Egyptian Cross Mystery (20 page)

“A canny analysis, Queen,” he said as he sounded one note after another. “Gave me a positive inspiration. … Suppose I were Krosac. I want to hide something—small, let us say, flat. I have only a limited time and a limited knowledge of the premises. What shall I do? Where shall—” He stopped for a moment; the note he had struck was off-key. He pressed it several times, but when it was apparent that the note was merely out of tune, he continued his ascending exploration. “Krosac wants a place which won’t be discovered until he’s ready—won’t be discovered even by accident. He looks about—and there’s the piano. Now mark this: Brad is dead; this is Brad’s room. Certainly, he reasons, no one is going to play a piano in the private study of a dead man—not for a long time, anyway. And so …”

“A positive triumph of the intellect, Professor!” cried Ellery. “I couldn’t have done better myself!”

And just as if the concert had been scheduled to begin at the immediate conclusion of this modest program note, the Professor made his discovery. The even ripple of the scale had been interrupted; he had come to a key which stubbornly refused to be depressed.

“Eureka,” said Yardley, with an expression of utter disbelief on his ugly face. He looked like a man who has been taught a trick of legerdemain and is astonished to find at his first attempt that the trick was successful.

They crowded around now, Megara as eager as the rest. The note refused to descend more than a quarter of an inch, despite all of the Professor’s efforts. And suddenly it stuck completely, refusing even to rise again.

Ellery said sharply: “Just a sec,” and took out of his pocket the little kit he always carried in defiance of his father’s derision. He selected a longish needle from this kit and began to probe the crevices between the stubborn key and the note on either side. A moment’s work, and between two of the ivory slabs the tiny edge of a wad of paper appeared.

They all straightened up, sighing. Ellery gently worked the wad out. In silence they surrounded him and backed into the library. The paper had been flattened and crushed; Ellery unfolded it with care and spread it out on the table.

Megara’s face was inscrutable. As for the others, not one of them, including Ellery himself, could have prophesied the extraordinary message conveyed by the heavily scrawled writing on the sheet.

TO THE POLICE:

If I am murdered—and I have good reason to believe that an attempt will be made on my life—investigate immediately the murder of the Arroyo (W. Va.) schoolmaster, Andrew Van, who was found crucified and beheaded last Christmas Day.

At the same time notify Stephen Megara, wherever he may be, to return posthaste to Bradwood.

Tell him not to believe that Andrew Van is dead. Only Stephen Megara will know where to find him.

Please, if you value the lives of innocent people, keep this absolutely confidential. Do not make any move until Megara advises what to do. Van as well as Megara will need every protection.

This is so important that I must repeat my admonition to let Megara lead the way. You are dealing with a monomaniac who will stop at nothing.

The note was signed—it was unmistakably genuine, as an immediate comparison with other samples of the man’s handwriting in the secretary proved—
Thomas Brad.

*
Mr. Queen refers here to the investigation which he later embodied between the covers of
The Roman Hat Mystery
(Signet Books).—
EDITOR’S NOTE.

S
TEPHEN MEGARA’S FACE WAS
a study in boiling expression. The metamorphosis in this vital, self-possessed man was startling. The pressure of the unknown had finally torn the mask of will from his face. His eyes glittered with an icy unrest. He looked rapidly about the room—at the windows, as if he anticipated the phenomenon of a phantasmal Velja Krosac leaping at him; at the door, where the detective leaned indifferently. He took a squat automatic from his hip pocket and examined its mechanism with lightning fingers. Then he shook himself and strode to the door, closing it in the detective’s face. He went to the windows, and with hard eyes looked out. He stood there quietly for a moment, uttered a short laugh, and slipped the automatic into his coat pocket.

Isham growled: “Mr. Megara.”

The yachtsman turned swiftly, his face set. “Tom was a weakling,” he said curtly. “He won’t get me—that way.”

“Where is Van? How is it he’s alive? What does this note mean? Why—?”

“Just a minute,” drawled Ellery. “Not too fast, Mr. Isham. We’ve much to chew upon before we’re served another portion. … It’s apparent now that Brad placed this note in an immediately accessible place—the secretary or the drawer of the round table—intending it to be found at once if he were murdered. But he didn’t reckon with the thoroughness of Krosac, who gains more of my admiration with each passing incident of the investigation.

“Murdering Brad, Krosac didn’t neglect to search the room afterward. Perhaps he had a presentiment that such a note, or warning, existed. At any rate, he found the note and, since he saw that it was in no way dangerous to himself—”

“How do you figure that?” demanded Vaughn. “It seems to me like the last thing any murderer would do—leave his victim’s note to be found!”

“It doesn’t require gigantic ratiocination, Inspector,” said Ellery dryly, “to understand this amazing man’s motive for an apparently foolish act. Had Krosac considered the note dangerous to his safety, certainly he would have destroyed it. Or at the very least, taken it away with him. But not only didn’t he destroy it, he actually—in the face of all seeming reason, as you point out—left it on the scene of the crime, falling in with his victim’s last wishes.”

“Why?” asked Isham.

“Why?” Ellery’s thin nostrils oscillated fiercely. “Because he considered the finding of the note by the police, far from perilous to his safety, actually
advantageous
to himself! Ah, but here we put our fingers on the crux of the situation. What does the note say?” Megara’s shoulders twitched suddenly, and a sinister determination took possession of his vital features. “The note says that
Andrew Van is still alive, and that only Stephen Megara will know where to find him!”

Professor Yardley’s eyes widened. “Devilishly clever. He doesn’t know where Van is!”

“That’s it exactly. Krosac, it’s a certainty now, somehow killed
the wrong man
in Arroyo. He thought he had murdered Andrew Van; Thomas Brad was next on his list, and when he had found and killed Brad he discovered this note. It told him that Van was still alive. But if he had motive to seek the life of Van six months ago, he surely has motive—and desire—still. If Van is alive—and brushing aside the petty consideration of the poor devil Krosac killed by mistake,” Ellery interpolated grimly, “Van must be sought out once more and exterminated. But where was Van? That he disappeared—took to his heels on learning that Krosac was after him and had actually killed another man through some error—was self-evident.”

Ellery brandished his forefinger. “Now consider the problem our brilliant Krosac faces. The note does not say where Van is. It says that only one man, Megara, knows where Van is. …”

“Hold on,” said Isham. “I see what you’re driving at. But why the dickens didn’t Krosac just destroy the note and wait for Megara to return? Then Megara would reveal to us where Van is, and Krosac, as I suppose you’re going to say, would in some way learn from us where Van is, too.”

“An excellent question, on the surface. Actually, unnecessary.” Ellery lighted a cigarette with slightly trembling fingers. “Don’t you see that if no note were left and Megara returned, Megara would have no reason to
doubt
Van’s death! Would you, Mr. Megara?”

“I would. But Krosac couldn’t know that.” The austerity of Megara’s character, the iron will of the man, dominated even the pitch of his voice.

Ellery was taken aback. “I don’t see … Krosac wouldn’t know? At least that proves my point. By leaving the note here to be found by the police—at once, I mean, with the police knowing immediately on discovering the body that the library was the scene of the crime—the police would institute an immediate search for Van. But Krosac himself wants to look for Van, and a contemporaneous police search would hinder his own investigation—naturally! By
delaying
the discovery of the note, Krosac accomplishes two ends: One, in the interval between the murder of Brad and Mr. Megara’s arrival, he can himself search for Van unhampered by the police; who, not yet having found the note, would know nothing of Van’s being still alive. Two, if Krosac in that interval doesn’t succeed in finding Van, he has lost nothing; for when Mr. Megara arrived on the scene, he would identify the pipe, the pipe would uncover a new investigation—as it did—leading ultimately to the discovery of the library as the real scene of the crime, the library would be thoroughly combed, the note then found, Megara would learn that Van was not dead, would disclose Van’s whereabouts to the police … and Krosac has merely to follow us in order to discover exactly where Van is hiding!”

Megara muttered savagely: “Maybe it’s all over already!”

Ellery wheeled. “You mean you think that Krosac in the interim did find Van?”

Megara spread his hands and shrugged—a Continental gesture, incongruous in this virile, American-looking man. “It’s possible. With that devil, anything is possible.”

“Listen,” snapped the Inspector. “We’re wasting valuable time gassing when we might be getting real information. Just a minute, Mr. Queen; this isn’t a
Kaffeeklatsch;
you’ve had the floor long enough. … Spill it, Mr. Megara. What the devil is the connection between Van, your partner Brad, and yourself?”

The yachtsman hesitated. “We are—we were—” Instinctively his hand darted into the pocket which bulged.

“Well?” cried the District Attorney.

“Brothers.”

“Brothers!”

Ellery’s eyes were fixed on the tall man’s lips. Isham said with excitement: “Then you were right, Mr. Queen! Those aren’t their real names. Can’t be Brad, Megara, or Van. What are—”

Megara sat down abruptly. “No. None of those. When I tell you—” His eyes clouded; he looked at something far beyond the confines of the library.

“What is it?” asked the Inspector slowly.

“When I tell you, you’ll understand what to this moment has probably been a deep mystery to you. The instant you told me about the T’s—that crazy business of the T’s—the headless bodies and rigid arrangement of the arms and legs, the T’s in blood on the door and the summerhouse floor, the crossroads, the totem pole—”

“Don’t tell me,” said Ellery harshly, “that
your real name begins with T!”

Megara nodded as if his head weighed a ton. “Yes,” he said in a low voice. “Our name is Tvar. T-v-a-r. … The T, you see.”

They were silent for a moment. Then the Professor remarked: “You were right, Queen, as usual. A literal significance, nothing more. Merely a T—no cross, no Egyptology, no garbled religious implication … Strange. Incredible, really.”

A shade of disappointment tinged Ellery’s face; he watched Megara with unwavering eyes.

“I don’t believe it,” asserted Vaughn out of a vast disgust “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Carving a man into the initial of his name!” muttered Isham. “Why, we’d be the laughingstock of the East, Vaughn, if we let this out.”

Megara leaped to his feet, his whole body elastic with rage. “You don’t know Central Europe!” he snarled. “You fools, he’s flinging those T’s—the symbol of our hated name—in our faces! The man’s insane, I tell you! It’s so damned clear. …” His rage went out of him, and he sank back into the chair. “Hard to believe,” he murmured. “Yes, but not what’s troubling you. It’s hard to believe that he’s been hunting us all these years. Like a movie. But that he’d mutilate the bodies—” His voice hardened again. “Andreja knew!”

“Tvar,” said Ellery quietly. “A triple alias for years. Obviously for grave reasons. And Central Europe … I imagine it’s vengeance, Mr. Megara.”

Megara nodded; his voice was becoming weary. “Yes, that’s so. But how did he find us? I can’t understand it. When Andreja, Tomislav and I agreed—God, how many years ago—to disguise our identities, we agreed also that no one—no one, you understand—must learn our old family name. It was to be a secret, and the secret’s been kept, I’d swear. Not even Tom’s wife—Margaret—or her daughter Helene knows that our name is Tvar.”

“You mean,” demanded Ellery, “that Krosac is the
only
person who knows?”

“Yes. That’s why I can’t imagine how even he got on our track. The names we selected …”

“Come on,” growled Vaughn. “Get going. I want information. First—who in hell
is
this Krosac? What’s he got against you people? Second—”

“Don’t go off half-cocked, Vaughn,” said Isham irritably. “I want to digest this T business for a minute. I don’t altogether understand. Why should he pick on the initial of their name?”

“To signify,” replied Megara in a cavernous voice, “that the Tvars are doomed. Silly, isn’t it?” His barking laugh grated on their ears.

“Would you recognize Krosac if you saw him?” asked Ellery thoughtfully.

The yachtsman compressed his lips. “That’s the damnable part of it! None of us saw Krosac for twenty years, and at that time he was so young that identification or recognition today would be impossible. He may be anybody. We’re up against a man—who’s damned near invisible!”

“He has a limp in his left leg, of course?”

“He limped slightly as a child.”

“Not necessarily permanent,” murmured Professor Yardley. “It may be a dodge. The deliberate assumption of a lost physical deficiency to confuse his trail. It would be consistent with Krosac’s diabolical cleverness.”

Vaughn suddenly strode forward and drew his lips back from his teeth.
“You
may want to gab here all day, but I’m going to get behind this! Look here, Mr. Megara—or Tvar, or whatever your name is—why doesn’t Krosac lie down and be a good boy? What the devil does he want to kill you people for? What’s the story?”