“That sounds reasonable enough.”
“It must be the answer,” went on Moley quietly, “because there just isn’t any doubt about this letter. Marco wrote it. If you think this is a phony, forget it. It isn’t.”
“You’re positive?”
“Couldn’t be more so. It was one of the first things I checked up on this morning. There are samples of his fist all over the house — he was one of those guys who like to scribble their names wherever they happen to be standing — and this stuff he wrote last night is absolutely on the level. Here, see for yourself—”
“No, no,” said Ellery hurriedly, “I’m not impugning your opinion, Inspector. I’m quite ready to take your word for the genuineness of the letter.” But then he added with a sigh: “He was left-handed?”
“I’ve checked that, too. He was.”
“Then there’s really nothing more to be said on that score. I agree it’s a puzzler all round. And no, it doesn’t seem likely that a man would sit down outdoors in nothing but an opera cloak to write a letter. He must have been wearing clothes. Er... Spanish Cape is a rather extensive chunk of God’s country, Inspector. You’re sure his clothes aren’t about?”
“I’m not sure of anything, Mr. Queen,” said Moley patiently. “But I’ve had a squad of men doing nothing but look for them ever since we got here, and they’re still missing.”
Ellery sucked his lower lip. “And that fringe of jagged rock that circles the base of these cliffs, Inspector?”
“Two minds with but a single thought. Naturally, I worked on the theory that somebody might have thrown Marco’s duds off the cliff somewhere on the Cape into the water; it’s twenty feet deep and more even at the foot of the cliffs. Don’t ask me why. But there’s nothing on the rocks, and I’ll have the boys drag as soon as I can get some apparatus out here.”
“Precisely what,” demanded the Judge, “makes both of you attach so much importance to Marco’s — for all you know — possibly non-existent attire?”
The Inspector shrugged. “I think Mr. Queen will agree with me that his clothes exist, all right, and that if they do there must have been a damn’ good reason for the killer’s having toted ’em off, or disposed of them.”
“Or,” murmured Ellery, “as friend Fluellen said so ungrammatically: ‘There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things.’ I beg your pardon, Inspector. I’m sure you said it much more aptly.” Moley stared. “Say... Oh. You through, Blackie?”
“Pretty near.”
Moley picked the sheet of paper very carefully from the table and held it up for Ellery’s inspection. Judge Macklin squinted a little over Ellery’s shoulder — he had never worn glasses, and although at seventy-six his eyes were beginning to fail, he would not give in to his infirmity.
A little below and to the right of the crest was written the date and then, in a bold hand, Sunday 1 a.m. On the left there appeared, above the salutation, the legend:
Lucius Penfield, Esq.
11 Park Row
New York, N. Y.
and the salutation read: Dear Luke. The message ran:
“It’s a hell of a time to be writing a letter, but I have a couple of minutes alone now and while I’m waiting I want to tell you how I am getting on. It’s been hard to write lately because I have to be careful. You know the kind of pot I’m sitting on. I don’t want it to boil over until I am good and ready; and then let it boil! It won’t hurt me.
“Things look good and rosy, and it is only a matter of days now that I will be able to make that last sweet clean—”
And that was all. From the tail of the n ran the heavy ink-line, slashing down the creamy paper like a knife.
“Now what kind of clean-up — ‘last’ clean-up — was this monkey figuring on?” asked Inspector Moley quietly. “And if that’s not something, Mr. Queen, I’m the monkey’s uncle!”
“An excellent question—” began Ellery, when an exclamation from the coroner whirled them all around.
For some time he had been regarding the corpse with a puzzled air, as if there were something about the stiff clay he could not understand. But now he had leaned over and removed the braided loop from the metal hasp on the collar of the opera cloak at the dead man’s throat, the cloak slipping off the marble shoulders, and then had placed his finger on the dead man’s chin and tilted the rigid head far up.
There was a thin deep red line in the flesh of Marco’s neck.
“Strangled!”exclaimed the Judge.
“Sure was” said the coroner, studying the wound. “Goes all around his throat. Ragged wound at the nape of the same nature; that’s where it must have been knotted. Wire, I’d say from the looks of it. But the wire isn’t here. Did you find it, Inspector?”
“Something else to look for,” groaned Moley.
“Then Marco was attacked from the rear?” demanded Ellery, twirling his pince-nez thoughtfully.
“If you mean the corpse,” said the coroner in a rather sour tone, “yes. The strangler stood behind him, slipped the wire around his neck and under the loose collar of the cloak, pulled hard, twisted the wire in a knot at the nape of the neck... It couldn’t have taken very long.” He stooped, picked up the cloak, flung it carelessly over the dead man’s body. “Well, I’m through.”
“But even so,” protested the Inspector, “there isn’t the sign of a struggle. He’d at least have twisted back in his seat, made a pass at his assailant, something! But this bird just sat here and took it and never even turned around, from what you say.”
“Didn’t let me finish,” retorted the bony man. “He was unconscious when he was strangled.”
“Unconscious!”
“Here.” The coroner lifted the cloak and uncovered Marco’s curly black hair. He parted the hair skillfully almost at the very top of the head; a livid bruise showed through on the skin of the skull. Then he let the cloak go. “He was struck squarely on top of the parietal bone with some heavy instrument, not enough to break the bone but sufficient to cause a contusion. That put him to sleep. After that it was a simple enough matter to slip the wire under his collar and strangle him.”
“But why didn’t the murderer finish the job with his bludgeon?” muttered Judge Macklin.
The coroner sniggered. “Oh, might be lots of reasons. Maybe he didn’t like messy corpses. Or maybe he brought the wire along with him and didn’t want to waste it. I don’t know, but that’s what he did.”
“Struck him with what?” demanded Ellery. “Have you found anything, Inspector?”
Moley went back to a niche in the rock wall, near one of the big Spanish jars, and picked up a small heavy bust. “He got socked by Columbus,” he drawled. “We found this thing on the floor behind the table, and I put it back in that niche there; it was the only empty one, so the bust must have come from there. This stone doesn’t take fingerprints, so there’s no use looking. At that, we swept up the floor of this terrace before we set foot on it; but we didn’t find a damned thing except a lot of sand and dirt blown up here by the wind. Awfully clean folks, these Godfreys, or maybe their servants were brought up right.” He replaced the bust.