a few feet ahead as he trotted along on the deep carpet, “three perfect strangers accepted her invitation without, apparently, the slightest question!”