The Spanish Cape Mystery

Chapter Seven Dissertation on Morals, Murderers, and Maids

“We progress,” said Mr. Ellery Queen dreamily. “Inspector, we have struck the pay-lode. Thanks again to the omnipresence of Tiller.”

“Now what,” demanded Judge Macklin with exasperation, “are you talking about? It was Mrs. Godfrey. Marco was rude—”

“And they talk,” sighed Ellery, “about the innocence of babes. Dear Solon, you should have spent a few years in the Court of Domestic Relations instead of drowsing away in General Sessions.”

“For cripe’s sake,” said Moley desperately, “what’s on your mind, Mr. Queen? I hate to be crossin’ you this way all the time, but, man — this is a murder investigation, not a kaffee klatch! Spill it, spill it!”

“Tiller,” said Ellery with a glint in his eye, “we’ve had ample proof that you are an acute observer of the human animal and his gyrations.” He flung himself on John Marco’s bed and crossed his arms behind his head. “What kind of male swears at a woman?”

“Well, sir,” murmured Tiller after a discreet cough, “in fiction it is the... ah... Dashiell Hammett type, sir.”

“Ah. Heart of gold beneath hardboiled exterior?”

“Yes, sir. Blasphemy, the use of violence...”

“Let’s restrict ourselves to life as it is lived, Tiller. By the way, I infer you’re an addict of detective fiction.”

“Oh, yes, sir! And I’ve read many of your own, sir, and—”

“Hmm,” said Ellery hastily. “Let that pass. In real life, Tiller?”

“I fear,” said the valet in a sad murmur, “that there are few hearts of gold in real life, sir. Hard exteriors, certainly. I should say, sir, that there are two general types of woman-abusing men. Confirmed misogynists, sir, and — husbands.”

“Bravo!” cried Ellery, sitting up in the bed. “And a couple of bravi. Did you hear that, Judge? Misogynists and husbands. Very good, Tiller; almost epigrammatic. No, by George, I take that back. It is epigrammatic—”

The Judge could not help chuckling. But Inspector Moley threw up his hands, glared at Ellery, and stamped to the door.

“One moment, Inspector,” drawled Ellery. “This is not idle conversation.” Moley stopped and slowly turned about. “Very good as far as you’ve gone, Tiller. We are philosophizing with a gentleman by the name of John Marco in mind. The merest analysis will show that he falls neither into the one classification nor the other. From all we have learned about the deceased, he was the very antitype of the chronic misogynist; he loved the ladies dearly. And certainly he was not the husband of the specific lady at whom he swore so graphically last night. And yet swear at her he did. Do you see light?”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Tiller, “but it is not for me to—”

“If you mean,” growled the Inspector, “that he’d been monkeyin’ around with Mrs. Godfrey, why the devil don’t you come out and say so in plain English?”

Ellery crawled off the bed and clapped his hands together. “Trust an old shellback of the police to get to the heart of matters!” he chuckled. “Yes, yes, Inspector, that’s what I meant. Tiller, there’s one other classification: men who have loved and wearied. Men — the tabloids and the poets call them ‘lovers’ — who have fed at the ‘sacred flame’ and after a while become bored with the same fare. Sad! Then the Era of Epithets sets in.”

Judge Macklin scowled. “You’re not suggesting that Marco and Mrs. Godfrey—”

Ellery sighed. “It’s a vicious habit, this business of suggesting, but what can a poor sleuth do? My dear innocent, we can’t close our eyes to facts. Mrs. Godfrey stole into Marco’s room at midnight. Without knocking. That’s not the action of a mere hostess, no matter how possessive she may feel about her Spanish guest-chambers. Shortly after, Marco damned her loudly for a meddling mustn’t-say-the-naughty-word. That’s not the chit-chat of a mere guest... Yes, yes, La Rochefoucauld was right: The more we love a mistress, the nearer we are to hating her. Marco must once have cherished a grand passion for the lovely Stella to have abused her so roundly last night.”

“I agree,” snapped Moley, “that there must have been somethin’ between the two of ’em. But d’ye think she—”

“I think with de Stael that love is the history of a woman’s life,” said Ellery softly, “and an episode in man’s. The woman under the circumstances, I daresay, would take its death rather seriously. I may be wrong about that in this case, but—”

Detective Roush opened the door and said with pathetic eagerness: “I think it’s chow, Chief.”

Stella Godfrey appeared in the doorway. They looked at her with the guilty feeling that comes to all who are suddenly confronted with the object of their gossip. Only Tiller was discreetly studying the floor.

She had taken a grip on herself; her face was freshly powdered and her handkerchief crisp. Each of them was wholly masculine, and each of them wondered anew at the eternal mystery of Eve. Here was a woman, superbly constructed, still beautiful, gracious, regal, wealthy, of the highest social caste in her own right. To look at her, a vision of self-possession, it did not seem possible that she was floundering in a morass of ugly fears, that she could have stooped to the age-old folly, that those slim well-bred hands had lately been clenched in violence. There was something essentially immaculate about her, her person, her appearance, her bearing; immaculate and detached.

She said coolly: “Excuse me for interrupting, gentlemen. I’ve had the cook prepare something. You must be hungry, all of you. If you’ll follow Mrs. Burleigh—”

She had thought of food! Judge Macklin swallowed hard and averted his head. Ellery mumbled something that sounded as if it might have come from Macbeth and instantly smiled.

“Mrs. Godfrey—” began Moley in a strangled voice.

“Charming and thoughtful of you,” said Ellery cheerfully, prodding Moley’s ribs. “As a matter of fact, Judge Macklin and I have been uncomfortably aware all morning of the void in our stomachs. We haven’t eaten since last night’s dinner, you see.”

“This is Mrs. Burleigh, my housekeeper,” said Stella Godfrey quietly, stepping aside.

A timid voice said: “Yes, Madam,” and a starched and ancient little female edged into sight from behind her mistress. “If you’ll follow me to the small dining-room, sir, and the other gentlemen—”

“With a will, Mrs. Burleigh, with a will! By the way, you know what’s happened?”

“Oh, yes, sir. It’s dreadful.”

“Indeed it is. I suppose you can’t assist us in any way?”

“I, sir?” Mrs. Burleigh’s eyes became enormous discs. “Oh, no, sir. I knew the gentleman only by sight, sir. How could I—”

“Don’t go, Mrs. Godfrey,” said Moley suddenly, as the tall dark woman stirred.

“I wasn’t going,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I was about to say—”

“I want to talk to you— No, Mr. Queen, I’m going to have my way about this. Mrs. Godfrey—”

“I think,” said Ellery with a grimace, “we’ll have to defer our luncheon a bit, Mrs. Burleigh; I detect the inflexible note of authority. You might advise Cookie to keep those comestibles warm.” Mrs. Burleigh smiled uncertainly and retreated. “And thank you, Tiller. No telling what we’d have done without you.”

The valet bowed. “That will be all, sir?”

“Not unless you’ve something left up your sleeve.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Tiller, almost ruefully; and he bowed himself past Mrs. Godfrey and vanished.

The dark woman had frozen suddenly; all but her eyes. They roved the room, shrank from the tumbled male clothing on the bed, the drawers, the closet... Inspector Moley looked fiercely at her and she took a slow step backward. He shut the door with a meaning glance at Roush, kicked forward a chair, and motioned her into it.

“What is it now?” she murmured, sitting down. Her lips seemed dry, for she moistened them with the tip of her tongue.

“Mrs. Godfrey,” said the Inspector bitterly, “why don’t you come clean? Why don’t you tell us the truth?”

“Oh.” She paused. “I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.”

“You know well enough what I mean!” Moley paced up and down before her, gesticulating. “Don’t you folks realize what you’re up against? What the devil does a little personal trouble mean when it’s a case of life and death? This is murder, Mrs. Godfrey — murder!” He stopped and grasped the arms of her chair, glaring down at her. “They electrocute people in this State for murder, Mrs. Godfrey. Murder; m-u-r-d-e-r. Do you understand now?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” repeated Mrs. Godfrey stonily. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“You don’t want to know! Do you people think you can make up a mess of conflicting testimony and get away with it?”

“I’ve told you the truth,” she said in a low tone.

“You’ve told me a pack of lies!” raged Moley. “You’re afraid of the scandal. You’re afraid of what your husband will say when—”

“Scandal?” she faltered; and they saw that her defenses were slowly coming down. Already the torment in her mind was becoming visible on her features.

Inspector Moley jerked at his collar. “What were you doing in this room-Marco’s room — last night at midnight, Mrs. Godfrey?”

Another rampart crumbled. She stared up at him, mouth open, skin the color of wet ashes. “I—” Her face fell into her palms suddenly and she began to sob.

Ellery, perched on John Marco’s bed, sighed noiselessly; he was very hungry and sleepy. Judge Macklin placed his old hands together behind his back and walked to one of the windows. The sea was blue and beautiful, he thought. Some people could be very happy looking at such a sea day after day. It must be striking in winter. The waves crashing against the cliffs below, the song of hissing spray, the whip of wind-driven spume against one’s cheeks... His eyes narrowed. Below a bent male figure appeared, small from the Judge’s eyrie, small and gnarled and busy. It was Jorum, poking about in his eternal gardens. Then Walter Godfrey’s tubby figure, a ragged straw hat on his head, materialized from the side. How like a fat, filthy little peon the man looked! thought the Judge... Godfrey placed his hand on Jorum’s shoulder and his rubbery lips moved; Jorum looked up, smiled briefly, and continued weeding. Judge Macklin felt the kinship between them, a tacit camaraderie that puzzled him a little... The millionaire dropped to his knees to study a flaming flower. There was something ironic in the spectacle. It appeared, thought the Judge, that Walter Godfrey had consistently paid more attention to the blooms in his gardens than to those in his house. Some one had stolen his rarest flower from under his nose.

The Judge sighed and turned away from the window.

There was a remarkable change in Inspector Moley. He was the picture of fatherly sympathy. “There, there,” he was saying in a syrupy bass, patting Stella Godfrey’s slim shoulder. “I know it’s tough. It’s a hard thing to admit, especially to strange men. But Mr. Queen and Judge Macklin and I aren’t just people, Mrs. Godfrey; in a way we’re not people at all, just the way priests aren’t. And we know how to keep our mouths shut after confessional, too. Why don’t you—? You’ll feel better if you tell some one.” He continued to pat her shoulder.

Ellery choked over his cigaret. Hypocrite! he thought with a silent chuckle.

She flung her head up. There were tears in the powder on her cheeks and lines of age had miraculously appeared about her eyes and mouth. But the mouth was firm, and her expression was not that of a woman who finds silence utterly intolerable. “Very well,” she said in a steady voice, “since you seem to know, I shan’t deny it. Yes, I was here — alone with him — last night.”

Moley’s shoulders twitched eloquently, as if to say: “How’s that for tactics?” Ellery glanced at his broad back with sad amusement. Moley had not seen the expression in the woman’s eyes nor noticed the set of her lips. Stella Godfrey had found a fresh defense somewhere in the dark storeroom of her soul. “That’s right,” murmured the Inspector. “That’s sensible, Mrs. Godfrey. You can’t hope to keep things like that a secret—”

“No,” she said coldly. “I suppose not. Tiller, of course? He must have been in his serving pantry. I’d forgotten.”

Something in her tone chilled Moley. He took out his handkerchief and rather doubtfully wiped the back of his neck, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Ellery. Ellery shrugged. “Well, what were you doin’ there, then?” asked Moley slowly.

“That,” she replied in the same cold tone, “is my affair, Inspector.”

He said with savagery: “You didn’t even knock at the door!” He seemed to realize that he had lost.

“Didn’t I? How careless of me.”

Moley swallowed hard, trying to curb his rage. “You refuse to tell me why you sneaked into a man’s room at midnight?”

“Sneaked, Inspector?”

“You lied, then, when you told me earlier today that you went to bed early! That the last time you saw Marco was when he left the bridge-table downstairs!”

“Of course. One doesn’t admit such things, Inspector.” Her knuckles were dead with the tightness of her fists.

Moley gulped, jammed a cheroot into his mouth, and struck a match. He was striving to steady himself. “All right. You won’t talk about that. But you had a fight with him, didn’t you?” She was silent. “He called you a dirty name, didn’t he?” A sickness came into her eyes, but she merely compressed her lips. “Well, how long did this go on, Mrs. Godfrey? How long were you with him?”

“I left him at ten minutes to one.”

“More than three-quarters of an hour, eh?” snarled Moley. He puffed bitter smoke, baffled. She sat quietly on the edge of the chair.

Ellery sighed again. “Er... was Marco fully dressed when you entered this room last night, Mrs. Godfrey?”

This time she had a little difficulty with her tongue. “No. I mean — not fully.”

“What was he wearing? You may be reluctant to discuss your personal affairs, Mrs. Godfrey, but this matter of his attire last night is of the most vital importance, and surely you can’t have any reason for withholding information about it. His whites — the things he’d been wearing during the evening — they were on the bed, as they are now?”

“Yes.” She was staring at her knuckles now. “He had changed into his — his trousers just before I came in, apparently. Dark gray. As we... talked, he continued dressing. It was a double-breasted oxford-gray suit, I believe, with gray accessories to match. A white shirt— Oh, I can’t remember!”

“Did you notice his hat, stick, and cloak?”

“I... yes. They were on the bed.”

“Was he completely dressed when you left him?”

“Well... yes. He had just adjusted his necktie and put on his coat.”

“Did you leave together?”

“No. I... I went out of the room first and to my own.”

“Did you see him leave, by any chance?”

“No.” Her features contracted in an involuntary spasm of pain. “After I’d gone to my own rooms — just after — I heard the sound of a door closing. I took it for granted he — he had left his room.”

Ellery nodded. “And you didn’t open your door and look out to see?”

“No!”

“Hmm. Did he tell you why he had changed into fresh clothes, Mrs. Godfrey? Or where he was going?”

“No!” Her voice had a curious ring. “He did not. But he seemed very impatient. As if he had an appointment... with some one.”

Inspector Moley snorted. “And you didn’t even have the desire to follow him, hey? Oh, no.”

“I did not, I say!” She rose suddenly. “I... I shan’t be persecuted any longer, gentlemen. As far as I’ve gone I’ve told you the truth. I was too — too heartsick to follow him, even look for him. Why, I simply can’t tell you — anybody. I... I went straight to bed, and I never saw him alive again.”

The three men weighed the timbre of her voice, calculating its sincerity, what it concealed, the depth of its emotion.

Then the Inspector said: “All right. That’s all for now.”

She went out with a stiff back, but eagerly. Her whole body expressed relief.

“And that,” remarked Ellery, “is that. She’s not ready for cracking yet, Inspector. You chose an unpropitious time. That woman hasn’t too much intellectual equipment, but there’s nothing wrong with her backbone. I tried to warn you.”

“This thing’ll have me crocked yet,” groaned Moley. “The—” For some seconds he expressed himself with violence and fluency, describing the nature, habits, temperament, and antecedents (probable) of John Marco with a comprehensiveness, lucidity, and imagery that shocked Judge Macklin and caused Ellery’s eyes to widen with admiration.

“Oh, lovely,” said Ellery warmly when Moley perforce paused for breath. “An exquisite object-lesson in invective. And now that you feel better spiritually, Inspector, how about taking advantage of Mrs. Burleigh’s invitation and ameliorating the more animal wants?”

During luncheon — a princely repast served by an under-butler, supervised by frail Mrs. Burleigh very capably, and set in the Saracenic magnificence of the “small” dining-room — Inspector Moley was the personification of gloom. His low spirits did not prevent him from making vast inroads upon the viands, although they influenced the tone of the gathering. He alternated between frowns and swallows, and with each draught of coffee sighed tumultuously. Several minor satellites, evidently recognizing the signs, preserved a tactful silence toward the foot of the board. Only Ellery and the Judge ate with complete absorption in the food, as food. They were hungry men; and before the gnawings of appetite even death must wait.

“‘S all very well for you two,” grumbled Moley over an Austrian tart. “You’re just havin’ a good time helping out. If I go floppo on this case it’s no cut out of your cake. Why the hell do people have to go get themselves bumped off?”

Ellery engulfed the last mouthful, put aside his serviette, and sighed with Bacchic repletion. “The Chinese have the right social idea, Judge; only a royal belch would do justice to this feast of Mrs. Burleigh’s... No, no, Inspector, you wrong us. If you go floppo on this case it will be despite our best combined efforts. As a matter of fact, it’s not the least interesting problem in the world. That note of nudism...”

“You got an angle?”

“All God’s chillun got an angle, Inspector. This chile has a half-dozen angles. That’s what piques me. And I have the feeling that not one of ’em is the correct one.”

Moley grunted. “Well, now you take that note—”

“I’d much rather,” remarked the Judge, putting down his coffee-cup, “take a nap.”

“Then why,” asked a cool voice from the Moorish archway, “don’t you, Judge?”

They rose hastily as Rosa Godfrey came in. She had changed to shorts, and her firm golden skin was visible to the middle of her thighs. Only the bruise on her temple remained to remind them of her experience in Waring’s bungalow the night before.

“Splendid idea, my child,” said the Judge sheepishly. “If you could have me taken back to the bungalow in one of the cars... I’m sure you won’t mind, my boy. I’m feeling a little—”

“I’ve already had one of the cars,” retorted Rosa with a little toss of her head, “go to your bungalow — under trooper escort — and bring your bags and things back here. You’re both putting up with us, you know.”

“Now, really—” began the old gentleman.

“Kindness incarnate,” said Ellery cheerfully. “Miss Godfrey, that was noble of you. I hadn’t looked forward to scrambling eggs with too much enthusiasm. Not after this repast. My dear Solon, you look properly peaked; shoo! Moley and I will carry on.”

“Might be better at that,” mused the detective, “having some one on the premises. Good idea. Go on, Judge — git.”

Judge Macklin rubbed his chin and blinked his bleared eyes. “And all those victuals in the car... Well, I can’t conscientiously refuse.”

“Indeed you can’t,” said Rosa firmly. “Tiller!” The little valet popped in from somewhere. “Show Judge Macklin to the blue room in the east wing. Mr. Queen will occupy the adjoining bedroom. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Burleigh about it.”

When the Judge had disappeared after Tiller Inspector Moley said: “Now that you’ve been nice to the old gent, Miss Godfrey, suppose you be nice to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Show us where that library of your father’s is.”

She preceded them through a confusion of overwhelming rooms to a jewel of a library. It had the odor as well as the appearance of bookishness, and Ellery sucked in his breath with admiration. Here, as elsewhere, the Spanish motif had been carried out; and Morocco bindings prevailed. It was a tall room filled with shadows, as is proper in any self-respecting library, and was possessed of unexpected nooks and alcoves in which one might bury himself waist-deep in cushions and find peace between pasteboards and leathers.

But Inspector Moley’s outraged soul held no room for aesthetics. His hard little eyes probed the corners, and he said gruffly: “Now where’s the typewriter?”

Rosa was surprised. “The typewriter? I don’t— Over there.” She led them to an alcove in which stood a desk, a typewriter, a few filing-cabinets, and the like. “This is father’s ‘office’ — if you could dignify it by such a name. At least, this is where he potters about with his business affairs while on the Cape.”

“He does his own typing?” demanded Moley, skeptical.

“Rarely has to. He detests correspondence. He transacts most of his business over that telephone there. It’s a direct wire to his New York office.”

“But he can type?”

“After a fashion.” Rosa accepted one of Ellery’s cigarets and flung herself on a leather divan. “Why all this interest in father, Inspector?”

“Does he use this place much? This alcove?” asked Moley coldly.

“For an hour or so a day.” She was regarding him with an intent curiosity.

“Ever do any typing for your father yourself?”

“I?” She laughed. “Indeed not, Inspector. I’m the drone of this family. I can’t do anything.”

Moley caught himself up. He placed his cheroot on an ashtray and said casually: “Oh, so you can’t type?”

“Sorry I can’t oblige. Mr. Queen, what in heaven’s name is all this about? Have you found a new clue? Something—” She sat up suddenly, uncrossing her legs. There was the strangest glitter in her blue eyes.

Ellery spread his hands. “This is Inspector Moley’s nut, Miss Godfrey. First rights at cracking it belong to him.”

“’Scuse me a second,” said Moley, and he stalked out of the library.

Rosa leaned back, smoking. Her brown throat was naked to Ellery’s gaze as she dreamily regarded the ceiling. He studied it with half a smile. The girl was a good actress. To outward appearance she was cool, self-possessed, a normal young woman. But there was a little nerve at the base of her throat which jumped and cavorted like an imprisoned thing.

He went rather wearily to the desk and sat down in the swivel-chair behind it, feeling his bones. It had been a long grind and he was horribly tired. But he sighed and removed his pince-nez and scrubbed their lenses with diligence, preparatory to the work at hand. Rosa regarded him slantwise, without lowering her head.

“Do you know, Mr. Queen,” she murmured, “you’re almost handsome when you take your glasses off.”

“Eh? Oh, certainly; that’s why I wear ’em. Keeps off designing females. Pity John Marco didn’t employ some such protective device.” He continued to scrub.

Rosa was silent for a moment. When she spoke again it was in the same light tone. “I’ve heard about you, you know. I suppose most of us have. Somehow you aren’t at all as formidable-looking as I pictured you. You’ve caught a good many murderers, haven’t you?”

“I can’t complain. In my blood, no doubt. There’s a chemical something inside me that shoots to the boiling-point at the least approach of criminality. Nothing Freudian about it; it’s merely the mathematician in me. And I failed in geometry in high school! Can’t understand it, because I love discordant and isolated twos and twos, especially when they’re expressed in terms of violence. Marco represents one of the factors in the equation. That man positively fascinates me.” He was busy with something on the desk. She peeped secretly; it was to all appearances a translucent envelope filled with little scraps of paper. “For example, his obscene habit of getting himself killed and undressed. That’s a new wrinkle. It calls for some higher mathematics, I’m sure.”

The nerve, he noted without seeming to do so, redoubled its squirmings.

Her shoulders quivered a little. “That — that was horrible,” she said in a smothered voice.

“No, merely interesting. We can’t permit emotions to interfere with our work, you see. Perfectly disastrous.” He fell silent, absorbed in what he was doing. She saw him take a curious little kit out of his pocket, open it, select what appeared to be a tiny brush and a vial of grayish powder, and, sprinkling the scraps of paper — which he had arranged into a whole — with the powder, lightly and expertly dust the surface with the brush. He whistled a doleful tune, painstakingly turned each scrap over, and repeated the mysterious process. Something seemed to catch his eye, for he took a small magnifying-glass from the kit and peered intently through it at one of the scraps in the light of a powerful lamp on the desk. This time she saw him shake his head.

“What are you doing?” she burst out.

“Nothing startling. I’m looking for fingerprints.” He continued to whistle as he stowed the vial and brush away in the kit, pocketed it, and reached for a jar of library paste on the desk. “Your father won’t mind a liberty or two, I’m sure.” He rummaged in a drawer until he found a sheet of blank yellow paper. Then he calmly proceeded to paste the scraps he had been examining onto the sheet.

“Is that—”

“Suppose,” he said with sudden gravity, “we wait for Inspector Moley, eh?” He left the paper on the desk and rose. “Now, Miss Godfrey, indulge a little whim of mine and allow me to hold your hand.”

“Hold my hand!” She sat up at that, her eyes wide.

“True,” murmured Ellery, seating himself on the divan beside her and taking one of her rigid hands in both of his, “this is a pleasure that doesn’t ordinarily accrue to a detective in the course of his... ah... labors. It’s a very soft and brown and inviting little hand, I note — that’s the Watson in me. Now for the Holmes. Relax, please.” She was too surprised to withdraw her hand. He bent over it, holding it palm up, and scrutinized the soft paps of the finger tips with keen eyes. Then he turned her hand over and examined the fingernails, brushing the paps lightly with his own finger tips as he did so. “Hmm. Not necessarily conclusive, but at least it doesn’t give you the lie.”

She withdrew a little, snatching her hand away; there was a scared look in her eyes. “What on earth are you babbling about, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery sighed and lit a cigaret. “So soon. Just proves once more that the authentic pleasures of life are of tantalizingly short duration... Now, now, don’t mind my little insanities, Miss Godfrey. I was merely trying to satisfy myself as to your veracity.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” gasped Rosa.

“Perish the thought. You see, physical habits leave — very often — visible marks on the impressionable human carcass. Dr. Bell taught that to Doyle, and Doyle passed it obligingly on to Holmes; it was the secret of most of Sherlock’s prestidigitating deductions, as it were. Typing hardens the finger tips; and feminine typists usually trim their nails short. Your finger tips are as soft as the breast of a bird, to quote the convenient poet; and your nails are even longer than your curious feminine toiletterie demands. In fine, it proves nothing, since you wouldn’t be a habitual typist anyway. But it gave me the opportunity to hold your hand.”

“Needn’t bother,” said Inspector Moley, striding into the library. He nodded at Rosa with a very friendly air. “That was an old gag when I was a cub in trainin’, Mr. Queen. The young lady’s okay.”

“‘Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,’” said Ellery, sheepishly feeling a guilty warmth in his cheeks. “But I never doubted it, Inspector.”

Rosa stood up, her little chin hardening. “Was I under suspicion — after all I went through?”

“My dear young woman,” grinned Moley, “everything and everybody are under suspicion till they’re cleared. Now you, you’re cleared. You never wrote that note.”

Rosa laughed rather desperately. “What are you men talking about? What note?”

Ellery and the Inspector exchanged glances, and then Ellery rose and picked up from the desk the sheet of paper on which he had pasted the scraps of charred note found in Marco’s bathroom. He passed it to the girl without comment and she read it with a puzzled frown. But she gasped over the signature.

“Why, I never wrote this! Who—”

“I just checked up on your statement,” said Moley, losing his grin, “that you can’t type. It’s true, Mr. Queen — she can’t. That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have pecked out a message on a machine with one finger, but the typing on this note is too even for that. It was done by somebody who’s used to typing. So, combined with that kidnaping yarn and the fact that you were in Waring’s shack all last night tied up, I guess you’re cleared. This thing’s a plant.”

Rosa sank onto the divan. “No prints,” said Ellery to Moley, “worth a tinker’s dam. Just smudges.”

“I— This is all beyond me. When... where... I don’t even know what it means.”

“This was a note,” explained Ellery patiently, “sent circuitously to John Marco late last night. It purports to come from you, as you see, and — rather freely interpreted — makes an appointment with him for one o’clock in the morning on the terrace.” He went around the desk, uncovered the typewriter, slipped a sheet of the heavy cream-colored Godfrey stationery into the carriage, and began quickly to manipulate the keys.

The girl was deathly pale in the dim light of the library. “Then that note,” she whispered, “sent him to his death? I... I can’t believe it!”

“Well, that’s what happened,” said Moley. “How’s it stack up, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery ripped the sheet out of the machine and laid it on the desk side by side with the sheet on which the original scraps had been pasted. Moley trod heavily to a position behind him and the two men studied the adjacent sheets. Ellery had written precisely what appeared on the paste-up.

“Same type,” murmured Ellery, taking out his glass and examining individual characters. “Hmm. Clear case, Inspector. Have a look at the capital I’s. Notice the slight fading of the right-hand side of the lower serif; worn metal. And the upper right serif of the capital T is gone altogether in both. As a matter of fact, even the consistency of the ribbon seems to be the same; there’s the identical muck in the lower case e’s and o’s.” He passed the lens to Moley, who squinted through it for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, this is the machine, all right. Whoever typed the original of this message sat in this very chair.”

There was silence as Ellery covered the machine and stowed his kit away. Moley paced up and down, a feral glitter in his eyes. Suddenly a thought struck him and he dashed away without explanation. Rosa sat limply on the divan with a stricken expression. When Moley returned he was hoarse with triumph. “Just thought I’d make sure this machine has never left the house. By God, it hasn’t! We’ve got somethin’ at last.”

“What you have,” said Ellery, “is concrete evidence that the murderer is associated with this house, Inspector. Before it might have been any one. Yes, yes, that’s a cosmic discovery. I think it clarifies certain issues, although... Miss Godfrey, perhaps you wouldn’t care to listen to a bit of professional theorizing?”

“Perhaps I would!” Rosa’s blue eyes were blazing. “I want to hear all about it. If it concerns any one in this house— Murder’s despicable under any circumstances. Please talk. I want to help if I can.”

“You may get your fingers burned, you know,” said Ellery gently. But her mouth only hardened. “Very well, then. What have we? An emissary of a potential murderer whom we shall call X is hired to kidnap John Marco, take him out to sea, kill him, and dump his body overside. This emissary, the formidable Captain Kidd, stupidly mistakes David Kummer, your uncle, for Marco. Your part in the plot is purely incidental, Miss Godfrey; X informed Kidd that Marco would be with you, and you were tied up in Waring’s cottage merely to keep you from sounding a premature alarm. Before Kidd took your uncle off in Waring’s cruiser he telephoned X... from all indications, in this very house. He told X that he had ‘Marco.’ So far, X’s plan was successful.”

“Go on!”

“But Kidd’s stupid blunder,” drawled Ellery, “upset X’s plans. Very soon after Kidd’s telephone-call to him X got the shock of his life. In this house he came face to face with the man who, he thought, was dead and fathoms under out at sea. In a flash he saw what must have happened. The merest inquiry or personal observation would have convinced him that it was Kummer whom Captain Kidd had abducted. Marco was still alive. Kummer was almost certainly dead — I’m sorry, Miss Godfrey — and there was nothing X could do about it; there was no way of reaching Kidd. And yet X’s original motive against Marco still remained; obviously he couldn’t have been less desirous of killing Marco then than he had been when he originally laid his plans.”

“Poor, poor David,” whispered Rosa.

The Inspector grunted. “So?”

“X is an unscrupulous and clever criminal,” continued Ellery gravely. “All his actions show that, if I’m putting the correct interpretation on them. He recovered quickly from the shock of seeing Marco alive. He laid a new scheme. He knew that you, Miss Godfrey, were trussed up in Waring’s shack, helpless until some one should come to release you. He also knew that — forgive me again — a message from you would probably sway Marco more than any other summons. And so he stole in here and typed a note, signing it with your name, making an appointment with Marco in an isolated place on the estate for an early hour of the morning. Then he pinned the note to Tiller’s coat in Tiller’s room, with specific instructions as to the time of delivery.”

“Why Tiller?” muttered Moley.

“Tiller’s room is on the ground floor; more accessible, then. Also he would prefer not to risk being seen entering Marco’s room. It was a sound plan, and it worked. Marco kept the appointment at one, the killer came down and found him there, stunned him from behind, strangled him...” He stopped, the most curious expression of annoyance flitting over his face.

“And undressed him,” said the Inspector sarcastically. “That’s the screwy part. That’s the part that’s got me up a tree. Cripes, why?”

Ellery rose and began a stiff-legged strut up and down before the desk. His forehead was furrowed painfully. “Yes, yes, you’re right, Inspector. No matter where we start we always come back to that. Nothing fits until we learn why he undressed Marco. It’s the only piece that refuses to fall snugly into place.”

But Rosa inexplicably was crying, her sturdy shoulders shaking. “What’s the matter?” asked Ellery with concern.

“I... I never thought,” she choked between sobs, “that any one could be so vindictive as to implicate me...”

Ellery chuckled, and she was so surprised that she stopped crying. “Now, now, Miss Godfrey, that’s where you’re wrong. That isn’t true at all. On the surface, I’ll admit, it looks as if you were being framed for the murder — with the note that led Marco to his death having been signed by you, presumably. But examine it, and it becomes a totally different story.”

She looked up at him anxiously, still sniffling a little. “You see, X couldn’t possibly have meant to frame you for the killing. He knew you would have a powerful alibi — being found tied up in Waring’s cottage that way, especially after a mysterious outsider apparently had telephoned young Cort of your whereabouts. As for the note, the murderer probably expected Marco to destroy it. If Marco destroyed it, the existence of the note with your name on it would never even be suspected, and you wouldn’t be implicated at all. But even if Marco didn’t destroy the note and it was found, X knew that your alibi, plus the fact that you can’t type and the signature was suspiciously a typewritten one, would point to a frame-up. As a matter of fact, I suspect X didn’t care a whoop if the police did discover that it was a frame-up. Such a discovery wouldn’t imperil his own safety, and Marco would be dead by the time it was made. No, no, Miss Godfrey, I think X has been quite considerate of you. Much more considerate than he has been of Kummer and Marco.”

She digested this in silence, nibbling at the corner of her handkerchief. “I suppose that’s so,” she said at last in a low voice. Then she looked up at him queerly. “But why do you say ‘he,’ Mr. Queen?”

“Why do I say ‘he’?” repeated Ellery blankly. “Convenience, I suppose.”

“You don’t know anything, do you, Miss Godfrey?” snapped Moley.

“No,” she said, still looking at Ellery; then she lowered her eyes. “No, I don’t know anything.”

Ellery rose and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Well,” he said wearily, “at least we’ve learned something. The murderer of Marco typed this note. Since the typewriter hasn’t left the house, the murderer typed it in the house. You’re nursing a viper to your collective bosoms, Miss Godfrey. And that’s not as funny as it sounds.”

A bored detective said from the door: “The old guy wants to talk to you, Inspector. And Godfrey’s been hammerin’ our ears off out here.”

Moley spun about. “Who? What old guy?”

“The gardener. This Jorum. He says he’s got somethin’ import—”

“Jorum!” repeated Moley in a startled way, as if he were conscious of the name for the first time. “Bring him in, Joe.”

But it was Walter Godfrey who entered first, in his dirty slacks, his tattered sombrero on the back of his head. There were earth-stains on his knees and his fingernails were black with soil. He glanced piercingly at Ellery and the Inspector with his ophidian eyes, permitted himself to look surprised at the presence of his daughter, and then turned back to the door.

“Come on in, Jorum. Nobody’s going to bite you,” he said in a gentle voice — a gentler voice than Ellery had ever heard him use with Rosa or his wife. The old man shambled in, the soles of his broad shapeless shoes leaving a trail of earth on the floor. At close range his skin was even more amazing than it had been from afar. It was lined with hundreds of wrinkles, the color of soiled rock. His hands, which were twisting his hat, were huge and starkly veined. He looked like an animated mummy.

“Jorum’s got something on his mind, Inspector,” said the millionaire abruptly. “He’s told me about it and, while I’ve no interest in your success or failure, you understand, I thought you should know about it, too.”

“That’s white of you,” said Moley, tight-lipped. “And why the hell didn’t you come to me direct, Jorum, if you had something of interest to say?”

The gardener shrugged his gaunt shoulders. “I ain’t buttin’ in anywhere. I’m a man minds my own business, I am.”

“Well, well? Speak up.”

Jorum caressed his gray-stubbled jaw. “Wouldn’t have said nothin’, only Mr. Godfrey said I should. Nob’dy asked me; so I says to m’self: ‘Why should I talk?’ It’s your job to ask questions, ain’t it?” He looked hostilely at Moley’s stormy face. “I saw ’em on the terrace.”

“Saw whom?” asked Ellery, coming forward. “And when?”

“Answer the gentleman, Jorum,” said Godfrey in the same gentle tone.

“Yes, sir,” replied the old man respectfully. “I saw Mr. Marco on th’ terrace last night with this here, now, Pitts woman. They—”

“Pitts!” exclaimed the Inspector. “That’s Mrs. Godfrey’s maid, isn’t it?”

“Yep, that’s the one.” Jorum took out a blue handkerchief and blew his nose on a note of contempt. “Pitts, the snippy one. Old hen, b’gee! Ain’t no better’n she ought to be, I’ll tell ye that. Not that I wa’n’t su’prised, y’understand, when she said—”

“Look here,” said Ellery patiently. “Let’s get this straight, Jorum. You saw Mr. Marco and the lady’s-maid Pitts on the terrace last night. Very well. What time was this?”

Jorum scratched a mossy ear. “Can’t tell ye to the minute,” he said plausibly. “Don’t carry no watch. But it must ‘a’ been roun’ one o’clock in the mornin’, mebbe a mite after. I was comin’ down th’ path toowards the terrace, see, takin’ a look aroun’ ‘fore turnin’ in—”

“Jorum’s something of a watchman,” explained Godfrey curtly. “Not a regular part of his duties, but he keeps his eyes open.”

“Terrace was bright enough under th’ moon,” continued the old man, “and Mr. Marco, he was settin’ by a table with his back to me, all dressed up like a playin’ actor—”

“He had a cloak on, Jorum?” asked Ellery swiftly.

“Yes, sir. I seen him wear that there thing ‘fore. Made’m look like that there, now, Me-fist-o-feels I once see in an op’ry up Maartens way.” Jorum chuckled lasciviously. “Pitts, she was standin’ up next to him all togged out in ’er maid’s uniform; I could see her face plain. She was sore. ‘Fore I hove into sight I heard like a slap, y’understand, an’ when I sees her standin’ there, sore-like, I says to m’self, I says: ‘Oho, Jorum, there’s monkey-business!’ ’N I hears ’er say, angry-like: ‘Ye can’t talk to me like that, Mr. Marco; I’m a respectable woman!’ an’ then she comes on up the steps toowards me, in a huff, an’ I dodged into a shadder. Mr. Marco, he just sets there like nothin’ happened. He was a cool hand, Mr. Marco, when it come to th’ wimmen. I once see him pesterin’ Tessie, who helps out in th’ kitchen. But this Pitts gal, she put’m in his place. Queer...”

Rosa clenched her hands and ran from the library.

“Get Pitts,” said Moley laconically to the detective on duty at the door.

When Godfrey and Jorum had gone, the millionaire prodding his gardener like a proud shepherd, Inspector Moley threw up his hands. “Another complication. A damned maid!”

“Not necessarily a complication. If Jorum’s time-sense is to be relied on, our original reconstruction still stands. The coroner said Marco died between one and half-past, and this Pitts woman was being coy with Marco within that period. And Jorum actually saw her leave.”

“Well, we’ll soon enough find out if this Pitts business is just nothing, or what.” Moley lowered himself into a chair and stretched his thick legs. “God, I’m tired! Must be pretty tuckered yourself.”

Ellery smiled ruefully. “Don’t mention that word. All I can think of is Judge Macklin snoring beatifically away somewhere over my head. I’ll simply have to get some shut-eye soon, or drop in my tracks.” He sat down limply. “By the way, here’s the murder-note. Your local district attorney may find it valuable when — and if — this case ever reaches the prosecuting stage.”

Moley tucked the pasted sheet carefully away. They sat relaxed, facing each other, minds emptied. The library was hushed, a cloister in a land of pandemonium. Ellery’s lids began to droop.

But they came alive at the sound of clattering feet. The Inspector swung about, tense. It was the detective he had sent, followed by Mrs. Godfrey.

“What’s the matter, Joe? Where’s that maid?”

“Can’t find her,” panted the man. “Mrs. Godfrey says—”

They sprang to their feet. “So she’s gone, eh?” muttered Ellery. “I thought I heard you say something about that to your daughter this morning, Mrs. Godfrey.”

“Yes.” Her dark features were worried. “As a matter of fact, when I went upstairs before to tell you about luncheon, I had in mind mentioning Pitts’s absence. I forgot in what happened.” She passed her slender hand over her forehead. “I didn’t think it important—”

“You didn’t think it important!” howled Inspector Moley, dancing up and down. “Nobody thinks anything important! Jorum keeps his mouth shut. You won’t talk. Everybody... Where is she? When’d you see her last? For God’s sake, haven’t you a tongue, Mrs. Godfrey?”

“Don’t shout, please,” said the dark woman coldly. “I’m not a servant. If you’ll keep your temper, Inspector, I’ll tell you what I know about it. We’ve been so upset here today that a thing like that didn’t make much impression on me, at first. I don’t generally see Pitts until I return from my morning dip to dress for breakfast. Naturally, with everything that — that happened, you see... It wasn’t until I returned to the house this morning, after I... I found the body, that I asked for her. Nobody seemed to know where she was, and I was too dazed and harassed about other things to push the matter. One of the other maids helped me. All day at various times it’s come back to me that she wasn’t anywhere about...”

“Where’s she sleep?” said Moley with bitterness.

“In the servants’ wing on the main floor here.”

“Did you look there?” he barked at the detective.

“Sure, Chief.” The man was frightened. “We never thought— But she’s gone. Skipped clean. Took all her duds, her bag, everything. How should we know that—”

“If she took a powder under your noses,” said Moley savagely, “I’ll have your shields, the pack o’ you!”

“Now, now, Inspector,” frowned Ellery, “that’s not credible. Not with all those troopers on guard. When was the last time you saw her yesterday, Mrs. Godfrey?”

“When I returned to my own quarters after... after—”

“After you left Marco’s room. Yes, yes. And?”

“She usually helps me prepare for bed, combs my hair. I rang for her, but she didn’t appear for a long time.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Yes. When she did show up she complained of feeling ill and asked if she might be excused. She was very flushed and her eyes did look feverish. Of course, I permitted her to go at once.”

“Just a gag,” snarled the Inspector. “What time was it when she left your room?”

“I don’t know exactly. Around one o’clock, I suppose.”

Ellery murmured: “By the way, Mrs. Godfrey, how long has this woman been working for you?”

“Not very long. My former maid quit rather unexpectedly in the spring, and Pitts came to me soon after.”

Moley said irritably: “I suppose you didn’t see where she went. This is a fine kettle of fish—”

A brute in trooper’s uniform said from the doorway: “Lieutenant Corcoran sent me to report, Inspector, that there’s a yellow roadster missing from the garage. He’s just checked up with that man Jorum and the two chauffeurs.”

“Yellow roadster!” gasped Stella Godfrey. “Why, that was John Marco’s!”

Moley glared out of red-rimmed eyes. Then he sprang at his detective with a yell. “Well, what are you standin’ there for, like a damn’ dummy? Get busy! Trace that car! This Pitts woman must have run out durin’ the night! Get the dope on it, you dumbbell!”

Mr. Ellery Queen sighed. “By the way, Mrs. Godfrey, you say your former maid left you rather precipitately? Did she have any reason for doing so, to your knowledge?”

“Why, no,” said the dark woman slowly. “I’ve often wondered about that. She was a good girl and I paid her well. She’d often expressed herself as delighted with her job. Then — she just left. No reason at all.”

“Maybe,” shouted Moley, “she was a Communist!”

“Ha, ha,” said Ellery. “And you secured the ailing Miss Pitts from an agency, of course, Mrs. Godfrey?”

“No. She was recommended to me. I—” Mrs. Godfrey stopped so suddenly that even Moley paused in his stamping about the room to stare at her.

“Recommended to you,” said Ellery. “And who performed this friendly service, Mrs. Godfrey?”

She bit the back of her hand. “It’s the oddest thing,” she whispered. “I just remembered... John Marco did. He said she was a girl he knew who needed a job—”

“No doubt,” said Ellery in a dry tone. “Respectable woman, eh, Inspector? Hmm. Now, that business on the terrace couldn’t have been a bit of an act for Jorum’s benefit, could it?... Well, sir, while you’re taking arms against your local sea of troubles, I give notice that I’m perishing for slumber. Mrs. Godfrey, could you have some one guide me to that sanctuary your daughter was so kind as to offer my outraged bones?”