R
HYS’S
heart was a church bell resounding, a measured gong. Val pressed her head against it. And suddenly it skipped two whole beats. Val pushed away and looked up into her father’s face. Rhys’s lips parted and framed the word: “Coat.”
“Coat,” said Val, almost aloud. Coat? Her father’s coat!
They stood still in the bedlam. Inspector Glücke was pinching the tip of his sharp nose and regarding Walter with absorption.
Rhys’s coat, that Walter had taken from the
La
Salle
by mistake.
By
mistake
. Where was it?
Walter sat stonily behind dead Solly’s desk. His hat, out of shape and streaked with dirt, lay near his left fist. But he was not wearing a topcoat. The camel’s-hair coat, Rhys’s coat, was not on the desk. Nor was it on the back of the chair.
Val no longer feared the dead man. She could return his round frog-eyed stare now without flinching. The coat. Rhys’s coat. That was the important thing. That was the thing to be afraid of. Casually, carefully, they both made a slow survey of the study. The coat was nowhere to be seen. Where was it? What had Walter done with it? The Jardins drew closer together by an inch. It was necessary to concentrate. Concentrate, thought Val desperately. This is murder. Keep your mind clear. Listen.
“Get that reporter out of here,” Inspector Glücke was saying. “How you boys fixed?”
The Surveyor was already gone. The photographers, other men, dribbled off. The room began to enlarge. Then a gaunt young man swinging a black bag came in. “There’s the stiff, Doc. See what you get.” The coroner’s physician knelt by Solly’s squatting remains and detectives made a wall about the dead man and the living.
“Take their prints, Pappas.”
“Prints?” said Rhys slowly. “Isn’t that a bit premature, Inspector?”
“Any objection, Mr. Jardin?” rapped Glücke.
Rhys was silent. The fingerprint man approached with his paraphernalia. Inspector Glücke pulled the tip of his nose again, almost in embarrassment. “It’s only routine. We’ve got the whole room mugged. There are a lot of prints. Weeding ’em out, you understand.”
“You’ll probably find some of mine about,” said Rhys.
“Yes?”
“I was in this room only this morning.”
“Is that so? I’ll take your statement in a minute. Go ahead, Pappas.”
Pappas went ahead. Val watched her father’s strong fingers deposit inky designs on paper. Then the man took her hands. His touch was cold, like the body of a fish; her flesh crawled. But all the while Val was saying over and over inside: Where is pop’s coat? What has Walter done with pop’s coat?
The coroner’s physician broke through the living wall and looked around. He made for the desk. “Anything the matter?” asked the Inspector.
The doctor spoke into the telephone. “Don’t know exactly. Something queer. C.I. Lab, please. … Chemist. … Bronson? Polk. I’ve got something for you on the Spaeth murder. … Yes, as fast as you can.” He hurried back to the ell and the wall solidified about him once more.
“I think,” began Glücke, when a husky voice said from the corridor doorway: “Hello.”
Everybody turned around. The bearded young man stood there looking grave; and also looking hard at the scene about him, as if he expected to be kicked out at once and wanted to memorize as many of the details as he could before his eviction. For an instant Val’s heart jumped. The bearded man was wearing a camel’s-hair coat. But then she saw that there was no triangular tear below the right pocket.
“Here he is,” said a detective beside him. “The guy that bought up all Jardin’s stuff this afternoon.”
“Out,” said Glücke. “Later.”
“Why not now?” asked the young man in a wheedling tone. And he advanced a step into the room, gazing intently at the bandage around Walter’s head.
Glücke looked at him sharply. Walter said in a monotone: “Queen’s all right, Inspector. He merely acted as my proxy in buying up the Jardin furnishings today. He can’t possibly have anything to do with this.”
“No?” said Glücke.
“Fact, he’s a detective.” Walter looked away. “Go on, Queen; I’ll see you later.”
“Queen, Queen,” frowned the Inspector. “Any relation to Dick Queen of the New York police department?”
“His son,” said Ellery, beaming. “Now may I stay?”
Inspector Glücke grunted. “I’ve heard about you. Who killed Solly Spaeth, Queen? You could save us a lot of trouble.”
“Oh,” said Ellery, and he made a face. “Sorry, Walter.”
Walter said again: “It’s all right, Queen. Go ahead. I’ll see you later.”
“He cost me eight hundred bucks,” said Glücke. “All right, Phil, take this down. Let’s go, Spaeth—for the book.”
Val made fists. Oh, Walter, what happened? Walter looked at Mr. Queen, and Mr. Queen looked away. Nevertheless, he did not stir.
“My father telephoned me at the
La
Salle
about five o’clock,” said Walter in a dreary tone. “He said he was home and wanted to see me.”
“What for?”
“He didn’t say. I drove up here in my car. I had a flat down the hill a way and that’s why I took a half-hour for a ten-minute trip. Well, I parked and began to climb out. As I was stepping off backwards, something hit me on the side of the head. That’s all.”
“We found Spaeth unconscious just after we got here,” explained the Inspector. “On the sidewalk near his car. So you never even got into the grounds?”
“I told you what happened,” said Walter.
“Why’d you park around the corner from the entrance? Why didn’t you drive right in?”
“The mob. I thought I’d stand a better chance of getting inside unrecognized if I went on foot. My name is Spaeth, Inspector.” His lips twisted.
“There wasn’t any mob. There wasn’t a soul near the place late this afternoon, the night man says.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“So you were bumped on the head around five-thirty?”
“Just about.”
“Any idea who hit you?”
“The assault came as a complete surprise.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“How the hell should I know?” growled Walter. But it was remarkable how he kept looking at Val. Just looking, with the oddest wooden expression.
Val scuffed Solly’s silky antique Indian rug with her toe. Walter didn’t enter the grounds. He was attacked before he entered the grounds. That’s what he said. That’s what he wanted the police to believe. But Val knew he
had
entered the grounds. She had spoken to him on the telephone, and he had been on the other end of the wire—Hillcrest 2411, his father’s number. It had been Walter, all right; Val knew his voice better than—better than—
Walter had been in the house
. She studied the intricate floral design. In the house. In the house, for all she knew right at this very extension in the study, where his father had been murdered. … He was lying. Lying.
“Come here without a coat, Spaeth?” asked Glücke absently, eyeing him.
“What?” mumbled Walter. “Oh, coat? No, I didn’t wear a coat, Inspector.” And he glanced at Val again, and at her father, with that mute wooden expression.
I know! thought Val. He’s hidden it. He hid the coat. He didn’t want to get her father mixed up in it. Walter, you darling. … But then she thought; He’s lying. He lied about one thing. Now he was lying about another. Where was the coat?
What had he done with that coat?
Rhys’s hand lightly brushed her skirt. She glanced up at him; his brown face was a little pale, but his lips were compressed and he shook his head ever so lightly.
“May I sit down?” asked Val in a tight voice. “Or is this part of the celebrated third degree?”
Glücke waved an indifferent arm and Val felt a chair pushed against her. She looked around; it was that Mr. Queen, smiling sympathy and encouragement. But there was something else in his smile, something that made Valerie sit down suddenly and stare straight ahead at the fireplace. He had noticed. His eyes, which were like washed gray grapes, had noticed the interplay. They would have to be careful. Watch your step. Don’t make a mistake. It’s like being trapped in a cave by wild animals; the least false move… Valerie had never been trapped in a cave by wild animals, but she thought she knew how it must feel.
“Any clue to Spaeth’s assailant, Inspector?” asked Mr. Queen amiably.
“We found one of those rustic benches up against the willow fence inside the grounds near the spot where Spaeth’s car was parked. A little scraped mud on it, so it was stepped on. That looks as if whoever sloughed Spaeth came over the fence from inside. Laying for you, hey, Spaeth?”
Walter looked blank. “He wouldn’t know, of course,” said Mr. Queen.
“I guess not,” said Inspector Glücke. “McMahon, get Ruhig and Walewski in here.”
Anatole Ruhig came in gingerly, with small arched steps, like a man walking on coals of fire. Val restrained a mad impulse to giggle; it was the first time she had ever noticed his shoes, which had built-up heels, like a cowboy’s. She wondered if he wore corsets; no, she was sure of it. Oh, the coat, the coat! As for Mr. Ruhig, his bright little eyes made one panorama of the room, resting for the merest instant on Mr. Queen, and then retreated behind their fat lids. “Too bad, Walter,” he said quickly. “Too bad, Mr. Jardin. Too bad, Miss Jardin.” Then he added: “Too bad,” in a generally regretful tone, and stopped, blinking.
You left out Solly. … Val bit her lip, for there was Walewski. Frightened. Every one was frightened. Walewski was an old round-backed man with a crown of grimy white hair which stood on end. He came into the room sidewise, like a crab, his red eyes sloshing about in his old face.
“We’re taking this down now,” said the Inspector, speaking to Ruhig but looking at Walewski.
The lawyer covered a courtroom cough. “Too, too bad. … I drove up to the entrance at a few minutes past six. Walewski opened the gate. I told him I had an appointment with Mr. Spaeth—”
“Did you have?”
“My dear Inspector! Well, Walewski telephoned the house from his booth—”
“Hearsay. Walewski, what did you do?”
The old man trembled. “I don’t know nothing. I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t see nothing.”
“Did you or didn’t you ’phone the Spaeth house?”
“Yes, sir! I did. But there wasn’t no answer. Not a bit of an answer.”
“May I ask a stupid question?” said Ellery. “Where were the servants? In all this magnificence,” he said mildly, “I assume servants.”
“Please,” said the Inspector. “Well, if you must know, Spaeth fired ’em last week, the whole bunch. Now—”
“Really? That’s strange. Now why should he have done that?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The Inspector looked annoyed. “He received several threatening letters right after Ohippi went busted and complained to the police and a district dick spotted the writer in thirty minutes—Spaeth’s own chauffeur, a Filipino named Quital. Spaeth was so scared he fired everybody working here and he hasn’t had a servant since.”
“The wages of high finance,” murmured Ellery. “And where is Mr. Quital?”
“In jail,” grinned Glücke, “where he’s been for a week. So what happened when you got no answer, Walewski?”
“I told Mr. Ruhig. I said Mr. Spaeth must be home, I said,” mumbled the old man. “He ain’t been out for a week, I said. So I let Mr. Ruhig through.”
“Spaeth called me this morning,” said Ruhig helpfully. “Told me to come. So when he didn’t answer I knew something must be wrong. Therefore I insisted Walewski accompany me. Which the good man did. And we found—Well, I notified the police at once, as you know.”
“He was settin’ down on the floor,” said Walewski, wiping the spittle from his blue lips with the back of his right hand, “he was settin’ and he looked so awful surprised for a minute I thought—”
“By the way, Mr. Ruhig,” said Ellery with an apologetic glance at Glücke, “what was the nature of your appointment today?”
“Another change of will,” said Ruhig precisely.
“Another?” Glücke glared from Ellery to Ruhig.
“Why, yes. Last Monday—yes, exactly a week ago—Mr. Spaeth had me come over with two of my assistants and I wrote out a new will, which he signed in the presence of my assistants. This will,” Ruhig coughed again, “disinherited the son, Mr. Walter Spaeth.”
“Oh, is that so?” said the Inspector alertly. “Did you know your old man cut you off, Spaeth?”
“We quarreled,” said Walter in a weary voice, “about his abandonment of the Ohippi plants. He telephoned Ruhig while I was still here.”
“Who benefited by the will he made a week ago?”
“Mr. Spaeth’s protégée, Miss Moon. He left her his entire estate.”
“Then what about this will business today?”
Ruhig breathed on his shiny little fingernails. “I can’t say. All I know is that he wanted to change the will again. But by the time I got here,” he shrugged, “it was too late.”
“Then Spaeth’s estate is legally Winni’s,” frowned the Inspector. “Nice for her that he was bumped before he could change his mind again. … Well Jerry?”
“This man Frank, the day gateman. He’s here.”
“Bring him in.”
The one-armed gateman shuffled in, his narrow features twitching nervously. “I’m Atherton F-Frank. I don’t know a single blessed thing—”
“What time did you go off duty?” demanded the Inspector.
“Six o’clock he went,” put in Walewski eagerly. “That’s when I come on. So you see I couldn’t know nothing—”
“Six o’clock,” mumbled Frank. He kept looking at his misshapen shoes. Walter was sitting forward now, staring at the one-armed man. Val noticed that Walter’s hands were twitching, too, almost in rhythm with Frank’s features.
Afraid, thought Val bitterly. So you’re a coward, for all your brave talk. You’re afraid Frank saw you. He
must
have seen you. Unless you went over the wall. Went over the wall. … Val closed her eyes. Now why should Walter have gone over the wall?
“Listen, Frank,” said Glücke genially. “You’re an important figure in this case. You know that, don’t you?”
“Me?” said Frank, raising his eyes.
“Sure! There is only one entrance to
Sans
Souci
, and you were on guard there all day. You were, weren’t you?”