The Egyptian Cross Mystery

27. The Slip

The Duesenberg clawed its way through New York City, scrambled downtown, darted through the Holland Tunnel, dodged in and out of traffic through Jersey City, slipped through a maze of New Jersey towns, and then straightened out on the road to Harrisburg, shooting ahead like an arrow. Traffic was light; the storm had not abated; and Ellery alternately prayed to the gods of chance and played havoc with the speed laws. His luck held; he shot through town after town in Pennsylvania unpursued by motorcycle police.

The old car, which afforded no protection from the rain, was flooded; and he himself sat with soaked shoes and a dripping hat. Somewhere in the car he had salvaged a pair of racing goggles; and he made a grotesque figure in linen suit covered with a slicker, a light felt hat which sopped about his ears, amber goggles over pince-nez spectacles, and a grim look about him as he sat hunched over the enormous wheel rocketing the car through the storm-lashed Pennsylvania countryside.

At a few minutes to seven that evening, with the rain still driving steadily — he seemed to be traveling in its wake — he slid into Harrisburg.

He had no luncheon and hunger pinched his flat stomach. He parked the Duesenberg in a garage with specific instructions to the mechanic, and strode off in search of a restaurant. Within an hour he was back at the garage, had checked his oil, gasoline, and tires, and made his way out of town. He remembered the route well, sitting there behind the wheel, cold and clammy and uncomfortable. Within six miles he was through Rockville and arrowing straight ahead. He crossed the Susquehanna River, and flashed on. Two hours later he passed the Lincoln Highway, sticking stubbornly to the road he was on. The rain persisted.

At midnight, chilled, exhausted, his eyelids refusing to function, he pulled into Hollidaysburg. Again a garage was his first stop; and after a lively conversation with a grinning mechanic he left on foot for a hotel. The rain lashed against his wet legs.

“Three things I want,” he said from stiff lips in the little hotel. “A room, my clothes dried, and a call for seven tomorrow morning. Can you produce?”

“Mr. Queen,” said the clerk, after consulting Ellery’s signature on the register, “you watch me.”

The next morning, considerably refreshed, in dry clothing, stomach full of bacon and eggs, the Duesenberg roaring along, Ellery pressed forward on the last lap of the journey. Evidences of the storm’s havoc flashed by him — uprooted trees, swollen streams, wrecked cars abandoned by the roadside. But the storm, which had raged all night, had abated suddenly in the early hours, although the sky still lowered, the color of lead.

At 10:15 Ellery piloted the roaring Duesenberg through Pittsburgh. At 11:30, under a brightening sky, with the sun making valiant efforts to illuminate the peaks of the Alleghenies all about, Ellery brought the Duesenberg to a grinding stop before the Municipal Hall in Arroyo, West Virginia.

A man in blue denim whom Ellery vaguely remembered was sweeping the walk before the entrance to the Municipal Hall.

“Here, mistuh,” said this worthy, dropping his broom and clutching at Ellery’s arm as he dashed past, “where you goin’? Who you want t’see?”

Ellery did not reply. He ran quickly through the dingy hall to the rear, where Constable Luden’s office lay. The constabulary door was closed; and as far as he could see, Arroyo’s civic citadel was empty of life. He tried the door; it was unlocked.

The man in denim, a stubborn look on his loutish face, had shuffled after him.

Constable Luden’s office was unoccupied.

“Where’s the Constable?” demanded Ellery.

“Whut I been tryin’ t’tell ye,” said the man doggedly. “He ain’t here.”

“Ah!” said Ellery with a sagacious nod. Luden, then, had gone on to the hills. “When did the Constable leave?”

“Mond’y mornin’.”

“What!” Ellery’s voice overflowed with astonishment, woe, and a surging realization of catastrophe. “Good heavens, then he didn’t get my—” He darted forward to Luden’s desk. It was a mess of untidy papers. The man in blue put out his hand in blank protest as Ellery began to toss the Constable’s official correspondence — if it was official correspondence — about. And, as he had with dread expected, there it lay. A yellow-enveloped message.

He tore it open, and read: