My first reaction was cynical — an ad like that must be a publicity stunt; it was far too good to be true. I turned to the theatrical section and began reading. But it was no go; the haunted house won out. I turned back and read the ad again:

There just might be a story in it. So I phoned a friend on the Telegram city desk.

“Could you use a drink after work, Ted?” I asked. “It’s on me.”

“Sounds fair enough, Ross. My trick’s over at eleven. See you at Joe’s. And now go away; I’m busy. There’s a four-alarm fire, a love nest, and two wars.”

But quickly before he could hang up, I said, “In the meantime ask your Classified Department who Box K492 is.”

He took time out to think it over. Then he said slowly, “Uh-huh. I get it. Bribery. Just for that I’ve a good notion not to tell you. You mean the haunted house with the hot and cold running ghosts, don’t you?”

“Oh.” Disappointment sneaked up on me from behind. “You’re on to it then?”

“Well, we don’t sleep all the time; this is a newspaper office. I thought about putting a man on it, but when I found out who’d inserted it I didn’t bother. Looks like publicity. Though, if you’re interested, maybe—”

“What do you mean, ‘if I’m interested, maybe—’?”

“Well, you should know. K492 is a friend of yours. The Great Merlini.”

I quickly brought the shock absorbers into play; then, flatly as possible, answered, “Too bad. I thought if it was on the up-and-up it might be interesting. See you at eleven.”

But I knew if Merlini was advertising for a haunted house, it wasn’t a gag and it would be interesting. Ted, however, didn’t give my acting a passing mark. A half hour later the reporter he had sent was leaving Merlini’s shop just as I arrived.

The lettering on the frosted glass panel of the door read: THE MAGIC SHOP — Miracles for Sale — A. Merlini, Prop. The Great Merlini can supply you with “hosts of ghosts” of any desired description and to fit any occasion. The only cabalistic ritual necessary consists in crossing his palm with the specified catalogue price, which covers the cost of luminous paint, cheesecloth, mailing, overhead, and allows for a fair margin of profit.

Merlini is the black sheep of the famous family of Riding Merlinis, ace circus equestrians for five generations. Spending all his practice time as a boy in the company of the sideshow magician, he dealt a nearly mortal blow to the family pride when he failed to master the back somersault from horse to horse. From the first the acrobatics that fascinated him were the subtler nimble-fingered ones of sleight-of-hand.

A year or two ago, after a farewell world tour, he retired from active professional magic and, using his inventive ability to contrive new and ever more practical means for shattering all the immutable laws of physics, he devoted himself to supplying magicians with miracles to order. If you desired to levitate a lady in mid-air, pierce her through and through with swords, bisect her visibly with a buzz saw, stretch her to twice her length, burn her alive, or make her instantly vanish, all without harm, he would quote you prices, either for blueprints or for the finished apparatus in tested working order. His own personal methods for producing bowls of goldfish from thin air, baking cakes in borrowed hats, walking through brick walls, causing mentally selected cards to rise from a deck, escaping from bolted coffins, and growing fully matured rosebushes in three minutes were used by many of the magicians for whom his shop served as a meeting place and unofficial clubroom. Entering Merlini’s shop on a day when his conjuring customers had foregathered there was like stepping into some Arabian Nights Never-Never Land where, at the slightest provocation, anything might happen — and did.

There were none of them there this afternoon — only Burt Fawkes, Merlini’s shop assistant — but things happened just the same. Merlini, I half suspect, had hired Burt partly because of the prestige of having on the premises a possible descendant of the Bartholomew’s Fair conjurer, the illustrious Isaac Fawkes. Burt is a magician in his own way, an odd little Believe-it-or-Not sort of man with a long face, a wide grin, and a remarkable body made of some special substance having about twice the elasticity of rubber. In his younger days as a carnival contortionist he was billed as TWISTO, The Man Who Turns Himself Inside Out.

He was surrounded now by all the brightly colored and oddly assorted paraphernalia of illusion. Skulls and opera hats, balls and ribbons and gaily painted boxes, silk handkerchiefs, steel rings and giant playing cards — everything a magician’s heart could desire short of a genuine wishing ring or the original Aladdin’s Lamp. The shop’s mascot, Peter Rabbit, eyed me suspiciously as I entered and then resumed his excited nibbling on a carrot.

“Where’s the boss, Burt?” I asked. “And how’s the haunted real estate business?”

Burt beamed at me. “Maybe there is something in telepathy,” he said. “I’ve been phoning you all day. Don’t you ever go home?”

“Not lately, no,” I explained. “That damned revue opens Monday. The apartment’s only five minutes walk from the theater, and they make me stay at a hotel so I’ll be handy if someone wants a blackout rewritten at four in the morning. I manage a nap now and then in two seats on the aisle, fifth row center. Ever try to sleep curled around a chair arm?”

“Nothing to it,” he said, grinning. “You’re free now?”

“No. Wish I were. I’m just out on probation. They may want a brand new second curtain before night. This is positively the last time — why did you ask that?”

“Merlini,” Burt began in a conspirational tone of voice that sounded promising, “wants you—” He stopped.

The door opened and let in an unusual customer — if that’s what she was. A magic shop’s clientele is almost exclusively male; the few customers of the other sex are mostly shifty-eyed, sometimes seedy-looking, middle-aged dames who want to see crystal-gazing balls and the latest thing in trick slates.

But this was a trim, streamlined model with an enticing blond color scheme and a figure that was tops even for Broadway. The deep blue of the eyes held a thoroughly deceptive innocence, betrayed by the alert knowing way she used them and by the faintly cynical twist of the full mouth. Gold lights glinted softly in the trickily upswept hair that was topped by a gay lunatic hat, an upside down contraption that couldn’t possibly have remained where it was but for the ribbon which descended and tied neatly beneath a small determined chin. A definite hint of nervous strain in her expression and in the quick way he moved only added to the total effect. My reaction was definitely yes.

She addressed Burt and her voice, though easy to listen to, was intent and anxious. “Is Merlini in?”

Nearly undone by this unheralded apparition, Burt blinked. “Yes—” he said, “I mean no. I’m sorry. He’s not here.”

She frowned impatiently. “I’m Miss Sigrid Verrill. I phoned earlier. When do you expect him?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve been trying to get him for you. I left word one or two places, but he hasn’t called back yet.”

“But won’t he stop in again before evening? I thought he was usually here.”

“He is, but this week’s an exception. He might be back but I wouldn’t guarantee it. He didn’t say he would.”

She looked down at the glass counter top, but without seeing the curious objects displayed there. “I must reach him,” she said earnestly. “I must talk to him — before tonight. Can you try again? Please. It’s very important.”

“Well — yes. But he’s hard to track down. He should be at Madison Square Garden. He’s practically been living there all week. But—”

“Oh. The circus. I might have guessed.” She thought a moment. “I’ll go over. I must find him. But will you try, too? If I miss him I’ll come back.”

“Hadn’t you better wait here?” Burt suggested. “That’s a lot of circus. And if he is there, he might be anywhere — backstage, up on a catwalk, sitting on the ‘blues’ with a bag of peanuts, or making friends with a lion.”

Merlini, with all that pink lemonade running in his veins and the circus performers swinging from every branch of his family tree, reverts to type every spring.

Miss Verrill produced half a smile. It was nice, what there was of it. “I know my way around a circus,” she said. “And I know Merlini. He’s probably with the elephants. But phone, too, and try hard. We must get him.”

Burt took the phone, his masculine defenses obliterated by that half-smile.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. And thanks. If I can’t find him, and if you do get him, hang on to him. I’ll be back. Five-thirty.”

I was busy watching the way she walked toward the door, and I didn’t start up until it had closed behind her.

“You might have introduced me, Burt,” I said, leaving. “It would have made it simpler.”

“Hey!” he shouted. “Where are you going?”

“Circus. The lady needs an escort. Lions and tigers and things, you know. Dangerous. Besides, I want to see Merlini myself.”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” He leaned quickly out over the counter and caught my arm. “One more move and I turn on the jujitsu. Merlini told me to get you; and, after all the phoning I did, you don’t escape like that.”

I started to object and then heard the clang of the elevator door down the hall.

“Besides,” he went on mysteriously, “I think you’ll see her again. Tonight.”

He turned back to the phone.

“Never a dull moment,” I said. “And I get glimpses of wheels within wheels. What is going on around here? Talk.”

“I wish I knew. Hello. Men’s dressing-room, please.… Hello. Oh, it’s you, Frank. Good. Burt speaking. Haven’t you seen Merlini around there yet?… Well, try and round him up for me, will you? I’m pretty sure he’s there somewhere. It’s important. Have him call back right away.… I don’t know. Page him or something. But get him. And hurry.”

Burt replaced the receiver, scowled thoughtfully at the wall a moment, and then turned to me.

“Skelton Island,” he muttered. “Everyone wants him out there. There’s more in this haunted house than meets the eye.”

“Probably why it’s haunted,” I cracked. “Who wants him out there? What is this haunted house motif anyway? Who is the gal? What do you mean by—”

“I don’t know. Nothing, except that Merlini’s been nosing through Skelton Island history at the library all this last week. Then, because the big show hits town, he dropped everything like he does every year. And now — when he was in here for a few minutes this morning, long enough to look at the mail and dictate a letter to that amateur magician in El Paso who couldn’t escape from the milk can we sent him — Colonel Watrous blows in. Remember him?”

I nodded.

“Sure. The eminent spook authority. But—”

“They went into a huddle and I overheard stray words like ‘haunted house’ and ‘Skelton Island.’ Ten minutes after Merlini and the Colonel go out Miss Verrill phones. She gives me her number — East River exchange. That’s Skelton Island again. I wish I were going out there tonight with you.”

“With who?”

“You. Merlini left orders to locate you, and tell you to meet him at nine sharp, East River, foot of 44th Street. You’re to wear dark clothes, bring your camera loaded with infra-red film and this.” He took a suitcase from the floor behind the counter and pushed it at me. “You’ll find some of those extra high-powered flash bulbs in there — the ones Merlini uses for séance work. You’re to fit your flash gun with the Wratten 82-A filter and—” The phone rang, and Burt jumped for it.

“Maybe that’s him now.”

“If it is,” I said, “I want to talk to him. I can’t put a foot off Broadway until after that show opens. About as much chance as this rabbit has of pulling Merlini out of a top hat. It can’t be done!”

Burt, at the phone, smiled and glanced up at Merlini’s business slogan tacked on the wall: Nothing Is Impossible. Then, listening, he scowled and after a moment spoke into the phone. “Yes. He was here, but he may have gone. Just a minute. I’ll see. Who’s calling?” He put a hand over the mouthpiece, hesitated a fraction of a second, and then turned to me slowly. “It’s for you. The theater. But — before you take it — Merlini said you were to bring this, too.”

From beneath the counter near the cash register he brought out a shiny black object and slid it toward me across the counter.

It was a .32 automatic.

“And be careful,” he added. “It’s loaded.”

I blinked at it and then at Burt. “Dammit, I can’t—”

Burt cut me off. “Miss Verrill,” he said slyly. “Haunted houses are lots more dangerous than circuses. Lions and tigers aren’t in it.”

I hesitated and was lost.

Burt spoke into the phone again, one eye on me. “Mr. Harte’s gone. I tried to catch him at the elevators but just missed him. … No, he didn’t say. … Yes. I’ll tell him if he should come back.”

I put the gun in my pocket.

I tried hard to pump more information from Burt, but he insisted he had told me all he knew. “Merlini,” he said, “likes to spring his own surprises, you know that.”

He had me there; so I gave up. Besides the whole affair had rather the flavor of my favorite shocker plot, the one that begins when the mysterious, shapely, heavily veiled damsel slips the Rajah’s rubies or maybe the Coast Defense plans into the hero’s hand, whispers throatily, “Tonight. The password is Caviar”—and promptly vanishes. In such cases it doesn’t do to know too much at the start; it might spoil the story.

I stopped at a photographic supply store on 42nd Street and got a roll of Infra-D film and the filter Burt had specified. These two uncanny examples of modern black magic make possible the paradox of photography in complete darkness. The filter absorbs all the visible light, allowing only that from the invisible infra-red band of the spectrum to pass through. The film, sensitized for that special purpose, registers this “black light” that the human eye cannot see.

I wondered if Merlini expected to meet an infra-red ghost.

When I reached my apartment on East 40th Street, I tested out my flash gun, loaded the film into my Contax, and added them, with a roll or two of Super XX and some ordinary No. 2 flash bulbs, to the contents of the suitcase. I found that Merlini’s other contributions consisted of flashlights, lampblack, a ball of twine, thumbtacks — ghost-laying equipment evidently — a quart of Scotch, soda siphon, a nested set of cups, and a box lunch. It looked as if he intended to make a night of it, and I realized that a few hours of shut-eye would be a smart opening gambit on my part.

The phone rang as I was undressing and continued to do so for nearly five minutes. When it had stopped, I removed the receiver from the hook and got into bed. There were only four hours until nine o’clock, instead of the 14 I needed. I made the most of them.

The alarm did its level best and almost failed. I heard the last tired ring just as it gave up. With a Napoleonic effort of will I crawled out and, eyes still closed, steered a blind course for the bathroom. I got under the shower, took a deep breath, and turned the cold water on full.

Twenty minutes later I left the house, hesitated at a lunch bar long enough for a quick bite, and then walked over to 42nd Street. I was about to hail a cab when I remembered my date with Ted. The phone booths in the drugstore on the corner were all in use. I went on into Grand Central Station and toward the booths at the end of the Lexington Avenue arcade. Since I couldn’t get both myself and the rather bulky suitcase into a booth simultaneously, I left it just outside. I dropped my nickel in the slot and dialed.

The excuse I dished Ted wasn’t exactly on the level. I told him I was sorry but that he’d have to take a rain check because I was back at the theater working on the play.

“Indian giver,” he said, and then, with what sounded like a good big helping of skepticism: “Merlini isn’t in to reporters and you galloped right over there after pretending you weren’t interested. Come clean. What is it?”

“Nothing,” I lied brightly, and added a bit of truth to make it look good. “He really was out. He’s living with a circus this week. When I catch up with him, and if I uncover anything, I’ll let you know. Cross my heart, hope to, die.”

“Okay, pal,” he growled, “but if it’s the double-cross — I’ll have your scalp.”

Ted must have a direct wire through to Justice because that lady immediately rolled up her sleeves and got busy, settling my account. I came out of the booth, reached down to pick up the suitcase — and nearly dislocated my arm. It had been heavy enough before; now, suddenly, it seemed to be nailed to the floor. Considerably baffled by this unlikely gravitational phenomena, I tried again and this time lifted it. But it wasn’t the same suitcase, I saw then. It was black and nearly the same size, but the clasps were different, and it was newer. I looked quickly about, hunting for someone who had made a mistake. No one was carrying a bag anything like mine. And I realized that an accidental exchange was only remotely probable. The difference in weight was too instantly apparent. The switch must have been intentional. Petty thieves probably. But why the hell had they loaded the dummy bag with old iron? And why—

One of the catches, when I pushed at it, flipped open. The bag was unlocked. I laid it on its side and heard an inner, heavy metallic rattle. I snapped the other catch free and raised the lid, six inches perhaps, before I dropped it. My surprise couldn’t have been more complete if I had discovered a full-grown Gila monster or a collection of human heads. The veiled lady and the Coast Defense plans weren’t in the same class!

I stood there in prosaic, everyday Grand Central Station, and clutched a strange suitcase that was filled with coins. Funny-looking old coins, worn and wobbly about the edges, all about the size of a quarter and of a dull, dirty yellow color. Brass slugs? I quickly extracted one and closed the lid. In spite of the appearance of age, I fully expected a close look to reveal some such inscription as New York World’s Fair Souvenir or This token with two box tops is good for—But that wasn’t it.

I saw instead the likeness of a plump, sharp-nosed, and vaguely familiar face, that of a man wearing long curly hair surmounted by a laurel wreath. The inscription in worn letters that circled him read: GEORGIUS III — DEL GRATIA. The reverse side bore on a floriated shield a complicated and impressive coat of arms — the English lions, a harp, fleur-de-lis, and a date, 1779. Coins right enough. English. Revolutionary period. Denomination, as far as I was concerned, unknown. I only knew that there were a thousand or two in that suitcase and that their yellow color — if the coins were bona-fide — could only mean one thing: gold.

I glanced quickly around the station again. Everything normal — except the cockeyed contents of that case and the dizzy whirl under my hat. I opened the lid once more for just an instant, and took out the small cardboard box I had glimpsed lying there half buried in the yellow metal. I pulled away the rubber band that encircled it and removed the cover. There might be something here to explain — but there wasn’t. Only more coins, a half-dozen of them.

My sneak-thief theory collapsed. I didn’t get it at all. Only that something had slipped a cog. That seemed as obvious as the nose on George III’s chubby face. Could anyone be so preoccupied as not to be instantly aware of the difference in weight between the two suitcases and, at the same time, harmless enough to be at large? I doubted it strongly. Yet, if the exchange had been deliberate — Had someone burgled the collection of the Numismatic Society? I doubted that too. They wouldn’t have that many coins all alike.

The idiotic irrationality of it all annoyed me. The loss of my camera annoyed me. The problem in ethics, a problem unprovided for by my ordinary rules of conduct, annoyed me. I should, I supposed, trot around to the nearest police station crying, Look what I found! If I wasn’t immediately locked up on suspicion, I would at least have to spend an hour or two tangled in explanations — explanations I didn’t have. They might search me and find the gun — and I’d no explanation and no permit. I’d miss Merlini and his haunted house. If I didn’t step on it, I’d miss him as it was.

I decided that if any eccentric dealer in old coins was unhinged enough to leave his stock around loose like this, he could wait a day or two to get it back. Teach him a lesson. I think I fully expected that somehow, somewhere there was a rational, probably quite commonplace, answer, and that someone would turn up in due course to claim the coins. But I was certainly not going to hang around waiting for him; I had things to do and places to go.

I dropped the cardboard box with its six coins into my pocket — Merlini, I thought, might know what they were — took the suitcase around the corner and shoved it into the nearest dime-in-the-slot locker. I went back to the Walgreen’s on the corner and bought flashlights, paper cups, and sandwiches. Then I stopped at the Ship’s Bar half a block over on 43d, picked up a quick one and a quart of Scotch to go.

The mid-portion of the block between Lexington and Third Avenue is none too brightly lit. I was 20 feet from the door of the bar on the way out when I heard the quick footsteps behind me. I started to turn — way too late. Something that might easily have been the Chrysler building hit me on the top of the head, and was followed immediately by an elegant display of shooting stars in full Technicolor. They whirled through a fast, eccentric, Walt Disney dance routine and then, as the film began to flicker badly, something hard and flat, strangely like a cement sidewalk, pushed gently against my face. It was very comfortable and I went to sleep.

When I woke after awhile I was conscious, first, that my head seemed to be very loosely attached and on the verge of floating off. I was lying ten feet or so back from the sidewalk in the shadow of an areaway. I rolled over slowly, with some vague intention of rising, and felt a hard, square shape bump against my ribs. My hand fumbled over the object, feeling the hard fiber and the metal catches. The fog behind my eyes lifted a bit further. I sat up. Brain cells clicked and started turning over again. Suitcase, I thought. Damn thing followed me. Haunted, that’s what. I swung up on to my feet, balanced there none too steadily, and put my complete profane vocabulary into one blistering and very satisfying paragraph. I tacked a neat row of exclamation points on the end and stopped short.

My hand, acting apparently of its own volition, was groping in my pocket, hunting for — and not finding — that locker key. Then I knew—this suitcase was my own.

My other packages lay near by, having been kicked in off the sidewalk out of sight. The one that contained the bottle was still intact. I opened it and administered enough first aid to shock me fully awake. Then I stepped out to the sidewalk. Half a block away a taxi came toward me. I waited, took another drink, and flagged him. I gathered up the suitcase and packages, got into the cab and said:

“Grand Central. Let’s see how fast you can do it.”

It was only half a block and he did all right, but we hadn’t started soon enough. He waited while I looked at the locker. I saw the key and knew, before I opened the door, that the locker was quite empty.

We pulled up at the river end of 44th Street a good 20 minutes after nine. But Merlini wasn’t much before me. We stopped behind another taxi just as his long, lank frame got out and unfolded. I was not close enough to see the impish twinkle in his black eyes or the enigmatic half-smile that touched his lips, though I knew they were there, as they always are when he makes that familiar and graceful necromantic gesture that produces the coins — his cab fare in this instance — from thin air. Merlini wears no theatrical opera cape, curling mustachios, or pointed van-dyke, but somehow you feel that those hallmarks of the conjurer are there in spirit. It may be the utterly confident way he carries himself or the sure, smoothly co-ordinated movements of his hands or, perhaps, the resonant, almost hypnotic, voice that with deft, unnoticed misdirection propels you along an apparently sound but quite illogical path of thought, and then, with no warning, springs a trap door that leaves you standing on the sheer edge of an impossibility.

He left the cab driver blinking and came toward me as I disembarked.

“Late again,” he said, grinning.

But I was in an ill humor by now. I pointed to my driver. “That trick you just did,” I said wearily. “This man wants to see it too. Sixty cents worth, plus tip.”

I walked off abruptly, down toward the dock and the long, low speedboat moored there beneath a landing light. A small man wearing a yachting cap approached me.

“Mr. Merlini?” he asked.

“No. He’s coming. Back there. I’m with him.”

He took my packages and the suitcase and stowed them in the boat. Merlini climbed down and sat beside me a moment later. He took a brightly jacketed circus program from his pocket tore the margin from one of its pages, quickly sketched something on it, and passed it over:

“Got a new puzzle for you, Ross,” he said. “Turned it up in an old book the other day. So old it’s new again. Two glasses, water in one, wine in the other, same amount of liquid in each. You take one teaspoonful from the wine glass and put it in the water. Stir well and take one teaspoonful of the resulting mixture and put it back in the wine. Do you now have more wine in the water glass than water in the wine glass, or vice versa, or—”

“Puzzles!” I groaned. “My God! I’ll give you puzzles.”

Merlini looked at me closely.

“Oh. A bit pale around the gills and grouchier than usual. Anything wrong?”

“Wrong?” I rubbed the back of my head, feeling for possible compound fractures. “Oh, no. Unless you count being blackjacked and losing a fortune in gold pieces. Here. Puzzles is it? What do you make of that?”

The boat kicked up a roar and moved out on the dark river. As Merlini took the little box, I got a flashlight from the suitcase and held it for him. He lifted the cardboard cover and regarded the box’s contents with interest. Then he picked out one of the coins and, casually, with what seemed only a simple twist of the wrist, made it vanish. His empty hand reached for another.

“Hey!” I protested, grabbing at the box.

Merlini said, “Sorry,” and the coin reappeared with prompt inexplicability at his fingertips. “They look nice, but they’re a bit small and heavier than I like for easy manipulation. When did you begin collecting old and rare coins?”

“Tonight. But they aren’t so rare. What sort of coin is it and what’s it worth? Do you know?”

“For a coin collector, you’re not too well informed, are you? English guineas — a guinea’s twenty-one shillings — about five dollars. What — here, are you going to be seasick?”

“No,” I said weakly, “I–I don’t think so. I was just multiplying.”

He scowled at me and indicated my packages. “What are all these? More coin collection?”

“Scotch, two more flashlights, sandwiches … ” My voice trailed off. I was remembering the weight of that suitcase.

“Flashlights, sandwiches, odd behavior of ignorant coin collector, blackjack, Scotch … You’ve been burgling a museum. Irate curator lets fly and catches you one. Serves you right. Or else — the Scotch. Any left?”

For once in my life I had the great mysterioso, the high panjandrum of hocus-pocus, right where I wanted him — mystified. I proceeded to take full advantage of it.

“Classified ads,” I said. “Haunted houses. Skelton Island, Colonel Watrous, Miss Verrill, deadly weapon. I’ll trade even. But I want your story first.”

“Deadly weapon?” he asked. “I don’t follow.”

“This one.” I produced the gun Burt had given me. “And don’t hold out. I want the whole story.”

He eyed me with what appeared to be a genuinely puzzled air. “Looks like further burglary to me. It’s the one I keep at the shop. What are you doing with it?”

“I’m asking you. Burt said you told him to have me bring it.”

“I did not.”

We tangled over that, but finally, when I’d explained something of the circumstances, Merlini laughed. “Burt knows you, Ross. Trading on your romantic nature. He wanted to make sure you’d say yes and come along.”

I said, glumly, “What about that classified ad gag?”

“Oh, that. It’s not a gag. It’s a radio broadcast. NBC is starting a series called The Ghost Hour and they want to send some of the programs from haunted houses, graveyards, and such. I’m emceeing the show.”

“You get the ghost to step up to the mike and say a few words. Something like that?”

“Sure, and if the ghost is bashful, there’s always the sound effects department.”

“I’m disappointed. Commercialism rears its sordid head. Probably to introduce a new breakfast cereal called Ghost-Toasties, with testimonials from famous haunts.”

“Sorry if I’ve let you down,” he said. “About these coins—”

“No you don’t. Not yet. What about the Colonel’s mysterious visit this morning, why have you been keeping Miss Verrill from me, and what goes on at Skelton Island that has them all wigwagging for help? Radio sketch, my hat!”

“There’s more to it than that, I’ll admit. There’s a haunted house out there, one I’ve been meaning to get a look at. It was double-starred on the list Watrous made up. But—”

“Oh!” My tone was heavily sarcastic. “NBC hired him too, I suppose, as a technical expert on spooks?”

The red beacon at the upper tip of Welfare Island dropped astern. We swung in a wide curve around through Hellgate toward the great arches of the Triborough Bridge, whose moving flow of lights connected Ward’s Island and Astoria.

“Yes. As a matter of fact they did. Because of his preeminent reputation as a psychical researcher, author, and authority on anything occult, they naturally thought of him first. But they wanted their ghosts treated with a light touch. That upset matters. Not having read any of his books, they didn’t realize that the Colonel’s sense of humor doesn’t operate on that subject. He said if that’s what they wanted they’d better get me. They did.”

“And he invites you out here and shows off a haunted house so you can poke fun at his pet spooks on a nationwide hookup? I don’t believe it.”

“No, it isn’t that. It seems that Skelton Island has other psychic attractions. Madame Rappourt.”

“Oh. The Colonel’s prize medium. But he didn’t invite you out to see her.”

“Yes, he did.” Merlini nodded. “Exactly that. Did you read that newest book of his, Modern Mediums?”

“The one that kicked up all the Sunday supplement discussion? No.”

“You should. It’s an unintentionally revealing psychological study — of its author. He tries so hard to be coldly scientific, but his desire to get a positive result just manages to trip him up. The book is largely a brief for Rappourt. The Colonel says that, finally, after years of investigation, he’s turned up in her a real, first-class genuine psychic. He even goes so far as to say that psychical research can rest its whole case on her phenomena. Which rather puts him out on a limb, because if she ever should prove phony — well, he’s put all his eggs in one basket.”

“And he invites you out to pass on her? He must be awfully sure she’s the real McCoy.”

“No, just the opposite. All of a sudden he has doubts. She’s up to something even stranger than usual. He wants an outside opinion.”

It still didn’t make good sense to me. “If Eva Rappourt has agreed to put on her act before a professional magician, she must have something so close to genuine that—”

“She hasn’t agreed. She won’t know we’re there — at least I hope not — until it’s too late. Just before the séance Watrous is going to beg off with a headache, and as soon as it has started he’ll let us into the house via a sun deck on the second floor. We enter through his room and station ourselves on the stairway that goes down directly into the living-room where the séance will be in progress. Whenever I dig you in the ribs, you snap a picture. The Colonel said you should focus at about twenty feet, minus the usual quarter-inch turn correction for infra-red, whatever that means.”

“It means he wants his evidence pretty badly. Not being an owl, I’ll have to aim my camera by guess and by God. The setup needs a wide-angle lens, but I can’t use that with this trick lighting short of a time exposure. I’m certainly not going to guarantee any results, and if Rappourt catches wise before we get positive evidence on film, there’ll be a lovely row. What about friend Sigrid? She sitting in on this?”

“Yes. She’s staying on the island at present. Her mother was a Skelton and she spends her summers here with Aunt Linda and studies in town at the American School of the Ballet while her father is on the road. You must have heard me mention him. Tim Verrill, the best advance man in show business. He’s with Baker’s Colossal-Combined Outfit this year.”

“She had things on her mind when I saw her. She find you at the Garden?”

“Yes. She’s not sold on Rappourt either. The old girl doesn’t seem to be as convincing as usual, somehow. Sigrid rather suspects her of trying to annex a big helping of the Skelton fortune.”

“Sounds reasonable. Aunt Linda’s wealthy, then?”

“A million or two. And apparently a pushover for the occult. Sigrid says Rappourt has her jumping through hoops. Sigrid hasn’t been able to spot the gimmick but she’s a hard-headed young lady and skeptical.”

“What is it this time? Ectoplasm, spirit lights, slates—?”

For answer, Merlini’s hand gripped mine suddenly and one long arm pointed. “Did you see that, Ross?”

Skelton Island moved past on our starboard side. It lies with its near-by neighbors, North Brother and South Brother Islands, in midchannel where Hell Gate widens out into Long Island Sound. Half a mile beyond I could just make out the faint, dotted-line pattern of lights from the windows of the city prison on the larger Riker’s Island.

The lighthouse on North Brother winked brightly at us, but Skelton Island was dark, except for one small gleam low on the water.

A projecting arm of the island moved between us and the light as I watched, blotting it out. “Houseboat, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so. But that’s not what I meant. Up at the top of the island. Watch it.”

At its northern end, the island sloped upward to a high point on which a dark boxlike shape loomed above the trees, its heavy silhouette reminiscent of Nantucket and New Bedford. An ornamental balustrade encircled the flat roof, set back slightly from its projecting, topheavy eaves. There were gaps in the rows of flamboyantly carved balusters and in the array of squat wooden urns spaced out along the top rail. Two massive brick chimneys, one partly fallen in, rose within this enclosure on either side of a square pillbox of a penthouse that was the “Captain’s room.” This in turn was surmounted by a somewhat simpler balustrade that leaned in a rickety tired way enclosing the “widow’s walk.” The whole had a foreboding air of distinctly down-at-the-heel dignity.

“Watrous,” Merlini said quietly, his mouth close to my ear, “says that Miss Skelton won’t let anyone in the old place. Keeps it locked up tight. If so, perhaps we do meet a ghost.”

“Why? What did you see?”

“A light. Up high, in the little top room. There!”

I saw it that time, a taint ghostly flicker that moved for an instant and was gone.

I looked at my wrist watch. It was just 9:40.

The island on this side rose abruptly from the water, and the old house sat shakily out on the very edge as if its builder had almost hated to build on land at all. The windows were all tightly shuttered and boarded over, except for one, high up in the Captain’s room. There a single shutter swung on rusty hinges as if in ill-tempered protest at our approach.

As our boat moved slowly in, the driver spoke over his shoulder. “I can’t put you in here. No place to—”

Merlini, leaning forward, pointed to the right toward a black square shadow that lay against the foundation stones at water level. “Put your searchlight on that,” he directed.

The white beam shot out, ate into the shadow, and we saw that the river ran in under one corner of the house to a small boat-landing nearly concealed and protected beneath the first floor. We moved slowly toward it.

“Flashlight,” Merlini said, and I tore open the paper parcel that contained the two I had purchased.

The boat, silent now, floated in under the house and bumped against the landing. Merlini and I scrambled out. The damp green of the stone floor was slippery underfoot. As Merlini stopped to speak to our ferryman, I moved my torch in an exploratory circle and discovered a low arched doorway above a short flight of stone steps. The heavy weatherbeaten door stood open, and a large, old fashioned padlock hung from an iron hasp, unlocked.

I went up the steps and peered in. My light, cutting its long conical tunnel through the black, revealed an untidy litter on the floor: old bottles, a broken-down chair, a rust-eaten coal stove, the scattered pieces of a rowboat. I could hear the slow drip of water from the cold stone walls.

Behind me the boat’s motor roared, loud within the small space. I turned to see it backing out.

“What’s the idea of that?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we reserve a line of retreat?”

“I don’t know how long we’ll be here,” Merlini said. “The island has a boat service of its own and there’s a phone — That door unlocked?”

“Yes. Cellar,” I said. “Do we go in?”

He moved to my side and examined the interior with his flash as I had done. I noticed another open doorway inside in the farther wall and on our right a stairway going up.

Merlini glanced at his wrist watch. “Yes,” he said, “we’ve got a few minutes. Watrous said to wait out front until we should see the lights in the other house go out, and then come down to meet him. Perhaps we can go through. Odd about this door though. He said Miss Skelton was annoyed if anyone even suggested coming up here. She wouldn’t let him have the keys when he wanted to look the place over.”

“Other house?”

“Yes. At the foot of the island. We couldn’t see it as we came past. In behind those trees at the lower end.”

I followed him in across the cellar and up the stairs.

“Careful,” he said. “There’s a step or two missing.”

He pushed against the door at the top and we found ourselves in a dark, barren room that had once been the kitchen. There was a sagging series of cupboards along one wall, and, in a corner, an antiquated, tin-lined sink topped by a rusty, iron hand pump that was shrouded in cobwebs. The air was dead and stale with the tired odor of decay.

A connecting door hung slantingly from a single hinge and, when I pulled it aside, its lower edge scraped along the floor. We entered a long narrow hall where my light, shining upward, penetrated the tall spindles of a stair rail and projected a moving striped pattern of light and dark on the discolored walls. Long dependent strips of damply curling wallpaper hung down and cast strangely twisted shadows. I felt a faint stirring of the musty air against my face. The tall front door stood ajar, half open.

“Looks as if Mr. Ghost had picked up his skirts and skedaddled,” I said, the forced cheerfulness of my tone made flat and hollow by the surrounding gloom.

Merlini’s forward progress stopped abruptly and I stumbled against him. “Pipe down, Ross,” he whispered. “Thought I heard something.”

From far above there came the faint protest of the creaking shutter. But that was all.

There were large double sliding doors on our left, one of them pushed back into the wall. Within, low near the floor, I caught a glimpse of small bright eyes that turned and vanished with a rustle of scratchy movement. “Rats.” I said, quietly.

Merlini nodded, still listening, his gaze directed upward where the stair curved away into the dark. After a moment he stepped quietly, forward, following the beam of his flash toward the open door, and stood there in the opening, looking out. I grasped the large, wrought-iron handle and pulled the heavy door toward me a foot or so, shivering along my spine as the ancient hinges cried out painfully with a harsh, rusty rasp.

“I should have brought a brass band,” Merlini commented acidly. “They’d be quieter. You make enough noise to wake—” His flash blinked out. “Douse your light!”

Outside, down at the far end of the island I could see the dim white shape of a house in among the trees, one lighted window on the ground floor. But nearer, perhaps halfway between us and the house, was another light, a moving point that bobbed up and down and grew larger. It winked like an uncertain will-o’-the-wisp as it moved behind and was eclipsed by the intervening trees.

We watched it silently as it drew closer, until, finally, just as it came from under the trees into the open space before the house and began to shine steadily, it blinked out. Where the light had been I could see faintly a darker splotch against the shadow of the wood, the figure of a man standing very still, looking up at the house. After a long moment he moved and came slowly toward us walking with an alert, stealthy tread. Merlini’s light stabbed at the figure and robbed it instantly of all motion.

I recognized at once the short broad-shouldered figure, the cropped military mustache, the black-rimmed pince-nez, and the round, fat face. It was Colonel Watrous, his customary, dignified and pompous manner completely effaced by the startled expression and the blank fright in his eyes. His arm jerked up and a yellow beam of light jumped from his flash.

Merlini stepped out into the light. “Sorry, Colonel,” he said reassuringly, “we weren’t too sure it was you.”

The Colonel’s sigh of relief was audible 15 feet away. Shakily he said, “I saw your light from the house, but what — were you doing upstairs and how did you get in?”

“The place is wide open. Everything but a welcome mat at the door. Only — that wasn’t our light you saw upstairs.”

Watrous, who had moved to meet us, stopped again. The light in his hand wavered unsteadily. “Not yours? But—”

“No,” Merlini said. “We saw that too, before we landed.”

“Ghosts,” I suggested. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, hello, Ross.” The Colonel gave me a nervous half-smile. “This ghost doesn’t run to lights.”

“And,” Merlini added calmly, “no ghost ever has to smash a lock. You know that.” He had turned his light on the door jamb, centering it on fresh splintered scars where the lock’s bolt had fitted. Then he turned to the Colonel. “How much time do we have before the curtain goes up on that séance? Time to give this place the once-over?”

Watrous’s head nodded emphatically. “Yes, I think we’d better. I don’t like it. I don’t understand. … ”

He threw a quick glance back at the light from the other house and led the way in, slowly, his flash making rapid darting movements, as if he were trying to see everything at once. He went toward the wide double door on the right and looked in. I followed. Over his shoulder I saw a large spacious room with high ceilings, empty and deserted. There was a large fireplace in the farther wall and on the right, between two high windows with cracked and broken panes, a tall mirror was set into the wall. It reflected dimly and unevenly “from its dusty surface, and the ornately carved, once-white frame that surrounded it was cracked and yellow.

Close against the nearest window was the room’s single piece of furniture, a forlorn-looking ladder-back chair with its rungs askew and only a few straggling pieces of twisted cane still projecting around the rim of its seat. The Colonel went into the room and walked toward the chair.

I stood in the doorway. Merlini had stopped just inside the front door by the foot of the stairs. His light played on the floor and moved up the steps, examining the treads.

The Colonel pulled the chair out away from the wall a foot or two with a slow, careful motion as if afraid it would fall apart in his hands. “Not much left of the Captain’s regal appointments,” he said. “Rather disappointing. I’d hoped the old place was better preserved than this.”

“ ‘Regal appointments’?” Merlini observed from over my shoulder. “I see you’ve read the Williams account too.”

“Yes,” Watrous admitted. “The history of this place has always fascinated me. That’s why I checked it on that list I submitted to NBC. The broadcast plan intrigued me because it offered such an excellent excuse for a first-hand investigation of this house. That was why I came out here originally.”

I put in a plea for information. “Will one of you antiquarians please tell me what it’s all about? Just what sort of three-headed djinn haunts this place and why? What’s this fascinating, not to say exasperating, history that it has?”

“It’s more than fascinating. It’s positively lurid,” Merlini said. “Ever hear of Ephraim Skelton?”

“Vaguely,” I answered. “A big bad wolf of finance in Grandpa’s day, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. He cleaned up in railroads just prior to the turn of the century. The present Linda Skelton’s grandfather. They called him, to mention only the printable epithets, the Scourge of Wall Street and the Buccaneer of Finance. The piratical terms were an allusion not only to his methods but to his grandfather, Captain Arnold Skelton. The Captain was an eccentric, fiery-tempered old boy who appeared rather mysteriously out of nowhere in 1830 and whose description tallied rather too closely with that of the notorious José Boutell.”

“Never heard of him,” I said.

“He was notorious just the same. Morgan and Blackbeard and Kidd are about the only pirates who still rate press notices, but in his day José was spot news. Along with Billy Bowlegs and Gasparilla he was one of the last of the famous pirates, and he suddenly dropped out of sight along the Spanish Main just before Captain Skelton settled down in New York. Dame Rumor’s tongue has wagged ever since, and the Skeltons have never quite managed to live it down.”

“They don’t try to any more,” Watrous added. “They’re rather proud of him. Adds an interesting spot of color to the ancestral tree. About ten years after he came here, he outfitted a small schooner one day and left for parts unknown. He was thought to have turned pirate again, but he showed up six months later without telling anyone where he’d been. Both Burridge and Williams think his trip was for the purpose of retrieving a cache of hidden treasure. Soon after that he bought Skelton Island — it appears as West Brother Island on the old maps — and built this house. It’s quite possible that Ephraim’s original capital was in the form of pirate loot. Floyd has an interesting collection that bears on the subject.”

“Floyd?” Merlini asked.

“Floyd Skelton. He and his brother Arnold live here with Linda, her half brothers, I believe, by an earlier marriage. Floyd’s an amateur authority on pirates and buried—”

“So,” I broke in, “the Captain’s the resident ghost hereabouts. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“And why not?” Merlini asked. “He makes a lovely haunt. He even had the pirate’s traditional wooden leg. If the engraving Burridge reproduces is authentic, he was a big hairy Cro-Magnon with a dirty look in his eye that should have been able to sink a galleon as easily as any broadside of twelve-pounders. And his nonchalant disregard for human life would make a modern professional gunman look like a sissy. Dead men tell no tales was his strict policy. If all his victims came to haunt him in his last years, and are still around, then this is probably the best haunted house in Christendom.”

“Boo to you!” I said skeptically. “Are you two trying to get my wind up? I never saw a ghost, I never hope to see one, and so forth. But go on. What about his post-mortem history?”

“The Captain,” Watrous replied with a professorial accent, “has the reputation of being a rather noisy old apparition. Footsteps, back and forth, as if he were pacing his quarter-deck, were noted quite frequently in the old accounts. Dishes would pick themselves up and go smash, pictures fall off the walls for no apparent reason, the furniture move about and rearrange itself. Quite an interesting assortment of poltergeist phenomena. Though I think none has been reported in recent years because Miss Skelton would allow no investigation. Nevertheless the house has “an enviable reputation in psychic literature.”

“The sound effects department,” I said to Merlini, “should be able to manage—”

My skepticism took a sudden, unexpected smack on the jaw and nearly went down for the count. From the hall outside, at the top of the stairs came a solid thump. It was immediately followed by another and then another. A stately, remorseless procession of bumps, one to each step — down the stairs. My back was to the door; Watrous faced it. I saw his jaw drop. Merlini and I both whirled about.

The steady thump of the wooden leg — I was beginning to believe it could be that — came on down the stairs, a good six feet of which was visible through the door. All three flashlights were trained on the opening. The sounds continued on past the door, and I saw — exactly nothing. Then, at the foot of the stairs, they stopped.

“You asked for it,” Merlini said, striding for the door.

We were all there in another second, peering out. The hall was empty and the front door, as Merlini had left it when we came in, closed. He moved out to the foot of the stair and then, in the light of his torch, I saw the bright gleam of metal. A shiny flashlight that had not been there earlier lay on the floor a foot or two from the bottom step.

Merlini’s flash swung and pointed up the stairs.

“Someone up there.” Watrous’s voice was a thin, unsteady whisper.

“Yes. If the Captain carried a light it wouldn’t be an electric one.” Merlini raised his voice. “Hello! You dropped something.”

And this time we did hear footsteps, footsteps that were not made by a flashlight rolling down from step to step. They were soft furtive ones that creaked on another stairway above, and retreated, going higher.

“Got that gun handy, Ross?” Merlini said loudly, and started up.

I pulled it out, moved the safety catch, and went after him, Watrous close behind. We turned on the second floor and came back the length of the hall to face a second stairway. There was a small landing at its top and a single door. The irregular creaking and the intermittent thud of the swinging shutter as it banged against the house came louder. This room, I knew suddenly, must be the one from which the light had come. Merlini waited for us on the landing, one hand on the doorknob. He turned it and the door moved inward an inch or two.

“Well,” he said grimly, his words obviously directed beyond the door. “There are three of us and we’re armed; Let’s go.”

He gave the door a strong quick push. It swung in and around and banged solidly against the wall. Our three lights focused together on the inner darkness and pushed in to make a tunnel in the black. Nothing happened. No movement, no sound. Merlini took one quick, long stride across the threshold. Watrous and myself followed automatically and together.

Our lights probed the dark, three bright shafts that moved like swift rapiers around the room — finding no one, nothing but that same dreary abandonment. This room was like all the others except that the ceiling was lower and there were three pieces of furniture, a decrepit, leather-covered couch whose coiled entrails jutted out in places where the rats had gnawed, and, near the right-hand wall, a large trestle table with a mildew-spotted armchair drawn up before it. The chair’s high back cast a triple shadow on the wall that curved and moved as the beams from our lights turned and crossed. An empty kerosene lamp, without chimney, stood on the table, and its glass sent a flicker of reflected light back at us, the only bright gleam in the room.

Conscious of a fresher smell to the air, I swung my light on the windows. There were two in the wall facing us and two on both right and left, tall blank openings whose tightly closed shutters stopped the light abruptly a few inches beyond the dusty, nearly opaque glass. One window alone was open some three feet at the top, and outside it the shutter swung, filling the room with its harsh grating. I ran across, sprang up on the low window seat, and, holding one arm before my face to guard against the shutter’s swing, put my head out. The drop to the water below was sheer.

“No exit this way,” I began. “It’s—” I leaned farther out—40 feet below on the dark river I saw a faintly reflected reddish glow that seemed to be thrown out from the house, low near the water’s edge. I didn’t like the wavering way it moved. I turned. “Merlini—” I started.

He was standing near the armchair, on its other side, looking down into it. I saw Watrous take two hesitant steps toward him and then stop abruptly at his side. The light in his hand trembled. And I saw the rounded line of white along the arm of the chair — the white flesh of a woman’s arm.

I still don’t remember stepping down from the window seat and crossing the room. Suddenly I found myself there beside them, looking down at a woman who sat in an uncomfortably stiff attitude in the chair, and stared with wide eyes that did not move or blink, directly into the glare of our torches.

In that short static instant that seemed to be cut out and isolated from the even flow of time. I noticed one other thing. She was young, 35 at the most, yet her hair was snow-white.

Watrous spoke first, his hearty voice thinned to a whisper. “It’s Linda,” he said, “Linda Skelton.”

Merlini bent forward above the right hand, his light held close. The hand was a tight, hard fist and from between the fingers a small, cylindrical glass bottle projected glinting in the light. Merlini sniffed at it cautiously.

“Cyanide,” he said. “The old favorite. It kills quickly enough, Lord knows, but—”

He put out two fingers and touched the white arm. “Merlini,” I heard myself say, “I think the house is on fire!”

Merlini took his hand from the woman’s arm and slowly straightened up. His eyes were still intent on the quiet figure. Then, finally, as if my words had just reached him, he looked up. “What?” he said sharply.

Colonel Watrous ran toward the window.

“Fire,” I repeated. “Cellar. I think. Come on.”

I took the stairs two at a time. As I turned on the second-floor landing, I looked back and saw Watrous come out, running. Merlini appeared behind him and I heard the door slam. I went on. There was a faint smoke haze beginning in the lower hall, and the acrid smell of fire.

In the kitchen I pulled at the cellar door. Smoke rolled out at the top of the opening, blurring the beam from my torch; down behind it was a wavering reddish glow and the crackle of flame. I ducked low and went in. I heard the others close behind me. “Watch these steps, Colonel,” I shouted.

The door that led to the boat landing was dark, but the one opposite was bright. In there, directly beneath the living-room, a pile of debris — rags and wood and the torn pages of old books — burned fiercely.

Merlini’s voice came, quick and steady, assuming command. “In the corner there, Ross!” His light indicated dusty old rugs, rolled and stacked. He stooped, picked a piece of two-by-four from the floor, and attacked the blaze, scattering it.

I hauled at one of the rugs, pulling it clear of the pile, and kicked at it so that it unrolled. I took one corner and Watrous grabbed at the one opposite. We lifted and ran forward, pulling the rug up and over the flames. The smoke, belching suddenly from beneath, drove us back, coughing.

I saw Merlini come from the door in through the smoke. He carried a battered coal scuttle that dripped. He swung it quickly, and the water gushed in a long arc across the rug. I followed him out and found a pail lying in a litter of broken bottles and tinware. Its bottom was rusted through, but by hurrying I managed each time to get about half the water in and onto the rug. The Colonel was beating at the stray, scattered bits of flame with an old broom.

The smoke drove us out eventually, but the flames were done. We had pulled a second rug onto the heap and soaked that. Then, coughing and with smarting eyes, we made for the open air.

I soaked my handkerchief in the cold river water and swabbed my face. Merlini pulled the door to after him to kill the draft.

“That should hold it,” he said. “For a while at least. We’ll have to watch it. In the meantime, there’s some unfinished business.”

He walked out on the narrow stone walk that ran just above the water along the back of the house, and turned his torch upward to where, three and a half stories above, the open shutter still moved monotonously in the rising breeze.

We followed him up a short flight of steps to ground level and around the house toward the front door. Merlini walked quickly, his light searching the ground. A curl of smoke still came through the broken panes of a barred cellar window at the side of the porch.

When we stood before the door of the room on the top floor again, I saw Merlini kneel down and pick up a long, bright yellow pencil that lay on the floor close to the door.

“That wasn’t there before,” I said, wondering. “What—”

It’s mine, he replied, rising and pushing at the door. “I must have dropped it. You two wait here a moment.” He made a rapid examination of the floor and the grimy faded carpet. “All right. Come on.”

I moved mechanically toward the armchair knowing that I had not the slightest desire to look again at what lay there, at the fixed stare and the glazed, wide-open dark eyes that sent back no answering sparkle as the light touched them. Death had brought no peace, no limp quietness to the body. The jaw was tightly clamped, the muscles on either side rigid, the hands clenched desperately in an agonized grip on nothing. The whole figure had a tight, tense look as if time had stopped suddenly and caught it suspended part way in a painful convulsive action. A strange, dusky violet hue suffused the face and neck and made the paper-white hair seem whiter.

As my light moved down over the bare throat and over the blue woolen dress, I bent closer, wondering why the simple V-shaped neckline seemed so oddly severe, almost unfinished in appearance, and why the upper part of the dress appeared to be pulled out of shape. Then I saw the short torn ends of threads and knew that the dress had had a collar which had been forcibly ripped away.

As my hand brushed accidentally against the dead arm, I also knew the meaning of the intent look that had been on Merlini’s face and the reason my announcement of the fire had gone for a moment unheard. I knew what he had known then: that this woman couldn’t have been the eavesdropper who had listened and dropped the flashlight. Linda Skelton had not been the person we had followed up and into this room. She had not swallowed the poison just before we came in. The body was cold, much too cold.

I lifted gently on the arm and the whole body started to tip. Rigor mortis was complete. She had been dead for hours.

Merlini stood in the center of the room, turning slowly, his light searching the walls. There was no furniture except the armchair, the table, and the disreputable couch, low to the floor. No hiding place and no exits save the door through which we had come and the one window that was open at the top. Merlini examined the window seat and then stepped up on it, looking out. Colonel Watrous and I watched him silently.

Suddenly he turned and stepped down. “Job for you, Ross,” he said quickly. “This is rapidly getting out of hand. I have an overwhelming desire for policemen, detectives, law, order, authority — lots of them. Particularly Inspector Gavigan & Company. You get on a phone and get him — out of bed if necessary — but be sure you get him. No substitutes will do. I want to keep my seat for the rest of this performance, and if Bronx or Queens dicks show up — I don’t know whose territory we’re in — we won’t know any more about it after tonight than what we read in the papers. And you might—”

Colonel Watrous broke in, his words clipped and tight. “Wait. I’d better go and get back in at my window. Rappourt’s going to think it queer if I’m missing down there and turn up in your company.”

“No,” Merlini objected. “You stick here. I may need a witness. Your story can be that you saw lights up here and came out to investigate. That’s true enough, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But — but how are you going to explain your presence here? She’s going to wonder about that.”

“We can’t help that. We’re up against something more important than exposing her. Besides, Miss Verrill invited me out tonight, too. We’ll let her take the responsibility.”

“Sigrid invited — but how? I didn’t know—”

“She likes Rappourt’s séances even less than you do. Her father’s an old friend of mine. She and Arnold sent me, an S O S. By the way, how many people are there on this island? Who else besides yourself, Madame Rappourt, Arnold and Floyd Skelton, and Miss Verrill?”

“There are two other guests. A man named Lamb, a retired broker, and an inventor, Ira Brooke. There’s a servant couple, the Hendersons. And week-ends there’s a Dr. Gail who rents the cottage on the east shore. That’s all.”

“All right, Ross. Get going. And keep your eyes peeled.

It’ll be interesting to know where they’ve all been during the last half hour.”

“And which of them,” I added, “is shy a flashlight.”

I started out, then on second thought, turned and asked, “What’ll I tell Gavigan? Suicide or — murder?”

Merlini’s voice was overly matter-of-fact. “What do you think?”

“The worst,” I said simply.

“Yes, you would. Just say, ‘Cyanide, corpse, fire,’ and let him draw his own conclusions. But see he gets a move on.”

Outside, the high wind whipped at the trees, and the moon threw a cold light that grew bright, wavered, and was eclipsed by the swift procession of angry clouds moving across its face. I tried to run but quickly had to give it up.

The path underfoot was old and little used, choked with undergrowth and fallen branches. Several times I tripped and nearly fell.

All at once I came out from under the low-hanging trees onto the edge of a broad lawn that stretched out to meet me. The path, wider and well kept here, turned abruptly left and right, while directly ahead I saw the low white house set in a semicircle of trees and shining dimly with what seemed to be a faint phosphorescence of its own. Now that I could run, I didn’t. Something about the quietly deserted air, the darkened windows of the house, made me uneasy. I moved forward, walking quickly, but quietly, my flashlight dark.

This house was in the modern manner, its severe, clean-cut lines in complete contrast to the Grecian ornament on the house behind me. A metal ladder-like flight of steps ascended sharply to the sun deck that projected without supports from the second-floor level, and, toward the river, wide French windows opened out on a low terrace of flagged stone.

I had just reached the terrace and was about to step up and cross toward the door when I stopped and stood motionless, listening.

A small sound that was not the wind or the trees came from the opposite side of the house. The slow crunch of feet on a gravel path — coming softly toward me, almost at the corner of the house. I couldn’t make the door in time, so I took four long careful steps toward the window and flattened against it, back within the deeper shadow cast by the sun deck overhead. The footsteps stopped briefly and then came on again.

Behind me one hand found the handle and felt it turn. The window moved inward, easily and silently. I stepped, backward into the dark. The window was, on the inside, completely curtained with long heavy, drapes. I stood behind them, and, with the window ajar an inch or two, peered out watching the black elongated shadow that moved across the grass as someone turned the corner of the house.

The shadow had a crouching, sinister shape. I felt for my gun.

And then I kicked myself mentally. I’d put myself in a lovely spot! I should have simply called out, hailed the guy, and had done with it. But the events of the past hour had shaped all my reactions into suspicious, stealthy ones; the memory of that quiet figure in the armchair, and of that even stranger something that went into a room and yet was not there, was all too recent. At any rate, I now had the glass and metal and curtains of the window between myself and whoever it was that—

Behind me in the room there was a sudden crash!

Someone jumped toward me through the dark. There was a small, sharp click — and I blinked, blinded by the light.

Five people were in the room, five motionless dummies transfixed in suspended action like a wax tableau. Four of them around a table in the center of the room, and the fifth — the man who had plunged toward me through the dark — close beside me by the wall, his hand still on the light switch. A chair lay overturned on the floor.

I saw this much. Then my attention froze on one small detail. The half-raised right arm of the heavy man behind the table, the fat hand, and the cold steady highlight on the gun it held. His mouth moved and words came, hard as bullets.

“Take your hand from your pocket!”

I did so, slowly. Then he spoke again.

“Frisk him, Arnold.”

The man at my side took his hand from the wall switch and spoke quietly, his voice cutting evenly through the tension.

“You’re a quick one with a gun, I must say, Lamb.” He regarded me suspiciously. “Just who the devil are you?”

Arnold was about my height and definitely handsome, with an almost classic regularity of feature and a matinee, idol’s wave in his dark hair. But there was something oddly wrong with his face, something that blurred all the good looks. His skin had a queer flat paleness as if all the blood had gone deep within; the highlights on the cheekbone and the square line of the jaw had a smooth, greasy feel. And when he spoke I wasn’t quite sure at first where the deep pleasant voice came from; his lips barely moved.

“There’s someone prowling about outside,” I said quickly, my eyes returning to the gun. “Thought you should know.”

He hesitated a moment, scowling. Then, with sudden decision, “Give me that.” He reached for my flashlight. I let it go. He pulled the window open.

The fat man growled, “I wouldn’t move if I were you.” His black little eyes were too small for his big face and they stared at me with puzzled concentration. A roll of fat surrounded his neck, bulging over the tight, blue and white striped collar.

Arnold went out. A chair scraped on the floor and the girl stood up. Burt had been right; I did see her again. It was Sigrid Verrill. The nervous strain in her face was even more pronounced now. She recognized me and her eyes moved sideways toward the end of the table.

A large mountain of a woman sat there in a great, curiously shaped chair. Wide metal bands curved up from the chair arms and locked tightly about her wrists. I recognized the swarthy, almost masculine, Slavic features and the thick mound of jet-black hair. Madame Rappourt. She was the only person in the room who hadn’t stared at me as the lights came on, the only person who hadn’t looked at me yet. Her eyes were tightly closed, face tilted toward the ceiling, her body tensed in that same strained convulsive posture I had seen once before tonight. The fleshy hands were clenched with spasmodic force, the jaw muscles rigid, white teeth showing between the grim-stretched lips. She was breathing heavily.

The fifth person, a solidly built man who wore round gold-rimmed spectacles, rose and crossed with a catlike, soundless movement toward Rappourt. He bent above her and felt at her wrist for the pulse.

“Oh, it’s you, Dr. Gail,” Arnold’s voice came from outside. “Come in.”

Footsteps hurried across the terrace. “What’s wrong?” a calm, matter-of-fact voice asked. “I saw the light and, through the window, Lamb with a gun. Catch a burglar?”

Arnold said, “I don’t know.”

A hatless young man wearing a belted gabardine raincoat with turned-up collar followed Arnold into the room. He was in his thirties but with a manner that seemed older. He had a pleasant, easygoing face and a brisk, competent air. There was humor and a quick intelligence in his gray eyes. He regarded me expectantly.

Arnold demanded, “What are you doing on this island? Who are you?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I seem to have put my foot in it. But — well, I stopped in to use your phone.” Then, as an experiment directed at the man behind the gun, I added slowly and distinctly, “I want to call the police.”

I got my reaction. All the movement in the room, what there was of it, stopped — like a moving picture that suddenly slips a cog and goes dead.

“Why?” the fat man said after a moment, flatly.

The film began again, slowly.

“I’ve got a fire to report and”—I thought I’d go easy—“a suicide.”

Beyond a doorway at the foot of the stairs I saw the book-lined walls of a library and, on a small table just inside, the phone. I started for it.

Lamb’s voice, flat and cold as an ice rink, caught me. “Keep your hands off that phone!”

The man was impossible. There was less emotion in his voice than in a table of logarithms and about the same amount of cold fact. The melodrama was too thick, and I’d had my share for the evening. I thought that if I’d calm down and start talking sensibly perhaps everyone else would do the same.

“All right. Jesse James,” I said lightly, “have it your own way. Arnold, where is your sister?”

“Lamb,” he said, “put that gun away.” He turned to me. “Why do you ask? What do you know about my sister?”

“Do you know where she is?” I insisted.

“Yes. She’s upstairs in her room. But—”

“I’d make sure of that if I were you.”

He looked at me narrowly and then very slowly he said, “What have you found?”

“Your sister.” I said. “She’s up there at the old house. She’s dead. Do I use that phone?”

They all stared at me except Arnold, who seemed to be watching the others, and Rappourt, whose eyes had not yet opened but in whose rapid breathing I detected a momentary halt.

“No!” It was Sigrid’s voice, incredulous, horror-stricken. “No, that can’t be. Linda couldn’t—”

The Doctor took a quick step toward me. “What makes you think it’s Miss Skelton?”

“Colonel Watrous. He saw our lights and came up to investigate. He was with me when we found the body.”

“We? Lamo said. “You and who else?”

The Doctor turned sharply. “Maybe you’d better look, Arnold.”

But Arnold was halfway up the stairs. And then Lamb moved. The spectacled man was working at the metal fastening that curved up from the chair arm around Rappourt’s wrist. He glanced up now and then, his head moving with a quick, birdlike motion. Lamb handed him the gun.

“Keep him covered, Brooke.” Lamb pounded up the stairs after Arnold.

Brooke had a great shock of iron-gray hair and a bland, absent-minded face. His brown eyes seemed frank and guileless, though they had an odd habit of never looking quite where you expected them to, peering instead sideways from behind the glasses. He regarded the gun somewhat timidly. He looked harmless enough so I started once more for the phone.

He spoke then, his voice easy, careless, without exclamation points. “I should advise you not to touch that phone.” Harmless or not, I had the distinctly unsettling impression that he almost hoped I would touch it so he could shoot.

Rappourt, whose body now lay suddenly limp and exhausted in the chair, opened her eyes slowly. The deep masculine voice that I remembered said gently, “I wouldn’t, Ira.” There was recognition in her eyes.

Brooke lowered the gun perceptibly, hesitating. I reached out and took the phone. He made no move. I began dialing.

Arnold came running down the stairs. At their foot he stopped; his dark eyes moved, looking at each of us in turn. “She’s not there!”

My statement that she was dead had been a respectable bombshell, but this was worse. His words, somehow, acted on the others with an explosive force I didn’t understand.

Arnold ran heavily toward the door. “Come on, Doctor!”

The latter scowled at me. “You’re sure about this?”

I nodded, wondering. “Yes. She’s in that little room on the third floor. There’s a bottle of cyanide in her hand. She’s been dead some time.”

Arnold and the Doctor vanished through the door.

Then Lamb came down the stairs, his weight pounding on the steps. He glared at me for an instant and, without speaking, hurried out. The door slammed violently behind him.

I put the, phone receiver back on its rest.

Sigrid looked at me with round eyes. “But I thought — you were going to report—”

“I was,” I said bluntly. “But not on this phone. It’s dead.”

A window across the room was open at the top, and the night outside suddenly exploded in a brilliant flash of light that flared and vanished, swallowed in the deep reverberations of the thunder. The rain came swiftly, streaming down the panes. The window shade began to flap noisily. Brooke crossed the room and pushed the window up.

“Any other phones?” I asked, knowing the answer.

Sigrid shook her head. “One in Linda’s room, but it’s only an extension of this. The Doctor doesn’t have one.” She moved quickly, opened a coat cupboard near the door, and took out a raincoat. “Here.” She tossed it toward me. “We’ll get Henderson. Servants’ quarter’s in back. He’ll have to go in.” She took down another coat and started to get into it.

I knew from the clipped, brisk way she spoke, and from the hurried yet deliberate way in which she buttoned the coat, that she was using all the self-control she had.

“I can find him,” I said. “You’d better stick here.”

“No.” She pulled a hat over the blond curls. “Come on.”

I followed her toward the rear of the house through a dining-room and kitchen. Brooke, busy releasing Rappourt, watched us go without speaking.

Sigrid took a flashlight from a shelf in the kitchen. “You were at Merlini’s shop this afternoon. He’s up there at the old house?”

“Yes, but wait. You can’t—”

She opened the door, hesitated a moment as the flying wash of rain drove in, then, lowering her head, ran out. I followed, slamming the door behind me. A graveled path led toward a small house nearly hidden among the trees. She pounded with the butt of her torch against the door. A light shone out almost at once; soft footsteps inside hurried; and then Henderson, a small bony little man with gray hair and sleepy eyes, stood in the doorway in a white nightshirt, peering out.

Sigrid cried, “You’ve got to go into town at once. The phone’s dead. You must get the police—”

The sound that we heard then, off behind the storm, was not thunder, nor wind, nor rain. It came again — the short explosive crack of a gun — and then more of them. I counted six, three close together and then three more, in rapid succession.

Sigrid’s hand grabbed at my arm, gripped it tightly. “The boathouse!” There was fear in her voice now for the first time, but she started past me toward the sound.

I caught her. “No, you don’t.” I took her flashlight. “There’s a murderer out there! You head for the house. Get some clothes on, Henderson, and hurry. Gun, too, if you’ve got it.” I ran. The wind threw hard bullets of rain against my face and even seemed to be trying to push back the light from the flash. High up on my right I caught a faint glimmer of light where the old house lay beyond the rain.

Behind me Sigrid’s voice came, desperately, “Wait!” I heard her footsteps running.

I stopped. “Okay, sister,” I growled as she stumbled into me. “But don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

I took her arm and we ran together, heads lowered, following the feeble, watery gleam of the light. We stopped, breathless, at the head of a wooden stair that led down toward boathouse and landing. A heavy figure ran up at us. It was Lamb, swearing expertly. There was a gun in his hand.

He snatched at Sigrid’s torch and turned it down toward the water. “Someone’s cut loose all the boats! He got away. Up the beach.”

The landing was empty of boats, but out on the black, tossing water something white moved. A lightning flash zigzagged and gave us a sharp, quick glimpse: the white hull of a speedboat and the dark smaller outline of a rowboat 30 feet or more out beyond reach. When the second flash came a moment later, the rowboat had vanished and the larger boat was listing and rolling heavily.

“He’s sunk them!” Lamb roared. “I saw him when the lightning flashed just as he pushed the last one out. I fired in the air once and yelled at him. When he ran I let him have it, but I was only shooting at the sound. He never stopped and we’ll have a hell of a time hunting him in this.”

“Where’s Arnold and the Doctor?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They must have cut cross lots. I came this way because I saw a light. Supposed it was Henderson. Thought I’d get him. The guy had a flash. But he doused it when I fired.”

“And those,” I said helplessly, “are the only boats?”

“Yes,” Sigrid replied. “It — it begins to look as if someone didn’t want the police.”

Lamb turned on her. “What—” he started and then glanced sharply at me. “You phoned them, didn’t you?”

I shook my head. “No. Sorry. The phone’s been cut.”

“Oh, so.” He took a step toward me. His thick jaw stuck out. “I’d like to know just who the hell you are.”

“Maybe I’m a G-Man,” I said, watching him. “And I’d like to know why you go so well heeled. You gave Brooke a gun back there. Now you’ve got another. Lend me a couple, will you?”

Sigrid broke it up. “He’s all right, Lamb. Forget it. Friend of mine. Stop spitting at each other and take me out of this rain, I want to see what — what’s happened up there.”

We turned and ran inland following the thin, wet shine of my flash. We’d gone 100 yards or so when Sigrid said, “This way,” and I recognized the old tangled path I’d traveled earlier. I held her arm and we plunged in. She tripped once and nearly pulled us both down. Lamb, behind, cursed as the branches whipped at our faces. After what seemed an interminable, stumbling march we reached the house.

Just as we hurried out of the downpour up onto the porch, I heard the coughing start, and then the steady put-put of a motorboat not far away. I turned, and felt Sigrid’s grasp tighten on my arm. The wind took the sound for a moment and then brought it back, but fainter. As we stood there listening, it died away behind the storm. I could feel the tense stillness of the others, and when I turned again, my light caught the gun in Lamb’s fist, half raised, motionless.

No one spoke. I pointed the light at the open door and moved in, Sigrid with me. Then Lamb turned and followed.

Voices came down faintly from above. As we climbed the last flight of stairs, I saw Watrous and Arnold looking down at us from just inside the door, and, beyond them within the room, Merlini’s figure holding a flashlight on the chair. The Doctor was bending over what lay there. His voice said:

“It’s impossible. There’s no alternative. It can’t be—”

As we crowded in at the door he stopped and looked up.

Sigrid said, “Arnold. What—? Is it—?”

Arnold moved toward her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You shouldn’t have come. Yes. It’s Linda.”

Merlini’s voice came across the room. “Ross, come here. The rest of you please stay back by the door.”

As I went forward I saw the inquisitive glance he threw at Lamb, and when I came close his whisper asked, “Who’s that?”

“Two-Gun Lamb,” I replied. “The Terror of the Plains. Merlini, have you ever been marooned before?”

“What?”

“Marooned. In the East River, a stone’s throw from Manhattan. It’s one for the book. I didn’t get Gavigan. The phone’s dead. Cut I think. Someone’s scuttled the boats and—” The Doctor looked at me sharply. “Someone’s what?”

“Scuttled all the boats. Lamb there says he caught someone pushing them out and he laid down a barrage. He has trigger-finger itch. Been pointing a gun at me all evening, and Ira Brooke filled in a few minutes doing the same. I backed into the séance in the dark. Someone was prowling around outside the house when I got there and—”

“Ross,” Merlini said sternly, “are you making this up as you go along? This is no time for—”

“I wish I were,” I said with feeling. “I’d go back and rewrite some of it. There are whole pages I don’t like.”

“I seem to have missed some installments. Synopsis please, fast.”

I gave it to him, all the high spots. The Doctor listened intently, but his eyes watched the body which, with its steady faraway stare, seemed to be listening too. A hushed, excited murmur of voices came from behind me by the door, Lamb and Sigrid telling a similar story. Twice I thought Merlini was about to interrupt, but he heard me out, his eyes moving now and then from my face to the group by the door, and then sideways toward the Doctor — alert, quick movements, alive with suspicion. Which was exactly how I felt.

“And whoever just cleared out in that motorboat,” I finished, “wasn’t going after the cops. I’ll put a stack of blue chips on that. That’s all.”

“All?” Merlini said slowly. “No, that’s not all. But it’s more than enough.” Then he turned to the Doctor. “And you were saying — just as these people came in — that something was impossible. That it couldn’t be — what?”

The Doctor looked at him a moment and then, turning, watched the rest of us as he spoke. “This” —his hand made a nervous gesture indicating the body—“it’s not — it can’t be suicide.”

“Why not?” Merlini asked.

“Because,” Dr. Gail spoke slowly, precisely. “If Linda Skelton ever did commit suicide, which I doubt, she’d have done it here in this house just about as soon as — well, as on the moon. She had agoraphobia. Mean anything?”

“Yes.” Merlini faced the group by the door, but he still spoke to the Doctor. “Colonel Watrous mentioned it just now. How many people on this island knew that?”

“They all did. There was no secret about it.”

Merlini nodded slowly. “I was afraid of that.” His eyes came back to the doctor. “Your patient?”

“Yes.”

“And you mean to tell me that there are no circumstances under which she might have come up to this house?”

“None.” He was emphatic. “You see the color of her hair? The phobia did that. In the acute form that she had it, it is an uncontrollable, unreasoning fear — greater almost than any normal person can imagine — a terror of open spaces. It has kept her a prisoner in that house down there more securely than if she had been locked in a cell. She couldn’t possibly, short of a miracle, have gone more than a hundred yards from that house — alive!”

So that was it then. The thought that had been moving in all their minds, the reason no one had quite believed me.

During the Doctor’s last words I had heard the running rush of footsteps up the stairs. Henderson burst through the door, excitement written large on his face. “The boats—” he began, but the sight of the body stopped him.

“Yes, we know,” Arnold said. “You get a lantern from the boathouse and bring it up here. Try and raise someone on North Brother. We’ve got to get the police somehow.”

Henderson turned and looked at us to see who was there.

“Where’s Brooke?” he asked. “Who pushed out in that motorboat? Just as I got down to the landing—”

“Did you see it?” Merlini interrupted.

“Yes, once when the lightning flashed. Going like a bat out of hell.”

“Could you see the driver?”

“Yes. A man. Small boat. And he didn’t handle it so well, either. In this storm, maybe he’ll make it, maybe not.”

“You’d better get that lantern, Henderson. Anyone here know Morse code?”

No one replied.

“Well, do the best you can with it. And is there a cot or something of the sort down there, Arnold?”

“A cot? Yes, I think so. Why?”

“We’ll take the body down. With this storm we won’t connect with mainland before daylight. We can’t leave it here very well, unless someone stays with it — too many rats.”

“Taking a lot of responsibility, aren’t you?” Dr. Gail asked with a surprised lift to his eyebrows. “Moving the body before the medical examiner sees it?”

“Yes. That’s why I asked you to look at it. Ross, you get that camera of yours and start using it. You’ve seen the homicide squad in action. You know what they’ll want. Front, top, all sides, full shots of the room from each corner. Get going, Henderson. Lantern, cot, and a tarpaulin of some sort to cover the body. Some slickers too if you have them. The storm’s slacking a bit, but there’s still lots of water.”

Henderson and I went down together. I got the suitcase from the living-room where I’d left it and hurried back. Merlini stood on the upper landing shooing the others down the stairs. He came back with me into the room. I changed my film, substituting the Super-XX for the Infra-D, and got busy. I didn’t fuss with any trick lighting or fancy angles on those shots, either. I stopped down to keep them sharp and let fly.

As the third flash exploded in a white burst of light, I heard Merlini give a small, surprised grunt and saw him hurry over to the window seat, climb up and examine the top of the window frame. I finished off my pictures.

“I think that does it,’” I said then. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” he said watching me with that familiar impish twinkle in his eyes. “I think you’d better do a shot of the ceiling.”

“The ceiling?”

He held his flashlight with the nonchalant air of the conjurer who is about to exhibit the girl in two parts. Its light made a circle on the wall behind and to one side of the table before which the body sat. There, a good five feet from the floor, on eye level, I saw two faint, darkish smudges, a rounded smudge and, just above, a larger oval one. I didn’t realize what it was until his light moved higher and picked out a similar discoloration on the grayed plaster three feet above the first and slightly to the left. I still wasn’t sure I believed it. Their shape was that of the prints a man’s shoes make in walking.

Steadily the light climbed the wall and moved across the ceiling, finding one uncanny, inexplicable footprint after another — an upside-down procession of surrealist impossibilities. The prints stopped directly above the open window and the sheer 40-foot drop outside.

“The top edge of that window sash, Ross, shows definite traces in the grime. Traces that someone — or something — has crawled out. You’d better get a shot of that too.”

Ira Brooke stood on the stairs, one hand on the curving chromium rail, and blinked nervously down at us as we filed in out of the wet and left muddy tracks across the beige carpet. He cast a shrewd, appraising glance at Merlini and a quick, apprehensive one at the grotesque shape the body’s bended knees made beneath their canvas covering. Then, all at once, he bustled into action, coming forward to help Lamb and the Doctor carry the cot upstairs.

Arnold called after him, “Where’s Rappourt?”

“Bed,” he said over his shoulder, his voice still smooth and oiled in spite of his worried manner. “Gail better look at her. She collapsed after you left. I had my hands full.”

Merlini went straight to the phone, picked up the receiver, listened, and dialed tentatively once or twice, his keen eyes moving about the room with swift scrutiny. I noticed their quickened interest as they caught sight of Rappourt’s oddly fitted chair. Then he replaced the receiver, examined the wire between phone and wall, and came out toward the stair. As he passed me he said quietly: “Give the phone line a look, Ross. Outside.” Arnold moved hastily, close on Merlini’s heels, up the steps. He, like Lamb and the Doctor, was soaked from his coatless run through the furious, initial downpour of the rain. Without turning, he said, “You might light the fire, Colonel. I’m going to change.”

I stared after him, wondering at the odd, lowered posture of his head, the evasive, tucked-in way he carried it between hunched-up shoulders, and at the fleeting glimpse I had had of one cheek where the too-white complexion now seemed splotchy and streaked with dirt, as if charcoal-covered fingers had been drawn down across his face.

Watrous knelt and held a match under the ready-laid fire. Sigrid, who, without removing her raincoat, had dropped into a chair before the fireplace, watched him with a mechanical, disinterested gaze. I walked to the door and stepped out once more into the wet.

Circling the house, I soon found the wire where it came out from the trees and disappeared up above the edge of the sun deck. I went up the stairs and stopped outside a wide, lighted window. Through it I saw Lamb and Dr. Gail bending over the body on the cot. Brooke stood near by holding the tarpaulin. They lifted the body, still in its sitting position, limbs stiffly bent, arms extended, and moved with it sideways toward the low bed. Merlini, watching, stopped them. I saw his lips move and his arm gesture at a near-by chair. They pivoted toward it, gently lowered the body, and left it sitting in the chair. Merlini gave a slow nod of satisfaction.

A white-enameled phone stood just within the window on a small stand, and beyond Merlini, against the wall, I saw a streamlined dressing table covered with small jars and bottles. The shining mirror above it was surrounded on all four sides by long tubular lights.

Dr. Gail covered the body with a sheet and hurriedly left the room. Brooke and Lamb, standing in the doorway, watched Merlini as he leaned in absorbed examination above a writing pad lying on an end table drawn close beside the right arm of the chair. Then he stepped back, eyes searching the floor, and suddenly stooped to pick up two small objects from the carpet — the broken complementary halves of a lead pencil. He stood with one in each hand and fitted them together, scowling. After a moment, he knelt, replaced them carefully on the floor, and, rising, made as if to turn toward the door. The action was interrupted halfway as he stopped abruptly to glare at something beyond the chair.

I moved closer, peering in through the panes. In the corner of the room some four feet above the floor and well away from the walls, an ordinary drinking glass rested upside down and altogether too nonchalantly on nothing at all — completely suspended in mid-air! Merlini approached it quickly, passed his hand gently above the glass, and destroyed the illusion. The glass jerked slightly and began swaying from side to side. Its motion indicated that it must be hanging at the end of a long dark thread, unseen in the half-light of the corner, and attached above to the ceiling.

Merlini frowned at it thoughtfully, threw a speculative glance at the sheeted body, and turned to walk to the door. He pushed the light switch and went out with the others, closing the door after him.

I looked around for the phone wire and saw the difficulty. Instead of entering the house, the wire was looped about the metal railing of the balcony and tied in a loose half hitch. Its copper core protruded from a ragged end that had obviously been cut with some instrument that was none too sharp. Just above my head, near the window, I found a porcelain insulator from which a short end of wire hung loosely. I unfastened the line from the rail, hauled the slack in toward, me, and discovered that it failed to reach. Someone had cut and removed a six-foot length.

I quickly retied the wire about the rail as I had found it and went down again to the living-room.

Lamb stood by the fire, his wet clothes steaming slightly. His face was as blank as if no emotion had ever managed to push up through the heavy masklike layer of fat. He took a small pill box from his vest pocket, extracted a round pink capsule, and popped it absently into his mouth. Sigrid still sat woodenly in her chair and Watrous, leaning against the séance table, puffed nervously at a cigarette in a long black holder. They were all watching the middle-aged, dumpy little woman who faced Merlini, peering at him with near-sighted attention.

She wore a dark cloth coat over a faded dressing gown and held it drawn close around her body, one hand fussing uncertainly at the belt. She spoke, answering some question of Merlini’s, in a rapid, frightened monotone.

“I haven’t seen her since lunch time. She ate out on the terrace with the others. She was in her room all afternoon.”

“What time was lunch, Mrs. Henderson?” asked Merlini.

“One o’clock.”

“She didn’t appear for dinner?”

Mrs. Henderson shook her head. “No.”

“Wasn’t that unusual?”

“No.” This was Sigrid’s voice, strained and colorless. “Linda often had her meals in her room. Sometimes, when her attacks were bad, she stayed there for two or three days at a time.”

“I see. And yet Mrs. Henderson hasn’t seen her since noon.” He turned back to the elder woman. “Who took her dinner tray up to her?”

“No one. I didn’t fix one.”

“You didn’t inquire if she wanted one?”

“No. She — she had that sign on the door.”

Sigrid added another marginal note. “A sign that means exactly what it says, ‘Do Not Disturb.’ Mrs. Henderson has orders to take that literally. Meals are no exception. If Linda wanted anything she’d ask. She was quite strict about it.”

Merlini dismissed Mrs. Henderson. As she left, I crossed the room and went into the library. There was a floor lamp there near the phone. I knelt and started to appropriate the length of light cord that connected it with the base plug.

Merlini followed me in, closed the door behind him, and asked, “What luck?”

“The line’s cut outside, near the window of Linda’s room,” I said, and described it. “I’ll replace the missing piece with this light wire, and we’ll phone Gavigan.”

“And the cut line was tied around the sun-deck rail?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Leave that light cord alone. We’ll connect up later.” He turned toward the door. “If necessary.”

I stood up and looked after him. “What do you mean by that?”

But he went through into the living-room again, without answering. I heard Arnold and Dr. Gail come down the stairs and followed after him. Arnold wore a dark silk dressing gown, and the queer marks that had been on his face were gone.

“Rappourt’s sleeping,” Gail reported. “Dosed herself with sleeping tablets, I think. There’s an open bottle of luminal beside her bed.”

Merlini blinked a bit at that information. I did myself. Rappourt’s lack of curiosity seemed somewhat abnormal.

“What seemed to be wrong with her, Brooke?” Merlini asked.

“Shock, I should say. She came out of her trance too suddenly, she said.”

Merlini took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece and tapped it against the back of his hand. “Mrs. Henderson says she saw Miss Skelton alive last at lunch time. One o’clock. How many of you saw her after that?”

For a moment, no one answered; then Arnold replied, “We ate out on the terrace. Linda, Madame Rappourt, Sigrid. Lamb, and myself, The air was far too thick with psychic discussion, and I excused myself immediately I’d finished. I didn’t see her after that. What happened after I left, Sigrid?”

Sigrid looked up at us gravely. “We sat there for a while. Ten minutes perhaps. Rappourt was telling Linda about some psychic experiences she had had in Europe. Then we all came in together. I went directly upstairs and dressed to go into town. Henderson was to take me at two. I came down very shortly, and Linda stood at the foot of the stairs talking with Madame Rappourt and Mr. Lamb. I passed her on the stairs as she left them and came up. I told her I was going to town and would not be back for dinner. I never saw her again.”

“You went directly to the boathouse?”

“Yes, The others came with me. Lamb went in to town too. Rappourt got into the boat, and Henderson put her on the houseboat as we passed. She wanted to see Brooke.”

“Did you see her after that, Lamb?”

He said simply in an almost bored manner, “No.”

Merlini’s eyes, that appeared to be watching the thin stream of his cigarette smoke, slid around toward Lamb. “When did you return to the island?”

“Six o’clock.”

“What were you doing in town?”

Lamb considered that a moment, stolidly. Then, without inflection, he said, “That’s none of your business.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Merlini. “What about you, Brooke?”

“I haven’t seen her — alive that is — since breakfast this morning. I’ve been out on the houseboat all day.”

“Colonel?”

“Same as Brooke,” he said. “Not since breakfast. I left the island at eleven and returned in the boat with Lamb at six o’clock just before dinner.”

“You didn’t come in to lunch, Brooke?”

“No. I don’t usually. I took sandwiches and a bottle of milk out with me.”

“What keeps you so busy out there?”

“I have a workshop there.” Brooke’s easy, nonchalant manner faded perceptibly.

“That’s not very specific,” Merlini commented.

Brooke nodded and his chin came out a bit. “I know.”

Merlini didn’t pursue the matter. Instead, very solemnly, he pushed his cigarette, lighted end first, into his left fist, looked once at his empty right hand, and then opened his left fingers slowly. His eyebrows rose a bit as he stared with apparent surprise and wonder at the empty hand. Then he flicked a small bit of tobacco from the palm and, looking up, asked sharply, “What time did this séance tonight begin, exactly?”

No one answered for a moment. They never do after that cigarette business.

Sigrid spoke finally. “It was shortly after you came from the houseboat, Ira. What time was that?”

“I came in at 9:45. The séance started just at ten.”

“Exactly ten?” Merlini asked.

“Yes. When Madame Rappourt said she was ready to begin, I turned off the radio, just on a program change.”

“And then the lights were turned out?”

“No.” This was Arnold. “Not for another five minutes or so. Rappourt takes about that long to go into her trance.” His tone was more than faintly sarcastic.

“From 9:45 then, in the light for the first twenty minutes and afterward in the dark, until Harte interrupted you at 10:15, Rappourt, Brooke, Lamb, Miss Verrill, and Arnold were all in this room?”

Arnold and Sigrid nodded. Lamb’s expression was bored and impatient. Ira’s look was on the sour side.

“And you, Doctor. Where were you at ten?”

“Why do you ask that?” Arnold said sharply. “Did Linda — is that when she—?”

“No,” Merlini said, and without explaining further, waited for the Doctor’s reply. I knew what he had in mind — Captain Skelton’s ghost and the fire.

Gail, who had remained quietly in the background behind Sigrid’s chair, said, “At ten o’clock I was in New York. I took the water taxi out from 44th Street a few minutes after that and came directly up here from the boathouse. I arrived just after Mr. Harte.”

And that, I thought, accounted for everyone. The Doctor’s story would be easy to check since there was only one speedboat service on the river, the same Merlini and I had used. When Merlini, Watrous, and myself had discovered the fire, at ten, the doctor had been in New York; the others, except for the Hendersons, had been about to begin the séance. They had not yet turned out the lights; so it wasn’t a question of someone having left the room in the dark. And even Ira had come in too long before to be suspect. A nice Grade-A quality of alibis all around.

Merlini stepped forward and put his hand on the oddly shaped chair in which Rappourt had been sitting when I had first come into the room. He pulled it back from the table into the light. “Your idea, Colonel?” he asked.

I noticed now that the metal bands that had fitted over Rappourt’s wrists and upper arms were ratcheted like handcuffs so that they could be drawn tight, holding the arms securely against the chair. There were similar bands at ankle position on the front two legs of the chair.

Colonel Watrous nodded. “Yes. I had the chair constructed according to my own design. The control exercised over the medium in nine out of ten séances is far too lax. The sitters on either side usually place their feet on the medium’s feet and their hands, above the table, touch hers. All of which means less than nothing. A stiffly reinforced shoe and elastic laces will allow the foot to be removed from the shoe, and one of the medium’s hands can, in the dark, touch the hands of the sitters on either side, thus doing double duty. But you know that. This chair is the end result of my endeavors to secure complete bodily control over the medium.”

“Combination locks on these arm bands, I see,” Merlini said. “Change the combination frequently?”

“Yes. After each séance. And I would defy Houdini to escape from them without bringing down the house. When the locks are in position an electrical contact is made that must be maintained. Any tampering, even opening the locks in the normal manner with the proper combination, sets off a loud alarm. The bell and all electrical connections are completely inaccessible, sealed within the seat of the chair so that no short circuiting or manipulation is possible. In addition, on some occasions, we covered Rappourt and the chair complete with a large gauze cloth that was tacked all around to the floor.”

“And you got physical manifestations just the same?”

“Yes. Some of the best she has ever produced.”

“But tonight you weren’t here to let her out of the chair?”

“I gave Brooke tonight’s combination.”

“I see. What was tonight’s séance all about? Something extra special, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But I don’t know what. She was quite mysterious about it. Hinted that it would be unusual, but she didn’t tell me, at least, any more than that.”

Sigrid said suddenly, “I think Lamb knows.”

And Lamb, something at last having penetrated his rhinoceros hide, jerked his head around toward her. “Why?”

“Because you were standing with her and Linda when I came down the stairs. I heard Rappourt say something to the two of you that I don’t understand. It sounded like coded cable, and I’m sure it referred to the séance. She said, ‘Home will come, tonight.’ What did she mean?”

The effect on Merlini was astonishing. He stared as if she had been the mother of quintuplets, and didn’t turn to look at Lamb until that gentleman had nearly finished.

“I don’t know,” Lamb said. “She was referring to the stance, all right, but she was talking to Linda, not me. Linda knew what she meant — but I don’t.”

I saw Watrous open his mouth to speak and promptly shut it when Merlini scowled at him.

Merlini asked, “Well, what did happen at the séance?”

“Nothing,” Arnold replied, “Harte broke it up too soon. Unless—” He turned with a quick movement and looked across at the mantel above the fireplace. Then he went over and took down an object that rested there, on end, leaning against the wall. It was a cretonne sewing bag about 15 inches square, its neck tied securely with a drawstring knotted many times. The knots were covered with red sealing wax.

“There’s a slate in here,” Arnold said. “We all signed our names along the frame, and I cleaned it and placed it in the bag. We tied and sealed the knots, and Rappourt was never within ten feet of it. She was busy going into her trance. The mantel as you can see is clear across the room from her chair. And there are always messages—”

He started to open it, but Merlini stopped him. “Wait.” He took the bag from Arnold. “These knots are tied and sealed exactly as before?”

Lamb, Sigrid, and Brooke crowded around to look. They all nodded affirmatively.

Sigrid said, “They haven’t been touched. I put the wax on and it’s exactly as it was.

Merlini turned the bag over in his hands. “Whose bag?”

“Mine,” Sigrid said. “At first Rappourt merely had the slate put up on the mantel. One night she noticed my bag and suggested we put it in that. There’s nothing wrong with it — there can’t be.”

“No,” Merlini said. “It’s perfectly good. No trap doors.”

He took out a penknife and cut the drawstring in such a way that the knots and wax remained intact. He put his hand in and drew out a common 8-by-10 school slate. I saw the penciled signatures around the frame.

On the slate’s surface were five words scrawled in a large spidery hand with slate pencil: Can you not believe now? D.D.H.

Merlini passed his forefinger over one of the letters, rubbing it out. “Where’s the slate pencil?” he asked.

Arnold pointed to the table. “There. Just where she asked us to put it, in the center of the table. And she didn’t leave that chair. The control was more complete than ever tonight. Lamb and I, on either side, held her arms. I’m damned if I—”

Merlini dropped the slate back into the bag. “Anyone else on this island tonight,” he asked calmly, “anyone besides ourselves, Rappourt, the Hendersons, and your sister?”

Arnold hesitated just slightly. “As far as I know, no.”

Merlini waited a moment as if expecting someone to add to that. No one did. He withdrew a handkerchief-wrapped object from his pocket, placed it on the table, and opened it out. It was the flashlight that had rolled down the stairs.

“Know who this belongs to?”

Arnold leaned forward with sudden interest. But he shook his head. There were blank looks all around.

Then Lamb’s voice dropped heavily into the silence. “I’ve had enough of this,” he growled. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going to turn in before I come down with pneumonia.” He started toward the stair, leaving a dark wet spot behind him on the carpet where he had stood.

“One more question before you go, Lamb.” The insistence in Merlini’s tone held him. “Just why hasn’t anyone mentioned Floyd Skelton?”

“Because,” Arnold answered immediately, “for once in his life Floyd seems to have escaped the unpleasantness. You’ve been asking about tonight — and Floyd has been missing since yesterday evening.”

Lamb turned on his heel and walked up the stairs.

“Floyd,” Arnold continued, “went in to town right after dinner, about eight, before the séance. Henderson—”

“Wait. There was a séance last night too?”

“Yes—9:30 to 11:30.”

“Same sitters as tonight?”

“Yes, except that Linda and the Colonel were present and Brooke was not.”

“Where was he? Houseboat again?”

“Yes.”

“Phenomena as usual, Colonel?”

“Well, not quite. There weren’t any physical manifestations. Linda was extremely interested in automatic writing, and Madame Rappourt confined herself largely to that.”

“Go on, Arnold. Henderson took Floyd in?”

“Yes. Floyd didn’t say where he was going, but he did apparently intend to return, because he told Henderson he might be late and would take the water taxi back.”

“Any guesses as to where we might look?”

Arnold nodded. “One, yes. There’s a show girl at the Montmarte Club who might know. Doris Dawn. Floyd has a fairly regular binge schedule, and he seldom staggers back until the next day. But it’s well over twenty-four hours now, and that is unusual. Only other time was when he started a brawl, slugged a man he hadn’t been properly introduced to, and woke up a day later in a hospital suffering from a bullet wound and under arrest. Gentleman he tangled with turned out to be a well-known professional gunman on his night off. But even then he phoned out for bail.” Arnold related this with some relish. He was obviously not too fond of Floyd.

“That would happen at the Montmarte Club,” Merlini said. “If we ever contact mainland again we’ll check with Miss Dawn and the hospitals.”

On those words the front door opened and Henderson came in from the hall. “I can’t raise anyone on North Brother,” he announced, addressing Arnold. “The rain’s stopped, but the visibility is bad. Fog. We’ll have to wait until it clears.”

“All right, thanks. But keep an eye out and if it does clear, get busy. We must get the police as soon as possible.”

He nodded and started to go when Merlini asked, “What trips did you make into town today, Henderson?”

Henderson glanced at Arnold before replying, but at the latter’s nod, said promptly, “I went in at eight for the mail. I took Colonel Watrous in at noon, Miss Verrill and Mr. Lamb just after lunch, about two. I brought the Colonel and Mr. Lamb back on my six o’clock trip, and I got Miss Verrill at 8:30. That’s all.”

“What did you do then?”

“I locked the boathouse, played a game or two of Russian bank with my wife, listened to the radio some, and we were just going to bed as Miss Verrill pounded on our door.”

“You and Mrs. Henderson were together all the time, then, from 8:30 on?”

“Yes.”

“Notice any signs of anyone else on the island at any time today or tonight?”

“No. Only that man in the motorboat.”

Merlini nodded, thanked Henderson, and turned to Arnold. I could think of a lot of other questions that needed answering, but Merlini, who always gets along with a scandalously small amount of sleep, suddenly suggested bed.

“There’s not a lot more we can do before the police arrive,” he said. “Some of my questions don’t seem to get replies, and I have no authority to force them.”

Ira Brooke seemed to think the shoe fitted. “I’m glad you understand my opinion,” he said stiffly. “If the police want to know certain things you seem to be interested in, that may be a different matter. I shouldn’t wonder that they’d also like to know what you two—” he glanced suspiciously at me—“are doing on this island and how you spent your time the last few hours.” He exited on that, going determinedly upstairs.

Merlini watched him go, smiling. “Trouble is, he’s right.” Then, to Arnold: “Harte and I can camp here in the living-room if we may. The davenport looks comfortable.”

Arnold objected solicitously. “No. There aren’t any unoccupied guest rooms, but you can have Floyd’s. If he shows up, that’s his hard luck.”

I was afraid Merlini had some ulterior motive for sleeping downstairs and would insist on the davenport. Bed, I suddenly realized, was going to feel awfully good. But be made no objection, and when Dr. Gail had said good-night and had gone out, Arnold took us upstairs. Sigrid and Colonel Watrous said good-night in the hall as Arnold showed us into Floyd’s room, directly across from Linda’s where the Do Not Disturb card still hung on the doorknob. My first look, as Arnold switched on the lights, made me glance at Merlini, half expecting to catch him just finishing the cabalistic pass or still muttering the mystic spell that had magically transported us to the 17th century — or at least to the pirate wing of some museum. Colonel Watrous had mentioned Floyd’s collection, but I wasn’t prepared for this.

The bed and dresser, furniture of importance in any ordinary bedroom, were entirely subordinated, almost out of place. Above the bed a great flag stretched across the wall, carrying on its torn and tattered black ground the familiar device of skull and crossbones. The remaining wall space was almost completely filled with framed maps, naïvely drawn woodcuts and engravings of galleons and low rakish craft, a yellowed poster whose thick block letters announced that $100 would be paid for the capture of Stede Bonnett, and many smaller flags. A blood-red pennant near the door bore a bunch of white and green ribbons, and the small card tacked beneath it read, Captain Bartholomew Sharp, 1652–1692.

There were two massive chairs of Spanish workmanship, a great iron-bound sea chest and a glass-covered bookcase. A row of display cases along the left-hand wall added to the museum feeling. I glanced over them quickly. The first held a collection of small arms, swords, daggers, and pistols, all richly ornamented. One sword hilt, without blade, was almost unrecognizably misshapen, and the card beside it read, Found on the site of old Panama, sacked and fired by Henry Morgan, 1671. The second case contained bits of ore and numerous small barbaric ornaments, earrings and bracelets, whose cards bore such names as Valverde and Titicaca. The third case held coins. Pieces of eight, doubloons, onzas, cross money, and several guineas, but none dated as late as 1779, and all of a slightly different design from the ones I had found.

Arnold commented on the exhibit and seemed talkative, but Merlini appeared very sleepy and made few answers. Arnold left after a moment, and with the closing of the door Merlini’s sleepiness promptly vanished.

“Floyd’s going to prove interesting,” he said. “People with hobbies usually are, unless it’s match covers. Buccaneers and buried treasure is one I could go for myself.”

Then he proceeded to contradict himself completely with a one-man imitation of the whole Federal Bureau of Investigation that included a thorough examination of everything but the piracy display. He started in the bathroom where he poked about in the medicine cabinet and then, returning, began to go methodically through Floyd’s dresser drawers. His swift and eager display of energy made me sleepier than ever. I pulled off my coat, vest, and tie and began unbuttoning my shirt.

“Lose something?” I asked.

He looked around, and then, with surprise, said, “What are you doing?”

“Undressing,” I explained. “I sleep better that way. Find any pajamas?”

“Do you mean to tell me—” he began.

“Yes.” I cut him off short. “I do. I’m way behind on sleep. I’ve been blackjacked. I’ve had to put up with peg-legged ghosts and corpses. I’ve had fires set under me and guns waved in my face. I’m going to take a nice warm shower and sleep it off. Wake me when the marines have landed.”

“I see,” he said, apparently giving in. “Do me a favor?”

“Not without knowing what, I won’t. That’s how this all started.”

“Do your undressing over there in front of the window.”

“I will not! If you’re going to bust out with an exhibitionist complex you can do your own strip tease. What’s the idea?”

“Pull the shade and stand between it and the light so your shadow falls on it. Forget your girlish modesty for once.”

“Oh, so,” I said. “Someone may be watching. And if it’s the murderer, how do you know he won’t take this opportunity for a little target practice?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I said to draw the shade. The light’s at one side. If he shoots at your shadow, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll hit you.”

“Thoughtful, aren’t you?”

Merlini opened the door of a large wardrobe and disclosed a close-set row of the very best in men’s haberdashery. Floyd’s taste ran to bright colors and fancy checks.

“Besides,” Merlini added, his voice muffled, as his head pushed in among the clothes. “This murderer is a poisoner. I don’t really think he’ll shoot.”

“There are poisoned arrows.”

“Stop arguing and get at it.”

I realized he was serious about it, and followed instructions. The shooting didn’t come off. I stepped into the bathroom and under a warm shower. I had just finished toweling myself when Merlini looked in.

“Finished? Good.” He reached around and snapped the light switch, leaving me in darkness.

The bedroom light went out next, and I heard him raise the shade and open the window.

“Now what?” I said crossly from the doorway. “Are you going to sleep in your clothes?”

“No. We don’t sleep. Get dressed and keep it quiet. We’re supposed to be in bed.”

“I’ll be damned if I will!”

“And sorry if you don’t. I’m going to do a spot of high-class burgling. You write detective stories. Here’s your chance to see how the Compleat Burglar does it.”

“Do it in the morning. I want sleep.”

“Burglary is a nocturnal pursuit. Aren’t you interested in this case at all?”

“I don’t like it,” I growled. “It’s screwy. It’s a painting by Dali. The surrealism murder. Footprints on the ceiling! Bah! Limp watches and six-legged mutton chops! Murder in Wonderland!” But I climbed into my pants just the same.

“Sure it wasn’t something you ate? Which reminds me—”

I heard the click of the catches as he opened the suitcase, the rustle of waxed paper, and the liquid sound of a bottle being decanted. I reached out in the dark and fumbled for some.

“I thought this case had all the elements you like,” he said.

“I’m not so sure,” I argued doubtfully. “Look what we’ve got. A corpse, presumably poisoned. And with cyanide. I’ve done a little research on murder methods lately — thinking about doing a mystery melodrama. And, in case you don’t know, that’s a suicide’s poison. It’s by far the most popular poison, with its nearest competitors — lysol and bichloride of mercury — not even close runners-up. Three and a half to four percent of all New York City suicides vote for it. And it practically never occurs in homicide, except in detective stories. Did you notice what sort of bottle she had?”

“Yes. I’ve got it in my pocket. It originally held nail polish and there are some other cosmetics of the same brand on her dressing table.”

“Exactly. A nail-polish bottle is just the sort of thing a would-be suicide might hide a cache of poison in. I can’t somehow see a murderer confronting his victim with, ‘Here, have a snort of this rare old nail polish.’ Linda may have been balmy, but a nail-polish-drinking complex is a new one on me.”

“What’s this?” Merlini asked. “Are you making out a case for suicide? Or just pointing out how clever the murderer was when he faked the appearance of suicide?”

“I don’t know exactly. Certainly not that last. I wouldn’t say that in faking a suicide it was so very clever to leave footprints on the ceiling. Lighting fires, cutting phones, scuttling boats, and taking it on the lam in a noisy motor-boat certainly don’t lull suspicion of murder either. As for leaving the body in the wrong place by a couple of hundred yards — clever! He must be a damn-fool idiot!”

“Or else?” Merlini suggested.

“Or else he didn’t know she was an agoraphobe.”

“A fact that everyone we’ve met to date seems to have been quite aware of.”

“That’s why I said I didn’t think I liked this case. It even eliminates the mysteriously absent Floyd. It alibis every single one of as nice a kettle of suspects as I have ever seen. You know what the isolation device in detective fiction is? The author puts all his suspects at a week-end party miles out on the Sussex downs. Or in an office building sixty-odd stories up and no elevators running, the only door jammed. Or on a mountain top surrounded by a forest fire — I’m not making those up, they’ve all been used — or on shipboard, or in a plane, or — on an island. And why? So that when the body is found it will be obvious at once, even to the village constable, that the culprit is among those present.”

“Yes. It skips several uninteresting chapters in which the police go to great trouble eliminating all the professional crooks that might be around. Simplification.”

“Sure. And what happens here? I ask you. Everybody on a nice handy island completely surrounded by water, boats all sunk. So far, fine and dandy. But, because the corpse has a rare mental disease that everyone knows about, and since none of them appear to be nitwits enough to have faked a suicide and slipped up on the biggest detail of all, it lets them out. Every last one of them! When the Inspector goes to work tomorrow, all he has to do is run through his filing cabinet and pick out someone named Boston Joe, Harry the Dip, or Dopehead Charlie. Anybody and everybody could have done it except the people who might make it a good yarn.”

“You’re lazy, Ross. You want your murders dished up, all laid out for writing, a kick at the end of each chapter, an even 75,000 words, good installment breaks, a movie angle, and a socko finish. And I’m not so sure but what you’ve got it and don’t know it. Here, have some more Scotch. Those footprints. Any ideas there?”

“Sure, The guy that made ’em is twelve feet tall and can walk on his hands. List of suspects narrowed down no end. We just circularize the circuses and find out which giant answers the description. Element’ry, my dear Watson. But you do have an idea. I can smell it. Trot her out.”

“Years ago,” he said reflectively, “when barber shops were supplied with reading matter instead of picture magazines, I ran across a story in one of the weird-story pulps that deserved a better fate. Its hero was struck by a bolt of lightning. Instead of killing him, it played merry hell with his personal gravitational field. Twisted it all around. His friends just managed to get him indoors before he floated off. But they couldn’t keep him down. He was, suddenly, the exception that proved Isaac Newton’s little rule. The earth repelled rather than attracted him. Awful predicament. They had to screw a table, chairs, and a bed to the ceiling, and he lived there, upside down. For him, the ceiling was the floor, and everything that wasn’t fastened down promptly fell up—to the floor. He had to eat off the underside of his table and drink his coffee with the cup bottomside up. Inconvenient as anything. And the story ended on a lovely little note of horror. Can you guess what?”

“He went to Hollywood,” I hazarded.

“Worse,” Merlini said. “He looked out the window. Can you visualize what he saw? Trees growing upside down. The earth, solid and heavy, pressing down horribly, close overhead. And below, a sheer, terrifying drop of uncounted millions of light years — the whole length of the universe! It got him finally. His friends came in one day and found he’d disappeared. The window was open at the top.”

“And that, I hope, concludes our broadcast for this evening. The Man From Mars will be with you again tomorrow night in another — That’s funny. Third time tonight.”

I could sense Merlini’s start of interest.

“Third time for what?” he asked sharply.

“Windows open at the top. Once at the haunted house and again — when I crashed that séance in the living-room downstairs tonight, one of the windows—”

From somewhere beyond the foot of the bed came a small faint sound of sliding metal. A vertical slit of light appeared suddenly in the wall, then widened as the door slowly opened.

Before either of us could move, a man slipped in through the narrow opening and, as it closed behind him, was lost in the dark.

My hand moved on the bed, hunting for the flashlight I knew lay there somewhere.

“Merlini!” The whisper was low, but recognizable.

“Here,” Merlini said softly. “Watrous?”

“Yes. I just saw someone on the sun deck crawl in the window of Linda’s room.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Man.”

“Good. Clear the decks for action.” His chair creaked lightly as he got up. “Where are those flashlights, Ross?”

“I’ve got one here,” I said. “There’s another on the dresser.” I aimed my flash in that direction and snapped it briefly.

“Thanks,” Merlini said. “Got it. Now. Quiet like mice.”

After a moment the streak of light along the edge of the door appeared again, and I saw Merlini’s figure against it, listening. I started to move toward him when the light slit vanished and the faint creak of a hinge came from the hall where another door opened. Soft footsteps moved outside and stopped before our door.

The skin along the back of my neck tightened. I held my torch ready. But Merlini made no move.

The footsteps sounded again, quietly, receding down the hall.

Merlini’s whisper came finally, “You two stick here.”

The door swung in. He edged out into the hall and disappeared. He left the door open behind him. I went cautiously across and peered out.

He was moving carefully down the corridor away from me. At the corner where the head of the stairs began, he stopped and flattened against the wall.

Across the hall the door of Linda’s room stood half open. Watrous stood close behind me, one hand on my shoulder.

A sound came from downstairs then, the muffled clicking of a phone being dialed, and, after a short silence, the indistinct murmur of a voice. The conversation was brief, and when the voice stopped abruptly, Merlini quickly returned. We closed the door and stood behind it, trying, all three at once, to peer out through the narrowest of cracks.

“When he comes into the light at the top of the stairs,” Merlini ordered, his lips against my ear, we go out. Have that gun where it shows.”

The quiet, previously unnoticed tipping of the clock on Floyd’s dresser swelled, loud in the silence, and much slower. I heard the Colonel’s heavy breathing and felt the tense alertness where my shoulder touched Merlini’s. A full minute passed, that seemed like ten — and nothing happened. Once I thought I heard a distant rattle that might have been the turning of a knob and the sliding of a bolt.…

Merlini breathed a soft, sudden “Damn!” and jerked the door wide. He pointed at Linda’s door, his voice still low.

“In there, Colonel,” he commanded. “At the window. If anyone shows on that sun deck, yell out.”

I followed him at a swift, silent double-quick down the carpeted stairs. The library was dark. Merlini’s flash clicked, made one hasty circuit of the room, and snapped off.

“Those French windows,” he said. “He went out that way. Take a look.” I heard him snatch at the phone and begin dialing.

I reached the window, pulled it open, and stood part way out, seeing nothing in the black.

“Operator, give me Bronx 6-3824 and hurry it; police speaking.… Someone replaced that missing length of wire, Ross. I rather expected that. And he may try to make way with it again so… Hello. You, Gavigan? Merlini speaking. Listen hard. And get it all the first time. Ross Harte and myself are sitting right smack in the middle of as pretty a murder investigation as you ever saw. And we need help. How we need help!.. No, it’s not a gag. Shut up and listen. We’re on Skelton Island in the East River with all the boats scuttled and the phone disconnected until a minute ago. And it may go out again any moment. We’ve turned up one murder, a spot of arson, some grand suspects — one of them planning to fly out at dawn. Canada, he said. Your cue — hello!”

He clicked the phone. “Hello!” I heard him hang up. “Line’s dead again. Out with you.”

His light shot out and we plunged through the window,” racing for the sun-deck stairs.

A dark, thin line of black slithered down past my face, and I tripped, the phone wire tangling about my feet. Merlini passed me as I dropped, caught myself on extended hands, and sprang up almost without pause.

When my head came above the upper level, he was running down the stretch of empty sun deck toward the place where it curved out of sight around the corner. He hurdled a deck chair, stopped sharply at the corner, and put his head around, his light moving. Then he hurried back to where I stood before the window of Linda’s room. It was open. Inside there was only blackness and silence.

The bright finger of his light reached in, touched the sheeted body in the chair, and the flat, still body of Colonel Watrous on the floor. He lay face down, heels toward the window. The light glistened on the bright, shattered bits of his glasses in the carpet and on a wet, red stain behind his right ear.

We crossed the sill. Merlini knelt by the body and pulled it over onto its back.

“Bathroom, Ross! Water!” His light indicated a door.

Water spilled from the glass as I ran back. Merlini held Watrous in a half-sitting position, one arm around his shoulders. The man’s head hung back loosely, chin toward the ceiling, mouth open. But I saw his eyelids flicker.

A new voice from the window said coldly, “What the hell are you—?”

Lamb stood there, staring in. Then he lifted one leg and put it across the sill. Except for his coat, he was fully dressed.

The Colonel moaned slightly as the water hit him, and spluttered into the glass as Merlini tilted it before his lips. Then, dazedly, he sat straight; and one hand fumbled at his head. His face without the pince-nez seemed oddly nude and his eyes watered.

“You’ll feel better in a minute, Colonel,” Merlini said. “Someone gave you a nasty sock, but I don’t think it broke anything.” He switched on a small bedside light and brought a first-aid box from the bathroom. He applied cotton and antiseptic to Watrous’s head. I opened a can of adhesive and ripped off a piece.

Lamb said, “What happened?”

The Colonel looked at Merlini. “Who — Did you see him?”

“No. Didn’t you?”

“No.” The Colonel’s voice was shaky. “Window open when I came in. Couldn’t see all of sun deck without putting head out. Gun poked out around edge of window. Voice, man’s voice, whispered, ‘Quiet! Stand up! Turn around!’ I did. I heard him come in. Then something hit me. That’s all I — my glasses — where—?” His fingers touched the broken pieces on the floor.

“Your window open on the sun deck, Lamb?” I asked.

“Yes. Sat smack in front of it smoking a cigar. Couldn’t sleep: Heard you running like hell. Saw flashlight. Thought I’d better come see.”

“Your room’s around the corner, at the back?” Merlini asked.

“Yes.”

“No one come your way and drop off the sun deck?”

“He disappeared damn quick,” I said. “He must have been up here working at that wire when we came out. What other windows open off the sun deck?”

Lamb answered, “Watrous’s, Rappourt’s. Around back near mine. But Arnold’s is the next one over.” He turned back to the window and looked out. “Wonder why he hasn’t heard this?”

“Whoever it was,” Merlini stated, “could have gone on through this room and into any of the others on the other side of the house. Down and out the front door for that matter. There aren’t any alibis. Headache, Colonel?”

Watrous had pulled himself shakily to his feet and stood, one hand holding tightly to the back of a chair. “Yes,” he said.

“Get him to his room, Ross. Give him these.” Merlini handed me two capsules.

Watrous said, “No, I’m all right. We’ll have to look around. Must find out—”

“Well take care of it, Colonel. You sleep it off. Go on. You’re no good without your glasses anyway.”

He protested a bit more. “I’ve some others. I—” Then he wavered a bit. “All right,” he said, giving in.

I took him to his room and put him to bed.

When I got back, Merlini stood in the hall before the closed door of Linda’s room, arguing in a low whisper with Lamb.

“You get into your room,” he said, “and stay there. I’ll handle this. No use waking the others. It’s too late. We wouldn’t learn a thing.” Merlini put his hand on the knob of Floyd’s door.

“I don’t like this at all,” Lamb growled. He looked at us both suspiciously. “How the hell do I know—?” Then he shrugged his heavy shoulders and walked quickly along the hail to his room at the end.

Merlini waited until the door had closed after him. Then: “Quick, back in there.” His head jerked toward Linda’s door.

I slid in and he followed, pulling the door to, softly.

“No lights,” he said, “and pull that shade.”

As I did so, he locked the door to the hall. Then his flash blinked on, and I saw him take an automatic from his pocket, look at it interestedly for a brief moment, and re-pocket it.

“We’d better get at that burglary I mentioned, before something else happens.” He crossed the room.

“Where did you get that gun?”

“It’s Lamb’s.” He lifted a framed Bakst costume sketch from the wall and disclosed the black, square and shiny dial of a small wall safe.

“What tuition do you charge for a course of pickpocket lessons? I’d like to sign up. It makes detecting so simple.”

“I’m not giving one this semester,” he said. “Here, hold this light for me. I’ll demonstrate the ABC’s of safe cracking.”

From his vest pocket he took what I thought, at first, was a watch, until I noticed that its face carried only a single sensitive hand that quivered as he held it.

“Harry Houdini gave me this little gadget,” he said. “It’s the only one there is — which is just as well.”

On one edge of the dial where the winder of a watch would be, was a small cup-shaped projection. He held this against the face of the safe and moved it about, turning the safe’s dial with his other hand. Finally he held it on one spot and then turned the lock dial slowly, watching the small hand that wavered and, now and again, jumped slightly. When this happened, he twisted the dial in the opposite direction.

“What do you expect to find in there?” I asked.

“Loot, of course. Maybe a motive. I don’t know. There.”

He pulled at the door, and it swung out. He took the flashlight and directed it at the safe’s interior. His arm reached in and brought out three school slates like the one we had seen before. Handing them to me, he explored again, fishing out a checkbook and a letter-size leather case.

He ran quickly through the check stubs. “Nothing much there,” he said. “A $100 check to Rappourt marked Contribution Psychical Society, but the rest all innocent enough.”

He opened the leather case and removed a crisp legal document. I saw the printed words on the face: The Last Will and Testament of—and the typewritten name, Linda May Skelton.

As he looked quickly through the document, I started to examine the slates. Chalked on the first was a scraggly uncertain outline of Skelton Island and, in the corner, a somewhat florid signature that I made out as Capt. Pole.

Halfway through the small, scratchy handwriting of the message that covered the second slate, Bow at 108 feet beam 112 four feet silt two tar—, I stopped suddenly and put the slate down. I took Merlini by the arm and drew him hastily toward the window. “See that?” I asked.

Toward the left, along the shore, and back a bit from the water we could see the lighted square of a window. And it blinked irregularly, but purposefully, on and off — Dots and dashes!

“So, someone does know Morse code after all,” Merlini said softly. “Ross, why weren’t you a boy scout?”

“Didn’t know what I was missing,” I said. “Sorry. I’ll join up tomorrow. That’s Doc Gail’s place isn’t it? Do we pay him a call?”

“Thought you were sleepy?” he chuckled. “Yes, I think we do.”

The doctor’s cottage was a small summer affair close by the shore, perhaps 100 yards from the larger house. The lighted window, as we drew near, still blinked monotonously, sending its cryptic message out across the water. During the lighted intervals, now, we could see Dr. Gail. Wearing a dark blue dressing gown and slippers, he stood by the light switch with his right hand on the button. His left held a sheet of note paper that he watched carefully.

Merlini’s knuckles rapped sharply against the door. The dots and dashes stopped abruptly, leaving the room in darkness.

After a short silence, the Doctor’s voice called out: “Who is it?”

“Man from the light company,” answered Merlini. “Noticed you were having trouble.”

The light came on, footsteps crossed the room, and the Doctor smiled at us from the open door. “Come in. You gave me a start for a moment. Thought perhaps it might be the murderer.”

Merlini marched in, past him.

“Maybe it is,” he replied.

Dr. Gail blinked a bit at that. “I’ll take a chance. You’re company at any rate. I rent this place from Miss Skelton and come out here week-ends mainly for solitude. Somehow that doesn’t seem to be what I want tonight.”

Merlini indicated the paper the Doctor still held in his hand. “May I see that, please?”

“What? Oh, of course.” He handed it over, looked at us both for a moment through narrowed eyes, and then grinned widely. “Mysterious signals in the night arouse suspicion because no one admitted knowing Morse code. Investigators investigate.” He nodded at the paper. “I hope that clears me?”

I looked over Merlini’s shoulder. On the paper, printed in pencil and widely spaced were the letters: SOS SEND POLICE SKELTON ISLAND HURRY. Each letter had beneath it a combination of dots and dashes, the first few like this:

“I don’t know the code,” Gail continued, “but after I’d returned here it suddenly occurred to me that the encyclopedia should have it. It does.” He pointed at a volume of the Britannica that lay open on the table. “And since the visibility has cleared somewhat in the last hour — you can make out the lights on shore now — I thought it was just possible someone might catch on. And we could do with the police, you know.”

“I see,” Merlini said pleasantly. “Sure this is what you were sending?”

“Yes, at least, that’s what I hope I was sending. Though God knows what a professional telegrapher would think of it. And I was getting awfully bored. Perhaps one of you would like to have a go at it?”

“It won’t be necessary,” Merlini explained casually. “We managed to phone in.”

“Phone? How?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“The person who cut the line kindly repaired it for us. Is that coffee I smell?”

“The person — Who was it?”

“He didn’t wait for us to thank him.” Merlini turned his back, dismissing the subject, and glanced interestedly about at the books which overflowed the room.

“Oh.” Gail sent a sharp look at his back. “I see. Yes, it’s coffee. It’ll be right out.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

The living-room was a pleasant, cheerful place with an open fireplace, deep, comfortable armchairs, and a sufficient number of ash trays scattered about. Two bookcases were filled to capacity and beyond. There were books on the tables, in the chairs, and stacked in crooked towers in the corners. The larger share of them were technical works on psychology and related subjects, though here and there I glimpsed others that indicated a wide and catholic taste. One lower bookcase shelf held a whole row of brightly jacketed detective stories.

Merlini removed a stack of psychology journals from one of the chairs and sat down. As he lighted a cigarette, his eyes, above the match flame, slid sideways and looked down at something on a small end table beside his chair. Dropping his match into an ash tray, he glanced up thoughtfully at the kitchen door, his slightly tilted smile showing across his mouth.

The Doctor entered carrying a tray that held coffee, cups, cream, and sugar. As he placed them on the center table, I came forward from the bookshelves and circled Merlini’s chair, a surreptitious eye cast downward. Two letters lay there bearing similar inscriptions, both addressed to Mr. Gordon Williams, c/o G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 2 West 45th Street, New York City. In each case the name and address had been crossed out and a new one written in ink alongside: Dr. William Gail, 56 East 65th Street, New York City.

I took my coffee black. Merlini lay in his chair, his long legs protruding an unheard-of distance. Dr. Gail poured silently and with a slightly grim air.

Merlini took his cup and held it cradled in his hands, warming them. “There’s one point that must be settled at once. You, Doctor, said tonight that Miss Skelton would never have gone up to that house alive and under her own power. You sounded pretty positive. Are we to understand that there could have been no exceptions at all?”

Gail struck a match with his thumbnail, applied it to his cigarette, and then pitched it into the fireplace. “Know much about agoraphobia?”

Merlini shook his head. “Never heard of it until tonight.”

“All right. We’ll start from scratch. The word means ‘fear of assembly.’ A more exact term, in Linda’s instance, would be topophobia, fear of place. It’s an anxiety hysteria that springs from some childhood experience which gave her a terrific, disruptive emotional shock, and has played merry hell with her neural patterns almost ever since. For the patient, the fear is a mysterious thing with no apparent reason. The causative experience, long forgotten, remains buried in the subconscious mind while its emotional effect, seizures of uncontrollable terror, bursts from time to time into the consciousness.”

Dr. Gail leaned back in his chair and fished a book from the shelves behind him. “Leonard, its most articulate victim, described it in The Locomotive God far better than I can.” He thumbed quickly through the pages, found a passage, and read, “ ‘At times this emotional effect remains merely a diffused state of terror, in intensity running the whole scale from vague anxiety to intensest feeling of impending death; and the agonized mind stands balked of any explanation whatever.… my phobic seizures at their worst approach any limits of terror that the human mind is capable of in the actual presence of death in its most horrible forms.’ ” Gail looked up. “That gives you a rough idea.”

“Yes, quite,” Merlini said seriously. “What would have happened had Miss Skelton been taken forcibly beyond her given limit?”

“A number of things. The outward symptoms might be one or more of the following: palpitation of the heart, shivering, vomiting, exaggerated flushing of the face, dry mouth, cold and clammy sweating, accelerated intestinal and urinary action, hysterical fainting, unconsciousness, and even catalepsy. In Linda’s case I should fully expect a collapse from nervous exhaustion, quite possibly resulting in complete insanity or simple death from pure fright.”

“That,” I interposed with a sudden technical interest, “sounds like a novel murder method for a detective story. Murderer, forcing agoraphobe out of bounds, frightens her to death. Then moves body back again. Medical examiner diagnoses heart failure, It’s neat and simple, and the cops would have a pretty time trying to prove murder.”

Gail smiled, “Yes. That’s all right — for fiction, There’s an even better agoraphobe plot though. Use the phobia as a motive. The murderer has it. Within his prescribed area he has a job. Someone who dislikes him tries to get him fired. See the situation? His livelihood depends on the position; if he loses it he can’t hop on a train like anyone else and go look for one somewhere else. He’s irrevocably sunk. He kills his enemy as a simple matter of self-preservation. And if you can devise a long-distance murder, so that the victim meets death out beyond the boundary which the murderer cannot cross — you’ve given him a neat alibi.”

“And the other agoraphobe variation,” Merlini said slowly, “is the one we’ve got. Any ideas about that, Doctor?”

The latter carefully ground out his cigarette in an ash tray. Then, seeing my cup empty, he indicated the coffee pot and said, “Help yourself, Harte.” He lighted another cigarette before he replied in a careful voice, “Yes, I have.”

Merlini said nothing, waiting. The Doctor went on.

“I can’t tell you who poisoned Linda, but — well, if I were you I wouldn’t eliminate everyone who knew she was an agoraphobe, just because her body was in the wrong place. Not right off the bat, anyhow.”

“You suspect that’s what the murderer wants us to do?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. The murderer kills her, fakes the appearance of suicide, and then puts the body in the wrong place. The position of the body not only explodes the false suicide, but at the same time indicates that the murderer was someone who knew no better than to fake a suicide in the wrong place. The obvious explanation, and, being simpler, the one the police would prefer. The agoraphobia is then neither means nor motive, but alibi. That the general idea?”

“Yes. It explains the appearance of suicide.”

Merlini frowned at him. “Doctor, I hope you didn’t kill her. Because if you did I can see it’s going to be difficult.”

Gail said coolly, “As a matter of fact, I didn’t, but I shouldn’t be surprised if it turns out to be difficult just the same.”

“You suspect someone?”

The Doctor hesitated. “Perhaps. But it’s only that. I couldn’t suggest a name at this point.”

“But you might — later?”

“I might.” Gail didn’t seem too positive. He scowled at the floor; then, studying Merlini’s face, asked, “Do you believe there are any justifiable instances of murder?”

Merlini shook his head. “That’s a leading question. I beg to be excused on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. I take it you do?”

“Your reason for not answering—”the Doctor smiled—“is as good as any.”

“You shouldn’t have mentioned it. Let’s get back to Miss Skelton, shall we? Had you any hope of effecting a cure?”

“No. Frankly, I did not. No harm in trying though. You see, she was beginning to develop phobophobia, a fear of the fear itself. I was trying to prevent that, but phobias in the acute form of Linda’s are far out on the frontiers of abnormal psychology. There’s such a lot we don’t know yet. About all we can do is to try to drag the initial causative experience up out of the subconscious depths and put it where the patient can see and understand it. Linda’s acute condition dates from the opening night of her first Broadway appearance as an actress. She collapsed completely. Her most powerful emotional urge has been the desire to be a great actress. Instead of being an exhibitionist, she’s an agoraphobe, and her complete frustration merely makes matters worse. The acting scare was not the original one; only that which unleashed the phobia. Somewhere far back in her childhood — she may have been only two or three years old — some emotional fright occurred that burned itself deep into her brain.”

“But how can you get at something that has happened so far back and is so completely forgotten?”

The Doctor smiled broadly. “That, in a way, is right up your alley. The answer is: detective work and black magic. Detective work of a high order, too, if I do say so. You have to probe about through the human mind in a jungle of deviously intertangled and snarled complexities. You have to follow an old trail, using clues — a fifteen-year-old dream, for example — that may prove to be only a symbol for another clue. The labyrinth of false trails and blind alleys makes child’s play out of criminal detection. A study may last several years and provide an index of fifteen or twenty thousand recall items that have to be properly classified, co-ordinated, analyzed, and jigsawed together.”

“And the black magic?”

“Insanity used to be explained on the demoniac-possession theory. It’s a good theory, too, except that the demon is imaginary rather than real. Strangely enough, the technique that has been evolved for exorcising that demon is made up of some things most people think of as magical. It is necessary somehow to induce the subconscious or marginal mind to express itself freely and the methods of doing that—”

Merlini grunted. “Uh-huh. Methods which concern inverted drinking glasses hanging in mid-air. I see now. A dim light just behind the head, half-raised eyes, attention focused on the glass — in short, crystal gazing! Ross, Inspector Gavigan isn’t going to like this at all.”

“Neither do I,” I said doubtfully. “Do you have a turban, Doctor, and a robe with the zodiacal signs on it?”

“You see, Merlini?” He spread his hands helplessly. “No, Harte, sorry, nor any stuffed alligators. The phony sciences have been almost too thoroughly debunked. With all that smoke you don’t realize there is a little fire. You can look into a crystal and see visions, visions you’d swear were really there. I can prove that to you. Actually, of course the vision is not in the crystal, but in your head. It’s a self-induced, visual hallucination. The crystal gazer who thinks the vision is an external reality is only a magician playing tricks on himself.”

“I still don’t see where the psychoanalysis comes in,” I complained.

“Hallucinations are of subconscious origin. And that makes crystal gazing a method of tapping the subconscious memory, a method of getting at the long-past things the conscious mind has forgotten, but which the subconscious mind still holds.”

Merlini, somewhat fearfully I thought, asked, “And the other methods, Doctor?”

“Your Inspector won’t like those either. The complete list is: automatic writing, automatic speech, shell hearing — like crystal gazing, except that the hallucination is auditory rather than visual — twilight sleep, hypnosis, trances, and catalepsy. Since Linda Skelton paid me for services rendered, I fully expect that the Inspector will jug me for obtaining money through fraudulent mediumistic practices.”

Merlini almost shouted at him. “Did you say hypnosis?”

“Yes, but you don’t need to jump to the conclusion that Linda was hypnotized into going out of bounds. That’s out. She had a phobic resistance to any unconscious form of trance state. My clinical notes will prove that. We tried it. And she tried hard to co-operate, but with no success. There might be several reasons for that. She was operated on at one time as a child; it may be a persisting fear of anesthesia or it might be her peculiarly assertive personality or even the phobia’s own self-protective blockage.”

“But what did you use?”

“Crystal gazing and automatic writing were the most successful.”

Merlini frowned. “What effect has Madame Rappourt had on Linda?”

“Bad. That woman should be—” The Doctor stopped, shrugged his shoulders, and went on. “Linda wouldn’t believe the hallucinations were not real. She persisted in assigning spiritualistic causes. Pleased because she thought she had mediumistic powers. Rappourt and I have been at loggerheads, naturally.”

“And yet you let Linda take part in these séances?”

“Let her?” Gail grinned. “You didn’t know Linda. I’ve just mentioned her assertive personality. That was my innate politeness. Linda did what she damned well pleased, and if her doctor didn’t like it he could go climb a tree. Handling her was a problem, and mostly she didn’t handle. I continued with her case only because the phobia is rare and offered study possibilities.”

“What effect did the séances have?”

“They were definitely harmful. She had been hyper-excited and her interest had been so absorbed that my treatments had for the moment practically ceased. That happened once before. Last year she had a Hindu mystic on the place. He spouted reincarnation, Yogi breath control, mystic world cycles, and all the rest of it. His engagement terminated when the silverware in the house began to dematerialize.”

“Silverware.” Merlini sat up in his chair. “I knew I’d forgotten something. Ross, show him those coins of yours.”

I took the little box out and rolled the six gold guineas across the table. I saw the Doctor’s eyes grow round, and he looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.

“Where did you get those?”

“You might spin that story now, Ross,” Merlini said. “I’ve waited long enough.”

I settled back and gave it to them, from the phone booth to the crack on the head. I’ve never had a more attentive audience. Merlini lay back with his eyes closed, but I knew that his ears were wide open. Doctor Gail examined the coins, one at a time, his calm professional confidence fading as he listened, to be replaced by a frankly bewildered air.

When I had finished, Merlini sat up, and, without commenting on my yarn, produced the slates he had taken from the safe. Our previous examination, after seeing the Doctor’s light, had been hasty. He looked at them again, now, and passed them across one at a time to Gail.

“You’ve seen those guineas and heard Harte’s story,” he said. “I want you to look at these and tell me something.”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He looked at the slates. I moved around where I could see. On the first, the one bearing the map, I now noticed something I had missed before, an X-mark on the water just within the projecting arm of the island and about equally distant from either shore.

The complete message on the second slate read: Bow at 108 beam 112-four-feet silt two tar, superstructure projects slightly astern position lies 20 points off north by northeast. Pole. The handwriting had an odd, uneven, hesitant quality about it, and in several places some of the words overlapped each other. It looked very much as if it had been written by a disembodied spirit, or — by someone writing in the dark.

But the third message was the honey. Doctor Gail read it slowly aloud: “September 13, 1780, £380,000 transferred from H. M. S. Mercury and 14 cartloads specie from paymaster’s office in Cherry Street. This added to the large sum shipped at Dover made total in my care £960,000. Capt. Charles M. Pole.”

What hit me between the eyes was that date!

Dr. Gail’s voice attempted calmness, but it missed fire. “Where did you get these?” he asked Merlini.

“Found them kicking about down there.” Merlini nodded in the direction of the other house. I hadn’t known that articles locked in a safe could be described as kicking about but I let it pass.

“And you want to know?” Gail inquired slowly.

Merlini pulled himself up out of his chair and stood before the fireplace. “I want to know what it’s all about.”

In the early history of man the professions of medicine and of magic once merged in that common ancestor, the witch doctor. Both physician and magician have inherited from him a common trait, the poker face. Merlini’s is, of course, unexcelled; but Dr. Gail’s was a close second. Although his voice now seemed to express genuine surprise, his face neither agreed nor contradicted. “That’s a tall order, isn’t it? Why ask me?”

Merlini turned, picked a book off the mantelpiece, and dropped it on the table. The inscription on the backbone said: Treasure Hunters Holiday by Gordon Williams.

“I saw your mail,” Merlini explained. “Two letters, there by my chair, both addressed to Gordon Williams in care of his publishers and readdressed to you. You are Gordon Williams. In your off hours you’re an authority on lost treasures. And just now that’s what I’m beginning to suspect we need.”

Gail got up, retrieved the letters, and stuffed them in his pocket. “You’ve uncovered the skeleton in the Gail closet,” he said guiltily. “I’ve written two books and a number of magazine articles on the subject. I use the pen name to dodge the crank treasure hunters. Every time a book or article is published, they show up by the dozen loaded down with old maps, mostly worth about a few cents as old paper.”

“You and Floyd have a good bit in common then?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Only he doesn’t know it. His interest is genuine enough, but his motive is largely avaricious. He’s such an enthusiast, he’d have me talked into a treasure hunt before I knew it. Something I can’t afford. Anyone can do the research, but treasure hunting is a rich man’s hobby. International cup racing is cheaper; even if you lose, you still have the yacht. I’ve spent a few holidays nosing about in some of the better-authenticated spots, but I try to control myself. Floyd, on the other hand, has been stony lately because he dropped a lot into something called Caribbean Salvage Corporation. They were after the 50,000,000 or so in the 14 Spanish galleons that went down in 1715 off the Florida Keys.”

“Well what is it this time?” Merlini insisted. “Did Captain Skelton salt away some doubloons no one has uncovered yet? I saw no mention of that in the accounts I read of the Skelton-Boutell story?”

“No. You wouldn’t. Between ourselves and off the record I think there’s some possibility of that, but if anyone else has deduced it they’re keeping it quiet, like myself. That’s another reason I picked Skelton Island as a week-end residence. But this—” he indicated the guineas and the slates—“is something else again.” He picked up one of the coins and regarded it thoughtfully.

Merlini asked, “Those guineas the real McCoy?”

“Oh, yes. They’re real enough, but—” Gail bent again to examine the slate bearing the map. “You two might take a look at the map on the end papers of my book there.”

I drew it toward me and opened it out under the light. Merlini leaned above me. We saw a world map that carried, if one could believe the incredible legend below, an astonishing number of cross marks. The legend read: Lost Treasures of the World Estimated at $1,000,000 or More. Most of the X’s that marked the spots carried beside them figures, any one of which made the eyes pop.

“Of those treasures,” the Doctor said, “I think my ten favorites would include the great treasure fleet sunk in Vigo Bay with its estimated 100,000,000 to 800,000,000 of bullion; the 300,000,000 in the harbor of Cadiz; the 16 galleons with their 100,000,000 on the Silver Shoals; Bobadilla’s galleon with something variously estimated at between 2,000,000 and a round billion in gold and plate, and its ‘Golden Pig,’ the 3370-pound, world’s largest nugget; the several great pirate caches on Cocos; Alexander’s lost 65,000,000 to 300,000,000 in Bahawalpur in India; and the six fabulously incalculable Incan treasures: those in the sacrificial lakes of Titicaca and Guatavita; Valverde’s treasure; Atahualpa’s lost ransom with its 10-ton gold chain and the round dozen, life-size, golden statues from Cuzco’s Temple of the Sun; the hidden treasure of the holy city of Packakamak in Peru’s Valley of Lurin; the lost mine of Tisingal whose secret is still guarded by—”

“Could you tune in another station, Ross?” Merlini interrupted. “That’s the longest list of ten best I ever heard.”

“Sorry,” Gail grinned. “Ten was an understatement. And I can’t very well omit the 45 tons of silver Sir Francis Drake jettisoned off the Plate Isles because his Golden Hind had more than it could carry, or the mysteriously unaccounted-for Money Pits of Oak Island, or the six lost temples in the jungles of Kandeshi with their 10-foot idol loaded with diamonds and pearls, or the submerged pirate capital of Port Royal with its incredibly vast—”

“Hallucinations,” I said quickly, looking at Merlini, my forefinger describing a rotary motion about my right ear.

“He’s loco too.”

“Damned optimist anyway,” Merlini said.

Gail nodded cynically. “Sure, I know. The figures sound like an astronomer’s interstellar distances. Cut them in half, or even quarter them, to discount possible exaggeration — I don’t care. It’s still a tidy sum. Just the same I can show you a report of the U. S. Bureau of Mines which estimates that a total of $42,000,000,000 worth of gold was produced by the world between 1492 and 1933, and further states that about one half has dropped completely out of sight, most of it in shipwrecks. And remember that that $21,000,000,000 does not include any silver or precious stones and nothing before 1492. Figure it out for yourself.”

“I know, Ross,” Merlini guessed. “He’s a pick-and-shovel salesman in disguise.” He turned to Gail. “According to this pipe dream of a map, the coasts of Peru, Venezuela, Ecuador, Panama, and the Carribean Islands are literally sprinkled with gold and jewels. In many instances you actually give longitude and latitude. If the loot is located that exactly, why is it such an expensive job to get and why hasn’t more of it been salvaged?”

“I’m always answering that question. Wondered how soon you’d ask it. Answer is that the easy-to-get treasures have been gotten. You seldom hear about them because governments have a habit of annexing such large cuts that the successful finder keeps mum. The hard ones are left. Little things like sharks, deep and treacherous waters, poisoned coral, hurricanes, landslides, and hostile tribes guard the rest. Many of them never will be reached.”

“But there aren’t any hostile tribes or poisoned coral in the immediate vicinity of New, York City. What about these two fat little crosses you’ve plopped down here in the East River?”

“How do you suppose Hell Gate got its name?” Gail replied. “Treacherous waters. The tides between the Sound and the Ocean rip through such a narrow bottleneck that they are uncertain, swift, and dangerous. Which brings us finally to the point. I’ve been waiting for you to spot those crosses. The treasure hunter, you see, doesn’t have to traipse off to tropic seas. He has two nice sunken treasure ships right in his back yard, just a hop, skip, and jump from Radio City — and less from Skelton Island. You can look out over the water that covers them both from my kitchen window here.”

“How many millions this time?”

“Oh, just a few — The British frigate Lexington went down out there in the late eighteenth century carrying 4000 kegs of fine silver plate, half a ton of gold, and half a million Mexican dollars looted from Vera Cruz. The better-known Hussar contains specie estimated, according to different accounts, at anywhere from $1,000,000 to $8,000,000, with most authorities plumping for a figure of $4,800,000. And that’s the ship someone hereabouts would seem to be interested in. Her commanding officer was one Captain Charles M. Pole.”

“How do you get that 8,000,000 figure?” Merlini asked. “£960,000 times five doesn’t do it?”

“There was more gold in a guinea in those days. You can get about $8.50 apiece from a dealer, and at retail he’ll charge about $12.”

I groaned inwardly. The contents of that blasted suitcase were increasing in value by the minute.

“Do you think,” asked Merlini, “that you could give us a simple, condensed synopsis of the tragedy without making noises like an adding machine?”

The Doctor poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’ll try,” he grinned. “H.M.S. Hussar was a full-rigged frigate carrying 28 guns. She sailed from England with money to pay the long-overdue wages of the Hessian troops and anchored on September 13, 1780, in New York Harbor. She took on more specie from the British paymaster’s office in Cherry Street as the slate message states, although that transfer from the Mercury, another pay ship, is disputed by the authorities who stick to the 4,000,000 figure. The papers of the period say that there were 70 American prisoners of war chained in her hold, so that the money, however much there is, is well guarded by the traditional dead men.… The Hussar cleared a few days after her arrival for a destination somewhere along the Connecticut coast or possibly Newport, Rhode Island. She sailed without a pilot and was guided by a Negro slave named Swan. She struck Pot Rock, a reef near Randall’s Island that has since been blown up. Swan became frightened, leaped overboard, and swam for shore. Captain Pole carried on and tried to make the mouth of a small river that flowed into Hell Gate where 134th Street is now. But she began to sink rapidly, and he didn’t quite make it. He did manage to get a hawser fastened to a tree on shore, but the ship sank in about 70 feet of water and pulled the tree up by the roots.”

“Salvage attempts were made weren’t they?” Merlini asked.

Gail nodded. “A good many. The first attempts while her masts were still above water. But the diving equipment available at that time was no match for the tides. A diving-bell attempt in 1824 reached the wreck but salvaged nothing of importance. About 50 years afterward, an English expedition tried it — an interesting attempt because it contradicts the British Admiralty’s denial during the War of 1812 that the Hussar contained any treasure whatsoever. That statement has, of course, always been suspect, since the Admiralty had obvious motives for such a denial at that time. The location of the hulk was buoyed until 1850 and there were several other attempts. Pratt and Bancroft retrieved some cannon, clothing, and 35 guineas; Captain George Thomas, in 1880, got a concession from the Treasury Department to salvage, and sold stock in Treasure Trove, Inc.; and in 1900 some divers after a sunken yacht found the Hussar’s anchor.”

“Didn’t Simon Lake go after it a few years ago?” I put in. “I seem to remember some news stories.”

“Yes. He tried it most recently. He worked at it through the summers of 1934-36 and recovered exactly 86 cents in modern coins. By now, of course, the ship is pretty well silted over. Lake found three possible hulks in about the right spot, all covered with silt and a strata of tar which was pumped into the river by gas works in the years before they realized it was a valuable by-product. It may yet be salvaged, but that silt and tar along with the difficult currents will make it an expensive job — as I said, it’s the world’s most expensive hobby.”

“You said Thomas had a concession from the Government. Lake have one?” Merlini inquired.

“He was given one in 1933, and, as far as I know it still gives him first chance. The Federal Government controls all dredging and salvaging operations in rivers and harbors, and, in addition, in this instance, claims the Hussar as an enemy ship sunk during wartime in American waters. Lake’s contract agrees to give the Treasury 10 percent.”

“That,” Merlini said slowly, “is that. No wonder that crowd down there won’t open up and talk. They’re nosing about after the Hussar and they don’t have a permit. Eight million dollars — the spirits appear to accept the larger figure — is the darky in the woodpile. There should be a motive for murder in that. I think we’re going to be able to supply Gavigan with a nice, interesting set of questions for tomorrow. Why, if the treasure is the motive, was Linda the one to get the ax? I should think—” His voice trailed off thoughtfully.

“Wish you’d find out for me,” Gail said, “why the cross on that slate map is where it is. Will you?”

“Yes. It doesn’t check with your story, does it?”

“Not by about 300 yards. The Hussar has always been supposed to lie on the other shore, about 100 yards off 134th Street. Divining rods have been used to locate treasures, and, lately a radio device has proved very successful, but there aren’t many instances of treasure hunters using advice from the Beyond. One or two that I know of, but—”

“It sounds like a pretty good method to me,” I said.

Both poker faces relaxed long enough to let some surprise show through. Almost together, they both jumped me. “Why?”

“Because,” I observed, “a whole suitcase brimming over with genuine gold guineas looks just a wee bit as if someone may have been hunting about in the right place. That map on the slate could be a blind, you know.”

I started to light a cigarette as they thought that over, and stopped, with the match burning in my hand. The deep-throated roar of an airplane motor came from overhead, low at first, then quickly, nearer and louder.

“That’s the plane,” Merlini said, jumping’ to his feet. “And Gavigan’s not here yet! Let’s go!”

“Plane?” Dr. Gail said. “What plane?’

But he got no answer from us. Merlini and I were on our way out, running as if Lucifer and all his winged hosts were close at our heels.

Out beyond Long Island where the ocean lay, the new sun pushed up and splashed a fireman’s red across the sky. The early morning air was fresh, washed clean by the storm.

Merlini and I, running across the beach, saw the circling plane coast down in a slow glide and vanish behind the old house. Dr. Gail, who had stopped to exchange slippers for shoes, hurried after us, some distance behind, still in dressing gown and pajamas. Just as we neared the house, the plane’s dying motor picked up suddenly with an angry roar, and the plane came into view again, taxiing out across the water in the channel between North and South, Brother Islands. Red flame spurted from its exhaust as it lifted, skimmed above the dark water, and climbed. Revolver shots came from behind the house.

We rounded the corner together and saw a police cutter racing toward us. One man, gun still raised, looked after the retreating plane. The boat bumped heavily against the stone landing, and several grim-faced men tumbled out to surround another who stood at the water’s edge. We saw his hands go up as one of the men from the boat slapped at his pockets. He saw us first as we ran in.

“Hey,” he called. “Tell these guys to lay off.”

It was Lamb, an expression on his face after all. His dark heavy brows were flattened in an obstinate scowl; there were sleepless circles under his black eyes. I recognized the man who was frisking him — the cynical lean-jawed face of Captain Malloy. Standing back a bit from the huddle was a shorter man who must only just have topped the police requirement for height. He turned at Lamb’s shout and eyed us with frosty blue eyes from under the slanting brim of his fresh gray hat. Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Squad had arrived.

“Hello, Inspector,” Merlini greeted, “I see the Marines have landed. None too soon either.”

Gavigan nodded, a curt 5:30 a.m. nod. “Yes,” he said grumpily, “and I hope you have the situation well in hand? Hello, Ross.”

“No,” Merlini answered, “I’m afraid not. There’s been more plain and fancy hocus-pocus around here in the last few hours than you can shake a wand at. You’re a welcome sight.”

“Don’t tell me The Great Merlini is baffled,” Gavigan said with sudden interest. “We can’t have that. You’ll lose your Magicians’ Union card or something.”

Secretly I think the Inspector would have welcomed that possibility. His straightforward soul abhorred a mystery, and the deft sleight-of-hand of Merlini’s that could and did create impossibilities under his very nose annoyed him intensely. Merlini, puzzled, was a sight for his sore eyes.

Lamb’s voice broke in, protesting irritably, “May I take my arms down now, Inspector?”

Malloy stepped back, holding Lamb’s two guns, just as Dr. Gail hurried around the corner of the house and ran down the steps to the landing.

Gavigan threw the latter a quick look, and then, scowling at the display of armament, said to Lamb, “Cautious aren’t you? Who is he, Merlini?”

“Inspector Gavigan, Mr. Charles Lamb,” Merlini introduced. “And this is Dr. William Gail.”

“Charles Lamb?” Gavigan lifted an eyebrow. “Name’s familiar.”

Lamb was definitely not in a good humor this morning.

He growled, “Skip it. I know; he wrote essays. Sick of hearing about it every time I’m introduced.… What’s the idea of jumping me? What have I done?”

“I don’t know,” Gavigan snapped back. “Murder maybe. Where were you off to in that plane?”

“Me?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I wasn’t going anywhere, though I’m beginning to think I’d like to. I heard the plane and ran out to see what it was all about. Thought perhaps I could flag the pilot and tell him we needed help out here. But I see we have it.” His tone of voice indicated that he didn’t think much of it.

“Didn’t take you long to dress and get out here after you heard it, did it?”

“Why pick on me?” Lamb looked at Merlini and myself. “Other people show up damned quick and all dressed. I didn’t have to dress. I didn’t go to bed. Couldn’t sleep after the excitement last night.” He brought out his pill box again and popped another of the pink pills into his mouth.

So excitable he couldn’t sleep — that, I thought, was a laugh, coming from the dead-pan Mr. Lamb.

Gavigan took Merlini by the arm and led him off several paces, where they spoke for several minutes in a hurried undertone. The rest of us were silent, watching.

The Inspector called suddenly, “Brady, Hunter!”

Two detectives went toward him, listened to some rapid orders, and left us on a run.

Gavigan faced Lamb again and asked in a brisk, no-nonsense tone of voice, “Occupation?”

I saw Quinn, the squad’s shorthand expert, move over slightly, out of Lamb’s line of sight, and go to work with notebook and pencil.

Lamb answered flatly, “Unemployed.”

“And before that?”

“I take a flyer in the market now and then.”

“Address?”

“Skelton Island.”

“And before that?”

Lamb seemed to be watching the Inspector’s feet, his eyes hidden behind the heavy lowered lids. He hesitated, then answered, “314 South Front Street, Auckland, New Zealand.”

“Been around a bit, have you?”

Lamb grunted vaguely.

“Ever consider visiting Canada?” Gavigan asked quietly.

Lamb’s eyes came up to meet the Inspector’s. “Canada? No. Recommend it?”

Gavigan was using that smooth, polite tone of his. “This isn’t getting you anywhere, Lamb.”

The fat man’s mouth moved faintly in what might have been the start of a smile. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. That was your idea.”

“You’ll have to talk when I catch up with the pilot of that plane, you know.”

Lamb blew up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he protested scornfully, “I know nothing about that plane or its pilot. I’ve answered all the questions you’ve asked and I don’t intend to answer any more like the last ones. There was a murder around here last night. I’d suggest you start on that.”

“Muller,” Gavigan ordered. “Take him down to the house. And keep him in sight. You”—he looked at Gail—“better get some clothes on. I’ll see you down there later.”

Gail, who had been staring interestedly at Lamb, turned to go. I saw Lamb glance at the guns Malloy still held, and then, without speaking, he walked off, Muller at his heels.

“Now, Merlini,” the Inspector said, “let’s have the rest of it and never mind those dramatic climaxes you’re so fond of. Just give it to me straight.”

Merlini rattled off a quick, concise account to which I listened trying to decide what points he considered the most important. But his recital was as mechanical as a bank statement. When he told about the removal of the body, Gavigan frowned, demanded the roll of film I had exposed, and tossed it, with a batch of orders, at another detective.

“Leach, you get back with the launch. Get those films in to Pressler and tell him I want prints twice as fast as possible. Stop at the house down there on your way, scare up a photo of Floyd Skelton, get it copied, and have prints distributed. Hurry that telephone repairman along. Have someone examine that Grand Central locker — remember the number, Ross?”

“I couldn’t forget it,” I said. “Thirteen.”

“Good,” he turned back to Leach. “Dust the locker and key for prints; you won’t find any that count — it’ll have been used since, but do it. Malloy, give him the numbers off those guns so he can check on the registration.”

“Okay,” Malloy said, “I hope the boys at the lab can get the numbers to come up again. They’ve been filed.”

“Well,” Gavigan said. “No wonder Mr. Lamb was touchy! Take the guns, Leach, and then get back here. Malloy, you go along and have them drop you off at the boathouse. Take Quinn and do a little spadework. Start with the Hendersons. We’ll be down shortly.”

Malloy, Leach, and Quinn boarded the launch. When the roar of their departure had slackened, the Inspector turned to the remaining two detectives.

“Grimm, you snoop around this place on the outside. See if there are any footprints or other traces left after that storm.” He looked up at the house and then at Merlini. “Let’s go.”

We went in through the cellar door opening from the boat landing and on to the space beneath the living-room where the fire had been. Gavigan’s quick eyes examined the floor and the fire’s remains as Merlini talked rapidly, filling in details. The watersoaked rugs had been pulled back and I discovered from Merlini’s account that he and the Colonel had re-examined the cellar after I had gone for help. Once Gavigan poked with his foot at a blackened bit of board, stooped and drew from under it a bedraggled, dark blue, knitted silk scarf. It was a foot and a half long, three or four inches wide, wet, limp, and partially burned.

Merlini said with obvious interest, “Hmm. I missed that.”

“Everything else in this cellar dates back 50 years or more,” was Gavigan’s comment. “This looks a little more recent.”

“It is,” Merlini said. “It was part of the murdered woman’s dress. You’ll see the loose threads at the neck of her dress where it was ripped away.”

“Called an Ascot scarf, I think,” I announced.

Merlini and Gavigan both seemed startled. “Didn’t know you were an authority on women’s wear, Ross,” the latter commented.

“Sure,” I said immodestly. “Copywriters know everything. I ghosted a history of the fashion industry for a rayon account when I had that advertising job. The female copywriter was having a baby that week. I can tell you all about bustles, peplums, and three-way-stretch girdles. What the hell is that scarf doing down here?”

“You just said copywriters knew everything,” Gavigan replied. “You tell me.” He glanced inquisitively at Merlini as he spoke but got no reply from either of us; though, if I knew the signs, I suspected Merlini of harboring an idea. He looked at the scarf too intently and then shrugged his shoulders with too much unconcern.

Gavigan frowned at it once more and then, pocketing it, led the way upstairs. Day had penetrated the shuttered house only in the few places where missing shutter slats allowed thin streaks of light to enter, venturing almost timidly into the cold, dusty gloom.

As Gavigan looked about the kitchen, Merlini said, “Miss Skelton is supposed to have kept this place locked, sightseers discouraged. The smashing of the front-door lock seems to corroborate that. But that cellar door off the boat landing was unlocked and wide open; and, judging from the trampled state of the dust on these floors, there’s been a guide on duty showing tourists through at stated intervals.”

I saw, in the light of the flash Gavigan held, a clearly defined pathway in the dust, leading from the cellar door through the kitchen and out into the hall. The disturbance was much greater than our running about the night before could account for.

Merlini opened a door on the left. “Servants’ stair,” he said. Gavigan’s flash disclosed an even coating of dust on each step, undisturbed except for the small marks of the rats.

We went through the hall and up the front stairs whose treads again showed the disturbed appearance of use. The Inspector took it slowly, watching each riser for isolated prints. He found one halfway up, the small fragmentary imprint of a woman’s heel.

“You’re sure the body was carried up, after death?”

“Yes,” Merlini said. “I’m afraid that print is not hers, though you can compare it. I examined the soles of her shoes last night. Altogether too clean. I doubt if she wore them outside the house at all. She certainly didn’t walk clear across the island yesterday; there’d have been traces of sand or dirt.”

“Someone’s deliberately scuffled up this trail. Obvious sidewise swipes of a foot in several places. Like that before you and the rest of that crowd tramped up and down here last night?”

“Yes. And it was more than just the woman. That looks like a portion of a man’s print on the top step, at the side.”

Gavigan nodded, bending over to look closely. Merlini walked down the hall stopping to peer at the doorknobs of the closed doors. “Nice thick coating of dust on top of each knob,” he said, and then returned, trying each door. “And all locked.”

“Meaning your eavesdropper went on up,” Gavigan said, starting on the second stairway himself. “Just the same we’ll get keys and take a look-see in those rooms.”

When we entered the upper room, Merlini crossed and opened the shutter he had fastened before leaving. The light dispelled much of the shadowy, secretive feel of the room and let it emerge more simply as the dusty, forgotten place that it was. Only those footprints, marching incongruously and as unreal as ever across the ceiling, set that room apart.

The Inspector’s gaze, as he threw his head back to stare at them, held a confused mixture or wonder and skepticism. He said sharply, “Rubbish!” in much the sort of tone he’d have used meeting a hippogriff in Times Square. He turned his attention abruptly to the rest of the room, standing in its center and revolving slowly with his torch, like a lighthouse beacon.

“Body there?” he grunted, indicating the chair.

Merlini nodded and produced the nail-polish bottle that he had taken, corked, and wrapped carefully. The Inspector took charge of it, sniffing once very gingerly before putting it away.

“Cyanide, all right,” he said, and then began a rapid, efficient examination of the room. He investigated the chair, the table, the rickety old couch, and every inch of floor. Climbing finally on the window seat, as I had done previously, he scowled at the top of the window frame and then, putting his head out, at the river down below. After a moment he jumped down, strode determinedly to the table, and hoisting himself to its top, stood and put his nose close against the footprints that ascended the wall. He studied them a moment, then lifted his own foot and placed it against the plaster. The dusty smudge he left differed from the others in that the tip of the toe left no mark.

“They look like walking prints, all right,” he muttered, glaring at them. “Rubber-heel pattern shows enough individual characteristics of wear for identification. Something to work on.” He turned, still standing on the table top, and looked down at Merlini, who had been watching his acrobatics with interest. He jammed his hands down into his coat pockets and demanded, “You’re the famed expert on impossibilities, Merlini. What about it? And don’t tell me those prints mean someone actually walked upside down across that ceiling. Even a magician couldn’t—”

“Does seem to classify as sleight-of-feet, doesn’t it?” Merlini grinned. “But it’s not impossible. I know a young lady who does it twice a day, matinee and evening performances—40 feet up. Circus performer, Anna Merkle.”

“All right. I’m listening. How?” Gavigan said irritably.

“Circular rubber suction cups on the feet, and if you think it’s easy, try it sometime. She falls every now and then, and her only protection is a canvas held up by a crew of prop men beneath her rigging. It’s not new. I’ve a book at home, printed in 1897, which pictures Aimée, The Human Fly, using exactly the same—”

“Those prints aren’t circular,” the Inspector objected, “and they weren’t made by rubber suction cups, and will you please stop injecting anything additional into this mess. Got enough puzzles now for half a dozen murders. Unknown prowler, arson, cut phone, scuttled boats, assault and battery, runaway airplane, screwy footprints, and — a body. I haven’t even got to that yet.”

Merlini added to the list. “The misplaced agoraphobe. How, why, when, and where did she die? Who moved her, when, and why? The unco-operative and well-armed Mr. Lamb. The mysterious inventions of Ira Brooke. What, was scheduled for but didn’t happen at Rappourt’s séance? What’s behind the intriguing adventure of the lost fortune in guineas? And where is Floyd? We do need answers, don’t we?”

“Fat lot of help you are.” Gavigan glared at the ceiling, his hat tipped back on his head. “Someone put shoes on his hands and stood on a stepladder or used a pole. But for God’s sake, why? Those prints aren’t even clues; they don’t mean anything, unless it’s a practical joke. They don’t lead anywhere except out that window and nobody—” He went across, climbed onto the window seat and put his head out again. Then he called, “Grimm! Come up here. Find the trap to the roof and look for traces there.” The Inspector looked carefully at Merlini. “You’re feeling good about something. Mind telling me, or do you want to be held as a material witness? Some day I’m going to do just that. You don’t seem to realize that murder—”

“I was just about to produce an answer or two out of the hat, Inspector. Let’s begin with our prowler of last night. What do we know about him?”

“All I know is what you’ve consented to tell me, which is damn little except that he’s got a seven-hour head start.

“Ross?”

“I had a nice neat little theory last night, but it’s showing wear and tear this morning. It seemed obvious that he was up here when you and Watrous and I came downstairs. He dropped his flashlight and, as we came up after him, ducked down the servants’ stairs to set the fire and thence out the cellar to cut the phone, sink the boats, and light out in a boat of his own. But, unless he sneaked back without anybody hearing him, someone else must have socked the Colonel. And whoever socked the Colonel was the same guy who cut the phone.”

“And the servants’ stairs, now you’ve seen them?”

“He either said, ‘Whisht’ and turned himself into a mouse, or else — it’s—it’s the vanishing man again! He walked into this room only about one jump ahead of us so he must have popped down a secret exit. Concealed elevator in it, too. That fire started so soon after—”

“Not so fast,” Merlini objected. “X came in here. And a minute later he wasn’t here. I’m an authority on trap doors and secret exits. I build ’em. There aren’t any in this room. Where did he go?”

“You said you’d supply the answers,” Gavigan criticized, “not questions. I know what’s coming. Footprints on the ceiling. There are traces on top of that window frame that might possibly mean someone climbed out. You want me to say X is a human fly plus. He walks across the ceiling, down the side of the house and sets the fire. But I wish—”

“Your mind-reading is primitive, Inspector. Stop in at the shop some day and I’ll quote you prices on some surefire methods. Let’s take it slower and straighten it out. Mr. X did go out the window. Only place he could have gone. But he didn’t set that fire. He couldn’t get down there to do it, for one thing. A very agile human fly might have negotiated that climb in daylight, I’ll admit, but not in last night’s special brand of darkness. He’d have broken his fool neck.”

“If he can walk across ceilings,” Gavigan asked, “why not down the side of a house? Only half as impossible.”

We could hear Grimm’s cautious footsteps overhead now on the “widow’s walk.”

Merlini called out the window. “Any luck, Grimm?”

“Yes,” the detective’s voice came down. “Couple of new scratches on the eaves just over that window.”

“Good,” Merlini said. “Mr. X swung out that window and pulled himself up onto the projecting eaves. He squatted there until we ran downstairs to investigate the fire. Then he swung himself in again and left the room finally by the door. I’m afraid things happened a little too fast for me last night. Vanishing man, corpse, and fire all within a couple of minutes. But I did get as far as making sure that, if anyone left after we did, I’d know it. I closed the door as I went out and put a pencil on the floor leaning” up against the door. When we got back, it was lying flat. Mr. X had really gone that time. And, since he was on the roof, he didn’t set the fire. It was burning too well by the time we got there, anyway.”

“He could have set it before you got here, couldn’t he?” Gavigan asked.

“No, on two counts. When you set fire to a house, it’s the last thing you do before you leave, isn’t it? And X was upstairs when we arrived. Besides, if there had been a fire in that front room when Harte and I passed through the rear cellar room, we’d have been aware of the fact. The door between was open. No, whatever else X may have done, he didn’t commit arson.”

“Okay,” Gavigan admitted doubtfully, “but you’re certainly complicating matters. Look at it. Everyone, including X, is alibied for the fire. X on circumstantial evidence, the others on corroborative evidence — that is, assuming Gail’s witness bears him out. That gives you another mystery man. X hides out up here, Y sets the fire, and I suppose Z sank the boats, A committed the murder, B moved the body and C — regular excursion boat that pulled out last night. Anyone can solve a murder that way.”

“I forgot to tell you. Henderson says he got a glimpse of the boat, and there was only one person in it.”

“That gives us half a dozen vanishing men. I suppose you’ve got a reason why X couldn’t have set the fire in advance to start later? There are dozens of ways. Insurance crooks have a lot of cute little tricks along those lines. I’ll have Brady sift that debris — he’s done insurance work — and—”

“Oh, I know what was used to start the fire. This.” Merlini took the handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it to disclose a gold cigarette lighter, its shiny surface smudged with soot.

“You found it in that mess in the basement?”

“No, not exactly. Colonel Watrous did. When he and I were down there after Harte left. I was wondering if there might be some such gadget as you mention. The Colonel found it — and he didn’t think I saw him. He slipped it into his pocket. I conjured it out again.”

Captain Malloy met us at the door of the other house and reported, “The telephone repairman’s fixed the phone and I’ve talked to headquarters. Doc Hesse is on the way. I’ve got statements from Henderson and his wife, and Brady is busy upstairs on fingerprints.”

“Any of these other people up yet?” Gavigan asked.

“They’re dressing now, I think.”

“All right. We’ll go up. Send Quinn along. I’ll need him. And get Colonel Watrous and bring him up.”

The door to Linda’s room stood open. Brady was busy inside with his brushes, powders, and magnifying glass. Gavigan started in, but halted to watch Merlini as the latter went on down the hall and knocked at a closed door. We heard Arnold’s voice, and then the door opened, and he stepped out into the hall. He was in his shirt sleeves, tying his tie. He saw the Inspector, looked at Merlini and asked, “Police?”

I noticed again how very slightly his lips moved, almost as if he were afraid of opening his mouth.

Merlini nodded. “Inspector Gavigan — Arnold Skelton.”

“Good,” Arnold said. “How’d you manage it?”

“Sleight-of-hand and mirrors,” Merlini answered. “I want to know something. Did Linda Skelton have any large amount of life insurance?”

“Insurance? No. She had none at all. Why?”

“I just wondered. The Inspector will want to see you shortly, I think. Will you wait downstairs?” Merlini turned, left him abruptly, and came back, turning into Linda’s room. Arnold looked after him with a perplexed expression, slowly pulled his tie straight, and then, as Gavigan and I followed Merlini, went back into his room.

Gavigan closed the door. “Why were you in such a sweat with that question?”

“Tell you in a minute. Take a look at the body first.”

Gavigan went to the chair and pulled away the sheet. I’d seen all I wanted of that; so I turned away, wandered over to the bookcase that stood between the windows, and looked at the titles. There were a few novels of an average sort, but the books were largely non-fiction and on two subjects only. The mystic sciences, as I expected, were there — Spiritualism, Theosophy, Yoga — the authors all pro and very few con. The other books were technical works on the theater. I pulled out Spence’s Encyclopedia of Occultism and was looking in the index for Crystal Gazing when I heard Merlini say:

“Have Brady dust these, Inspector.” He indicated a pair of shears that lay on the dressing table. “Blades are nicked. I think they were used to cut the phone wire.” He switched on the bright lights that surrounded the mirror, ran his eye over the collection of jars and bottles, and snapped the lights off.

Gavigan said, “Do that, Brady. Try that Do Not Disturb sign on the door too, and—” He halted, his eyes fixed on the corner of the room where the inverted drinking glass hung, so curiously supported in mid-air.

“What the devil’s that?” He strode over to it suddenly and touched it with a forefinger that sent it swinging.

Merlini glanced at me with a now-we’re-in-for-it expression. “It’s a tumbler,” he said. “Upside down and suspended from the ceiling by a black thread.”

Gavigan flashed a quick look at him.

“I can see that.”

“I’m just trying to break it gently, Inspector. It’s — it’s a home-made crystal-gazing outfit.”

Gavigan hesitated perceptibly. “Oh, so?” he said, his calm elaborately studied. And then, as if it were nothing of the sort, he added, “Interesting.” He returned to the body, avoiding Merlini’s gaze. “Why’d you put her in that chair?”

Merlini smiled wryly. “Because she fitted it,” he answered. “I suspect that her body lay in that chair for several hours after death, and that rigor mortis had become complete before she was moved. She didn’t fit the chair at the other house nearly as well. Back was at an uncomfortable angle and one arm that seemed to lie along the chair arm was actually a good half inch above it, resting on nothing.”

Thoughtfully Gavigan said, “You realize that if she died here, the agoraphobia means nothing? It could be suicide?”

“Suicide?” Merlini said quickly. “Then why was the body moved?”

“So we’d think it was murder.”

“And why the nail-polish bottle and the appearance of suicide after the body was moved?”

“Alibi,” Gavigan said dryly. “The murderer knew all about Linda’s phobia, knew that an appearance of suicide in that spot wasn’t worth a damn, and figured a fake suicide would point to murder — by someone who didn’t know any better than to fake it where he did. Smart, but not smart enough.”

Merlini grinned. “We’ve heard that one before. Gail suggested it last night. But why would anyone want to make a suicide look like murder? Give two reasons.”

“Two? I’ll give you one. Insurance — beneficiary wants to collect—” Gavigan stopped short, remembering. “Oh. So that’s it?”

“Yes,” Merlini said, a faintly impudent smile on his face. “I’m afraid that’s it. Linda had no insurance. And unless you can suggest a second reason — which I can’t — there was no motive for anyone to try and palm off suicide as murder. Leaving two possibilities. Murder by someone who faked the suicide because he wasn’t aware of Linda’s phobia. Or murder by someone who did know about the phobia and hoped the faked suicide would indicate someone who didn’t know. In any case, murder—not suicide.”

“And,” Gavigan said, a trifle glumly but apparently agreeing, “we don’t know how much our vanishing man knew.” Then he added with some vehemence, “But, if it’s that last, then someone has been too smart for his pants.”

Brady, who was kneeling near the chair in which the body lay, got to his feet and said, “Wish you’d take a look at this, Inspector.” He pointed at the top of the small end table. “There are some fairly good prints on the sign,” he went on as Gavigan crossed the room. “I won’t take the prints off the body until Hesse is through, but I think they’re all hers; I looked at her hands. The shears are clean. Wiped, I think. But this—”

He frowned thoughtfully.

The Inspector looked down at the pad of note paper on the table. The top sheet, near its upper edge, bore some aimless pencil scrawls, meaningless spirals and zigzags like the primary penmanship exercises children are given when being taught to write. Gavigan’s attention jumped from that to the broken pencil on the floor. He picked up the two halves and fitted them together as Merlini had done before.

Brady said, “No. I don’t mean that. Look at the table top. Here, take the glass.”

Gavigan followed instructions.

“Well, you’ve been dusting for prints, but I don’t see any. What—”

“I haven’t dusted there yet. And besides, that’s graphite. I’ve been using the regular black powder and the aluminum and antimony.”

Gavigan looked quickly at the pencil in his hands and then at the scrawls on the pad. The inconsistency was obvious. The penciled marks on the paper had been made with a sharp point. And the pencil had no point at all. The Inspector wheeled to face Merlini. “This point’s been sanded completely off, clear down to the wood, and the graphite used to dust that table top for prints. Damn it! Don’t you know any better — Was the pencil broken when you found it, or did you do that too?”

Merlini took the glass from Gavigan’s hand and looked for himself. “Not guilty on either count,” he said. “Looks as if there were another amateur detective in the woodpile.”

“I don’t think he was dusting the table top,” Brady said. “You spray or sift the dust on and then brush it off. If there’s a print, the grease holds some of the dust and shows up the whorls. The graphite is sprinkled about unevenly and hasn’t been brushed. I’d say someone dusted something else, and the table, underneath, caught the brushed-off dust.”

There was a knock at the door while Brady was speaking. Gavigan waited until he finished, frowned a moment over his deduction, and then, turning, called, “Come!”

Malloy entered with Colonel Watrous and Detective Quinn. The Colonel’s precise pouter-pigeon dignity was fastidiously clothed, as always. The pin-stripe trousers were sharply pressed, the pearl stickpin exactly centered in the neat four-in-hand, and the handkerchief tucked carefully in his cuff. But the prim out-of-the-bandbox appearance was somewhat marred this morning by the adhesive and gauze bandage on his head and by the slightly rocky morning-after look on his face. Nor had he quite regained his customary, talkative, impresario manner. In what was for him a subdued, colorless tone, he said, “Good morning, Inspector.”

Gavigan nodded without enthusiasm.

“You again, eh?”

“Afraid so.” Watrous was apologetic. “Sorry there are always bodies around when we meet. I’d like to meet you sometime when you’re off duty!”

Inspector Gavigan nodded somewhat ungraciously in reply, skipped further preliminaries, and got straight down to business.

“What are you doing out here?”

Quinn opened his notebook.

Watrous sat on the edge of the bed. “I wrote Miss Skelton some weeks ago asking permission to investigate the haunted house. She replied, asking me to come and see her and requesting that I bring Madame Rappourt, whom she wanted very much to meet. When we came she invited — insisted, almost — that we stay on for a while as her guests. We found that she was greatly interested in psychic matters. She had read several of my books and was particularly interested in Madame Rappourt’s mediumship and in the Psychical Research Laboratories for which I am making plans.”

“You accepted, then?”

“Madame Rappourt did — for both of us. I wasn’t too keen on it at first because she put me off on the matter of the haunted house. She hadn’t promised to let me see it in her reply, but I had assumed that the invitation indicated assent. However, since Eva wanted to accept, I stayed on hoping that Miss Skelton would finally give me her permission.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“You had not met Miss Skelton previously?”

“Neither of us had, though Rappourt discovered that she had met Floyd. She invested some insurance money, against my advice, in the Carribean Salvage Corp. Floyd was one of the other investors.”

“Treasure-hunting outfit? She lose it?”

“Yes. They were after some Spanish galleons off Florida somewhere, but the company folded without paying any dividends. I suspect it was a swindle.”

“Thought she was a clairvoyant.” The Inspector was more than faintly sarcastic. Then, with one of his abrupt changes of subject: “What was everyone on this island doing yesterday from noon on, Colonel? As far as you know?”

“I can’t help you much there, I’m afraid. I went in to town at eleven in the morning and did not return until six.”

“You went to ask Merlini to come out and trip up your friend, Rappourt?” Gavigan’s doubt was frank.

The Colonel turned to Merlini. “He had to know that, I suppose. But is he going to tell Rappourt? If she suspects that I am doubtful of her — I–I may never have a chance to settle it one way or the other. It’s important to me. I—”

“Murder, Colonel,” Gavigan interposed heavily, “is more important than whether Rappourt’s been shaking the tambourines with her feet. Why did you call Merlini in? I thought you were so damned sure she was genuine? Last time we met you nearly had a fit when I hinted she might be phony.”

“I did believe her phenomena genuine,” Watrous said slowly. “I still do. There’s no real evidence yet to the contrary.”

“But you had doubts enough to make you call Merlini?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Those slate messages what worried you, maybe?”

Watrous hesitated slightly before he replied. “Yes. I don’t know why, but—” He shrugged vaguely.

“Would it have anything to do with the fact that the subject of the messages concerns—$8,000,000?”

“Oh,” he said, not as startled as I thought he’d be, “you know about that?”

“Yes. Why haven’t you mentioned it?”

“I thought it might come better from Rappourt and Floyd and the others. It’s their secret.”

“They have no salvage permit but were going to dive for it anyway?”

Watrous nodded.

“And you don’t think the wreck is where Rappourt’s spooks say it is?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. Floyd, who’s an authority on such things, seems satisfied, as does Brooke.”

“I see. He’d know about such things, too, would he? What is it he invents that he won’t talk about?”

“Submarine salvage apparatus. He’s working on something new, an underwater suction device — a vacuum-cleaner affair which he says can clear away the silt over the wreck and allow divers to get at it.”

Merlini, browsing among Linda’s books, asked, “That what he works on out on the houseboat all the time?”

“Yes.”

“He finished it yet?”

“Oh, no. He’s been completing his final drawings and working on a scale model.”

Merlini nodded but offered no further questions; and Gavigan resumed, on a new tack. “When you went in to town, Colonel — Henderson take you?”

“Yes.”

“And you returned at six o’clock with Lamb?”

“That’s right. Henderson always makes a six o’clock trip, picking up anyone who is in town and getting them back in time for dinner.”

“You were with Merlini for an hour or so at noon. What’d you do the rest of the time?”

“I spent the afternoon at the Psychical Research Society Library on 54th Street.”

“Librarian corroborate that?”

“Yes. Mr. Porter Welch.”

“You didn’t see Miss Skelton after you had returned?”

Watrous shook his head. “I saw her only once all day. She was talking to Lamb in the living-room as I went out at eleven to go to the boathouse. The Do Not Disturb card was on her door when I returned. I noticed it when I went up to my room to dress for dinner. Her absence was mentioned at dinner, but no one thought it unusual, though Rappourt seemed worried for fear Linda wouldn’t appear for the séance.”

“And after dinner?”

“Miss Verrill came in shortly after we had left the table, and all of us — except Arnold — sat about talking, until nine o’clock, when I pleaded a headache and excused myself, going to my room.”

“So you could sneak out your window and meet Merlini?”

The Colonel drew himself up, some of his formal dignity returning. “No,” he said indignantly. “So that I could let Merlini in when he arrived. I did go out, however, when I saw a light up in the old house. I thought that a bit odd, if as I had been told, the house was always locked.”

Casually Gavigan asked, “You’ve never been in that house before you went in with Merlini last night?”

The Colonel adjusted his pince-nez with a nervous hand.

“No,” he said emphatically. “I have not.”

Gavigan’s sharp eyes were on the Colonel as he took out a handkerchief and, holding it in his palm, carefully unfolded the corners to expose the gold cigarette lighter.

The Colonel gazed, fascinated, and his head bobbed slowly in a mechanical nod, his face gray. “I thought that would be what you were coming to,” he said in a small voice. He sat suddenly on the edge of the bed as if his knees were weak.

He looked up at Merlini. “You took it from my pocket last night, didn’t you?”

Gavigan said harshly, “You admit you picked it out of that fire last night, then?”

“Yes. I can’t very well do anything else, can I?”

“No. But you’d like to. Why?”

“I–I guess I was excited. I was afraid you’d suspect the owner of the lighter of having set the fire.”

“I see. How do you know he didn’t?”

“The lighter”—Watrous moistened his lips—“happens to be mine.” He faltered a bit, took a grip on himself, and then talked rapidly. “I’m afraid I got the wind up. We discover Linda’s body and a moment later I find my lighter there in that fire.… I — well, I think anyone’s natural reaction would be to — to hide it until he’d had time to think it over.”

“You’ve had all night to think it over,” Gavigan said. “What’s the answer?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like to accuse anyone — though I would like to know if my lighter was used merely because it happened to be handy — or because it was my lighter.

If I thought it was the latter—”

“Stop stalling. Let’s have it.”

The Colonel crumbled before the Inspector’s insisting roar. “It disappeared from my room,” he said, “night before last. It was on my dressing table when I was dressing for dinner. I’d taken it out of the suit I’d worn in the afternoon and put it there with my keys and change. When I started to transfer the articles to my pocket again — the lighter was gone.”

“It didn’t just vanish. What happened?”

“I — well, I didn’t actually see him take it — but—”

“Who? Get on with it!”

Watrous said somewhat doubtfully:

“Floyd Skelton stopped in and talked to me while I was dressing.”

“You’ll swear it was there before he came in and that it was gone afterward?”

“Yes. I think so — yes.”

“Well,” Gavigan flared angrily, “make up your mind.”

Watrous coughed nervously; then more deliberately, said, “He took it. He must have. But I couldn’t swear to that in court. I didn’t actually see him take it.”

Gavigan threw an inquisitive glance toward Merlini, which got no response.

“All right, Colonel. You can go.”

Watrous got up quickly. “Thank you.” At the doorway, he turned. “And I would appreciate it if you’d not find it necessary to tell Madame Rappourt of my suspicions. It will—”

Gavigan was obviously not listening. Watrous stopped, frowned, and went out.

The Inspector scowled at Merlini. “Well, what do you think of that?”

“It’s like a lot of things that go on around here,” Merlini answered. “It makes me anxious to meet brother Floyd.”

“You’ll get the chance, or I’ll know why not,” Gavigan growled. “Malloy, get Arnold in here.”

His eye rested on the body. “No, not here. One of the other rooms.”

“Floyd’s,” Merlini suggested. “Across the hall.”

The Inspector nodded and started in that direction. “I don’t know how many blasted mystery men were running about on this island last night,” he said over his shoulder, “but I’ll bet Floyd was one of them.” He stopped short just within the room as he saw the wall decorations, grunted a bit incredulously, and then, as we followed him in, began duplicating Merlini’s snooping actions of the night before. He was looking in the wardrobe at what the well-dressed man should wear when Grimm, to whom Malloy had relayed the order, brought Arnold in.

Arnold’s face still had that pale look and now seemed drawn and nervous. He carried an unlighted pipe in his hands; and his fingers fussed with it absently, tamping the tobacco down in the bowl. He was wearing brown checked slacks and a brown pullover sweater.

Gavigan indicated a chair.

Arnold shook his head.

Gavigan asked, “You saw your sister last at lunch time yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“Where were you all afternoon?”

“In the basement. I have a workshop down there. I went there directly after lunch and didn’t come up until just before dinner. I met Watrous and Lamb as they came in from the boathouse, arriving from town.”

“That sign hung on your sister’s door then?”

“Yes.”

“And after dinner?”

“Basement again. Until just before the séance began. I came up for that. Rather got the impression Rappourt didn’t want me in on it. So I made it a point to sit in.”

“Time?”

“Shortly before 9:30. Sigrid, Rappourt, and Lamb were there. I didn’t see the Colonel. Sigrid told me then that you”—he looked at Merlini—“were coming and that Watrous was going to sneak you in. I thought the fireworks should be interesting. Ira arrived at quarter to ten; and then, though Rappourt seemed considerably upset because there was no sign of Linda — I rather got the impression the hocus-pocus was largely for her benefit — she decided to start anyway.”

“Hocus-pocus? Rappourt’s a fraud?”

Arnold raised an eyebrow.

“Naturally.”

“Prove it?”

“That’s the rub. All I know is that the dead don’t come back. It’s a contradiction in terms. Anyone who says they do is either a liar or a damn fool. And Rappourt’s no fool. She’s too clever by half. I don’t understand those conjuring tricks of hers, but they’re not supernatural — there ain’t no sech animal.”

“Your sister thought so.”

“Yes.” He smiled cynically. “Lamb, Brooke, and Watrous go for it, too. In the damned-fool category, I should say. And Floyd also, for that matter. Somehow I never expected him to go psychic on us. Sigrid and myself seem to be the only sane ones in the booby hatch. Linda’s had a loose rocker on that subject all along.”

“She was your half sister and Floyd’s?” Gavigan asked.

“Yes. Daniel Skelton — that’s father — married again after Mother died. Sister of Sigrid’s father. Daniel was an opinionated old so-and-so. Family trait. Floyd and I didn’t get along with him too well — pigheaded ourselves, I guess. He felt sorry for little Linda with her mental quirks, so much so that he left her the whole damned Skelton fortune — except for a few thousand apiece to Floyd and myself. Pin money. You’d think a couple of million would do for three, but the old man said that we were boys, and could look out for ourselves. Linda was a girl, and ill, and couldn’t. I’ve always suspected one of her mediums of talking him into that. He was a pushover for spooks, too.”

“Not Rappourt, eh?”

“No. That was just before he died, in ’21 during that table-tipping — ouija craze. But I think Rappourt’s up to something similar.”

“What does that mean?”

“That Rappourt’s been trying to get Linda to change her will so that a nice big slice is diverted to some spiritualistic cause. In Rappourt’s name probably. Usual racket.”

“As far as you know, that hasn’t happened?”

“I haven’t seen Linda’s lawyer out here. And I’ve kept my eyes open.”

Merlini, who now sat on the bed, idly manipulating a deck of cards, put in, “And what does happen to the inheritance?”

Arnold’s laugh had no humor in it. “That’s a good one, too. But you can’t say she was murdered for her money. Floyd and I don’t see any of it. Whole thing goes, lock, stock, and barrel to Sigrid. Linda’s practical jokes always were crude.”

“Sigrid’s not a possibility, then?”

Arnold frowned at Merlini in a startled way. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “She wouldn’t murder anyone, and you know it. Only person that really got along with Linda, anyway.”

“Floyd knows about the will provisions, too?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Sigrid?”

Arnold said emphatically, “No. I’m sure she hadn’t the slightest idea! You see, I don’t think Linda ever really intended to leave the will that way. If she had, she wouldn’t have told us. She was just being nasty. Result of her phobia. She was eaten up with jealousy because Floyd and I could go where we liked and she couldn’t. Gail will tell you that that’s a common agoraphobic symptom. Human nature gets a bit curdled under those conditions. Sorry if I sound a bit rough on her, but she was no fun to live with.”

“Why did you, then?”

“She had the money. As long as we hung around and acted like good little ‘Yes men’ she’d dole out some of it.”

Gavigan said quietly, “Can you suggest other motives?”

“Other motives?”

“Yes. You and Floyd didn’t like her much and Sigrid gets the money. Those are motives.”

“But you’re not serious?” he asked a bit shakily. “I thought it was fairly obvious that whoever killed her couldn’t have known about her phobia. No one that did would have faked a suicide up — up there where you found her.”

Gavigan didn’t comment on that. He spoke quickly and loudly, trying, I think, to break up the silence that threatened to fall on us, before Arnold should become aware of it.

“There wouldn’t be a motive in this treasure hunt would there? Eight million dollars is quite a bit to be lying around loose, waiting for the first finder.”

Arnold smiled. “It’s hardly doing that, Inspector. It’s been there over 150 years and no secret about it. But that’s hardly a motive. Linda was thinking about underwriting the salvage. Why kill the goose that’s about to lay the golden eggs? No, I don’t think so. There must have been someone on this island yesterday who didn’t belong here. You aren’t forgetting the man in the motorboat, are you?”

“No,” Gavigan said, “I’m not. She was going to put up the cash for Brooke’s apparatus. That it?”

“Yes.”

“And just how did this Hussar business start?”

“Floyd,” Arnold said. “His pet theory. He was in the Navy during ’17 and ’18. Submarine service. He did some diving, though not a lot. He was too heavy, or something. But, with his interest in treasure lore, that particular subject has a fascination. Anyway, he knows a good bit about it from actual experience and a lot more from research. He’s been fooling around with an echo-sounding device, and he found a hulk on the river bottom that he thinks is the Hussar.”

Arnold stepped toward the dresser and pointed up at a Geodetic Survey chart tacked above it on the wall. “His theory is that the Hussar, which sank about here—” Arnold indicated the spot off 134th Street which the doctor had said was correct—“has evaded all recent searching parties because its hulk has shifted. Sounded all right to listen to. I wouldn’t know. He has the tidal currents all checked and mapped out. Notice the odd conformation of Skelton Island and the submarine sinkhole indicated by the depth markings inside the small peninsula on the west shore. Floyd says that sometime in the last 50 years the wreck was swept clean of silt, due to current changes caused by near-by dredging and blasting in the channel. She was then shifted by the natural action of the tidal currents and moved gradually outward, until, on her way toward the Sound, she was scooped up by the arm of the island, and settled into the sinkhole. He says the measurements he’s taken of the hulk with the echo sounder fit those of the Hussar.”

“I see,” Gavigan said. “The theory is based on something more than spirit messages, then?”

“Yes. Captain Pole’s information from the astral plane or something is supplemental; and, though Floyd says it all checks, that’s where I get off. Rappourt and Watrous wander out here one day, get invited to stay, and before you can say ‘Fraud,’ she’s suddenly contacted the Hussar’s captain and is fishing spirit messages out of the beyond that give depth readings and nice neat instructions for salvaging. Mere coincidence, of course.”

“Where does Lamb fit in?”

“Floyd picked him up in some night club. He came out here with the screwy idea of buying the upper half of the island from Linda. Thought, since she never used it, she might sell. He’d like to tear down the old house and build there. Got an island complex, I guess. Linda rather fell for him; so maybe his idea wasn’t as screwy as I thought. Anyway, she invited him to stay while she thought it over, and then when the séances started, he got interested. Whether it was the spooks or the possibility of fishing up $8,000,000, I don’t know.”

“He looks as if he had money.”

“Yes. Acts like it, too. But they always want more, don’t they? His type.”

“Who is he?”

Arnold shrugged. Better ask him. He shies at the subject. Insists vaguely he’s a retired broker, but no details. Maybe the Exchange Commission kicked him out. I shouldn’t wonder.”

“You sleep pretty soundly?” Gavigan’s sudden change of tack startled Arnold.

“I — why, yes. I do. How did you know?”

I thought I detected a hint of tenseness in Arnold’s easy nonchalant attitude. He stood, suddenly, just a little too still.

“You got a good night’s sleep last night in spite of what had happened?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I did.” Arnold frowned. “That doesn’t condemn me, does it? I’ve told you there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Linda and myself.”

“You heard nothing unusual during the night?”

“No. Should I have? What happened?”

“You’ll hear later. That’s all at the moment, unless—” Gavigan looked at Merlini, who had stepped toward Arnold.

Merlini did have a question this time. “Arnold, did Linda always keep the old house locked up?”

“Yes. I haven’t been inside in years. Reporters used to come out now and then wanting a look. She always ran them off.”

“Where did she keep the keys?”

“In the wall safe in her bedroom. Behind that Bakst drawing on the wall. And a fine time we’ll have getting at them, or anything else. She wouldn’t trust anyone with the combination, not even her lawyer.”

All Merlini said to that was, “Um.”

Hunter put his head in at the door and asked, “See you a minute, Inspector?”

“Yes. Come in. Malloy, you ring headquarters. The instant they turn anything up on Floyd I want to hear about it. That’ll be all, Mr. Skelton.”

He waited until Arnold had gone. “Just a minute, Hunter. Merlini, let’s see that will.”

Merlini produced it and passed it over. “Arnold’s right,” he said, “Sigrid gets the money — all of it.”

As Gavigan scanned the paper hastily, Merlini turned up the top card of his deck — the Queen of Hearts. He looked at it absently and buried it deep in the deck. He flicked the deck lightly with his forefinger, turned up the top card again, and found — the Queen of Hearts. He repeated the action once more with the same result, and then murmured, “Arnold wasn’t too convincing about his undisturbed slumber.”

Gavigan folded the will. “No, he wasn’t.” He turned to the waiting Hunter.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Mr. Novak and a couple of assistants downstairs. Says he’s a diver from the Submarine Salvage Company. They’re asking to see Mr. Lamb. He hired them yesterday to come out and make a diving survey.”

“Good,” Merlini said at once. “Send them out to the houseboat and tell them to go to it. We want a report of what’s on the bottom just under that houseboat, and, if they can locate them, a report on the present state of those boats that sank last night.”

Hunter looked at Gavigan, and the latter nodded assent. Then Hunter said, “There’s something else.” He handed a letter to the Inspector. “Henderson made his morning trip in for mail. I looked it over. The rest was all magazines and bills, but this might be important. Henderson says Miss Skelton never got much mail at all.”

Gavigan held it gingerly, at his fingertips, and examined all sides. It was a plain white envelope bearing a special delivery stamp and the typewritten address: Miss Linda Skelton, Skelton Island, New York. On the back of the envelope I saw a dirty smudge that looked like the dusty imprint of a man’s rubber heel. Gavigan regarded it uneasily for a moment, then said, “Dime store stationery, which is no help.”

He stepped over to one of the curio cases, lifted the glass top, and drew out a knife with a carved bone handle and a thin, two-edged blade. He inserted it under the envelope’s flap and slit it neatly.

The single sheet of notepaper inside, when opened put, revealed this message:

Merlini reached out a long arm and picked up the envelope.

Gavigan, watching him, said glumly, “The postmark reads, ‘Buffalo, April 14, 10:30 p. m.’ ”

“Last night,” Merlini said. “Yes. Floyd appears to have a nice neat alibi.”

“Malloy,” Inspector Gavigan ordered impatiently, “get headquarters to work on this at once. I want action at Buffalo and Chicago. I want Floyd Skelton in a hurry!”

Malloy nodded. “And I’ll find out if Arnold knows who Floyd might be after in Chicago.” He turned to Merlini. “That letter’s no alibi for the murder, though. If rigor was complete when the body was found at ten, she must have been dead long enough for him to have made Buffalo by plane.”

Merlini was still examining the envelope. “Yes,” he replied, “though Buffalo would seem to indicate a train. It’s not on the shortest plane route to Chicago. And, in any case, Floyd couldn’t have been either Mr. X, Y, or Z and have mailed that in Buffalo — not even if he went by rocket plane.”

“I’ll check on planes just the same,” Malloy said, starting out. As he opened the hall door he said, “Oh, hello, Doc.”

“Morning.” Dr. Hesse bustled in, took his cigar from his mouth and added, “Where’s the body?”

“Across the hall,” Gavigan said. “Malloy will show you. She was alive as late at 2:30 yesterday afternoon, rigor was complete at 10 last night, and the body’s been moved, probably twice. From here up to the other end of the island and back.”

“I get it,” Hesse said, wrinkling his nose. “Body moved all over the place; you don’t call me for nine or ten hours after death, and you want to know the time of death. Why bother me? Merlini’s the staff magician.”

“Save it, Doc. You wouldn’t be happy without something to growl about. If it’ll help any, there was an M.D. on deck when the body was found. Hunter, you send Gail up.”

“William Gail?” Hesse asked.

“You know him?”

“No. But I’ve read some of his papers in the psychology journals. Knows his subject.”

Hesse and Malloy left, going across the hall. Hunter went downstairs. Gavigan handed the letter to Brady. “You check with Arnold on that signature. Find out if he’s sure it’s Floyd’s. Then go over the letter and envelope for prints. Grimm, you go up to the other house and get tracings of those footprints. As soon as all these people are out of their rooms, go through them and see if you can turn up any shoes that fit. You might begin with this wardrobe here.”

Merlini, seated on the bed, shuffled his cards and began dealing them out on the counterpane into five neat piles. As Grimm left, he murmured softly, “Somebody killed our Linda, and then went away out the winda. Easy as pie for a human fly, contortionist, bird, or a Hindu.”

“Well, which was it?” The Inspector said threateningly,

“You’ve got an idea. Spill it.”

“I’ve just remembered,” Merlini said slowly, “that Houdini—”

The door opened, and Dr. Gail came in. Merlini grinned, and continued silently dealing his cards. Gavigan, in a harassed voice, growled, “Sit down!”

Gail, surprised, sat.

“Your movements for yesterday afternoon, please,” Gavigan barked.

Gail replied promptly, giving the information in a crisp, clinical tone as if it were a prescription. “Polyclinic Hospital all morning. Check with the psychiatry department. Office in the afternoon. Phone my secretary: Park 8-8765. She can also give you a list of patients I saw there during the afternoon. At 5:30 Miss Verrill met me at my office, and we had dinner at the Plaza. I put her in a taxi shortly before 8:30 and returned to my office, where I worked until 10. Then I came out here.”

“Your secretary work all evening, too?”

“No. You have me there. But the driver of the water taxi that docks at 44th Street will tell you I got aboard at 10 and that he landed me here 10 minutes later.”

“What time did you go in yesterday morning?”

“I didn’t. I only come out here week-ends. Friday nights until Monday morning, usually.”

“It’s your opinion Linda Skelton was carried up to that house after death because she couldn’t have gone there alive?”

Dr. Gail nodded, and at Gavigan’s insistence repeated his testimony Concerning agoraphobes and their habits, which Merlini and I had already heard.

“And with all that,” the Inspector said when he had finished, “you wouldn’t certify her as insane?”

“No,” replied Gail quickly. “She was abnormal, yes, but — but not dangerous. Besides, removal to a sanatorium or asylum wouldn’t have been feasible. You’d have had to bring it to her.”

Gavigan thought a moment. “All right,” he said. “That’s all. The medical examiner is looking at the body. Will you go in there? He’d like to see you.”

Gail started out; and Merlini, who had finished dealing poker hands to himself and four imaginary opponents, said, “Wait.” He turned the hands face up to reveal a dreamlike assortment of straights, flushes, and full houses. His own hand turned out to be a nice, neat, ace-high royal flush in spades.

“Are you Arnold’s doctor too?” he asked, gathering up the cards with practiced movements.

I wasn’t sure if the startled expression on Gail’s face concerned the poker hands or Merlini’s question.

“No,” he said shortly. “I am not.”

“Do you know who is?”

“No.”

The cards in Merlini’s right hand sprang out through space in a long flutter and were gathered as they came in his left.

“But perhaps you can tell me what is wrong with his face?”

Gail shook his head at once. “No. I can’t.”

Merlini gave him a quick look and said very casually, “Can’t or won’t?”

Gail made no reply for a moment. Then he smiled humorlessly and said slowly and distinctly, “ ‘I think I said, ‘can’t.’ ”

The cards fluttered again. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

Gail turned on his heel and went out quickly.

Gavigan addressed Brady, who had returned a moment before. “Floyd’s writing?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Start on the letter. Quinn, you get Brooke.” Gavigan eyed Merlini. “What do you think is wrong with his face?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. That’s why I asked. He’s wearing make-up — even on his hands. It conceals something. We’ll give Hesse a look at him. Might not be important, but I’m curious. Have you seen this one?”

He exhibited the ace of spades on the face of the deck and passed his hand briefly across it. It changed, with all the ease of a trick motion-picture, into the eight of spades, and then, as if not satisfied, into a card I’d love to draw in a poker game, the fifteen of spades! Another pass wiped the spots away completely. He turned it over, made the blue back red, and dealt it face down on the bed.

Gavigan said, “I’d like to try that.” He held out his hands for the cards.

Merlini and I looked at him, astonished. Merlini said, “Of course,” and passed him the deck. “Better take this, too,” he added picking up the card on the bed and turning it over. The blank face now bore a drawing of a top hat complete with rabbit, Merlini’s signature, address, and phone number!

Gavigan quite flatly and without the faintest hint of expression merely said, “Thanks,” added the card to the deck and dropped it into his pocket. He turned and faced the door.

Ira Brooke came through it, smiling expansively, for no reason that I could see, like a Y. M. C. A. secretary with a new swimming pool. He had a cheerful, almost too-straightforward air about him that the darting movements of his eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles seemed to contradict.

He took the chair before the Inspector and waited brightly, almost eagerly. The change from last night was as astonishing as Merlini’s card transformations. I didn’t believe either of them.

“You say you saw Miss Skelton last at breakfast yesterday morning?” Gavigan began.

“That’s right,” Brooke answered promptly.

“And you worked out at the houseboat all day until dinner time, without coming in for lunch?”

“Yes. I took a bite with me. And Rappourt was there with me all afternoon.” He leaned back comfortably in his chair, crossing his legs. But he straightened a bit at the Inspector’s next question.

“Working on plans for an underwater salvaging device?”

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say so last night?”

“I had no way of knowing that that gentleman,” he indicated Merlini, “was a bona-fide investigator, for one thing. For another, I don’t talk about my inventions before they’re patented.”

“Sure it wasn’t because you intended to go after a sunken treasure in the neighborhood without asking permission?”

“Oh. The cat’s out of the bag, I see.” He relaxed again and grinned. “That might have had something to do with it, yes. Treasure hunters don’t talk for publication before the fact. Obviously bad tactics.”

Merlini put in his oar. “How much would this underwater vacuum cleaner of yours cost to build, Mr. Brooke?”

“Underwater vacuum — who has been describing the device, may I ask?” He looked at Merlini coldly.

“Come off it, Brooke,” Gavigan said. “This is a homicide investigation. We’re going to know a lot more than that before we’re through. And we don’t tell the reporters everything. Answer the question.”

Brooke protested, “I fail to see what connection—”

“Linda Skelton was thinking about paying for it, wasn’t she?”

“She was, yes. But—”

“How much would it cost, Mr. Brooke?” insisted Merlini impatiently.

Ira’s bright eyes caught Merlini’s, then dropped. His voice was suddenly expressionless and flat. “About $200,000.”

“Expensive gadget, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But its use will make it possible to get at many previously inaccessible wrecks—$200,000 is only a drop in the bucket if you salvage the cargo of even one Spanish galleon.”

“Eight million dollars would be a 4,000 percent return on the investment. That what you mean?”

“That’s the general idea, yes.”

The Inspector tried out a question.

“How did you happen to pick Linda Skelton to be your good fairy?”

Ira sat up indignantly.

“If you’re insinuating, Inspector, that the Brooke Suction Salvage Device is a gold brick—”

“I’ll reword the question,” Gavigan said patiently, “But I still want an answer. How did you happen to—”

“Floyd,” Brooke said, giving in. “He came to me. Said he had a salvage job that would be an excellent tryout for my device. He said his sister would finance the apparatus.”

“The Hussar?”

“The Hussar? I don’t know. That hasn’t been proved. There is a wreck out there in the river. It may be the Hussar. We won’t know for certain until we actually get at it.”

“Aren’t spirit messages an odd way to locate and gather data on the condition of a sunken wreck prior to salvaging? Or do you usually do it that way?”

“The hulk was not located in that way,” Brooke contradicted sharply. “Madame Rappourt’s messages have only supplemented and amplified Floyd’s soundings. Each one that we’ve so far been able to check has been verified in every detail. I can’t explain that.”

“I wish you could.” Gavigan thought a moment and then added shortly, “That’s all.”

Brooke got to his feet, grinned cheerfully, said, “Thank you” almost too politely and walked briskly out.

“I don’t like his face,” Gavigan said looking after him. “Grins too much.”

“Odd name, too,” Merlini commented.

“Name?”

“Yes. Ira means calm. Ira Brooke. Calm or still waters. You know about them. They run deep. Who’s next?”

“Rappourt. Quinn, tell Muller to get her. Then Miss Verrill, and Lamb again, in that order.”

When Quinn opened the door, Gavigan called, “Hey Doc!”

“I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Hesse hurried in from across the hall, puffing clouds of tobacco smoke. “The appearance of the body is quite consistent with cyanide poisoning. How soon can I have the body for tests?”

“Now. Get it started. And look into this, too.” He presented Hesse with the hail-polish bottle. “Did you and Gail figure out a time of death?”

“Yes, and don’t howl about it either. A six-hour interval is the best I can do. Probably not before one o’clock yesterday or later than 6. Damn little to go on at this late date except state of rigor, and that can vary like hell. You say she was seen alive last at 2:30. That cuts it down some. If you split the difference you’ll probably come close.”

Inspector Gavigan didn’t seem overjoyed. “Just about what I expected,” he said gruffly. “A whole stack of alibis. All right, get the body started and have them phone the quantitative-test results as soon as possible, or quicker. You stick around a few minutes. Gail, you wait downstairs.”

Then, speaking to no one in particular, he went on, “Lamb and Watrous were in town from 11 to 6, Miss Verrill from 2:30 to 8:30”—he looked across at Merlini—“She must have been with you at the Garden about the time Linda died. Gail was in his office, Brooke and Rappourt together on the houseboat all afternoon. The Hendersons—” He eyed Malloy who had returned with Hesse. “What did they say?”

“They were both over at the Doctor’s cottage from just after lunch until nearly 5, cleaning the place up.”

“Leaving Arnold,” Gavigan finished, “who admits he was in the house — with Linda. But I wish I knew—”

His voice trailed off reflectively; and Merlini said, “Mind reading thrown in free. You wish you knew when Mr. X arrived on the island and where Floyd was.” Gavigan looked up as if half expecting the answers. Merlini added, “So do I.”

Malloy went forward to answer a knock at the door, spoke briefly to Detective Muller outside, and then addressed Gavigan.

“Rappourt’s still in bed. Muller told her to snap out of it. In the meantime, here’s Miss Verrill.”

He stepped aside and Sigrid came in. She stopped just across the threshold, glanced about, instantly picked out the Inspector as the person in authority, and moved toward the chair that faced him. She wore a blue-corduroy housecoat and she moved with a dancer’s springy, alert walk. The attention she got from the assembled males was complete. She sat down, looked gravely at Gavigan, and waited.

“Miss Verrill,” he began briskly, “you ate lunch with Arnold, Rappourt, Lamb, and Miss Skelton yesterday on the terrace. You left for town directly afterward at 2:30, and you saw Miss Skelton for the last time, talking to Madame Rappourt, as you came down the stairs. She went up to her room, and Rappourt went with you and Lamb to the boathouse. Henderson dropped Rappourt off at the houseboat, where Brooke was working, and took you and Lamb on in to town. That all correct?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do in town?”

“I went directly to Merlini’s shop. He wasn’t there. I was told he was probably at Madison Square Garden. I went there and found him.”

“You were afraid of something. What was it? Murder?”

Her blue eyes widened a bit. “No. Rappourt. I wanted Merlini to see one of her séances and tell us what the catch was.”

“Us?”

“Arnold and myself — and Dr. Gail. I’m afraid we’re not too open-minded. Rappourt’s phenomena are ever so convincing, but it won’t quite go down. I was brought up with a circus, for one thing; and I’ve known a few magicians, a lot of grifters, freaks, and spielers. I don’t believe quite everything I see and hear. Arnold and I have been trying to catch her out in an amateur way. With no luck at all. Yesterday morning when she was at breakfast we even searched her room. Results nil. That was when I told Arnold I was going to get Merlini. I should have done it before. I knew that he could trip her up for us if anyone could.”

“What made you think she’d have him around?”

“She couldn’t help herself. I planned to have him come without notice. If Rappourt objected, we’d point out to Linda that only a fraud would fear exposure — and Rappourt’s clever enough to see the point. She’d talked last night’s séance up too much. She was out to impress Linda, and she’d gone too far to back out. She’d have had to go through with it.”

“What was she after?”

“Linda’s money.”

“Oh. Not the Hussar gold?”

“I don’t know. I think perhaps that was a smoke screen. I’d almost believe the wreck story if it wasn’t for the spirit messages. I shy at that.”

Gavigan’s next question was offhandedly casual, but his eyes watched Sigrid carefully. “Who gets Linda’s money now?”

Her reply seemed offhand. “Arnold and Floyd, I suppose.”

“Just a guess, or do you know?”

“No. I don’t know. But, well, they would, wouldn’t they? Doesn’t Arnold know? Didn’t you ask him?”

“I asked him. After you left Merlini, what did you do?”

“It was almost five then. I went to 65th Street and met Bill — Dr. Gail. We had dinner at the Plaza. He went back to work, and I came out here at 8:30.”

“Did you tell Gail that Merlini was coming out?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing, until the séance at 10.”

Merlini inserted a question. “It’s time we heard about that, Inspector. Would you give us a round-by-round description, Sigrid?”

“She began as usual,” Sigrid said, “by going into her trance state. She does a very special one, everything but froth at the mouth. She takes a pill of some sort — a drug she says, that helps to—” Sigrid stopped uncertainly, wondering at Merlini’s sudden strange behavior. His lax, lazy manner had abruptly vanished, and he was staring at her as if she had just completed a strip tease, his professional magician’s calm definitely askew.

The Inspector raised an interested eyebrow and waited.

“Now why,” Merlini exclaimed, “did I have to forget that? Excuse me a moment.”

He shot out through the door. We heard him go into Linda’s room.

We waited, and then, just as Gavigan was asking Sigrid to continue, Merlini returned. He carried a book open near the back; and his forefinger moved down the page.

“Here we are,” he said excitedly, “Trances: Crandon, Stainton Moses, Rappourt, pages 212-14.” He thumbed rapidly. “The Colonel’s book. Modern Mediums. The last quarter of it is exclusively about Rappourt. Listen: ‘Of the many trance mediums, genuine and fraudulent, that I have encountered in 20 years intensive psychic research, Madame Rappourt is by far the most interesting. If her trance state were only investigated and studied with one-tenth the interest and thoroughness which scientists give to the diseases of the flea, psychology might and psychic research certainly would discover much. She has discovered that the ordinary trance state can he greatly intensified through the use of certain drugs which increase the disassociation of the conscious personality and allow a smoother, more receptive channel for the play of psychic forces.’ And so on. Then he has inserted a most interesting footnote which I’d completely forgotten until just now: ‘Several of the capsules, one of which she takes before each entry into the trance state, I have had analyzed. Since the dose contains two highly dangerous drugs whose use is definitely not recommended except under the strictest medical supervision, I obviously cannot go into detail on this point. The medical fraternity will no doubt understand me when I say that the drugs are one of the related alkaloids of the atropine group and a well known narcotic.’ ”

Merlini’s voice had been quietly matter of fact, but the small explosive crack as he snapped the book shut added the needed exclamation point.

“Hesse,” Gavigan snapped, “it’s your turn. What’s he hinting at? What are the related alkaloids?”

“Hyoscyamine and the ‘Truth Drug,’ scopolamine,” Hesse answered gravely. “The last is the one you want, I think. Used to be used with morphine to produce twilight sleep. If she’s been dosing herself with that on her own, however, she’s a damned fool. They’re both deadly poisons. And you never know just how much will be lethal. The fatal dose of morphine varies according to the individual, and that of scopolamine never has been exactly determined.”

“Twilight sleep anything like a trance state?” Gavigan wanted to know.

“That’s what it amounts to. Scopolamine depresses the central nervous system. The pulse is rapid and the respiration deepened at first. Symptoms of fatigue and stupor set in. Those are trance symptoms. But if you get just a spot too much — the lethal dose of the closely related atropine is only one 20th of a grain — then the subconscious is freed even further of inhibitory control, hallucinations and delirium set in, the respiration and pulse are greatly depressed, numbness, paralysis of the limbs, convulsions, and unconsciousness supervene. Followed by death.”

“Rappourt show those symptoms?” Gavigan asked, turning to Sigrid.

“Yes. She seemed to get awfully sleepy, breathing deeply at the same time. Then she talked deliriously in a rapid-fire stream, most of which didn’t mean anything until the psychic control took over. She even had the paralysis — her arms would stiffen and her hands clench so you couldn’t move them — and the convulsions. It wasn’t pretty to watch.”

“Rappourt in a new role,” Merlini said cryptically, “Rappacini’s daughter and Mithradata.”

“What?” asked the Inspector, not following.

“The poison maids,” Merlini explained. “Hawthorne’s and Garnett’s. Raised on poison diets. Dangerous gals. You couldn’t kiss them and tell, because dead men don’t tell. Rappourt should have some interesting answers for us. I hope she has all of them ready.”

Gavigan turned to Hesse.

“Sure it was cyanide, Doc?”

“No. I won’t swear to anything until after the autopsy. I doubt very much if it was scopolamine or morphine, but I’ll test for all three.”

“Malloy, get Rappourt in here. In a hurry. You may go, Miss Verrill, and if you please, you’ll not mention this to the others.”

She nodded in a scared way and went out after Malloy.

“This case is getting to be a toxicologist’s nightmare,” the Inspector muttered irritably. “More damn poisons than we know what to do with.”

And right there is where yours truly pulled the bomb-rack release and blew up the ammunition dump. I’d been waiting for a good spot for the last half hour or so, ever since I’d got to thinking about those photographs. This was it.

“Inspector,” I said placidly, “you don’t know the half of it. Less in fact.” Gavigan jumped at the sound of my voice as if he had completely forgotten I was there. I got attention from several quarters.

Pointing to a framed photograph on the wall below one of the pirate flags, I asked,

“Have you noticed that? Rather good shot of the East River at twilight. Toned in blue.”

He stared at it dubiously.

“So what?”

Merlini watched me quizzically, one eyebrow lifted. Hesse gave the photo a quick glance and then threw a penetrating one at me.

“There’s a print downstairs that’s a honey,” I went on, enjoying the limelight. “Sailboats. It’s in sepia. There are some others around, here and there, and all signed Arnold Skelton. Yesterday, when Linda died, he was working in the basement. Says he has a workshop there, but carefully avoids saying what kind. If you ask me, it’s a photographic darkroom, and I’d like to get a good close look at it.

Gavigan began to get the idea now. “Yes. Maybe you’ve got something there.”

Merlini was frankly baffled.

“Hey, what goes on here?”

“Photography,” I explained, mimicking his own lecture manner, “is as poisonous a hobby as you can find, short of toxicology itself. The toning formulas use the ferricyanide and oxalate of potassium, oxalic acid, hydrochloric acid, copper sulphate, gold chloride, the acetate and nitrate of lead, borax, and the potassium and ammonium alums — all toxic. Developer ingredients include pyro, formaldehyde, and paraformaldehyde. In reducing, potassium permanganate and sulphuric acid are recommended; for fine-grain developing, paraphenylenediamine, a poisonous dye.” I paused briefly, well satisfied with the startled looks I was getting, drew another lungful of non-toxic oxygen, and dropped the remaining bombs. “Intensification is achieved through the use of that old favorite, bichloride of mercury, and potassium bichromate, silver nitrate, and potassium and/or sodium cyanide! I may have left out a few, but — oh, yes — mercuric iodide, nitric acid, boric acid, and wood alcohol and alcohol propyle.”

I had ticked them off on my fingers as I named them. “A grand total,” I finished, “of 27 poisons. With one or two exceptions you can buy them all in quantity at any photographic supply house and no questions asked. Arnold won’t have ’em all, but if it’s a respectable darkroom, he’s got well over half. Throw in the scopolamine and morphine and you’ve got the nice fat sum of 29 deadly poisons!”

“An expert on women’s wear and a pharmacologist,” said Merlini. “Do you give a course of lectures on the curious marriage rites of the Kwakiutal Indians?”

“Sure,” I cracked back. “All marriage rites are, concerned with the same fundamental—”

“Opportunity,” interrupted Gavigan. “And means!”

Captain Malloy picked that moment to stick his head in at the door and announce with some excitement, “Rappourt just pulled a fast one, Inspector. She gulped down a couple more sleeping tablets before I could stop her, and she’s going to sleep on me.”

“Luminal,” I said under my breath. “Thirty!”

“Hesse!” Inspector Gavigan’s voice had thunder in it.

“Go look at her. And pull her out of it. Use a stomach pump if necessary. She can’t get away with that. Coming, Merlini? I’m going to look at that darkroom.”

Chapter Fourteen:

THE BLUE MAN

INSPECTOR GAVIGAN HAD THE door at the head of the basement stairs open half a foot when he quickly and silently pulled it to again. He looked at us over his shoulder, his hand still on the knob.

“Malloy,” he whispered. “Arnold’s still in the living-room up front, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Quiet. And stand pat.” He pushed the door in again, slowly this time, just far enough to let himself through.

The rest of us, crowding at the entrance, watched him move softly down the steps. Over Quinn’s shoulder I could see that the basement was fitted out as a game room, a ping-pong table in its center and a dart board on one wall. There was a red-lacquer and chromium-trimmed bar at the further end and, in one corner, a desk with typewriter and letter files.

But what attracted the Inspector was a door in the right-hand wall that was just barely ajar and from which a thin streak of light issued, and, now and then, the faint, almost furtive, rattle of glassware.

He reached the door, listened a moment, and then quickly jerked it open.

Dr. William Gail jumped. The glass-stoppered brown bottle which his outstretched hand was about to replace on a shelf above his head nearly slipped from his fingers. His left hand, darting out automatically, just saved it, and his head jerked around toward the door. He stood there for a half-instant, startled, his eyes wide. Then he smiled slowly, and calmly put the bottle on the shelf. “Oh, hello, Inspector. I was thinking it was about time you got on to this darkroom.”

Without answering, Gavigan reached up and took the bottle down again.

The rest of us surged forward through the door and down the stairs.

Arnold’s darkroom was a 14K honey. The long stainless-steel-sink with its fitted trays, the film-developing bench with electric agitator and built-in negative-viewing box, the print-washing and contact-printing machines, the enlarging table, the dry-mounting press, the supply drawers, cabinets, shelves, storage racks, negative files, even the trimming board, were all neatly designed to fit the space and placed so as to allow maximum operating efficiency. He had the whole works, even a baby refrigerator for cooling solutions, foot-switch operation of lights, and a light-trap ventilator with exhaust fan. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and go to work. If Gavigan only hadn’t appropriated the roll I’d shot the night before, I’d have turned out a set of 11 x 14 enlargements with deckle-edged mounts.

A glance at the chemical supplies indicated that I hadn’t been too enthusiastic about the poisons; there were plenty of the red danger labels in evidence.

I noticed one oddity on a shelf in the corner by the towel rack whose photographic use I couldn’t guess — a jar of cold cream.

The Inspector looked at the bottle he held and read the label. “AgNO₃, Silver Nitrate. What are you up to, Gail?”

“I was wondering,” Gail said easily, “if Arnold has a supply of potassium or sodium cyanide, and if so, whether he keeps it out in the open, or under lock and key.”

The Inspector ran his eye over the shelves. “And you found out?”

“That all his other poisonous chemicals, some of them cyanides, are easily accessible. But the potassium and sodium salts seem to be missing. Some photographers avoid their use as far as possible because they’re so dangerous, and yet—”

He pointed to a formula tacked with several others on the wall:

“As poisonous a formula as I ever saw,” Gail said. “It contains just about 100 lethal doses of bichloride of mercury, 100 of cyanide, and perhaps half a dozen of silver nitrate. Definitely not recommended as a tonic.”

The Inspector put the silver-nitrate bottle down rather suddenly, I thought, as if it might jump up and bite him. “Everybody clear out of here,” he commanded sharply. We backed out into the larger room and waited, watching Gavigan through the door. The Inspector scowled heavily as he noted the proportion of red poison labels on the array of bottles. Then he gave the place a rapid, thorough examination, pulling out all the drawers and investigating the cupboards.

Finally he called, “Merlini. Job for you. Padlock on one of these cupboards. See what you can do.”

Merlini stepped quickly in, took a brief look, and said confidently, “Ross. Paper clip. Desk.”

“Sorry you have to use such makeshift tools,” Gavigan apologized. “I’ll get you a burglar’s kit for Christmas.”

“Thanks,” Merlini said as he caught the clip I tossed him. “Don’t need it. Rather have a police pass. Several shows around town I’d like to see.” He straightened the paper clip, put a few new kinks in it, and began on the lock.

Gavigan came out from the darkroom and faced Gail. “Empty your pockets, please,” he ordered.

Gail, seated on the ping-pong table, was holding a match to his cigarette. He took the cigarette from his mouth, stood up and looked steadily at the Inspector, the match flame, forgotten, burning on. Then he flicked it out and without a word started laying the contents of his pockets on the table.

Dr. Hesse appeared at the head of the stairs, just then, asking, “Do you want Rappourt now?”

Gavigan looked up at him surprised. “Fast work, Doc. How’d you do that?”

“Stomach pump, enema, emetic. I just mentioned them and she began to wake up. Thought that would do it. She didn’t swallow any sleeping tablets. That was an act for Malloy. Some symptoms you can’t fake. Hunter’s watching her.”

“Good. See her in a minute.” Gavigan turned back to Gail, slapped his now empty pockets in a practiced manner, looked for a moment at the innocent-appearing collection of keys, change, handkerchief, pencil, pen, billfold, letters, and clinical thermometer on the table, and said, “Okay.”

As Gail began to refill his pockets, Gavigan added, “You fancy yourself as a detective, is that it?”

Before he had time to answer, Merlini came from the darkroom and captured our attention with what he carried. He had two pint-sized chemist’s bottles and a drinking glass half filled with what, under other circumstances, I would have dismissed as water. There was a saucer lying across its top, bottom up. Of the bottles, one was clear glass with a label bearing in heavy red letters the word: POISON, and, in a smaller size the symbol NaCy and the two words, Sodium Cyanide. The glass of the other bottle was a brownish color and, though half-filled with a heavy crystalline substance, had no label at all.

“Someone around here has been doing some amateur detecting,” Merlini said. He put the glass down on the ping-pong table and turned it slowly. On one side we saw a dark smudge of whorls and lines that was a fingerprint. On the opposite side there were four more, arranged vertically down the glass. The cyanide bottle, too, showed prints, many of them. The other bottle had none.

“Thumb and four fingers,” Merlini said indicating the glass. “Smallish. Probably a woman’s.”

Gavigan put his nose down close. “The powdered graphite.”

“Yes. Our amateur sleuth, whoever he is, used it as an impromptu homemade fingerprint powder and with success. Had you noticed that there was a vacuum water carafe in Linda’s room and no glass?”

“Of course,” Gavigan retorted, “I’m not blind.” He turned to Dr. Hesse. “Can you test this for cyanide at once?”

Hesse came forward, nodding. “You’re lucky this time. Knowing it was cyanide, I brought the reagents for the Prussian Blue test with me. Would you have my bag brought down, Captain?” He lifted the glass carefully, thumb on the top edge, forefinger on tile bottom, and took it into the darkroom.

Malloy jerked an upward thumb at Quinn; and, as the latter started up, Gavigan called, “Send Brady down here too, and bring Arnold. I’m going to—”

“Just a minute!” It was Gail’s voice, sharp, insistent. “Before you get him, I’ve got something to say.”

“Well?”

“It’s about motive.” Dr. Gail returned the Inspector’s stare coolly, but his finger tapped nervously on his cigarette, sending flakes of ash to the floor. “Linda was a selfish, pigheaded spinster fury. As a psychiatric study she was a honey; as a person to live with or around I imagine she was holy hell. She also controlled the lion’s share of a fortune which one or two other persons might naturally feel they should have shared. There’s plenty of motive there, and yet—”

“And yet what?” Gavigan’s voice was sub-zero.

Gail frowned at his cigarette, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it. “There’s a better motive than those,” he said somberly, “a much better motive. If anyone ever had a good and sufficient reason for murder—” He threw a quick look at Merlini. “You asked me about Arnold’s face. I’ll tell you now.”

“I thought you knew,” Gavigan said.

“Yes. But I couldn’t say so until I was sure it had something to do with Linda’s death. Arnold wears make-up all the time, not only on his face, but even on the backs of his hands. There’s a proprietary make-up on the market called Coverfault, which may be what he uses. It’s designed for hiding small discolorations and blemishes of the skin, but Arnold uses it over his whole visible skin surface. I saw him without it once — though he doesn’t know that. I caught him in swimming early one morning — in trunks alone.”

“Well?” Gavigan growled impatiently.

“His body is blue.”

“Blue!” The Inspector didn’t care for the idea at all. His quick eyes scrutinized Gail’s face suspiciously.

I began to think the Doctor might have something there. His theory would explain the dirty streaks I had glimpsed on Arnold’s face the night before — streaks the rain had made in his make-up.

“So that’s it!” Merlini said with some surprise. “Moor’s skin, Doctor?”

“Yes. Argyria. How did you know?”

“I’ve known a few Blue Men. But isn’t Arnold a bit young? I thought they’d mostly died off by now.”

Gail nodded. “They have. That’s just it. How do you suppose he comes to have it?”

Gavigan wanted attention. He slapped his hand flat on the table. “Wait a minute! Go on, Quinn, get Brady and Hesse’s bag.” He eyed Merlini and Gail belligerently. “Now, what are you two talking about? Will someone please exp—”

Merlini obliged. “The Blue Men I knew, Inspector, were circus freaks. Forty years or so ago the medical profession prescribed silver nitrate for stomach ulcers. I don’t know if it cured them, but the medicos were startled when some of their patients started to turn blue — especially when the patients stayed that way — permanently. There wasn’t any cure. Some of them went into side shows. And one that I knew — billed as The Great What-Is-It From Mars—used to dose himself with the stuff to increase the color. He figured as long as he was blue and no hope for it, he might as well be good and blue, and try for a raise in pay.”

“But—” Gavigan began to object.

“The same thing,” Gail said, adding to Merlini’s information, “happened in the early 19th century and again around 1850, when silver salts were prescribed for epilepsy and tabes. It created a whole generation of blue men and women. It’s a slaty, dark, bluish-gray discoloration caused by the tendency of the silver salt to deposit itself in finely divided metallic form in the skin. Silver, of course, turns dark on exposure to light — the reason for its photographic use. And the pigmentation of the skin appears first in the parts exposed to light and particularly the conjunctivae and mucus membranes. You’ve noticed that Arnold barely opens his mouth when he speaks? That’s because the inside of his mouth and his tongue are blue. Even his internal organs—”

“But—” Gavigan got his objection on record this time—“silver nitrate is poisonous taken internally.”

“Sure,” Gail agreed, “it’s a violent corrosive poison if given in a sufficient dose, but that’s 30 grains or more. Minute quantities are neither toxic nor appreciably injurious to the general health. But, when given over an extended period of time, they produce the intense discoloration that Arnold tries to conceal.”

“And you said you were hunting for cyanide when I walked in on you in the darkroom. What were you doing with the silver-nitrate bottle?”

“You mean the bottle with the silver-nitrate label, Inspector. With this bee buzzing in my bonnet, I decided to check up. I discovered that Arnold’s silver-nitrate bottle contains salts all right, salts that look superficially like AgN0₃ but not silver salts. Merely common sodium chloride — in the rock salt form. It’s not only not silver nitrate, but one of its antidotes.”

Gail turned and picked up the brown bottle that had no label. He removed the glass stopper and tilted perhaps a teaspoonful of the crystals the bottle contained out onto the table. He took one smallish one and touched it lightly to his tongue.

“Bitter, metallic taste,” he said. “That’s silver nitrate.”

Brady came in with Quinn. Gavigan addressed the former, “Finish with that letter?”

Brady nodded. “Couple of faint smudges on the note paper and lots of good ones on the envelope. Postal clerks and mailmen probably. But if you think the letter prints might not be Floyd’s I’ll shoot it to the lab. I can’t bring out a lot of detail with the powder but the silver nitrate bath might do it.”

“Now that,” Merlini commented smilingly, “is what I call a useful chemical to have on hand. Regular little Jim Dandy jack-of-all-trades. Sail right in, Brady. The silver nitrate’s there in front of you.”

“Well,” Brady said, “it’s not as simple as that. I’d need—”

“I’ll take care of the letter, Brady,” Gavigan broke in. “No hurry about that just now. I want you to go through this darkroom with particular attention to the poison bottles you’ll find there.” Gavigan turned again to Gail. “I don’t get it. Photographers that use it don’t all turn blue, and Arnold certainly wouldn’t be dosing himself with it.”

“No,” Gail said with deliberation, “but doesn’t it look as if he might have hidden his silver nitrate, substituting rock salt in its place, in order to escape being dosed with it?”

Merlini picked some of the crystals from the table between thumb and finger and examined them closely. “You mean Linda?” he asked.

Gail said, “I’d like to make my position clear. I wasn’t Arnold’s doctor. The fact that he has argyria interested and puzzled me, but it wasn’t my business exactly. He said as much once when I tried to mention the subject. It wasn’t until last night, when we found Linda, that I started to put two and two together. I couldn’t mention it before, because it was only a wild and libelous speculation. But the fact that he keeps his silver nitrate under lock and key with a harmless decoy salt in its place — well, it begins to look as if I had something.”

“Yes,” Gavigan agreed slowly, “it looks as if Arnold had tumbled to the fact that he was being dosed and had taken secret precautions to avoid it. But why would Linda — this makes her crazier than you thought, doesn’t it?”

“It means she was more dangerous than I thought, yes. And her reasons are obvious. Jealousy is a natural agoraphobic state of mind. In Linda’s case it concerned Arnold and Floyd — but particularly Arnold. He is — or was — an actor and a good one. Linda has always wanted to be one — you may have noticed the books in her room and the theatrical make-up table. Her acting ambitions were, because of her phobia, quite impossible of fulfillment. She couldn’t stand seeing Arnold free to go where he liked, independent of her and successful on the stage. She found out about the effects of silver nitrate somehow and she simply fed it to him — taking it from his own darkroom. He wouldn’t notice the taste because of the very small amounts. She might as well have given him her phobia; it had the same effect. Like her, he disliked to go out, though for a physical rather than mental reason.”

Gavigan frowned at the brown bottle and the scattered crystals on the table. “Opportunity, means, and motive!” he said. “Get him, Malloy. This case is all washed up.”

Malloy hurried up the stairs. His stride was purposeful and determined.

Merlini’s voice came from the corner of the room. “You know, Inspector, I think we’ve got a break at last.”

“Yes,” Gavigan agreed, “Arnold’s out on the end of a long, long limb.”

“Arnold? Oh, yes. But I don’t mean that.”

We all swung around on him together. He was seated at the desk behind the typewriter. He had removed the ribbon from the machine and was holding it, a spool in each hand, close under the desk lamp. He was squinting at it with fascination; and, without looking up, he said:

“Ross, there’s another ribbon or two in this upper left hand drawer. Put one in this machine and take dictation.”

He got up then to make room for me; and I acted quickly, following instructions.

Gavigan said, “That a new ribbon?”

“Yes,” Merlini said. “Let me have that magnifying glass of yours. There are a couple of feet here in the center that carry only a single layer of impressions. They’re crowded but quite distinct. The rest, on each side has been gone over twice. Your men at the lab should be able to untangle those with photographic enlargements, but I think I can decipher the single impressions now. Ready, Ross?”

I nodded, and with the ribbon close to the light he began reading, slowly and with frequent pauses, but with certainty. He read, not words, but single letters: “i-l-l — i—m — t-h-g — i—e-e-h-capital t-colon-a-d—”

“No spaces?” I interrupted.

“They wouldn’t show,” he said. “The ribbon doesn’t travel when the space bar is struck. We’ll have to put those in ourselves, later.”

He continued spelling out the message, and my enthusiasm waned rapidly. I didn’t see that we were getting much in the way of sense, and then, as the letters suddenly became numerals, we got even less. The Inspector and the Doctor when I had finished, were both leaning over my shoulder and looking at this:

It reminded me of the mathematician’s assertion that a monkey at a typewriter could, if given a sufficiently great number of millions of years, eventually turn out, by pure chance and according to the laws of probability, all the books in the British Museum. This batch of characters looked to me like the monkey’s work on an off day.

Gavigan glanced at Merlini and said, “Well?”

“Looks a bit cryptic, doesn’t it?” Merlini replied.

“You might insert spaces before each capital letter,” Gail suggested, “except that ‘Lrae’ doesn’t look very promising.”

Gavigan scowled at it a moment longer, then remarked impatiently, “You can have it, Merlini. You like puzzles. And you’ll probably decode it and come up with a six-way substitution cipher, an international spy ring, and stolen naval secrets. While you’re doing that, I’ll finish off Arnold.”

The Inspector didn’t appear to think highly of the message, if that’s what it was. I wasn’t sure that I did myself; it didn’t even look like a worth-while finger exercise. If it meant anything at all, it would appear to be a combination code and cipher, though Gavigan seemed to consider that as too romantic for serious consideration. I eyed Merlini, trying to fathom what he thought. He seemed more hopeful, because, after a moment, a smile suddenly grew on his face and he leaned above me.

“Ross,” he began, “if you’ll just—”

But the stairway door opened; and Arnold hurried down, followed by Malloy. Gavigan moved quickly to stand before the bottles on the table, hiding them with his body.

Inspector Gavigan waited until Arnold had stopped before him. Then he went straight to the point. “Who’s your doctor?”

“Doctor?” The apprehension in Arnold’s voice was plain. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Never mind that. Who is he?”

Arnold balked. “Look here, Inspector. I see no reason—”

Gavigan, without warning, exploded. “I’ve got plenty of reason and you damn well know it!” he roared. “Answer my question. You and a lot of other people around here answer as nice as you please to all the unimportant questions. As soon as I throw out one that means something, you stall and start lying. I’m going to have some answers, and I’m starting with you! What is your doctor’s name and address?”

“Sorry, Inspector. I don’t have one. I’m never sick.”

“Arnold,” Merlini put in earnestly, “you’re making a mistake, you know. A bad one. And, Inspector, you forgot to tell him at this point that he can refuse to answer until he’s seen his lawyer.”

Gavigan paid no attention to Merlini’s comments. “Let me see your hand, please,” he ordered.

“Fingerprints?” Arnold asked, without moving.

“No.” Gavigan reached out, grasped his arm between elbow and wrist and swung it up. Arnold made no protest, but his face was grim. Gavigan pretended an interest in the palm. Suddenly he turned the hand over and shot back the cuff.

“You don’t use the make-up on your arms?”

The flesh color of the hand stopped short just above the wrist. His arm beyond that point was the dark, blue-gray, slate color that Gail had described.

“No,” Arnold answered feebly.

“Face pretty bad?”

“Yes. What of it?” I caught the quick, brief glance he sent in Gail’s direction.

“It might have something to do with this case.” Gavigan, watching Arnold narrowly, took one step to the left, exposing the two bottles on the table behind him.

Arnold saw them; I was sure of that. But he gave no outward sign.

The Inspector’s hand fussed idly with the stopper of the cyanide bottle, twisting it back and forth. His eyes remained on Arnold’s face. “Yesterday afternoon,” he said gravely, “when Linda Skelton was poisoned, you were one of three persons on this island and the only one with Miss Skelton in this house. You had the opportunity. The sodium cyanide in your darkroom was not in its usual place, but locked up. You had the means.” He paused, glanced at the bottles under his hand for the first time, and went on remorselessly. “Your silver nitrate was found in the same locked cupboard, in an unlabeled bottle. The silver-nitrate bottle is filled with rock salt. The discoloration of your skin is due to silver nitrate. You had opportunity, means, and motive.”

“I see.” Arnold returned Gavigan’s stare steadily. “Why, if I killed Linda, would I carry her body over to the old house where I knew she’d never have gone herself? And then fix it to look like suicide? Or do I impress you as a half-wit?”

“On the contrary. You’re altogether too clever. That’s your alibi. But it won’t wash. Not with me.”

“You’re charging me then?”

“I’ll give you a chance to talk first. Got anything to say?”

Arnold considered that; then, all at once his tense, careful attitude wilted visibly. “Yes,” he said hopelessly, “I do. You know a lot. But not enough. And you’ve got it wrong.”

He turned and took a step toward the darkroom door. Gavigan moved quickly to intercept him.

“It’s all right, Inspector. I’m not after the poisons.”

Gavigan went with him just the same. Arnold brought back a towel and the jar of cold cream. He placed them on the ping-pong table and unscrewed the jar’s top. He began applying the cream to his face. He said nothing and the rest of us were silent, watching.

Then he wiped his face with the towel. The effect was odd, as if he had used the trick soap novelty shops sell that dirties you as you use it, or as if, under cover of the towel, he had applied burnt cork. His face, with the makeup gone, was a cold, dirty gray-blue like his arms, a dead queer color that killed all the good looks of his clean-cut, neatly proportioned features. The matinee idol was suddenly a freak.

“Pretty sight, isn’t it?” he said bitterly, flinging the towel to the floor. He took a cigarette from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and lighted it with slow deliberation. “The handcuffs, Inspector,” he added with a feeble attempt at lightness, “bring them on. I know when I’m licked.”

“Let’s hear about it,” Gavigan asked.

Arnold nodded faintly. “If I don’t talk, I’m on the spot. If I do, you won’t believe it. But here goes. Linda had it coming to her. If anyone ever deserved to die, she did. And I intended that she should, slowly and painfully. But — someone else beat me to it. And I do hate to take the rap for him. I’d hoped to have some evidence for you before you caught up with me, but you’ve worked too fast. I congratulate you.” He inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and then went on, the smoke issuing from his nose and mouth as he talked. “Linda died yesterday at exactly ten minutes past three. I know because I saw her die. I meant to kill her, and she died of a poison from my darkroom. And I moved the body. Only — I didn’t kill her.”

He paused again, a hopeless look in his eyes, seeing the disbelief he had expected on the Inspector’s face.

“Go on,” Gavigan said tonelessly.

“Linda was mad,” Arnold said, “more so than any of us guessed — even you, Dr. Gail. She had been dosing me with silver nitrate from my own lab for nearly a year now. She hoped to kill my acting career. She did. I do have a doctor, Felix Graf, skin specialist. He couldn’t diagnose the condition when it first appeared, and I don’t blame him. The fact that I’d been assimilating silver nitrate regularly seemed too fantastic to consider seriously. But as the condition became worse and didn’t respond to treatment, he finally told me he was forced to believe it must be argyria. He knew I was using-silver nitrate, but neither of us could understand how I could be getting it inside me. I don’t absently chew on the chemicals as I work.

“When I found that the silver, in order to produce the intense discoloration as I had it, must be taken in small doses over a fairly extended period of time, I knew it couldn’t be accidental; and I began to suspect what was happening. Even then it was a good while before I was able to figure out how she was giving it to me. Silver nitrate is an unstable compound — decomposes readily in contact with any organic matter — so it was doubtful if I was getting it in my food. I had samples of it tested over a period of weeks. The results were negative. I found out all I could about silver nitrate; and, finally, one fact tipped me off to the answer. Silver nitrate is absorbed through the mucous membranes. Linda had simply pulverized the crystals and added them in minute quantities — too small to make the taste noticeable — to my tooth powder!

“Neither Graf nor myself tumbled sooner, before so much damage was done, because the whole scheme was the insanely devilish sort of thing only a crazy person would think of. Gail’s figured it out now, I gather; but he knew Linda as Graf didn’t. Perhaps I should have consulted him; but, at the time, I thought a skin specialist more appropriate than a psychologist. And I really couldn’t quite believe it myself until I’d finally found Linda’s fingerprints on the nitrate bottle — I compared them with prints from a silver-handled mirror she has. I had to believe it then. I didn’t let her suspect I knew, of course; and I substituted the salt for the nitrate. Can you think of any stronger, more compelling motive for murder than the one I had? She had irretrievably destroyed my chances of doing the one thing I’ve ever wanted to do — act. I decided to kill her. And in such a way that Gail there or even Graf would never suspect me. I’d had my punishment in advance. I worked the murder out, every detail — and then, suddenly, someone else steps in, kills her, and leaves me holding the bag. If you let me live long enough, I’m going to find out whether that was intentional. If it was—” Arnold twisted the cigarette between his fingers with an involuntary movement, breaking it in half. He dropped it on the floor and put it out with his foot.

“You suspect someone,” Gavigan stated sharply. “Who?”

“Floyd. Damn him. Only I don’t understand why — He could have come back to the island yesterday, sneaked in, and put poison in Linda’s glass, but why—” Arnold shook his head in a puzzled fashion. “I didn’t tell you this morning, but I suspect that Floyd’s Hussar theory, is a clever bit of moonshine. He’s located a wreck there where he says — that’s easy — there are plenty of them, but it’s not the Hussar. That’s a little too much. I think he was simply trying to pry Linda loose from the salvage money and then clear out with it. I don’t know if Rappourt’s in on it, or simply hoeing her own row; but she’s after Linda’s money, too. Only I don’t understand why he’d kill her before he got the money. I don’t think she’d paid up yet, but I’m sure she hadn’t refused.” He stopped, staring before him, perplexity and anger on his face.

“This perfect-murder method,” Gavigan asked. “What was that?”

“That’s a leading question, but I’ll answer it. I’ll tell you what happened yesterday afternoon first, though. I went upstairs to Linda’s room at just after 3. I’ve never believed that she really intended to leave all the money to Sigrid, and I did believe that Rappourt was trying to cut herself in. I hardly blamed Floyd for doing so, but Rappourt’s fingers in the pie made me mad. I decided that had gone far enough and I intended to read Linda the riot act on Rappourt, to point out that she was simply being gulled. I never got the chance. She was sitting in the armchair — where you put her body — when I came in. Her eyes were closed, the shades drawn. That pad of paper was on the end table under her arm, and she held a pencil. She seemed to be making an attempt at the automatic writing Gail advises. She was angry because I barged in. She told me to get out. I refused, and we fought about it. That went on for three or four minutes. Then, suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, a horribly agonized look twisted her face, and she screamed.… ”

Arnold paused, fumbled in his pocket for another cigarette, found one, took it out, forgot about it, and went on.

“She tried to rise from her chair once — and collapsed. The convulsions came then. Not very pretty. And suddenly she was dead. Like that. The whole thing took place almost before I realized what was happening — just a few seconds. I put my face close to hers, and I smelled the bitter almond odor at her mouth. I knew what that meant. I simply stood there for a minute waiting for the scream to bring Mrs. Henderson. But no one came. Then I hung that Do Not Disturb card on the door. And I started thinking — fast — about a lot of things.

“The drinking glass, which I suppose you also found, was on the table by her chair. It was half empty. I knew she must have taken the poison just before I came in. She didn’t drink it while I was there. But I also knew that she hadn’t committed suicide. She wouldn’t have argued with me as she did, knowing she was going to die within a minute or two. It wouldn’t have been worth it. And that first look, when it hit her, had surprise in it — astonishment. She hadn’t expected it at all. But more than that, I knew that no one, least of all Dr. Gail, would believe she’d committed suicide. He’d told me that was one thing she never would do, even under pressure of the phobic seizures. He can give you the psychological reasons. And, because she’d been so interested in Rappourt’s monkeyshines and in the treasure, no one else would believe it either. She’d been positively cheerful these last few weeks, excited because Rappourt had her believing she could develop mediumistic powers. She hadn’t impressed anyone as a candidate for suicide. I knew it wasn’t suicide; and no one would believe it was; and I had a blue-ribbon motive that Graf and possibly even Gail knew about. I had to do something quickly. So I moved the body.”

“You thought up that reverse-English alibi, just like that?” Gavigan asked skeptically.

“No. That was part of my original murder plan. I’d intended that Linda would be found some day soon, up there at the old house, dragged there apparently by a stranger, a passer-by, a sexual maniac who didn’t know about her phobia. There would be clues to back that up — to build up the picture of a mythical murder — marks of a rowboat on the shore, footprints that fitted no one in the house, a dropped button from a pair of overalls, perhaps even a few hairs, red ones, under her fingernails, and a drop or two of dried blood that would indicate a man with a scratched face. Oh, it would be obvious enough and subtle enough to look good. But I couldn’t go through with that now. I wasn’t ready with my manufactured clues for one thing. And psychopathic murderers bent on rape or mutilation don’t poison their victims. They strangle them or knock them on the head or cut them up. That stopped me for a bit. I spent half an hour in there trying to think it out, and not thinking too efficiently either. I was afraid someone would come back to the house at any moment.

“Then I decided that if I moved the body and pretended to make it look like suicide with the poison in the nail-polish bottle — sodium cyanide in solution — the police would, for a time at least, look for a murderer who knew no better than to fake a suicide in the wrong place. That and the delayed discovery of the body would give me time to try and find out who had killed her. But you got on to it too quickly. Much too quickly. I haven’t arty evidence at all.”

“You dusted that glass with graphite?” Gavigan asked.

“Yes. But the fingerprints are all Linda’s. And the prints on the cyanide bottle are all mine. The murderer left none. If I’d killed her, you wouldn’t find mine on the cyanide.”

“Unless that’s another reverse-English alibi. All the other bottles in that darkroom probably have your prints. It would look queer if the cyanide didn’t.”

“Yes. I suppose it would. I hadn’t thought of that. You don’t believe me, of course.”

“How did you sink those boats and set that fire?”

Arnold brightened a bit. “I’m glad you mentioned that, Inspector. Don’t you see? That’s my one high card. If I’d known those things were going to happen, I’d never have moved the body. I’ve alibis there, simply because I didn’t and couldn’t have been in the right places at the proper times. I was with the others in the living-room when the fire started and with Gail when the boats were scuttled.”

“Are you going to deny you slugged Watrous last night?”

“Yes. I did hear the commotion, as you suspected; but I couldn’t come out to investigate because I hadn’t my make-up on. So I pretended I hadn’t heard.”

Gavigan didn’t argue. He stayed on the offensive. “When did you take the body up there?”

“Last night after dinner. I had to wait until it was fairly dark. I took it up about 9 o’clock when I was supposed to be in my darkroom. Out the window and down the sun-deck stairs. I joined the others after I got back. Took me about half an hour.”

Merlini put a question. “You took her all the way up to that third-floor room because the body was stiff — in a sitting position?”

“Yes. She had to be sitting in a chair. That was the only room—”

“You smashed the front door lock?” Gavigan interrupted.

“Yes. As I told you before, I had no idea that boat-landing door might be unlocked. And I wish you’d find out who else has been in that house. I had to scuffle up those footprints so you wouldn’t find mine. But there was someone, more than one person there in that third-floor room before me.”

Gavigan turned to Malloy. “Take him upstairs for a minute. And stick with him.” He turned his back on Arnold.

Arnold stared at him as if he were trying to read the Inspector’s mind by pure force of will.

Merlini spoke as Malloy moved, putting the question I wanted to put.

“You’re quite certain, Arnold, that Linda didn’t drink from that glass while you were there?”

“I know she didn’t.” Arnold spoke promptly, decidedly. “She was too busy scrapping with me.”

“You say you were there three or four minutes before the poison acted? Can you make it more accurate than that?”

“No. I didn’t look at my watch. But it was no less than three minutes, I’m certain of that. Why? What—”

“You were excited, you know. Couldn’t it have possibly been a minute at the most?”

“It could not. She wouldn’t have had time to cuss me out so thoroughly. I can give you most of it, if you want to hear it.”

“Not now. You may need to, though. Did she take anything else into her mouth? Did her hands go near her face at all? Did she touch the pencil with her lips, anything of the sort?”

Arnold was still decidedly positive. “She didn’t. But why—”

“That’s all,” Merlini said.

He sat down before the typewriter and poked absently at the space bar.

Arnold, frowning, followed Malloy out.

“Well that breaks this case open,” said Gavigan. “High, wide and handsome. That’s the damndest confession I ever heard, and I’ve heard some screwy ones, but it hangs him.”

“It is odd,” Merlini said, “very, for a confession. He confessed to opportunity, means, motive, and even intent to kill — but he didn’t confess to murder. Is that little omission what bothers you, Inspector?”

“Did I say I was bothered?”

“No. But it’s all over your face. You can’t think of a good reason why a murderer should confess to so much and not take the last hurdle. And you’re going to be annoyed until you do. I admire you for it. There are some cops who wouldn’t let a little snag like that bother them too much.”

“Yeah. And if he didn’t kill her it’s even more unreasonable that he’d admit all that he did. Unless he’s trying to commit suicide via the hot seat.”

“Or unless he’s telling the truth.”

Gail, sitting in the corner where he had been a silent, inconspicuous listener, said abruptly, “But he can’t be, you know. Not altogether.”

Merlini swung around. “I thought we’d hear from you. The merry-go-round is about to start, Inspector. All aboard.”

“He’s either lying or very badly mistaken about one thing he swears he’s sure of,” Gail continued. “If she died when he says she did, at least three minutes after he came into the room, then she must have taken something into her mouth while he was there. His description of her death indicates a good strong dose of cyanide, such a strong one that she’d have died, or, at the very least, have fallen insensible and had the convulsive seizure within a few seconds, certainly less than half a minute after taking, it — not something over three minutes. His story simply will not hold water on that point.”

“It certainly won’t.” Dr. Hesse stood in the doorway of the darkroom. “She didn’t get the poison by drinking from that glass before he came into the room — or after! Not if the same liquid is in it now as then. Whatever else it contains besides water, there’s no cyanide!”

“Score one for Arnold,” Merlini said. “If he’d poisoned her, he’d have known there was no cyanide in the glass, and he’d have put some there in order to make the story he just told us look good. Likewise, he didn’t empty the cyanide from the glass and substitute tap water because that contradicts his story.”

“Then how the hell did she get the poison?” Gavigan said.

“She drank half a glass of water — aqua pura — before Arnold came in,” Merlini said. “Doesn’t that suggest anything?”

“Sure. She was thirsty.”

“Not necessarily. There are other reasons for drinking water. What if she put the poison in her mouth and drank the water to wash it down? And what if the poison didn’t begin to act on her system for several minutes simply because — can’t you think of something that would prevent it, Hesse?”

Hesse took his cigar from his mouth with a surprised motion as if the answer had just occurred to him. “A capsule. The ordinary gelatine capsule would normally take four or five minutes to dissolve. And if she’d previously had a drink or two, it might take considerably longer since gelatine is insoluble in alcohol.”

“Capsules,” Gavigan said with interest, “That’s a lead—”

Detective Muller burst through the door at the head of the stairs and hurried down the steps. He carried a box that dripped water. He put it on the ping-pong table. “The diver,” he announced somewhat breathlessly, “fished these outa the drink. He’s all excited, but I don’t see—”

We crowded around to look. The box held a dirty Wedgwood pitcher minus handle, its blue and white surface badly chipped, a pewter plate, two forks, slightly bent, and a button.

Dr. Gail gave a slight exclamation of surprise, reached into the box, and picked up the button. “Uniform,” he said after a closer look. “British.” Then he snatched at the plate, took his handkerchief, and mopped at its center, wiping away the muddy black silt and sand. A circular, two-inch embossed area was disclosed in the center of the plate.

Gail looked at it incredulously.

“That,” he said finally, “is the crest of His Majesty’s Ship, Hussar.”

“Eight million smackers,” Gavigan said reverently. “My God! They are real! Arnold’s wrong again. Capsules or not, as soon as I’ve seen Rappourt, I’m going to hustle him in to headquarters; and I’m going to have some new answers or know damn well why not. Malloy!”

Merlini held the pitcher in his hands; passing his long fingers thoughtfully over its raised arabesque design. “I can give you a new answer, right now. Do you mind, Inspector, if I knock Floyd’s alibi into a cocked hat?”

Inspector Gavigan pivoted like a revolving door. His skepticism was heavy, but hollow. “And does that clear Arnold?”

“No. Maybe not.” Merlini sat on the ping-pong table, took a deck of cards from his pocket, and began to shuffle them with one hand, an indescribable display of manual dexterity in which several, complicated movements of the fingers fused so smoothly that the cards weirdly appeared to be shuffling themselves. Gavigan, seeing the cards, plunged his hand into his own pocket, brought it out empty, and forcefully emitted several words that glowed with an inner fire.

“But, if Floyd’s supposed presence in Buffalo last night at around ten o’clock,” Merlini went on, “has been deliberately faked, it’s an awfully loose end in the case of the People vs. Arnold Skelton.”

“What are you getting at?” Gavigan growled. “A letter written in advance and posted at a prearranged time by a confederate in Buffalo? Another mystery man, Mr. Q? What do you think this is? A gang murder?”

“No more mystery men. It’s simpler and more impromptu — the heel print on the envelope. What do you suppose that means? Postman been tramping about on the mail?”

“Well. What do you suppose?”

“If I should allow my imagination to run riot,” Merlini replied, dealing himself four aces, still with one hand, “I might suppose something like this. If I wanted to mail a letter from some place I wasn’t, I’d take it, all stamped and neatly addressed, to a railroad station, pick out a likely train and board it just before it pulled out, pretending I’d come to see someone off. I’d drop the letter on the floor under a seat — anywhere that it wouldn’t be found immediately, perhaps not until the cars were swept out at the end of the run. Then I’d let the train go without me. Eventually a passenger or some railway employee would find it. Would it go to the Lost and Found Department? U. S. Mail with a special delivery stamp? Of course not. The finder would mail it. But I couldn’t be certain that the envelope wouldn’t arrive somewhat dirtied and possibly stepped on. Buffalo—10:30. I’d like to see a timetable.”

“You aren’t going to tell me you thought that one up all by yourself!” Gavigan retorted.

Merlini’s smile was the magician’s standard enigmatic one.

“Because,” Gavigan kibitzed, “I know damned well you didn’t. That’s not imagination or deduction; it’s just good memory. That’s exactly what happened in the Milne Kidnap Hoax in ’35. The letter was put on an Albany train and mailed back from Poughkeepsie by the conductor. But just because of a smudged envelope I don’t see why—”

“But you’ll check it, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes. We’ll check it. Quinn, call New York Central.”

Quinn headed for the stairs.

Gavigan looked at Merlini suspiciously. “You’ve got more reasons than that up your sleeve. Come on. Give.”

“Yes. There are more reasons. Three of them. One: if Floyd’s handwriting is as easy to read as his signature, then it compares in legibility with my own script about the way 24-point Caslon Bold does to the Mayan alphabet. And yet, though I type all my other correspondence, I don’t lug a typewriter along on train trips. But if we take that letter at its face value, it would appear that Floyd does. I don’t believe it.”

“There could be typewriters in Buffalo, couldn’t there?”

“But if Floyd was headed for Chicago, did he take a stopover just so he could type instead of write?”

Quinn returned and reported. “There are two trains arriving in Buffalo from New York shortly before 10:30. If he got there on the 8:10 he had time to type lots of letters. That train doesn’t go any farther. There’s a 9:57 that stops there, too, with a Michigan Central train out for Chicago a few minutes later. Only that circles clear around the topside of Lake Erie through Canada, takes three hours longer than any other train, and you might as well wait over and take the 20th Century, which arrives in Chicago almost as soon. If he really was on his way to Chicago, that’s a damn funny time for that letter to have been mailed in Buffalo.”

“What time does that 9:57 leave New York, Quinn?” Merlini asked.

“1:20 p. m.”

“Floyd could have had other reasons for a stopover in Buffalo,” Gavigan said, weakening.

“You’re hard to convince, Inspector,” said Merlini. “All right, here’s the pay-off. Answer me this. If Floyd typed that letter in Buffalo last night, how in blue blazes did the typewriter manage to fly back here?”

“Back here?” Gavigan expelled the words convulsively, like a punctured balloon. He marched over to the desk and glared at the typewriter there. “Give me the typing Harte did on this machine!”

Merlini drew the sheet of paper from his pocket and passed it to Gavigan. The latter compared it with Floyd’s letter. His scrutiny was brief. “Why couldn’t you just say so without all this long-winded build-up? Dramatic climaxes may be all right in your conjuring hocus-pocus, but they do slow up a murder investigation.”

“Sorry, Inspector,” Merlini grinned. “An old dog, you know, and new tricks.”

“What’s so obvious?” Gail asked, trying to get a good look over the Inspector’s shoulder.

“The typing,” Gavigan explained. “Both from the same machine. I can spot a dozen points of similarity without even squinting; and, at that rate, the boys at the lab will turn up thirty. The alignment is bad, the ‘e’ and ‘t’ are way out, a serif on the ‘i’ is missing, the ‘a’ is nicked—”

“It’s even better than that, Inspector,” Merlini put in. “If you ever use this letter as exhibit B before a jury, you won’t need to call in the typing experts with their enlarged photos and their ruled charts. Look again.”

Gavigan, glum at having been caught out, scowled at Merlini and turned a fierce glare on the two sheets of paper.

“Don’t get your nose so close. You’ll miss it. It’s as obvious as a parade of elephants. The code, Inspector, the code. I’ve solved it; and there isn’t any international spy ring, you’ll be glad to know. That capital ‘L’ that Gail thought might be the beginning of a word… It is. But the word is coming instead of going. Try spelling it from right to left. Ingenious code, very. I don’t think.”

Gavigan not only spelled; he began reading. “Dear Linda: The eight mil — million—”

“The whole letter,” Merlini continued, “is on that ribbon. Only, as the typewriter carriage moved the paper across from right to left, the ribbon happened to be moving in the opposite direction, and each succeeding letter was placed on it to the left of the one before. When I dictated a while ago, not being Chinese, I naturally read it off in my accustomed West to East manner. Only the first few words are readable because, later, the ribbon reversed its direction and backed up the last part of the letter on what went immediately before.”

“And if he wrote the letter here and mailed it in Buffalo—” Gavigan mused.

“Then we wonder,” Merlini added, “why he wrote it at all, why he didn’t merely tell Linda, or at least leave the note for her instead of taking it along. We wonder why he left here at 8 p. m. Thursday and then waited until 1:20 Friday to take the day’s most inconvenient train; and why, in the letter, he said he had already left. Objections by the gross, you see. Whereas, if the letter was written solely to make it appear that he had left town, the objections all fade away as nicely as you please. And another thing. He never expected anyone would investigate those trains. He — he—” Merlini’s voice came to a bumpy stop. As Gavigan started to talk, I heard something the Inspector didn’t. Under his breath Merlini murmured, “Oh, my hat!”

“I give in,” Gavigan was saying. “Floyd was up to funny business. There’s not much doubt about that. But the rest of this ribbon message. What he wrote before the letter. Unscrambled, it still looks like code to me. Let’s see the whole thing the right way round, Ross.”

I sat down and typed it off rapidly. The spaces between were obvious now; so I inserted them, though where the spaces went among the numerals, as some undoubtedly, should, I had no way of knowing: ppages at different depths in minutes 20 ft 10 ft Total time for ascent in minutes 108-12018-2048-53½ Up to 15 mins 15 to 3030 to 4848 to 60 1 to 1½ hrs 1½ to 2 hrs 2 to 2½ 2½ to 3 over 3257281231015413195152252027102032103042 Dear Linda: The eight milli

“At different depths,” Gavigan read. “Ascent in minutes. Something to do with diving evidently. We’ll ask Mr. Novak. Yes, Grimm?”

Grimm had come in while I was typing and stood waiting to report. “Those footprints on the ceiling,” he said, looking somewhat pained at having to put any such sequence of words together, “were made by seven-and-a-half shoes, Goodyear heels, and they’ve been resoled. There aren’t any shoes in this house anything like that. Brooke wears a nine, the others all larger still. A woman could have worn ’em, but I didn’t find no men’s shoes in their rooms.”

“Floyd’s size?” Gavigan said.

“Ten.”

“All right. Stick around.”

“And Lamb’s size?” Merlini asked.

“I don’t know exactly,” replied Grimm. “But he don’t wear no 7½. More like an 11— double E width at that.”

“Yes. And you didn’t get his exact size, because—?”

“There weren’t any extra shoes in his room. As far as I can see the only clothes he’s got are the, one’s he’s wearing.”

“Oh. Slim outfit for a retired broker. And he’s been out here two weeks. Hm!” Merlini sneaked a sideways glance at the Inspector. “Would you run up, Grimm, and take a look at his shaving things, razor and so forth, his toothbrush, comb — all his toilet articles. He may not change his underwear, but he must shave. I didn’t notice a beard.”

“What should I look for?”

“Anything odd. I think you’ll know if you see it.”

Grimm looked at the Inspector for permission, got it, and said, “Okay.” He started to go.

Gavigan had been watching Merlini thoughtfully. Suddenly he added, “And take a look at his luggage too, Grimm.”

The door opened just before Grimm reached it, and he stepped aside to let Madame Rappourt come in, followed closely by Malloy.

Madame Rappourt had an obstinate, angry look, and she threw Merlini the same glance she would have used on a hoptoad with scarlet fever. The woman really had an eight-cylinder personality, her own special two-faced brand. Her maiden name was the exotic one of Svoboda and she came, or pretended to, from Hungary, the land where vampires and big bad werewolves are still said to populate the night. She could radiate mystery like a sphinx, and she affected the habit of smoking small black cigars. Then, when she was trying to convince you that her spooks were all wool and a yard wide, she was as sincere, naive, and straightforwardly direct as St. Francis of Assisi. But she wasted none of that on Merlini and Gavigan. She took the attitude, not without cause, that conjurers and cops had all turned in a verdict of Guilty and wouldn’t change it.

The Inspector began to work on her gently. But that didn’t last long. He sailed smoothly through a few questions that put her whereabouts the previous day on record and contradicted nothing we had heard before. Then he took a header into the subject of the séances, and sparks began to fly.

“You’ve been holding séances here at Miss Skelton’s invitation?”

“We conducted a few experiments in psychical communication.” She didn’t appear to like the word séance.

“And you do that by going into a trance?”

“Yes.”

“Linda Skelton was especially interested in these trances?”

“Yes.” Her eyes touched Gail briefly. “She said that Dr. Gail recommended them as treatment for her phobia.”

“He did. And that made her a push-over for the ones you stage. You take capsules that you say help you to go off into one. I want them.”

Gavigan held out his hand.

“You want them? Why?” I’ve seen people more pleased than she was at that request.

“Never mind why. Hand them over.”

“I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t have any more.”

The effect of that on the Inspector was about the same as if he’d taken two fingers of Monckhoven’s Intensifier neat.

“Linda Skelton,” he said with a visible effort at control, “was poisoned. Your capsules, according to the analysis you let Colonel Watrous make, contain poisons.”

“Oh, I see. And would I take them if the dose was fatal?”

“No. But the one you gave Miss Skelton could have contained plenty.”

Rappourt’s deep-pitched voice was a little higher, and a shade wobbly. “But Linda took cyanide.” Her eyes moved rapidly, suspiciously at us all. “Do you mean she was poisoned with — not with, cyanide after all? Last night—”

“You don’t deny you gave her a capsule?” Gavigan’s words had sharp edges.

“No. I suppose Lamb told you I did. But I don’t see—”

“What was in it?”

Rappourt’s surprised bewilderment looked genuine enough; but she snapped out of it abruptly, suddenly becoming very quiet, only her shrewd black eyes moving, alertly intent. “Linda said that she and Dr. Gail had had so little success with hypnosis or any sort of trance that it was a great disadvantage in her treatment. She was sure my trance capsules would help. She begged me to let her try one. I refused at first. But she kept insisting. Finally, after lunch yesterday, I gave her one.” Rappourt fumbled at her neck and drew a thin silver chain from beneath the collar of her dress. A small vial hung from it. “That capsule contained what all these others do.”

She gave it to Gavigan.

The vial was large enough to hold four capsules, one above the other. It contained three.

“Hesse,” Gavigan said, looking around. “Where is he?”

“He went upstairs to get his coat and hat,” Malloy said. “He’s leaving.”

“Catch him. Give him these. He knows what to test for.”

“Does he?” Rappourt asked.

“He does. Scopolamine, morphine, and cyanide.”

“No, Inspector. None of those. Sugar.”

“What?”

“Sugar,” she repeated. “And nothing more. I know just how much scopolamine and morphine I can take safely. I don’t know how much Linda could. I filled those capsules with sugar. In Linda’s case that would have probably worked just as well — by suggestion — and it was much safer.”

The Inspector retrieved the capsules from Malloy, split one open with his thumbnail and let the white crystals pour out on his hand. He touched them lightly with his right forefinger, started to put it to his tongue and then changed his mind. He looked at Rappourt uncertainly, scowled, and tipped the crystals, broken capsule and all, into an envelope. He returned it with the vial to Malloy.

“Tell Hesse to rush it,” he said. And then, facing Rappourt again, “So. The scopolamine and morphine was just a gag to give Watrous something to write about?”

Rappourt let that pass.

“Well, was it?” Gavigan insisted.

“The theory’s an interesting one, Inspector. It will at least prevent you from insinuating that I gave Linda poison.”

“Yeah? Sugar in these capsules don’t prove there was sugar in that one. We’ll discuss that again. You can go.”

As she got up and moved toward the door, I watched her, trying to classify the expression on her face. I failed. Poker faces in this crowd were apparently four for a nickel. Merlini, Gail, Lamb, and now Rappourt, all boasted lovely examples right out of the top drawer.

“Rock salt in the silver-nitrate bottle,” Merlini said when she had gone. “Silver nitrate in the tooth powder. Sugar in the scopolamine capsules. I wonder what Mrs. Henderson keeps in the can labeled, ‘Baking Soda.’ Hemlock probably. And curare in the tea canister. Which reminds me it’s a good hour after my lunch time and unless something is done soon we’ll have missed two meals entirely.”

“What do you think about that sugar?” asked Gavigan.

“I’d like some,” I said, seconding Merlini’s motion. “With coffee around it. Perhaps if we crossed Mrs. Henderson’s palm with some silver—”

“See what you can do, Muller,” Gavigan ordered. And then, thinking out loud, “Arnold says Linda didn’t change her will because her lawyer never came out. I’ll check that. She could have written a new one, long hand, without witnesses. If I can find anything like that and Rappourt’s Psychic Society gets a slice, she’s sunk. I’ll bet ten to one the cyanide was in that capsule.”

As he said that, Grimm and Hesse came down the stairs. The Doctor wore his hat and coat and had started on a new cigar. He picked up his bag. “My office just phoned? Inspector. Two policy racketeers, or what’s left of them, just came in peppered with machine-gun bullets, and somebody found half a body floating past the Battery. I suspect Merlini sawed a lady in two and his sleight-of-hand slipped. The District Attorney’s been burning up my phone line all morning. I’m leaving. The autopsy report on Miss Skelton is far enough along so that we know she swallowed enough cyanide to have killed about eight people and a couple of guinea pigs. The nail-polish bottle contained sodium cyanide in an aqueous solution. That satisfy you for a while? I’ll rush through a test on Rappourt’s capsules. I wish you luck.” He started off.

“Cyanide in the capsule,” Merlini said to no one in particular. “And yet, as accomplished an actress as Rappourt is, if she wasn’t bowled over when it was suggested, I’ll — I’ll take six rabbits out of one hat with both hands tied behind me!”

Gavigan looked at him, thinking that over. Then just as Hesse reached the door, he called, “Oh, by the way, Doc, the P. M. report on the stiff we found in the McKinley Hotel yesterday. See that Inspector Barnes gets that, will you? He’s taking over.”

“Right.” Hesse stopped with his hand on the door. “Did you ever find out what happened to his clothes and how he got into that room?”

“No. It makes about as much sense as — as footprints on the ceiling. I do get the damndest cases lately. Tell Barnes I’ll see him as soon as I get back.”

“His clothes, Doctor?” Merlini asked quickly. “What was wrong with his clothes?”

“He didn’t have any.”

“You mean he wore none?”

“He wore none and he had none. Not a sign of any luggage.” Hesse grinned faintly. “A practicing nudist, by the looks.”

“Go on, Doc. Beat it,” Gavigan said. “The Great Merlini has his hands full of upside-down footprints, and I don’t want my tame expert on impossibilities to take on too many at once.”

“Impossibilities,” Merlini said, treating the word reverently. “Corpse in a hotel at 43rd and Third, nude, and you don’t know how he got there. I want to hear more. Cause of death? Doors and windows locked?”

“Damn your eyes, Hesse. See what you’ve done. Merlini, haven’t we got enough on the fire now? You supply some of the answers to this mess, and I’ll let you play with that hotel case as a reward. It’s not murder, but it has a locked room.”

“Oh, it does, does it? I thought I smelled one. Now you have said too much. I can’t resist locked rooms. I want to hear about it at once, or I won’t tell you who killed Linda.”

The Inspector scowled at him steadily for a moment. “Oh. You know that, do you?”

Merlini’s noncommittal smile was the same exasperating sphinxlike one he used when you asked him how he produced lighted cigarettes from the air.

“Bluff,” Gavigan snapped. “All right. I’ll see you. Let’s have that paper you’ve got, Hesse.”

The doctor produced a Tribune from his coat pocket and dropped it over the stair rail. Grimm caught it and brought it to Gavigan, who opened it out before Merlini on the table.

“Page one,” he said. “Human interest story for the day.”

Merlini cast a hungry eye over the headlines. “Where?” he asked, “I don’t see it.”

“There.” The Inspector placed a broad forefinger above an unlikely-looking one-column head: NEW YORK TOO MUCH FOR TOPEKA TEACHER—

“No wonder you were annoyed when I phoned you this morning, Inspector,” Merlini said, looking up. “With that on your mind.” He called to Hesse. “Sure about that heart disease?”

“No. I was misquoted as usual. I said, ‘It could be a lot of things, including heart disease.’ Considering the absence of any evidence of foul play, that seemed a likely possibility. The only external symptom of any importance was a red mottling on the body due to subcutaneous bleeding. The autopsy—”

Gail’s voice came suddenly from the corner where he had been sitting, nearly forgotten. “Wow! You’d better get that report, Doctor, because if your man found any hemorrhages in the spinal cord, myocardial degeneration, or blebs in the brain substance, he’s probably bothered as hell. And if he did, then I think we can help him.”

Hesse blinked at him in a startled manner. “I’m afraid not, Doctor,” he said. “This man wasn’t the type at all. Too heavy, flabby muscles, evidence of alcoholism, no identification tag. He’d never have been hired as a sand-hog.”

Gail smiled. “Your description fits nicely.”

Inspector Gavigan spluttered. “What are you two gibbering about?”

“Caisson disease, Inspector. Compressed-air illness. The bends.” Gail turned to Hesse. “Of course he’s not the type. That’s just it. He wouldn’t be hired as a compressed-air worker because he’d be too likely to get the bends. But mightn’t that be just why he did get them?”

Merlini pointed a forefinger at Gail and said flatly, “You’ve got other reasons for that hunch.”

Gail nodded and started to speak, but Merlini forestalled him. “I thought so. Inspector, if you don’t have Hesse phone for that report this instant I’ll have apoplexy, fainting fits, glanders, and volcanic eruptions. Because if the verdict is caisson disease—”

“It’ll look damned fishy!” exclaimed Gavigan. “Go get it, Doc. And hurry!”

“Fishy?” Merlini said simply. “I should think so. It will mean that we’ve found Floyd!”

It was the bends, all right. Hesse’s office had found that out, and the Assistant Medical Examiner who had done the post mortem was standing on his ear, not believing it.

It was Floyd, too. Arnold verified the appendicitis scar and supplied Gavigan with another print of the snapshot Leach had taken into town that morning.

“It’s him all right.” The Inspector grunted, scowling at the print darkly. “Malloy didn’t tumble when he saw the other print because he didn’t see the body yesterday. He was out after a guy who stole two king cobras from the zoo.”

“This is what I get for neglecting my daily paper,” Merlini said, helping himself to another sandwich from the tray Mrs. Henderson brought. “Cobras? Interesting too.”

“Yeah. Sure. Only that wasn’t Floyd. Malloy found the guy and put him in a cage at Bellevue. He was a Harlem witch doctor. Tend to your knitting, will you? Maybe you can figure out what happened to Floyd’s mustache.”

“What happened to—”

“You heard me.” Gavigan pointed to the photo. “The body had no mustache. But Arnold says Floyd was wearing one as usual when he left here Wednesday night. Why’d he shave it off?”

The picture was a candid shot of a heavy-set, rather flabby man holding a tall drink in his hand. He had his mouth open and was making an unsteady-looking gesture. Arnold’s lighting was nice, but his model was no movie actor. He had permanent-looking morning-after circles under his eyes, sleek black hair combed straight back, a pudgy, flat-ended nose, and a small mustache, carefully pointed at the ends.

Merlini said, “That newspaper description what put you on, Gail?”

“Yes. And with the symptoms what they were—”

“Any idea what Floyd, or anyone, would be doing high and dry on the 21st floor of a midtown hotel — dead of the bends, of all things?”

“The bends don’t bother me so much. They might not have hit him for several hours. I don’t get this lack of clothes and the locked room. A wrong room at that.”

Gavigan said, “Instead of the usual murder victim in a locked room with the question—How’d the murderer get out? — we’ve got a body, dead from natural causes, and the question—How’d he get in, and how’d his clothes get out? The desk clerk, the elevator boy, and the floor clerk on 21 say they never saw him before — that might be on account of the missing mustache. But they’d certainly have noticed if he was running around the place without any clothes.”

“Natural causes?” Merlini asked. “Just how natural a death is the bends. Doctor?”

“It’s not exactly ordinary, if that’s what you mean; but it couldn’t very well be homicide, either. Accidental death is what the verdict would read.”

“What makes you so sure it couldn’t be murder?”

Gail smiled in a professionally superior way. “Compressed air as a murder device mid be original and clever — in fiction. Couple of ways it might be done — but in actual practice they’d both be damned impractical.”

“Unless, being an inventive cuss, as I suspect he is, our murderer overcame the disadvantages. What are they?”

“Well, method number one would consist in popping your victim into a compression chamber, building up an atmospheric pressure of something over two atmospheres, and then suddenly allowing it to drop back to normal. Difficulty there is that a cylindrical steel chamber large enough to hold a man and fitted with the usual battery of pumps or compressed air tanks is not only an expensive but an unwieldy murder weapon. The disposal of the weapon would be even more of a headache than the disposal of the body.”

“What happens when you build up the air pressure and release it too suddenly?”

“It carbonates the blood, literally turns the victim into a human soda-water bottle! “Most of the 78 percent of nitrogen in the air is ordinarily exhaled, but, under pressure, much of it passes into solution in the bloodstream and is deposited in the various fatty tissues, nerve tissues, and joint liquids throughout the body. If the external pressure is reduced gradually, the lungs have time to filter the gas out again; but if the drop is too rapid, the nitrogen returns to a gaseous state wherever it happens to be at the time and forms bubbles in the bloodstream and tissues. Same as when you take the cap off a soda-water bottle. The bubbles rupture blood vessels, tear the tissues, and shatter the nerves, and you’ve got a nice case of either sand hog’s itch, the staggers, the chokes, or the bends.”

“The itch, the staggers, and the chokes,” Merlini said, “are all as descriptive as anything. Why the bends?”

“When the bubbles are so bad that you can’t hold your arms and legs straight because of the pain, you’ve got the bends. It’s one of the more exquisite forms of torture.”

“How soon would death occur?”

“That would depend on the amount of pressure, the length of time one was exposed to it, and the time taken getting out from under it. If a bubble or a cluster of bubbles formed an embolus blocking blood to parts of the brain or heart, death might occur in a couple of minutes. Otherwise, it might be anything from that on up to several days, usually one to 24 hours.”

“Any cure, once you have it?”

“Sure. Recompression. Get back into the compression chamber and back under the original pressure. Then reduce it slowly enough so that the gases can escape normally through the lungs.”

“You said two murder methods,” Gavigan put in. “What’s the other?”

“Same principle, but without the chamber.” Gail lighted a cigarette and gestured with it. “But you couldn’t use it on just anyone. Your victim would have to be a diver and you’d have to be the man at the pumps. Impractical on two counts, you see. The air you send down has another purpose besides giving the diver something to breathe. With the usual rubber diving dress the air has to be compressed enough so that it equals the pressure of the surrounding water at whatever depth the diver’s in. At 100 feet, for instance, there’s a total of nearly 50 tons of water pressing on the surface of his body; and he needs 44 pounds pressure per square inch to keep from being flattened. If you pulled him up too quickly, you’d get the same result as with the compression chamber. The usual procedure is to bring the diver up slowly, with stops of various durations at different depths — stage decompression. But as a murder device, the simpler thing to do would be to give him ‘a squeeze.’ There’s a nice murder method no one’s used. Death by implosion.”

“You’re bubbling over with murder methods,” Gavigan punned, unconsciously. “What’s that one?”

“An implosion is just the opposite of an explosion. Can’t you imagine what all those tons of water pressure would do to you if the man on topside at the pumps suddenly let your air pressure go? The water literally pushes you right up into your helmet. They take you out with a spoon. Divers have facetiously referred to the results of a squeeze as ‘strawberry jam.’ ”

Merlini spoke suddenly: “Can the floor clerk on 21 see the door of 2113 from where she sits?”

“What?” Gavigan turned to him. “Oh, no. It’s around a turn in the corridor, but she’s smack in front of the elevators. It’s the only way in except for the service elevator. The fire door only opens out. She swears she never set eyes on him before. Barring a duplicate key, which isn’t likely because the locks were all changed recently, there’s no way he could have got into that room except up the fire escape and in through the window. The chambermaid left that open an inch or two for ventilation. But she’s positive she locked the door — they’ve had some room thefts there recently, and the staff is all lock conscious. Anyway, both door and window were locked when that bellhop took the schoolteacher up.”

“Yale lock?”

“Yes. Locks behind you as you go out, but you couldn’t get in without a key of some sort; there were no picklock scratches inside the lock. And even if he’d rented the room very recently and had a duplicate key cut — well, there wasn’t any key with him in the room. And he couldn’t have been airing himself on the fire escape and then crawled back into the wrong room because the soles of his feet were perfectly clean, There’s not a damned bit of evidence to show he didn’t simply materialize in that empty room, nude and dead.”

“Any fingerprints?”

“Not a smell of one, not even Floyd’s. Everything nice and tidy the way the maid left it, except for a corpse where it shouldn’t be.”

“The situation is certainly contrary,” Merlini said. “We’ve been plagued with disappearing men all morning, and now it’s a horse on the other foot. A production trick, instead of a vanishing trick. The mystery is not how the murderer escaped, but where did the corpse come from?”

“Yeah. And if it’s a trick you’ve got listed in your catalogue, I’ll buy it. I want to know—”

“His feet were clean. That’s your clue. If he was dressed when he came into that room, then his clothes melted or something. I don’t like that. Reminds me of the Great Ceeley and the beautiful, but not so bright, wench he hired in London for a lightning-change illusion. Will Goldston made her a trick three-in-one costume that consisted of a British army uniform, a Belgian uniform — this was in ’15 during the early days of the war — and Britannia’s dress. They fitted skin-tight and one on top of the other, each costume with a concealed cord that ended in a differently shaped button, which, when pulled, caused its particular costume to collapse, instantly revealing the one next underneath. The button on the Britannia outfit was to enable her to shuck that quickly in her dressing-room after the act. But on opening night when Ceeley fired the gun — her cue to pull the first button — she brought the house down. She pulled all three buttons at once! Instead of a lightning change it was a lightning strip-tease! And not so very tantalizing either.”

Gavigan cut in brusquely “Save your reminiscences for your memoirs. What do you mean, the clean feet are the clue?”

“They suggest that if he was undressed when he entered that room, he didn’t walk in. Were his hands clean too?”

“Yeah. So he didn’t walk on his hands.”

“And must have been carried in. While, if he was dressed when he entered, someone must have removed his clothes. In either case I give you Mr. X again.”

“Uh-huh,” Gavigan muttered, pacing the floor irritably. “Somebody carried him in via the fire escape, dropped him on the floor, closed the window, locked it, and walked out the door, letting it lock behind him. Somebody the hotel help paid no attention to because he was familiar to ’em — because he has a room there.”

“And a room off that same fire escape. Have you checked on rooms 2013 and 2213 and so on?”

“There should be a report on my desk now. I had that done as a matter of routine. Phone headquarters, Malloy, and see if Murphy uncovered anything.”

Merlini spread the deck of cards out along his arm, balancing them from wrist to shoulder. His arm dropped suddenly, pulled in, and then shot out with lightning-like rapidity. His hand scooped at the cards, gathering them neatly from mid-air as they fell. “Glad you like the solution, Inspector. In case you haven’t noticed, it clears up another thing or two also. Now that we know it’s Floyd, we know why the body was nude.”

“We do?”

“Of course. You saw Floyd’s clothes upstairs. Marquis is his tailor; and the suits are all custom made, imported fabrics and the like. Ripping out labels and laundry marks wouldn’t have prevented identification. You’d only have had to query half a dozen of the swankiest tailors, and you’d have got the corpse’s name with a complete set of his measurements in no time. The person who carried that body in there realized that. So he simply took away the clothes altogether. I like the direct way he solves a problem like that. And he gets another orchid because he also realized that, if a photo of the corpse should make the papers, some of Floyd’s friends or relatives might recognize him. So he simply undressed him a bit more. He shaved off the mustache.”

“Yes. I’ll go along with you on that. It hangs together. Might be why the body was moved, too. A body in an empty, unregistered-for hotel room doesn’t give us anything to link to. Not a half-bad way to dispose of a body at that. But since it wasn’t murder, why the devil—”

“You’re starting that premise from the wrong end, Inspector. You mean, with all that monkey business afoot, it might very well be murder. And that’s not all. The person who typed that letter and forged Floyd’s name may have done so in order to mislead Floyd’s intimates further. If they did notice a report of an unidentified corpse answering fairly well to Floyd’s description, it wouldn’t register because they would think he’s neither dead nor missing, but on a trip. Furthermore he’s apparently written a letter that he mailed after the body was found. Someone has a flair for detail.”

“And the person who did the body-moving,” Gavigan added, “the mustache shaving, and the clothes swiping also had access to this typewriter! Our one list of suspects does for both bodies! And Arnold could have done all that — all except — except how the hell did he plant that letter on the 1:20 train? He was eating lunch here with four witnesses. And — Malloy! Take Quinn and go over those people upstairs. Find out what they were up to night before last, especially 1 a. m. Get alibis. Quinn, you check and find out if that water taxi brought Floyd back here after Henderson took him in. I’m going to look at that houseboat. If anyone did any diving it was out there. I’ll want Hunter and you, too, Brady. And lock that darkroom as you leave and hang on to the key.”

Merlini got to his feet. “I want to make a phone call first.” His long legs carried him quickly up the stairs and out, before Gavigan had a chance to get inquisitive.

And that reminded me of something. So, as we all went up and through the kitchen, I slipped, as unobtrusively as possible, into the back stairway I’d noticed there, leading to the second floor. But Gavigan saw me.

“Hey. Where’d you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom,” I said, trying to make it sound urgent.

He frowned but let me go. I headed for the phone in Linda’s room and found it was the one Merlini had chosen. He was replacing the receiver as I came in.

“Did you know you’re a wanted man, Ross?” he said. “I’ve been talking to Burt. He says that theater crowd you work for is wild. The director, the producer, and both angels have all been in his hair trying to locate you. They’ve got a private detective agency on the job and they had your description included in a Missing Persons broadcast about an hour ago.”

“That bad? I’ll ask for a raise. Let’s have that phone if you’re through. I’ve just remembered that a friend of mine was looking for you yesterday. I promised him something. Hello. City desk—”

I gave Ted an earful, no more than the Inspector would have to dish out as soon as the reporters caught up with him, but enough to make some nice fat headlines. He acted as if there hadn’t been anything to slap on the front page for the last month except the weather. And, if I hadn’t hung up on him finally, I’d be talking yet.

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Merlini said. “If Gavigan ever — wait!” He took his handkerchief and polished off the phone receiver. “You should know better than to leave your prints on the scene of your crime.”

“Come on,” I said impatiently. “Let’s go. The Inspector might shove off without us.”

I headed for the window and the sun deck, that being the most direct route. Merlini followed me; but, as we went toward the flight of steps, he said, suddenly, “Wait, Ross.”

He had halted near another window, attracted by what he saw inside. He peered in for a moment and then rapped lightly on the pane. The sound acted with electric swiftness on the man who sat there, intent at something on the writing desk before him. He jumped guiltily and his head jerked, turning toward the window. It was Colonel Watrous. He saw us and with quick pantomime beckoned us in, holding an admonitory finger to his lips.

Merlini lifted the window sash, and we crossed the sill quietly. Watrous wore a pair of earphones clamped over his head, and the wire attached to them led to an open, brown suitcase, its interior completely filled by what appeared to be a built-in combination radio and phonograph. The raised lid disclosed a revolving phonographic turntable and sound arm. One end of the suitcase, also hinged, was lowered, showing a bakelite panel bearing rheostat and tuning dials.

The Colonel, still watching us, twisted one of the dials slightly, an intent listening look on his face. I noticed a second wire issuing from the machine that ended in a round black microphone hanging against the wall above the desk.

“I was about to come and get you,” Watrous said, in a half whisper. “That’s Rappourt’s room.” He gestured toward the wall on which the mike hung. “Brooke’s in there with her and planning to take French leave. He’s going to blackjack the police launch man and cut for it.”

“Is this,” Merlini asked, “an eavesdropping machine?”

“Yes. Latest thing in detectors — doesn’t require a mike in the other room. You merely put it against an outside wall and it picks up the vibrations and amplifies them. It’ll record, too. Listen.” He lifted the sound arm, snapped a switch labeled Playback, and moved the sound arm an eighth of an inch back on the record. “I got this to keep tabs on Rappourt,” he added, “when I began to suspect she might be faking.” He fell silent as the soundbox point touched the disk. Ira’s voice came, in mid-sentence, somewhat indistinct and slurred, rising above a rumbling undercurrent of hollow sound:

“—too damned hot around here. I’m going to knock over that dick at the boat landing and take it on the lam now.”

“I couldn’t get any more after that,” Watrous said, reversing the playback switch. “They’re still talking but it’s too low to catch.” He moved one of the dials again, listening.

Merlini held out his hand for the earphones. “Get anything on Rappourt?”

“No. Nothing.” Watrous shook his head and passed over the headset. “Except — well, what’s Brooke running for? And what do we do? Face him with it or lie low and catch him in the act?”

Merlini held the phones against his ears, listened briefly, and then answered, “Neither, just yet.”

He returned the headset, went quickly to the door and out into the hall. We heard him knock sharply at Rappourt’s door. Watrous listened, one hand at his dials. I stepped to the hall quickly and heard Rappourt’s voice raised.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“Merlini.” He pushed the door in without waiting for an invitation. “Looking for you, Brooke. The Inspector wants to see you.”

Ira didn’t answer immediately. Then he said smoothly. “Yes. Of course. Be down in just a moment.”

“He’s in a hurry, Brooke.” Merlini was insistent.

Behind me I heard Watrous jerk his mike from the wall, close the suitcase and slide it under the bed. He came to stand beside me in the doorway just as Brooke came out into the hall. Rappourt remained where she was. Merlini, Watrous, and I followed Brooke downstairs.

Malloy and Quinn were in the living-room questioning Miss Verrill. As our procession started through, Malloy said, “Just a minute. I want you two. Brooke and Watrous.”

“Keep him happy, Colonel,” Merlini said, herding Brooke on and out. And to Malloy, “The Inspector wants Brooke.”

Merlini led the way quickly toward the boathouse. Inspector Gavigan was there, waiting with Brady and Hunter. The skipper of the police launch was warming her up.

Gavigan looked at us, scowled at Brooke and said, “Not you. Captain Malloy wants—”

Merlini stepped close to him and whispered rapidly. Gradually the Inspector’s face brightened. Brooke was puzzled. The frown he directed at Merlini’s back was venomous. Then he caught me watching him. His face smoothed immediately into a blank disinterest.

Gavigan’s objections had evaporated. He indicated all of us. “Get aboard,” he commanded.

I could see the diver’s two assistants on the deck of the houseboat as we approached. Then, off to the left, I made out a cluster of bubbles breaking on the river’s surface and indicating Mr. Novak’s position. One of the assistants, a square-jawed, beefy man, wore a chest phone and headset. He talked into the mouthpiece and kept a careful watch on the pressure gauge attached to a hooked-up series of four compressed-air tanks that lay on the deck. The other man, at the rail, was paying out air hose and life line.

“Any more luck?” Gavigan inquired.

The man with the phone shook his head. “No. Not yet. Pretty dark down there. He’s feeling around for those boats.”

The single room in the houseboat cabin was fitted out as a combination workshop and drafting-room. A half-finished drawing on tracing linen was tacked on the drafting table, and blueprints hung along the walls. In the center of the room stood a water-filled glass aquarium. Floating on the water was a small, excellently constructed model of what was apparently Brooke’s Suction Salvage device. A jointed steel tube, capable of extension and retraction, descended from the underside of a dredgelike, flat-bottomed boat and terminated in a scooplike open maw that rested on the bottom.

The various pieces of a diving suit hung from hooks on the wall, and the round helmet with its great, goggling glass eyes stared at us from a corner. Merlini picked up one of the heavy, lead-weighted shoes and examined it closely. “They’ve been cleaned up,” he said, “But there are some traces of silt.”

“All right, Brooke,” Gavigan said flatly. “It’s time for you to start talking. There’s a whale of a lot you can add to your statement, and I know it. So begin.”

“I don’t understand. About what?” The innocently bewildered way he blinked at the Inspector from behind his glasses was expertly done.

“Floyd. We’ve found him. You might start with that.”

Brooke’s eyebrows rose together like twin elevators. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I know nothing about him. I haven’t seen him since night before last at dinner.”

Gavigan bore down. “That won’t do, Brooke, and you know it. Floyd’s told us a lot. He admits that, after leaving the island the other night, he came back here to the houseboat while the others were busy at a séance. He went down in that diving suit to look at the wreck. You stayed topside and took care of his air. You might as well admit it.”

There was a faintly greenish hue on Brooke’s face that grew as Gavigan talked. Then for a long moment he said nothing. Finally he made his decision. “All right. So what? He came back here. He dived. I took him into town again. He said he was coming back. He didn’t. Since you’ve talked to him, you know, I suppose. I don’t.”

“Who left the island in that boat last night?”

“I don’t know. Why should I? I wasn’t there.”

“You might be interested in knowing that the boat’s been found on the other side at 130th St. Who knew about that boat besides yourself and Floyd?”

“If Floyd says I know about that boat, he’s lying.”

“I see. How did Floyd get back to the island after Henderson took him in?”

“Water taxi. And it picked him up again afterward.”

Gavigan grinned. “There’s only one water taxi on this river, and it didn’t make any trips out here Thursday night.”

“The driver’s lying, too. Floyd tipped him not to talk.” Gavigan took a step toward him and stuck his chin out. Merlini said quickly, “And what did Floyd find on the bottom?”

Brooke turned, ignoring Gavigan. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“Perhaps. But we’d like to hear your answer. His story and yours don’t check too well so far. We thought we’d match them and try to cancel out the — er — the misstatements from each.”

“Do you want to tell us now,” Gavigan asked ominously, “or have it sweated out of you at headquarters?”

Brooke shrugged. “If you’ll stop barking at me, I’ll tell you now. If Floyd’s spilled it, there’s no point in my keeping quiet. He knew that Lamb intended to get a diver to investigate. He was impatient. Maybe he had last-minute doubts. I don’t know. He wanted to get a look first, himself.”

“Why’d he have to go down in the middle of the night?” Gavigan rapped suspiciously.

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “That means nothing. At 110 feet it’s pitch black at any time. And the diving in this river has to be done at slack water. Low tide was at 10:30.”

“The séance was to cover the diving, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes. Partly. He didn’t want Lamb to know. He begged off the séance, had Henderson take him into town, and came back in the taxi. Why he tells you about the diving and won’t admit that, I don’t know. He dived and he satisfied himself that it was the Hussar.”

“He found a couple of bucketfuls of guineas?”

Ira’s hesitation was lengthy. Then he said, “Yes.”

“Where are they?”

“He took them with him.”

“Why? Why didn’t he run in and show them to Lamb and Linda? It was proof wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But — I don’t know why. He was running the show. Ask him.”

Merlini said, “How long was Floyd down?” His voice came from the doorway, where he stood looking at a typewritten sheet of paper thumbtacked to the wall.

“Just a bit under an hour. He fouled his lines once, and it took him about 15 minutes to get untangled.”

“How much decompression did you give him?”

“I followed the reading on that diving table. Three minutes at 20 feet, 10 at 10, plus the two allowed for hoisting him—15 altogether.”

Merlini took out the thumbtacks and carried the sheet to the drafting table. Then he rummaged through a stack of books on the bunk in the corner. He found one, seated himself, and turned to the index. I caught a glimpse of the title: Deep Diving and Submarine Operations by R. H. Davis.

“Did you advise Floyd against diving?” he asked.

“Yes,” Brooke nodded slowly. “He hadn’t done any in ten years. He’s lots heavier and he’s been drinking too much. But he went anyway.”

“Don’t you think you should have refused to assist him? He couldn’t dive without your help.”

Brooke looked at him a long time. “What do you mean by that? He was all right when he left me— Oh! I begin to get it. The bends hit him later. Did you get him into a decompression tank?”

Merlini didn’t bother to look up from his book. He thumbed the pages rapidly. “You know we didn’t.”

Gavigan followed up quickly. “Floyd died of the effects of his diving an hour or two afterward. At the Hotel McKinley. You were there. You undressed him, shaved off his mustache, carried his body down the fire escape, and shoved it into an unoccupied room. Very clever. No clues to identify. What did you do with his clothes — and the guineas?”

Ira took an involuntary step backward toward the door. “Floyd told you all that, too, I suppose. Rappourt get a psychic message for you?”

“Maybe. You believe that’s possible, don’t you?”

“I–I don’t know — I—”

“Changing your mind all of a sudden, aren’t you? We know more, too. This houseboat has been an excuse for a lot of funny stuff. Pretending to be hard at work out here, you’ve been commuting in to town in that boat of yours instead. After you moved Floyd’s body, you came back to the island, typed a note on the typewriter at the house, forged Floyd’s signature, and put it aboard the 1:20 for Buffalo yesterday afternoon. You wanted it to look as if he were still alive. A play for time. But you made a couple of boners. You picked a lousy train, and you used the wrong typewriter. Well?”

“I’ve heard enough. I want a lawyer.”

“And, finally, you were overheard just a few minutes ago laying plans to knock one of my men on the head and take it on the lam. I have a witness to that.”

“That’s a lie.”

“You’re under arrest. Take him in, Malloy.”

Brooke didn’t move. “Charged with what?” he asked.

“Moving a body without a permit, forging, falsifying and concealing evidence. Also murder.”

Brooke looked at Gavigan steadily for a moment. Then he took a cigarette from his pocket, tapped it on the back of his hand, and, turning, walked to the door. He stopped there and said stiffly, “I’m allowed one phone call before you jug me. I want to instruct my lawyer to start a suit for false arrest. You’ve put your foot in it, Inspector.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Gavigan said lightly. “Get going.”

Merlini spoke up. “Before you go, Brooke. This decompression table you used. Take a look at it.” He stepped forward with the sheet in his hand.

Brooke scowled suspiciously and glanced at the chart. I saw his eyes become suddenly bright and sharp. When he looked up, there was excitement on his face. His voice crackled.

“This isn’t the same chart! It’s not right! Someone—”

“I wondered if you’d say that. Look.” Merlini held-out the diving book and pointed. “It checks with the Navy tables in this book. And Floyd should have had 57 minutes of decompression time. Not 15.

Ira stared at the book. “Someone — someone—”

“You’re quite right. Someone changed the tables. It’s murder after all, Inspector, and with a brand-new weapon. One that even the Doctor didn’t think of. Brooke,”—Merlini’s voice was edged and fine—“who else knew that you and Floyd were going to dive?”

“No one,” Brooke said shakily. “No one but Madame Rappourt. Damn her!”

Inspector Gavigan took the book and paper from Merlini and compared them. There was no sound for a moment except the dull watery slaps of the river against the boat’s side, as the rising tide gently rocked it, and, now and then, a gentle groan from the aged timbers of the hull, as if some small discontented banshee were imprisoned there.

“At a depth of 108 to 120 feet,” Merlini said then, “a dive of nearly an hour requires four stops on the way up — of 5, 10, 15, and 25 minutes each, with a total ascent time of 57 minutes. The chart in the book also points out in extra-black type that 35 minutes is the longest a diver should remain down at that depth, except in unusual circumstances. If you’ll turn back a few pages, you’ll find that 15 minutes of decompression for a dive of nearly an hour isn’t good for anything over 60 feet, not much more than half the depth here.”

“Yes,” Gavigan said. “But why are you so sure the tables were changed? We’re not taking Brooke’s word for that. He could have purposely not given Floyd enough time. And if they were changed, he could have done it himself, so Floyd wouldn’t notice anything wrong.”

“But, knowing 57 minutes was correct, he wouldn’t have just admitted to but 15, would he? Besides—”

Gavigan interrupted, turning on Brooke. “If you’re such an expert on submarine work, why didn’t you notice that the table had been monkeyed with? Answer me that.”

Ira appeared to be recovering a bit. He had some of his old bounce back. “You don’t expect me to carry a dozen pages of figures in my head, do you? Can you rattle off all the vital crime statistics for the last three years?”

“If you’ll take a squint at the wall, Inspector,” Merlini put in soothingly, “where this typewritten sheet was tacked, you’ll notice a couple of extra thumbtack holes to each tack.”

Gavigan looked and nodded. “Yes, but what was there before might have been anything.”

“Difficult today, aren’t you, Inspector? All right. Object to this. We’ve got a copy, or part of a copy, of the chart Ira followed!”

Gavigan’s eyes popped. “The code!” he exploded.

Merlini brought out the sheet I’d typed (p. 142).

“The Merlini Black Chamber will now explain. In typing a table, the simplest method is to type out all the headings first and then fill in the figures in their proper columns. ‘Depth, Feet, Fathoms, Pressure-Pounds per square inch’ and ‘Time under water from surface to start of ascent:’ Those headings weren’t readable on the ribbon because the last part of the table had backed up on them. But ‘Stoppages at different depths’—we got most of that, and all of ‘Total time for ascent in minutes.’ The next few figures check. The 108–120 is the depth in feet; the 13–20, depth in fathoms; and 48–53½, the pressure in pounds per square inch. But from there on you can’t fit the figures to this chart at all. ‘Up to 15 minutes,’ 15 to 30,’ etc. It should read: 5 minutes, 5 to 10, 10 to 15, etc. But if you’ll look at the chart on page 78, the one for 60 to 68 feet — the agreement is exact. Someone substituted the decompression times of the 60-foot table in the 108-foot table! And with malice aforethought. Our brand-new murder weapon turns out to be a typewriter!”

“Murder with poison and with a typewriter!” Gavigan said. “If that doesn’t indicate a dame!.. And Rappourt could have known all about the bends. Any of them could. They’ve all been talking treasure and diving, and Brooke’s been spouting technical submarine information like a geyser, in an effort to get the backing for his invention. There are reference books on the subject all over the place, here and in Floyd’s room, too.” He confronted Brooke. “Are you going to admit you moved the body now?”

“No. Emphatically not. And I’m not saying any more except on advice of counsel. That’s final.”

“Hunter,” Gavigan ordered. “You stick to Brooke until further orders. Let’s get back to the house.”

He hurried through the door. I heard Brady, who had remained just outside watching the diver and his assistants, say, “He’s onto something else down there, Inspector. They’re sending a line down.”

“What is it?” Gavigan asked.

The man with the phone said, “Rowboat,” and then into the mouthpiece, “Okay, Anton, you’d better start up. You’ve been down there long enough. We’ll bring you to 30 feet first and hold you there 5 minutes, 10 at 20 feet and 15 at 10.”

The bubbles on the water moved toward us. Brady and Hunter hauling on the line, hoisted a dripping rowboat to the rail’s edge. They balanced it there, letting the water drain out.

Merlini pointed to the rowboat’s bottom and three small round holes that perforated it. “And that,” he said, “explains the mystery of the phantom Mr. Y. Bullet boles. Lamb didn’t fire at anyone. He fired into the boats!”

Gavigan was silent as the police launch took us in toward the landing, but I could almost hear the wheels going round under his hat. When we landed and started toward the house, he fell into step beside Merlini. Brady and I tagged at their heels, while Brooke, with Hunter sticking tight like a barnacle, went on ahead.

“When it starts to rain evidence,” Gavigan muttered, “it certainly pours. There’s too damned much. I could arrest Arnold for Linda’s death, or, on account of the capsule, Rappourt. Or Brooke for that matter. His story’s thin as hell. And I could nab Rappourt for switching the tables if, as Brooke says, she’s the only other one who knew Floyd was diving. She could have done both murders! And Ira did the body moving and the letter sending because he was scared pink.”

“Before you cart them all off, Inspector,” Merlini said, “do you remember I said it was possible Rappourt didn’t know there was poison in the capsule she gave Linda?”

“Sure, but you don’t think that now, do you?”

“Had you considered the result of such an assumption?”

“I haven’t had time. That would mean—” Gavigan stopped in his tracks, so quickly I almost ran him down—“someone tried to poison Rappourt and — got Linda by mistake!”

“Uh-huh. Poison traps aren’t all sure fire — only in detective stories. There, you put strychnine in the grapes, or belladonna in the Martinis because only your victim likes those things. And he always gets it. But in real life that’s as risky as walking a tightrope over Niagara with your head in a barrel. Someone who has never eaten a grape before in his life or swallowed anything stronger than pink lemonade would be almost sure to come along and do just that.”

“Rappourt,” Gavigan said reflectively, “took a capsule before each séance and went into a dopey trance intended to look like a scopolamine twilight sleep. Somebody put cyanide in the top capsule in her vial so she’d pop off in her trance.”

“And then she gave the capsule to Linda, thinking it was sugar. It’s suggestive, isn’t it?”

“You bet it is. Brooke again. He figured she’d changed the chart and left him to hold the bag, so he goes after her. She killed Floyd, and he tried to kill her and got Linda.”

“Now you know who the real victim was, what about your first love, Arnold?”

The Inspector looked startled. “Think of everything, don’t you? He’s got plenty of motive. He wanted to keep Rappourt from getting her clutches on the Skelton dough, and he could have wiped out Floyd because he wanted the $8,000,000 treasure for himself. He wasn’t declared in on that treasure hunt very much as far as I could notice. Same thing goes for Miss Verrill. Maybe she did know she was going to get the money under Linda’s will. As for Lamb—”

“Wait.” Merlini said; “Sigrid wouldn’t have killed Rappourt to prevent her reaching for the Skelton money. If Sigrid was going to resort to homicide, she’d have simply killed Linda and collected herself.”

“Hmm. Yes. And isn’t that just what did happen?”

Sigrid, Arnold, Lamb, Gail, and Watrous were sitting on the terrace as we approached, drinks on the table before them. Muller stood in the background busily keeping an eye on Lamb, and Grimm issued from the house just as we came up.

“Phone for you, Merlini,” he called.

Merlini went through the living-room to the library and closed the door.

Captain Malloy submitted a report to Gavigan. “All this crowd say they were in bed and sound asleep, night before last, at the time Floyd kicked off. And they all slept separately. Not a bit of corroboration. And Murphy phoned.” Malloy handed the Inspector a slip of paper. “He dictated that. Description of the guy registered for room 2213. George Sanders. Hasn’t been in much lately. Murphy’s having the room checked for prints and quizzing the night staff. He’ll report again as soon as he gets their statements.”

The Inspector looked up from the memo. His face was grim and spelled fireworks for someone. “That settles his hash,” he said. “Malloy, I want you to—” He saw me standing there, all ears. “Beat it,” he growled.

I retreated across the room, still watching however, as he gave Malloy a string of rapid low-voiced orders. Malloy listened intently, nodded, and then left the room on a run.

Gavigan walked over and pushed the library door open.

We heard Merlini at the phone. “Right. Get going.” Then the receiver clicked.

“Who was that?” Gavigan asked.

“The cat,” Merlini sang in an operatic whisper. “It was the cat!” He came out, whistling the melody from Pinafore.

The Inspector scowled at his back and stabbed impatiently at the phone dial with his forefinger. He spoke into the mouthpiece for a minute or two, muffling his voice in his cupped hand. Then he came to stand in the doorway.

“Damn it!” he said. “The Telegram must have hired a clairvoyant. They’ve put out an extra with footprints on the ceiling and tons of sunken gold all over the front page.” He gave me a look that was a stranger to soap and water. “And,” he barked at Merlini, “you’d better snap out of it because all the amateur dicks in town are gunning for your job. When those papers hit the streets, all hell broke loose at headquarters.”

The phone behind him rang sharply. He disappeared. Then his voice came. No effort at concealment this time. “What! I’ll be damned! Get off this phone, Sergeant, and put a call through to Washington. I’ll hang on. I want Ed Stansbury at the FBI.” Then his head poked around the door. “Grimm!”

Grimm came in from the hall, joined Gavigan, and the door closed on them.

“The FBI,” Merlini said. “Now what’s he bumped into?”

Merlini seemed to be genuinely puzzled and not pleased.

“Serves you right,” I said. “Are you trying to get a corner on mysterious phone calls? I’ve got a good notion to make one myself, just to keep you guessing.”

But Merlini wouldn’t be baited. He maintained a thoughtful and clamlike silence until Gavigan finally emerged.

“Solved the case?” Merlini asked, seeing his grin.

“I’ll have it sewed up in another half hour. Just as soon as I get a few things from town I’m waiting for. And this time I’m being cryptic. Hope you like it.”

“Congratulations, Inspector. But it would be nice, you know, if your solution included Mr. X.”

“What makes you think it doesn’t?”

“Because I’ve got him sewed up. If you’d like to meet the gentleman, I can arrange it right now. Coming, Ross?”

He made for the door, and while Gavigan looked at him, went out without looking back. I wasn’t going to miss that boat. I trotted after him. We didn’t get far.

Gavigan burst out after us. “Wait, dammit!”

Merlini stopped and said quietly, “Do you have that lighter with you? I’ll show you how that fire was started, too. On one condition — you’ve got to put a tail on Rappourt until we get back. Tell him to keep his eyes open.”

“That’s all fixed. I told Malloy—”

Just as he spoke, Captain Malloy burst from the house. “Found it, Inspector!” he announced.

“Good. Send Grimm in and tell him to step on it.”

Malloy nodded and left hurriedly.

“Busy place around here just now,” Merlini commented as we started off.

Gavigan replied, “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

It was obvious that that was all he was giving out at the moment, and Merlini stopped trying.

Arriving at the old house, Gavigan hailed a figure perched high up on the widow’s walk. “Anything doing, Leach?”

“No,” the detective answered, “nary a visitor.”

“Okay. Keep at it.” Gavigan turned to Merlini. “Well?”

Merlini said, “Ross, could I borrow your necktie, please?”

There was an impish gleam in his eye that I should have distrusted. I said, “What’s wrong with your own?”

“Nothing. I like it. But just at the moment I need a knitted one like yours.”

That should have tipped me off, but it didn’t. There had been so much happening in the last few minutes, I was mentally winded from trying to keep up. I took it off and passed it over. “That was a present from a very nice blonde,” I said. “Be careful of it, will you?”

“I want you outside, Ross,” he said, apparently not hearing my request. “Station yourself at that cellar window. You can watch us through it. Come on Inspector.”

They went in the front door.

Merlini had indicated a small cellar window flush with the ground and directly below one of the living-room windows from which two beady, bright eyes peered at me through a small open space where one of the boards nailed across the broken shutters had fallen away and a pane of glass was missing. I picked up a rock and let fly. The eyes vanished as the rat scrambled down from the ladder-back chair that stood just inside.

The cellar window, though paneless, was covered with a stout iron grating. I dropped to my hands and knees and, peering in, soon saw Merlini and Gavigan come into the front cellar room. Merlini hunted among the debris scattered on the floor. He took a dog-eared book from the overturned book box. “Sermons by the Rev. Hugh Blair, D.D.,” he said. “Captain Skelton must have recanted.”

He ripped out half a dozen leaves and constructed a tentlike structure with them on the floor. Above and around this he carefully placed more paper, the slats from an old chair, and other inflammable odds and ends.

“That’s enough to give you a rough idea,” he said. “Lighter, please.”

Gavigan passed it over. Merlini fussed with it a moment and then placed it on the floor under, but somewhat beyond, the paper and wood. He twirled it with his thumb, and the tiny flame sprang up. He rose and backed slowly toward the window where I watched. When he reached it, he turned and pushed a sorry-looking object out at me between the bars. It was my tie, or what remained of it, half unraveled, the thread running off across the cellar to the lighter.

“Small price to pay to learn about the great lighter trick.” He grinned. “The magician’s old stand-by, you see. Thread. That lighter will, when full, burn for 15 minutes or so. Haul in on your tie, Harte. Easy. And just a little — a foot or so.”

“So that’s the answer to Linda’s Ascot scarf.”

“It does seem to explain why we found it in the cellar.”

The lighter slid six inches across the floor, and, came directly under the paper. A moment later the tiny glow grew and spread; the paper burst into flame.

“It also explains why Harte and I saw no light in this room when we passed through the rear one. The lighter’s glow was small and hidden by the debris piled up above and around it.”

“Okay,” Gavigan said grudgingly. “It explains the scarf. But who pulled the string? It certainly wasn’t long enough to go clear down to the other house where everybody was.”

The sound of a motorboat nosing in at the landing behind the house captured Gavigan’s attention. Merlini pulled the lighter from the fire, quickly extinguished the flames, and hurried out after the Inspector, who had disappeared in the direction of the sound. I had just started to get up and follow suit when a voice behind me said, “The Inspector down there?”

I swung around to see Dr. Gail. He had an excited, breathless look about him. I said, “Yes. This way,” and started to pilot him around the house. Then I noticed what it was he carried. My jaw dropped down around knee level. Gail didn’t wait for me to recover. He ran toward the rear and the sound of tire motorboat. I lit out after him.

Burt, Merlini’s contortionist shop assistant, was stepping out of the speedboat. I recognized our speedboat pilot of the night before and saw a stranger, a short, muscular man with a thick-jawed, foreign-looking face. His suit stretched tightly across his shoulders as if it were too small, and he was nervous as a cat.

Gavigan gave us a glance as we came in, started to turn away; and then, seeing what the Doctor held, he stopped dead.

Gail said, “Take a look at this. I knew I’d find treasure on this island some day.

He dropped the familiar black suitcase on the stone landing and pushed at the catches. When the lid fell open, I heard the boat driver say, “Holy Mother of God!” It was the same suitcase and the same guineas — all of them: the Hussar treasure.

“Where’d you get that?” Gavigan rapped.

“I was detecting,” Gail replied. “Over there where the mystery man took off last night in his motorboat. Looking for footprints, dropped buttons, cigarette butts — that sort of thing. I found this—30 or 40 feet in from shore, poked down beneath a clump of underbrush.”

Gavigan scooped up a handful of the coins and looked at them. He knelt on the damp stones, unmindful of the neat crease in his trousers, and took a good look at the suitcase.

“If that gold came out of the Hussar,” Gail said, “the historians are going to have a lot of fun poking around at a 150-year-old scandal. Somebody must have put one over on the Bank of England. These coins are all counterfeit! And not such good fakes at that.”

“Hey!” The Inspector dropped the lid of the suitcase as if it were crawling with germs. “You said the ones Harte lifted last night were the McCoy!”

“They are. And he said he found them separate from these others, in a small cardboard box. Right, Harte?”

“Yes.”

“And I remember them pretty well. I suspect that half dozen were the original from which these were made. When we compare them, I think we’ll find that these show the same identical pattern of scratches and wear. Six different patterns in the lot probably. Molds were made of the originals and duplicates cast. Brass. Treated a bit to take off the shine.” He paused a moment and then fired a second broadside. “But that’s not all. That mess plate and the pitcher and so forth that Mr. Novak fished up. They’ve been bothering me.”

Gavigan blurted, “They’re counterfeit too?”

“Oh, no.” Gail shook his head confidently. “They’re genuine enough, and they did come from the Hussar. But I’m annoyed because in 1824—I’ve checked this with some notes of mine — a salvage attempt was made on the Hussar by a party using a diving bell. A foolhardy young man swam out from under the bell and into the Hussar’s cabin. He came up with a Wedgwood pitcher, a pewter mess plate, two forks, and a button. I don’t care for coincidences like that.

While Gavigan stared at him, Merlini took the opportunity to say, “I’m reminded of the four conjurers who performed on the same benefit bill. Successively, they each had a card selected by members of the audience, allowing what appeared to be a perfectly free choice. Four persons picked the ace of spades. People in the audience felt about as you—”

The Inspector recovered sufficiently to ask, “And where has the tableware been since 1824?”

“In the private collection of the great-grandson of the boy who salvaged them,” Gail replied. “I’ve just phoned him. He had a little trouble with thieves about a week ago. A couple of detectives from the 104th Street station came over and looked around. They said they’d let him know if anything turned up, but they didn’t seem optimistic. He hasn’t heard from them since. Answer your question?”

Merlini said, “If the psychiatry business ever goes on the rocks, Doctor, go see Inspector Gavigan. Say I sent you. He might be able to take you on.”

“I suppose you knew about this all the time, Merlini?” Gavigan said with considerable sarcasm.

“No. I’m afraid I can’t say that. But I’m grateful to Dr. Gail. He’s tied together a lot of loose ends.”

“He certainly has, and as soon as we get back to the house—” Gavigan, who had been casting speculative glances at the shy, dark man who stood beside Burt, fidgeting, broke off suddenly and asked, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Burt?”

“He is not,” Merlini said, “I’m going to have that pleasure myself. Inspector Gavigan may I present — Mr. X!”

Mr. X, under this sudden glare of attention, looked at his feet and moved them uneasily.

Gavigan barked at him with impatient ferocity. “What’s your name?”

Mr. X gave him a frightened, bewildered look, glanced nervously at Merlini, and replied, “Nem beselek Engolul.”

“Your cross-examination is going to be difficult, Inspector,” Merlini broke in. “Unless you speak Hungarian.”

The Inspector’s expression said clearly that he did no such thing. Even his English seemed to have deserted him.

Merlini grinned at Burt. “Did you get his story?”

“Yes. One of the Whirling Hungarians goes so far as to speak English. We got it finally.”

“Whirling Hungarians?” Gavigan’s ability to speak came back with a rush.

“A rather special sort of Hungarian,” Merlini said. “He made those footprints. Can you give a demonstration, Burt?”

Burt nodded. “I think so. But outside. Too slippery on this landing.” He jerked a thumb at Mr. X, and they started out. Merlini followed, dropping a few additional crumbs of information over his shoulder as Gavigan, Gail, and myself tagged after him.

“The footprints were to be Madame Rappourt’s mediumistic tour-de-force, the much heralded yet mysterious piece de resistance that failed to — shall I say materialize? — at last night’s séance. Her maiden name, you remember, was Svoboda — Another Hungarian, though not a whirling one. Mr. X is her brother, Sandor Svoboda. That slate message with the ‘D.D.H.’ signature tipped me oft — that and Rappourt’s cryptic remark to Linda, ‘Home will come tonight.’ She was referring, as both Colonel Watrous and myself realized at once, to Daniel Dunglas Home, the astonishing English medium of the 60’s, whose levitation feats were so good that even Sir William Crookes, the famous physicist, swore he had passed his hands beneath Home’s feet while the latter rested in mid-air two feet above the floor. Linda knew about him, naturally, and Rappourt intended to impress her and Lamb by materializing his spirit and having it perform a Home levitation. Medium materializes medium — a new high in something or other. In the darkened room, steps would be heard going across the ceiling and, when the lights went up, the footprints would be found as evidence, along with that ‘Can you not believe now?’ slate message. Too bad it didn’t come off because Ross might have gotten some very lovely infra-red shots. Ready, Burt?”

The Man Who Turns Himself Inside Out nodded, and faced Mr. X on the grass beside the house. They grasped each other’s hands firmly, palm to palm. Sandor placed his right foot against the upper part of Burt’s thigh close to the hip. He grunted, “Hup,” and swung forward and up. Burt’s arms straightened rigidly above his head and Mr. X, balanced on his hands, slowly began to upend. His feet pushed up above his head; his back arched. Burt took a careful tentative step forward, then a second and a third, and walked across the lawn, with Mr. X maintaining a graceful, unwavering handstand atop Burt’s hands.

“An acrobat!” Gavigan’s tone was the same a gardener uses in referring to a Japanese beetle.

“And a good one, too,” Merlini grinned. “You might have deduced that — Mr. X was so expert at slithering out windows open at the top. You really should attend the circus oftener, Inspector. Great educational institution. The Whirling Hungarians are one of the Big Show’s star acrobatic acts. Sandor does the somersault from the teeter-board to a three-high tower of fellow countrymen stacked up on one another’s shoulders and also the triple somersault.” (See circus program on page 18.)

Merlini stopped, watching. Burt said, “Hup,” stepped out from under, and his upside-down partner dropped, turning as he fell, to land on his feet, bouncing like a rubber ball.

“The idea wasn’t original with Rappourt,” Merlini went on. “She swiped it from an old, possibly apocryphal, story about Houdini. He is said to have once topped Home’s famous out-the-window levitation in the manner just demonstrated. He sneaked two acrobat friends into the darkened séance room. And the Boston Boys, a two-man acrobatic team touring England in the ’90’s, used to use the same stunt to get room rate reductions. They’d pick out a landlady who was superstitious. They’d stay one night and call her in first thing next morning. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Stubbs,’ they’d say. ‘Renting us a haunted room! We’re leaving. We can’t stay here — not at this price anyway.’ ‘Haunted?’ the good lady would ask. ‘Yes. We didn’t get a wink of sleep. Something was walking about on the ceiling. Look!’ And they’d point to bare footprints that crossed and recrossed the ceiling.”

“Who was Rappourt’s other little helper?” The Inspector scowled suspiciously at Burt, who, having dropped his handkerchief on the ground just behind his heels, was employing a somewhat roundabout, though quite efficient method of retrieving it. He leaned backward in a complete circle and picked it up with his teeth. I got a kink in my back watching him. Sandor, more cheerful now, grinned and did a back flip.

“I suspect Brooke was the other half of the acrobatic team,” Merlini answered. “He’s not as young as he once was, though younger than he pretends; and he has the build and the acrobat’s same springy walk. Right, Burt?”

“Yes.” Burt unfolded himself. “Svoboda says he used to play the carnival circuit. With the Colonel Barnes outfit in ’15. I’d like to get a look at him. I was the Colonel’s star grindshow attraction that season, but I don’t remember any acrobat named. Brooke unless he was the guy who left the show in Willard, Ohio, one jump ahead of the cops, because he’d gone in for cat burglary on the side.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Gavigan said. “What sort of story did you get out of this whirling dervish? After it had been clawed out of Hungarian.”

Burt clicked his heels. “Operative Q94 reporting,” he said. “Brooke picked him up yesterday afternoon off 42nd Street. He had a motorboat. Svoboda—”

“Time?” Gavigan broke in.

“Two o’clock. Svoboda faked a sprained back after Thursday night’s show as an excuse to skip school next day. Rappourt had promised him a hundred bucks. They came to the island, parked the motorboat here under the house, and Brooke went out to the houseboat in a row-boat. He picked up Rappourt and they came back here and put on a dress rehearsal.”

“And in that top room because the ceilings are all too high in the others,” Merlini added.

“They knocked a few boards off the window,” Burt went on, “so Svoboda could crawl out. He was going to finish the act at the séance that way. Disappear out the window at the top, lights up quick, footprints on the ceiling, applause. They were here from 3 to 5:30, practiced the ceiling walk, and got their cues set for the evening performance. Then Rappourt and Brooke went back to the house by way of the houseboat, where they were supposed to be all the time. Svoboda was to sit tight until dark and then come down to the house ready to sneak in on cue. But at 8:15 Brooke came hurrying out, got into the motorboat, and headed for town. Brooke doesn’t speak Hungarian, and he gave Svoboda a note Rappourt had written telling him Brooke had received a phone call and had to go into town, but would be back in time for the séance. He doesn’t know what Brooke went in for.

“Just an hour after Brooke left, Svoboda heard someone making a hell of a racket at the front door. Smashing it in. Then, footsteps up the stairs. Slow, heavy ones. Sandor didn’t like it. He comes from the part of Hungary where they still have werewolves and vampires. He swung out the window on to the eaves in double-quick time. The vampire came straight up to the third-floor room. Seeing that it had a flashlight, Sandor figured he might not be one of the ‘undead’ after all, and he took a look. Almost fell off the roof. Saw a tall, white-faced guy carrying a stiff over his shoulders — a lady stiff. Flashlight or not he knew it was a vampire then. You should see the gestures when he tells it.”

I looked at Gavigan. Arnold’s story seemed to be getting a generous helping of corroboration.

“Never mind the gestures,” Gavigan said, “go on.”

“The vampire was only there a few minutes; and, as soon as it had gone, Svoboda laid plans to get the hell out. He swung in the window and started for the door, stopping just long enough to get one eyeful of corpse. He had reached the second-floor hallway when the front door opened again. Maybe you know if it’s on the up and up. Sounds to me like he’s seen too much Frankenstein in the movies. Anyway, since all the doors on that floor were locked, he had to scoot back upstairs again. He oozed out his window again just in time and stayed quiet like a mouse. The guy was in the room for nearly 10 minutes this time, walking back and forth nervous as hell. Finally, he went out in a big hurry. Svoboda sat tight waiting for the front door to creak again. But it didn’t. He waited 10 minutes by his watch; and he finally heard the guy leave by the cellar door, the one he and Rappourt and Brooke had come in by.”

“One of them have a key?” Gavigan asked.

Burt nodded. “Merlini told me to ask that. Yes. Brooke.”

“Go on.”

“Wait, Burt,” Merlini cut in. “Did you add up those times, Inspector?”

“Yeah. I don’t think the Hungarian can count. Brooke left at 8:45. Arnold shows half an hour later, at 9:15. Which checks with the story he gave us; but he couldn’t have come back, spent 10 minutes pacing up and down that room and then another 10 in the cellar — fixing the lighter. That makes it 9:35 when he cleared out, and Arnold has witnesses to say he was back at the other house a good 15 minutes before that.”

“That’s what I had in mind, Inspector. Did he notice the scarf, Burt?”

“Yes. He waited on the roof another five minutes to be sure the coast was clear and then, when he came in the window he took another look at the body, wondering what Dracula had been up to. He noticed the scarf had been ripped off the dress. And you should hear him describe the teethmarks he thinks he saw on her neck.”

“It must have been his light we saw,” I suggested.

“It was. He heard your boat coming. He thought it was Brooke and a chance to get off the blasted island. But as it pulls in under the house, he sees there are three men in it. Then he’s afraid it’s Brooke with cops and that he’s been decoyed out there to be put on the spot for a killing. He starts down the stairs again, with a real case of jitters now, and just as he reaches the top of the main stairway Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi pop out of the cellar.” Burt grinned at Merlini. “You and Ross. You barged into the lower hallway and he nearly had heart failure. He flattened out on the floor to duck your flashlights. Then you met another guy at the front door — Colonel Watrous, to judge from his description — and you all went into a big room at the foot of the stairs. Svoboda is just about to ease up off the floor and start back for his window when — I still think he’s seen too many movies — a big spider starts to crawl across his face. He doesn’t like ’em — not even baby ones. He started batting at it and let go his flash. It rolled down the stairs. He was halfway up the second flight before it hit bottom. He was perching on his roof again, when you found the body and discovered the fire. Close enough, he said, to bite off Harte’s ear when he poked his head out the window.”

I felt a cold chill skid down my back as I realized how near I’d come to getting conked if I had happened to look up instead of down. Svoboda obviously packed a hefty wallop, and he must have been on the scared edge of running amok.

“When you all dashed down to see about the fire,” Burt continued, “he finally did get out of the house. He was scared pink now, and all he wanted to do was to get off the island. But Brooke, as far as he knew, hadn’t come back with the motorboat. So he went down to the other house to try and contact Rappourt. He got there just as the lights went out. He prowled around waiting for the séance to fold because he hadn’t shown up to do his act. About 10 minutes later, as he’s sneaking across the terrace, impatiently trying to get a look in at a window, the lights suddenly came on, and he heard Harte’s voice inside. Just as he ducked into the shrubbery, another guy hurried up from the direction of the boathouse. The French window opened, and the white-faced vampire came out and took him in.”

“Which absolves you, Dr. Gail, of prowling,” Merlini said. “Then he found the boat, Burt?”

“Yes. He got a glimpse of Brooke through the window, realized he was back, and started looking for the boat. He stuck to the shore and worked around. The rain caught him, and he had no light, but about 10 minutes later he found it parked over there.” Burt pointed. “He showed me when we came in. The outside shore of that point of land that sticks out around the houseboat.”

“Where I found the guineas!” Doctor Gail exclaimed.

“Uh-huh,” Gavigan muttered. “Brooke’s got a lot to get off his chest.”

“That’s all,” Burt finished. “Brooke had left the keys in the boat, and Svoboda pushed out. He headed straight across and ran her aground at 130th Street. He played his afternoon performance today, but he missed on the triple somersault and almost did get a twisted back. When I arrived, he was just about ready to take a fast freight out. He’d have done it before except that the other five Whirling Hungarians would have slapped hell out of him if they ever caught up with him. It would have queered the act.”

“And I’m going to queer an act or two right now,” the Inspector said heavily. “Come on.” He turned hastily and almost bolted down toward the other house. We scurried after him, silent at first, watching the tangled path underfoot as the twilight deepened, the red sun dropping swiftly behind the serrated skyline of Manhattan.

“You mean Brooke?” Merlini asked when we came out on the smoother going of the long lawn.

“For one, yes. But I’ve got several things on the fire that may have come to a boil by now. You’d be surprised.”

“I hope so,” Merlini said sincerely. “There’s still a thing or two I want to know badly. The house lights have come up, and most of the mirrors and wires and a lot of the sleight-of-hand is pretty obvious now, but—”

“Know who the murderer is, of course.” Gavigan watched him.

“Yes. Told you I knew that this morning, but before you put the screws on me about that, can I—”

“I happen to know, too.”

Merlini blinked. “I see. Know what the motive was?”

“I can think of one that’ll do, though it’s not necessary. My candidate would just as soon rub someone out as not. To keep in practice.”

“Um. But wouldn’t the D.A. be a lot happier if you furnished him with a nice tailored one? And had you thought of asking the one person who ought to know — the person you very seldom get a chance to question in a murder case—the victim? Should think you’d jump at the chance. The poison Linda got was intended for Rappourt — and she’s still alive. Or was, last I knew.”

“You think—”

“The murderer might try to correct his little error if he so much as suspects we’re on to it. I wish you’d put her through your inquisitorial wringer again before you do another thing.”

Gavigan nodded. “That’s why I put Brady on her tail. So she’d keep. Is that you, Grimm?”

As we came up on to the terrace, a dark figure hurried around the coiner of the house coming up from the boat-house path. Grimm’s voice answered, “Yes, sir.”

Inspector Gavigan’s eyes fastened with interest on the Gladstone bag he carried. Then he snatched it out of Grimm’s hands and sailed into the living-room. Malloy, Sigrid, Dr. Gail, and Quinn were there. Gavigan didn’t even see them. He took the case to a table across the room and opened it hurriedly. As Merlini and I moved forward, he waved us back.

“This is my pigeon,” he said. “You keep—”

For an instant, then, I thought he must have opened the lid of the original Pandora’s box. The arc through which his jaw dropped certainly indicated that he saw nothing much less than a two-headed hippocampus. “I’ll be damned!” The explosive force of his exclamation nearly jarred the room.

He bent instantly over the contents of the suitcase, examining something with almost frantic haste. And then he grinned widely. Merlini, a burning match halfway toward the cigarette in his mouth, stood motionless as granite and stared with a hypnotic concentration, as if trying, by some conjurer’s X-ray vision, to penetrate the sides of the suitcase and fathom its contents. He didn’t look as if he were having any great success. Gavigan seemed to be the one who was dealing himself aces now.

Then Grimm began speaking rapidly in the Inspector’s ear, in a fervent, excited whisper. What he said stimulated the Inspector even more — so much that I expected the ecstatic glow on his face would burst into incandescence at any moment. Once during Grimm’s recital he glanced across at me and grinned broadly. The man seemed not only to have cornered all the aces but the court cards as well!

When Grimm finished, Gavigan slapped the suitcase shut and said, “Are you all set for the grand finale, Merlini?”

Merlini brought the match up to his cigarette finally, just in time. Then he shook his head. “No. Not quite.” He turned to Sigrid and Gail. “Would you mind leaving us for just a moment? Thank you.”

They went into the library and closed the door. Merlini added, “I want to hear just one answer from Rappourt first.”

“Okay.” Gavigan beamed at him indulgently and waved his hand as if he were presenting the Metropolitan Museum with two new wings, fully stocked. “I don’t mind. Go get her, Grimm.”

“Just a minute.” Merlini stopped him. “Where is she?”

Malloy answered. “In her room. And boiling because Brady moved in with her.”

“And the others?”

“Arnold just went out to the kitchen. Domestic conference. Mrs. Henderson wanted to know how many for dinner. Watrous is lying down in his room says his head still bothers him — and Brooke’s in his, with Hunter on duty. Muller’s downstairs watching Lamb polish off the Scotch at that bar.”

“Very good. Do you mind if we see Rappourt in her room? And I’d appreciate it if Grimm would station himself on the sun deck outside and keep an eye on her window.”

It was Gavigan’s turn to look disconcerted now. But he shrugged and said, “Do that, Grimm.”

“And, Burt, you bring our friend, Mr. X.” Merlini started up the stairs. He reached Rappourt’s door first, pushed it open, and said, “Brady, will you station yourself in the hall here at this door, please?”

Brady, who was parked on the window seat with a newspaper, came forward quickly. Merlini stood aside and the rest of us filed in. Madame Rappourt sat in an easy chair as far from where Brady had been as she could get. She glowered at us and started to speak; but her mouth closed again, abruptly, without a word. Mr. X had entered.

“You know each other, I think?” Merlini said casually. Rappourt’s head started a negative motion, but Sandor burst out with a flood of what sounded like apologetic Hungarian. Rappourt’s black eyes snapped at him. Then she cut him off suddenly with a few biting phrases that I knew wouldn’t have been complimentary in any language.

Merlini didn’t give Gavigan a chance to take over. “That answers that question,” he said, his voice rising above its normal tones. “There is one other. You’re not going to like it at first, but I think you’ll answer it. As you can guess, we know how the footprints were made, and with whose help. We know what use you intended to put them to. We know that Watrous’s trick chair didn’t hinder your production of fraudulent psychic phenomena because there should have been two, with Brooke locked in the other. I know how the writing got on that slate. Instead of the more customary chalk, you used a well-sharpened slate pencil. Brooke did the writing by inserting the point through the loosely woven fabric of the bag. That accounts for the wobbly character of the writing. The sealing wax, the careful knotting and tying, and the signatures were merely so much misdirection on the general principle: Give the suckers so much to think about they can’t think straight. Also, we’ve found Floyd, and we know how he died. We know who moved his body and who, with a forged letter, tried to make it appear that he was still alive. We’ve found a suitcase full of 1779 guineas that are counterfeit and some very interesting Hussar relics that are genuine, but stolen. Do you have anything to say to all that?”

Rappourt simply looked at him. There was a defeated slump to her shoulders, but her eyes blazed.

Merlini, strangely enough, seemed satisfied with her attitude. “We’ve discovered more than that,” he went on, firing his words at her. “Something that even you haven’t realized. The poison that killed Miss Skelton was in the capsule you gave her. And it wasn’t scopolamine — or sugar. It was cyanide. And yet—” his voice slowed—“I think you believed you were telling the truth when you swore it held nothing but sugar. Do you see what that means?”

On Rappourt’s face fear sprang suddenly and mounted.

“Someone,” Merlini said carefully, “was trying to poison you, Madame Rappourt, not Linda. You should know who that was. You escaped the first time. You might not be so fortunate again — if that person remains at large. I think you had better tell us.”

Merlini stopped there, and waited. Rappourt was motionless. Her eyes flickered once across all our faces and then stared again at Merlini — and beyond him. She said nothing for a moment. Then, when I was beginning to fear she wouldn’t speak at all, her lips moved.

“I—” And she got no further.

Behind Merlini the dark window exploded with a brilliant crash! The sound was close, blasting.

I heard Rappourt’s scream and saw the round dark hole in the window pane in the same instant. Jagged, radiating lines surrounded it.

Gavigan thundered, “Get those lights, somebody!”

I saw the switch and jumped for it.

“Grimm!” Gavigan shouted. “Where the hell—” He pushed up the window, and then threw himself aside as another shot cracked, “The other way, Malloy. Quick!”

Malloy must have simply lowered his head and charged toward the door. I got a smack that left me gasping.

I heard the creak of a window sash and then Watrous’s voice, high, excited, crying, “There he goes!” Quick footsteps pounded on the sun deck, and the Colonel’s short figure dashed past the window making for the sun-deck stairs.

“The damn fool!” Gavigan said. “He’ll get—” But no more shots came. Gavigan went through the window then, and I wasn’t far behind him. Detective Grimm was stretched out, flat and quiet, several feet away. The Inspector and I looked down over the sun-deck rail and saw Watrous in the square of light thrown on the ground from the living-room’s large French window. He stopped and picked up something at his feet. He turned toward the trees. The thing in his hand spit fire, loudly. He fired twice and stopped. Gavigan started over the rail.

“Saw him in the tree,” Watrous said quickly. “He climbed down, threw away his gun, and ran toward—”

From the direction in which Watrous had fired, another shot came. And, as Gavigan and I landed together heavily on the ground, Watrous took one backward step that was never completed. He fell slowly, his body turning. Then Gavigan’s gun exploded.

The sound of running, retreating footsteps came clearly. Gavigan shot forward from his crouching position like a runner leaving the mark, hurdled the still body lying in the center of the yellow square of light, and ran toward the trees.

I reached Watrous an instant later and saw the dark liquid stain spreading across his breast. I pulled the gun from his limp fingers, and ran after Gavigan.

I heard his gun crack out again, and then suddenly we were on the boathouse path. Before us was a dark figure, running. It stopped briefly, two bright flashes flared back at us, and the figure vanished in the deep shadows at the side of the path. I felt my own gun kick back suddenly with solid force against my palm. I heard footsteps pounding behind us and Malloy’s voice, “He’s trying to make the boathouse!”

As my longer legs began leaving Gavigan behind, he said, “Sprint for it, Ross. Carter has no gun!”

I did my best. I didn’t tell Gavigan that I’m a lousy shot. I was within 20 feet of the boathouse when I saw our quarry again. He jumped suddenly into view, crossing the open space toward the wooden steps that led down the 10-foot drop to the landing. He was going great guns as he reached the head of the stairs and then — he seemed to do an odd sort of D.D. Home levitation and immediately vanished, like Merlini’s half dollar, into thin air!

I put all I had into those last few yards. A glow of light appeared below me as I pulled up short at the head of the steps. On the boards at my feet, and trailing off down the steps, lay a length of rope. Carter stood just at the foot of the steps. He held a flashlight and was addressing a prone figure on the walk before him.

“The Great Indian Rope Trick,” he was saying. “Hope you liked it.”

Gavigan, breathing heavily, stopped beside me, looked, and then vaulted down the steps.

Carter looked up. “Got him, Inspector. Figured he’d head this way. Rigged a line across the top of the steps and pulled it tight when he arrived. First-rate somersault he did, too. But he landed wrong way up.” There was no sympathy in Carter’s voice.

Gavigan knelt down. I saw the shine of handcuffs and heard the metallic clicking of the ratchet as it was drawn tight. The still figure stirred slightly, and groaned.

“And that,” Gavigan said bitterly, “will be enough out of you, Mr. Charles Lamb.”

As Carter pulled Lamb to his feet, Gavigan said in an icy voice, “If you’ve done anything to Grimm or Muller that can’t be fixed — so help me, I’ll pull the switch at your hot-seat party myself.” And he meant it.

But Grimm seemed to be convalescent. We met him, running toward us as we started back. Quinn was with him.

“Muller?” Gavigan asked at once.

Their looks were both blank at first. Then they saw who was wearing the cuffs. Quinn turned wordlessly and sped back toward the house.

“Did he get Rappourt?” Gavigan asked.

Grimm shook his head. “No. Heard Merlini say it was a miss by nearly two feet.”

“Watrous have any chance?”

“No. He got it right in the ticker.”

“And what the blue blazing hell,” Gavigan bellowed, all his concern over Grimm’s welfare suddenly gone, “were you doing out on that sun deck? Taking a beauty nap?”

“I was not,” Grimm replied stiffly. “And I’d like to know just how this big cheese—” he indicated Lamb who was being pulled hurriedly along between Gavigan and Malloy—“managed to sneak up on me so damn quiet. One minute there wasn’t a soul in sight on that sun deck; I was watching the stairway, too. The next thing I knew, I saw stars, and then Quinn was trying to bring me out of it, and I heard someone shooting a long way off. I’ve got a beaut of a splitting headache, and I’ll forget about all those off days I’ve got coming if you’ll just let me take one good—”

“Maybe I will,” Gavigan broke in. “But save it. Here, help Malloy. I’m going ahead.”

He started off at a dogtrot, and I shifted into second along with him. He gave me a look, “That gun, Ross. Give me.” I did. “And don’t ever let that happen again, understand? Watrous’s prints and yours will have ruined Lamb’s.”

The house blazed with light and movement. Gavigan saw an open cellar window at the foot of the stairs, brightly lighted. He got down before it. “How is he, Gail?”

The Doctor’s voice said, “Still out. He got a whisky bottle over the head. Cut a bit. But I’ll have him around—”

A quiet voice from the steps above asked, “Catch him?”

“Yes.”

“Who?” Merlini asked.

“Lamb. I thought you knew.”

“What does he say for himself?”

“He doesn’t yet. He’s still out on his feet. Took a lovely header down the boathouse steps.”

“Odd gunnery score he chalked up, wasn’t it?” Merlini came down the steps. “Awfully inconsistent. Headquarters has been after you on the phone. Say they have a wire for you from Washington.”

The Inspector started for the side door. He’d gone nearly a dozen feet before he wheeled and asked, “What do you mean — inconsistent gunnery score?”

“Look at that. In the wall just above your head.” Merlini pointed with the flash he carried. Seven feet above ground level and perhaps a foot below the underside of the sun deck, I saw a dark core of metal protruding slightly from the center of a roughly circular, chipped area in the wall.

“Bullet,” Merlini said. “The tree’s 35 feet away from Rappourt’s chair. The first shot missed her by a good two feet — and she’s no small target. The second, as you see, missed even the window, 10 feet to one side and five too low. While the third scored a perfect bull’s-eye on the Colonel from a considerably greater distance. Wouldn’t you call that erratic?”

“Sure. But what’s it prove?” Gavigan didn’t wait for an answer. He disappeared into the house.

“Well, what does it prove?” I asked as Merlini turned to follow him.

“Misdirection, Ross. And lots of it. With curves, too.” He slid away from me.

Ten minutes later Gavigan stood in the living-room and watched Brady ink Lamb’s fingers and press them, one at a time with a slight sideward roll on a sheet of white paper. He took the paper almost before Brady lifted Lamb’s hand at the last impression. Placing it under the table lamp, he leaned above it with a magnifying glass. He looked from the prints to a photograph that he held in his left hand, and then back again.

Quinn, Gail, and Muller were still downstairs. Hunter was outside with the body. Everyone else, except the Hendersons, was in the living-room. Sigrid stood by the fireplace, her face white. Madame Rappourt, not quite as self-possessed as usual, sat on the davenport against the wall, an alert, thoughtful expression on her dark face. Ira Brooke leaned against the heavy cabinet radio in the corner. His hands were slowly tearing a paper match cover into small pieces. Arnold stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets, his teeth tight on the stem of his unlighted, unfilled pipe. They were all watching Lamb, whose gross, heavy movements were slow and painful. He put his hand to his forehead once, rubbed its back across his eyes and seemed surprised because the other hand came up with it. He looked vacantly at the steel that joined them as if seeing it for the first time.

Inspector Gavigan stood up at last, faced Lamb and said with deep satisfaction, “Charles Lamb, I arrest you for murder!”

Merlini, on the davenport near Rappourt, scowled sleepily and inquired, “For one, two, or three murders, Inspector?”

“For a couple of dozen,” Gavigan said. “Mr. Lamb happens to be otherwise known as Joe (The Boss) Garelli, retired gangster, racketeer, and ex-kingpin of the Chicago rackets. Front Street, Auckland, New Zealand, my eye! That address was just to give us something hard to check.”

Sensation! That was the mildest word any paper would use. I made a half movement toward the phone.

Arnold said, “But didn’t they find Garelli on the bottom of the Chicago River a year or so ago with his feet in a tub of cement?”

“You shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers,” Gavigan replied. “The Boss had made his pile and wanted to get out. Mobs don’t accept resignations. Besides, some other people figured that part of the dough he was taking with him belonged to them. But he thought he was smart. He picked out someone else to take the rap, same general description. Filled him with machine gun slugs, a lot of which messed up the face. Dropped him in the river. I’ve always wondered why the hands were missing and how come he went in at a spot where the body couldn’t very well have been expected to remain undiscovered — right where some divers were doing repair work on a bridge foundation. He had to have the body found, you see. So his pals would stop trying to trace him.”

“What tipped you off, Inspector?” Merlini didn’t seem sleepy any longer.

Gavigan turned to him. “Headquarters got the pilot of the plane that high-tailed it out of here this morning. You knew Lamb was the guy that was waiting for it as well as I do. No clothes in his room, no shaving stuff, no nothing. What happened to them? Obviously he’d packed up. He had the stuff with him in a suitcase; and, when he saw the police launch coming and saw he was going to miss his plane, he ditched it. Leach’s been looking for it up at the other house, but no luck. Lamb added a couple of rocks and dropped it in the river probably. Novak could get it, but I won’t need it. The pilot was Curley Branner.”

“The guy who used to pilot the Boss’s bullet-proof plane and who disappeared about the same time! I’ll be—” That was Grimm, speaking out of turn, unable to help himself.

Gavigan let it go. “There was a little matter of some hair straightener, hair dye, and some freckles that washed off, but the identification was positive. Lamb here didn’t need to wear any false whiskers. It wouldn’t have done him much good anyway, with his beef. But he’d allowed for that from way back. Always awfully shy of photographers; and they were damn shy of him after a couple that tried to shoot him, got shot themselves — only with another kind of camera. The Mystery Czar of Crime, the magazine articles called him. He’d seen to it that even among his pals only a very few knew what he looked like. But he had one spot of tough luck. He was so sure the F.B.I. didn’t have his fingerprints. He had always worn gloves, even to bed. He didn’t know that silver—” Gavigan grunted oddly—“silver nitrate can pick up fingerprints off fabric. The Washington boys managed to snake one of his gloves. They got part of a thumb and half an index print off the glove, at the edge where he’d pulled them on. His valet should have done that for him, too. The F.B.I. rushed his prints up by telephoto. I’ve pinned down four points of similarity in the thumb and six in the forefinger. I only need two more, and, if the boys at the lab can’t dig those up when they start checking fork angles and ridge lengths, I’ll turn in my badge.”

“Charles Lamb,” Merlini mused. “Not a bad alias, either. Garelli’s report card gets a gold star for misdirection. Whenever he was introduced, people were immediately reminded of familiar essays, certainly a far enough cry from Tommy guns and racketeering. I deduce that he must have gone as far as high school.”

“And he’s got only one more stop to make,” Gavigan said.

“I can see that. I congratulate you, Inspector. This should make you Police Commissioner overnight. But when you get back on the subject, what about solving this case?”

“What about — what?”

“This case. The Skelton murders. Linda and Floyd. Remember?”

“We catch him red-handed,” Gavigan thundered, “and you’re not satisfied. What about Watrous?”

“Well, there is that, I’ll admit.” Merlini had settled back now as if preparing for a siege. His hand went toward his pocket and brought out his deck of cards. “But I might ask, what about Rappourt? And how in the name of Hermann, Kellar, and Thurston did Lamb work that lighter? More recently, what about the curious incident of the erratic gunnery score?”

“Well, what about it?”

I hoped that Merlini was going to be able to produce his rabbit because, otherwise, Gavigan was going to lay him out. I could see that with half an eye.

“Lamb,” Merlini said. “The ex-gangster, the man who packs two guns. He shoots from 35 feet and misses Rappourt by a good two feet. He shoots again and misses the window itself by something over 10 feet. He shoots a third time, from considerably more than 35 feet and drills Watrous as neatly as you please. Oh, it could happen — anything’s possible. But in the cellar where he was, how did he know we were questioning Rappourt? Coincidence? Why did he go from cellar to sun deck to knock out Grimm and take his gun? He had Muller’s gun. Was he so accustomed to two guns he couldn’t operate with only one? And how did he get onto the sun deck if Grimm was watching the stairs? And then, why’d he go climb a tree? Why not shoot from the sun deck itself? Also, if he went to all that trouble to obtain a second gun, why did he throw it away when it still contained four bullets? Watrous didn’t say he dropped it; he said ‘threw it.’ Why didn’t he shoot at Watrous when the latter yelled instead of waiting until later? Those were Muller’s and Grimm’s guns, weren’t they?”

“Yes, but—”

“And the one Watrous picked up was Grimm’s?”

“What makes you think that? And what difference—”

“Was it, Grimm?”

Grimm bent over the gun Gavigan had laid on the table. He nodded. “That’s mine.”

“Grimm’s gun, Inspector, not Muller’s. Remember that. It’s important. Ross, how many times did you fire that thing?”

“Once.”

“And we saw Watrous fire it twice. Two and one is three. There were two prior shots. That makes five. How many bullets are there left in that gun?”

Grimm broke it open. “One.”

“Which makes six. That’s how many there were when you had it last?”

Grimm nodded.

“Good. We progress. We know that both the shot through the window and the one that buried itself in the wall outside came from that gun. I’d estimate the interval between those shots at about three seconds. Agree?”

The Inspector nodded.

“And if you stand in Rappourt’s room,” Merlini continued, “with your eye level with the spot where the bullet hit the wall, and look back, out through the hole in the window pane, your line of sight hits that tree a good 15 feet above ground and some distance out from the trunk on one of the limbs. Now, how in the name of Isaac Newton did a fat man like Lamb manage to shinny down that tree and cross 20 feet of lawn in three seconds? Even had he jumped, I doubt if he could have made it. Anyway, Watrous distinctly said, ‘climbed down.’ ”

“Did he have to do that?” Gavigan asked. “What are you getting at?”

“Sure he had to do that. The gun doesn’t fire bullets in a curve! If he fired the second shot while still perched in the tree, then judging from the position of the bullet in the wall close up under the projecting sun deck, it had to go smack through the sun deck, and without leaving the slightest trace of its passage! I know: I’ve looked. There’s a trick or two like that. Conjurer pushes a glass rod through a borrowed handkerchief or shoots a girl through a plate of steel. Solid through solid, it’s called. But .38 caliber bullets through steel and concrete floors is a new one on me. It’s like ectoplasm: I don’t believe it.”

“It ricocheted—” Gavigan stated.

“Well, maybe. You’d know more about that than I would. But isn’t a 45° angle an awful lot of bounce for a bullet? And would it still have enough speed left to bury itself in that wall? Ricocheted bullets usually spin, don’t they? Chances are it would have hit the wall sideways or backward.”

“But look where that leaves you,” Gavigan said. “If Lamb fired at Rappourt from the tree and someone else fired the second shot from below, you haven’t—”

From the door to the hall behind us, a quiet voice said, “Lamb didn’t fire that first shot at Rappourt. He was with me when we heard it.” Muller stood in the doorway, a white bandage around his head. Dr. Gail pushed in past him and went toward Lamb.

“Quinn’s told me what happened,” Muller went on. “But you’ve got it wrong. Lamb was with me in the basement. When we heard that first shot I dashed for the window and looked out. And Lamb conked me with a bottle. He took my gun and climbed out the window.” You could have dropped half a dozen pins slowly, one after the other, onto an Oriental rug and heard every one of them land. Merlini was the only person in the room who smiled.

Inspector Gavigan looked around at Arnold, Brooke, Sigrid Verrill, and Dr. Gail. “So someone else knocked Grimm out and did some shooting, too, did they?” He began with Gail. “Where were you during the gunfire?”

“In the library,” Gail said quickly. “You saw Miss Verrill and I go in before you went upstairs. We were together.”

“All the time?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Verrill?”

“Yes.” Her voice was small but steady.

“Brooke?”

That gentleman grinned for the first time in quite a while. “Ask Hunter,” he said.

Gavigan stepped to the window. “Hunter, come here.” And in a moment: “You hear those first five shots tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brooke with you all the time?”

“That’s right.”

Gavigan turned slowly from the window. “Arnold?”

Arnold merely walked to the table and pressed a button. Then he waited. There were steps in the hall outside shortly, and Mrs. Henderson appeared in the door.

Arnold repeated the Inspector’s question. “Did you hear the first five shots tonight?”

She nodded.

“Where was I?”

“Why, with me in the kitchen. You ran out toward the front of the house. My husband and I followed you.”

“Mr. Henderson was there, too?” Gavigan asked.

“Yes.”

The Inspector turned back to Merlini. “Perhaps you’d like to carry the questioning on from there?” he suggested with more than a touch of sarcasm in his tone. “It’s impossible again! There’s no one else on the island. Leach’s been stationed on top the other house up there watching for that.”

Merlini shook his head. “No, Inspector. You’re doing very well.”

That was when the Inspector flew off the handle. And the way he did it made Department history. “That’s that,” he said with a thick finality. “This has gone far enough. Ira Brooke, you’re under arrest! Get him, Malloy!”

Ira had made a half movement as if to run for it, but Malloy and the handcuffs got there first. Brooke blinked and said protestingly, “But Detective Hunter—”

“Stow it!” Gavigan cut him off. “You’re in deep water so damned far it’d take a bathysphere to locate you. I’ve got a statement from the man who sold you that vanishing motorboat. I’ve got another from a salesman at the Collector’s Coin and Stamp Co. He sold you six 1779 English guineas a week ago. Both men describe you exactly. Before I’m finished, I’ll have the name and address of the counterfeiter who turned out the queer ones. Want to tell me now?”

Brooke said nothing.

“Malloy found a dime-in-the-slot locker key in your room, in the soap. It fitted a locker in Grand Central. There was a Gladstone bag there containing Floyd’s clothes. You are George Sanders, Room 2213, Hotel McKinley. Half a dozen members of the night staff will identify you. You were seen leaving there with the Gladstone at 4:30 a. m. the morning Floyd died. You had moved his body down into Room 2113 via the fire escape. You wrote a letter on that typewriter downstairs, forged his name to it, and planted it on a train in Grand Central at 1:20 that afternoon. You covered all that with the motorboat no one knew you had, which you kept at the landing under the haunted house, and the pretense that you were working at the houseboat. Those blueprints and that model apparatus are phony props.”

Gavigan stopped just long enough to fill his lungs. “I can’t prove this yet, but I will. You stole those Hussar relics from a private museum on 98th Street. That was what Floyd was diving for. He was laying them down. Salting the East River! There’s also a charge of assault and battery. There are more damned cracked heads in this case than you can shake a stick at.”

That crack was delivered so unconsciously Gavigan didn’t get it himself. I was so interested in what he was saying, I didn’t catch it, either, until several hours later. Gavigan’s next statement was even more engrossing.

“You knocked out Ross Harte on 43rd Street last night—”

“Great Scott,” I thought, “was it only last night?”

Gavigan’s parade of offenses continued. “Ross had that suitcase of phony guineas you let get away from you in Grand Central. Your counterfeiter friend called you at dinner time last night and told you that the queer was ready and where the hell were you? He’d gone to the Hotel McKinley and almost walked right in on a room full of cops. You piled over there and got them. He couldn’t wait to get rid of them. The narrow escape he’d just had threw a scare into him. Am I making the details up all right as I go along? You met him in Grand Central; and then you ran smack into Detective Lester Haenigson, who was on station duty. He started across the waiting-room to pass the time of day with you — to put it delicately. With that case full of brass hanging on the end of your arm, you couldn’t get away fast enough. And you couldn’t drop it, and cut and run. That would have put the fat in the fire. But you used your head. You always have. It’s your stock in trade, isn’t it? Ira Brooke, submarine expert. That’s a new one, that is. Malloy, get me a glass of water.”

Merlini said, “There’s Scotch and soda right behind you. Have a couple — have all of it, but go on. That’s a lovely place to end an installment!”

“You and your card tricks!” Gavigan cracked. “You wouldn’t be puzzled, would you? Or baffled or anything like that?” Gavigan smiled, beginning to enjoy himself.

“No. Not any more,” Merlini said. “Brooke switched his suitcase for Harte’s, of course. And whether he or Detective Whats-his-name was the more surprised when they opened it, I would hate to guess. I don’t know why I didn’t remember to put in a couple of rabbits when I packed — or one of my new Little Wonder Talking Skulls.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Gavigan admitted. “He ducked around the corner by the newsstand, thinking like hell. And he saw Harte’s suitcase in front of the phone booth. He switched them just in time, took the next corner on two wheels, and then let Haenigson, who was running by now, catch up with him. He gave Les a gander at the suitcase, an earful of his customary smooth patter, and Haenigson didn’t have a halfway decent excuse to pull him in. Brooke got back to his own suitcase just in time to see Ross heading for a locker with it. He took a chance there, but it was cut and go. If he’d dropped the suitcase, it would have been connected with him. If he failed to get it back and the lug who found it turned it in — well, the contents of the suitcase Haenigson had seen would be evidence connecting him; but he’d be on his way by then. As it happened, he managed to get it back.”

“But what—” It was Gail this time. “What made the detective so interested in Ira — on sight?”

“Uh-huh,” Merlini muttered. “I said there was something queer about his name. Ira Brooke. Altogether too imitative — too similar to Simon Lake — who is a real submarine inventor. More aliases. Well, Inspector?”

“Yes. Haenigson knew him. And the remaining contents of his Gladstone cinched it. When Brooke cached Floyd’s clothes, he also removed from his room a notebook which contained a sucker list and a time schedule of appointments indicating that he has been working a racing swindle. May I introduce Glass Eye George, so damn smart he’s never seen a stir from inside — until starting now. Salting the East River is his very latest. Whose idea was that, Glass Eye?”

Brooke shrugged uninterestedly, “You know better than to expect answers to questions like that.” Brooke’s voice had suddenly become a good ten years younger! I began to suspect the legitimacy of the iron-gray hair.

Gail said, “This is too much, Inspector. Do you mean to tell us the technical information he rattled off about diving and submarine invention was all false?”

“Oh, no. It was straight enough. Know anything about conmen?”

“No. That’s one subject I’m not an authority on.”

“A good con-man won’t consider a touch under $10,000 simply because most good con-games require considerable outlay in props and confederates. What they actually do is stage a carefully rehearsed play, using a lot of Merlini’s brand of misdirection. He’s really a con-man himself, only you buy a ticket to see his swindle, and with the con-man you pay a steeper rate and you pay as you leave. By the way, Burt, is he the carnival acrobat who turned cat burglar?”

“Didn’t recognize him at first, but if he takes off those glasses—”

“You did an acrobatic act with a Colonel Barnes carnival in 1915, Brooke?”

“Of course not, Inspector.”

“That means you did. Cat burglary was too crude, and the pay was too low, I suppose. That when you started working your glass-eye gag?”

“How did he swindle the suckers with a glass eye, Inspector?” Gail asked. “He doesn’t have one, does he?”

“He made con-game history with that one. Used to hit the smaller towns, put up at the best hotel, wearing the best clothes and passing out Corona-Coronas. Big-shot-business-man act. Got people to talking about him a bit, then he’d begin. Stop in at a store, men’s haberdashery, for instance; make a big splash, order $10 shirts, $5 ties, maybe $50 worth to be sent to his hotel C.O.D. Then just as he started to leave Mr. Van Morgan would clap his hand to his eye and begin searching the floor. ‘I dropped my glass eye’ he yells, and the store owner and all his assistants promptly get down on hands and knees to help hunt. George gets more upset by the minute, big business deal on next morning; can’t possibly show up this way; the glass eye was specially made; couldn’t possibly get another in time that would match his good eye. Means thousands of dollars to him, if his deal falls through, etc. Why he’d pay $500 to get it back! And, of course, no glass eye can be found because he never dropped one. Finally he leaves, nearly prostrate with worry. Storekeeper keeps on hunting. Half hour later a stranger comes in, says, ‘Well, now, look at this,’ reaches down and picks up a glass eye from under the counter. Storekeeper makes a grab for it. Stranger gets suspicious. ‘Why, I’d bet the owner of this would pay a good deal to get it back.’ You know what happens then. When the stranger walks out, finally, the storekeeper has the glass eye and the stranger has a couple of hundred bucks, the amount depending on how well Glass Eye put over his wealthy-business-man part. The stranger goes down the street and stops in at store number two and picks up another glass eye. He’s got a pocketful. Next morning at the hotel half a dozen clerks are sitting in the hotel lobby, each with a glass eye carefully wrapped in cotton wool and all waiting for Mr. Van Morgan to show and pay out $500. Mr. Van Morgan and assistant are, of course, in the next town down the line doing another engagement of the same act.” Gavigan stopped and gulped another glass of the water Malloy had obtained.

Merlini watched him speculatively. “But. Inspector,” he said slowly. “How are you going to crack Brooke’s alibi for the shooting and the fire? Your own man had him under observation.”

“Maybe you can do it?”

“I’d hate to try.”

“Then don’t. Why do you keep harping on that fire?”

“For the simple reason that our murderer was the one who pulled that string.”

“Okay.” Gavigan scowled. “Sit down and watch the rest of the act. Arnold Skelton; you’re under arrest!”

Arnold nodded wearily.

“So you still think — All right. Gail, would you get my lawyer on the phone, please.”

“You stay where you are. Doctor. Malloy—”

“Skip the handcuffs, Inspector. That won’t be necessary.”

I heard Malloy mutter, “Afraid we’ll have to. We’re fresh out.”

Merlini started to get up again. But Gavigan growled, “Sit down, you make me nervous. I don’t know how Arnold set the fire. I’m arresting him for moving a body, before the medical examiner saw it, with intent to deceive. I can make an accessory-after-the-fact charge stick without half trying.”

Gavigan wasn’t through yet. He turned to Madame Rappourt. “And you’re under arrest, too, you and your brother. Charge: Conspiracy to defraud, accessory before and after the fact in the matter of moving Floyd’s body, and forging. If I think of anything else, you’ll hear about it. Malloy, take them into headquarters and put them on ice.”

Captain Malloy went into action with a will.

Lamb, his head swathed in bandages, went out between Brady and Quinn. Rappourt, Mr. X., Brooke, and Arnold followed, with Malloy, Grimm, and Muller riding herd.

When they had gone, Merlini said quietly, “Inspector. What about Ross? He was carrying a gun last night without a permit. The Sullivan law, you know.”

Gavigan sat down, took a pipe from his pocket, and began to fill it. He relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived at dawn. “I’ve a blanked good notion to book you for resisting an officer in the performance of his duties.”

“But, Great Scott! Don’t you want to know who killed Linda and Floyd? I notice you didn’t arrest any of them for murder, except Lamb; and those weren’t the right murders, or were they?”

“No. But I can’t go wrong. One of them did it. There won’t be any more pitched battles around here, like tonight. I can take time out now to sit down and think.”

“Ross,” Merlini said, “he doesn’t even ask to hear my solution. He doesn’t think that I—”

“I doubt it,” Gavigan said; “but I’ll listen. Only, I warn you, if you’ve cooked up something with mirrors and trap doors and disguised identities and — and if you bring on any more — bah — acrobats, I’ll — All right. Who set the fire? Who killed Linda, Floyd, and Watrous?”

Merlini’s half dollar appeared at his finger tips and then was gone again. “Lamb killed Watrous, but he didn’t put the poison in Rappourt’s capsule, and he didn’t type that diving chart. That doesn’t sound like the Boss does it?”

“No. It’s not quite his style, I’ll admit that.”

“Besides, you remember that it was Lamb who told us he saw Rappourt pass the capsule to Linda. The murderer would certainly never have offered that piece of information. And if he had seen it happen, he’d have tried to prevent it. Lamb is definitely out.”

“Well, get on with it. Rappourt, Arnold, Brooke. Which one of them did it?”

Merlini simply said, “No. I can eliminate them all.”

I should have expected that from him, but I hadn’t. Suddenly, the tension in that room stretched and vibrated like a taut steel wire.

Together, Inspector Gavigan, Burt, and myself turned and stared at the only other people left in the room.

Sigrid Verrill looked at Merlini with wide eyes, one hand at her throat. Dr. William Gail got slowly to his feet.

Dr. Gail said nothing, but I could see that a lot of fast thinking was going on behind those shrewd gray eyes.

Sigrid cried, “Merlini! You can’t—”

Gavigan said, “You two were lying about being in the library together! One of you went out and fired at Rappourt. Dr. Gail, I—”

And Merlini said quickly, “I warn you, Inspector, if you make any further arrests without knowing, as I don’t think you do, exactly how that fire was set, why it was set, and who knew enough to have a reason for setting it, you’ll be shooting in the dark. Unless—”

“So. You don’t think it was Gail.” The Inspector’s blue eyes were disillusioned and coldly suspicious.

“Unless,” Merlini insisted, “you can explain the phantom bullet that magically penetrates steel and concrete, you may very well make a mistake — and even if you shouldn’t, you won’t have a case, unless you can explain the phantom bullet that—”

“Stop imitating a cracked phonograph record,” Gavigan snarled. “Do you have a case?”

“I do. Will you sit down and relax?”

Gavigan roared, “No!”

Merlini spoke to Gail and the girl. “If this over-zealous police officer arrests either of you before I’m quite finished with what I have to say — and if he snaps his handcuffs on the wrong person, I’ll contribute the services of my lawyer free of charge to aid in a thundering big suit for false arrest. I will have attention!”

The Inspector scowled mightily, sat down, and took a shiny blue-steel automatic from his pocket. He didn’t point it at anyone, but it was obvious that when the time came only the smallest twist of the wrist was going to be necessary.

“I arrested those others,” he grumbled, “so there’d be no more attempts at murder, and now you spring this! You want to sit there and show off. Well, talk, dammit! But if anyone in this room makes one single funny motion, something sudden and unpleasant is going to happen!”

Merlini, seated in the center of the large davenport, leaned back, his long legs outstretched. He appeared as calm and unwary as a well-fed sleeping cat. Yet he was about to raise the curtain on some subtle feat of mental hocus-pocus, some “now you see it — now you don’t” display of cerebral sleight-of-hand.

“Before anything unpleasant does happen,” he suggested quietly, “drinks all around might lessen the tension in this room. I’ll have straight Italian vermouth, Burt. I’m going to need it before this is over. Miss Verrill?”

The Doctor had an arm around her shoulder. She pressed his hand once, then moved to a chair, and sat down. “I’ll — Scotch please and — and not too much soda.”

“Doctor?”

“Nothing, thanks. I want to hear this solution. I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

“Inspector?”

“Merlini, for the last time, if you don’t—”

“All right. Stop nagging at me. I never saw a less receptive audience. However — suppose we begin at the beginning.” He looked lazily at the ceiling. “The difficulty in this case has arisen largely because our criminal committed — er — his or her — there’s that pronoun difficulty again. Inspector, may I, for the sake of brevity, use the masculine without your initiating any of those unpleasant actions?”

Gavigan grunted faintly, eyed Burt, who was busy at the liquor cabinet, and said, “I’ll have Scotch, straight.”

“Our criminal then,” Merlini continued, “committed his murders while surrounded, nearly swamped, in fact, by criminals and potential criminals, and against a background of smooth, expert; dirty work. These people, in order to avoid their own detection, found it necessary to cover up after him. It’s a device to remember. Though it does have its dangers.”

He nodded his thanks as Burt passed him his drink, held it in his hand, looked at it speculatively a moment, and went on.

“The situation was this: Floyd and Arnold both hated Linda with understandable fervor because, as Arnold said, she was hell on wheels to live with and because she had a tight hold on what they considered their rightful share of the Skelton fortune. And Linda, with a disproportionate number of left-handed kinks under her hat, rubbed that fact in. She even went so far as to wave a will in their faces which, except for the trifling technical bequest of one dollar each, made no mention of either of them. She taunted them with the fact that she had willed the Skelton millions to — Miss Sigrid Verrill.”

Sigrid’s glass dropped from her fingers, and the liquid splashed out across the carpet. Dr. Gail was motionless.

“Mix her another, Burt,” Merlini said and, without pause, went quickly on. “Arnold, as you know, with yet another, even stronger motive, planned eventually to kill her. While Floyd, unable to suffer lack of funds, planned to get some of his own back. He had invested what little patrimony he had in treasure hunts that never panned out. He decided that Linda should play angel for the next, with himself on the receiving end. I can imagine he thought about that for a long time before he stumbled on a practical method of selling her such a bill of goods. But he found it — Madame Eva Rappourt.

“He met her when they were both taken to the cleaners by the Caribbean Salvage Corporation, a concern that could stand — or perhaps might not stand investigation. You should look into it, Inspector. If it was a phony, I’m beginning to suspect that Ira Brooke might just possibly have had a finger in the pie.

“Floyd realized that, if there was one sure-fire method of swindling Linda, it was by the spirit-message route. He didn’t know whether Rappourt could be ‘had,’ but he worked on the almost-axiomatic assumption that, crossing a medium’s palm with a good-sized cut of $8,000,000 will buy just about any spirit phenomena one could desire. He didn’t tell her he was after the salvage money, you notice. He told her his Hussar story — and she fell for it, as she’d fallen for the Caribbean Salvage Corporation. Anyone can be fooled at the other man’s game. Lamb, the ex-head of a million-dollar criminal combine, was hooked on a confidence game — and is that going to burn him up when he realizes it! I knew a world-famous magician — you’d recognize the name at once — who earned a respectable fortune fooling people and promptly sank it all in a nearly nonexistent gold mine. ‘Old Smoke’ Morrisey, perhaps the most important figure in the history of American gambling, made himself $1,500,000 in 20 years of skinning-house and casino operation, and then lost most of it in Wall Street. Even the slicker can be a sucker. Rappourt had fooled a lot of learned investigating committees in dark rooms, but—”

Irritably Gavigan cut-in.

“Do you have to document your argument so damn thoroughly?”

Merlini, twisting his glass in his fingers and gazing into the liquid as into a crystal ball, continued imperturbably, “Rappourt fell for his story though she did bounce a bit. She’d just dropped $75,000 and she figured that this time she might as well hold out an ace or two. That bright and shining $8,000,000 might be there in the river as Floyd asserted, but she was going to see that the salvage money was not expended in any vain attempt to get it. Floyd was double-crossing her and, quite independently, she laid plans to double-cross him! She brought in Glass Eye George to play the part of Ira Brooke, submarine expert and inventor, suggest a lot of fancy reasons why at least $200,000 would be needed to salvage the treasure, and help her produce spirit phenomena. But Floyd didn’t know that. Floyd thought he was a bona-fide expert and congratulated himself because his Hussar changed-location theory got by so nicely. Of course, he didn’t object if the salvage ante was raised; that was okay with him, since that’s what he was really after. Floyd, the amateur swindler, placed his con-game in the hands of a couple of experts — though not the sort he thought!”

Gavigan said, “It sounds good, but how have you managed to read Floyd’s mind after death? You been getting spirit messages, too?”

“Yes, I have. I’ll produce a few shortly, genuine ones, that will corroborate everything I’ve said. But I’ll have you know that I deduced those facts, too, believe it or not. It wasn’t too difficult. Counterfeit coins and stolen relics obviously indicated a swindle and made it only too apparent that Floyd himself never really believed his Hussar theory. If he really thought he had located the genuine article, he’d never have jeopardized a possible $8,000,000 haul by introducing faked evidence. That could only mean he was after the salvage money itself. Also, if he knew that Ira was a phony expert he’d certainly never have even considered making a dangerous 110-foot dive with that gentleman as his topside assistant. Thus, since he thought Ira the real thing, it meant that he must be planning to blow with the salvage money, double-crossing Rappourt and Ira; and, conversely, his unawareness of Ira’s faked status meant that Rappourt and Brooke must be crossing him up.

“But didn’t we decide,” Gavigan objected, “that the murderer would never have thought of his fake-diving-chart murder method unless he knew Ira was not what he pretended to be? If Rappourt and Brooke kept that fact even from Floyd, who the hell else—? Was Watrous in on the con-game too?”

“No. The Colonel was no swindler. We did decide the murderer must have known Ira was a fake; the murderer did know; and once you tumble to how he knew you’ve solved the case. Think about it.”

Without having tasted it, Merlini leaned forward and placed his drink on the floor between his feet. He took a cigarette from his pocket. Burt, standing quietly beside my chair, tossed him a paper of matches. When the cigarette was glowing, Merlini went on.

“Then Mr. Charles Lamb appeared on the scene, and the plot thickened. He came out here with his two guns, looking for an island to settle on because he had a persecution complex that sprang, not like Linda’s neurosis, from an imaginary fear, but from a very real one. Lamb was a thorn in my deductions throughout. I realized that his aversion for the police, indicated by his cutting the phone, scuttling the boats, and blackjacking the Colonel, meant that he had something to hide. But until you got the goods on him I didn’t know that he was scared pink that some day Mike the Weasel or Gatling Gun Joe, or whatever their names are, would catch up with him. He wanted to have a good open view of all the approaches. A nice quiet retreat with a moat around it. I rather think, if Dr. Gail will permit me to enter the diagnostic field for a moment, that that was also the reason for those little pink pills of his. He had, for business purposes, acted the part of a stony-faced, ruthless killer and his emotions, securely bottled up for so long, simply played merry hell with his digestive system.… Do you realize that this case might well be titled The Great Pirate Murder Mystery? It began with the notorious Captain Skelton, and it ends with the just-as-notorious Captain Lamb, First Mate Rappourt, and Second Mate Brooke — pirates all, modern versions. The conspirators didn’t know about Lamb’s reputation. I thought they looked unnaturally pale around the gills tonight when you told them, Inspector. They thought he was a hard-headed business man, a retired broker. And they weren’t too sure, at first, that their spirit hocus-pocus would go down. But he wasn’t a broker and he was a not-particularly-cultivated Corsican, and superstitious. The séance phenomena impressed him — with what he had on his conscience, I’m surprised it didn’t scare the living daylights out of him! Anyway, Floyd, Rappourt, and Brooke decided that he was just another lamb ready for the shearing — sorry — that crept up on me.

“But, at the last when it was too late, when they got down to the subject of cold cash, his business sense flashed a red light. He wanted to send down a disinterested diver — not Floyd, as was immediately suggested — for a preliminary survey. He wanted some really tangible evidence. Linda, seeing his hesitation, held out, too.

“Something had to be done at once. They did it. They stalled him off until they could plant some evidence. They stole the Hussar relics and placed an order for the counterfeit guineas. They were so close to $200,000 that their mouths watered; and, if Ira’s pretty-looking blueprints and his model suction salvage apparatus weren’t enough in the way of confidence-game props, they’d supply what was.

“And now — because of a certain motive which will be discussed shortly — the murderer went into action.

“He knew that Ira was a fake expert, and he knew that Floyd was going to dive and salt the site of the wreck. He typed the diving chart. The method wasn’t sure fire, of course. Either Floyd or Ira might possibly suspect the chart — but he took that chance rather than resort to any first-hand and possibly bloody murder method; He couldn’t bring himself to that. Even if the chart was noticed, Floyd could only suspect Brooke or Rappourt — which would be all right, too. One of his motives was to smash the con-game. If the conspirators quarreled — that was fine. He might not even have to murder.

“While, if it did work — as it did — Brooke would find himself in a spot. That would be another monkey wrench in the swindle machinery — Brooke, fearing exposure, because of Floyd’s death while diving, could be expected to take it on the lam. But, as it happens, Brooke doesn’t scare easily. He is a professional and knows his job. He promptly put his customary con-man’s ingenuity to work. Floyd had gone in to New York, before diving, to get the relics from Ira’s room and to make it appear he wasn’t on the island. He went in again, afterward, in order to shuck the heavy underwear necessary for diving at that depth and to return legitimately via the water taxi. But when he failed to come back, Ira began to worry and sneaked in to check up. He found Floyd dead in the hotel room. That wouldn’t do at all. He had to think fast. He moved the body, took some very clever and direct steps to prevent any immediate identification, and then, later, some others to prevent any suspicion that Floyd, though missing, wasn’t in perfectly good health. He wrote the letter, and posted it by what we might call the boomerang method.”

Merlini crushed his cigarette in an ash tray. Sigrid and Gail were listening intently. Gavigan watched them, but he paid attention. I got up and added ice to my drink. Burt, following me, poured himself another brandy.

“Do you remember what that letter said?” Merlini asked. “ ‘Kick in before I get back, or else.’ Brooke and Rappourt were, in the face of imminent disaster, making a last stand, trying to push the con-game to its pay-off before the dead Floyd could appear to embarrass them. They were playing for time until Lamb had completed his independent diving survey and been convinced by the relics Floyd had planted. The guineas would have been there, too, except that Lamb, having rushed matters, had made Floyd’s dive necessary before the counterfeiter had delivered them.

“Brooke and Rappourt, you might note, are at this point eliminated as suspects in Linda’s murder — they’d hardly kill one of the geese that were about to lay the golden eggs. They’re innocent on another count, also. Had they intended to murder Linda later, they’d have taken more care with the letter-mailing details. They never expected an official investigation or they’d have not used the typewriter they did, or left the faintest smudge of a fingerprint on the notepaper, or planted it on a train that took such a roundabout route to Chicago. They could hardly have expected to cover up Floyd’s death successfully. They’d have known that a missing person—”

“Skip it,” Gavigan said. “I’m damned if I’ll listen to all the hair-splitting logic that proves innocence in Linda’s death when Rappourt was the intended victim.”

“As you say, Inspector. And we’ll skip the logic that proves Rappourt and Brooke were innocent in plotting Rappourt’s death. It should be obvious—” Merlini’s eyes twinkled impishly—“though there are one or two other things I should have thought were obvious, too. Perhaps I had better—”

“Go ahead, gloat! But if you don’t get to the point soon, I’m going to arrest you as an accessory after the fact. Why are you so damned sure there’s only one murderer? Why couldn’t there be two — one for Floyd and one for Rappourt?” Gavigan eyed Sigrid and Gail almost hungrily.

“No,” Merlini protested. “Not two. I won’t have it. That would give us one potential murderer and three actual ones out of only seven suspects. The percentage is absurd. Not only that, but the essential similarity of means — two finicky long-range murder methods: the poison and the typewriter — is indicative of one and the same person.

“Floyd’s murder was nearly perfect. All the murderer did was type a few words on a sheet of paper and tack it up at the houseboat. The only really solid deduction we can draw from the whole business is that the murderer knew Ira was a phony. As for the first attempt on Rappourt, the murderer simply substituted cyanide for the contents of the top capsule in the vial. Another small action much easier than the bloody businesses of shooting and head bashing.

“Then Rappourt perversely gave the capsule to Linda. The first crime was brilliant; the second a miserable piece of amateur bungling. And yet, in spite of it — the murderer’s luck held — he was still as safe as houses. Rappourt didn’t know the finger had been put on her, and there was no motive the murderer could possibly be suspected of having for Linda’s murder. But one thing bothered him. When he discovered how his plan had misfired, he didn’t know when Linda had died nor whether he had an alibi. That worried him enough so that he cooked up his first piece of misdirection — the fire. The fire, the evidence of the murderer who knew too much, and the bullet that traveled in a curve. Those three things separately and together solve the case and name the culprit.”

Merlini leaned forward and picked his glass from the floor. “When we found that no one had the slightest opportunity to set the fire, I thought it looked suspiciously like a manufactured alibi, an act for the special benefit of Ross and myself. Now, if that was true, it indicated someone who knew we’d be where we were when we were, someone who knew we were coming to the island last night—”

“Both Miss Verrill and Dr. Gail—” Gavigan began.

“Yes. Also Arnold. But, if you remember, I hadn’t told Sigrid we would land at the haunted house. She and those other two expected me at the séance. That was all they knew. But the murderer—” Merlini stopped exasperatingly and raised his glass to his lips at last, as if to drink. I knew then that he was playing catlike with the murderer, tantalizing, taunting him, pretending to drink and hoping — for what?

Suddenly I pulled myself from my chair and took a long running jump — plunging toward him! The man was mad. He actually was drinking! I swung and smashed at the glass with my fists. It flew from his hand and splintered on the floor. The tension in the room snapped with the tinkling glass — and then was taut again!

“Ross Harte!” Gavigan thundered. “Put your hands up!”

The ugly black hole of his gun was aimed full at me.

But I turned and pointed.

“Burt!” I said, breathing hard, “He knew we were coming to the haunted house! He knew Ira was a phony. He, if anyone, could shinny down a tree in two seconds!”

Gavigan wheeled on him, his jaw loose. “Ross,” he said thickly, “I hope to hell you’re wrong because if there was cyanide in that glass, Merlini hasn’t the ghost of a chance!”

On the davenport, Merlini suddenly doubled up with laughter!

“Inspector,” he said, between spasms. “Please put that gun away. Burt hasn’t killed anyone. And, to prevent any ill-considered shooting, I’d better tell you that Miss Verrill is also innocent. Likewise Dr. Gail. The Hendersons are innocent. And I didn’t do it — honest injun, cross my heart. Rappourt, Brooke, Arnold, Lamb, Svoboda, Malloy, Grimm, Brady, Muller, Leach, Quinn, Carter, Hunter, Mr. Novak, Dr. Hesse — they’re all guiltless. And yourself, Inspector. You didn’t do it. Did I miss anyone?”

Burt said, “I’ll get you for this, Ross Harte.” He quickly poured himself another drink.

“Yes,” I said glumly. “You missed Colonel Watrous.”

“Well,” Merlini replied, suddenly quiet, “I couldn’t very well include him, could I?”

For a moment I simply looked at him. Then I went after another drink, a tall undiluted one.

Gavigan said, “Watrous! So that’s why Grimm saw no one come up on to the sun deck. The Colonel simply leaned out his window, socked Grimm, and then fired at Rappourt from the sun deck! But the second shot — no, wait, you’re making that bullet curve even more!”

“No.” Merlini shook his head. “It wasn’t the bullet that curved, it was the misdirection. Watrous fired once and immediately threw the gun over the rail. It exploded when it landed. He threw it into the light from the French windows so we’d be sure to see him pick it up. He then moved his window noisily, shouted ‘There he goes!’, ran down, retrieved the gun, and fired into the woods. You yourself wondered why he was so foolhardy about that. And I wondered why he had to stand smack in the light to fire his shots. He did that so we could see what he was doing and where he was shooting — the misdirection. He didn’t think there was anyone out there to fire back at him! His tree story was full of holes because it was imaginary. At the last, his device of committing his crimes among a cast of criminals, literally backfired when Lamb, making his escape, thought he’d been discovered and fired back.”

“Yeah,” Gavigan said disgustedly. “You’ve been laboring the point that this murderer wasn’t the type to bash in people’s heads or shoot them. Long-distance methods-poison and a typewriter! Bah! Who’s guilty of misdirection now?”

“He ran amok, Inspector; and I’m afraid I’ll have to admit driving him to it and underestimating his resourcefulness. That was a grave error. He was listening at his detector, as I knew he would, to our questioning of Rappourt. I’d hoped that he had a dose of cyanide left, and would use it. He—”

Gavigan broke in. His voice was deadly serious. “Merlini, you read too many detective stories. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, so help me, I’ll book you for it. You might be interested to know that Section 2304 of the Penal Law of the State of New York reads: ‘A person who willfully in any manner, advises, encourages, abets, or assists another person in taking the latter’s life, is guilty of manslaughter in the first degree.”

Merlini blinked at him. “Anyway it didn’t come off. Watrous either had no cyanide left or else discovered he could screw himself up to knocking out Grimm and shooting at Rappourt sooner than he could face suicide.”

“Ignorance,” Gavigan said, “is no excuse. And Section 2305 says that an attempt at abetting and advising suicide is a felony. Not only that, dammit, but his shooting at Rappourt and his knocking out Grimm make you an accessory before the fact to attempted homicide and assault!”

“I’m sorry,” Merlini said contritely. “But I did place guards at both window and door, you know.”

“So that’s it!” I exclaimed, ringing the bell with more success this time. “That’s how he knew Ira was a phony and Floyd was going to dive! He heard the plotters with his little eavesdropping machine.”

“Yes. The murderer who knew too much. The fact that those shots came at such a precisely opportune moment should have reminded you that, of all our suspects, only Watrous was close enough and he alone had the means to overhear what was taking place in that closely guarded room. But for that detector there might have been no murders at all! Watrous might not have discovered until too late that he even had a motive for killing Rappourt and Floyd!”

Merlini went to the library door, reached inside and came back, carrying the Colonel’s voice detector. He placed it on the table and lifted the lid.

“I investigated Watrous’s room while you were chasing after Lamb.” He held up several phonograph records. “I found these under the paper linings of his dresser drawers. I didn’t expect so much. It had never occurred to me that he wouldn’t have destroyed the records of the conversations he overheard. Knowing that, I’d not have scheduled the Rappourt inquisition scene at all. All the evidence we need is right here. You’ll hear Floyd himself speaking from beyond the grave — a real spirit message this time — discussing with Rappourt the details I’ve just giver you of the swindle; and you’ll hear Brooke and Rappourt planning to double-cross Floyd.” Merlini placed one of the records on the turntable.

Gavigan asked, “Did you say one of his motives was to smash the con-game?”

“Yes. He was innocently enmeshed in it. They were playing him for a sucker. Rappourt was using him as her front, and after the pay-off, when no one would ever believe he hadn’t had his cut — he’d be the goat. He didn’t like that at all. That was Rappourt’s big mistake.”

“But why, with this record evidence, if it’s what you say, didn’t Watrous simply out with it to Linda or Lamb? He didn’t need to murder Rappourt and Floyd.”

“It wasn’t as simple as that. Rappourt, on these disks, admits she’s a fraud. And Watrous had, at all costs, to smash the con-game without letting that cat out. The very last thing he wanted was to have Rappourt exposed. He killed her to prevent it. Dead, her reputation as a medium and his as a psychical authority were safe.”

“But he asked you to try and catch her out.”

“I know. That was a false note right from the beginning. You and Harte both commented on it, and wouldn’t believe it at first. You were right. He never intended that I’d get a chance to expose her. He’d intended that she would die at the start of the séance, before Ross and I got into it.”

“And he asked you out to witness his murder? I won’t believe it. Why would he want you smack on the scene when she kicked in?”

“He didn’t. That’s why he came after me. He couldn’t help himself. Sigrid and Arnold had decided to call me in. Remember where that conversation of theirs took place? In Rappourt’s room when they searched it. Watrous overheard and realized at once that I’d jump at the invitation. The man who knew too much again. That set him back on his heels, hard. He had just put the poison in Rappourt’s capsules — during the night while she slept. And then he discovers that I’ll be at the séance. He can’t call off the murder, even if he could get the capsule back, because then I might expose Rappourt. Watrous, who has never been able to catch her out before himself, now that, he knows she’s a fraud, is afraid of exposure at every turn. He can’t dissuade Sigrid and Arnold, since they naturally think he’s in league with Rappourt. Rappourt must die before I arrive. Can he, at the last moment when Sigrid has no time to warn me, get Rappourt to move the séance ahead? No. It’s already scheduled for just after dark, and she can’t stage her footprints on the ceiling in daylight. Persuading her to skip the séance entirely, is no good either — it would only delay the bitter ending and solve nothing.

“Since my presence is unavoidable, all he can do is try to sidetrack me, reach me before Sigrid does, and get me to agree to meet him at the haunted house so he can control my movements, holding me there until the séance has started and Rappourt is a goner. Sigrid wanted to force my presence on Rappourt. So, to insure my accepting his invitation in preference to hers, he simply offered a better plan — one that might be more productive of results, Rappourt being unaware of my presence. He was clever. His plan not only kept me from the séance until the danger point was passed, but it even put Watrous himself in my company at the time Rappourt was to die. And a damned likely case could be made out for suicide or an overdose because, though she actually took only sugar, she had gone on record as admitting that she dosed herself with poisons before her trances — a fact that Watrous knew better than anyone else, since it was in his own book we found the information! He’d have tucked in the one remaining loose end by using scopolamine rather than cyanide if he hadn’t been rushed. By some strange omission, scopolamine appears to be a poison photographers haven’t yet found a use for!”

I was remembering right there that the infra-red photographic directions Watrous had passed on to me through Merlini. convicted him of knowing enough about photography to have expected to find poisons in Arnold’s darkroom.

“And even though cyanide would be found at Rappourt’s autopsy,” Merlini continued, “just as long as no one could prove, beyond the shadow of a reasonable doubt, that Rappourt was a fraudulent medium, Watrous wouldn’t appear to have a motive for poisoning the woman he hailed as spiritualism’s A-No. 1 exhibit. Look at his position. He hears his prize psychic exhibit admit fraud, admit she’s engineering a con-game — one in which he’s the catspaw. If he says nothing, Rappourt’s disappearance with the swag eventually spills the psychic beans. Watrous’s cherished reputation, the income from his psychic writings, the projected plans for his psychic laboratories all go up in smoke. He’s a laughingstock, the last thing that dandified, pompous little man could have stood. And if the con-game fails, if he does tell Linda or Lamb, or even if he tips off Floyd about the double-cross — expose again! He was between the devil and the deep blue sea, both of them closing in on him fast. Listen to this.” Merlini started the turntable and lowered the sound arm into position near the end of the record.

I heard again the rumbling and, above it, Rappourt’s voice: “I know a man who can duplicate those Hussar relics and supply us with some fake guineas dated 1779 that will get by Lamb. You’ve dived. You can—”

Then a new voice broke in, a smooth oily high-pitched voice — Floyd’s: “Ira wouldn’t fall for it. That’s right up his alley.”

Rappourt: “But he’s so damned anxious to get that salvage apparatus constructed and tested out that I doubt if he’ll stick at a little, justifiable hocus-pocus. Especially since he’s convinced the Hussar is there.”

Floyd: “All right. Put it up to him. Only your suggestion that I merely fake the dive, going down a short way and then bringing the stuff up, won’t do. Lamb’s insisting that he send his own diver.”

Rappourt: “That’s even better. If his own diver brings up positive proof—”

Floyd: “That should cinch it. Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll have to. We’ve got to convince them properly. These séances are getting too risky, anyway. I even think Colonel Fuss-budget is beginning to smell mice. You know, if he ever tumbles to the fact that you’re not on the level.… ”

Rappourt (laughing): “If I can’t fool Watrous, I’ll quit. Besides, we can’t ditch him now. He’s my front. But don’t worry. After that last book of his, he wouldn’t dare expose me — he’d be the laughingstock of two continents. Anyway, if he ever did, I’ve got the perfect stopper. I’d simply top his story with a better. I’d sell my confessions to Hearst, admit all, and accuse him of aiding me.”

Floyd: “You don’t miss much, do you? If I ever find you murdered, I think I’ll know who did it. If he ever tumbled to that—”

Merlini lifted the sound arm. “Which explains why Floyd had to die, too. Or partly. The rest consists in the fact that Watrous held Floyd responsible for Rappourt’s fall from grace. I think, even at the last, he still thought her previous phenomena genuine. He couldn’t believe he had been fooled so thoroughly. Watrous’s motives were revenge and self-defense. It’s a toss-up which was the stronger; together they were irresistible.”

I said, “No wonder he was so anxious for us not to tip Rappourt off that he was suspicious of her. It’s a wonder that didn’t gray his hair.”

“Yes,” Gavigan admitted. “It fits. Watrous was the second ‘vampire’ Svoboda heard come into the room where the body was. The Colonel went to his room at 9:10 and he didn’t meet you until 9:40. He left his room when he saw a light in the haunted house, just as he said, only it was Arnold’s light when he was putting the body there, not Svoboda’s light just before you arrived. He discovered the body, fixed his lighter and thread, and then, when he heard you coming, he retreated back up the path toward the house so you would see him apparently coming from it.”

“And Watrous was the only person within pulling distance of that thread — except possibly Mr. X. The fire was misdirection on the same principle as the business with Grimm’s gun. He was trying to make it appear that someone was busily setting fires and shooting people when he himself was in plain sight, and obviously doing no such thing. Mr. X was eliminated as the string puller because, as an intentional alibi on his part, the fire was nearly worthless; whereas, for Watrous, it was perfect. But he was moving on thin ice when he accused Floyd of having hooked his lighter. We nearly had him then. He’d overheard Brooke report back to Rappourt the clever steps he’d taken to prevent Floyd’s identification, and he thought that diverting suspicion from himself to Floyd was a safe bet. Later when Floyd was found dead, I realized that Watrous had known it before we did!”

“But how did he pull the thread right before your noses without your seeing him? That was a bit of conjuring you didn’t spot at the time, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know I was watching a trick, not until later when I’d proved that no one but Watrous could have pulled the thread. He had used another common conjuring principle — disguised the action that works the trick as an unsuspicious natural one having some other and quite innocent purpose. Remember the ladder-back chair standing just before the living-room window, the one directly above the cellar window? I didn’t say that the person who had pulled the string was outside the house, only that the string led outside. The string must have led to someone near enough to pull it. Watrous, Harte, myself, and possibly Mr. X, whom I later eliminated, were the only candidates. Remembering that the Colonel, as soon as he entered, had pulled the chair out into the room away from the window, I knew at once that the thread must have been tied to it.”

Merlini got up, walked over to the liquor cabinet, and finally had his glass of vermouth. “The footprints on the ceiling,” he said as he finished it, “had no actual connection with the murders themselves, and yet they were very appropriate symbols of the misdirection Watrous used. Misdirection is nothing more than psychology turned upside down and inside out. The Principles of Deception — whether used by murderer, magician, or mystery-story writer — are only the orthodox, textbook psychological Laws of Attention, Observation, and Thought working in reverse. Gentlemen, the prosecution rests.”

And on the end of that sentence, the front door flew open and slammed against the wall with a crash that shook the house. All hell broke loose, blew into the living-room and headed straight for me. The man was a boiling, sputtering maniac with sudden death in his eye.

“Ross Harte!” he screamed. “What the thundering, infernal, blasted, pestilential, smoking hinges of everlasting hell do you mean by running out on me? We open the day after tomorrow! The scene-painters union is on strike! The costumes aren’t ready! That erotomaniac leading man has a shiner where the danseuse popped him one defending her honor! The publicity department is a complete shambles because they broke our biggest news release today and it was swamped by these two-penny, insignificant, piddling murders you’re mixed up in! Then I have to chase you! Stop standing there like an addlewitted loon. Get your hat!”

The Inspector, not having sidestepped far enough, almost got a poke in the eye from the frantic arm-waving that accompanied this volcanic eruption.

“Ross,” he demanded, “who is this dithering lunatic?”

“And,” the director of Love Over Broadway wanted to know, “who the splitting hell are you? If you’re the infidel son of a spavined camel that seduced Harte into—”

Right there I saved the show. I knew all his other troubles could be fixed. They were just the usual ones. But with the director gibbering behind bars, I wasn’t so sure we would open. I yanked at him as I would at a live bomb and rushed him out of the house, out from under the awful stare of the majesty of the law. Gavigan was not in a lenient mood.

Love Over Broadway opened on time, and it ticked like a clock. I managed to stay on deck until the morning papers arrived with the first reviews.

The whirlwind brought them to my room, singing all down the corridor, “God bless Atkinson! God bless Watts! God bless Walter Winchell!”

I reached for the phone, called Room Service, and said, “Two strait-jackets, please. At once!” Then I went to bed. Two days later I was sitting up and tackling a solid diet again. Merlini came in just after I’d finished my luncheon tray, refused to take no for an answer, and shanghaied me. He pushed me into a taxi and ordered, “The D.A.’s office.”

On the way, he brought me up to date. Lamb had been extradited to Chicago and had hired a standing army of lawyers. Ira and Rappourt, had been indicted for trial. Arnold, after a night in the cooler, had been released with a lecture by the Police Commissioner on the subject of falsifying evidence and moving bodies without an official permit. And Merlini had managed to get Mr. Sandor X. Svoboda out on bail so that the circus could go on.

Then I told him something. “Anyway,” I said, “there’s one thing about this case that I did figure out on my own.”

“What?”

“The answer to that wine and water puzzle you had the nerve to propound when I was suffering from concussion. I gave it some thought while I was recuperating. There’s exactly the same amount of water in the wine glass as wine in the water glass. And don’t try to argue.”[1]

He didn’t. At that point, we arrived at our destination; and I managed to evade the issue. The D.A. stopped just short of kissing Merlini on both cheeks, made him an honorary member of the homicide squad, and announced that Gavigan had been promoted to Assistant Chief Inspector. Merlini festively poured drinks as called for — Scotch and soda, sidecars, old-fashioneds, beer with a collar on it, and a few drinks that no one wanted — tomato juice, india ink, pink lemonade, and a Bromo Seltzer — all from the D.A.’s water carafes!

Leaving the D.A.’s office, we went up Centre Street to headquarters and dropped in on Gavigan.

His voice was gruff, but it had the old chuckle in it. “Hawkshaw,” he said, “why is it you always fall into such screwy upside-down cases? Do you realize this one has made Homicide Bureau history? The case is closed, and yet, instead of having arrested the murderer, we arrested everybody else, or damn near it. All except Gail and Verrill, and I came close to that. Ross and Burt didn’t miss by much, and you’ll never know how close I came to putting leg irons on you.”

“Leg irons, Inspector?” Merlini moved one Satanic eyebrow up. “You should see Item No. 126 in my catalogue. The Little Gem Improved Handcuff and Leg-iron Escape Method—$1.00 postpaid. Tell me something. Do cops carry their guns to the Policeman’s Benefit Ball?”

“Do they—” Gavigan was startled. “No. Why?”

“Good,” Merlini said, “I’m relieved. The D.A. asked me to present the bullet-catching trick, and I was just a bit worried about having an armed audience. A magician did that once, out West in the gold rush days, before a crowded house of cowboys and miners. He’d finished the trick successfully, caught, the bullet in his teeth, and was taking his bow when a bushy-bearded and baffled desperado in the balcony jumped to, his feet, drew both six shooters, and yelled, Here, dammit! Catch these!’ ”

Chief Inspector Gavigan laughed and said, “Here’s my chance to arrest both you and the D.A. Paragraph 2 of Section 831 of the Penal Law distinctly states that any exhibition in which a person aims or discharges any bowgun, pistol, or firearm of any description whatever, or allows one to be aimed or discharged at or toward any human being, is unlawful and those persons are guilty of a misdemeanor.”

“Killjoy,” Merlini said as Gavigan turned, grinning widely, to answer the phone.

The Inspector listened a moment, grew an expression of astonishment, and then burst out laughing.

“The police force is batting 1000 percent,” he said. “It’s Doc Gail. He and Miss Verrill were in such an all-fired hurry to reach the marriage license bureau that they went through four stop lights and down a one-way street. They’ve been booked for reckless driving and would I please come to the rescue!”