“Hey,” he called. “Tell these guys to lay off.”
It was Lamb, an expression on his face after all. His dark heavy brows were flattened in an obstinate scowl; there were sleepless circles under his black eyes. I recognized the man who was frisking him — the cynical lean-jawed face of Captain Malloy. Standing back a bit from the huddle was a shorter man who must only just have topped the police requirement for height. He turned at Lamb’s shout and eyed us with frosty blue eyes from under the slanting brim of his fresh gray hat. Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Squad had arrived.
“Hello, Inspector,” Merlini greeted, “I see the Marines have landed. None too soon either.”
Gavigan nodded, a curt 5:30 a.m. nod. “Yes,” he said grumpily, “and I hope you have the situation well in hand? Hello, Ross.”
“No,” Merlini answered, “I’m afraid not. There’s been more plain and fancy hocus-pocus around here in the last few hours than you can shake a wand at. You’re a welcome sight.”
“Don’t tell me The Great Merlini is baffled,” Gavigan said with sudden interest. “We can’t have that. You’ll lose your Magicians’ Union card or something.”
Secretly I think the Inspector would have welcomed that possibility. His straightforward soul abhorred a mystery, and the deft sleight-of-hand of Merlini’s that could and did create impossibilities under his very nose annoyed him intensely. Merlini, puzzled, was a sight for his sore eyes.
Lamb’s voice broke in, protesting irritably, “May I take my arms down now, Inspector?”
Malloy stepped back, holding Lamb’s two guns, just as Dr. Gail hurried around the corner of the house and ran down the steps to the landing.
Gavigan threw the latter a quick look, and then, scowling at the display of armament, said to Lamb, “Cautious aren’t you? Who is he, Merlini?”
“Inspector Gavigan, Mr. Charles Lamb,” Merlini introduced. “And this is Dr. William Gail.”
“Charles Lamb?” Gavigan lifted an eyebrow. “Name’s familiar.”
Lamb was definitely not in a good humor this morning.
He growled, “Skip it. I know; he wrote essays. Sick of hearing about it every time I’m introduced.… What’s the idea of jumping me? What have I done?”
“I don’t know,” Gavigan snapped back. “Murder maybe. Where were you off to in that plane?”
“Me?”
“That’s what I said.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere, though I’m beginning to think I’d like to. I heard the plane and ran out to see what it was all about. Thought perhaps I could flag the pilot and tell him we needed help out here. But I see we have it.” His tone of voice indicated that he didn’t think much of it.
“Didn’t take you long to dress and get out here after you heard it, did it?”
“Why pick on me?” Lamb looked at Merlini and myself. “Other people show up damned quick and all dressed. I didn’t have to dress. I didn’t go to bed. Couldn’t sleep after the excitement last night.” He brought out his pill box again and popped another of the pink pills into his mouth.
So excitable he couldn’t sleep — that, I thought, was a laugh, coming from the dead-pan Mr. Lamb.
Gavigan took Merlini by the arm and led him off several paces, where they spoke for several minutes in a hurried undertone. The rest of us were silent, watching.
The Inspector called suddenly, “Brady, Hunter!”
Two detectives went toward him, listened to some rapid orders, and left us on a run.
Gavigan faced Lamb again and asked in a brisk, no-nonsense tone of voice, “Occupation?”
I saw Quinn, the squad’s shorthand expert, move over slightly, out of Lamb’s line of sight, and go to work with notebook and pencil.
Lamb answered flatly, “Unemployed.”
“And before that?”
“I take a flyer in the market now and then.”
“Address?”
“Skelton Island.”
“And before that?”
Lamb seemed to be watching the Inspector’s feet, his eyes hidden behind the heavy lowered lids. He hesitated, then answered, “314 South Front Street, Auckland, New Zealand.”
“Been around a bit, have you?”
Lamb grunted vaguely.
“Ever consider visiting Canada?” Gavigan asked quietly.
Lamb’s eyes came up to meet the Inspector’s. “Canada? No. Recommend it?”
Gavigan was using that smooth, polite tone of his. “This isn’t getting you anywhere, Lamb.”
The fat man’s mouth moved faintly in what might have been the start of a smile. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. That was your idea.”
“You’ll have to talk when I catch up with the pilot of that plane, you know.”
Lamb blew up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he protested scornfully, “I know nothing about that plane or its pilot. I’ve answered all the questions you’ve asked and I don’t intend to answer any more like the last ones. There was a murder around here last night. I’d suggest you start on that.”
“Muller,” Gavigan ordered. “Take him down to the house. And keep him in sight. You”—he looked at Gail—“better get some clothes on. I’ll see you down there later.”
Gail, who had been staring interestedly at Lamb, turned to go. I saw Lamb glance at the guns Malloy still held, and then, without speaking, he walked off, Muller at his heels.
“Now, Merlini,” the Inspector said, “let’s have the rest of it and never mind those dramatic climaxes you’re so fond of. Just give it to me straight.”
Merlini rattled off a quick, concise account to which I listened trying to decide what points he considered the most important. But his recital was as mechanical as a bank statement. When he told about the removal of the body, Gavigan frowned, demanded the roll of film I had exposed, and tossed it, with a batch of orders, at another detective.
“Leach, you get back with the launch. Get those films in to Pressler and tell him I want prints twice as fast as possible. Stop at the house down there on your way, scare up a photo of Floyd Skelton, get it copied, and have prints distributed. Hurry that telephone repairman along. Have someone examine that Grand Central locker — remember the number, Ross?”
“I couldn’t forget it,” I said. “Thirteen.”
“Good,” he turned back to Leach. “Dust the locker and key for prints; you won’t find any that count — it’ll have been used since, but do it. Malloy, give him the numbers off those guns so he can check on the registration.”
“Okay,” Malloy said, “I hope the boys at the lab can get the numbers to come up again. They’ve been filed.”
“Well,” Gavigan said. “No wonder Mr. Lamb was touchy! Take the guns, Leach, and then get back here. Malloy, you go along and have them drop you off at the boathouse. Take Quinn and do a little spadework. Start with the Hendersons. We’ll be down shortly.”
Malloy, Leach, and Quinn boarded the launch. When the roar of their departure had slackened, the Inspector turned to the remaining two detectives.
“Grimm, you snoop around this place on the outside. See if there are any footprints or other traces left after that storm.” He looked up at the house and then at Merlini. “Let’s go.”
We went in through the cellar door opening from the boat landing and on to the space beneath the living-room where the fire had been. Gavigan’s quick eyes examined the floor and the fire’s remains as Merlini talked rapidly, filling in details. The watersoaked rugs had been pulled back and I discovered from Merlini’s account that he and the Colonel had re-examined the cellar after I had gone for help. Once Gavigan poked with his foot at a blackened bit of board, stooped and drew from under it a bedraggled, dark blue, knitted silk scarf. It was a foot and a half long, three or four inches wide, wet, limp, and partially burned.