“Am I supposed to be flattered, Mr. Queen,” asked Ellen in a her-Ladyship-is-not-amused sort of voice, “by your boorish intrusion?”
“Beg pardon,” panted Ellery. “I thought you might be dead.”
Her Wedgwood eyes blued further. She set the antique cup down on an end table. “Did you say dead?”
He extended the anonymous letter. “Read this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s for you. I found it on the salver this morning and opened it by mistake, thinking it was addressed to me. I’m thankful I did. And you may be, too, before we’re finished.”
She took the letter and read it swiftly. The paper slipped from her hand, struck the edge of the chaise, and fluttered to the floor.
“What does it mean?” she whispered. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.” Ellery stooped over her. “You know something dangerous to your father’s murderer, and your father’s murderer knows you know it. Ellen, tell me what it is, for the sake of your own safety. Think! What do you know that would explain a threat like this?”
He read in her eyes the immediate qualification of her terror. A slyness crept into them, and the lids slid halfway down.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s foolhardy of you to hold it back. We have a murderer on our hands and he’s getting edgy. Tell me, Ellen.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I know nothing.” She turned away. “Now will you please leave? I’m not exactly dressed for entertaining.”
Ellery retrieved the note and left, damning all idiots. In addition to his other commitments he would now have to undertake the thankless task of acting as the woman’s watchdog.
What was Ellen concealing?
Christopher, sighting the pale sun over the top of a pine, recited the opening lines of Snowbound.
“Whittier,” he explained. “I still have a childish fondness for the old boy.”
Joanne laughed, a sound of sleigh bells. “Delivered like a pro. Bravo.”
“Not really. A pro gets fairly steady employment.”
“You could, too, if you tried. Really tried.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“You know something? So do I. But only when I’m with you.”
“I’m glad.”
“Enough to cleave to my bosom?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Joanne cautiously, “how to take that, Chris.”
“Take it as an interim proposal. I don’t want to tie you up in knots until I’ve made it all the way. You make me feel life-size, Jo. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I need you.”
Jo smiled, but inside. She slipped a little mittened hand into his glove, and they strolled toward the pines and the pale sun.
Wolcott Thorp came down from the university and Chief Newby drove over from headquarters after dinner, both at Ellery’s invitation.
“What’s up?” Newby asked Ellery, aside. “Have you come up with something?”
“Have you?” asked Ellery.
“Not a damn thing. I’m not the Wizard of Oz, the way you’re supposed to be. No miracles yet?”
“No miracles, I’m afraid.”
“Then what’s cooking tonight?”
“A mess. I’m going to fling it at them, and see who runs for the mop — if any.”
They joined the others in the drawing room.
“I’ve taken the liberty of asking Chief Newby to drop by,” Ellery began, “because we need, I think, to redefine our position. Especially in reference to the dying message.
“When Chief Newby and I first found M-U-M on the scene, we made the natural assumption that Godfrey Mumford had left it as a clue to his killer’s identity. Further thought compromised this theory, at least as far as I was concerned. The clue had so many possible interpretations that I shifted to the theory that it meant the safe combination. That worked out fine but accomplished nothing. I opened the safe, and the safe proved to be empty.”
Ellery paused, seeming to wing far off. But his vision was in focus, and he could see nothing in their faces but attentiveness and bafflement.
“Now, after thinking it over again, I’ve changed my mind again,” he went on. “If Godfrey had wanted to leave the combination, all he had to write down was 13-21-13. It would have been almost as easy to write as M-U-M, and there would have been no chance of its being misunderstood. So now I’ve gone back to the original theory, which Newby has never abandoned — namely, that the message points to the murderer’s identity. If so, to whom?”
He paused again; and most of his captive audience waited in varying stages of nervousness for revelation.
“The Chief,” said Ellery, with a side-glance at Mrs. Caswell, who alone seemed unmoved, “is convinced of that identity. And, of course, from a strictly logical point of view, it is certainly possible.”
“It is certainly stuff,” said Mum; then pulled her head back in like a turtle.
“If it’s stuff, Mrs. Caswell,” smiled Ellery, “what’s coming is pure moonshine. Yet — who knows? I’m not going to turn my back on a theory simply because it sounds like something out of Lewis Carroll. Bear with me.
“From the beginning this case has exhibited a remarkable series of what I have to call, for want of a more elegant term, ‘doubles.’
“For example, there have been at least four ‘doubles’ connected with the murdered man: Godfrey had developed a famous chrysanthemum with a double blossom on one stem; the party he gave was to celebrate a double event, New Year’s Eve and his seventieth birthday; his wall safe cost about double what it should have cost; and his children, Ellen and Christopher, are twins — another double.
“Further, let’s not overlook the most significant double in the case: the double mystery of who killed Godfrey and what happened to the Imperial Pendant.
“What’s more, we can go on through a great many more doubles. Because, if you interpret the dying message as a clue to the killer, each of you has at least two connections with MUM.
“For instance, Ellen.” Ellen gave a visible start. “One, her maiden name was Mumford — first syllable, Mum. Second, she’s married to an Egyptologist. Egyptology connotes pyramids, the Sphinx — and mummies.”
Ellen reacted with a double sort of sound, like a jeer crossed with a neigh. “Rubbish! Nonsense!”
“It is, isn’t it? Yet this thing gets curiouser and curiouser. Take Christopher. Again, the first syllable of Mumford. And second, Chris, your profession.”
“My profession?” asked Christopher, puzzled. “I’m an actor.”
“And what are other words for actor? Player, performer, thespian, trouper... mummer.”
Christopher’s handsome face reddened; he seemed torn between the impulse to laugh and the need to fume. As a compromise he simply threw up his hands.
Chief Newby was looking embarrassed. “Are you serious, Ellery?”
“Why, I don’t know whether I am or not,” said Ellery gravely. “I’m just trying it on for size. You’re next, Mr. Thorp.”
The elderly curator immediately looked frightened. “I? How do I fit in?”
“First, the initials of the museum as they appear on your stationery: Merrimac University Museum — M-U-M. Second, your special interest in the culture of West Africa and its artifacts: fetishes, masks, charms, talismans — oh, and pompons.”
“I fail,” said Thorp coldly, “to see the connection.”
“The pompon is a variety of chrysanthemum. And if you want still another cross-reference, Mr. Thorp, there’s a phrase to describe your special field. Surely you know it?”