“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 th
e 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 suit
case 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.”
Footprints on the Ceiling Page 20
