The men lowered themselves cautiously into the black pit, and for a few moments the confused sounds of their hoarse voices and scraping feet could be heard. Then something large and shiny and black crawled into view, and apparatus was hastily adjusted, instructions given . . . .
Finally, the coffin lay on the surface of the graveyard, a little to one side of the gaping crypt.
“He reminds me of Herr Frankenstein,” murmured Ellery to Pepper, looking at Dr. Prouty. But neither of them smiled.
Dr. Prouty was sniffing like a bloodhound. But now they all detected a foul, sickening smell; it grew more malodorous with every passing second. Sloane’s face had turned grey; he fumbled for his handkerchief and sneezed violently.
“Was this damned body embalmed?” demanded Dr. Prouty, crouching over the coffin. No one replied. The two gravediggers began to unscrew the lid. On Fifth Avenue, at precisely the dramatic moment, a vast number of automobiles began a cacophony of raucous horn-tooting―an unearthly accompaniment singularly appropriate to the noisome character of the scene. Then the lid came off . . . .
One thing was immediately, horribly, unbelievably evident. And that was the source of the grave-smell.
For, crammed on top of the stiff, dead, embalmed body of Georg Khalkis, its members askew and―where their rotting flesh was naked to the sky―all blue and blotched . . . was the putrescent body of a man. A second corpse!
* * *
It is at such moments that life becomes an ugly thing, pushed aside by the dreadful urgency of death, and time itself stands still.
For the space of a heart-beat they were puppets in a tableau―unmoving, moveless, stricken dumb, pure terror gleaming in their distended eyes.
Then Sloane made a retching sound, his knees quivering, and he clutched childishly at Woodruff’s meaty shoulder for support. Neither Woodruff nor Jan Vreeland so much as sighed―they just glared at the noxious interloper in Khalkis’s coffin.
Dr. Prouty and Inspector Queen looked at each other in stupefaction. Then the old man strangled a shout and leaped forward, a handkerchief at his offended nostrils, peering wildly into the coffin.
Dr. Prouty’s fingers curved into talons; he grew busy.
Ellery Queen threw back his shoulders and looked at the sky.
“Murdered. Strangled.”
Dr. Prouty’s brief examination revealed so much. He had managed, with Sergeant Velie’s assistance, to turn the body over. The victim had been found lying face down, head cradled against Khalkis’s lifeless shoulder. Now they could see the face itself―eyes sunken deeply in the head, open eyes revealing eyeballs incredibly dry and brownish. But the face itself was not so distorted as to be inhuman. Under the irregular livid patch was a dark skin. The nose, a little flaccid now, must nevertheless have been sharp and pointed in life. The lines and creases of the face, softened and puffed by putrefaction, must still have been harsh before decay set in.
Inspector Queen said, in muffled tones, “By heaven, that mug looks familiar!”
Pepper was leaning over his shoulder, staring intently. He muttered: “To me, too, Inspector. I wonder if―”
“Are the will and the steel box in there?” asked Ellery in a dry, cracked voice.
Velie and Dr. Prouty prodded, pulled, felt . . . . “No,” said Velie disgustedly. He looked at his hands, and made a surreptitious brushing movement along his thighs.
“Who cares about that now!” snarled the Inspector. He rose, his small body quivering. “Oh, that was a marvellous deduction of yours, Ellery!” he cried. “Marvellous! Open the coffin and you’ll find the will . . . . Faugh!” He wrinkled his nose. “Thomas!”
Velie lumbered to his side. The Inspector rapped words at him; Velie nodded and plodded away, making for the courtyard gate. The Inspector said sharply, “Sloane, Vreeland, Woodruff. Get back in the house. At once. Not a word to any one. Ritter!” A burly detective lounging at the fence scrambled across the yard. “Stave off the newspaper men. We don’t want them nosing about now. Hurry!” Ritter plunged toward the Fifty-fourth Street gate of the graveyard. “You―Sexton What’s-Your-Name. You men there. Put the lid back on and let’s get this damned―this thing into the house. Come along, Doc. There’s work to do.”
Chapter 7. Evidence
There was such work as Inspector Queen knew, better perhaps than any other executive of the New York Police Department, how to do.
In five minutes the house was again under siege, the drawing-room converted into a makeshift laboratory, the coffin with its ghastly double burden deposited on the floor. Khalkis’s library was commandeered as an assembly-hall and all exits were put under guard. The door to the drawing-room was shut, and Velie’s wide back set against its panels. Dr. Prouty, his coat, off, was busy on the floor with the second corpse. In the library, Assistant District Attorney Pepper was dialling a telephone number. Men were running mysterious errands in and out of the house.
Ellery Queen faced his father, and they smiled rather wanly at each other. “Well, one thing is sure,” said the Inspector, wetting his lips. “That inspiration of yours uncovered a murder that probably would never have been suspected otherwise.”
Til see that ghastly face in my sleep,” muttered Ellery. His eyes were a little bloodshot and he was twirling his pince-nez ceaselessly in his fingers.
The Inspector inhaled snuff with grateful breaths. “Fix him up a little, Doc,” he said to Dr. Prouty, steadily enough. T want to get that crowd in here for a possible identification.”
“I’ve got him about ready now. Where do you want to put him?”
“Better take him out of the coffin and stretch him on the floor. Thomas, get a blanket and cover up everything but his face.”
“I’ve got to get hold of some rosewater or something to drown that awful smell,” complained Dr. Prouty facetiously.
* * *
It seemed, when the preliminaries had been taken care of and the corpse of the second man hurriedly made presentable, that not one of the fearful, pallid people who filed in and out of the drawing-room could identify the dead face. Were they certain? Yes. They had never, they said, seen the man before. You, Sloane? Oh, no!―for Sloane was very, very ill; the sight had turned his stomach, and he had a little bottle of smelling-salts in his hand which he applied to his nostrils frequently. Joan Brett had looked, through eyes held steady only by a straining of her will, thoughtful. Mrs. Simms, roused out of her sick-bed, was led in by Weekes and a detective; she had no idea of what was occurring and, after one long horrified glimpse at the face of a strange dead man, promptly screeched and fainted, requiring the combined efforts of Weekes and three detectives to haul her back to her room on the upper floor.
They were all herded back into Khalkis’s library. The Inspector and Ellery hurried after, leaving Dr. Prouty alone in the drawing-room with two corpses for company. Pepper, a very excited Pepper, was waiting impatiently for them by the door.
His eyes shone. “Cracked the nut, Inspector!” he said in a low eager voice. “I knew I’d seen that face somewhere before. And I’ll tell you where you saw it―in the Rogues’ Gallery!”
“Seems likely. Who is he?”
“Well, I just called up Jordan, my old law-partner―you know, sir, before I was appointed to Sampson’s office. I had an idea I knew who the fellow was. And Jordan refreshed my memory. He was a guy by the name of Albert Grimshaw.”