Egyptian Cross Mystery (9 page)

Vaughn and Isham looked at each other, and then at Ellery. The Brads, mother and daughter, were very still; and Lincoln, now that he had rid himself of his accumulated bile, looked uneasy and ashamed.

“Well, we’ll look into that a little later,” said Vaughn lightly. “You say this Dr. Temple owns the estate adjoining on the east?”

“He doesn’t own it; he just rents it—rented it from Thomas.” Mrs. Brad’s eyes were relieved. “He’s been here for a long time. A retired army doctor. He and Thomas were good friends.”

“Who lives on that piece of property to the west?”

“Oh! An English couple named Lynn—Percy and Elizabeth,” replied Mrs. Brad.

Helene murmured: “I met them in Rome last fall and we became very friendly. They said they were thinking of paying a visit to the States and so I suggested that they come back with me and be my guests for the duration of their stay.”

“Just when did you return, Miss Brad?” asked Ellery.

“About Thanksgiving. The Lynns crossed with me, but we separated in New York and they traveled about a bit seeing the country. Then in January they came up here. They were wild about the place—” Lincoln grunted, and Helene flushed. “They were, Jonah! So much so that, not wanting to impose on our hospitality—it was silly, of course, but you know how stuffy the English can be sometimes—they insisted on leasing the house to the west, which is—was father’s property. They’ve been here ever since.”

“Well, we’ll talk to them, too,” said Isham. “This Dr. Temple, now. You said, Mrs. Brad, that he and your husband were good friends. Best of terms, eh?”

“There’s nothing in that direction,” said Mrs. Brad stiffly, “if you’re insinuating, Mr. Isham. I’ve never been overfond of Dr. Temple myself, but he’s an upright man and Thomas, a wonderful judge of character, liked him tremendously. They often played checkers together in the evening.”

Professor Yardley sighed, as if slightly bored with this recital of the neighbors’ vices and virtues when he himself could provide a more penetrating analysis.

“Checkers!” exclaimed Inspector Vaughn. “Now, that’s something. Who else played with Mr. Brad, or was this Dr. Temple his only opponent?”

“No, indeed! We all played with Thomas on occasion.”

Vaughn looked disappointed. Professor Yardley rubbed his black Lincolnian beard and said: “I’m afraid you’re on barren ground there, Inspector. Brad was a fiendishly clever checker player, and tackled everyone who came here for a bout. If they didn’t know how to play, he insisted—with patience, to be sure—on teaching them. I think,” he chuckled, “that I was the only visitor here who successfully resisted his blandishments.” Then he became grave and fell silent.

“He was a remarkable player,” said Mrs. Brad with a faint sad pride. “I was told that by the National Checker Champion himself.”

“Oh, you’re a good player yourself, then?” asked Isham quickly.

“No, no, Mr. Isham. But we entertained the champion last Christmas Eve, and Thomas and he played incessantly. The champion said that Thomas held him quite even.”

Ellery jumped to his feet, his keen face intent. “I believe we’re wearing these good people out. A few questions, and we’ll not bother you again, Mrs. Brad. Have you ever heard the name Velja Krosac?”

Mrs. Brad looked genuinely puzzled. “Vel—what a queer name! No, Mr. Queen, I never have.”

“You, Miss Brad?”

“No.”

“You, Mr. Lincoln?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard the name Kling?”

They all shook their heads.

“Andrew Van?”

Another blank.

“Arroyo, West Virginia?”

Lincoln muttered: “What is this, anyway? A game?”

“In a way,” smiled Ellery. “You haven’t, any of you?”

“No.”

“Well, then, here’s one you certainly can answer. Exactly when did this fanatic who calls himself Harakht come to Oyster Island?”

“Oh, that!” said Lincoln. “In March.”

“Was this man Paul Romaine with him?”

Lincoln’s face darkened. “Yes.”

Ellery scrubbed his pince-nez, perched it on the bridge of his straight nose, and leaned forward. “Does the letter T mean anything to any of you?”

They stared at him. “T?” repeated Helene. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Evidently it doesn’t,” remarked Ellery, as Professor Yardley chuckled and whispered something in his ear. “Very well, then, Mrs. Brad, did your husband often refer to his Roumanian history?”

“No, he never did. All I know is that he came to the United States from Roumania eighteen years ago, with Stephen Megara. It seems they were friends or business partners in the old country.”

“How do you know this?”

“Why—why, Thomas told me so.”

Ellery’s eyes sparkled. “Pardon my curiosity, but it may be important. … Was your husband a wealthy man as an immigrant?”

Mrs. Brad flushed. “I don’t know. When we married, he was.”

Ellery looked thoughtful. He said “Hmm” several times, shook his head in a pleased way, and finally turned to the District Attorney. “And now, Mr. Isham, if I may have an atlas, I shan’t bother you for some time.”

“An atlas!” The District Attorney gaped, and even Professor Yardley seemed disturbed. Inspector Vaughn scowled.

“There’s one in the library,” said Lincoln dully. He left the drawing room.

Ellery strolled up and down, an abstracted smile on his lips. Their eyes followed him without comprehension. “Mrs. Brad,” he said, pausing, “do you speak Greek or Roumanian?”

She shook her head bewilderedly. Lincoln returned, carrying a large blue-covered book. “You, Mr. Lincoln,” said Ellery. “You’re in a business which is largely European and Asian in its contacts. Do you understand and speak either Greek or Roumanian?”

“No. We haven’t occasion to use foreign languages. Our offices in Europe and Asia correspond in English, and our distributors do the same in this country.”

“I see.” Ellery hefted the atlas thoughtfully. “That’s all from me, Mr. Isham.”

The District Attorney waved a weary hand. “All right, Mrs. Brad. We’ll do our best, although frankly it looks like an insoluble mess. Just stick around, Mr. Lincoln, and you, Miss Brad; don’t leave the premises for a while, anyway.”

The Brads and Jonah hesitated, looked at each other, then rose and left the room without speaking.

The instant the door closed after them Ellery hurled himself into an armchair and opened the blue atlas. Professor Yardley was frowning. Isham and Vaughn exchanged helpless glances. But Ellery was occupied with the atlas for five full minutes, during which he returned to three different maps and the index, and consulted each page minutely. As he searched, his face brightened.

He placed the book with studied care on the arm of the chair and rose. They looked at him expectantly.

“I thought, by thunder,” he said, “that it would be so.” He turned to the Professor. “An amazing coincidence, if it is a coincidence. I leave you to judge. … Professor, hasn’t something about the names of our peculiar cast of characters struck you?”

“The names, Queen?” Yardley was frankly confounded.

“Yes. Brad—Megara. Brad—Roumanian. Megara—Greek. Does it strike a responsive chord in you?”

Yardley shook his head, and Vaughn and Isham shrugged.

“You know,” said Ellery, taking out his cigarette case and lighting one up with quick puffs, “it’s, little things like this that make life interesting. I’ve a friend who is a lunatic on one subject—that inane and juvenile game called Geography. Why he’s attracted to it the Unknowable only knows, but he plays it at every conceivable opportunity. With Brad it was checkers, with many it’s golf—well, with this friend of mine it’s Geography. He’s developed it to the point where he knows thousands of little geographic names. Something that came up not long ago …”

“You’re being provocative,” snapped Professor Yardley. “Proceed.”

Ellery grinned. “Thomas Brad was a Roumanian—there is a city in Roumania named Brad. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Not a damned thing,” growled Vaughn.

“Stephen Megara is a Greek. There is a city in Greece named Megara!”

“Well,” muttered Isham, “what of it?”

Ellery tapped Isham’s arm lightly. “And suppose I tell you that the man who seemingly has no connection with either our millionaire rug importer or our millionaire yachtsman, the poor Arroyo schoolmaster who was murdered six months ago—in a word, that Andrew
Van …”

“You don’t mean to say—” spluttered Vaughn.

“Van’s naturalization papers gave his native country as Armenia. There’s a
city
in Armenia called Van—and a lake, too, for that matter.” He relaxed, and smiled. “And if in three cases, two related on the surface, the other related to one of the two by method of murder, the same phenomenon occurs—” Ellery shrugged. “If that’s coincidence, then I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“Certainly peculiar,” muttered Professor Yardley. “On the surface a deliberate attempt to authenticate nationalities.”

“As if all the names are assumed, were picked from an atlas.” Ellery blew a smoke ring. “Interesting, eh? Three gentlemen, obviously of foreign extraction, very desirous indeed of concealing their real names, and, judging from the care they employed to authenticate their nationalities, as you say, of concealing their true birthplaces as well.”

“Good God,” groaned Isham. “What next?”

“An even more significant fact,” said Ellery cheerfully. “One would suppose that Van, Brad, and Megara having changed their names, the fourth foreign actor in the tragedy, the elusive Krosac, also picked his moniker from Rand McNally. But he didn’t—at least, there’s no city anywhere in Europe or in the Near East named Krosac. No city, lake, mountain, anything. The inference?”

“Three aliases,” said the Professor slowly, “and one apparently genuine name. With the owner of the apparently genuine name indubitably involved in the murder of one of the aliases. Perhaps … I should say, Queen, my boy, that we’re beginning to grasp the key to the hieroglyphs.”

“You agree, then,” said Ellery with eagerness, “that there’s an Egyptian aroma in the atmosphere?”

Yardley started. “Oh, that! My dear chap, can’t a pedagogue use a simple figure of speech without being taken literally?”

T
HEY WERE ALL THOUGHTFUL
as they left the drawing room and Isham led the way to the right wing of the house, where the late Thomas Brad’s study was situated. A detective paraded the hall in front of the closed library door. As they paused before it, a stout motherly-looking woman in rustling black appeared from somewhere in the rear.

“I’m Mrs. Baxter,” she announced anxiously. “Can I offer you gentlemen some luncheon?”

Inspector Vaughn’s eyes grew brighter. “An angel in disguise! I forgot all about chow. You’re the housekeeper, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Will the other gentlemen eat, too?”

Professor Yardley shook his head. “I’ve really no right to impose this way. My own place is just across the road, and I know Old Nanny is furious at my absence. Vittles gettin’ cold, as she says. I think I’ll leave now. … Queen, you’re my guest, remember.”

“Must you go?” asked Ellery. “I’ve been looking forward to a long talk. …”

“See you tonight.” The Professor waved his arm. “I’ll take your bags out of that old wreck of yours and park your car in my own garage.”

He smiled at the two officials and walked off.

Luncheon was a solemn affair. It was served in a cheery dining room to the three men—no one else in the house seemed inclined toward food—and for the most part they ate in silence. Mrs. Baxter served them herself.

Ellery munched doggedly; his brain was spinning like a planet and hurling off some extraordinary thoughts. But he kept them to himself. Isham complained once, with fervor, about his sciatica. The house was quiet.

It was two o’clock when they left the dining room and returned to the right wing. The library proved a spacious affair, the study of a cultured man. It was square, and its immaculate hardwood floor was covered except for a three-foot border by a thick Chinese rug. There were built-in shelves filled with books on two walls, from floor to beamed ceiling. In an alcove chiseled out of the angle of two walls stood a small grand piano with mellow keys, open, its top propped up—evidently as Thomas Brad had left it the night before. A low round reading table in the center of the room was covered with magazines and smoking accessories. A divan stood before one of the walls, its front legs resting on the rug; on the opposite wall a secretary, its dropleaf down. Ellery noticed that on the dropleaf, in plain view, stood two bottles of ink, red and black; both, he observed mechanically, were nearly full.

“I went through that secretary with a magnifying glass,” said Isham, flinging himself upon the divan. “First thing we did, naturally. It stood to reason that if that was Brad’s personal writing desk it might contain papers of value to us in the investigation.” He shrugged. “Nothing doing. Everything is as innocent as a nun’s diary. As for the rest of the room—well, you can see for yourself. Nothing else here of a personal nature, and besides the murder was committed in the summerhouse. It’s just those checkers, now.”

“Now,” added Inspector Vaughn, “that we’ve found the red checker near the totem pole.”

“You’ve gone through the rest of the house, I suppose?” remarked Ellery, strolling about.

“Oh, yes, in a routine way. Brad’s bedroom, and so on. Absolutely nothing of interest.”

Ellery turned his attention to the circular reading table. Taking from his pocket the glassine envelope of tobacco fragments from the pipe found on the summerhouse floor, he unscrewed the cap of a large humidor lying on the table and dug his hand into it. It emerged with a fistful of tobacco identical in color and cut—the uncommon cube-cut—with the tobacco from the pipe.

He laughed. “Well, no question about the filthy weed, at any rate. Another clue gone up the chimney. It was Brad’s, if this humidor was Brad’s.”

“And it was,” said Isham.

Experimentally, Ellery opened a tiny drawer whose outline was visible beneath the table’s circular top. It was, he found, cluttered with a veritable collection of pipes, all of them of excellent quality, all well-used, but all in the conventional shapes—the usual bowls with straight or curved stems. There were Meerschaums, briers, and bakelites; two were thin and very long—old English clay churchwardens.