“That’s all we know about.”
On 13 June the Argonaut anchored in the Gulf of Paria, off Port of Spain, and, taking on fresh water and fuel, then sailed north and west into the Caribbean.
On 21 June she spoke a passing cruise liner 100 miles northwest of Port Gallinas. Captain Angus exchanged the usual courtesies of the sea with the liner’s master.
At eight bells on the night of 30 June, during a squall, the Argonaut’s wireless sputtered a general distress call directed to any vessel carrying a medical officer. The message stated that Cadmus Cole had suffered a severe heart-attack and that while Captain Angus had medical equipment in his locker and was capable of administering simple treatment, he felt the serious condition of his owner demanded immediate professional advice.
White Lady, lying some 200 miles northeast, promptly responded. Her chief medical officer radioed for details of pulse, respiration, blood-pressure, and superficial symptoms. This information was supplied him via wireless.
White Lady’s physician then advised digitalis injections, applications of ice, and other emergency measures. Captain Angus kept him informed by five-minute radio exchanges of the sick man’s condition. Meanwhile, the liner steamed towards the Argonaut at full speed.
But she was too late. An hour and fifty minutes after the original distress call, a radio message signed by Captain Angus and Edmund De Carlos announced that Cadmus Cole had passed away. The message concluded with thanks for White Lady’s assistance and the information that the millionaire’s last wish before expiring had been to be buried at sea.
“No, no!” shrieked Mr. Queen. “Stop them!”
“Whoa, Silver,” said Beau soothingly. “Cole’s been lying at the bottom of the Caribbean in a canvas shroud for a week.”
“A whole week!” groaned Ellery. “Is it July already?”
“Wednesday, July fifth.”
“Then we’ve got to speak to De Carlos, to Angus, to the radio operator, the crew! Where are they now?”
“The Argonaut showed up at Santiago de Cuba two days after Cole kicked in — that was last Sunday. By Monday Captain Angus and the crew were paid off and discharged.”
“De Carlos?” asked Ellery after a profound silence.
“Yeah. De Carlos then put the Argonaut in drydock down there, shipping Cole’s personal effects to the States, and hopped a plane. He ought to be here tonight or tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Queen was ominously quiet. Then he said: “Fee fi-fo-fum.”
“What?”
“A heart-attack in the middle of the Caribbean during a convenient storm, death before a certified medical officer can examine the dying man, sea-burial before an autopsy can be performed — and now the Captain and crew dispersed before they can be questioned!”
“Look at it this way, Master-Mind,” said Beau, “because this is the way it’s going to be looked at by John Q. Public. Cole’s ticker gave out? He was sixty-six. Died at sea? Funny if he hadn’t, since he spent his last eighteen years aboard a yacht. Buried fathoms deep? Natural request of a dying man who loved the sea.”
“And De Carlos’s discharging Captain Angus and the crew in Cuba?” asked Mr. Queen dryly.
“Sure, he could have had them sail the Argonaut back north. But a plane is faster, and it would be natural for De Carlos to want to get back to New York as quickly as possible. No, son, the set-up is as smooth as a baby’s—”
“Don’t like it,” said Ellery irritably. “Cole makes out a will, hires us, acts mysterious, dies — some people would use a nasty word, Beau... murder!”
“There’s an ol’ debbil in de law,” said Beau dryly, “and his name is corpus delicti. I’ll be squashed if I see how we’d do it, but suppose we could prove murder. We’d have to produce a body, wouldn’t we? And where’s the body? Making fish-food at the bottom of the Caribbean. No, sir, all we can have is suspicions, and they don’t pay off on those in this racket.”
“Just the same,” muttered Mr. Queen, “we’ve got fifteen thousand dollars of Cole’s money that say somebody’s not going to get away with Cole’s murder!”
“We’ve got it, but not for long. I meant to save the bad news till you were well enough to stand the shock. El, we’ve got to pay that dough back to the Cole estate.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Queen. “Why?”
“Because Cole hired you, and you won’t be able to investigate whatever it is he wanted you to investigate. The doc tells me you’ve got to go away for at least six weeks.”
“Don’t be an ass,” snapped Ellery. “You’re Ellery Queen, Inc., not I. You’ll investigate.”
“No can do.” Beau was glum. “Cole hired you personally, and you accepted. That constitutes a contract for personal services. A contract for personal services can’t be assigned. We’re out fifteen thousand bucks and the prospect of being filthy rich.”
“The hell you say,” scowled Mr. Queen, and he fell into an aggressive reverie. After a time he smiled diabolically. “Beau, whom did Cole say he was appointing executor-trustees of his estate?”
“Lloyd Goossens and this De Carlos.”
“Do they know you?”
“No, and the ignorance is mutual. So what?”
“They don’t know me either.” Ellery grinned. “You see?”
“Why, you two-timing pretzel, you!” shouted Beau. “Talk about confidence men!”
“When Goossens asks for Ellery Queen, you answer.”
“I stand in for you! And neither Goossens nor De Carlos will know the difference.” Beau pounced. “Let me shake the hand of a genius!”
“Please, my operation. Of course, you know we’re conspiring to commit a crime?”
“Are we?” Beau scratched his head. “Let’s see. Well, I guess we are, although I’ll be a frosted chocolate if I know what the crime is. And what’s more, I don’t give a rooty-toot. Adios, Mr. Queen!” said Mr. Rummell.
“Vaya con Dios, Mr. Queen!” said Mr. Queen.
Lloyd Goossens telephoned the next morning.
Mr. Rummell, alias Mr. Queen, made the subway journey downtown to Park Row in record time.
Goossens was a big, pleasant man in his late thirties, dressed as for the salon. He had a gray and sleepless look. Beau, who read Winchell, knew that Goossens alternated socially between Park Avenue and 52nd Street, with and without his society wife, as suited the occasion. As they shook hands, Beau sighed; it must be swell to belch, he thought.
“De Carlos just got in on the Florida plane,” said the lawyer, waving his fuming pipe towards an inner office. I suppose you know who he is, Mr. Queen?”
“Mr. Queen” looked around to see where Mr. Queen was, but then, realizing that he was Mr. Queen, said: “Lord Chamberlain, wasn’t he? By the way, why all the mystery, Goossens?”
Goossens frowned. “Mystery?”
“Cole wouldn’t disclose the nature of the case. He made quite a secret of it.”
“I don’t see why,” said the lawyer, puzzled. “His registered letter to me, in which he outlined the terms of your employment, made it perfectly clear. And then it’s down in his will in black and white.”
“You mean there’s nothing sensational about it?”
Goossens grinned. “It has its points. Come in and meet the Grand Vizier, and we’ll go over the whole business.”
A moment later Beau was shaking hands with a medium-sized man browned by years of exposure to salt wind and windy sun. De Carlos’s hair was a wavy black fur, and he wore a piratical-looking black beard. The eyes behind his silver-rimmed spectacles were widely open, naive — much too naive, Beau thought.