“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 ad
ded, 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.
Chapter Eight:
S O S
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.…
Footprints on the Ceiling Page 7
