“Yes, sir,” murmured Tiller, “but it is not for me to—”
“If you mean,” growled the Inspector, “that he’d been monkeyin’ around with Mrs. Godfrey, why the devil don’t you come out and say so in plain English?”
Ellery crawled off the bed and clapped his hands together. “Trust an old shellback of the police to get to the heart of matters!” he chuckled. “Yes, yes, Inspector, that’s what I meant. Tiller, there’s one other classification: men who have loved and wearied. Men — the tabloids and the poets call them ‘lovers’ — who have fed at the ‘sacred flame’ and after a while become bored with the same fare. Sad! Then the Era of Epithets sets in.”
Judge Macklin scowled. “You’re not suggesting that Marco and Mrs. Godfrey—”
Ellery sighed. “It’s a vicious habit, this business of suggesting, but what can a poor sleuth do? My dear innocent, we can’t close our eyes to facts. Mrs. Godfrey stole into Marco’s room at midnight. Without knocking. That’s not the action of a mere hostess, no matter how possessive she may feel about her Spanish guest-chambers. Shortly after, Marco damned her loudly for a meddling mustn’t-say-the-naughty-word. That’s not the chit-chat of a mere guest... Yes, yes, La Rochefoucauld was right: The more we love a mistress, the nearer we are to hating her. Marco must once have cherished a grand passion for the lovely Stella to have abused her so roundly last night.”
“I agree,” snapped Moley, “that there must have been somethin’ between the two of ’em. But d’ye think she—”
“I think with de Stael that love is the history of a woman’s life,” said Ellery softly, “and an episode in man’s. The woman under the circumstances, I daresay, would take its death rather seriously. I may be wrong about that in this case, but—”
Detective Roush opened the door and said with pathetic eagerness: “I think it’s chow, Chief.”
Stella Godfrey appeared in the doorway. They looked at her with the guilty feeling that comes to all who are suddenly confronted with the object of their gossip. Only Tiller was discreetly studying the floor.
She had taken a grip on herself; her face was freshly powdered and her handkerchief crisp. Each of them was wholly masculine, and each of them wondered anew at the eternal mystery of Eve. Here was a woman, superbly constructed, still beautiful, gracious, regal, wealthy, of the highest social caste in her own right. To look at her, a vision of self-possession, it did not seem possible that she was floundering in a morass of ugly fears, that she could have stooped to the age-old folly, that those slim well-bred hands had lately been clenched in violence. There was something essentially immaculate about her, her person, her appearance, her bearing; immaculate and detached.
She said coolly: “Excuse me for interrupting, gentlemen. I’ve had the cook prepare something. You must be hungry, all of you. If you’ll follow Mrs. Burleigh—”
She had thought of food! Judge Macklin swallowed hard and averted his head. Ellery mumbled something that sounded as if it might have come from Macbeth and instantly smiled.
“Mrs. Godfrey—” began Moley in a strangled voice.
“Charming and thoughtful of you,” said Ellery cheerfully, prodding Moley’s ribs. “As a matter of fact, Judge Macklin and I have been uncomfortably aware all morning of the void in our stomachs. We haven’t eaten since last night’s dinner, you see.”
“This is Mrs. Burleigh, my housekeeper,” said Stella Godfrey quietly, stepping aside.
A timid voice said: “Yes, Madam,” and a starched and ancient little female edged into sight from behind her mistress. “If you’ll follow me to the small dining-room, sir, and the other gentlemen—”
“With a will, Mrs. Burleigh, with a will! By the way, you know what’s happened?”
“Oh, yes, sir. It’s dreadful.”
“Indeed it is. I suppose you can’t assist us in any way?”
“I, sir?” Mrs. Burleigh’s eyes became enormous discs. “Oh, no, sir. I knew the gentleman only by sight, sir. How could I—”
“Don’t go, Mrs. Godfrey,” said Moley suddenly, as the tall dark woman stirred.
“I wasn’t going,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I was about to say—”
“I want to talk to you— No, Mr. Queen, I’m going to have my way about this. Mrs. Godfrey—”
“I think,” said Ellery with a grimace, “we’ll have to defer our luncheon a bit, Mrs. Burleigh; I detect the inflexible note of authority. You might advise Cookie to keep those comestibles warm.” Mrs. Burleigh smiled uncertainly and retreated. “And thank you, Tiller. No telling what we’d have done without you.”
The valet bowed. “That will be all, sir?”
“Not unless you’ve something left up your sleeve.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Tiller, almost ruefully; and he bowed himself past Mrs. Godfrey and vanished.
The dark woman had frozen suddenly; all but her eyes. They roved the room, shrank from the tumbled male clothing on the bed, the drawers, the closet... Inspector Moley looked fiercely at her and she took a slow step backward. He shut the door with a meaning glance at Roush, kicked forward a chair, and motioned her into it.
“What is it now?” she murmured, sitting down. Her lips seemed dry, for she moistened them with the tip of her tongue.
“Mrs. Godfrey,” said the Inspector bitterly, “why don’t you come clean? Why don’t you tell us the truth?”
“Oh.” She paused. “I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.”
“You know well enough what I mean!” Moley paced up and down before her, gesticulating. “Don’t you folks realize what you’re up against? What the devil does a little personal trouble mean when it’s a case of life and death? This is murder, Mrs. Godfrey — murder!” He stopped and grasped the arms of her chair, glaring down at her. “They electrocute people in this State for murder, Mrs. Godfrey. Murder; m-u-r-d-e-r. Do you understand now?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” repeated Mrs. Godfrey stonily. “Are you trying to frighten me?”
“You don’t want to know! Do you people think you can make up a mess of conflicting testimony and get away with it?”
“I’ve told you the truth,” she said in a low tone.
“You’ve told me a pack of lies!” raged Moley. “You’re afraid of the scandal. You’re afraid of what your husband will say when—”
“Scandal?” she faltered; and they saw that her defenses were slowly coming down. Already the torment in her mind was becoming visible on her features.
Inspector Moley jerked at his collar. “What were you doing in this room-Marco’s room — last night at midnight, Mrs. Godfrey?”
Another rampart crumbled. She stared up at him, mouth open, skin the color of wet ashes. “I—” Her face fell into her palms suddenly and she began to sob.
Ellery, perched on John Marco’s bed, sighed noiselessly; he was very hungry and sleepy. Judge Macklin placed his old hands together behind his back and walked to one of the windows. The sea was blue and beautiful, he thought. Some people could be very happy looking at such a sea day after day. It must be striking in winter. The waves crashing against the cliffs below, the song of hissing spray, the whip of wind-driven spume against one’s cheeks... His eyes narrowed. Below a bent male figure appeared, small from the Judge’s eyrie, small and gnarled and busy. It was Jorum, poking about in his eternal gardens. Then Walter Godfrey’s tubby figure, a ragged straw hat on his head, materialized from the side. How like a fat, filthy little peon the man looked! thought the Judge... Godfrey placed his hand on Jorum’s shoulder and his rubbery lips moved; Jorum looked up, smiled briefly, and continued weeding. Judge Macklin felt the kinship between them, a tacit camaraderie that puzzled him a little... The millionaire dropped to his knees to study a flaming flower. There was something ironic in the spectacle. It appeared, thought the Judge, that Walter Godfrey had consistently paid more attention to the blooms in his gardens than to those in his house. Some one had stolen his rarest flower from under his nose.