Andrea’s lips moved soundlessly, as if even her vocal cords had been paralyzed by the pressure of her fear.
Far up the road a car was coming, swimming in dark dust. Its headlights, stuck on the tips of the tubular beams like the antennæ of an insect, probed the darkness, lightened the sky a little.
“Before they come.” The speaker stopped, sighed with a childlike weariness. “I wanted you to know I never intended you any harm. I mean, after you walked in on me that night so unexpectedly. I didn’t know it was you when I struck. Then, when you fell... I couldn’t kill you, Andrea. That would have been insane. I killed Joe Gimball because he was no longer fit to live. Only death could wipe out what he had done, and someone had to send him along. Why not I? Well, it’s done. It’s over. This man thinks you killed Joe, ran away because you are guilty. I know why you ran away, Andrea — because just now you remembered what it was you saw on the table that night.
“Of course I can’t permit you to keep quiet any longer when you yourself are suspected. I thought I could be clever; I didn’t see why I should sacrifice my life in taking a life which had to be taken. I see now that I should have done it simply, without plan, and then given myself up. It would have been — well, cleaner.” There was a wry smile on that steady face hanging in the road. Andrea cried out suddenly, a sobbing cry torn from her throat not by horror but by pity.
Something flashed in the hand so near her. There was a lightning movement from inside the sedan, simultaneous with the calm words, “Goodbye, Andrea. Remember me — well, remember me. I hope... she will remember me.” The hand flashed again, upward this time.
Andrea screamed, “Oh, don’t!”
Bill Angell roared from the back of the second car: “Andrea, for God’s sake! Down!”
Men were spewed forth from the side of the road behind the sedan, guns in their hands. The rear door of the sedan swished open; Bill Angell sprang down to the road.
The face of the pursuer on the road convulsed; a finger tightened, there was a stunning report, smoke, a flash of fire. But the figure merely staggered, it did not fall; an expression of immense surprise came over that handsome face, to be replaced instantly by bitterness and then determination. “Sold out!” It was a mutter.
Then the figure leaped forward, dropping the useless revolver, and grappled with Bill, groping fiercely for the weapon in Bill’s hand. They struggled all over the road, brilliantly illuminated by the headlights of the third car, just roaring up. The men who had materialized from the side of the road were upon them like ants, swarming, clutching, shouting.
There was another report; as if it were a signal, the struggle ceased, the men fell away. There was silence under the dark sky. The people pouring out of the third car stopped in their tracks. This time there was no surprise on the face of the executioner of Joseph Kent Gimball; only peace. The figure lay peacefully in the road, relaxed in death, asleep forever.
Andrea said stiffly: “Bill. Oh, Bill. You’ve killed—”
Bill was panting, drawing huge gulps of the night air into his lungs. As his chest heaved he looked down at the quiet figure. Bill’s revolver was still clutched in its fingers. “Suicide. Fought me for the gun. I couldn’t prevent it. Dead?”
Chief De Jong was squatting in the road, listening with his head on the motionless chest. Then he rose, looking grave. “Dead, all right. Mr. Queen?”
Ellery ran up. He demanded abruptly, “Are you all right, Andrea?”
“All right.” Her voice was muffled. Suddenly she fumbled with the front door of the sedan, slipped down, stumbled weeping into Bill’s arms.
“Mr. Queen?” said Chief De Jong again; he seemed embarrassed. “We got it all down — stenographer took it from the side of the road. It’s a confession, all right, and you’ve prevented... well, I guess Pollinger and I owe you an apology.”
“The one to be congratulated,” said Ellery, “is this young woman.” He pressed the cold fingers clasped about Bill’s neck. “That was well done, Andrea; well done, my dear. The only thing I was doubtful about was our friend’s reaction to your flight. It might have ended in tragedy for you. I prevented that by sending some friends of mine to the right place well in advance, for a little job of substituting blank cartridges for lethal ones. Well done, Andrea; you followed my instructions to the letter.”
The group at the third car said nothing, did nothing, nothing at all. They just stared at the body lying in the road.
“Naturally,” said Ellery on Monday morning, “although I’m a busy man I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
They were in Judge Ira V. Menander’s private chambers at the Mercer County Court House. Certain formalities had prevented the release of Lucy the previous day, Sunday. But this morning Bill had made a motion before Judge Menander for a new trial on the ground of “new evidence” in which Prosecutor Pollinger had automatically joined. The judge had thereupon set aside the old conviction of Lucy Wilson, Pollinger had moved to discontinue the indictment, the motion had been granted, and Bill with Andrea clinging to him had hurried across the Bridge of Sighs into the adjoining prison with an official order to the warden for Lucy’s release.
Now they were back at the old jurist’s request, Lucy quite bewildered at the suddenness of her freedom, dumb and flushed with happiness. Paul Pollinger was with them, looking sheepish.
“I have been told, Mr. Queen,” remarked Judge Menander after he had made his apologies to Lucy for the ordeal she had gone through, “that there is an extraordinary story connected with your solution of this case. I confess I’m a little curious. Yours seems to be a strange destiny, young man. I’ve heard tales about you. What magic did you perform this time?”
“Magic,” muttered Pollinger. “That’s what it was, all right.”
Ellery glanced at Bill, Lucy, Andrea; they sat on the Judge’s leather sofa with their hands joined, like three children. “Magic? For old hands, gentlemen, that’s naïve. The ancient formula: pick out the facts and put them together. Mix thoroughly with plenty of logic. Add a dash of imagination. Presto!”
“It sounds delicious,” said Judge Menander dryly, “but not very informative.”
“By the way,” said Pollinger, “how much of that little scene Saturday night was planned? I’m still sore at the way you and De Jong ignored me.”
“All of it. It was our job, anyway, Pollinger. When Andrea told me the story of the six matches, I saw through the whole fantastic business. I could develop a logical case, but none that would satisfy your damned courts of law. So it was necessary to be subtle. My criminal had to be trapped. It had been evident to me all along that one of the most curious characteristics of this criminal had been a really remarkable solicitude for Andrea. Now, if Andrea possessed knowledge dangerous to the criminal on the night of the crime due to something she saw on that table, why didn’t the criminal take her life as well as Gimball’s? Then the ‘warnings’, the dainty chloroforming! Another killer would have resorted at the last to really desperate measures against Andrea; this one was content with mere admonitions, threats made empty by the lack of force employed. So, I reasoned, if the criminal was solicitous of Andrea’s welfare, my logical plan was to put Andrea in danger.
“The best way to do this was to make it seem that I thought her guilty of the crime. The criminal could do only one of two things after this: kill Andrea to prevent her from finally disclosing the dangerous knowledge she had; or confessing to the crime to save Andrea from further complicity, which was — under the circumstances — the more plausible possibility. I didn’t believe the criminal would attempt her life because of past performances; however, I took no chances and had the teeth drawn from the criminal’s weapon. And, of course, I had De Jong and his men waiting at the place planned for the ‘breakdown’ of the ‘escape’ car, and Bill here waiting outside the shack in the car itself, hidden from sight and armed. He didn’t go to Trenton; that was just an excuse to get him out of the shack; he raced his motor while some of De Jong’s men emptied the necessary gasoline tanks and then left for the rendezvous. I had instructed Andrea beforehand in her rôle; told her just what to do in the shack and when to do it; arranged for Andrea’s and the criminal’s car to be let alone while the others were tampered with; and thereby insured the criminal’s following Andrea a little in advance of the others and providing an opportunity for the confession to Andrea.”