“And what was he doing,” said Rhys, “parrying with his arm?”
They looked across the room at each other. “Tell you what, Jardin,” said the Inspector. “You sign a full confession, and I’ll get Van Every to guarantee a lesser plea. We could easily make it self-defense.”
“How nice,” smiled Rhys. “At that, I could almost take my chances with a jury, couldn’t I? They’d probably thank me for having rid the world of a menace.”
“Sure, sure! What do you say, Mr. Jardin?”
“Pop—” cried Val.
“I say I’m innocent, and you may go to hell.”
Glücke eyed him again. “Suit yourself,” he said shortly, and turned away. “Oh, Doc. You finished?”
Dr. Polk was visible now, rolling down the sleeves of his coat. The detectives were strung out around the room; and Val, looking out of one eye, saw that the heap in the corner near the fireplace was covered with newspapers.
“Pending autopsy findings,” said Dr. Polk abruptly, “you may assume the following: The wound was made by a sharp-pointed instrument, the point at surface terminus of entry being roughly a half-inch wide. It just missed the heart. I should say it was made by the missing rapier, although I’d like to see the thing before making a positive statement.”
“How about the time of death?” demanded Glücke.
“Checks with the watch.”
Mr. Ellery Queen stirred restlessly. “The watch?”
“Yes,” said the Inspector with impatience, “his arm banged against the wall as he sank to a sitting position in that corner, because we found his wrist-watch smashed and the pieces of shattered crystal on the floor beside him. The hands stopped at 5.32.”
Rhys Jardin chuckled. Even Glücke seemed surprised at the pure happiness of it. It bothered him, for he kept eying Jardin sidewise.
But Valerie knew why her father laughed. A wave of such relief swept over her that for an instant she tasted salt in her mouth. She felt like laughing hysterically herself.
Solomon Spaeth had been murdered at 5.32. But at 5.32 Rhys Jardin had been entering the self-service elevator at the La Salle with Val, on his way from their apartment to the lobby downstairs to wait for Walter.
5.32... Val’s inner laughter died in a burst of panic. Rhys was all right now — nothing could touch him now, with an alibi like that. But Walter... It was different in Walter’s case. At 5.35, with Rhys in full view of Mibs Austin in the La Salle lobby, Val had telephoned Walter and Mibs had spoken to Walter and even recognized his voice.
If Inspector Glücke should question the little blonde telephone operator, if she should tell him about that call, where Walter was, fix the time...
Val caught a blurry glimpse of Walter’s face as he turned away to stare out the side windows into the blackness of the grounds. There was such agony on his face that she was ready to forgive anything just to be able to take him in her arms.
He had remembered the call, too.
Walter, she cried silently, why did you lie? What are you hiding?
A tall man bustled in lugging a kit.
“Bronson!” said Dr. Polk, the wrinkles on his forehead vanishing. “Glad you’re here. I want you to have a look at this.”
The Bureau Chemist hurried with the coroner’s physician to the ell beside the fireplace. The detectives closed in.
“Go on home,” said the Inspector bruskly to Walter. “I’ll talk to you again in the morning. Unless you want to stay here?”
“No,” said Walter, without moving. “No, I don’t.”
Then he very quickly got out of the chair and groped for his hat and made for the corridor, stumbling once over a fold in the rug. He did not look at the Jardins.
“You can go, too — Miss Moon, Mr. Ruhig. And you, there, whatever your name is.”
But Pink said: “How about taking a jump in the lake?”
“Can’t... can’t my father and I leave, Inspector?” asked Val, staring at the doorway through which Walter had fled. Then she closed her eyes, because Mr. Ruhig was piloting the exquisite Miss Moon deferentially through the same doorway, somehow spoiling the view.
“No,” said Glücke curtly.
Val sighed.
The Inspector strode over to the group near the fireplace and Mr. Queen, unable to restrain his curiosity, hurried after him and peered over his shoulder to see what was going on.
Solly Spaeth was uncovered again. The Chemist knelt over him intently studying the brownish mouth of the stab-wound. Twice he lowered his long nose to the wound and sniffed. Then he slowly shook his head, looking up at Dr. Polk.
“It’s molasses, all right,” he said in a wondering voice.
“That’s what I thought,” replied Dr. Polk. “And it’s not only at the mouth of the wound, but seems to coat the sides for some way in.”
“Molasses,” repeated the Inspector. “That’s a hell of a note... Say, stop shoving me!”
Ellery rubbed his bearded cheeks. “Sorry, Inspector. Molasses? That’s exciting. Did I hear you say, Doctor, the point just missed the heart?”
The doctor regarded him with curiosity. “Yes.”
Ellery shouldered Glücke out of the way and pushed through the group until he was standing directly over the dead man.
“Was the stab-wound serious enough to have caused death?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” growled the Inspector.
“Undoubtedly, but I’ve a faint notion things aren’t quite as they seem. Well, Doctor?”
“Hard to say,” frowned the coroner’s physician. “There wasn’t much bleeding. Given an hour or so, he probably would have bled to death — that is, without medical attention. It certainly is queer.”
“So queer,” said Ellery, “that I’d have Mr. Bronson analyze the molasses.”
“What for?” snarled Glücke.
“The molasses and its physical disposition in the wound,” murmured Ellery, “suggest that it must have been smeared on the point of the blade that made the wound. Why smear molasses on a cutting edge? Well, molasses is viscid. It could be constructed as the ‘binder’ of another substance.”
“I see, I see,” muttered Dr. Polk. “I hadn’t thought of it just that way, but certain indications—”
“What is this?” demanded the Inspector irritably.
“It’s only a suggestion, respectful and all that,” said Ellery with a placative smile, “but if you’ll have Mr. Bronson test that molasses for poison — some poisonous substance that comes in solid rather than liquid form — I think you’ll find something.”
“Poison,” muttered Glücke. He stroked his nose and glanced fretfully at Ellery out of the corner of his eye.
The Chemist carefully scraped a scum of molasses from the wound and deposited it on a slide. Then he opened his kit and went to work.
Molasses. Poison. Val closed her eyes.
“Potassium cyanide,” announced Bronson at last. “I’m pretty sure. Of course, I’ll have to get back to my lab before I can make it official.”
“Cyanide!” exclaimed Dr. Polk. “That’s it.”
“Comes in powder form, of course — white crystals,” said the Chemist. “It was thoroughly mixed into the molasses — a good deal of it, I’d say.”
“Paralyzes certain enzymes essential to cellular metabolism,” muttered the doctor. “Death within a few minutes. He’d have died before complete absorption, so the tissues through which the blade passed ought to reveal traces of the poison in autopsy.” He shrugged at the dead man’s gray-fringed bald spot. “Well, it was a painless death, anyway.”