The Egyptian Cross Mystery
- Автор: Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Серия: Ellery Queen #5
- Год: 1932
- Язык: английский
- Год: Frederick A. Stokes Company
- Жанр: Классические детективы
Электронная книга - «The Egyptian Cross Mystery». Краткое содержание книги:
“It was arranged,” shrilled Stryker anxiously.
“Arranged?” Isham frowned. “By whom?”
Stryker retreated. “It was arranged.”
“Ah, don’t listen to him!” snarled Romaine. “When he gets stubborn, you can’t get a sensible word out of him. When I joined up with him, he said the same thing. It was arranged — to come to Oyster Island.”
“Before you became his — er — fellow-divinity, eh?” asked Ellery.
“That’s right.”
They seemed to have arrived at a dead end. It was evident that, mad or not, the sunstruck Egyptologist could not be prevailed upon to divulge another coherent thought. Romaine knew, or professed to know, nothing about the events of six months before.
Inquiry revealed the information that there were twenty-three nudists living on the Island, most of them from New York City, who had been attracted to this doubtful Arcadia by adroit newspaper advertisements and Romaine’s personal missionary work. Their transportation was provided from the local railroad station; taxicabs brought them to a public landing on the farther boundary of Dr. Temple’s estate; and Ketcham, the owner of the Island, ferried them across in an ancient dory for a small consideration.
Old Man Ketcham, it appeared, lived with his wife on the eastern tip of the oyster.
Inspector Vaughn rounded up the sun god’s twenty-three shrinking neophytes of sun worship and nudism, and a badly frightened lot they were. Most of them, now that their excursion into the forbidden delights of nakedness was held up to the light of public investigation, seemed heartily ashamed of themselves; and several appeared in full regalia dragging hand luggage. But the Inspector grimly shook his head; no one was to leave the Island until he granted permission. He took their names and city addresses, smiling sardonically at the array of Smiths, Joneses, and Browns the pages of his notebook began to display.
“Any of you leave the Island yesterday?” demanded Isham.
A quick shaking of heads; no one, it seemed, had set foot on the mainland for several days.
The investigating party turned to go. Hester Lincoln still stood by Romaine’s side. Dr. Temple, who had patiently waited without once uttering a word, now said: “Hester, come along.”
She shook her head.
“You’re just being stubborn,” said Temple. “I know you, Hester. Be sensible — don’t stay here with this bunch of fakers, grafters, and inhibited morons.”
Romaine leaped forward. “What did you say?” he growled. “What did you call me?”
“You heard me, you fourflushing thickhead!” All the venom and baffled anger in the good doctor’s soul bubbled over; his right arm lashed out, and his fist struck Romaine’s jaw with a dull snick.
Hester stood frozen to the floor for a moment, and then her lips quivered. She turned and ran into the woods, sobbing convulsively.
Inspector Vaughn sprang; but Romaine, after a single instant of stupefaction, threw back his shoulders and laughed. “If that’s the best you can do, you little weasel...” His ears were fiery red. “I warn you, Temple; you stay away from here. If I catch you on this Island again, I’ll break every bone in your damned nosy body! Now get out.”
Ellery sighed.
9. The $100 Deposit
Dense and denser fog. The “important” visit was over.
They left the Island in gloomy spirits. A maniac with the usual complement of cunning and incoherence; a dead trail to a vanished man... the mystery was deeper than ever. They all felt that in some way the presence in the vicinity of Bradwood of the man who called himself Harakht was significant. It could not be coincidence. Yet what possible connection could there be between the murder of a country schoolteacher and the murder of a millionaire hundreds of miles away?
The police launch sputtered out from the landing dock and headed east along the shore of Oyster Island, skirting the green-walled ribbon of beach. At the extreme eastern tip of the Island they saw a similar structure in the water.
“That must be Ketcham’s private slip,” said Vaughn. “Head in.”
The Island at this point was even more desolate than on the western side. From where they stood on the wooden platform they had an unobstructed view of the Sound and the New York shoreline to the north. It was windy, a salty spot.
Dr. Temple, much subdued, and Professor Yardley remained in the launch. District Attorney Isham, Vaughn, and Ellery rattled off the ramshackle landing and followed a crooked path through the woods. It was cool here, and except for the path — which looked as if it had been last trodden by Indian feet — they might have been in virgin forest. Within a hundred and fifty yards, however they came upon a rude evidence of civilization, a cabin constructed of years-tempered, roughly hewn logs. Seated on the doorstep, placidly smoking, a corncob, was a big sunbitten old man. He rose quickly as he saw his visitors, and his white-tufted eyebrows bunched over remarkably clear eyes.
“What might ye be doin’ here?” he demanded in an unfriendly drawl. “Don’t ye know this is private prop’ty, this whole Island?”
“Police,” said Inspector Vaughn succinctly. “You Mr. Ketcham?”
The old man nodded. “P’lice, hey? After them noodists, I’ll warrant. Well, y’ain’t got nothin’ on Mrs. Ketcham and me, gentlem’n. I jest own this here scoop o’ dirt. Ef my tenants been cuttin’ up, that’s their hard luck. I ain’t respon—”
“Nobody’s taking you to task,” snapped Isham. “Don’t you know there’s been a crime committed on the mainland — at Bradwood?”
“Ye don’t tell me!” Ketcham’s jaw dropped, and his pipe seesawed between two brown teeth. “Hear that, Maw?” He turned his head toward the interior of the cabin, and they could discern an old crone’s wrinkled face between his outstretched arm and the jamb of the door. “Been a crime over to Bradwood... Well, well, ain’t that too bad. What’s it got to do with us?”
“Nothing — I hope,” said Isham darkly. “Thomas Brad’s been murdered.”
“Not Mr. Brad!” screamed an old feminine voice from the cabin; and Mrs. Ketcham popped her head out. “Ain’t that awful! Well, I allus said—”
“You git back in there, Maw,” said old Ketcham; his eyes were frosty. The old woman’s head vanished. “Well, gentlem’n, I ain’t what you might say s’prised t’ hear it.”
“Good!” said Vaughn. “Why?”
“Well, there’s been goin’s-on.”
“What do you mean? What kind of goings-on?”
Old Ketcham winked one eye. “Well, Mr. Brad an’ the loonatic” — he jerked a dirt-crusted thumb over his shoulder — “they been havin’ ruckuses ever since them people rented Oyst’r Island from me fer th’ summer season. I own this here Island, ye know. Fam’ly been here over four gen’rations. Since Injun days, I reckon.”
“Yes, we know that,” said Vaughn impatiently. “So Mr. Brad didn’t like the idea of Harakht and his bunch so close to him, eh? Did you—?”
“One moment, Inspector,” said Ellery; his eyes were bright. “Mr. Ketcham, who leased the Island from you?”
Ketcham’s corncob vomited yellow smoke. “Not th’ nutty feller. A man with a durned funny name. Foreign sort o’ name. Kro-sac.” He pronounced it with difficulty.
The three men exchanged glances. Krosac — a trail at last. The mysterious limping man of the Arroyo murder...
“Did he limp?” asked Ellery eagerly.
“Seein’,” drawled Ketcham, “as I never seen him, I can’t say. Wait a minute; I got somethin’ ye might be int’rested in.” He turned and disappeared in the darkness of the cabin.
“Well, Mr. Queen,” said the District Attorney thoughtfully, “it looks as if you called the turn. Krosac... With Van an Armenian, and Brad a Roumanian — well, maybe not, but anyway certainly Central Europeans — and Krosac floating around somewhere after last being seen at the scene of the first crime... It’s hot, Vaughn.”