“Very well, Mr. Queen! I’ll do my best.”
“That’s the spirit; much better this way, you see, Mrs. Godfrey. There’s a strength in unity that our blackmailer won’t suspect—”
“Do you mean,” demanded Godfrey shrewdly, “that this blackmailer is the murderer of Marco?”
Ellery smiled. “Inspector Moley believes— Well, one thing at a time, Mr. Godfrey. Now, Inspector, if you’ll put that experienced brain of yours to work—”
By ten the next morning the anticipated telephone-call to Mrs. Godfrey had not come through. The three men haunted the house, increasingly anxious and silent. Ellery especially was worried. The blackmailer could not possibly have suspected a trap. The creature had called at ten-thirty the previous night, asking for Munn; and Munn, apparently believing himself secure from surveillance, had briefly damned him and hung up. The detective eavesdropping on Moley’s order at the switchboard — despite Ellery’s admonition — had been unable to trace the call. But Ellery knew that nothing the detective had done could have made the caller suspect he was being overheard.
Some of the mystery was dispelled with the arrival of the morning newspapers. The local county sheet and the leading tabloid of the city of Maartens both roared headlines which told substantially the same story: the story of Cecilia Ball Munn’s illicit affair with the late John Marco. Since both papers were under the same ownership, both printed identical proofs — letters and photographs.
“Should have anticipated this, too,” muttered Ellery, throwing the papers down in disgust. “Of course that worm wouldn’t have tried the same stunt twice. This time the proofs were sent to the papers. I must be getting rusty.”
“Not taking the chance,” said the Judge thoughtfully, “that the thing would be hushed up again. Unquestionably his chief motive in sending the Constable documents to Moley and now the Munn documents to the press was not so much the punishment of Mrs. Constable and the Munns as a warning to Mrs. Godfrey. I should say the call will come soon.”
“Sooner the better. I’m getting fidgety. Poor Moley! He’ll never emerge alive from that press conference. Roush tells me they’re all on his neck.” The editorial pages of both papers had speculated openly on the possibility that at last the “dilatory” police had found the motive for Marco’s murder. The suicide of Mrs. Constable was also played up as the alternative theory — the tacit confession of a murderess. But of official confirmation there was no sign. Apparently the Inspector had thought better of his “solution.” With the Munns now the center of interest, Moley had them whisked out of sight and range of the reporters — the woman on the verge of hysteria, the man wary, silent, and dangerous.
The Inspector stamped back, weariness and rage battling for possession of his face. Without speech the three men retired to the alcove in which the switchboard stood. There was nothing to do but wait. The Godfreys were in Mrs. Godfrey’s boudoir; a detective sat at the board with earphones clamped about his head and a stenographic notebook open before him. Extra ‘phones had been plugged into the main line; there were earpieces about the heads of all of them.
The alarm buzzed in their ears at ten-forty-five. At the first syllable Ellery nodded eagerly. There was no mistaking that queer, muffled voice. The voice asked for Mrs. Godfrey; the detective calmly connected the two, picked up his pencil, and waited. Ellery muttered a prayer that the woman would play her part well.
He might have spared his fears. She acted the role of stupefied, submissive victim to perfection — almost with enthusiasm, born out of the surging relief in her heart.
“Mrs. Stella Godfrey?” said the voice with an undercurrent of urgency.
“Yes?”
“Are you alone?”
“Alo— Who are you? What do you want?”
“Are you?”
“Yes. Who—”
“Never mind. I’m in a hurry. Did you see this morning’s Maartens Daily News?”
“Yes! But—”
“Did you read about Cecilia Munn and John Marco?”
Stella Godfrey was silent. When she replied her voice had become cracked and weary. “Yes. What do you want?”
The voice recounted a list of facts, at each one of which Stella Godfrey moaned... It had become strident now, insistent, almost hysterical. It was the oddest thing, and both Inspector Moley and Judge Macklin looked puzzled. “Do you want me to send those things to the papers?”
“No, oh, no!”
“Or to your husband?”
“No! I’ll do anything if you won’t—”
“That’s better. You’re acting sensibly now. I want twenty-five thousand dollars, Mrs. Godfrey. You’re a wealthy woman. You can pay it out of your own pocket, and no one will be the wiser.”
“But I’ve already paid — so many times—”
“This will be the last time,” said the voice eagerly. “I’m not a fool, like Marco. I’m playing square on this. You pay me that money and you’ll have the photographs and documents back in the next mail. I mean this. I’m not double-crossing you—”
“I’ll do anything to get them back,” sobbed Mrs. Godfrey. “Ever since they... oh, my life’s been miserable!”
“Sure it has,” said the voice; it was stronger now, confident. “I understand just how you feel. Marco was a rotten dog and he got what he deserved. But I’m up against it and need money... How soon can you get hold of the twenty-five thousand?”
“Today!” she cried. “I can’t give it to you in cash, but I have in my private safe here...”
“Oh,” said the voice strangely. “That’s no good, Mrs. Godfrey. I want cash in small bills. I’m not taking any chances—”
“But it’s as good as cash!” Mrs. Godfrey had been instructed in this very carefully. “They’re negotiable bonds. Besides, how could I get cash in small bills? It would be suspicious. The police are all over my house. I cannot even leave the grounds.”
“There’s something in that,” muttered the voice. “But if you think you’re going to put one over on me—”
“And have the police find out? Do you think I’m insane? The last thing I want is for any one to — to know. Besides, you don’t have to turn the — the proofs over to me until you’ve cashed the bonds. Oh, please — give me my chance!”
The caller kept quiet, apparently weighing the risks. Then the voice said with a note of desperation: “All right. Let’s leave it that way. I wouldn’t want you to come yourself anyway. And I can’t come to you — not with all those police at your place. Can you mail me the bonds? Can you mail a package without having them find out?”
“I’m sure I can. Oh, I know I can! Where—”
“Don’t write this down. You don’t want anybody finding a note. Remember this address.” The voice stopped, and for a moment the house of Godfrey was a tomb. “J. P. Marcus, care of General Delivery, Central Post Office, Maartens. Repeat that.” Mrs. Godfrey in a trembling voice obeyed. “Right. Send the bonds to that address. Use plain brown paper, sealed. Send it first-class mail. Right away. If you do it now, it should get to the Maartens post office before closing tonight.”
“Yes. Yes!”
“Remember, if you pull a trick those photos and things will be in the hands of the Maartens Daily News editor, and nothing you can do will stop that story from being smeared all over the front page.”
“No! I’m not—”
“See that you don’t. If you’re on the level with me, you’ll have the proofs back in a few days. As soon as I can cash the bonds.”
There was a click and the line went dead. Upstairs, Mrs. Godfrey swayed into the arms of her husband, whose face was strangely tender. At the switchboard the four men removed their earphones and looked at one another.