“Very well.” Ellery was subdued, watchful. “Now ask him, Trikkala, what he was told to bring.”
A short interchange of the fiery syllables, and Trikkala said: “He says he was to bring a green necktie, one of the green neckties from his cousin Georg’s wardrobe at home.”
“Admirable. Ask him to produce this green necktie.”
Trikkala said something sharp to Demmy, who nodded again and with clumsy fingers began to undo the strings about his packet. It took him a long time―an interval during which all eyes were silently concentrated on those large fumbling digits. Finally he was victorious over a stubborn knot, carefully coiled the string and put it into one of his pockets, then undid the folds of the packet. The paper fell away―and Demmy held up a red necktie . . . .
Ellery silenced the hubbub that ensued, the excited exclamation of the two lawyers, the mild curse of the Inspector. Demmy stared at them with his vacant grin, mutely seeking approval. Ellery turned and pulled open the top drawer of his father’s desk, rummaging. Finally he straightened up, holding a blotter―a green blotter.
“Trikkala,” said Ellery steadily, “ask him what the colour of this blotter is.”
Trikkala complied. Demmy’s response in Greek was decisive. “He says,” reported the interpreter in a wondering tone, “he says the blotter is red.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Trikkala. Take him out and tell the man waiting in the anteroom that they may go home.”
Trikkala grasped the imbecile’s arm and piloted him from the office; Ellery closed the door behind them.
“That, I think,” he said, “explains how I misled myself in my cocksure logic. I did not take into account the remote possibility that Demmy was―colour-blind!”
They nodded. “You see,” he continued, “I presumed that if Khalkis had not been told the tie he was wearing was red, and if Demmy had dressed him according to schedule, that Khalkis knew the colour of the tie because he could see it. I did not take into consideration the fact that the schedule itself might have been misleading. According to schedule, Demmy should have handed Khalkis a green tie last Saturday morning. Yet we now find that to Demmy the word “green” means red―that he is colourblind. In other words, Demmy is afflicted with a common case of partial colour-blindness in which he consistently sees red as green and green as red; Khalkis knew that Demmy was so afflicted, and arranged the schedule on that basis, as far as these two colours were concerned. When he wanted a red tie, he knew he must ask Demmy to fetch a “green” one. The schedule served exactly the same end. To sum up―that morning, despite the fact that Khalkis was wearing a tie whose colour differed from the physical colour prescribed by the Saturday schedule, he knew without having to be told and without being able to see for himself that he was wearing a red tie. He didn’t “change” his tie―he was wearing the red one when Demmy left the house at nine o’clock.”
“Well,” said Pepper, ‘that means Demmy, Sloane, and Miss Brett told the truth. That’s something.”
“Very true. We should also discuss the delayed question of whether the plotter-murderer knew that Khalkis was blind, or actually believed, from the data on which I myself went astray, that Khalkis wasn’t blind. It’s rather a fruitless conjecture now; although the probabilities lie in the direction of the latter; he probably did not know that Demmy is colour-blind; probably believed, and still believes, that at the time Khalkis died he could see. In any event, we can get nothing out of it.” Ellery turned to his father. “Has anyone kept a list of all visitors to the Khalkis house between Tuesday and Friday?”
Sampson replied: “Cohalan. My man stationed there. Got it, Pepper?”
Pepper produced a typewritten sheet of paper. Ellery scanned it quickly. “I see he’s brought it up to date.” The list included those visitors to the house mentioned in the list the Queens had seen on Thursday, the day before the disinterment, plus the additional names of all persons who had visited the house from that time until the investigation directly after the disinterment. This addendum included all members of the Khalkis household and the following: Nacio Suiza, Miles Woodruff, James J. Knox, Dr. Duncan Frost, Honeywell, the Reverend Elder, Mrs. Susan Morse; and several old clients of the dead man besides the Robert Petrie and Mrs. Duke already listed―one Reuben Goldberg, one Mrs. Timothy Walker, one Robert Acton. Several employees of the Khalkis Galleries had also called at the house: Simon Broecken, Jenny Bohm, Parker Insull. The list was concluded with the names of a number of accredited newspaper reporters.
Ellery returned the paper to Pepper. “Everybody in the city seems to have visited the place . . . . Mr. Knox, you’ll be certain to keep the entire story of the Leonardo and your possession of it a secret?”
“Shan’t breathe a word,” said Knox.
“And you’ll keep alert, sir―report to the Inspector any new circumstance the instant it develops?”
“Glad to.” Knox rose; Pepper hastened to help him on with his coat. “Working with Woodruff,” said Knox as he struggled into his coat. “Retained him to take care of the legal details of the estate. All messy, with Khalkis apparently intestate. Hope that new will doesn’t turn up anywhere―Woodruff says it will complicate matters. Got permission of Mrs. Sloane, as nearest of kin, to allow me to assume the job of administrator if the new will isn’t found.”
“Damn that stolen will,” said Sampson pettishly. “Although I do think we have sufficient grounds to base a plea of duress. We’d probably be able to break it after a hell of a fuss. Wonder if Grimshaw had any kin?”
Knox grunted, waved his hand, and was gone. Sampson and Pepper rose, and they looked at each other. “I see what you’re thinking, Chief,” said Pepper softly. “You think Knox’s story about the painting he has not being a Leonardo―is just a story, eh?”
“Well, I shouldn’t be surprised,” confessed Sampson.
“Nor I,” snapped the Inspector. “Big bug or no big bug, he’s playing with fire.”
“Quite likely,” agreed Ellery, “although not particularly important as far as I’m concerned. But the man is a notoriously rabid collector, and he evidently means to keep that painting at all costs.”
“Well,” sighed the old man, “it’s a rotten mess.” Sampson and Pepper nodded to Ellery, and left the office. The Inspector followed them, headed for a conference with police reporters.
They left Ellery alone―an idle young man with a busy brain. He consumed cigarette after cigarette, wincing repeatedly at some memory. When the Inspector returned, alone, Ellery was contemplating his shoes with an absent frown.
“Spilled it,” growled the old man, sinking into his chair. “Told the boys the Khalkis solution and then Joan Brett’s testimony that upset the apple-cart. It’ll be all over the city in a few hours, and the our friend the murderer ought to be getting busy.”
He barked into his communicator, and a moment later his secretary hurried in. The Inspector dictated a cablegram to be marked Confidential, addressed to the director of the Victoria Museum in London. The secretary went away.
“Well, we’ll see,” said the old man judiciously, his hand straying to his snuff-box. “Find out where we stand on this painting business. Just talked it over with Sampson outside. We can’t drop it on Knox’s say-so . . . . “ He studied his silent son quizzically. “Come now, El, snap out of it. The world hasn’t come to an end. What if your Khalkis solution was a flop? Forget it.”
Ellery looked up slowly. “Forget it? Not for a long time, dad.” He clenched one fist and regarded it blankly. “If this affair has taught me one thing above all others, it’s taught me this―and if ever you catch me breaking this pledge put a bullet through my conk: Never again will I advance a solution of any case in which I may be interested until I have tenoned into the whole every single element of the crime, explained every particle of a loose end.” *