Ellery sighed. “I was hoping... We haven’t had any sleep, Inspector, and as for food—” He eyed the open rumbleseat of the Duesenberg longingly. “However, Judge Macklin and I might make a... er... a tentative reconnaissance, as it were.” And there was something eager in his tone.
There was a county trooper on guard now at the entrance to Spanish Cape off the main road; apparently Cort’s temporary escape had evoked martial precautionary measures. The car swished through, and no one said anything at all. Rosa sat stiffly, like a woman going to her execution; her eyes were glassy. Cort tormented his fingernails by her side... At the bottle-end of the neck of rock stood another trooper. And parked motorcycles dotted the length of the sunken stone road leading into the heart of the Cape.
“That abandoned car,” began Ellery in a murmur to Inspector Moley. His eyes were brightly inquisitive.
“A couple of my men are looking her over now,” said the detective gloomily. “If there are any prints, they’ll find ’em. I’m not puttin’ too much hope on prints, though. Doesn’t sound like a professional job, for all the smooth way it went off. That big guy...” He sucked in his hard lips. “A queer one, all right. He ought to be a cinch to spot. Seems to me I’ve heard of somebody around here, anyway, that answers to some such description. It’ll come back to me in a minute.”
Ellery said nothing more. As they turned off the sunken road he could see, farther up the road they were leaving, the entrance to the beach terrace. A swarm of men buzzed there. Then they had rounded the corner and begun to climb toward the house. Its gayly tiled, careless roofs were discernible as gables from the distance.
On either side of the road lay tiny wildernesses of rock-garden, flung about with a subtle lack of plan; they gave off an aroma of mingled sweetnesses which blended pungently with the salt air. A gnarled old man whose skin was the color of the rocks worked stooped over off to the left, with an air of immutable concentration, as if not even violent death might disturb the sanctity of his labors. The whole place was a riot of blooming bushes, colored stones, and immaculate shrubs. Then the house loomed ahead — a long low Spanish structure... Ellery wondered suddenly if the old man poking about in the rock-gardens might not be Walter Godfrey himself.
“Jorum,” said Inspector Moley, noticing his frown.
“And who might Jorum be?”
“Harmless old critter potters around the place; I guess he’s about the only friend old Godfrey has in the world. Works as a kind of Good Man Friday to Godfrey’s Robinson Crusoe — drives one of the cars sometimes, acts as watchman, helps the boss with his ’tarnal gardening, and so on. The two of ’em are thick as thieves.” Inspector Moley’s shrewd eyes turned thoughtful. “Couple of things I want to do. First off that call from Hollis Waring’s cottage last night. I don’t know but what we might be able to trace it—”
“Trace a call on the dial system?” Ellery murmured. “And then, too, young Cort says he was unsuccessful in the matter of his call.”
“What young Cort says,” remarked the Inspector grimly, “don’t cut any ice with me. Though I’ve had one of the boys check up on him already, and so far he seems to have told the truth... Say, here we are. Chin up, now, Miss Godfrey. You don’t want to make your mother feel any worse than she feels already. She’s had plenty of grief today.”
Rosa smiled a mechanical smile and poked her fingers in her hair.
A cluster of frozen people occupied the inner court. About them circulated restless, hard-looking men. From the balcony peered several pairs of frightened eyes, apparently of the genus domestic. There was not the whisper of human speech. Bright-colored furniture stood about; a fountain gushed in the center of the patio; the floor was paved with cheerful flagstones — all glittering and fixed. The whole scene was unreal in the glare of the sun, something out of a crazy painting.
As Rosa jumped out of the police car a tall dark woman of statuesque figure, her eyes reddened, a handkerchief fluttering from a slender wrist, ran blindly into the driveway. The two women fell into each other’s arms.
“I’m all right, mother,” said Rosa in a low tone. “B-but David — I’m afraid—”
“Rosa, darling. Oh, thank God...”
“Now, mother—”
“We’ve been frantic about you... It’s been such a terrible, terrible day... First you and David, then J — Mr. Marco... Darling, he’s been m-murdered!”
“Mother, please. Control yourself.”
“It’s simply... Everything’s gone wrong. First it was Pitts this morning — I don’t know where she is — then you and David, then Mr. Marco...”
“I know, I know, mother. You’ve said that already.”
“But David. Is he... is he—?”
“I don’t know, mother. I don’t know.”
Ellery murmured to Inspector Moley: “Now who, Inspector, is Pitts?”
“Damned if I know. Wait a minute.” The Inspector pulled out a notebook and consulted a much-scribbled page. “Oh! She’s one of the house-maids. Mrs. Godfrey’s personal maid.”
“But Mrs. Godfrey just said that she’s gone.”
Moley shrugged. “She’s probably around somewhere. I’m not goin’ to worry about a maid right now... Just a second till I break this up. I—”
He stopped, and waited. The disheveled young man had taken up his station by the entrance of the patio, and he was glaring at Rosa in a fierce, baffled way, biting his fingernails and devouring the girl with his eyes. Now he jerked his head irritably, changed expression, and with a sullen acquiescence stepped aside.
A small stout gray man in dirty slacks shuffled through the gateway and rather helplessly took Rosa’s hand. His head was long and narrow, and tiny in comparison with his bloated little body, giving him a bottom-heavy appearance, like Humpty-Dumpty. He had no chin at all, which made his piratical nose look larger than it was. His eyes were small and hard and unwinking, almost ophidian; utterly without color and without feeling... In the ensemble he looked like an under-gardener, or a cook’s helper. Certainly there was nothing in his appearance to suggest power — except possibly the snaky eyes — or in his demeanor to suggest the builder and destroyer of fortunes. Walter Godfrey held his daughter’s hand like any parental pensioner, and ignored his wife utterly.
The chauffeur of the police car drove away and after a moment of awkward silence the three Godfreys slowly went into the patio.
“By God!” whispered Inspector Moley, snapping his fingers.
“What’s the matter?” growled Judge Macklin; the old gentleman had not taken his eyes off Godfrey.
“I’ve got it! Him, I mean. Wait till I get a couple of calls off my chest... Right, right, Joe; I’m coming. Hold those reports.” He went around the corner of the house, quickly. Then his head reappeared. “Go right in and wait for me, Judge. You, too, Mr. Queen. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” And he vanished again.
Ellery and the Judge strolled rather diffidently into the patio. “I invariably feel awed in the presence of riches,” murmured Ellery, “until I remember what Prud’hon said.”
“And what did Prud’hon say?”
“‘La propriete, c’est le vol.’” The Judge grunted. “And then I feel better. Humble as I am, I can still hold my own in the company of... er... thieves. Consequently, we may as well make ourselves at home.”
“Always the sophist! I can’t forget that there’s the smell of death in this air.