He stamped out of the room. They heard him telephoning an order for dinner for four sent up to the suite at once. Then he snapped: “Yes, that’s all. What? Yes, she’s in—who wants her? Who? Oh. Send him on up.”
He came back. “What the hell does Appolonius want to see you for, Laurie? He was downstairs asking if you’d see him when I phoned. He’s coming up.” Then he went back to his former subject, still fuming. “I tell you, there’s something wrong about the whole approach to this business! It seems that somebody is trying to kill me. I don’t know why they should, but if they really want to it ought to be a simple enough job! It shouldn’t call for all these trimmings! Nobody would set out to kill somebody and add in a seven-hundred-year-old book and a forgery of Tommy’s fingerprints and a gadget’s ghost and all the rest! Not if a plain, ordinary murder was back of it—or a swindle either! So what in—”
The buzzer at the door of the suite. Coghlan went to answer it.
Appolonius the Great started visibly when he saw Coghlan. He said with great dignity: “I had a note from Miss Mannard. She asked me to befriend her in this tragic time—”
Mannard’s voice came from behind Coghlan.
“Dammit, we’ve got to look for a simple scheme! A simple purpose! There’s a mix-up here! We’re linking things that just don’t belong together!”
Appolonius gasped.
“That is—Mr. Mannard!”
“Why not?” said Coghlan.
There was a chattering sound. The teeth of Appolonius the Great seemed to be its source. He leaned against the door.
“Pardon! Let me recover myself! I do not wish to be faint. This is—incredible!”
Coghlan waited. The small fat man’s face was in shadow. He took several deep breaths.
“I—think I can act naturally now.”
Coghlan closed the door behind him. And Appolonius walked into the sitting room of the suite with his usual strutting waddle—but his usual beaming smile simply could not jell. He bowed elaborately to Mannard and to Laurie, with sweat shining on his face. Mannard said:
“Appolonius, this is Lieutenant Ghalil of the police. He thinks I’m in some danger.”
Appolonius the Great swallowed. He said to Mannard:
“I came because I thought you were dead.”
A rather thoughtful silence followed. Then Lieutenant Ghalil cleared his throat to ask the obvious questions—and paused, looking exceeding alert, as Appolonius’ pudgy right hand went into his coat pocket— Only an envelope came out. A Hotel Petra envelope. His fat fingers shaking, Appolonius drew out the single sheet it enclosed and handed it to Mannard. Mannard read. He flushed, speechless with anger. He handed it to Ghalil.
Ghalil read, and said slowly:
“But the letter is dated tomorrow!” He passed it politely to Laurie. “I do not think you wrote this, Miss Mannard.”
He returned his gaze to the shaken, uneasy, almost trembling figure of that small magician who called himself Appolonius the Great.
Coghlan moved to be beside Laurie as she read. Her shoulder touched his. The note said:
“Dear Mr. Appolonius;
You are the only person I know in Istanbul to ask for help in the tragic circumstances of my father’s death. Will you help me, please?
Laurie Mannard.”
“I have heard of post-dated checks,” said Ghalil. “I think that is an American custom. But pre-written letters…
Appolonius seemed to shiver.
“I—did not notice that,” he said unsteadily. “But it—would seem to be like the message of which Mr. Coghlan told us—with his fingerprints.”
“Not quite,” said Ghalil, shaking his head. “No, not quite!”
Mannard said furiously: “Where’d you get this, Appolonius? It’s a forgery, of course. I’m not dead yet!”
“I had been—away from my hotel. I returned and that—letter awaited me. I came here at once.”
“It is dated tomorrow,” Ghalil pointed out. “Which could be an error of timing, or a confusion in time itself. But I do not think so. Certainly it seems to imply, Mr. Mannard, that you are to die tonight, or surely tomorrow morning. But on the other hand, Mr. Coghlan will not write with certainty of your death when he does write in that book. So there is hope—”
“I have no intention of dying tonight,” said Mannard angrily. “No intention at all!”
“Nor,” said Lieutenant Ghalil, “have I any intention of forwarding such a project. But I can think of no precautions that are not already in force.”
Appolonius sat down abruptly, as if his knees had given way beneath him. His sudden movement drew all eyes.
“Has something occurred to you?” asked Ghalil mildly.
Appolonius shivered. “It—occurs to me—” he paused to moisten his lips—”to tell of my visit with Mr. Coghlan today. I—accused him of mystification.
“He admitted that there was a conspiracy. He—offered to admit me to it. I—I now accuse Mr. Coghlan of designing to murder Mr. Mannard!”
The lights went out. There was dead blackness in the room. Instantly there was an impact of body against body. Then groaning, gasping breaths in the darkness. Men struggled and strained. There were thumpings. Laurie cried out.
Then Ghalil’s voice panted, as if his breathing were much impeded:
“You—happen to be strangling me, Mr. Coghlan! I think that I am—strangling him! If we can only hold him until the lights—he is very strong—”
The struggle went on in the darkness on the floor.
VII
There was a frantic scratching of a pass-key in the door to the suite. Flashlight beams licked in the opening. Men rushed in, their lights concentrating on the squirming heap of bodies on the floor. Mannard stood embattled before Laurie, ready to fight all corners.
The men with flashlights rushed past him, threw themselves upon the struggle.
They had Appolonius the Great on his feet, still fighting like a maniac, when the lights flashed back into brightness as silently and unreasonably as they had gone out.
Coghlan stood back, his coat torn, a deep scratch on his face. Lieutenant Ghalil bent down and began to search the floor. After a moment he found what he looked for. He straightened with a crooked Kurdish knife in his hand. He spoke in Turkish to the uniformed police, against whom fat little Appolonius still struggled in feverish silence. They marched him out. He still jumped and writhed, like a suitful of fleshy balloons.
Ghalil held out the knife to Coghlan.
“Yours?”
Coghlan was panting. “Yes—I use it as a letter-opener on my desk. How’d it get here?”
“I suspect,” said Ghalil, “that Appolonius picked it up when he visited you today.”
He began to brush off his uniform. He still breathed hard.
Mannard said indignantly, “I don’t get this! Did Appolonius try to kill me? In Heaven’s name why? What would he get out of it?”
Ghalil finished the brushing process. He said with a sigh:
“When M. Duval first brought me that incredible book, I put routine police inquiries through on everyone who might be involved. You, Mr. Mannard. Mr. Coghlan. Of course M. Duval himself. And even Appolonius the Great. The last information about him came only today. It appears that in Rome, in Madrid, and in Paris he has been the close friend of three rich men of whom one died in an automobile accident, one apparently of a heart attack, and one seemed to have committed suicide. It is no coincidence, I imagine, that each had given Appolonius a large check for his alleged countrymen only a few days before his death. I think that is the answer, Mr. Mannard.”
“But I’ve given him no money!” protested Mannard blankly. “He did say he’d gotten money, of course, but—” and suddenly he stopped short. “Damnation! A forged check going through the clearing-house! It had to be deposited while I was alive! And I had to be dead before it was cleared, or I’d say it was a forgery! If I was dead, it wouldn’t be questioned—”