“On the other hand, some one did steal in here after Marco left to keep his fatal rendezvous last night, fished the scraps out of the fireplace — I daresay it was a feeble fire which went out without being noticed by Marco, who seems to have been in a state of considerable excitement — took them into the bathroom here, sorted them, discarded the envelope-fragments as non-essential, and very carefully put together the remaining scraps of the note itself.”
“Why in the bathroom?” growled Moley. “That’s something else that smells.”
Ellery shrugged. “I’m not so sure it’s of importance. Probably to ensure privacy during the reconstruction of the note — a precaution against sudden interruption.” He took a glassine envelope from his wallet and carefully tucked the pieces of the note into it. “We’ll need this, Inspector. Of course, I’m merely borrowing it.”
“The signature,” muttered Judge Macklin, who seemed lost in his original train of thought, “is also typed. It looks—”
Ellery strode to the bathroom door. “Tiller,” he said genially.
The little man was standing precisely where they had left him, in an attitude of respectful attention.
“Yes, sir?”
Ellery sauntered over to him, produced his cigaret-case, snapped it open, and said: “Have one?”
Tiller seemed shocked. “Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t!”
“Don’t see why, but suit yourself.” Ellery put one between his lips. From the doorway the two older men watched in puzzled silence. Tiller materialized a match from somewhere about his person and struck it, holding it deferentially to the tip of Ellery’s cigaret. “Thank you. Y’know, Tiller,” continued Ellery, puffing with enjoyment, “you’ve been invaluable in this affair so far. Don’t know what we should have done without you.”
“Thank you, sir. Justice should be done.”
“Quite so. By the way, is there a typewriter in the house?”
Tiller blinked. “I believe so, sir. In the library.”
“Is that the only one?”
“Yes, sir. You see, Mr. Godfrey transacts no business at all of the usual sort during the summer; doesn’t even maintain a secretary here. The typewriter is very little used.”
“Hmm... Of course, Tiller, I don’t have to point out to you that there are one or two unfortunate elements.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Indeed. For example, the fact that with the exception of that benefactor of mankind — to quote Mr. Godfrey — who polished off Marco, you seem to have been the last to see Marco alive. That’s bad. Now, if good fortune were really on our side—”
“But good fortune,” said Tiller gently, clasping his tiny hands before him, “is, sir.
“Eh?” Ellery lowered his cigaret sharply.
“You see, sir, I wasn’t the last to see Mr. Marco alive-I mean, always excepting the murderer, sir.” And Tiller coughed and paused, lowering his eyes discreetly.
Moley charged across the room. “You exasperatin’ little devil!” he bellowed. “It’s like pulling teeth, gettin’ anything out of you. Why didn’t you spill this before—”
“Please, Inspector,” murmured Ellery. “Tiller and I understand each other. These matters of revelation require a certain... ah... delicacy of delivery. Yes, Tiller?”
The little man coughed again, and this time it was a cough of embarrassment. “I scarcely know if I should speak, sir. It’s rather a delicate situation for me, you see — as you say—”
“Talk, damn you!” roared the Inspector.
“I was about to leave the pantry after having been ordered out of this room, sir, by Mr. Marco,” continued Tiller imperturbably, “when I heard some one coming up the stairs. I saw her—”
“Her, Tiller?” asked Ellery mildly. His eyes warned Moley.
“Yes, sir. I saw her tiptoe up the corridor, sir, toward Mr. Marco’s room and go in quickly... without knocking.”
“Without knocking, eh?” mumbled the Judge. “Then she — whoever she was — was the one who fished that note out of the fireplace!”
“I think not, sir,” said Tiller regretfully. “For Mr. Marco had not yet finished dressing. He couldn’t have; it was only a minute or so after I’d left him. So he was still in the bedroom. Besides, I heard them arguing—”
“Arguing!”
“Oh, yes, sir. Quite violently.”
“I thought,” said Ellery softly, “you said your pantry is at the other end of the corridor, Tiller. Were you listening at Marco’s door?”
“No, sir. But they were speaking very — loudly at one point. I couldn’t help but hear. Then they quieted down.”
Moley was biting his lips and striding about, glaring at Tiller’s sleek little head as if he wished he had a headsman’s ax.
“Well, well, Tiller,” said Ellery with a smile of pure camaraderie, “and who was this stealthy nocturnal visitor of Mr. Marco’s?”
Tiller licked his lips and looked slyly at the Inspector. Then he drew down the corners of his mouth in a shocked expression. “It was most dreadful, sir. When Mr. Marco was shouting the loudest he called her — I remember the exact words, sir, if you’ll pardon me — a ‘damned interfering bitch.’...”
“Who was she?” shrieked Moley, unable to contain himself longer.
“Mrs. Godfrey, sir.”
Chapter Seven
Dissertation on Morals, Murderers, and Maids
“We progress,” said Mr. Ellery Queen dreamily. “Inspector, we have struck the pay-lode. Thanks again to the omnipresence of Tiller.”
“Now what,” demanded Judge Macklin with exasperation, “are you talking about? It was Mrs. Godfrey. Marco was rude—”
“And they talk,” sighed Ellery, “about the innocence of babes. Dear Solon, you should have spent a few years in the Court of Domestic Relations instead of drowsing away in General Sessions.”
“For cripe’s sake,” said Moley desperately, “what’s on your mind, Mr. Queen? I hate to be crossin’ you this way all the time, but, man — this is a murder investigation, not a kaffee klatch! Spill it, spill it!”
“Tiller,” said Ellery with a glint in his eye, “we’ve had ample proof that you are an acute observer of the human animal and his gyrations.” He flung himself on John Marco’s bed and crossed his arms behind his head. “What kind of male swears at a woman?”
“Well, sir,” murmured Tiller after a discreet cough, “in fiction it is the... ah... Dashiell Hammett type, sir.”
“Ah. Heart of gold beneath hardboiled exterior?”
“Yes, sir. Blasphemy, the use of violence...”
“Let’s restrict ourselves to life as it is lived, Tiller. By the way, I infer you’re an addict of detective fiction.”
“Oh, yes, sir! And I’ve read many of your own, sir, and—”
“Hmm,” said Ellery hastily. “Let that pass. In real life, Tiller?”
“I fear,” said the valet in a sad murmur, “that there are few hearts of gold in real life, sir. Hard exteriors, certainly. I should say, sir, that there are two general types of woman-abusing men. Confirmed misogynists, sir, and — husbands.”
“Bravo!” cried Ellery, sitting up in the bed. “And a couple of bravi. Did you hear that, Judge? Misogynists and husbands. Very good, Tiller; almost epigrammatic. No, by George, I take that back. It is epigrammatic—”
The Judge could not help chuckling. But Inspector Moley threw up his hands, glared at Ellery, and stamped to the door.
“One moment, Inspector,” drawled Ellery. “This is not idle conversation.” Moley stopped and slowly turned about. “Very good as far as you’ve gone, Tiller. We are philosophizing with a gentleman by the name of John Marco in mind. The merest analysis will show that he falls neither into the one classification nor the other. From all we have learned about the deceased, he was the very antitype of the chronic misogynist; he loved the ladies dearly. And certainly he was not the husband of the specific lady at whom he swore so graphically last night. And yet swear at her he did. Do you see light?”