Here Thorp’s erudition was apparently wanting. He shook his head.
“Mumbo jumbo,” Ellery solemnly told him.
Thorp looked astonished. Then he chuckled. “How true. In fact, the very words come from the language of the Klassonke, a Mandingo tribe. What a quaint coincidence!”
“Yes,” said Ellery; and the way he said it re-established the mood the museum man’s laughter was shattering. “And Mrs. Caswell. I remind you again that Chief Newby has all along thought the dying message points to you. Mum Caswell.”
Margaret Caswell’s features took on the slightest pallor. “I hardly think this is the time to be playing games, Mr. Queen. But — all right, I’ll play, too. You said that each of us has at least two connections with Godfrey’s word on that pad. What’s the other one of mine?”
Ellery’s tone was positively apologetic. “I’ve noticed that you’re fond of beer, Mrs. Caswell, particularly German beer. One of the best-known of the German beers is called mum.”
And this at last brought Joanne to her feet, her little hands clenched. Her anger gave her a charming dimension.
“At first this was plain ridiculous,” stormed Jo. “Now it’s... it’s criminally asinine! Are you purposely making fun of us? And if I may ask a silly question — and no doubt I’ll get a pair of silly answers — what are my two connections with MUM?”
“There,” mourned Ellery, “you have me, Jo. I haven’t been able to spot one connection, let alone two.”
“Quite amusing, I’m sure,” Ellen said. “Meanwhile, we’re neglecting the important thing. What happened to the pendant?”
All Christopher’s dissatisfaction with the Queen performance burst out at finding a target he felt free to attack. “Important thing,” he cried. “I can’t make head or tail of what’s going on here, but don’t you consider it important to find out who killed father, Ellen? Aren’t you concerned with anything but that damned pendant? You make me feel like a ghoul!”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Ellen said to her twin. “You’re nothing so impressive as a ghoul, Chris. What you are is a bloody ass.”
He turned his back on his sister; and regal as a Borgia, she stalked from the room. From the stairway her complaint came to them distinctly: “You’d think father would have installed a lift instead of making us climb these antediluvian stairs.”
“Yes, your Majesty!” yelled Christopher.
While Mr. Q murmured to Chief Newby, “Ellery in Blunderland. Through the Magnifying Glass...”
“What are you,” snarled the Chief of Police, grabbing his coat and hat, “a nut or something?”
January 13
The one morning of the week when Ellen could be relied on to come down for breakfast was Sunday. Invariably she descended to a kipper and a slice of dry toast (except on communion days), after which, trailing High Church clouds of glory, she strode off to join her Anglican co-wor-shipers.
It was therefore a matter of remark that on this particular Sunday morning she failed to appear.
It was especially remarkable to Ellery, who had been barred by the proprieties from passing the night guarding her bedside. Enlisting Margaret Caswell’s chaperonage, he rushed upstairs, kicked open the unlocked door, and dashed in.
Ellen was still in bed. He listened frantically to her breathing; he took her pulse; he shook her, shouting in her ear. Then he damned her perversity and the unlocked door, which was an example of it.
“Phone Conk Farnham!” he bellowed at Mrs. Caswell.
There followed a scene of chaos, not without its absurdity, like an old Mack Sennett comedy. Its climax came when, for the umpteenth time in ten days, Dr. Farnham arrived on the run with his little black bag. It was surely Conk’s opinion, thought Ellery, that he was hopelessly trapped in the antics of a houseful of lunatics.
“Sleeping pills,” the doctor said. “Slight overdose. No need for treatment; she didn’t take enough. She’ll come out of it by herself soon — in fact, she’s coming out of it now.”
“This must be it on the night table,” Ellery mumbled.
“What?”
“The medium of the pills.”
A cup of scummy cold chocolate sat there, almost full.
“That’s it, all right,” said Dr. Farnham, after tasting it. “It’s loaded. If she’d swallowed the whole cupful, Ellery, she’d have been done for.”
“When will she be able to talk?”
“As soon as she’s all the way out.”
Ellery snapped his fingers. “Excuse me, Conk!” he said, and dashed past Mrs. Caswell and tore down the stairs. In the breakfast room, silent and glum, sat Jo and Chris and Wolcott Thorp.
“How’s Ellen?” Chris asked, half rising.
“Sit down. She’s all right. This time. Now we can start worrying about next time.”
“Next time?”
“Somebody slipped a lethal overdose of sleeping pills in her hot chocolate before she went to bed last night — unless you’re prepared to argue that Ellen is the type who would attempt suicide, which in my book she definitely is not. Anyway, she took only a few sips, thereby surviving. But whoever tried to kill her may try another time, and my guess is the time will be sooner than later. So let’s not dawdle. Who knows who prepared the hot chocolate last night?”
“I do,” said Joanne. “She prepared it herself. I was in the kitchen with her.”
“All the time she was fixing it?”
“No, I left before she did.”
“Anyone else in the kitchen at the time, or near it?”
“Not I,” said Christopher promptly, wiping his brow, which for some reason was damp. “If I ever give way to one of my homicidal impulses toward Ellen, I’ll use something sure, like cyanide.”
But no one smiled.
“You, Mr. Thorp?” asked Ellery, fixing the curator with a glittering eye.
“Not I,” said the little man, stuttering.
“Had anyone gone up to bed?”
“I don’t think so,” said Jo, her eyes worried. “No, I’m sure no one had. It was just after we finished that crazy farce of yours in the drawing room — when Ellen pranced out, I mean. A few minutes later she came downstairs again to prepare her chocolate. All the rest of us were still here. Don’t you remember?”
“No, because I was seeing Chief Newby out, and we talked outside for a few minutes before he drove off. Unfortunately I share the general weakness of being unable to be in two places at the same time. Did Ellen go directly upstairs with her chocolate?”
“I can answer that,” said Christopher. “I’d gone to the library to lick my wounds, and Ellen came in for a book to read in bed, she said. She wasn’t there more than two or three minutes. She took one of yours, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Maybe that’s why she fell asleep so soon,” said Jo with a little snapcrackle-pop in her voice.
“Even that,” said Ellery with a bow, “is not impossible. In any event, she must have left her cup standing in the kitchen for those two or three minutes.”
“I guess so,” said Christopher. “It would also seem that we were all milling around, with opportunity to dodge into the kitchen and tamper with it, allowing for a healthy lie or two. Take your pick, Mr. Queen. In my own defense I can only say I didn’t do it.”
“Nor,” stuttered little Wolcott Thorp, “did I.”
“It looks,” said Jo, “as if you’ll have to make the most of what you have.”
“Which,” snapped Ellery, “is precious little.”
And he left them to go back upstairs, where he found Dr. Farnham preparing to depart. Ellen was awake, propped up against the headboard, looking not hung over at all. What she did look like was hostile and furtive.