Merlini said with obvious interest, “Hmm. I missed that.”
“Everything else in this cellar dates back 50 years or more,” was Gavigan’s comment. “This looks a little more recent.”
“It is,” Merlini said. “It was part of the murdered woman’s dress. You’ll see the loose threads at the neck of her dress where it was ripped away.”
“Called an Ascot scarf, I think,” I announced.
Merlini and Gavigan both seemed startled. “Didn’t know you were an authority on women’s wear, Ross,” the latter commented.
“Sure,” I said immodestly. “Copywriters know everything. I ghosted a history of the fashion industry for a rayon account when I had that advertising job. The female copywriter was having a baby that week. I can tell you all about bustles, peplums, and three-way-stretch girdles. What the hell is that scarf doing down here?”
“You just said copywriters knew everything,” Gavigan replied. “You tell me.” He glanced inquisitively at Merlini as he spoke but got no reply from either of us; though, if I knew the signs, I suspected Merlini of harboring an idea. He looked at the scarf too intently and then shrugged his shoulders with too much unconcern.
Gavigan frowned at it once more and then, pocketing it, led the way upstairs. Day had penetrated the shuttered house only in the few places where missing shutter slats allowed thin streaks of light to enter, venturing almost timidly into the cold, dusty gloom.
As Gavigan looked about the kitchen, Merlini said, “Miss Skelton is supposed to have kept this place locked, sightseers discouraged. The smashing of the front-door lock seems to corroborate that. But that cellar door off the boat landing was unlocked and wide open; and, judging from the trampled state of the dust on these floors, there’s been a guide on duty showing tourists through at stated intervals.”
I saw, in the light of the flash Gavigan held, a clearly defined pathway in the dust, leading from the cellar door through the kitchen and out into the hall. The disturbance was much greater than our running about the night before could account for.
Merlini opened a door on the left. “Servants’ stair,” he said. Gavigan’s flash disclosed an even coating of dust on each step, undisturbed except for the small marks of the rats.
We went through the hall and up the front stairs whose treads again showed the disturbed appearance of use. The Inspector took it slowly, watching each riser for isolated prints. He found one halfway up, the small fragmentary imprint of a woman’s heel.
“You’re sure the body was carried up, after death?”
“Yes,” Merlini said. “I’m afraid that print is not hers, though you can compare it. I examined the soles of her shoes last night. Altogether too clean. I doubt if she wore them outside the house at all. She certainly didn’t walk clear across the island yesterday; there’d have been traces of sand or dirt.”
“Someone’s deliberately scuffled up this trail. Obvious sidewise swipes of a foot in several places. Like that before you and the rest of that crowd tramped up and down here last night?”
“Yes. And it was more than just the woman. That looks like a portion of a man’s print on the top step, at the side.”
Gavigan nodded, bending over to look closely. Merlini walked down the hall stopping to peer at the doorknobs of the closed doors. “Nice thick coating of dust on top of each knob,” he said, and then returned, trying each door. “And all locked.”
“Meaning your eavesdropper went on up,” Gavigan said, starting on the second stairway himself. “Just the same we’ll get keys and take a look-see in those rooms.”
When we entered the upper room, Merlini crossed and opened the shutter he had fastened before leaving. The light dispelled much of the shadowy, secretive feel of the room and let it emerge more simply as the dusty, forgotten place that it was. Only those footprints, marching incongruously and as unreal as ever across the ceiling, set that room apart.
The Inspector’s gaze, as he threw his head back to stare at them, held a confused mixture or wonder and skepticism. He said sharply, “Rubbish!” in much the sort of tone he’d have used meeting a hippogriff in Times Square. He turned his attention abruptly to the rest of the room, standing in its center and revolving slowly with his torch, like a lighthouse beacon.
“Body there?” he grunted, indicating the chair.
Merlini nodded and produced the nail-polish bottle that he had taken, corked, and wrapped carefully. The Inspector took charge of it, sniffing once very gingerly before putting it away.
“Cyanide, all right,” he said, and then began a rapid, efficient examination of the room. He investigated the chair, the table, the rickety old couch, and every inch of floor. Climbing finally on the window seat, as I had done previously, he scowled at the top of the window frame and then, putting his head out, at the river down below. After a moment he jumped down, strode determinedly to the table, and hoisting himself to its top, stood and put his nose close against the footprints that ascended the wall. He studied them a moment, then lifted his own foot and placed it against the plaster. The dusty smudge he left differed from the others in that the tip of the toe left no mark.
“They look like walking prints, all right,” he muttered, glaring at them. “Rubber-heel pattern shows enough individual characteristics of wear for identification. Something to work on.” He turned, still standing on the table top, and looked down at Merlini, who had been watching his acrobatics with interest. He jammed his hands down into his coat pockets and demanded, “You’re the famed expert on impossibilities, Merlini. What about it? And don’t tell me those prints mean someone actually walked upside down across that ceiling. Even a magician couldn’t—”
“Does seem to classify as sleight-of-feet, doesn’t it?” Merlini grinned. “But it’s not impossible. I know a young lady who does it twice a day, matinee and evening performances—40 feet up. Circus performer, Anna Merkle.”
“All right. I’m listening. How?” Gavigan said irritably.
“Circular rubber suction cups on the feet, and if you think it’s easy, try it sometime. She falls every now and then, and her only protection is a canvas held up by a crew of prop men beneath her rigging. It’s not new. I’ve a book at home, printed in 1897, which pictures Aimée, The Human Fly, using exactly the same—”
“Those prints aren’t circular,” the Inspector objected, “and they weren’t made by rubber suction cups, and will you please stop injecting anything additional into this mess. Got enough puzzles now for half a dozen murders. Unknown prowler, arson, cut phone, scuttled boats, assault and battery, runaway airplane, screwy footprints, and — a body. I haven’t even got to that yet.”
Merlini added to the list. “The misplaced agoraphobe. How, why, when, and where did she die? Who moved her, when, and why? The unco-operative and well-armed Mr. Lamb. The mysterious inventions of Ira Brooke. What, was scheduled for but didn’t happen at Rappourt’s séance? What’s behind the intriguing adventure of the lost fortune in guineas? And where is Floyd? We do need answers, don’t we?”
“Fat lot of help you are.” Gavigan glared at the ceiling, his hat tipped back on his head. “Someone put shoes on his hands and stood on a stepladder or used a pole. But for God’s sake, why? Those prints aren’t even clues; they don’t mean anything, unless it’s a practical joke. They don’t lead anywhere except out that window and nobody—” He went across, climbed onto the window seat and put his head out again. Then he called, “Grimm! Come up here. Find the trap to the roof and look for traces there.” The Inspector looked carefully at Merlini. “You’re feeling good about something. Mind telling me, or do you want to be held as a material witness? Some day I’m going to do just that. You don’t seem to realize that murder—”