Dr. Wardes sighed. “It seems to me, Inspector, that the very―ah, singularity of this poor hirsute countenance of mine gives me a potent point of refutation. Dash it all, sir, don’t you realize that it would be the simplest thing in the world to impersonate me, with this beard of mine?”
“Bravo,” murmured Ellery, to Pepper. “Our good leech has a quick mind, Pepper.”
“Too damned quick.”
“That’s very clever, Doctor, very clever indeed,” said the Inspector appreciatively. “And quite true. Very well, we accept your word and we agree that you were impersonated by someone. All you have to do now, sir, is to account for your movements on the night of September thirtieth, in the interval during which this impersonation was taking place. Eh?”
Dr. Wardes frowned. “Thursday night last . . . Let me see.” He mused, then shrugged. “Oh, come now, Inspector, that’s not quite cricket. How can you expect me to recall where I was at a certain hour more than a week ago?”
“Well, you remembered where you were a week ago Friday night,” remarked the Inspector dryly, “now that I come to think of it. It’s true, though, that your memory had to be jogged a bit―”
He turned about at the sound of Joan’s voice; everyone looked at her. She was sitting on the edge of her chair; and smiling fixedly. “My dear Doctor,” she said, “I must say you’re hardly the gallant, or else . . . You defended Mrs. Vreeland in the most cavalier manner yesterday―are you trying to preserve my poor tarnished reputation or have you really forgotten?”
“By Jove I” exclaimed Dr. Wardes instantly, his brown eyes lighting up. “Stupid―dashed stupid of me, Joan. I say, Inspector―curious what a man’s mind is, eh?―I say, sir, I was with Miss Brett during that hour a week ago Thursday night!”
“You were.” The Inspector looked slowly from the physician to Joan. “How nice.”
“Yes,” said Joan quickly, “it was after I had seen Grimshaw being admitted to the house by the maid. I returned to my room, and Dr. Wardes knocked at my door and asked if I shouldn’t enjoy a spot somewhere in town . . . “
“Of course,” murmured the Englishman, “and we left the house soon after, trotted to some little cafe or other on Fifty-seventh Street―I can’t recollect which―had the jol-liest evening, in fact. I believe it was midnight when we returned, wasn’t it, Joan?”
“I believe it was, Doctor.”
The old man grunted. “Very nice. Very nice . . . Well, Bell, do you still think that’s the last man sitting over there?”
Bell said doggedly, “I know he is.”
Dr. Wardes chuckled, and the Inspector rose with a little jump. His good-nature had vanished. “Bell,” he snarled, ‘that accounts―we’ll call it “accounts”―for three: Sloane, Mrs. Sloane, Dr. Wardes. How about the other two men? Do you see either of them here?”
Bell shook his head. “I’m sure neither of them is among these gentlemen sitting about, sir. One of the two was a very big man―a giant, almost. His hair was getting grey, he had a red face all tanned up, sort of, and he spoke like an Irishman. I don’t recall now whether he was the one who came between this lady and that gentleman―” he pointed to Mrs. Sloane and Dr. Wardes―”or whether he was one of the first two men.”
“Big Irisher, hey?” muttered the Inspector. “By Christopher, where does he come in? We haven’t run across a man of that description in this case! . . . All right, now, Bell. Here’s the situation. Grimshaw came in with a man―a man all bundled up. Another man followed. Then came Mrs. Sloane. Then another man, and then Dr. Wardes. Two of the three men remaining are Sloane here and a big Irishman. How about the third man? Isn’t there anybody here who might be that one?”
“I really can’t say, sir,” replied Bell regretfully. “I’m all mixed up on it. Maybe it’s this Mr. Sloane who was the bundled up man, and maybe the other one―the missing one―came later. I-―I . . . “
“Bell!” thundered the Inspector. Bell jumped. “You can’t let it go that way! Can’t you be sure?”
“I―Well, sir, no.”
The Inspector looked around grumpily, weighing his audience in the scale of his sharp old eyes. It was evident that he was searching the room for someone who might have been the man whose description Bell did not recall. And then a wild light leaped into his eyes and he roared, “Damation! I knew there was someone missing! I felt it!―Cheney! Where’s that young whelp Cheney?”
Blank stares.
“Thomas! Who’s been on duty at the front door?”
Velie started guiltily and said in a very small voice, “Flint, Inspector―Queen.” Ellery quickly suppressed a smile; this was the first time he had ever heard the grizzled veteran address the old man by his formal title. Velie was frankly scared; he looked sick.
“Get him!”
Velie went away so quickly that even the Inspector, growling in his tiny throat, was slightly mollified. He brought in a quaking Flint―a Flint, almost as burly as the sergeant, and at the moment just as frightened-looking.
“Well, Flint,” said the Inspector in a dangerous voice, “come in. Come in!”
Flint mumbled, “Yes, Chief. Yes, Chief.”
“Flint, did you see Alan Cheney leave this house?”
Flint swallowed convulsively. “Yes, sir. Yes, Chief.”
“When?”
“Last night, Chief. Eleven-fifteen, Chief.”
“Where did he go?”
“He said somethin” about goin” down to his club.”
The Inspector said calmly: “Mrs. Sloane, does your son belong to a club?”
Delphina Sloane was wringing her fingers; her eyes were tragic. “Why―-no, Inspector, no. I can’t understand―”
“When did he come back, Flint?”
“He―he didn’t come back, Chief.”
“He didn’t come back?” The Inspector’s voice became very quiet indeed. “Why didn’t you report this to Sergeant Velie?”
Flint was in agony. “I―I was just goin” to report it, Chief. I came on at eleven last night and I’m―I’m due to be relieved in a coupla minutes. I was gonna report it, Chief. I thought maybe he was on a bat somewhere. Besides, Chief, he wasn’t carryin” any luggage or anything . . . .”
“Wait for me outside. I’ll attend to you later,” said the old man in the same terrible, calm voice. Flint walked out like a man sentenced to death.
Sergeant Velie’s blue jowls trembled; he muttered: “Not Flint’s fault, Inspector Queen. My fault. You told me to round up everybody. I should have done it myself―would’ve caught it sooner . . . “
“Shut up, Thomas. Mrs. Sloane, has your son a bank account?”
She quavered: “Yes. Yes, Inspector. The Mercantile National.”
“Thomas, call the Mercantile National and find out if Alan Cheney withdrew any money this morning.”
It was necessary for Sergeant Velie to brush by Joan Brett in order to reach the desk. He muttered an apology, but she did not move. And even Velie, immersed in his own private misery, was shocked by the horror and despair in the girl’s eyes. Her hands were clenched in her lap; she barely breathed. Velie fumbled with his big jaw and walked completely around her chair. As he picked up the telephone his eyes were still upon her―the old hard eyes now.
“Haven’t you any idea,” the Inspector was snapping at Mrs. Sloane, “Where your son went, madame?”
“No. I―You don’t think―?”
“How about you, Sloane? Did the boy say anything to you last night about going away?”
“Not a word. I can’t―”