“Go on!”
“But Kidd’s stupid blunder,” drawled Ellery, “upset X’s plans. Very soon after Kidd’s telephone-call to him X got the shock of his life. In this house he came face to face with the man who, he thought, was dead and fathoms under out at sea. In a flash he saw what must have happened. The merest inquiry or personal observation would have convinced him that it was Kummer whom Captain Kidd had abducted. Marco was still alive. Kummer was almost certainly dead — I’m sorry, Miss Godfrey — and there was nothing X could do about it; there was no way of reaching Kidd. And yet X’s original motive against Marco still remained; obviously he couldn’t have been less desirous of killing Marco then than he had been when he originally laid his plans.”
“Poor, poor David,” whispered Rosa.
The Inspector grunted. “So?”
“X is an unscrupulous and clever criminal,” continued Ellery gravely. “All his actions show that, if I’m putting the correct interpretation on them. He recovered quickly from the shock of seeing Marco alive. He laid a new scheme. He knew that you, Miss Godfrey, were trussed up in Waring’s shack, helpless until some one should come to release you. He also knew that — forgive me again — a message from you would probably sway Marco more than any other summons. And so he stole in here and typed a note, signing it with your name, making an appointment with Marco in an isolated place on the estate for an early hour of the morning. Then he pinned the note to Tiller’s coat in Tiller’s room, with specific instructions as to the time of delivery.”
“Why Tiller?” muttered Moley.
“Tiller’s room is on the ground floor; more accessible, then. Also he would prefer not to risk being seen entering Marco’s room. It was a sound plan, and it worked. Marco kept the appointment at one, the killer came down and found him there, stunned him from behind, strangled him...” He stopped, the most curious expression of annoyance flitting over his face.
“And undressed him,” said the Inspector sarcastically. “That’s the screwy part. That’s the part that’s got me up a tree. Cripes, why?”
Ellery rose and began a stiff-legged strut up and down before the desk. His forehead was furrowed painfully. “Yes, yes, you’re right, Inspector. No matter where we start we always come back to that. Nothing fits until we learn why he undressed Marco. It’s the only piece that refuses to fall snugly into place.”
But Rosa inexplicably was crying, her sturdy shoulders shaking. “What’s the matter?” asked Ellery with concern.
“I... I never thought,” she choked between sobs, “that any one could be so vindictive as to implicate me...”
Ellery chuckled, and she was so surprised that she stopped crying. “Now, now, Miss Godfrey, that’s where you’re wrong. That isn’t true at all. On the surface, I’ll admit, it looks as if you were being framed for the murder — with the note that led Marco to his death having been signed by you, presumably. But examine it, and it becomes a totally different story.”
She looked up at him anxiously, still sniffling a little. “You see, X couldn’t possibly have meant to frame you for the killing. He knew you would have a powerful alibi — being found tied up in Waring’s cottage that way, especially after a mysterious outsider apparently had telephoned young Cort of your whereabouts. As for the note, the murderer probably expected Marco to destroy it. If Marco destroyed it, the existence of the note with your name on it would never even be suspected, and you wouldn’t be implicated at all. But even if Marco didn’t destroy the note and it was found, X knew that your alibi, plus the fact that you can’t type and the signature was suspiciously a typewritten one, would point to a frame-up. As a matter of fact, I suspect X didn’t care a whoop if the police did discover that it was a frame-up. Such a discovery wouldn’t imperil his own safety, and Marco would be dead by the time it was made. No, no, Miss Godfrey, I think X has been quite considerate of you. Much more considerate than he has been of Kummer and Marco.”
She digested this in silence, nibbling at the corner of her handkerchief. “I suppose that’s so,” she said at last in a low voice. Then she looked up at him queerly. “But why do you say ‘he,’ Mr. Queen?”
“Why do I say ‘he’?” repeated Ellery blankly. “Convenience, I suppose.”
“You don’t know anything, do you, Miss Godfrey?” snapped Moley.
“No,” she said, still looking at Ellery; then she lowered her eyes. “No, I don’t know anything.”
Ellery rose and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Well,” he said wearily, “at least we’ve learned something. The murderer of Marco typed this note. Since the typewriter hasn’t left the house, the murderer typed it in the house. You’re nursing a viper to your collective bosoms, Miss Godfrey. And that’s not as funny as it sounds.”
A bored detective said from the door: “The old guy wants to talk to you, Inspector. And Godfrey’s been hammerin’ our ears off out here.”
Moley spun about. “Who? What old guy?”
“The gardener. This Jorum. He says he’s got somethin’ import—”
“Jorum!” repeated Moley in a startled way, as if he were conscious of the name for the first time. “Bring him in, Joe.”
But it was Walter Godfrey who entered first, in his dirty slacks, his tattered sombrero on the back of his head. There were earth-stains on his knees and his fingernails were black with soil. He glanced piercingly at Ellery and the Inspector with his ophidian eyes, permitted himself to look surprised at the presence of his daughter, and then turned back to the door.
“Come on in, Jorum. Nobody’s going to bite you,” he said in a gentle voice — a gentler voice than Ellery had ever heard him use with Rosa or his wife. The old man shambled in, the soles of his broad shapeless shoes leaving a trail of earth on the floor. At close range his skin was even more amazing than it had been from afar. It was lined with hundreds of wrinkles, the color of soiled rock. His hands, which were twisting his hat, were huge and starkly veined. He looked like an animated mummy.
“Jorum’s got something on his mind, Inspector,” said the millionaire abruptly. “He’s told me about it and, while I’ve no interest in your success or failure, you understand, I thought you should know about it, too.”
“That’s white of you,” said Moley, tight-lipped. “And why the hell didn’t you come to me direct, Jorum, if you had something of interest to say?”
The gardener shrugged his gaunt shoulders. “I ain’t buttin’ in anywhere. I’m a man minds my own business, I am.”
“Well, well? Speak up.”
Jorum caressed his gray-stubbled jaw. “Wouldn’t have said nothin’, only Mr. Godfrey said I should. Nob’dy asked me; so I says to m’self: ‘Why should I talk?’ It’s your job to ask questions, ain’t it?” He looked hostilely at Moley’s stormy face. “I saw ’em on the terrace.”
“Saw whom?” asked Ellery, coming forward. “And when?”
“Answer the gentleman, Jorum,” said Godfrey in the same gentle tone.
“Yes, sir,” replied the old man respectfully. “I saw Mr. Marco on th’ terrace last night with this here, now, Pitts woman. They—”
“Pitts!” exclaimed the Inspector. “That’s Mrs. Godfrey’s maid, isn’t it?”
“Yep, that’s the one.” Jorum took out a blue handkerchief and blew his nose on a note of contempt. “Pitts, the snippy one. Old hen, b’gee! Ain’t no better’n she ought to be, I’ll tell ye that. Not that I wa’n’t su’prised, y’understand, when she said—”