He left the lobby ostentatiously and strolled alongside the building until he came to a tradesman’s entrance. Then, with a swift look around, he ducked down the flight of stone steps, ran through an alley, and emerged into the back yard of the hotel. It took him a moment to locate the windows of the Jardin apartment. He jumped for the iron ladder of the fire-escape and clambered noiselessly to the third floor. The Venetian blind in one of the living-room windows was raised an inch from the sill and he cautiously knelt and peered through the opening. Val was seated on the sofa, her hat still on, fumbling with the catch of her bag. She got it open, reached in, and took out a deck of cards—he saw the schooner on the top card clearly. She dropped her bag and began to spread the cards. But at that moment the telephone rang. She jumped up, cards in her hand. “But why?” Ellery heard her ask. There was a buzzing in the telephone. “No! Fitz, it’s not possible!… Yes, yes. I’ll be right down!” She dropped the ’phone, threw the cards into the drawer of the refectory table—Ellery sighed with relief—grabbed her purse, and dashed out of sight. A second later he heard the front door slam. He reached in, found the cord, yanked, and crawled over the sill.
Ellery took the loose deck of cards out of the refectory drawer, pulled a chair over to the table, and sat down. Turning the deck curiously over in his hands he noticed odd, scattered little pencil markings on the long edges. So that was it. The ancient playing-card code!
“The trick is” he mused, “to find the proper rearrangement of the cards. Assuming such novices in chicanery as Valerie and her father… some simple arrangement… ascending suits in bridge rotation…” He separated the cards into the four suits and built the spades up from the deuce to the ace. He saw at once that he was on the wrong track. So he built them down from the ace to the deuce. The markings sprang into significant groupings. Ellery grinned. Child’s play! He rearranged the hearts, diamonds, and clubs, put them all together, and read the message.
WORRIED CAN YOU CONTINUE
KEEP OP FROM TALKING
Ellery shuffled and reshuffled the cards, shuffled them again. He spread them, pushed them together, dropped them on the floor, picked them up. No point in arousing Valerie’s suspicions. He was sure she had not had time to rearrange the cards and read the message before Fitzgerald’s telephone call. Op. Op. Queer. It might mean “operative.” Operative? Private investigator. Detective. Detective! Whom did Jardin mean? Could he possibly be referring to a gentleman who called himself Hilary King? Had they seen through his shrieking sport jacket? “Keep op from talking.” No, that didn’t gel. He shook his head and returned the cards to the refectory drawer.
He was about to put his leg over the sill when he caught sight of a piece of white paper stuck between one of the cushions of the sofa and its back. So he went back and pulled the paper out. It was a hotel envelope with “V. Jardin” scrawled on its face in pencil. Ellery fished under the cushion and soon found a crumpled sheet of hotel stationery. Walter Spaeth’s note to Valerie Jardin. Without qualm, and with relish, Ellery read it.
Button-Nose: Pink got the dicto, and we’re going over to Souci to plant it. Over the wall, of course—we won
’
t let any one see us. If we
’
re caught by the gendarmes, Godelpus.
Darling, I love you. I
LOVE
you. I love
YOU
.
Damn it, I do
.
The note was signed “Walter” and at the bottom of the sheet there was a gargantuan “X” which Ellery, who knew everything, recognized as the universal lover’s shibboleth for “kiss.” He had the grace to feel ashamed of himself. But only for a moment. He replaced the sheet and envelope exactly, climbed out the window, reached in and pulled the cord and lowered the Venetian blind to its precise position before his illegal entry, and went down the fire-escape.
Valerie trudged into the lobby of the
La Salle
a long time later.
“What was it, Miss Jardin?” asked Mibs Austin eagerly.
“Mibs, you listened in!” Val sighed. “It wasn’t anything. Mr. Fitzgerald heard a rumor that my father was about to be released. But when I got downtown I found out nobody knew anything about it.”
Ellery, hidden in the music-room off the lobby, chuckled to himself. Rather a dirty trick. But then Fitz was remorseless, with the efficiency and moral temperament of a Japanese war-lord. He kept himself hidden while Val went to the elevator. He timed her movements. Now she was getting out at the third floor. Now she was at the door of 3-C. Now she was locking it from inside. Now she was at the refectory table. Now she was arranging the cards. Now she was reading the message. … The switchboard buzzed. Ellery hid behind a drape, listening. “What?” he heard Mibs Austin say. “Okay, Miss Jardin. I’ll be right up.”
There was a scrambled noise and then the blonde girl called: “Mr. Max! Take the board a minute, will you? I’ll be right back.” And a moment later Mibs Austin passed the doorway of the music room bound for the elevator.
Op… Operator. Telephone operator. Mibs Austin! So it was imperative to continue to keep Mibs Austin from talking, was it? Ellery lit a cigaret and quietly went through the lobby to the street. He was about to step into his green coupé when another coupé darted into the curb and Walter Spaeth jumped out.
“Hullo!” Walter’s lean face was flushed with excitement. “King, we’ve pulled it off!”
“Good for you.”
“It was easy. There’s only one detective on duty at
Sans Souci
and Pink and I got in without being spotted. Winni was out, so we had a clear field.”
“You planted the dictograph?”
“It’s all set. We took along a couple of spare transmitters, just to be on the safe side. We’ve got one hidden in the study, one in Winni’s quarters upstairs, and one in the living-room. And we led the wires over to the empty Jardin house.”
“Where’s Pink?”
“In the Jardin house stripped for action.”
“When are you going to tackle Winni?”
“Tonight.”
“Make it eight o’clock and I’ll be there to listen in.”
“Right.” And Walter raced into the
La Salle
.
E
LLERY
shut Fitz’s door and made for one of the five telephones on Fitz’s desk. “Get me Inspector Glücke at headquarters, please.”
“What’s doing?” asked Fitz eagerly.
“Glücke? This is Hilary King of the
Independent.
”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Plenty. Can you take a friendly tip and keep your mouth shut?”
“Try me,” said the Inspector.
“Investigate the telephone records of all calls from the
La Salle
switchboard on Monday afternoon starting around five o’clock.”
“What’s up?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Work through the manager and warn him to keep it under his hat. It’s especially important not to tip off the switchboard operator, a girl named Austin. She mustn’t know the records are being inspected.”
“I get you,” said the Inspector slowly.
“Any luck with that fingerprint investigation of the iron table and the binoculars?”
“The rain spoiled the prints. Well, thanks for the tip, King.”
“I’ll be around to collect ’em in person.” Ellery hung up and sat down in Fitz’s best chair, rubbing his chin. Fitz opened a drawer and produced a bottle and two glasses. They drank two quick ones. “Well, Fitz,” said Ellery, “your little white-haired figment of the imagination is beginning to smell a large rodent.”
“You’re worse than the State Department! What’s on the fire, for the love of Mike?”
Ellery tipped his absurd hat over his tinted glasses. “Let me think a while.”
“I want news, not ratiocination,” growled Fitz. “You’re beginning to get my goat.”
“Ah, that reminds me,” said Ellery. He reached for one of Fitz’s ’phones again. “Get me the Magna Studios—Mr. Jacques Butcher.”
“What’s Butcher got to do with this?”
“Nothing. Hello! Butcher?… I don’t
want
his secretary, damn it all! I want Butcher himself, in the flesh, Little Napoleon, the Genius…” Ellery sat up excitedly. “My dear young lady, you haven’t
heard
any language. I’m reserving my choicest words for that vanishing American you work for. Goodbye!” He sat back, snorting, and tipped his hat over his eyes again. Fitz looked disgusted and took another drink.
When Ellery left the
Independent
building Fitz was with him, grumbling that he’d get some news if he had to leg it all over the
pueblo
himself. They found Inspector Glücke communing darkly with his thoughts. He jumped up when he saw Ellery. “What’s behind this, King?” he exclaimed. “Oh, Fitzgerald.” He scowled.
“You take a flying leap at the moon,” snarled Fitz, planting himself in the best chair.
“Peace,” said Ellery. “What did you turn up, Inspector?”
“The
La Salle
telephone records show that a call was made Monday
at five-thirty-five
to Hillcrest 2411!”
“The Spaeth number,” said Fitz with awe. He got up and sat down again.
“To whom was the call charged?”
“3-C—the Jardins.”
“So what?” asked Fitz after a moment.
“That,” said Glücke, “is what
I’d
like to know.”
But Ellery did not seem disturbed. In fact, he began to beam. “Inspector, are you game to play a long shot?”
“What’s this—something else I missed?” grumbled Glücke.
“Call in Rhys Jardin and tell him the charges against him are being withdrawn.”
“What!” exploded Glücke. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
Fitz stayed up this time. “Go ahead, Glücke—see what this screwball’s got!”
“You don’t have to mean it,” said Ellery soothingly. “Just to see how he reacts. What do you say?”
“Aw, nuts,” said the Inspector with bitterness, and he barked an order into his communicator.
Twenty minutes later Rhys Jardin was brought into Inspector Glücke’s office. The Inspector was alone. “I’ve got news for you, Jardin,” said Glücke abruptly.
“Anything would be better than the Coventry I’ve been subjected to,” said Jardin with an amiable smile.
“Van Every and I have been talking your case over and we think we’ve pulled a boner.”
“A boner?” Glücke was astounded to see that, far from receiving the news joyfully, Jardin seemed positively depressed.
“We’ve just about decided to withdraw the murder charge and let you go.” Jardin half-raised his hand. “As soon as the formalities—”
“Inspector—I’m going to make an unusual request.”
“What?”
“Don’t withdraw the charge.”
“You mean you
want
to stay in the can?” asked Glücke in amazement.
“I can’t explain. But there are certain reasons—”
The Inspector gaped. Then he shook his head and opened the door. The two detectives came in and Jardin’s features relaxed into their usual pleasant lines. “Thanks a lot,” he said earnestly, and marched off as another man would have marched to freedom.
The Inspector closed the door and Ellery and Fitzgerald came out of one of the adjoining rooms. “Can you tie that!”
“Give,” said Fitz impatiently, his thick stubby nostrils vibrating in Ellery’s direction.
Glücke wagged his head. “I swear it’s the first time I ever heard of a man
asking
to be kept in jail for murder!”
“This copper-rivets it,” said Ellery with satisfaction. “That’s all I wanted to know. The five-thirty-five telephone call Monday from the
La Salle
plus Jardin’s conduct just now tell a plain story.”
“It’s Greek to me.”
“Why should Jardin be so anxious to remain in Jail? Why should he
ask
to be held on the murder count?”
Understanding leaped into Fitz’s eyes. “My God!” he shouted. “He’s got an out!”
The Inspector paled. “An out?” he echoed feebly.
“Certainly,” said Ellery. “It’s probably an ironclad alibi. I’ve discovered that Jardin warned his daughter to make sure Mibs Austin kept her mouth shut. Now if that five-thirty-five call Monday was made either by Jardin himself or, as seems more likely from the facts, by Val Jardin with Jardin at her side near the switchboard in sight of the Austin girl, then the whole thing becomes clear.”
“Jardin would have an alibi for almost the exact moment of the murder,” cried Fitz. “And if the Austin wench testified in court… zowie!”
Glücke looked ill. “If that’s true,” he muttered, “he doesn’t want the alibi spilled now, so he warns his daughter to keep the Austin girl quiet. This is wonderful.” But there was no appreciation on his face.
“Why the hell should he keep the alibi secret?” asked Fitz, frowning. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does,” drawled Ellery, “if he’s trying to protect some one.” The two men stared at him. “Don’t you see that that’s the exact point? He’s keeping the heat on himself while the one he’s shielding remains unsuspected. He’s protecting Walter Spaeth.”
“Spaeth!” exclaimed the Inspector.
“Of course. Didn’t Walter admit last night he was the man Frank saw wearing Jardin’s coat? He was all ready to talk when Val Jardin shut him up; and after the three of them had their council of war he retracted his admission. That can only mean that Walter didn’t know about Jardin’s alibi until the Jardins told him about it in this office last night. He didn’t know Jardin had an out. So up to last night he was protecting Jardin—at least, he thought he was.”
“From what?” demanded Fitz.
“I don’t know.” Ellery frowned, shrugged. “And now that they’ve all shut up in concert, it’s evident that the Jardins are protecting Walter.”
“From what?” asked Fitz doggedly.
“God only knows, and I’m not His confidant. If they’d only talk, the tight-mouthed idiots! One thing is sure, though—while Jardin has his alibi to protect him, Walter Spaeth is in no such enviable position. They seem to think he’s in a tough spot. Otherwise Jardin wouldn’t be acting so contrary to common sense.”
“Spaeth, huh,” said Glücke in a savage mumble. Fitz drew his bushy brows together, shaking his head a little.