string of lurid oaths wholly unprofessional.
“What’s the matter?” asked Isham, hurrying over. “Did you find something?”
“The queerest damn’ thing I ever saw,” snapped the Medical Examiner. “Look at this.”
The corpse of Thomas Brad lay outstretched on the grass a few feet from the totem post like a fallen marble statue. It was so unnaturally rigid that Ellery, out of his own sad but thorough experience, realized that rigor mortis had not yet left the body. As it sprawled there, arms still outflung, it bore except for the paunch and clothes a marked resemblance to the body of Andrew Van as Ellery had seen it in Weirton six months before; and both of them, he reflected without satisfaction, were human figures hacked into the shape of a T. … He shook his head and stooped with the others to see what had disturbed Dr. Rumsen so.
The physician had raised the right hand of the dead man; he was pointing to the blue dead palm. In the center, neatly printed as if by a die, there was a circular red stain, its outline only faintly irregular.
“Now what on earth d’ye call that?” grumbled Dr. Rumsen. “It isn’t blood. Looks more like paint, or dye. But I’ll be damned if I can see any reason for it.”
“It seems,” said Ellery slowly, “that your prediction is coming true, Inspector. The checker—the right side of the pole—the right hand of the dead man. …”
“By God, yes!” cried Inspector Vaughn. He produced the checker again and placed it on the stain in the dead palm. It fitted, and he rose with a mingled look of triumph and puzzlement. “But what the devil?”
District Attorney Isham shook his head. “I don’t think it’s important. You haven’t seen Brad’s library yet, Vaughn, so you don’t know. But there’s the remains of a checker game there. You’ll find out more about it when we go into the house. Brad for some reason had a checker in his hand at the time he was killed, and the murderer didn’t know it. It fell out of his hand about the time he was being strung up, that’s all.”
“Then the crime was committed in the house?” asked Ellery.
“Oh, no. In the summerhouse here. Plenty of evidence for that. No, I think the explanation of the checker is simplicity itself. It looks like a defective piece, and probably the perspiration and heat of Brad’s hand made the color run.”
They left Dr. Rumsen exploring the inhuman figure on the grass, surrounded by silent officers, and made for the summerhouse. It was only a few steps from the totem post. Ellery looked up and around before stepping through the low entrance.
“No electrical fixtures outside, I see. I wonder—”
“Murderer must have used a flashlight. That is, if this thing really did take place,” said the Inspector, “in the dark, Doc Rumsen will clear that up for us when he tells us how long Brad’s been dead.”
The trooper at the entrance saluted and stood aside. They went in.
It was small and circular, constructed of rough tree boughs and limbs in the artificially rustic manner. It had a peaked thatched roof and half-walls, the upper halves composed of green lattice. Inside were a hewn table and two chairs, one of them smeared with blood.
“Not much doubt of it, I’d say,” said District Attorney Isham with a feeble grunt, pointing to the floor.
In the center of the floor there was a large thick stain, brownish-red in hue.
Professor Yardley for the first time showed nervousness. “Why—that isn’t human blood—that ghastly large mess of it?”
“It certainly is,” replied Vaughn grimly. “And the only thing that will explain why there’s so much of it is that Brad’s head was cut off right on this floor.”
Ellery’s sharp eyes were fixed on that portion of the wooden floor which was directly before the rustic table. Scrawled there boldly, in blood, was a capital T.
“Pretty thing,” he muttered, and swallowed hard as he tore his gaze from the symbol. “Mr. Isham, have
“What’s the matter?” asked Isham, hurrying over. “Did you find something?”
“The queerest damn’ thing I ever saw,” snapped the Medical Examiner. “Look at this.”
The corpse of Thomas Brad lay outstretched on the grass a few feet from the totem post like a fallen marble statue. It was so unnaturally rigid that Ellery, out of his own sad but thorough experience, realized that rigor mortis had not yet left the body. As it sprawled there, arms still outflung, it bore except for the paunch and clothes a marked resemblance to the body of Andrew Van as Ellery had seen it in Weirton six months before; and both of them, he reflected without satisfaction, were human figures hacked into the shape of a T. … He shook his head and stooped with the others to see what had disturbed Dr. Rumsen so.
The physician had raised the right hand of the dead man; he was pointing to the blue dead palm. In the center, neatly printed as if by a die, there was a circular red stain, its outline only faintly irregular.
“Now what on earth d’ye call that?” grumbled Dr. Rumsen. “It isn’t blood. Looks more like paint, or dye. But I’ll be damned if I can see any reason for it.”
“It seems,” said Ellery slowly, “that your prediction is coming true, Inspector. The checker—the right side of the pole—the right hand of the dead man. …”
“By God, yes!” cried Inspector Vaughn. He produced the checker again and placed it on the stain in the dead palm. It fitted, and he rose with a mingled look of triumph and puzzlement. “But what the devil?”
District Attorney Isham shook his head. “I don’t think it’s important. You haven’t seen Brad’s library yet, Vaughn, so you don’t know. But there’s the remains of a checker game there. You’ll find out more about it when we go into the house. Brad for some reason had a checker in his hand at the time he was killed, and the murderer didn’t know it. It fell out of his hand about the time he was being strung up, that’s all.”
“Then the crime was committed in the house?” asked Ellery.
“Oh, no. In the summerhouse here. Plenty of evidence for that. No, I think the explanation of the checker is simplicity itself. It looks like a defective piece, and probably the perspiration and heat of Brad’s hand made the color run.”
They left Dr. Rumsen exploring the inhuman figure on the grass, surrounded by silent officers, and made for the summerhouse. It was only a few steps from the totem post. Ellery looked up and around before stepping through the low entrance.
“No electrical fixtures outside, I see. I wonder—”
“Murderer must have used a flashlight. That is, if this thing really did take place,” said the Inspector, “in the dark, Doc Rumsen will clear that up for us when he tells us how long Brad’s been dead.”
The trooper at the entrance saluted and stood aside. They went in.
It was small and circular, constructed of rough tree boughs and limbs in the artificially rustic manner. It had a peaked thatched roof and half-walls, the upper halves composed of green lattice. Inside were a hewn table and two chairs, one of them smeared with blood.
“Not much doubt of it, I’d say,” said District Attorney Isham with a feeble grunt, pointing to the floor.
In the center of the floor there was a large thick stain, brownish-red in hue.
Professor Yardley for the first time showed nervousness. “Why—that isn’t human blood—that ghastly large mess of it?”
“It certainly is,” replied Vaughn grimly. “And the only thing that will explain why there’s so much of it is that Brad’s head was cut off right on this floor.”
Ellery’s sharp eyes were fixed on that portion of the wooden floor which was directly before the rustic table. Scrawled there boldly, in blood, was a capital T.
“Pretty thing,” he muttered, and swallowed hard as he tore his gaze from the symbol. “Mr. Isham, have
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