“A letter?” mused the Inspector. “To whom was it addressed?”
Joan frowned. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I really don’t know. You see, I didn’t examine it very closely. I do seem to recall that the address was in pen-and-ink, not typewriting―that would be natural, anyway, for there’s no typewriter down here―but . . . “ She shrugged. “At any rate, just as I was leaving the room with the letter, I saw Mr. Khalkis pick up his telephone―he always used the old-fashioned instrument by which the operator gets your number; the dial telephone was for my convenience―and I heard him give the number of Barrett’s, his haberdasher. Then I went out to post the letter.”
“What time was this?”
“I should say a quarter to ten.”
“Did you see Khalkis alive again?”
“No, Inspector. I was upstairs in my own room a half-hour later when I heard someone scream from below. I dashed down and found Mrs. Simms in the study, in a faint, and Mr. Khalkis dead at his desk.”
“Then he died between a quarter to ten and ten-fifteen?”
“I fancy so. Mrs. Vreeland and Mrs. Sloane both rushed downstairs after me, spied the dead body and began to bellow. I tried to bring them to their senses, finally persuaded them to look to poor Simmsy, and at once telephoned Dr. Frost and the Galleries. Weekes came in then from the rear of the house, Dr. Frost appeared in a remarkably short time―just as Dr. Wardes appeared; he’d slept late, I believe―and Dr. Frost prounced Mr. Khalkis dead. There was really nothing for us to do but drag Mrs. Simms upstairs and revive her.”
“I see. Hold up a moment, Miss Brett.” The Inspector drew Pepper and Ellery aside.
“What do you think, boys?” asked the Inspector guardedly.
“I think we’re going somewhere,” murmured Ellery.
“How do you figure that out?”
Ellery looked at the old ceiling. Pepper scratched his head. “I’m blamed if I can see anything in what we’ve learned so far,” he said. “I got all these facts about what happened Saturday long ago, when we were digging into that will business, but 1 couldn’t see ..
“Well, Pepper,” chuckled Ellery, “perhaps, being American, you’re classed in the last category of the Chinese adage which Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy mentions: to wit, “The Chinese say that we Europeans have one eye, they themselves two, all the world else is blind.”
“
“Quit being fancy,” growled the Inspector. “Listen, you two.” He said something very decisive. Pepper lost a little of his colour, looked uncomfortable, but squared his shoulders and made, to judge from his expression, a mental decision. Joan, perched on the edge of the desk, waited patiently. If she knew what was coming, she gave no sign. Alan Cheney grew tense.
“We’ll see,” concluded the Inspector aloud. He turned back to the others and said to Joan, dryly, “Miss Brett, let me ask you a peculiar question. Exactly what were your movements this past Wednesday night―two nights ago?”
A veritable silence of the tomb descended on the study. Even Suiza, long legs sprawled to their full length along the rug, cocked his ears. A jury of eyes sat in judgement on Joan as she hesitated. At the instant of Queen’s question, her slim leg ceased its pendulum movement, and she grew very still indeed. Then it resumed its swing, and she replied in a casual tone: “Really, Inspector, it’s not a peculiar question at all. The events of the preceding few days―Mr. Khalkis’s death, the confusion in the house, the details of the funeral and the funeral itself―had left me rather worn out. Wednesday afternoon I ambled about Central Park for a breath of air, had an early dinner, and retired immediately after. I read in bed for an hour or so, and turned in at about ten o’clock. That’s quite all.”
“Are you a sound sleeper, Miss Brett?”
She said with a little laugh: “Oh, very.”
“And you slept soundly all that night?”
“Of course.”
The Inspector placed his hand on Pepper’s rigid arm and said: “Then how do you account for the fact, Miss Brett, that at one o’clock in the morning―an hour after Wednesday midnight―Mr. Pepper saw you prowling about this room, and tampering with Khalkis’s safe?”
If the silence had been thunderous before, it was earth-shaking now. For a long moment no one drew a normal breath. Cheney was staring wildly from Joan to the Inspector; he blinked and then focused an unholy glare on Pepper’s white face. Dr. Wardes had allowed a paper-knife, with which he had been playing, to slip from his fingers; and his fingers remained in a clutching position.
Joan herself seemed the least disturbed of them all. She smiled and addressed Pepper directly. “You saw me prowling about the study, Mr. Pepper―you saw me poking in the safe? Are you sure?”
“My dear Miss Brett,” said Inspector Queen, patting her shoulder, “it won’t do you the slightest good to stall for time. And don’t place Mr. Pepper in the embarrassing position of calling you a liar. What were you doing down here at that hour? What were you looking for?”
Joan shook her head with a bewildered little grin. “But, my dear Inspector, I don’t know what either of you is talking about, really!”
The Inspector eyed Pepper slyly. “Only I was talking, Miss Brett . . . . Well, Pepper, were you seeing a ghost or was it the young lady here?”
Pepper kicked the rug. “It was Miss Brett, all right,” he muttered.
“You see, my dear,” continued the Inspector genially, “Mr. Pepper seems to know what he’s talking about. Pepper, what was Miss Brett wearing, do you recall?”
“I certainly do. Pyjamas and a neglige.”
“What colour was the neglige?”
“Black. I was sitting, dozing, in the big chair there, across the room; I suppose I wasn’t visible. Miss Brett stole in, very cautiously, closed the door and turned the switch on that small lamp on the desk. It gave me light enough to see what she was wearing and what she did. She rifled the safe. She went through every paper there.” The last sentence came out in a torrent, as if Pepper were very glad indeed to get his recital over.
The girl had grown perceptibly paler with each successive word. She sat biting her lip with vexation; tears had sprung into her eyes.
“Is that true, Miss Brett?” asked the Inspector evenly.
“I―I―no, it isn’t!” she cried, and, covering her face with her hand, she began to weep convulsively. With a strangled oath young Alan sprang forward and laid muscular hands on Pepper’s clean collar. “Why, you rotten liar!” he shouted, “implicating an innocent girl―!” Pepper, his face crimson, shook himself out of Cheney’s grip; Sergeant Velie, for all his bulk, was at Cheney’s side in a flash and had grasped that young man’s arm so sternly as to make him wince.
“Now, now, my boy,” said the Inspector in a gentle voice, “control yourself. This isn’t―”
“It’s a frame-up!” yelled Alan, twisting in Velie’s hand.
“Sit down, you young whelp!” thundered the Inspector.
“Thomas, you park that hellion in a corner and stand over him.” Velie grunted with as close an expression of joy as he ever exhibited, and herded Alan effortlessly into a chair on the farther side of the room. Cheney subsided, muttering.
“Alan, don’t.* Joan’s words, low and choked, startled them. “Mr. Pepper is telling the truth.” Her voice caught on a little sob. “I―I was in the study late Wednesday night.”
“That’s more sensible, my dear,” said the Inspector cheerfully. “Always tell the truth. Now, what were you looking for?”