The Egyptian Cross Mystery

“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?”