“Took up a passel o” folks, Cap”n. Millions, seems like. Always takin” up folks, suh. On”y thing I rec”lects is takin” up Mistuh Grimshaw an” his friend, an” they gets off at the thu’d floor an” I sees “em go into 314, closin” the door behind “em. 314’s right near th” elevatuh, suh.”
“What did they talk about in the elevator?”
The Negro groaned. “I got jus’ an empty haid, suh. Can’t ‘member nothin’.”
“What was the second man’s voice like?”
“I―I don” know, suh.”
“All right, White. You’re excused.”
White simply vanished. The Inspector rose, put on his coat, and said to Belclass="underline" “You wait here for me. I’ll be back soon―want you to identify some people for me, if you can.” He left the room.
Pepper was staring at the wall. “You know, Mr. Queen,” he said to Ellery, “I’m in this thing up to my neck. The Chief has shoved it all on my shoulders. My angle’s the will, but it looks as if we’ll never―Where in hell is that will?”
“Pepper, my lad,” said Ellery, ‘the will, I fear, has passed into the limbo of inconsequential things. I refuse to repudiate my own clever―if I do say so myself―my own clever deduction that the will was slipped into the coffin and buried with Khalkis.”
“It certainly looked that way when you explained it.”
“I’m convinced of it.” Ellery lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “In which case I can tell you who has the will, if indeed it still exists.”
“You can?” Pepper was incredulous. “I don’t get you―who?”
“Pepper,” sighed Ellery, “it’s a problem of almost infantile simplicity. Who but the man who buried Grimshaw?”
Chapter 14. Note
Inspector Queen had reason to remember that fine bright shining October morning. It was also, in a manner of speaking, a gala day for young Bell, a hotel clerk with no delusions of―but a strong yen for―grandeur. To Mrs. Sloane it brought only anxiety. What it meant to the others may be only vaguely conjectured―the others, that is, with the exception of Miss Joan Brett.
Miss Joan Brett experienced, all things considered, a horrible morning. That she was resentful, that resentment ultimately dissolved into pearly tears, is not to be wondered at. Fate had been hard, and it seemed determined, in its customary aimless manner, to become harder still. The soil, paradoxically because of its pleasant watering of tears, was scarcely adapted for the sowing of the seeds of gentle passion.
It was more, in a word, than even a daughter of doughty British character could be expected to endure.
And it all began with the disappearance of young Alan Cheney.
Cheney’s absence did not strike the Inspector at first when he marshalled his forces and commanded, as he sat in the library of the Khalkis house, that his victims be brought before him. He was too absorbed in watching individual reactions. Bell―a very bright-eyed and important Bell now―stood by the Inspector’s chair, the picture of judicial righteousness. They trailed in one by one―Gilbert Sloane and Nacio Suiza, the immaculate director of the private Khalkis art-gallery; Mrs. Sloane, Demmy, the Vree-lands, Dr. Wardes, and Joan. Woodruff arrived a little later. Weekes and Mrs. Simms stood against a wall as far from the Inspector as they could get . . . . And as each one came in, Bell’s sharp little eyes narrowed, and he made a great to-do with his hands and a fierce lip-quiver-ing, and several times he wagged his head solemnly, as inexorable as a son of the Furies.
No one said a word. They all glanced at Bell―and away.
The Inspector grimly smacked his lips. “Sit down, please. Well, Bell, my lad, do you see any one in this room who visited Albert Grimshaw on the night of Thursday, September thirtieth, in the Hotel Benedict?”
Someone gasped. The Inspector moved his head as quickly as a snake, but the author of the gasp had recovered himself instantly. Some looked indifferent, others interested, others weary.
Bell made the most of his opportunity. He slapped his hands behind his back and began to promenade about the room before the seated company―eyeing them critically, very critically. Finally, he pointed a victorious finger at the foppish figure of . . . Gilbert Sloane.
“There’s one of “em,” he said briskly.
“So.” The Inspector sniffed snuff; he was quite collected at this time. “I thought as much. Well, Mr. Gilbert Sloane, we’ve caught you in a little white lie. You said yesterday that you’d never seen the face of Albert Grimshaw before. Now the night-clerk at the hotel where Grimshaw stayed identifies you as a visitor to Grimshaw the night before he was murdered. What have you got to say for yourself?”
Sloane moved his head feebly, like a fish on a grassy bank. “I―” His voice caught on some tracheal obstruction, and he paused to clear it very, very carefully. “I don’t know what the man’s talking about, Inspector. Surely there’s some mistake . . . .”
“Mistake? So.” The Inspector considered that. His eyes twinkled sardonically. “Sure you’re not taking a leaf out of Miss Brett’s notebook, Sloane? You’ll recall she made the same remark yesterday .. Sloane mumbled something, and colour flared into Joan’s cheeks. But she kept sitting motionless, staring before her. “Bell, is there a mistake or did you see this man that night?”
“I saw him, sir,” said Bell. “Him.”
“Well, Sloane?”
Sloane crossed his legs suddenly. “It’s―why, it’s ridiculous. I don’t know anything about it.”
Inspector Queen smiled and turned to Bell. “Which one was he, Bell?”
Bell looked confused. “I don’t exactly recall which one he was. But I’m sure he was one of them, sir! Absolutely sure!”
“You see―” began Sloane eagerly.
“I’ll attend to you some other time, Mr. Sloane.” The Inspector waved his hand. “Go on, Bell. Anybody else?”
Bell began his hunter’s stalk again. His chest swelled again. “Well,” he said, ‘there’s one thing I’ll swear to.” He pounced so suddenly across the room that Mrs. Vreeland uttered a little scream. “This,” cried Bell, “was the lady!”
He was pointing to Delphina Sloane.
“Hmm.” The Inspector folded his arm. “Well, Mrs. Sloane, I suppose you don’t know what we’re talking about either, eh?”
A rich slow flush began to invade the woman’s chalky cheeks. Her tongue flicked out over her lips several times. “Why . . . no, Inspector. I do not.”
“And you said you’d never seen Grimshaw before, either.”
“I hadn’t!” she cried wildly. “I hadn’t!”
The Inspector shook his head sadly, as if in philosophic commentary on the mendaciousness of the Khalkis witnesses in general. “Anybody else, Bell?”
“Yes, sir.” There was no hesitancy in Bell’s step as he crossed the room and tapped Dr. Wardes’ shoulder. “I’d recognize this gentleman anywhere, sir. It isn’t easy to forget that bushy brown beard.”
The Inspector seemed genuinely astonished. He stared at the English physician, and the English physician stared back―quite without expression. “Which one was he, Bell?”
“The very last one,” said Bell positively.
“Of course,” said Dr. Wardes in his cool voice, “you must realize, Inspector, that this is tommyrot. Rank nonsense. What possible connexion could I have had with your American jail-bird? What possible motive could I have had in visiting such a man, even it I did know him?”
“Are you asking me, Dr. Wardes?” The old man smiled.
“I’m asking you. You’ve been identified by a man who meets thousands of people―a man trained by his job to remember faces. And, as Bell says, you’re not particularly hard to remember. Well, sir?”