Arnold stepped toward the dresser and pointed up at a Geodetic Survey chart tacked above it on the wall. “His theory is that the Hussar, which sank about here—” Arnold indicated the spot off 134th Street which the doctor had said was correct—“has evaded all recent searching parties because its hulk has shifted. Sounded all right to listen to. I wouldn’t know. He has the tidal currents all checked and mapped out. Notice the odd conformation of Skelton Island and the submarine sinkhole indicated by the depth markings inside the small peninsula on the west shore. Floyd says that sometime in the last 50 years the wreck was swept clean of silt, due to current changes caused by near-by dredging and blasting in the channel. She was then shifted by the natural action of the tidal currents and moved gradually outward, until, on her way toward the Sound, she was scooped up by the arm of the island, and settled into the sinkhole. He says the measurements he’s taken of the hulk with the echo sounder fit those of the Hussar.”
“I see,” Gavigan said. “The theory is based on something more than spirit messages, then?”
“Yes. Captain Pole’s information from the astral plane or something is supplemental; and, though Floyd says it all checks, that’s where I get off. Rappourt and Watrous wander out here one day, get invited to stay, and before you can say ‘Fraud,’ she’s suddenly contacted the Hussar’s captain and is fishing spirit messages out of the beyond that give depth readings and nice neat instructions for salvaging. Mere coincidence, of course.”
“Where does Lamb fit in?”
“Floyd picked him up in some night club. He came out here with the screwy idea of buying the upper half of the island from Linda. Thought, since she never used it, she might sell. He’d like to tear down the old house and build there. Got an island complex, I guess. Linda rather fell for him; so maybe his idea wasn’t as screwy as I thought. Anyway, she invited him to stay while she thought it over, and then when the séances started, he got interested. Whether it was the spooks or the possibility of fishing up $8,000,000, I don’t know.”
“He looks as if he had money.”
“Yes. Acts like it, too. But they always want more, don’t they? His type.”
“Who is he?”
Arnold shrugged. Better ask him. He shies at the subject. Insists vaguely he’s a retired broker, but no details. Maybe the Exchange Commission kicked him out. I shouldn’t wonder.”
“You sleep pretty soundly?” Gavigan’s sudden change of tack startled Arnold.
“I — why, yes. I do. How did you know?”
I thought I detected a hint of tenseness in Arnold’s easy nonchalant attitude. He stood, suddenly, just a little too still.
“You got a good night’s sleep last night in spite of what had happened?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I did.” Arnold frowned. “That doesn’t condemn me, does it? I’ve told you there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Linda and myself.”
“You heard nothing unusual during the night?”
“No. Should I have? What happened?”
“You’ll hear later. That’s all at the moment, unless—” Gavigan looked at Merlini, who had stepped toward Arnold.
Merlini did have a question this time. “Arnold, did Linda always keep the old house locked up?”
“Yes. I haven’t been inside in years. Reporters used to come out now and then wanting a look. She always ran them off.”
“Where did she keep the keys?”
“In the wall safe in her bedroom. Behind that Bakst drawing on the wall. And a fine time we’ll have getting at them, or anything else. She wouldn’t trust anyone with the combination, not even her lawyer.”
All Merlini said to that was, “Um.”
Hunter put his head in at the door and asked, “See you a minute, Inspector?”
“Yes. Come in. Malloy, you ring headquarters. The instant they turn anything up on Floyd I want to hear about it. That’ll be all, Mr. Skelton.”
He waited until Arnold had gone. “Just a minute, Hunter. Merlini, let’s see that will.”
Merlini produced it and passed it over. “Arnold’s right,” he said, “Sigrid gets the money — all of it.”
As Gavigan scanned the paper hastily, Merlini turned up the top card of his deck — the Queen of Hearts. He looked at it absently and buried it deep in the deck. He flicked the deck lightly with his forefinger, turned up the top card again, and found — the Queen of Hearts. He repeated the action once more with the same result, and then murmured, “Arnold wasn’t too convincing about his undisturbed slumber.”
Gavigan folded the will. “No, he wasn’t.” He turned to the waiting Hunter.
“Yes?”
“There’s a Mr. Novak and a couple of assistants downstairs. Says he’s a diver from the Submarine Salvage Company. They’re asking to see Mr. Lamb. He hired them yesterday to come out and make a diving survey.”
“Good,” Merlini said at once. “Send them out to the houseboat and tell them to go to it. We want a report of what’s on the bottom just under that houseboat, and, if they can locate them, a report on the present state of those boats that sank last night.”
Hunter looked at Gavigan, and the latter nodded assent. Then Hunter said, “There’s something else.” He handed a letter to the Inspector. “Henderson made his morning trip in for mail. I looked it over. The rest was all magazines and bills, but this might be important. Henderson says Miss Skelton never got much mail at all.”
Gavigan held it gingerly, at his fingertips, and examined all sides. It was a plain white envelope bearing a special delivery stamp and the typewritten address: Miss Linda Skelton, Skelton Island, New York. On the back of the envelope I saw a dirty smudge that looked like the dusty imprint of a man’s rubber heel. Gavigan regarded it uneasily for a moment, then said, “Dime store stationery, which is no help.”
He stepped over to one of the curio cases, lifted the glass top, and drew out a knife with a carved bone handle and a thin, two-edged blade. He inserted it under the envelope’s flap and slit it neatly.
The single sheet of notepaper inside, when opened put, revealed this message:
Dear Linda:
The eight million is there and you know it, but you and Lamb want too much time to think about it. I know a man in Chicago who’ll jump at the chance to underwrite the salvage. I was pretty well fed up when I left, but I’ll give you a last chance to get in. If you’ve ante’d up before I get back--Okay. Otherwise not. This goes for Lamb too.
Merlini reached out a long arm and picked up the envelope.
Gavigan, watching him, said glumly, “The postmark reads, ‘Buffalo, April 14, 10:30 p. m.’ ”
“Last night,” Merlini said. “Yes. Floyd appears to have a nice neat alibi.”
Chapter Thirteen:
THIRTY DEADLY POISONS
“Malloy,” Inspector Gavigan ordered impatiently, “get headquarters to work on this at once. I want action at Buffalo and Chicago. I want Floyd Skelton in a hurry!”
Malloy nodded. “And I’ll find out if Arnold knows who Floyd might be after in Chicago.” He turned to Merlini. “That letter’s no alibi for the murder, though. If rigor was complete when the body was found at ten, she must have been dead long enough for him to have made Buffalo by plane.”
Merlini was still examining the envelope. “Yes,” he replied, “though Buffalo would seem to indicate a train. It’s not on the shortest plane route to Chicago. And, in any case, Floyd couldn’t have been either Mr. X, Y, or Z and have mailed that in Buffalo — not even if he went by rocket plane.”
“I’ll check on planes just the same,” Malloy said, starting out. As he opened the hall door he said, “Oh, hello, Doc.”