The little valet, who had been standing quietly in the open doorway, now closed the door in Detective Roush’s slightly astonished face and advanced to Judge Macklin’s side, where he proceeded to peer down at the discarded garments and then at the shoes. He raised his inscrutable eyes and said respectfully: “Yes, sir.”
“Anything missing?” demanded Moley.
“No, sir. Except perhaps,” continued Tiller soberly, after a moment’s silence, “for the contents of the pockets. There was a watch — Elgin, radial dial, sir, white gold, seventeen-jewel — which isn’t here. And Mr. Marco’s wallet and cigaret-case are missing, too.”
Moley eyed him with grudging respect. “Good boy. Any time you want a job doin’ detective work, Tiller, you come to me. Well, Mr. Queen, what d’ye think of that?”
Ellery picked up the white trousers between two negligent fingers, shrugged and dropped them carelessly on the bed. “What should I think?”
“Well,” said the Judge in an exasperated tone, “we find the man stark naked and now we find the clothes he wore last night; what should any one think? I’ll confess it’s a weird, an obscene conclusion, but I’ll be jaspered if it doesn’t look as if he went down to the terrace last night with only that blessed cloak over his naked body!”
“Nuts,” said Inspector Moley distinctly. “Beg pardon, Judge. But why the devil d’ye think I told the boys to look for his duds on the grounds? Hell, if I thought that I’d have searched this room the very first thing!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” chuckled Ellery, without removing his gaze from the strewn garments. “Apparently, dear Solon, you haven’t thought of the alternative possibility, which is just as grotesque, that Marco’s murderer killed him here, undressed him, and then toted his dead body down through a populated house to the terrace! No, no, Judge, it’s as the Inspector says. The explanation’s much simpler than that, and I fancy Tiller can, as usual, provide it. Eh, Tiller?”
“I believe I can, sir,” murmured Tiller modestly, looking at Ellery with bright eyes.
“There you are,” drawled Ellery. “Tiller Tells All. I suppose Marco undressed when he returned to this room last night and promptly proceeded to change into a completely new costume?”
Judge Macklin’s thin old face fell. “I’m turning obscurantist in my old age. My own fault. That nudity business led me into a trap. Of course that’s it.
“Yes, sir,” said Tiller, nodding gravely. “You see, sir, I have a cubbyhole of sorts — like a pantry — at the west end of the hall where I stay in the late evening until all the gentlemen retire. It was a quarter to twelve, I should say, when a buzzer — you’ll find the button beside the bed, Inspector Moley, sir — summoned me to Mr. Marco’s room.”
“Just about when he got upstairs after the game,” muttered Moley. He was standing by the bed going through the pockets of the discarded white garments; but he found nothing at all.
“Undoubtedly, sir. Mr. Marco was stripping off that white coat when I entered the room. His face was flushed and he seemed impatient. He... er... cursed me roundly for what he called my ‘damned shilly-shallying’ and directed me to fetch him a whisky-and-soda, double strength, and to lay out certain garments.”
“Swore at you, eh?” said the Inspector quietly. “Go on.”
“I fetched the whisky-and-soda, sir, and then while he was... er... tossing it down proceeded to lay out the clothes he had designated.”
“And they were?” snapped Ellery. “Please, Tiller, fewer genteelisms. We haven’t all week, you know.”
“Yes, sir. They were,” Tiller pursed his lips and screwed up his eyebrows, “his oxford-gray suit, double-breasted, including waistcoat; black pointed oxfords; white shirt, collar attached; dark gray four-in-hand; a suit of fresh two-piece underclothing; black silk socks; black garters; black braces; a gray silk display kerchief for his breast-pocket; black felt fedora; his heavy ebony stick; and the long black opera-cloak from his full-dress outfit.”
“Just a moment, Tiller. I’d meant to ask about that cloak before. Have you any idea why he should have worn it last night? It’s rather a quaint costume.”
“Indeed it is, sir. But Mr. Marco was a trifle eccentric. His tastes in clothing, sir...” Tiller shook his sleek dark little head sadly. “I believe he did mutter something about the evening’s being chilly, which was true, sir, when he asked me to lay the cloak out with the other things. And so—”
“He intended going out?”
“Of course I can’t say exactly, sir; although I did gather that impression."
“Did he usually re-dress so late at night?”
“Oh, no, sir; it was quite unusual. At any rate, sir, while I laid out his things he went into the bathroom there and took a shower. When he came out in his slippers and robe, freshly shaved and combed—”
“Cripe, where did he think he was going at midnight?” exploded Inspector Moley. “That’s a hell of a time to be primping!”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Tiller. “I wondered myself. But I felt fairly certain that he was preparing to meet a lady, sir. You see—”
“Lady!” exclaimed the Judge. “How do you know that?”
“It was the expression on his face, sir, and a certain anxiety he showed in a very minute wrinkle — oh, most minute, sir — on the collar of the shirt. He always acted that way when he was dressing for... er... some special lady. In fact, he abused me quite — oh, quite—” For once Tiller seemed at a loss for the proper word. A peculiar expression crept into his eyes which vanished almost at once.
Ellery was staring at him. “You didn’t care for Mr. Marco, did you, Tiller?”
Tiller smiled deprecatingly, self-possessed once more. “I shouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir, but — he was a difficult gentleman. Most difficult. And, if anything, overcareful of his appearance, as you might say. He would spend fifteen minutes to a half-hour examining his face in the bathroom mirror, turning it this way and that, sir, as if to see that every pore was clean, and whether the right profile, sir, was really more fetching than the left. And... er... he scented himself.”
“Scented himself!” cried the Judge, shocked.
“Devastating, Tiller, simply devastating,” remarked Ellery with a smile. “I shouldn’t care to have you discourse upon my idiosyncrasies. Valet’s-eye view — oh, excellent! You were saying that when he came out of the bathroom...”
“Woman, hey?” muttered Moley, whose mind seemed on other matters.
“Yes, sir. When he came out of the bathroom after his shower I was removing the contents of his pockets — some change, the watch and wallet and cigaret-case I mentioned, and a few other trifles. Of course, I meant to transfer them to the dark suit. But he pounced upon me immediately after the... er... unpleasant incident of the wrinkled collar, so to speak, and snatched the white coat out of my hands. Called me a ‘damned meddler,’ if I remember correctly, sir. And he ordered me out of the room, saying angrily that he would dress himself.”
“So that’s that,” began Moley, when Ellery stopped him.
“Perhaps not quite.” He regarded the little man thoughtfully. “Did you gather that there was any special reason, Tiller, for his irritation? Did you find something... ah... personal in one of the pockets of the suit?”