“‘S all very well for you two,” grumbled Moley over an Austrian tart. “You’re just havin’ a good time helping out. If I go floppo on this case it’s no cut out of your cake. Why the hell do people have to go get themselves bumped off?”
Ellery engulfed the last mouthful, put aside his serviette, and sighed with Bacchic repletion. “The Chinese have the right social idea, Judge; only a royal belch would do justice to this feast of Mrs. Burleigh’s... No, no, Inspector, you wrong us. If you go floppo on this case it will be despite our best combined efforts. As a matter of fact, it’s not the least interesting problem in the world. That note of nudism...”
“You got an angle?”
“All God’s chillun got an angle, Inspector. This chile has a half-dozen angles. That’s what piques me. And I have the feeling that not one of ’em is the correct one.”
Moley grunted. “Well, now you take that note—”
“I’d much rather,” remarked the Judge, putting down his coffee-cup, “take a nap.”
“Then why,” asked a cool voice from the Moorish archway, “don’t you, Judge?”
They rose hastily as Rosa Godfrey came in. She had changed to shorts, and her firm golden skin was visible to the middle of her thighs. Only the bruise on her temple remained to remind them of her experience in Waring’s bungalow the night before.
“Splendid idea, my child,” said the Judge sheepishly. “If you could have me taken back to the bungalow in one of the cars... I’m sure you won’t mind, my boy. I’m feeling a little—”
“I’ve already had one of the cars,” retorted Rosa with a little toss of her head, “go to your bungalow — under trooper escort — and bring your bags and things back here. You’re both putting up with us, you know.”
“Now, really—” began the old gentleman.
“Kindness incarnate,” said Ellery cheerfully. “Miss Godfrey, that was noble of you. I hadn’t looked forward to scrambling eggs with too much enthusiasm. Not after this repast. My dear Solon, you look properly peaked; shoo! Moley and I will carry on.”
“Might be better at that,” mused the detective, “having some one on the premises. Good idea. Go on, Judge — git.”
Judge Macklin rubbed his chin and blinked his bleared eyes. “And all those victuals in the car... Well, I can’t conscientiously refuse.”
“Indeed you can’t,” said Rosa firmly. “Tiller!” The little valet popped in from somewhere. “Show Judge Macklin to the blue room in the east wing. Mr. Queen will occupy the adjoining bedroom. I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Burleigh about it.”
When the Judge had disappeared after Tiller Inspector Moley said: “Now that you’ve been nice to the old gent, Miss Godfrey, suppose you be nice to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Show us where that library of your father’s is.”
She preceded them through a confusion of overwhelming rooms to a jewel of a library. It had the odor as well as the appearance of bookishness, and Ellery sucked in his breath with admiration. Here, as elsewhere, the Spanish motif had been carried out; and Morocco bindings prevailed. It was a tall room filled with shadows, as is proper in any self-respecting library, and was possessed of unexpected nooks and alcoves in which one might bury himself waist-deep in cushions and find peace between pasteboards and leathers.
But Inspector Moley’s outraged soul held no room for aesthetics. His hard little eyes probed the corners, and he said gruffly: “Now where’s the typewriter?”
Rosa was surprised. “The typewriter? I don’t— Over there.” She led them to an alcove in which stood a desk, a typewriter, a few filing-cabinets, and the like. “This is father’s ‘office’ — if you could dignify it by such a name. At least, this is where he potters about with his business affairs while on the Cape.”
“He does his own typing?” demanded Moley, skeptical.
“Rarely has to. He detests correspondence. He transacts most of his business over that telephone there. It’s a direct wire to his New York office.”
“But he can type?”
“After a fashion.” Rosa accepted one of Ellery’s cigarets and flung herself on a leather divan. “Why all this interest in father, Inspector?”
“Does he use this place much? This alcove?” asked Moley coldly.
“For an hour or so a day.” She was regarding him with an intent curiosity.
“Ever do any typing for your father yourself?”
“I?” She laughed. “Indeed not, Inspector. I’m the drone of this family. I can’t do anything.”
Moley caught himself up. He placed his cheroot on an ashtray and said casually: “Oh, so you can’t type?”
“Sorry I can’t oblige. Mr. Queen, what in heaven’s name is all this about? Have you found a new clue? Something—” She sat up suddenly, uncrossing her legs. There was the strangest glitter in her blue eyes.
Ellery spread his hands. “This is Inspector Moley’s nut, Miss Godfrey. First rights at cracking it belong to him.”
“’Scuse me a second,” said Moley, and he stalked out of the library.
Rosa leaned back, smoking. Her brown throat was naked to Ellery’s gaze as she dreamily regarded the ceiling. He studied it with half a smile. The girl was a good actress. To outward appearance she was cool, self-possessed, a normal young woman. But there was a little nerve at the base of her throat which jumped and cavorted like an imprisoned thing.
He went rather wearily to the desk and sat down in the swivel-chair behind it, feeling his bones. It had been a long grind and he was horribly tired. But he sighed and removed his pince-nez and scrubbed their lenses with diligence, preparatory to the work at hand. Rosa regarded him slantwise, without lowering her head.
“Do you know, Mr. Queen,” she murmured, “you’re almost handsome when you take your glasses off.”
“Eh? Oh, certainly; that’s why I wear ’em. Keeps off designing females. Pity John Marco didn’t employ some such protective device.” He continued to scrub.
Rosa was silent for a moment. When she spoke again it was in the same light tone. “I’ve heard about you, you know. I suppose most of us have. Somehow you aren’t at all as formidable-looking as I pictured you. You’ve caught a good many murderers, haven’t you?”
“I can’t complain. In my blood, no doubt. There’s a chemical something inside me that shoots to the boiling-point at the least approach of criminality. Nothing Freudian about it; it’s merely the mathematician in me. And I failed in geometry in high school! Can’t understand it, because I love discordant and isolated twos and twos, especially when they’re expressed in terms of violence. Marco represents one of the factors in the equation. That man positively fascinates me.” He was busy with something on the desk. She peeped secretly; it was to all appearances a translucent envelope filled with little scraps of paper. “For example, his obscene habit of getting himself killed and undressed. That’s a new wrinkle. It calls for some higher mathematics, I’m sure.”
The nerve, he noted without seeming to do so, redoubled its squirmings.
Her shoulders quivered a little. “That — that was horrible,” she said in a smothered voice.
“No, merely interesting. We can’t permit emotions to interfere with our work, you see. Perfectly disastrous.” He fell silent, absorbed in what he was doing. She saw him take a curious little kit out of his pocket, open it, select what appeared to be a tiny brush and a vial of grayish powder, and, sprinkling the scraps of paper — which he had arranged into a whole — with the powder, lightly and expertly dust the surface with the brush. He whistled a doleful tune, painstakingly turned each scrap over, and repeated the mysterious process. Something seemed to catch his eye, for he took a small magnifying-glass from the kit and peered intently through it at one of the scraps in the light of a powerful lamp on the desk. This time she saw him shake his head.