stands still.
For the space of a heart-beat they were puppets in a tableau—unmoving, moveless, stricken dumb, pure terror gleaming in their distended eyes.
Then Sloane made a retching sound, his knees quivering, and he clutched childishly at Woodruff’s meaty shoulder for support. Neither Woodruff nor Jan Vreeland so much as sighed—they just glared at the noxious interloper in Khalkis’ coffin.
Dr. Prouty and Inspector Queen looked at each other in stupefaction. Then the old man strangled a shout and leaped forward, a handkerchief at his offended nostrils, peering wildly into the coffin.
Dr. Prouty’s fingers curved into talons; he grew busy.
Ellery Queen threw back his shoulders and looked at the sky.
“Murdered. Strangled.”
Dr. Prouty’s brief examination revealed so much. He had managed, with Sergeant Velie’s assistance, to turn the body over. The victim had been found lying face down, head cradled against Khalkis’ lifeless shoulder. Now they could see the face itself—eyes sunken deeply in the head, open eyes revealing eyeballs incredibly dry and brownish. But the face itself was not so distorted as to be inhuman. Under the irregular livid patch was a dark skin. The nose, a little flaccid now, must nevertheless have been sharp and pointed in life. The lines and creases of the face, softened and puffed by putrefaction, must still have been harsh before decay set in.
Inspector Queen said, in muffled tones, “By heaven, that mug looks familiar!”
Pepper was leaning over his shoulder, staring intently. He muttered: “To me, too, Inspector. I wonder if—”
“Are the will and the steel box in there?” asked Ellery in a dry, cracked voice.
Velie and Dr. Prouty prodded, pulled, felt. … “No,” said Velie disgustedly. He looked at his hands, and made a surreptitious brushing movement along his thighs.
“Who cares about that now!” snarled the Inspector. He rose, his small body quivering. “Oh, that was a marvelous deduction of yours, Ellery!” he cried. “Marvelous! Open the coffin and you’ll find the will. … Faugh!” He wrinkled his nose. “Thomas!”
Velie lumbered to his side. The Inspector rapped words at him; Velie nodded and plodded away, making for the courtyard gate. The Inspector said sharply, “Sloane, Vreeland, Woodruff. Get back in the house. At once. Not a word to any one. Ritter!” A burly detective lounging at the fence scrambled across the yard. “Stave off the newspaper men. We don’t want them nosing about now. Hurry!” Ritter plunged toward the Fifty-fourth Street gate of the graveyard. “You—Sexton What’s-Your-Name. You men there. Put that lid back on and let’s get this damned—this thing into the house. Come along, Doc. There’s work to do.”
7 … EVIDENCE
T HERE WAS SUCH WORK as Inspector Queen knew, better perhaps than any other executive of the New York Police Department, how to do.
In five minutes the house was again under siege, the drawing-room converted into a makeshift laboratory, the coffin with its ghastly double burden deposited on the floor. Khalkis’ library was commandeered as an assembly-hall and all exits were put under guard. The door to the drawing-room was shut, and Velie’s wide back set against its panels. Dr. Prouty, his coat off, was busy on the floor with the second corpse. In the library, Assistant District Attorney Pepper was dialing a telephone number. Men were running mysterious errands in and out of the house.
Ellery Queen faced his father, and they smiled rather wanly at each other. “Well, one thing is sure,” said the Inspector, wetting his lips. “That inspiration of yours uncovered a murder that probably would never have been suspected otherwise.”
“I’ll see that ghastly face in my sleep,” muttered Ellery. His eyes were a little bloodshot and he was twirling his pince-nez ceaselessly in his fingers.
The Inspector inhaled snuff with grateful breaths. “Fix him up a little, Doc,” he said to
For the space of a heart-beat they were puppets in a tableau—unmoving, moveless, stricken dumb, pure terror gleaming in their distended eyes.
Then Sloane made a retching sound, his knees quivering, and he clutched childishly at Woodruff’s meaty shoulder for support. Neither Woodruff nor Jan Vreeland so much as sighed—they just glared at the noxious interloper in Khalkis’ coffin.
Dr. Prouty and Inspector Queen looked at each other in stupefaction. Then the old man strangled a shout and leaped forward, a handkerchief at his offended nostrils, peering wildly into the coffin.
Dr. Prouty’s fingers curved into talons; he grew busy.
Ellery Queen threw back his shoulders and looked at the sky.
“Murdered. Strangled.”
Dr. Prouty’s brief examination revealed so much. He had managed, with Sergeant Velie’s assistance, to turn the body over. The victim had been found lying face down, head cradled against Khalkis’ lifeless shoulder. Now they could see the face itself—eyes sunken deeply in the head, open eyes revealing eyeballs incredibly dry and brownish. But the face itself was not so distorted as to be inhuman. Under the irregular livid patch was a dark skin. The nose, a little flaccid now, must nevertheless have been sharp and pointed in life. The lines and creases of the face, softened and puffed by putrefaction, must still have been harsh before decay set in.
Inspector Queen said, in muffled tones, “By heaven, that mug looks familiar!”
Pepper was leaning over his shoulder, staring intently. He muttered: “To me, too, Inspector. I wonder if—”
“Are the will and the steel box in there?” asked Ellery in a dry, cracked voice.
Velie and Dr. Prouty prodded, pulled, felt. … “No,” said Velie disgustedly. He looked at his hands, and made a surreptitious brushing movement along his thighs.
“Who cares about that now!” snarled the Inspector. He rose, his small body quivering. “Oh, that was a marvelous deduction of yours, Ellery!” he cried. “Marvelous! Open the coffin and you’ll find the will. … Faugh!” He wrinkled his nose. “Thomas!”
Velie lumbered to his side. The Inspector rapped words at him; Velie nodded and plodded away, making for the courtyard gate. The Inspector said sharply, “Sloane, Vreeland, Woodruff. Get back in the house. At once. Not a word to any one. Ritter!” A burly detective lounging at the fence scrambled across the yard. “Stave off the newspaper men. We don’t want them nosing about now. Hurry!” Ritter plunged toward the Fifty-fourth Street gate of the graveyard. “You—Sexton What’s-Your-Name. You men there. Put that lid back on and let’s get this damned—this thing into the house. Come along, Doc. There’s work to do.”
7 … EVIDENCE
T HERE WAS SUCH WORK as Inspector Queen knew, better perhaps than any other executive of the New York Police Department, how to do.
In five minutes the house was again under siege, the drawing-room converted into a makeshift laboratory, the coffin with its ghastly double burden deposited on the floor. Khalkis’ library was commandeered as an assembly-hall and all exits were put under guard. The door to the drawing-room was shut, and Velie’s wide back set against its panels. Dr. Prouty, his coat off, was busy on the floor with the second corpse. In the library, Assistant District Attorney Pepper was dialing a telephone number. Men were running mysterious errands in and out of the house.
Ellery Queen faced his father, and they smiled rather wanly at each other. “Well, one thing is sure,” said the Inspector, wetting his lips. “That inspiration of yours uncovered a murder that probably would never have been suspected otherwise.”
“I’ll see that ghastly face in my sleep,” muttered Ellery. His eyes were a little bloodshot and he was twirling his pince-nez ceaselessly in his fingers.
The Inspector inhaled snuff with grateful breaths. “Fix him up a little, Doc,” he said to
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