The newcomer was a roly-poly, greasy individual; Inspector Queen discovered that he was Trikkala, the Greek interpreter, and at once set him to questioning Demmy concerning the imbecile’s movements on Friday night of the previous week.
Alan Cheney contrived to slip into a seat near Joan Brett. He gulped, then whispered shyly, “Evidently my mother’s talent for interpreting Greek isn’t trusted by the Inspector”―obviously as an excuse for speaking to Joan; but she turned her head to give him a frigid stare and he smiled weakly.
Demmy’s eyes took on a flicker of intelligence. He was apparently unaccustomed to being the object of public interest, and some amorphous emotion of vanity stirred within him, for his dull face became wreathed in smiles and his Greek stuttered faster than before.
“He says,” reported Trikkala, in a voice as greasy as himself, “he says that his cousin sent him to bed that night, and that he saw and he heard nothing.”
The Inspector peered curiously at the tall shambling caricature of a man standing by the interpreter. “Now ask him what happened the next morning when he awoke―Saturday, last Saturday, the day his cousin died.”
Trikkala fired a mouthful of harsh syllables at Demmy; Demmy, blinking, replied in a more halting version of the same language. The interpreter turned to the Inspector. “He says his cousin Georg’s voice woke him up that morning, calling to him from his bedroom next door. He says he got up, he dressed, he went into his cousin’s bedroom, he helped his cousin to rise and dress.”
“Ask him what time that was,” directed the old man.
A brief colloquy. “He says it was half past eight in the morning.”
“How is it,” inquired Ellery sharply, ‘that this man Demmy had to dress Georg Khalkis? Miss Brett, didn’t you say before that Khalkis was not helpless, despite his blindness?”
Joan shrugged her cleanly curved shoulders. “You see, Mr. Queen, Mr. Khalkis took his blindness very hard. He was always an energetic person, and he would never admit, even to himself, that the loss of his sight made any difference in his normal life. That’s why he insisted on keeping a tight rein on the welfare of his Galleries. That’s why, too, he insisted that no one ever touch a single article in this room or his bedroom. Nobody has ever so much as moved a chair out of its accustomed place in here during Mr. Khalkis’s life as a blind man. In this way he always knew where everything was and could get about his own little series of rooms with perfect facility, just as if he could see.”
“But you’re not answering my question, Miss Brett,” said Ellery gently. “It would seem, from what you’ve just said, that he would refuse assistance in such a simple matter as getting out of bed and dressing. Surely he could dress himself?”
“You’re so terribly keen, aren’t you, Mr. Queen?” Joan smiled and Alan Cheney rose suddenly and returned to his old place by the wall. “It would seem so. I don’t think that Demmy meant to convey the idea that he actually assisted Mr. Khalkis out of bed, or even helped him physically to dress. You see, there was one thing Mr. Khalkis couldn’t do, and had to have help in doing.”
“And what was that?” Ellery was toying with his pince-nez, his eyes alert.
“Selecting his clothes!” she said triumphantly. “He was an extremely fastidious person. His clothes had to be top-hole. And, being blind, he could not select his day’s wardrobe. So Demmy always did that for him.”
Demmy, who had been gawping at this incomprehensible interlude in his questioning, must have felt neglected, for he suddenly erupted in a shower of Greek. Trikkala said: “He wants to proceed with his story. He says he dressed his cousin Georg according to schedule. He―”
The Queens interrupted simultaneously: “According to schedule?”
Joan laughed. “It’s a pity I can’t speak Greek . . . . You see, Inspector, Demmy has never been able to assimilate the intricacies of Mr. Khalkis’s wardrobe. As I said, Mr. Khalkis was very finical about his clothes―he had many suits and always wore something different every day. A completely new ensemble. If Demmy had been a valet of ordinary intelligence, the problem would have been simple. But Demmy is naturally feeble-minded and, to save himself the bother of commanding a new ensemble each morning, Mr. Khalkis had cleverly arranged a written schedule, in Greek, prescribing for Demmy’s edification a definite ensemble for each day in the week. This put no tax on poor Demmy’s stunted brain. The schedule was flexible. If Mr. Khalkis desired to alter any day’s prescribed ensemble, he gave Demmy oral instructions in their native language.”
“The schedule was used over and over again?” asked the Inspector. “I mean, did Khalkis make out a new schedule every week?”
“Oh, no! It was a seven-day schedule, repeated each week. When his suits showed signs of wear―or what Mr. Khalkis thought were signs of wear from his sense of touch; he was very stubborn about those things and wouldn’t take anyone’s word―he merely had the worn garment exactly duplicated by his tailor. He followed the same plan with his haberdasher, hooter, and so on. In this way, the schedule has remained the same ever since Mr. Khalkis’s blindness.”
“Interesting,” murmured Ellery. “I suppose it prescribed evening ensembles also?”
“No indeed. Mr. Khalkis religiously wore strict evening clothes every night; this was something which didn’t strain Demmy’s memory, and so it wasn’t in the schedule.”
“All right,” growled the Inspector. “Trikkala, you ask this halfwit what happened next.”
Trikkala’s hands described a few heated arcs, and the words flew out of his mouth. Demmy’s face became almost animated. He held forth at length, quite amiably, and Trikkala finally stopped him, wiping his forehead desperately. “He says he dressed his cousin Georg according to schedule. It was about nine o’clock when he and his cousin left the bedroom and went into the library.”
Joan said: “It was Mr. Khalkis’s custom to confer with Mr. Sloane in the study at nine each morning. When he was finished talking over the day’s affairs with Mr. Sloane, I used to take his dictation.”
Trikkala continued: “This man says nothing about that.
He says he left his cousin sitting at the desk here and went away from the house. I cannot exactly make out what he tries to say, Inspector Queen. It is something about a doctor, but his speech is mixed up. He is not all there, hey?”
“No, he isn’t,” grumbled the Inspector, ‘darn the luck. Miss Brett, do you know what he’s trying to tell the interpreter?”
“I fancy he meant to say that he went to visit Dr. Bellows, the psychiatrist. You see, Mr. Khalkis tried always to improve Demmy’s mental condition, although he’d been told repeatedly that Demmy’s case was quite hopeless. Dr. Bellows became interested, secured someone who knew how to speak Greek, and he has kept Demmy under observation at his office, a few squares away. Demmy visits Dr. Bellows twice a month, on Saturdays. He must have gone to Dr. Bellows’ office. At any rate, he returned at about five in the afternoon. Mr. Khalkis had died meanwhile, and nobody had thought in the confusion of the afternoon to notify Demmy. So when he reached home he knew nothing about his cousin’s death.”
“It was very sad,” sighed Mrs. Sloane. “Poor Demmy! I told him, and he took on dreadfully. He whimpered like a child. In his own poor feeble-minded way, he was very fond of Georg.”
“All right, Trikkala. Tell him to stay here, and stand by, yourself. We may need him again.” The Inspector turned to Gilbert Sloane. “Evidently you were the next after Demmy to see Khalkis last Saturday morning, Mr. Sloane. Did you meet him here at nine, as usual?”
Sloane cleared his throat nervously. “Not exactly,” he said in his slightly simpering voice. “You see, while I met Georg in the study here every morning strictly at nine, last Saturday I overslept―I’d worked particularly late at the Galleries the night before. So I didn’t get downstairs until a quarter after nine. Georg seemed a little―well, put out because I had kept him waiting. He was very cross and grumpy; he’d become unusually so in late months, probably because of his growing feeling of helplessness.”