Ellery snatched a glass from the depths of one of his pockets, trained the beams of the torch on the paper, and peered earnestly. “Well?” demanded the Inspector.
“I think,” said Ellery slowly, standing straight again and lowering his glass, “I think we have finally found the last will and testament of Georg Khalkis.”
* * *
It took the good sergeant all of ten minutes to solve the problem of how to retrieve the fragment from its inaccessible hiding-place. He was too huge to creep through the ash-pit orifice, and neither the Inspector nor Ellery felt inclined to wriggle their slighter bodies through the accumulated muck of years. Ellery for the solution of this problem was useless; and it took the more mechanically minded sergeant to discover the process whereby the scrap might be rescued. He manufactured a makeshift javelin by jamming a needle from Ellery’s pocket-kit into the ferrule of Ellery’s walking-stick; whereupon, on hands and knees, he managed to spear the fragment without great difficulty. He prodded the ashes, but nothing could be made of them―they were thoroughly charred and useless for examination.
The fragment, as Ellery had predicted, seemed indubitably part of Khalkis’s last will. Fortunately, that portion of it which was untouched by fire contained the name of the legatee of the Khalkis Galleries. It was, in a scrawly script which the Inspector at once recognized as Georg Khalkis’s, the name: Albert Grimshaw.
“This corroborates Knox’s story, all right,” said the Inspector. “And clearly shows that Sloane was the one cut out by the new will.”
“So it does,” murmured Ellery. “And very stupid and bungling indeed is the person who burnt this document . . . . A vexing problem. A very vexing problem.” He rapped his pince-nez sharply against his teeth, staring at the char-edged fragment, but he did not explain what the problem was nor why it was vexing.
“One thing is sure,” said the Inspector with satisfaction. “Mr. Sloane has some tall explaining to do, what with that anonymous letter about his being Grimshaw’s brother and this will. All set, son?”
Ellery nodded, sweeping the basement once more with his glance. “Yes. I imagine that’s quite all.”
“Come on, then.” The Inspector tucked the burnt fragment tenderly into a fold of his wallet and led the way to the front door of the basement. Ellery followed, deep in thought; and Velie brought up the rear, not unhurriedly, it should be noted, since not even his broad substantial back was impervious to the deathly blackness pressing upon it.
Chapter 19. Expose
Weekes reported at once, as the Queens and Sergeant Velie stood in the foyer of the Khalkis house, that everyone in the Khalkis household was at home. The Inspector gruffly commanded the presence of Gilbert Sloane, Weekes hurried away toward the staircase at the rear of the hall, and the three men went into the Khalkis library.
The Inspector immediately proceeded to one of the telephones on the desk, called the District Attorney’s office, and spoke to Pepper briefly, explaining the discovery of what seemed to be the missing Khalkis will. Pepper shouted that he was on his way. The old man then called Police Headquarters, roared a few questions, listened to a few replies, and hung up fuming. “No results on that anonymous letter. No fingerprintes at all. Jimmy thinks the writer was damned careful―Come in, Sloane, come in. Want to talk to you.”
Sloane hesitated in the doorway. “Something new, Inspector?”
“Come in, man! I shan’t bite you.”
Sloane walked in and sat down on the edge of a chair, white trim hands folded tensely in his lap. Velie lumbered off to a corner and flung his overcoat on the back of a chair; Ellery lit a cigarette and studied Sloane’s profile through the curling smoke.
“Sloane,” began the Inspector abruptly, “we’ve caught you in a number of downright lies.”
Sloane paled. “What is it now? I’m sure I―”
“You’ve claimed from the beginning that the first time you ever laid eyes on Albert Grimshaw was when Khalkis’s coffin was hauled up in the graveyard outside,” said the Inspector. “You maintained that obviously false stand even after Bell, the night-clerk at the Hotel Benedict, identified you as one of a number of persons who visited Grimshaw on the night of September thirtieth.”
Sloane muttered: “Of course. Of course. It wasn’t true.”
“It wasn’t, eh?” The Inspector leaned forward and rapped him on the knee. “Well, Mr. Gilbert Grimshaw, suppose I tell you that we have found out you were Albert Grimshaw’s brother?”
Sloane was not a pretty sight. His jaw dropped foolishly, his eyes popped, his tongue crept over his lips, beads of perspiration sprang into moist life on his forehead, and his hands twitched uncontrollably. He tried twice to find his tongue, and each time succeeded only in emitting an unintelligible splutter.
“Nipped you that time, eh, Sloane? Now, you come clean, Mister.” The Inspector glowered. “What’s it all about?”
Sloane finally discovered how to co-ordinate thought with larynx. “How―how on earth did you find out?”
“Never mind how. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Sloane’s hand went to his brow and came away greasy. “Yes, but I don’t see yet how you―”
“Start talking, Sloane.”
“Albert was―was my brother, as you say. When our mother and father died, many years ago, we were left alone. Albert―he was always in trouble. We quarrelled and separated.”
“And you changed your name.”
“Yes. My name was Gilbert Grimshaw, of course.” He gulped; his eyes were watery. “Albert was sent to prison―some petty offence. I―well, I couldn’t stand the shame and notoriety. I took my mother’s maiden name of Sloane and started all over again. I told Albert at the time that I wanted nothing further to do with him . . . “ Sloane squirmed; his words came slowly, pressed out by some inner piston of necessity. “He didn’t know―I didn’t tell him I had changed my name. I got as far away from him as I could. Came to New York, got into business here . . .
But I always kept an eye on him, afraid he’d find out what I was doing, make more trouble, extort money from me, proclaim publicly his relationship . . . He was my brother, but he was an incorrigible rascal. Our father was a schoolteacher―taught drawing, painted himself; we grew up in a refined, a cultural atmosphere. I can’t understand why Albert should have turned out so badly―”
“I don’t want ancient history; I want immediate facts. You did visit Grimshaw that Thursday night at the hotel, didn’t you?”
Sloane sighed. T suppose it won’t do any good to deny it now . . . Yes. I had kept an eye on him all during his rotten career, saw him go from bad to worse―although he didn’t know I was watching. I knew he was in Sing Sing, and I waited for his release. When he got out that Tuesday, I found where he was stopping and Thursday night went to the Benedict to talk to him. I didn’t like the idea of having him in New York. I wanted him―well, to go away . . . “
“He went away, all right,” interrupted Ellery. Sloane jerked his head sideways, startled as an owl. “When was the last time you saw your brother before that Thursday night visit to his room?”
“Face to face, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t actually met and talked to him during the entire period in which my name has been Sloane.”
“Admirable,” murmured Ellery, applying himself to his cigarette again.
“What happened between you that night?” demanded Inspector Queen.
“Nothing, I swear! I asked him, pleaded with him to leave town. I offered him money . . . . He was surprised and I could see maliciously glad to see me, as if seeing me were the last thing in the world he had dreamed of, and it wasn’t so unpleasant after all . . . . I realized at once I’d made a mistake in coming, that I should have been better off to have let sleeping dogs lie. Because he told me himself he hadn’t even thought of me for years―had nearly forgotten he had a brother―his exact words, mind you!