The Inspector made a furious sign and the detective went back into the room and came out with Mibs Austin. The girl’s eyes were red and swollen, and she kept them averted, refusing to look at the Jardins, at Walter. And suddenly she began to weep. Rhys Jardin said curtly: “It was just a trick to make you talk, Walter. That newspaperman, King, found out about my alibi—”
“King?” cried Val. “The beast! I
knew
he’d spoil everything!”
“He told Glücke and Glücke arranged for the ‘abduction’ of Miss Austin. He wanted to scare Walter into talking.”
“Can the chatter,” said the Inspector harshly. “All right, it didn’t work. But I’ve got this girl, and she’s talked plenty. Want to hear what she said, Spaeth?”
“Oh, Miss Jardin,” sobbed Mibs, “I couldn’t help it. They got a police matron or—or somebody to call me, and I thought you were in trouble and went down to—to—”
“It’s all right, Mibs,” said Val steadily. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“And they brought me up here and—and made me tell. I was so frightened I didn’t know what to do. They made me tell—”
“Just a minute,” said Walter. “If you know about Rhys Jardin’s alibi, Inspector, then you know he’s innocent.”
Rhys said simply: “I’m a free man, Walter.”
“That,” said Walter, “is a different story.”
“Miss Austin says,” snapped Glücke, “that she spoke to you on the ’phone at five-thirty-five Monday afternoon, and that you were talking from your father’s house. That’s three minutes after the murder!”
“My advice to you, young fellow,” said Van Every soberly from his corner, “is to come clean.”
Walter stood facing them, hands jammed in his pockets. He wore a faint grin. The stenographers poised their pencils. But just then the door opened and Mr. Hilary King appeared, breathing hard, as if he had been running. He was carrying a long object wrapped in brown paper which had a rather curious shape. He stopped short on the threshold, taking in the situation at a glance. “Looks like Scene Two, Act Three,” he grunted. “Well, who’s said what?”
“It won’t be long now,” announced the Inspector triumphantly. “Spaeth’s ready to talk.”
“Oh,” said Ellery. “Is he?”
“Am I?” murmured Walter. “And the answer is: no.”
“What?” yelled Glücke. “Again?”
“I kept my mouth shut before because I didn’t know about Rhys’s alibi and thought I had to protect him—”
“Not knowing about his alibi,” murmured Ellery, “what information did you possess which made you think Jardin killed your father?”
Walter ignored him. “Today, when I thought Miss Austin was in danger, I felt I had to talk. But now? Nuts to all of you.” And he grinned.
“That’s final?” demanded the Inspector.
Walter said lightly: “You’ll have to speak to my lawyer.”
Ellery grimaced. “You’re making me do a lot of unnecessary work, Walter. Glücke, time’s a-wastin’. It’s two o’clock.”
Glücke scowled at him. The District Attorney drew him off to a corner and they conferred earnestly. Ellery joined them, waving his package as if he were arguing. “All right,” grumbled Glücke at last. “I suppose there’s plenty of time to attend to Spaeth. We’ll look this Ruhig bird over and see where he fits in.”
“Ruhig,” said Val intensely. “You’ve told them!” Ellery looked guilty. “You know what you are? You’re a filthy
traitor!
”
Glücke nodded to two men, and they took places on each side of Walter. “It’s between you and Ruhig, Spaeth. I warn you right now, I’ve got two warrants in my pocket. One for you and one for Ruhig. My own hunch is you, but King seems to think we ought to give Ruhig the once-over first.”
“Come on,” said Ellery impatiently. “You’re keeping fifty million dollars waiting.”
Inspector Glücke engineered their entry into
Sans Souci
with artistic efficiency. Mr. Anatole Ruhig, who had been under secret police observation, had not yet made his unsuspecting appearance; but it was necessary to keep Miss Winni Moon, who was on the premises, in darkness. A hole had been hacked in the willow fence in a remote corner of the grounds; they crept through, constantly admonished to make no noise, and were led to the empty Jardin house from the far side, out of sight of the Spaeth house. They caught Pink, purple-eyed and haggard from lack of sleep, completely by surprise. He jumped up with a foolish, trapped look, ready to fight; but when everybody ignored him and Glücke seized the earphones, he scratched his head and lit a cigaret and wandered about asking questions which no one bothered to answer. He did not see Rhys Jardin at first. When he did, the cigaret fell out of his mouth and Rhys stepped on it and punched his shoulder. After that Pink stayed close to Jardin with a pathetic tenacity. Glücke’s men vanished, apparently pre-instructed. There was nothing to do but wait.
Val and Walter sat down on the floor and talked to each other in undertones, ignoring the others. Ellery paced up and down, smoking tasteless cigarets. Rhys Jardin leaned against a wall, and Pink helped him lean. No one said anything. Glücke kept looking at his watch. Two-fifty. Fifty-five. Three o’clock. The earphones were dead. He glanced at Ellery with an interrogatory scowl. Three-five. …“Here he comes!”
They scrambled toward him then, listening intently. The closing of a door. “They’re in Spaeth’s study,” muttered Ellery, peering through the glass wall.
Mr. Anatole Ruhig’s voice grumbled through the receiver. “I’m taking a terrible chance, Winni.”
“You don’t fool me, Anatole Wuhig!” said Winni coldly. “If there’s a will, show it to me.”
“You’re a fool.”
“How do I know what you told me was twue? You said you got into the gwounds over the fence when you couldn’t find that man Fwank—I don’t even believe that. You going over a wall!”
“What’s come over you?” asked the lawyer irritably. “I thought we had this all straightened out. My two assistants were with me that first time, at five-fifteen; I knew Spaeth didn’t like to be kept waiting, so they boosted me over the wall and followed. I saw Spaeth, and he signed the new will and it was properly witnessed. Then we left.”
“Yes,” said Winni in an excited voice. “And if that’s twue, maybe you and your gangsters killed him!”
“Don’t get notions now,” said Ruhig with a dangerous softness. “I wasn’t in there more than five minutes. He had the will all made out. I was outside
Sans Souci
before five-thirty—had to go back over the wall, blast it; the gate was locked. When I left, Spaeth was very much alive.”
“Then why did you come back? You came back after six.”
“Spaeth told me to. There was other business he wanted to go over, and he said he expected Walter right away and wanted to talk to him alone. …”
Glücke glanced up at Walter with a twisted smile. Val gripped Walter’s arm convulsively, and Walter went pale.
“Well, I think it’s a pack of lies,” sniffed Winni.
“Oh, for God’s sake. I swiped the will right out of Spaeth’s drawer when that fool Walewski and I found the body. I did it under his nose and he never knew the difference!”
“Well, show it to me, if you’re so smart. Don’t talk—just show it to me.”
“One moment,” said Ruhig’s voice, and there was a snarling quality in it that brought a queer exclamation from the invisible Winni. “What made you think I was lying to you?”
“Keep away from me. My own mind, that’s what.”
“Your mind?” said the lawyer. “Isn’t that a little boastful?” There was a silence, as if he were backing away, looking around. “I’m a gullible cluck. Come on, tell me! This wasn’t your idea, you dumb Swede!”
“If you must know,” said Winni in a frightened yet defiant little rush, “Walter Spaeth warned me!”
“It’s a plant!” yelled Ruhig.
And then everything happened at once. The receivers scratched and squealed, and there were confused sounds of toppling furniture, men’s hoarse exclamations, scuffling.
“Let’s go!” shouted Glücke, tearing the receivers from his ears. But Ellery was already sprinting around the pool in a dash for the Spaeth terrace, the long package clamped under his arm. The Inspector scrambled after him and the others, after a stunned moment, streamed along behind.
They found Counselor Ruhig, very pallid and pasty-faced, standing lax in the grip of two detectives; and Winni lying in a faint over Solly Spaeth’s most beautifully brocaded chair. Another detective was waving a piece of folded foolscap exultantly. “Got him with his pants down. It’s the will!”
“Tried to tear it up,” said one of the men holding Ruhig, “but we stopped that.” He shook the little man ungently.
Glücke grabbed the paper. As he was reading it, District Attorney Van Every hurried in. “Everything under control? Ah, Ruhig. Does my heart good to see you looking so gay. Let’s see that, Inspector.”
He read the paper very carefully. “Chalk up one more for Mr. King. This is getting monotonous. I’m afraid, Spaeth, this will comes a little too late to do you any good.”
“Is it—” began Val, but she could not go on.
“It’s a will properly dated, signed, and witnessed, revoking all previous wills and leaving the entire estate to Walter Spaeth.”
Winni popped out of her faint. “It’s a lie!” she screamed. “Solly left it to
me!
”
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Miss Moon.”
“But I owe
thousands
to the dwess shops!” she wailed, jumping up and down. She glared spitefully at Val. “Now she’ll get it—that sawed-off, pink little wunt!” And she collapsed in the chair again in another faint.
Van Every shrugged, and Glücke said with a smack of his lips: “This gives us about all we need, Van. Motive’s all clear now. And Ruhig’s testimony that Spaeth told him he was expecting his son jibes perfectly—”
“I’ll make a deal,” jabbered Ruhig. “Forget this business and I’ll testify I saw Spaeth—”
“Spaeth came,” said Glücke, ignoring him “—we know he was in this house through Miss Austin’s statement—his father showed him the new will, tried to make friends. But the skunk bumped his father off to get that dough.”
“No!” shrieked Val, holding on to Walter.
“Inspector,” pleaded Rhys, “for heaven’s sake don’t go off half-cocked. This boy wouldn’t kill his own father. Walter, tell him what happened. He’ll believe you. He’s got to believe you!”
“He can talk all he wants when I get through,” Glücke said coldly. “We’ve got his prints on the rapier, his own confession that he wore your coat, Jardin—which has human blood on it—and he had opportunity to plant the coat and sword in your closet at the
La Salle
.”
Winni opened one eye, saw that nobody was paying any attention to her, and tried to creep out unobserved. But a detective forced her into a chair and she sat there whimpering.
Walter made a helpless gesture; the flesh around his lips was oyster-white. “I suppose it won’t do any good to deny I murdered my father. But I warn you, Inspector—and you, Van Every—you’re heading for trouble. You don’t know a quarter of what really happened in this room last Monday afternoon. You don’t even know the truth about—”
“No, you don’t,” said a peevish voice; and they all looked around to find Ellery glaring at them. “After all the trouble you’ve put me to, my dear Galahad, and all the blankets of silence you’ve wrapped yourself up in, you’re not going to rob me of the little glory I’ve earned.”
“King, are you crazy? Keep out of this!” barked Glücke.
“And that,” said Mr. King in the same peevish tone, “goes for you two as well.” And he glared at Rhys and Valerie.
“King—” spluttered the Inspector threateningly.
“Relax. Walter, do you know who killed your father?” Walter shrugged. “Do you know who killed Spaeth, Jardin? You, Val?”
“I’m not speaking to you—turncoat!”
Ellery looked whimsically at the long, brown-papered object in his hands. Then he turned and went to the glass door, opened it, stepped out on the terrace. “Come out here,” he said.
T
HERE
was such a majestic confidence in his voice that District Attorney Van Every whispered in Glücke’s ear, and Glücke nodded glumly and motioned everybody out. Ellery stood off to one side, the package tucked under one arm, waited patiently. They took positions about the terrace, some perched on the low terrace railing, others standing against the wall. Curiosity was reflected from each face—the anxious, hopeful ones of Val and Rhys; the gaping ones of the detectives, Winni, Pink; the watchful ones of Glücke and Van Every; the bitter ones of Ruhig and Walter.
The sky was blue, the garden sizzled with bees, a red hydroplane droned past high overhead. There was a strange otherworld overtone to everything, as if time had stopped still and something splendid and dreadful was about to happen. And Ellery took a tubular object from his breast pocket and unwrapped it and said in a dreamy, mood-preserving voice: “I have here a fragment of canvas which I cut out of this awning only today.” He nodded towards the rectangle of light in the awning overhead. “In this fragment you will find a slit, or tear, or rip, or whatever you choose to call it. It is a clean sharp incision and it runs—as you can see—parallel with the green and yellow stripes. The upper edges of the rip—that is to say the edges on the side which lay exposed to the sun—are slightly stained molasses-brown.” Glücke and Van Every ran toward him. “No,” said Ellery dryly, “don’t touch it. This thing is a little like Medusa’s head—one careless exposure and it turns you to clay. I had Bronson—charming fellow—analyze the stain only a couple of hours ago, and he says it is composed of thoroughly mixed molasses and potassium cyanide.”
“Let’s see that,” said Glücke excitedly, bending over the square of canvas. “That slit—it looks—”
“About a half-inch long.”
“So was the incision the sword made in Spaeth’s chest!”
“And the same poison—” muttered the District Attorney.
“Then this cut in the awning was made by the same rapier that killed Spaeth,” exclaimed the Inspector. He looked up. He dragged a chair over and stood on it and put his nose as close to the hole in the canvas as he could get it. Then he stepped down, looking frustrated. “But how the dickens could a sword have got up there? If the stain’s on top of the canvas, that means the sword came in
through
the canvas from above. That’s screwy.”