“It stood to reason that, since there are only two ways to the terrace and the beach way has been eliminated, the murderer must therefore have come by land, by the path there. Certainly, Inspector! That stood to reason after reasoning. It did not merely stand to reason. Nothing stands to reason until it can be demonstrated logically that alternatives do not stand to reason.” Moley threw his hands into the air. “Yes, Marco’s murderer came from the path up there; can’t be any doubt about that. It’s something to start with.”
“Precious little,” grumbled Moley. Then he eyed Ellery rather slyly. “You think, then, that the killer came from the house?”
Ellery shrugged. “The path is — the path. The people in that Spanish excrescence are, by the very nature of things, proximate suspects. But the path also leads from the road across the rock-neck, and the road across the rock-neck leads from the road through the park, and the road through the park—”
“Leads from the main highway. Yeah, I know,” said Moley disconsolately.
“The whole world could have bumped him off, including myself. Nuts and bolts. Let’s go on up to the house.”
As they strolled after the Inspector, who was mumbling to himself, Ellery absently polishing the lenses of his pince-nez, Judge Macklin muttered: “For that matter, the murderer left the scene of the crime by the path, too. It’s quite impossible that he should have been able to hurdle a minimum of eighteen feet of sand. When he killed Marco he didn’t go near the water, or we would have found his footprints.”
“Oh, that! Quite true. I’m afraid the Inspector’s disappointment is justified. There’s nothing of a cosmic nature derivative from my monologue a moment ago. But it did need clarification...” Ellery sighed. “I can’t get the fact of Marco’s nudity out of my mind. It’s been running through this old brain like a Wagnerian leit motif. Judge, there’s a subtle point hidden there!”
“Subtlety’s what you make it, my son,” asserted Judge Macklin, taking long reflective strides. “More probably the answer’s of the very essence of simplicity. I confess it’s a trying riddle. Why any man or woman should deliberately undress his victim—” He shook his head.
“Hmm. It must have been rather a job, at that,” mused Ellery. “Have you ever tried to disrobe an unconscious or sleeping person? I have, and you may take my word for it it’s not as easy as it sounds. There are all manner of arms and legs and things that get in the way. Yes, yes, a job. A job that wouldn’t have been undertaken, especially at such a time, without a definite and utterly essential end in view. Of course, he could have taken everything off Marco without removing the cloak; cloak has no sleeves to interfere. Or else he took the cloak off, undressed Marco, and then put the cloak back on again. But why undress him at all? For that matter, why undress him and leave the cloak about him? And now that I think of it, even if Marco was gripping the stick while writing, the murderer must have taken it out of Marco’s right hand in order to undress him. That means he put it back in Marco’s hand again — an inane procedure. But there must have been a reason. Why? For effect? For confusion? I’m beginning to get a headache.”
Judge Macklin pursed his lips. “On the surface, admittedly, it doesn’t make sense, especially the undressing part; at least it doesn’t make normal sense. Ellery, it’s a genuine effort for me to keep from thinking of a diseased mind, of abnormal psychology, of perversion.”
“If the killer were a woman—” began Ellery dreamily.
“Nonsense,” snapped the old gentleman. “You can’t believe that!”
“Oh, can’t I?” jeered Ellery. “I notice you were thinking along somewhat the same lines yourself. It’s not at all outside the realm of possibility. You’re a pure old churchman, and all that, but this may be simply a case for a psychopathist. If it is, there’s a discarded mistress with a sex-mania in the offing...”
“You’ve a nasty mind,” growled the Judge.
“I’ve a logical mind,” retorted Ellery. “At the same time, I’ll admit that there are a few facts floating about which don’t precisely tenon with the psychopathic theory — chiefly certain omissions on the part of the murderer... or murderess, as you prefer.” Then he sighed. “Well! What’s the dirt on friend Penfield?”
“Eh?” cried the Judge, stopping short.
“Penfield,” drawled Ellery. “Surely you remember Penfield, Lucius Penfield, attorney-at-law, 11 Park Row, New York City? It was childishly evident back there that you were emulating Melancholy, sitting ‘with eyes upraised, as one inspired.’ Suppose you remain true to Will Collins and ‘pour through the mellow horn’ your ‘pensive soul.’”
“Mellow horn your foot! Sometimes you’re infuriating,” said the Judge grumpily. “Is my face as legible as that? I was once known, sub rosa, as the Sphinx. I wasn’t melancholy, though; merely gratified at the sudden apprehension of a fugitive memory. I remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“It happened a good many years ago. Ten or more. I was... er... rather prominent in the extra-legal activities of the Bar Association at that time. Frequently there were irritating little matters of house-cleaning. I had the doubtful pleasure of meeting Mr. Lucius Penfield in connection with one particularly odoriferous investigation. Theretofore I had known the gentleman by reputation only. And a smelly one it was.”
“Ah!”
“‘Faugh’ would be more like it,” said the Judge dryly. “He was up on charges brought by an indignant brotherhood of fellow-attorneys. If it’s the same Penfield, of course... Anyway, he was charged with conduct unbecoming a lawyer. Specifically, and less politely, with conspiring to cause witnesses to perjure their testimony; with doling out substantial bribes to rival jurymen; and a number of other activities quite as pleasant.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing; the legal fraternity had let indignation run away with better sense, and they didn’t have the goods on him. His defense was masterly, as usual. The disbarment proceedings were dropped... I could orate all day, my son, on the subject of Mr. Lucius Penfield. Memory becomes fresher with each passing instant.”
“So John Marco was corresponding with a rotten egg, eh?” muttered Ellery. “And from the familiarity of the salutation, he didn’t mind the odor at all. Tell me all you know about Penfield, will you?”
“It may be summed up in a common phrase,” said Judge Macklin with a bitter twist of his lips. “Luke Penfield’s the biggest scoundrel unhanged!”
Chapter Five
The House of Strange Guests
They found the patio deserted except for two bored policemen, and followed Inspector Moley across the bright flags to an exotic-looking Moorish archway, which brought them into a small arcade decorated with conventional arabesques and finished off with dados of glazed and painted tile.
“You’d never suspect the nabob, from looking at him, of having a passion for Orientalism,” remarked Ellery. “Apparently he instructed his architect to stress the Moorish side of Spanish architecture. Page Freud.”
“I sometimes wonder,” growled the old gentleman, “how you sleep so soundly of nights — with your mind.”
“At the same time,” continued Ellery, pausing to inspect a vivid tile in red, yellow, and green, “I wonder if living in a Saracenic atmosphere — with a hot Spanish sauce added — doesn’t do something to the Nordic mind. At that, it doesn’t take much to kindle apparently dead fires. There’s a certain type of female Occidental, like Mrs. Constable, for instance, who...”