“I see,” said Ellery. “Quite ingenious. But how do you know the two sets of big-car marks were made by the same car? Mightn’t the first set have been made by another car using the same kind of tires?”
“Not a chance, sir. Those tires left fingerprints.” The Sergeant coughed at his fancy phrase. “There’s a gash across one of the treads that shows up the same on both sets. Same car, all right.”
“How about the directions involved?”
“Right smart question, sir. The Caddy came from Trenton way the first time, stopped by the stone step and later drove on around the curve and went off in the direction of Camden. The Ford came from the Camden side, stopped by the stone step, kept on around the drive and made a sharp turn onto Lamberton Road to go back to Camden, the way it’d come. Then the Cadillac came back from Camden, stopped by the stone step — and Mr. Angell saw it drive off past him toward Trenton again.”
Ellery removed his pince-nez and tapped them against the cleft in his chin. “Splendid, Sergeant; that’s a graphic story. How about this dirt driveway to the side of the shack?”
“Nothin’ special there. The old Packard Mr. Angell says belonged to Wilson drove in from the direction of Trenton. Wet marks in the mud, so I’d say the Packard got here after the rain started.”
“More probably after the rain stopped,” murmured Ellery. “Otherwise the tracks would have been washed out.”
“That’s right, sir. And that goes for the other ones, too. The rain stopped a little before seven this evening, so I guess we can say all the cars came here startin’ with seven o’clock... Only other marks in the side driveway are from Mr. Angell’s Pontiac — once driving in and once backing out. And that’s the story.”
“And a good one, Sergeant. Any footprints approaching the house?”
“Nary one, except yours on that fifteen-foot stretch,” said De Jong. “We boarded that over, too, coming in here. All right, Hannigan, see that those tire marks are cast up.” The Sergeant saluted and left. “Not a footprint anywhere around the house or on the two drives. Both of ’em lead right to the little porches and I suppose whoever came here tonight hopped from their cars to the porches without stepping on the ground.”
“And the footprints in that lane leading to the boathouse?”
De Jong glanced down at a detective who was crouched behind the table fussing with the dead man’s feet. “Well, Johnny?”
The man looked up. “Stiff made ’em, all right, Chief. Must ’a’ scraped his shoes off on the side porch before comin’ in here. But his shoes made those prints outside, like we figured.”
“Ah,” said Ellery. “Then it was Wilson who walked down to the river. And returned to his death. What’s in that shack down there, De Jong? It is a boathouse, isn’t it?”
The big policeman frowned down at Wilson’s still face. “Yeah.” His cold eyes were puzzled. “And it sure looks like you were right about another man using this shack. There’s a small sailboat down there with an outboard motor — pretty expensive toy, looks to me. Motor’s still warm. One of the men at the Marine Terminal’s come forward to testify that he saw a man answering Wilson’s description sailing the boat out of the landing below at a quarter after seven tonight.”
“Joe? Joe sailing a boat?” muttered Bill.
“That’s the ticket. This man also saw Wilson coming back — says it was around half past eight, and he had his motor going on the trip in. He was just sailing on the trip out. Wind died around seven-thirty, you’ll remember.”
Ellery rubbed the back of his neck. “Odd... Wilson was alone?”
“That’s what this Terminal man says. It’s a small craft with no cabin, so he couldn’t be wrong.”
“Out for a sail. Hmm.” Ellery looked at the dead face. “An appointment with his brother-in-law on a matter of extreme urgency for nine — he goes out for a sail two hours before... nervous, the need for reflection, solitude... I see, I see. Of course, De Jong,” he added strangely, not looking at Bill, “you realize that his use of the boat doesn’t mean it belonged to him.”
“Sure, sure. Only” — De Jong’s eyes flickered — “this man says he’s seen Wilson out sailing on a number of occasions in the past. And always alone. Fact, he seems to regard Wilson as a sort of fixture around here.”
“Joe’s been here before?” cried Bill.
“For years.”
Somebody outside laughed.
“I don’t believe it,” said Bill. “There’s a devilish mistake somewhere. It can’t possibly be true—”
“And not only that,” continued De Jong without changing expression, “but in the shed back there there’s another car.”
Ellery said mercifully, “Another car? What do you mean?” Bill’s cheeks turned the color of dirty clay.
“Lincoln sports roadster, latest model. Key in the ignition. But the motor’s dead cold, and there’s a swanky tarpaulin over the car. No owner’s license inside, but it’s going to be pie tracing the serial number, gents, just apple pie.” De Jong grinned at them. “That car must belong to this fawn-rug guy who’s been using the shack. Looks like a real live lead. Yes, sir... And there’s something more. Pinetti!”
“Good Lord,” said Bill in a strangled voice, “what next?”
One of the silent men behind De Jong stepped forward and handed his superior a small flattish suitcase. De Jong opened it. It was untidily packed with cards displaying cheap jewelry — necklaces, rings, bracelets, cuff-links, fraternal emblems. “That’s Joe’s.” Bill licked his lips. “Samples. Stock.”
De Jong grunted. “Came from his Packard; that’s not what I meant. Pinetti, that other thing.”
The detective produced a metal object. De Jong held it up, turning it over in his fingers with a false preoccupation. Then his cold eyes shot up to the level of Bill’s face.
“Ever see this before, Angell?” He slammed it into Bill’s hand.
It was very curious. As if De Jong’s question had been composed of oil, Bill’s manner altered, smoothing out to a blank and glassy stillness. Ellery was astonished, and De Jong’s eyes narrowed. They could actually see the metamorphosis as Bill’s bare fingers gripped the thing: features settling back into normal lines, the frown vanishing from the forehead, leaving it calm and inscrutable, eyes hardening into marbles.
“Of course,” he smiled. “On hundreds of cars.” And he turned the object slowly over in his hands. It was part of the radiator-cap of an automobile — the rust-flecked figurine of a running naked woman, metal hair and arms streaming behind her. The figure had been broken off at the ankles, leaving two rusty jagged ends of metal where the tiny feet had been attached to the threaded plug.
De Jong snorted and snatched the figurine away. “That’s a clue, gentlemen. It was found in the main driveway right in front of the house, half-buried where — Hannigan says — the Ford ran over it. I’m not saying it mightn’t have been lying there for a month. But then again,” his lips curled away from his mouth in a leer, “it mightn’t have. See what I mean?”
Bill said coolly: “You’ve put your finger on the weak spot of that exhibit as evidence, De Jong. Your prosecutor would have a sweet time proving that that was broken off the cap of a car on the evening of June first, even if you found the car it came from.”
“Oh, sure,” said De Jong. “I know you lawyers.”