Footprints on the Ceiling

by Clayton Rawson

  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-Engli
sh 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 caps
ule. 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?”

  Chapter Sixteen:

  THE MAN WITH THE BENDS

  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.