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:
No answer.
“What’s your real handle? Where do you come from?”
No answer. The Inspector went to the door again and beckoned two detectives standing in the hall. “Take him back to his cabin and keep him locked up there. We’ll attend to him later.”
Fox’s eyes burned as he shambled out between the two detectives. He avoided the eyes of Mrs. Brad and Helene.
“Well!” The Inspector mopped his brow. “Sorry, Mrs. Brad, to raise such a fuss on your drawing-room floor. But the man’s evidently a bad actor.”
Mrs. Brad shook her head. “I can’t understand it. He’s always been such a nice young man. So polite. So efficient. You don’t think he was the one who—”
“If he was, God help him.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t,” said Helene with asperity; her eyes were full of pity. “Fox couldn’t be a murderer or a gangster. I’m sure of it. He’s always kept to himself, it’s true, but he’s never been drunk or disorderly or in any way objectionable. He’s a cultured man, too. I’ve often caught him reading good books and poetry.”
“These fellows are sometimes pretty cagey, Miss Brad,” said Isham. “For all we know he may have been playing a part ever since he got the job here. We looked up his references and they were genuine — but he’d worked for the man only a few months.”
“May have taken that job just for the references,” said Vaughn. “They’ll do all sorts of things.” He turned to Ellery. “You can score this one for your father, Mr. Queen. We got the tip from Inspector Queen, who’s got his fingers on more stool-pigeons and tipsters than any cop in New York.”
“I knew Dad couldn’t keep from putting his oar in,” murmured Ellery. “Was your information so specific?”
“The stoolie saw Fox go into Malone’s headquarters, that’s all. But it’s enough.”
Ellery shrugged. Helene said: “The trouble with you people is that you’re always ready to think the worst of everybody.”
Lincoln sat down and lighted a cigarette. “Perhaps, Helene, we’d better keep out of it.”
“Perhaps, Jonah, you’d better mind your own business!”
“Children,” began Mrs. Brad weakly.
Ellery sighed. “Any news, Mr. Isham? I’m starved for information.”
The Inspector grinned. “Chew on this, then.” He took a sheaf of typewritten papers from his pocket and handed it to Ellery. “If you can find anything in ’em, you’re a genius. But...” he said sharply, turning to Lincoln, who had risen and was about to leave the room, “don’t go yet, Mr. Lincoln. There’s something... I... want to ask you.”
It was timed nicely, and Ellery approved the Inspector’s adroit and deliberate strategy. Lincoln stopped on the instant, reddening. The two women stiffened in their chairs. All at once, from a subdued atmosphere, the air in the room crackled with tension.
“What’s that?” asked Lincoln with difficulty.
“Why,” said Vaughn pleasantly, “did you lie to me yesterday when you told me that you, Miss Brad, and her mother had come home together Monday night?”
“I... Why, what do you mean?”
Isham said: “It appears that you people are making every effort to hinder rather than help the investigation of your husband’s murder, Mrs. Brad. The Inspector’s men have discovered from the taxicab driver who took two of you from the station to Bradwood Monday night—”
“Two?” drawled Ellery.
“—that only Mr. Lincoln and Miss Brad were in the cab, Mrs. Brad!”
Helene sprang to her feet; Mrs. Brad was stricken speechless. “Don’t answer, Mother. This is infamous! Are you suggesting that one of us is implicated in the murder, Mr. Isham?”
Lincoln muttered: “Look here, Helene, perhaps we’d better—”
“Jonah!” She faced him, quivering. “If you dare to open your mouth I’ll... I’ll never speak to you again!”
He bit his lips, avoided her eyes, and walked out of the room. Mrs. Brad uttered a puling little cry, and Helene stood in front of her, as if to shield her from harm.
“Well,” said Isham, throwing up his hands, “there you are, Mr. Queen. That’s what official investigators have to contend with. All right, Miss Brad. I want you to know, though, that from this moment on everyone — and I mean everyone — is under suspicion for the murder of Thomas Brad!”
12. The Professor Talks
With the verve of a dog carrying a bone Mr. Ellery Queen, slightly bewildered special investigator, returned posthaste to his host’s house across the road bearing the reports on work in progress. The noon sun was hot, too hot for haberdashery, and Ellery sought the cool interior with a panting relief. He found Professor Yardley in a room which might have been transported bodily out of the Arabian Nights, a patio-like affair of tessellated marble and Turkish arabesques. It looked like the inner court of a zenana; its chief delight was a pool a-brim to its mosaic lip with water. The Professor was attired in a pair of tight short breeches, and he was dangling long legs in the water while he peacefully puffed on a pipe.
“Phew!” said Ellery. “I’m more than grateful for your little harem, Professor.”
“As usual,” said the Professor severely, “your choice of words is sloppy. Don’t you know that the men’s apartments are called the selamik?... Get out of your clothes, Queen, and join me here. What’s that you’re carrying?”
“A message from Garcia. Don’t move. We’ll go over this together. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He reappeared shortly in trunks, the upper part of his body smooth and gleaming with perspiration. He dived flatly into the pool, throwing up a wave which drenched the Professor and extinguished his pipe, and proceeded to splash about with energy.
“Another one of your accomplishments,” growled Yardley. “You always were a damned poor swimmer. Come out of there before you drown me.”
Ellery grinned, clambered out, stretched full length on the marble, and reached for Inspector Vaughn’s sheaf of reports.
“What have we here?” He ran his eye down the top sheet. “Hmm. Doesn’t look like much. The admirable Inspector hasn’t been idle. Check-up with the Hancock County officials.”
“Oh,” said the Professor, struggling to relight his pipe. “So they’ve done that, have they? What’s been happening down there?”
Ellery sighed. “First, the autopsy findings on the body of Andrew Van. Absolutely devoid of the minutest particle of interest. If you’d read as many autopsy reports as I have, you’d appreciate... And a complete synopsis of the original investigation. Nothing I don’t already know, or that you didn’t read in contemporaneous newspaper accounts... Ha! What’s this? ‘Pursuant’ — digest this, please; it sounds just like that fellow Crumit — ‘Pursuant to District Attorney Isham’s inquiry concerning a possible relationship between Andrew Van, the Arroyo schoolteacher, and Thomas Brad, recently murdered Long Island millionaire, we are sorry to state that no such relationship exists; at least insofar as we have been able to determine from a careful study of the deceased Van’s old correspondence, and so on.’ Neat, eh?”
“A model of rhetoric,” grinned the Professor.
“But that’s all. Alors, we leave Arroyo and return to Ketcham’s Grove.” Ellery squinted at the fourth sheet. “Dr. Rumsen’s autopsy report on the body of Thomas Brad. Nothing that we don’t know, really. No marks of violence on the body itself, no indication of poisoning in the internal organs, and so on, and so on, ad nauseam. The usual trivialities.”