Egyptian Cross Mystery (33 page)

“Yes, of course. The note he left shows that, and then Van himself wrote Brad and warned him.”

“Bien assurément!
Would Brad, knowing Krosac to be abroad, make an appointment with a stranger, deliberately sending all possible protectors of his hide from the premises, as he did?”

“Hmm, I suppose not.”

“You see,” said Ellery with a tired sigh, “you can prove anything if you collate sufficient data. Look here—let me take the most extreme case. Suppose Brad’s expected visitor that night did come, did transact his business with Brad, did leave. Then Krosac appeared. An utter stranger, mind. But we’ve shown that Krosac, Brad’s murderer, played checkers with Brad. That would mean that Brad deliberately invited into his defenseless house an utter stranger. … Wrong, of course. Then Krosac must have been well-known to Brad, whether he was the visitor expected by Brad or a chance guest of the evening. Actually, I don’t care a tittle which. My own belief is that only one person besides Brad was in the study that night—Krosac. But if there were two, or three, or a dozen, it doesn’t invalidate the conclusion that Brad knew Krosac well in whatever guise he appeared, and that Brad played checkers with him and was murdered during the game.”

“And where does that get you?”

“Nowhere,” said Ellery ruefully, “which is why I said before that I’m no better off now than I was three weeks ago. … You know, there’s another positive fact, now that I come to think of it, which we can fish out of this mess of indecision. I’m an ass not to have thought it out before.”

The Professor rose and knocked out his pipe against the fireplace. “You’re full of surprises tonight,” he said, without turning. “What’s that?”

“We can assert with absolute assurance that Krosac does not limp.”

“We said that before,” retorted Yardley. “No, you’re right. We said we couldn’t be sure. But how—?”

Ellery got to his feet, stretched his arms, and began to pace up and down. It was humid in the library; the downpour outside redoubled in hissing intensity. “Krosac, whoever he’s pretending to be, was well-known to Brad. No one who was well-known to Brad limps. Therefore Krosac actually does not limp; but has utilized his youthful infirmity as a consistent physical characteristic merely to lead the police astray.”

“That’s why,” muttered Yardley, “he’s been so apparently careless about leaving a trail to a limping man.”

“Exactly. He discards the limp the moment he scents danger. No wonder no trace of him has been found. I should have thought of it before.”

Yardley teetered on his big feet, cold pipe jutting from his mouth. “And there we are.” He regarded Ellery keenly. “No sign of the fugitive thought, eh?”

Ellery shook his head. “Still hiding behind a convolution somewhere … Let’s see now. Murder of the first victim, Kling, satisfactorily explained. Krosac, and the pseudo-limp, in the direct vicinity; motive, proximity, peculiar nature of crime—all fit. There is a feud. Krosac thinks he has killed Andreja, one of the brothers. How does he finally get on the track of Van, the most remote of the three Tvars? Query unanswerable; to be answered God knows when … Krosac strikes once more. Brad this time; same query, also unanswerable. The plot thickens deliciously: Krosac finds Brad’s note which tells him for the first time that he has made a mistake in the introductory murder, that Van is still alive. But where is Van? Must be found, says Krosac to himself, or my vengeance is incomplete. Curtain on second act—very melodramatic … Megara returns; Krosac knows he will; enter the sole possessor, according to the note, of the secret of Van’s new identity and present whereabouts. … Time out. Delay. And then …
By God,”
said Ellery.

Professor Yardley stiffened, scarcely breathing. All the signs pointed to the apprehension of the fugitive. Ellery was rooted to the floor, glaring at his host with the ferocious light of discovery in his eyes.

“By God,” shouted Ellery, leaping two feet into Professor Yardley’s humid air, “what a fool I’ve been! What an idiot, what an imbecile, moron, mental defective! I’ve got it!”

“It always works,” grinned the Professor, relaxing. “What—Here, my boy; what’s the matter?”

He paused in alarm. A remarkable change had come over Ellery’s exulting face. His jaw dropped, his eyes clouded, and he winced as people do sometimes at the purely imaginary shock of a fancied blow.

The expression came, and went. Ellery’s jaw was outlined on his smooth brown cheek. “Listen,” he said rapidly. “I haven’t time for anything but the sketchiest analysis. What were we waiting for? What was Krosac waiting for? We were waiting for Krosac to attempt to discover through Megara, the only source of information,
where Van is.
Krosac was waiting to make this discovery.
And then he killed Megara.
It can mean only one thing!”

“He found out,” cried Yardley, the gravity of the thought causing his deep voice to crack. “My God, Queen, what fools, what blind fools we’ve been! It may be too late already!”

Ellery wasted no time in reply. He sprang to the telephone. “Western Union … Take a telegram. Fast. Addressed to Constable Luden, Arroyo, West Virginia … Yes. Message: ‘Form posse immediately and go to hut of Old Pete. Protect Old Pete until my arrival. Notify Crumit Krosac returning. If anything has happened by time you reach hut pick up Krosac trail but leave scene of crime intact.’ Sign it Ellery Queen. Repeat, please … Krosac—K-r-o-s-a-c. Right … Thanks.”

He flung the instrument from him, then changed his mind and picked it up again. He put in a call to Bradwood, across the road, asking for Inspector Vaughn. Vaughn, he discovered from Stallings, had left Bradwood hurriedly not long before. Ellery dismissed Stallings peremptorily and asked for one of Vaughn’s men. Where was Inspector Vaughn? The man on the other end of the wire was sorry, but he had no idea. The Inspector had received a message, and he and District Attorney Isham had immediately commandeered a car and dashed away.

“Damn it,” groaned Ellery, hanging up, “what are we going to do now? We haven’t any time to dawdle!” He dashed to a window and looked out. The rain seemed to be steadily increasing in force, coming down in torrents; lightning flashes streaked the sky; the thunder was almost incessant. “Listen,” said Ellery, turning back. “You’ll have to remain behind, Professor!”

“I really don’t like the idea of your going there alone,” replied Yardley reluctantly. “Especially in this storm. How are you going to get there?”

“Never mind. You stay here and try your damnedest to get in touch with Vaughn and Isham.” Ellery leaped to the telephone again. “Mineola flying field. Quick!”

The Professor rubbed his beard uncomfortably as Ellery waited. “Oh, I say, now, Queen, you can’t be thinking of going up in a sky like this.”

Ellery waved one hand. “Hello, hello! Mineola? Can I charter a fast plane for a southwestern flight at once? … What?” His face fell, and after a moment he put down the telephone. “Even the elements are conspiring against us. Storm came up from the Atlantic and is traveling west and south. The Mineola man says it will be bad in the Alleghenies. They won’t send a plane up. What the devil can I do?”

“Train,” suggested Yardley.

“No! I’ll trust the old Duesie! Have you a slicker or a raincoat I can borrow, Professor?”

They raced into the Professor’s hall and Yardley opened a closet and brought out a long slicker. He helped Ellery into it. “Now, Queen,” he panted, “don’t go off half-cocked. That’s an open car, the roads will be bad, it’s a terribly long drive—”

“I shan’t take unnecessary chances,” said Ellery. “Luden should cover things, anyway.” He hopped forward and opened the door, and the Professor followed him into the vestibule. Ellery was silent, and then offered his hand. “Wish me luck, old man. Or rather wish Van luck.”

“Go ahead,” grunted the Professor, pumping Ellery’s hand up and down. “I’ll do my best to find Vaughn and Isham. Take care of yourself. You’re certain about it now? It isn’t an unnecessary trip?”

Ellery said grimly: “There was only one thing that kept Krosac from killing Megara for the past two weeks. That was—he didn’t know where Van was. If he killed Megara finally, it must be that he discovered the Old Pete ruse and the mountain hideaway. Extorted the information from Megara, probably, before he killed him. It’s my job to prevent a fourth murder; Krosac is undoubtedly on his way to West Virginia at this moment. I’m hoping that he took time out to sleep last night. Otherwise—” He shrugged, smiled at Yardley, who looked longingly after, and then dashed down the steps in the buffeting downpour, under the lightning, toward the driveway at the side where the garage and the old racing car lay.

Mechanically Professor Yardley consulted his watch. It was exactly one o’clock.

*
“When a thought is too weak to be expressed simply, that is a sign that it should be rejected.”

T
HE 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:

CONSTABLE LUDEN ARROYO WEST VIRGINIA FORM POSSE IMMEDIATELY AND GO TO HUT OF OLD PETE PROTECT OLD PETE UNTIL MY ARRIVAL NOTIFY CRUMIT KROSAC RETURNING IF ANYTHING HAS HAPPENED BY TIME YOU REACH HUT PICK UP KROSAC TRAIL BUT LEAVE SCENE OF CRIME INTACT

ELLERY QUEEN

A panoramic picture flashed before Ellery’s eyes. Through a hideous and mischievous blunder, a turn of the fateful wheel, his telegram to Luden might never have been sent at all for the good it had accomplished. The man in denim patiently explained that the Constable and Mayor Matt Hollis had left two mornings before on their annual fishing trip; they were customarily gone a week, camping out, angling on the Ohio and its tributaries. They would not be back until Sunday. The telegram had arrived a few minutes past three the day before; the man in denim—who announced himself as janitor, caretaker, and man-of-all-work—had received it, signed for it, and in the absence of Luden and Hollis placed it on the Constable’s desk, where it might have lain a week but for Ellery’s fortuitous visit. The janitor seemed to have something pressing in mind, and began a rambling dissertation, but Ellery brushed him aside and, dim horror in his eyes, scrambled back to Arroyo’s main street and leaped into the Duesenberg.