But why a disinterment? Is—?”
“Don’t you think,” said Pepper fretfully, “we ought to get started, Inspector?”
They found Sexton Honeywell fidgeting in the graveyard, prancing up and down before a raw rectangle in the sod where the earth had been turned up during the burial of Khalkis. Honeywell indicated the boundaries, and two men spat on their hands, lifted their spades and began to dig with energy.
No one said a word. The women had been left in the house; only Sloane, Vreeland and Woodruff of the men connected with the case were present; Suiza had professed a distaste for the spectacle, Dr. Wardes had shrugged, and Alan Cheney had doggedly stayed at the trim skirts of Joan Brett. The Queens, Sergeant Velie and a newcomer with a tall lank figure, black jowls, a hideous ropy cigar clenched in his teeth and a black bag at his feet, stood nearby watching the mighty heavings of the gravediggers. Reporters lined the iron fence on Fifty-fourth Street, cameras poised. Police prevented a crowd from massing in the street. Weekes the butler peeped cautiously from behind the courtyard fence. Detectives leaned against the fence. Heads poked out of windows facing the court, necks craning.
At a depth of three feet the men’s spades clanked against iron. They scraped vigorously and, like pirate henchmen digging for buried treasure, cleaned the horizontal surface of the iron door leading to the vault beneath almost with enthusiasm. Their labors completed, they leaped from the shallow pit and leaned against their spades.
The iron door was hauled open. Almost at once the large nostrils of the tall lank cigar-chewing man oscillated rapidly, and he muttered something cryptic beneath his breath. He stepped forward, under the puzzled glances of his audience, fell to his knees and leaned far over, sniffing. He raised his hand, scrambled to his feet and snapped at the Inspector: “Something fishy here!”
“What’s the matter?”
Now the tall lank cigar-chewing man was not given to alarums and excursions, as Inspector Queen knew from devious experience. He was Dr. Samuel Prouty, assistant to the Chief Medical Examiner of New York County, and he was a very canny gentleman. Ellery found his pulse quickening, and Honeywell looked positively petrified. Dr. Prouty did not reply; he merely said to the gravediggers: “Get in there and pull out that new coffin, so we can hoist it up here.”
The men lowered themselves cautiously into the black pit, and for a few moments the confused sounds of their hoarse voices and scraping feet could be heard. Then something large and shiny and black crawled into view, and apparatus was hastily adjusted, instructions given. …
Finally, the coffin lay on the surface of the graveyard, a little to one side of the gaping crypt.
“He reminds me of Herr Frankenstein,” murmured Ellery to Pepper, looking at Dr. Prouty. But neither of them smiled.
Dr. Prouty was sniffing like a bloodhound. But now they all detected a foul, sickening smell; it grew more malodorous with every passing second. Sloane’s face had turned grey; he fumbled for his handkerchief and sneezed violently.
“Was this damned body embalmed?” demanded Dr. Prouty, crouching over the coffin. No one replied. The two gravediggers began to unscrew the lid. On Fifth Avenue, at precisely the dramatic moment, a vast number of automobiles began a cacophony of raucous horn-tooting—an unearthly accompaniment singularly appropriate to the noisome character of the scene. Then the lid came off. …
One thing was immediately, horribly, unbelievably evident. And that was the source of the grave-smell.
For, crammed on top of the stiff, dead, embalmed body of Georg Khalkis, its members askew and—where their rotting flesh was naked to the sky—all blue and blotched … was the putrescent body of a man. A second corpse!
It is at such moments that life becomes an ugly thing, pushed aside by the dreadful urgency of death, and time itself
“Don’t you think,” said Pepper fretfully, “we ought to get started, Inspector?”
They found Sexton Honeywell fidgeting in the graveyard, prancing up and down before a raw rectangle in the sod where the earth had been turned up during the burial of Khalkis. Honeywell indicated the boundaries, and two men spat on their hands, lifted their spades and began to dig with energy.
No one said a word. The women had been left in the house; only Sloane, Vreeland and Woodruff of the men connected with the case were present; Suiza had professed a distaste for the spectacle, Dr. Wardes had shrugged, and Alan Cheney had doggedly stayed at the trim skirts of Joan Brett. The Queens, Sergeant Velie and a newcomer with a tall lank figure, black jowls, a hideous ropy cigar clenched in his teeth and a black bag at his feet, stood nearby watching the mighty heavings of the gravediggers. Reporters lined the iron fence on Fifty-fourth Street, cameras poised. Police prevented a crowd from massing in the street. Weekes the butler peeped cautiously from behind the courtyard fence. Detectives leaned against the fence. Heads poked out of windows facing the court, necks craning.
At a depth of three feet the men’s spades clanked against iron. They scraped vigorously and, like pirate henchmen digging for buried treasure, cleaned the horizontal surface of the iron door leading to the vault beneath almost with enthusiasm. Their labors completed, they leaped from the shallow pit and leaned against their spades.
The iron door was hauled open. Almost at once the large nostrils of the tall lank cigar-chewing man oscillated rapidly, and he muttered something cryptic beneath his breath. He stepped forward, under the puzzled glances of his audience, fell to his knees and leaned far over, sniffing. He raised his hand, scrambled to his feet and snapped at the Inspector: “Something fishy here!”
“What’s the matter?”
Now the tall lank cigar-chewing man was not given to alarums and excursions, as Inspector Queen knew from devious experience. He was Dr. Samuel Prouty, assistant to the Chief Medical Examiner of New York County, and he was a very canny gentleman. Ellery found his pulse quickening, and Honeywell looked positively petrified. Dr. Prouty did not reply; he merely said to the gravediggers: “Get in there and pull out that new coffin, so we can hoist it up here.”
The men lowered themselves cautiously into the black pit, and for a few moments the confused sounds of their hoarse voices and scraping feet could be heard. Then something large and shiny and black crawled into view, and apparatus was hastily adjusted, instructions given. …
Finally, the coffin lay on the surface of the graveyard, a little to one side of the gaping crypt.
“He reminds me of Herr Frankenstein,” murmured Ellery to Pepper, looking at Dr. Prouty. But neither of them smiled.
Dr. Prouty was sniffing like a bloodhound. But now they all detected a foul, sickening smell; it grew more malodorous with every passing second. Sloane’s face had turned grey; he fumbled for his handkerchief and sneezed violently.
“Was this damned body embalmed?” demanded Dr. Prouty, crouching over the coffin. No one replied. The two gravediggers began to unscrew the lid. On Fifth Avenue, at precisely the dramatic moment, a vast number of automobiles began a cacophony of raucous horn-tooting—an unearthly accompaniment singularly appropriate to the noisome character of the scene. Then the lid came off. …
One thing was immediately, horribly, unbelievably evident. And that was the source of the grave-smell.
For, crammed on top of the stiff, dead, embalmed body of Georg Khalkis, its members askew and—where their rotting flesh was naked to the sky—all blue and blotched … was the putrescent body of a man. A second corpse!
It is at such moments that life becomes an ugly thing, pushed aside by the dreadful urgency of death, and time itself
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