Then she saw the Pontiac, and sprang toward the big roadster, clawing at the door. She was in the car in a flash. The Cadillac roared forward toward him. It swept along the curve of the semicircular drive; it was only when it was almost upon him that his muscles came to life. He jerked the Pontiac into first speed and twisted the wheel to the right. The Pontiac plunged into the muddy lane leading to the side of the house.
Their hubs rasped against each other. The Cadillac swung out, careening on two wheels. For the sheer instant that the two drivers were side by side Bill saw that the woman’s gloved right hand was clutching a handkerchief, and that the handkerchief covered her face. Her eyes were wild and wide above the fabric. Then she and the roadster were gone, roaring down Lamberton Road toward Trenton and in a twinkling swallowed by the darkness. It would be futile, Bill knew, to follow her.
Dazed, he drove the Pontiac along the muddy side-lane and brought it to rest beside his brother-in-law’s old Packard, conscious that his hands were clammy with sweat. He shut off his motor and stepped from the running-board to a small wooden-floored porch at the side of the shack. The door was slightly ajar. He braced himself and pushed it open.
Blinking in the light, he made out only the general features of the interior. He stood in a low-ceilinged room with discolored walls from which the plaster had in many places dropped off. He became aware of an old-fashioned telescopic clothes-rack on the opposite wall, draped with men’s suits, of a dingy iron sink in a corner, of a naked and crypt-like old fireplace, of a round central table with an electric lamp on it from which the only light in the room emanated. There was no bed, no bunk, no stove, no closet. A few decrepit chairs and one overstuffed armchair which sagged badly... Bill stiffened.
A man was lying on the floor behind the table. He could see two trousered legs, crooked at the knees. There was something about those two legs that suggested death.
Bill Angell stood still where he was, just inside the side door, slowly thinking things out. His mouth was hard. It was very quiet in the shack. He felt the overwhelming loneliness of his position. People who breathed were far away, and laughter was a remote and inconceivable luxury. The curtains at the windows rustled a little in the breeze from the Delaware... One of the legs moved.
Bill watched it move with a dull and impersonal surprise. He found himself moving, too, across the carpeted floor of the shack to the table and beyond.
The man was lying on his back, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling. His hands, peculiarly gray, scratched at the carpet like talons in a slow and patient digital exercise. His tan sack-coat was open and the white shirt above his heart was almost gaily splashed with blood. Bill dropped to his knees and with the same surprise heard his voice, which sounded unfamiliar to his ears, say: “Joe. For God’s sake, Joe.” He did not touch his brother-in-law’s body.
The glaze was drowned in the man’s eyes. They crept sidewise in a stealthy manner until they came to rest.
“Bill.”
“Water—?”
The gray fingers scratched more quickly. “No. Too... Bill, I’m dying.”
“Joe, who—”
“Woman. Woman.” The broken voice stopped, but the mouth continued to move, lips curling and closing, tongue rising and falling. Then the voice succeeded again: “Woman.”
“What woman, Joe? Joe, for God’s sake!”
“Woman. Veil. Heavy veil — face. Couldn’t see. Knifed me... Bill, Bill.”
“Who in the name of hell—”
“Love — Lucy. Bill, take care of Lu...”
“Joe!”
The mouth stopped moving, the lips uncurled, the tongue trembled and was still. The glaze returned to the eyes, which continued to stare at Bill with the same savage wonder and agony. Then Bill was conscious that the fingers had stopped scratching. He got stiffly to his feet and walked out of the shack.
Mr. Ellery Queen was sprawled comfortably under a palm in the lobby of the Stacy-Trent, eyes closed over his fuming brier, when he heard a voice bellowing his name. He opened his eyes in astonishment to find a boy in the forest-green and maroon livery of the hotel shuffling past. “Boy! Here.”
The lobby was jammed, and a peacock’s tail of eyes regarded him with curiosity. His name had rung through the verdant room, and he beckoned the attendant in some annoyance. “Mistuh Queen? Telephone.”
Ellery tossed the boy a coin and made his way, frowning, to the desk. Among the heads that had jerked up at the attendant’s bawl was that of a red-haired young woman in a brown tweed suit. With a queer quirk of the lips she rose and quickly followed Ellery. Her long legs flashed noiselessly over the marble floor.
Ellery picked up the telephone. The young woman took up a position a few feet behind him, turned her back, opened her handbag, extracted a lipstick, and began to paint her painted mouth.
“Bill?”
“Thank God.”
“Bill! What’s the matter?”
“Ellery... I can’t go back to New York with you tonight. I–Could you possibly—?”
“Bill, something’s happened.”
“God, yes.” The lawyer paused for a moment, and Ellery heard him clear his throat three times. “Ellery, it’s simply — it’s a nightmare. It can’t have happened. My brother-in-law... He’s been — he’s dead.”
“Good Lord!”
“Murdered. Stuck in the chest like a — like a damned pig.”
“Murdered!” Ellery blinked. The young woman behind him stiffened as if she had received an electric shock. Then she hunched her shoulders and applied her lipstick furiously. “Bill... Where are you? When did this happen?”
“Don’t know. Not long ago. He was still alive when I got there. He said... Then he died. Ellery... these things just don’t happen to your own people. How am I going to break it to Lucy?”
“Bill,” said Ellery insistently, “stop wool-gathering. Listen to me. Have you notified the police?”
“No... No.”
“Where are you?”
“In the watchman’s house across the road from the Marine Terminal. Ellery, you’ve got to help us!”
“Of course, Bill. How far from the Stacy-Trent is this place?”
“Three miles. You’ll come? Ellery, you’ll come?”
“At once. Tell me how to get there. Shortest way. Clearly now, Bill. You’ve got to get a grip on yourself.”
“I’m all right. I’m all right.” Over the wire came the sound of his breath, a shuddering inhalation like the lung-filling gasp of a newborn infant. “Easiest way... Yes. You’re on the East State and South Willow now. Where are you parked?”
“In a garage behind the hotel. Front Street, I think.”
“Drive east on Front for two squares. You’ll hit South Broad. Turn right, go past the courthouse, right again into Center Street one square south of the courthouse. Two on Center and turn right into Ferry. One on Ferry brings you to Lamberton. Turn left there and keep going south on Lamberton until you hit the Marine Terminal. You can’t miss it. The shack... is a couple of hundred yards beyond.”
“Front to South Broad, to Center, to Ferry, and into Lamberton. Right turns all the way except into Lamberton, which is left. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Wait at the watchman’s place for me. Bill, don’t go back. Do you hear me?”
“I won’t.”
“Call the Trenton police. I’m on my way.” Ellery dropped the telephone, jammed on his hat, and ran like a fireman. The red-haired young woman stared after him with a light in her hazel eyes that was almost lustful. Then she snapped her bag shut.