“It involves Eva herself. It would make it possible for her to have told the truth and yet to have...” He shook his head.
“Talk, you exasperating ape!”
But just then Ritter pressed his red face to the bars of the sitting-room window upstairs and yelled: “Hey, Mr. Queen! These MacClure people are here, askin’ for you. Mr. Queen!”
“Stop bellowing.” Ellery nodded curtly to Terry. “Trail along. I’ve asked them over.” Then he winced. “We may as well get it over with.”
But when they went into the house they found three people — Dr. MacClure, Eva, and Dr. Scott. Eva looked quieter this afternoon, as if she had spent a peaceful, dreamless night. And Dr. MacClure had got a grip on himself: the redness had left his eyes and there was something resigned, almost fatalistic, in them. But Dr. Scott looked as if he had slept badly; and somehow, without being told, Ellery knew that the story of Karen Leith’s mysterious blonde tenant had been related to him. But why, he thought, should that worry young Dr. Scott? Did he have a traditional distaste for family skeletons?
“Hello,” he said with an attempt at cheerfulness. “You all look worlds better to-day.”
“What’s happened?” asked Dr. MacClure. “You sounded—”
“I know,” sighed Ellery. “It’s important, Doctor.” He stopped to let Kinumé flit by. Then he said to his fingernails: “If I have something of — well, great and tragic significance to tell you... is it all right to disclose it before Dr. Scott?”
“Why not?” asked the young doctor angrily. “If you’re ready to spill something before this fellow” — he stabbed at Terry with his forefinger — “why not before me? I’ve more rights than he has! I’m—”
“You don’t have to be so damned snooty about it,” said Terry, swinging on his heel. ‘I’ll go.”
“Wait,” said Ellery. “I want you here, Terry. Let’s not become involved in emotional entanglements, please. This is something much too grave to be squabbled over.”
Eva said quietly: “I told Dick last night — everything.”
“Oh. Well, that’s your affair, Miss MacClure. You know best. Upstairs, please.”
He led the way, saying something to Ritter at the head of the stairs, and when they entered the sitting-room Ritter closed the door behind them. Terry went last, as usual, and Dr. Scott turned at every few steps to glare back.
“Let’s go up to the attic,” said Ellery. “I’m expecting Karen Leith’s publisher. We can wait there.”
“Buescher?” frowned Dr. MacClure. “What’s he to do with it?”
“I need him to verify a conclusion of mine.” And Ellery in silence led them up the attic stairs.
They were scarcely in the slant-roofed room when Ritter’s voice yelled from below: “Hey, Mr. Queen! This Mr. Boosher’s here.”
“Come up, Mr. Buescher,” called Ellery. “I suppose we may as well make ourselves comfortable... Ah, Mr. Buescher. You know the MacClures, of course. And this is Dr. Scott, Miss MacClure’s fiancé, and Mr. Ring, a private detective.”
Karen Leith’s publisher offered a sweating palm to the two young men, but he said to Dr. MacClure: “I’m horribly sorry, Doctor. I’ve sent my condolences, but... Great shock, of course. Nastiest business. If there’s anything I can do—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Buescher, it’s all right,” said Dr. MacClure steadily. He went to one of the windows and clasped his hands behind his broad back.
Buescher was a calfish man with a clever face — a prancer, something of a buffoon. But no one who knew him underrated his intelligence. He had built up a house with seven important authors and a score of paying small fry out of nothing but a hope and a plan. He sat down gingerly on the edge of a cane chair, putting his hands on his skinny knees. His large, innocent eyes went from face to face and finally settled on Ellery’s.
“Just how can I help you, Mr. Queen?”
“Mr. Buescher, I know your reputation very well,” said Ellery. “You’re a clever man. But how good are you at keeping secrets?”
The publisher smiled. “A man in my position learns to keep his mouth shut. Of course, if it’s anything illegal—”
“Inspector Queen knows already. I told him this forenoon.”
“Then in that case... naturally.”
“Knows what, Queen?” demanded Dr. MacClure. “What?”
“The reason I pound the point,” said Ellery, “is that to a publisher this information might be tempting. Marvellous publicity, and all that.”
Buescher spread his hands without lifting them from his knees. “I think,” he said dryly, “if it concerns Karen Leith, we’ve had as much publicity in the last few days as the traffic will bear.”
“But this is ever so much more important news than Karen Leith’s death.”
“More important—” began the doctor, and stopped.
Ellery sighed. “Dr. MacClure, I have proved to my own satisfaction that the occupant of this room was Esther Leith MacClure.”
The doctor’s back twitched. Buescher sat staring.
“Miss MacClure, you were wrong yesterday. Esther Leith MacClure is as sane as you or I. That makes,” he said with a snap of his teeth, “that makes Karen Leith something of a fiend.”
“Mr. Queen, what have you found out?” cried Eva.
Ellery went to the teakwood desk. He opened the top drawer and extracted a red-ribboned bundle of old letters, the bundle Inspector Queen had shown them the day before. He laid this on the desk. Then he poked his finger at a neatly stacked series of typewritten letters.
“How well do you know Miss Leith’s work, Mr. Buescher?”
Buescher said uncertainly: “Very well, of course.”
“In what form was she accustomed to deliver her novels?”
“Typewritten.”
“You read them yourself in the original manuscript?”
“Naturally.”
“All this is true, of course, of Eight-Cloud Rising, her last novel — the prize-winner?”
“Especially true of Rising. I recognized at once that it was a significant novel. We were all quite mad about it.”
“Do you recall that when you read the manuscript there were written corrections? I mean — typed words crossed out, penciled emendations careted in?”
“There were a few, I believe.”
“Is this the original manuscript of Eight-Cloud Rising?” Ellery handed the man a thin sheaf of manuscript. Buescher affixed a pair of gold spectacles to his nose and glanced through the papers.
“Yes,” he said at last, handing them back. “Mr. Queen, may I ask what the point of this — ah — extraordinary inquisition is?”
Ellery put down the manuscript and picked up the neat pile he had poked. “I have here various samples of Karen Leith’s handwriting — indisputably Karen Leith’s, according to Morel. Dr. MacClure, would you be kind enough to look these over and confirm the lawyer’s opinion?”
The big man came away from the window. He did not take the papers from Ellery. He merely stood with his hands behind his back and glanced at the top sheet.
“That’s Karen’s handwriting, all right.” And he went back.
“Mr. Buescher?”
The publisher was more thorough. He went through the pile. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes.” He was perspiring.
“Now then,” continued Ellery, setting the pile down and picking up the manuscript again, “let me read you a few fragments from Eight-Cloud Rising.” He adjusted his pince-nez and began to read in a clear voice.
“Old Mr. Saburo sat on his haunches and laughed to himself at nothing; but from time to time a thought was visible through the vacant veils of his eyes.”