The second man, from the way he kept his eyes on Martha Olcott, was her sweetheart. He was a well-built, dark young man of about twenty-five or twenty-six. He had probably played football at college and played it well, Quade thought. His name was Lynn Crosby.
The last man came rightly last. He was that sort of man; he was probably five feet six, had sandy hair, wore tortoise-shell rimmed glasses and would have walked around an impudent cat on the sidewalk, rather than dispute the right-of-way. He was Clarence Olcott, Ferdinand Olcott’s son.
The introductions over, Sheriff Starkey got down to business.
“As sorry as I am about everything, I’m still the sheriff of this county and it’s my duty to make an investigation. I must determine first of all where everyone was in the house at the time the murder was committed.”
His bluntness drew a couple of gasps. Ferdinand Olcott protested. “Why, Sheriff, you talk as if you suspect someone in this house killed my brother.”
The sheriff’s eyes popped wide open. “Isn’t that what you think?”
“Of course not,” replied Olcott, indignantly. “The thought never occurred to me that it was done by anyone but an intruder, some second-story man who entered the house for nefarious purposes.”
The sheriff gulped. “In daylight, during the kind of weather we had today? Oh, come now, Mr. Olcott, does it sound reasonable that a sneak thief or burglar would try to come into a house during a rainstorm when he knows that more than a dozen people are in it?”
Olcott frowned and shook his head. “But it’s preposterous to think that anyone in this house committed the — crime. The servants have all been with us for years and surely you don’t think—”
“He means just that,” the mousy Clarence surprised everyone by saying. “And I believe he’s justified in that contention. I’ve been giving some thought to the matter and I can see only one logical explanation: Someone in this house killed Uncle Walter.”
There was some rumbling about that. Quade decided then that he had been silent long enough. He said, “Mr. Olcott’s right. No outsider would have used a paper-knife as a weapon for killing someone in this house. A pocket knife or blackjack would have been a more likely weapon for an outsider. Sheriff, I know you intended to do it, but don’t you think it’s time to find out from whose room the murder weapon came?”
The sheriff glared at Quade. At that moment the outer door slammed and Higginbotham, the deputy, came into the big living room. “Both bridges are out and the river’s gone up more than six feet.”
“Six feet!” cried the sheriff. “It couldn’t go up that much in such a little time.”
“It could if the dam went out up the river,” said Lynn Crosby with his eyes still on Martha.
Ferdinand Olcott exclaimed in consternation. “Fourteen years ago, before that dam was built, we had a flood here and the water came up almost to the spot where this house is built. I never thought that dam would go out.”
“You mean, Father,” interposed Martha Olcott, “that there’s actual danger from the flood?”
Olcott looked frankly worried. “Why, I–I’d hate to think that, but if the dam’s broken, the water’s going to get pretty high. I don’t think it’ll quite reach the house, but, with the bridges out and the telephone wires down, we may be isolated for several days.”
“There’s enough food in the house for a month,” said Martha Olcott.
Nogales, the Argentinian, showed white teeth. “Good! Then there is nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing,” said Quade, “except that a man has been murdered in this house, that the murderer is still here, and that we’re on an island, cut off from the rest of the world. There’s going to be a flood out there and people are going to be too busy for a while to think about this little group here. We may be here a week… with a dead man in the house.”
The sheriff took a deep breath. “Then we may as well get some things straight. I’m the law here and I’m conducting a murder investigation. Mr. Human Encyclopedia, you did a good job in getting us over here, but, just to avoid trouble in the future, keep in mind that I’m running things here. Understand?”
Quade looked sardonically at the sheriff. “It so happens that I’m one of the three people here not under suspicion. I’ve violated no laws and I’m probably the most intelligent person here.”
Clarence Olcott took up the challenge. “I’m a Harvard man, mister,” he said. “I’ve got an A.B. and M.A. and I’m working for an LL.D. I think my educational qualifications are the equal of anyone here.”
“I guess I spoke out of turn,” said Quade. “But, Mr. Olcott, can you tell me in what direction Reno, Nevada, is from San Diego, California?”
Clarence Olcott looked superciliously at Quade. “Any schoolboy could tell you that. Reno is northeast of San Diego.”
“I’m afraid the schoolboy who’d say that would flunk,” Quade replied. “It so happens that Reno is northwest of San Diego. Look it up on the map.”
Clarence strode to a bookcase and took out an atlas. After a moment he grunted. “I’ll be damned. You’re right. But that was a trick question. All right, it’s my turn. I’ll ask you something. Hmm. Who invented the principle of the door lock?”
Clarence Olcott had evidently asked the first question to come to his mind, without realizing the magnitude of it. Quade screwed up his mouth. “That,” he said, “is a very good question. Only about six persons in this country could answer it. I’m one of the six. The ancient Egyptians invented the door lock. The principle of it died with the decline of Egypt, and in medieval days an inferior lock was evolved by Europeans. The first real lock of modern times was invented by Robert Barron in 1774. In 1848 Linus Yale invented the modern tumbler lock, using the principle of the ancient Egyptian lock, patterned after one found in the ruins of Nineveh.”
Almost everyone in the room was staring at Quade by this time. He chuckled and went on: “With the Yale lock and key, 32,768 combinations are possible…. Do you want to ask me another question, Mr. Olcott?”
Sheriff Starkey interrupted: “This is no time for games, Quade. A murder has been committed here and there’s work to be done.”
“Quite so,” said Quade. “Well, what about the paper-knife?”
The sheriff turned to his deputy. “Lou, run upstairs and bring down that knife with which Walter Olcott was killed.”
The big deputy’s eyes rolled as he left the room. Quade heard him take the stairs two at a time. He was in the upper corridor less than a half-minute, then came tearing down the stairs.
He brought the knife into the room, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. The sheriff took it from him and held it aloft. “This paper-knife belonged to someone in this room, didn’t it?”
“It’s mine,” said Martha Olcott.
Her father gasped. “Martha!”
“There’s no point in denying it,” said Martha. “It’s from that desk set you got me for my birthday two years ago. The shears to match are in my desk right now. But this — haven’t seen it for a couple of days.”
“It’s yours, though, you’re sure of that?” persisted the sheriff.
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” cut in Lynn Crosby. “Any of the servants here could have taken it from Martha’s room. Or, for that matter, anyone else here.”
“As a matter of fact,” cut in Clarence Olcott, “I saw that paper-knife on the hall table only this morning.”
Allison, the butler, cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, but Mr. Clarence is right. I found it in this room and meant to take it back to Miss Martha’s room. Then the mail came and I used it to open some of the house mail. I’m sorry; I forgot all about it after that.”