“I turned the problem over in my mind until I wore it down to its component fibers. And finally I concluded that there were only five possible theories which would account for the theft of the garments of a murder-victim — any murder-victim, in the most general sense.
“The first,” continued Ellery, after a glance at his notes, “was the possible explanation that the murderer had done it for the contents of the clothes. This was especially important in the light of the existence of certain papers threatening the peace of mind of a number of persons connected with Marco. And, for all we knew, these papers might have been on Marco’s person. But if it were the papers the murderer was after, and they were in the clothes, why hadn’t he taken the papers and left the clothes, intact, behind? For that matter, if it were anything in the clothes, the murderer could have emptied the pockets or torn open linings and secured what he was after without taking the clothes from the body. So that was wrong, obviously.
“The second was an inevitable thought. Inspector Moley will tell you that very often a body is fished out of a river or is found in the woods with the clothes either damaged or missing altogether. In a large percentage of these cases the reason is simple: to conceal the identity of the victim, the destruction or theft of the clothing preventing identification. But this was quite plainly wrong in the case of Marco; he was Marco, no one ever questioned his identity as Marco, and surely his clothing could not have indicated that he was any one else. There never was and cannot be any question of the identity of the corpse in this case, with or without clothes.
“Conversely, there was always the third possibility that in some way the theft of Marco’s clothes tended to conceal the identity of Marco’s murderer. I see blank looks. By that I mean simply that Marco may have been wearing something — or everything — belonging to his murderer, the discovery of which the murderer felt would be fatal to his own safety. But this, too, was clearly wide of the mark, for our invaluable Tiller—” Tiller folded his hands and looked down modestly, although his tiny ears were cocked like a terrier’s — “testified that the specific garments he laid out for Marco just before Marco redressed Saturday night were Marco’s own. Besides, these were the only garments missing from Marco’s wardrobe. Therefore Marco wore them that night and they could not have belonged to the criminal.”
They were so quiet that the crackling of the resinous logs sounded like pistol-shots in the room, and the noise of the rain outside had the overwhelming quality of a cataract’s thunder.
“Fourth,” said Ellery, “because the clothes were bloodstained and in some way the stains were dangerous to the criminal or his plan.” A startled look crept over Moley’s heavy face. “No, no, Inspector, it’s not as elementary as that. If the ‘blood’ was Marco’s, the theory is wrong on two counts: All the clothes of Marco’s which the criminal took away couldn’t have been bloodstained — socks, underwear, shoes? — and even more important, there was no blood as far as the victim of this crime is concerned. Marco was struck over the head and stunned, shedding no blood in the process; and then he was strangled, another bloodless operation.
“But suppose — I anticipate your question, Judge — it was the murderer’s blood involved? That is, improbable as it seems from the position of the body, that Marco had engaged his killer in a struggle, in the course of which the killer had been wounded, inadvertently staining Marco’s clothes with the killer’s blood? Here again there are two objections. The first — again that all of Marco’s clothes couldn’t have been stained, so why were all taken? The second — on the theory that the only reason the killer could want to conceal the fact that he had bled being that he didn’t want to have the police look for a wounded person — is simply that no one involved in this case has been injured. Except Rosa, and she has a perfectly sound explanation which does not necessitate such an elaborate deception. So the bloodstain theory is out.
"There was really,” resumed Ellery quietly after a pause, “only one last possibility.”
The rain hissed and the fire cracked. There were knitted brows and puzzled eyes. It was almost certain that none of them — not even Judge Macklin — envisioned the answer. Ellery flipped his cigaret into the fire.
He turned back and opened his mouth...
The door burst open, bringing Moley to his feet instantly and jerking their heads around in alarm. Roush, the detective, stood there gasping for breath; he was soaked to the skin. He gulped three times before he was able to utter a comprehensible word.
“Chief! Just — been something... Run all the way from the terrace... They’ve cornered this Captain Kidd!”
For a moment they were too stunned to do more than gape.
“Huh?” said Moley in a croaking voice.
“Caught out in the storm!” cried Roush, waving his dripping arms excitedly. “Coast Guard just sighted Waring’s cruiser. For some reason the big ape’s headin’ in for shore — he’s makin’ for the Cape! Looks like he’s in trouble...”
“Captain Kidd,” muttered Ellery. “I don’t—”
“Come on,” yelled Moley, bounding through the doorway. “Roush, get—” His voice died away as he pounded off. The people in the room hesitated, and then with a concerted rush followed him.
Judge Macklin was left staring at Ellery. “What’s the matter, El?”
“I don’t know. This is the strangest development— No,” And with these cryptic words he sprang after the others.
They made for the terrace, a mad boiling crowd, careless of the downpour — women and men, soaked in a moment, their faces oddly alive and glowing with hope and excitement. Moley was in the van, his shoes squishing on the morass underfoot. Only Judge Macklin was sensible enough to think of protection against the storm; he came last, more slowly, his tall figure draped in a sou’wester he had picked up somewhere in the house.
A group of detectives, their coats gushing rain, were balanced precariously on the white beams of the open terrace roof, struggling with the swivel-joints of the two large brass searchlights. Jorum was there to one side looking on with an indifferent, almost majestic, air. The men’s garments whipped madly in the wind.
Moley jumped, shouting orders, onto the terrace. It was a wonder, in all the turmoil raging above his head, that some one did not slip from a wet beam and break his neck on the flags below. But finally the switches were found, and simultaneously two blinding white beams a foot wide leaped into being in the darkness, stabbing at the sky. The flood was gray hell in the path of the beams.
“Straighten ’em out, you clucks!” roared the Inspector, dancing and waving his arms. “Focus ’em through that opening ahead of you!”
Erratically the beams jerked into position. Then they were horizontal to the terrace, and they fused and crossed each other fifteen feet above the water boiling outside the entrance to the Cove.
They strained and craned, faces streaming, following the rigid paths of the beacons. At first they could make out nothing but the translucent wall of the deluge impinging on the black waters below. But then, as one of the searchlights moved a little, they saw a wildly plunging speck far out to sea. At the same moment a third beam of light swept into view, from the seaside. It was dancing about the speck.