“Why did you separate?”
“I left him. The man wasn’t—wasn’t sane.”
“You knew that he had taken out an insurance policy with you as the beneficiary? For $75,000?”
“Yes…but…” She wasn’t so still now; she looked at the Inspector, as if startled. “But he would have changed that.”
“No, he didn’t. And it would be nice if you could prove you didn’t know that. Perhaps now you’ve something more to say about that prediction of yours last night. Have you?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I’ll admit that was not psychic. I had been told that Sabbat was very precise about appointments. There was the milk bottle that hadn’t been taken in, and the room inside was so very still, I felt that something was wrong; and—I shouldn’t have but I did—I took a chance and said that there was death in that room. When we found that the keyholes were stuffed up, I was sure of it, but I didn’t—I never knew I’d find Josef there.”
The Inspector, I gathered, wasn’t quite sure whether he believed that one or not. “So, just a play for publicity. Nothing lost if you missed; everything gained if you were right, and the Colonel would see to it that the reporters were informed.”
“Yes. But when we went into that room and I saw Josef…”
“Yes, I know, you fainted. But what about that second faint? Wasn’t it to prevent Merlini questioning you? Wasn’t it?” Gavigan stood over her and thundered down. She twisted her hands and started to nod, when Watrous, who could contain himself no longer, blurted:
“Don’t pay any attention to his filthy accusations, Eva. You couldn’t have killed Tarot. You were at the séance.”
The Inspector, his eye warning Grimm to stay clear, pounced on Watrous. “So she was at the séance, was she? Maybe you can prove that? She was out of your sight for two hours. You’ve admitted that.”
“But I told you how we tied and fastened her. There can’t be any doubt as to where she was.”
“No? And suppose I explain to you with diagrams how she could have wriggled out of all those fancy Boy Scout knots and later returned, leaving no traces?”
Watrous blew up completely. He bounced to his feet and yelled, “It’s impossible, I tell you! Merlini, you’re responsible for this. You’ve primed him with one of your fake conjuring explanations. I’ll show you, all of you. She’ll repeat it and I defy any of you…you magicians to explain…”
Merlini said, “Or better yet, Colonel, suppose you tie me—or Duvallo, for that matter—the same way you tied her. And let us try getting out.”
This challenge seemed to set him back a bit. “Yes, of course, I’ll do that; but you can’t…you couldn’t…” There seemed to be a hint of uncertainty in his voice, of suspicion, as Gavigan broke in.
“Suppose,” he said, and his tone was a red flag, waving. “Suppose I should admit all you say. Suppose you tie Merlini and he can’t get out. Do you know what that leaves me, Watrous?”
The Colonel said nothing, but there was apprehension in his bloodshot eyes, and his pink tongue licked once across his lips.
“It leaves yourself! You could have left that séance even more easily than Rappourt, and don’t waste our time denying it. The room was in total darkness, and the sitters had their attention focused on the cabinet. You could have come over here when you were supposed to be walking circles around Union Square last night. You could have left the light on in your rooms to make the detective think you were still there. After killing Tarot, you could have gone back and let the elevator operator see you for an alibi. You could have killed them both!”
Gavigan laid it on rather thick, and he didn’t say anything about snow. The accusation, hammering at Watrous, seemed to act like cold water. His apoplectic symptoms vanished, and he gained control of himself. He was suddenly calm, icy.
With what, for him, was abnormal steadiness, he said, “You’re a bloody ass, Inspector. I never saw Tarot before in my life. And you’ll have to show more than opportunity—some sort of motive before you present that case to the State’s Attorney.”
“All right. How’s this? You knew that Rappourt would get $75,000 when Sabbat died, and, being a smart man, you could steer a course from there. As for Tarot…you had to kill him. He’d found you out.”
Watrous fixed his pince-nez more firmly on his nose and his hand shook, but his voice was hard. “You can’t prove any of that. I want to phone the British Consul, at once.”
“Is that all you have to say in your defense?”
“At the moment, yes. Where’s the phone, please?”
Gavigan glared at him with an angry frustrated scowl. “In there,” he said, indicating the study. Watrous went out, Grimm hooked on behind like a trailer.
Gavigan hesitated briefly, then addressed Judy. “Have you remembered where you lost that handkerchief of yours yet, Miss Barclay?”
Her vice was nonchalant, but the blue eyes wavered. “I’ve told you I lost it weeks ago. I haven’t the slightest idea where.”
Duvallo looked from Judy to Gavigan, suspicious and alert.
A new voice broke in—Zelma’s. “Is the handkerchief maroon with large polka dots?”
We all looked at her. Gavigan said, “Yes, what do you know about it?”
“I can guess where you found it. I left it there. Judy and I had lunch together uptown a couple of weeks ago. She dropped it, and I picked it up after she had gone, intending to return it; but I lost it myself, at Cesare’s, the last time I saw him.”
Something like relief sprang alive in Judy’s eyes. “Thanks, Zelma,” she said. “She’s right, Inspector. I do remember, that must have been the day.”
The Inspector’s batting average was low this afternoon. Every line of inquiry was beset with snags. He pulled at his mustache, eyeing Judy with indecision. And then Merlini stepped forward from the shadows and spoke quickly.
“Inspector, your case against Watrous sounds pretty complete.”
Oh, oh, I thought, the Great Merlini is up to something. That didn’t sound right at all, not after the arguments he’d given us before.
“But,” he continued, “I’m not thoroughly satisfied. I’d like to try something else, a little experiment that may show whether you’re right or not.”
The Inspector hesitated a moment, then stepped back and sat down. “Go ahead,” he said. “The floor’s yours.”
“Thanks, but there’s one thing more before you commit yourself. I must have your word that you will not, under any circumstances, interrupt me. I want ten minutes of absolute freedom minus any assistance from the police department. Without that I can do nothing.”
The latter said, uneasily, “I don’t like that. I small rats.” But then he gave in, nodding, “But go ahead; let’s hear it.”
Gavigan put his trust in Merlini’s smiling face, and forgot that the man was a conjurer, his livelihood consisting in a polite kind of con game whose main principle is the double-cross. In a few minutes he was busily regretting his assent.
Merlini gave a final reflective flip to his half dollar and returned it to his pocket.
“Though it may never have occurred to you,” he said, “I think all of you here can easily appreciate the similarity that exists between crime and conjuring, between the murderer and the magician. It should also be obvious that the underlying technique in both fields of endeavor is—must be—the same, that the basic principles of deception used are identical. And if the murderer of Sabbat and Tarot is, as the Inspector says, among those present, these murders especially can be expected to show very definite symptoms of conjuring.”
Madame Rappourt was glaring at him spitefully, apparently annoyed at being included with the tricksters. If Merlini noticed it, he gave no sign.
“You all know that in every trick, in every effort to present an illusion or false appearance, there is always some tell-tale clue that points straight at the secret. The purpose of misdirection, of course, is to gloss over that danger point, to hide or camouflage it from t
he observer’s notice. If murder is like conjuring, then it too has its weak spots, which the murderer must cover up.”
He paused a moment, put his hands in his pockets and, leaning back against the mantelpiece, went on: “A magician can usually penetrate the secret of a new trick if he sees it twice. Though it may fool him the first time, each succeeding time he views it the odds grow in his favor. He knows what to expect and, from past experience, knows where to look for the chink in the armor. The person who committed these murders is clever, and the weak spot has been concealed very nicely—too well, perhaps. But there’s one chance. An illusion without a watcher is like the tree that falls in the forest where there is no listener; its crash sends out sound waves, but no sound is heard. We are faced with certain impossibilities, some of which must be illusory. And some one of you who have witnessed the various phases of these illusions has witnessed, without knowing or realizing its implications, that weak spot. I want to dig into your minds and get at that evidence. The tell-tale observation may be—I rather think it is—so small, so natural, or so innocent, and apparently so unimportant that you don’t remember it. I want to discover what it is someone has forgotten.”
He waited, and held the rest of us waiting, wondering what the devil he was getting at.
“There exists a way to do that. Hypnosis.”
Gavigan looked startled, and began his regretting.
Merlini went on: “Hypnosis would enable us to dive—like Mr. Beebe in his bathosphere—deep into the subconscious mind and bring to the surface that one essential clue, that missing jigsaw piece which we need to dispel the illusion. The plan has but one drawback. Hypnosis, as you know, requires the consent of the subject. The unwilling subject who doesn’t want to be hypnotised and fights unavailingly is a popular myth. If you will all consent to such an experiment, I’m confident that we can solve these murders and clear away the suspicion that now rests on so many of you. Duvallo, here, is a capable operator, and would, I think, do it for us.” He turned to the latter questioningly.
Duvallo was thoughtful. “Yes. I could, and it’s worth a try. But suppose I’m the person who has forgotten this minor detail you want to get at? I’m not sure that a self-hypnotic trance would go deep enough.”
“If we have no luck with the others, I’ll let my friend, Dr. Brainard, the psychoanalyst, give you the works.”
There was an uneasy air on several faces, including Gavigan’s. Malloy and Grimm wore expressions of frank skepticism. Alfred LaClaire was the first to object. “You can count me out, please. The whole idea is screwy. Suppose Duvallo is the murderer. I know enough about hypnotism to know that in a trance—well, he couldn’t make me admit murder—hypnosis has its limits—but he could make my answers sound damned funny. No thanks.”
“All right,” Merlini countered. “Would you submit if it were someone else, someone quite outside, Dr. Brainard, for instance? I only suggested Duvallo because he’s handy and he’s the only one here who could do it properly.”
Alfred spoke. “The answer is no. I don’t trust the police, nor you, since you seem to be hand-in-glove with them. They always have to have a fall guy, and I’m not accepting the nomination.”
Watrous, who had returned in time to hear most of Merlini’s speech, spoke up. “I agree with Mr. LaClaire, very decidedly. I will not submit to any such unorthodox procedure, and I most emphatically cannot allow Madame Rappourt to do so. Both for the reasons Mr. LaClaire has mentioned and for the further reason that any hypnotic tampering with her delicately attuned, inner psychic self might be disastrous.”
“I think we can let Madame Rappourt speak for herself, Colonel,” Merlini said.
“The Colonel,” she said, “is wrong. Your idea is a sound one. But why do you beat around the bush? You do not need to hunt for some small thing that someone has incorrectly observed. That is foolish. Why not find the murderer? Hypnotize each of us and ask, ‘Did you kill Sabbat? Did you kill Tarot?”
That had occurred to me too, but I didn’t want to horn in. It was Merlini’s show, and I suspected he was fully aware of the possibility, but had some secret reason for approaching it circuitously. I couldn’t tell whether or not Madame Rappourt’s incisive going to the point bothered him.
“Yes, of course, there is that,” he said matter-of-factly. “Jones, what about you?”
“I don’t see that an innocent person has any choice. Yes, I’ll do it.”
“Judy?”
She nodded without speaking, but the cool face under the warm brilliance of her hair was troubled.
“Mrs. LaClaire?”
“Yes, if you keep your questions within bounds.”
“Duvallo?”
“Yes. I think it might work.”
“Ching?”
“Suits me.”
“Care to change your mind, Watrous?”
“I do not.”
“Alfred?”
“No, dammit. I don’t trust you. Zelma, you’re a fool.”
“Well, that’s that,” Merlini said. “I might add that if anyone thinks the test is off, unless everyone consents, they’re mistaken. I shall make arrangements with Dr. Brainard for this evening. If anyone has any other engagement—”
“You’re forgetting, Merlini,” Ching said, “the S.A.M. show is tonight.”
Merlini snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes, of course. All right. We’ll make it after the show. Suit everyone?”
No one said anything.
“Fine,” Merlini said. “We’ll meet at the show and go from there. I’d like to have you come as my guest, Madame Rappourt, and the Colonel, too, if he will.”
Watrous started to protest but, noticing Madame Rappourt’s nodded assent, said, “Yes, I’ll come. If she’s going to go through with this in spite of my counsel, the least I can do is watch to see that you don’t try any tricks.” The emphasis he put on that last word was thoroughly uncomplimentary.
Merlini was impervious. “I think you’ll like the bill,” he said brightly. “Duvallo, Ching, the LaClaires, and myself are on it. And Jones has something rather special to present. He’s doing Ching Lung Soo’s famous trick. He…”
“Can I say something?” Gavigan put in.
Merlini nodded. “Yes. Time’s up now. And thanks for your forbearance.”
“Hmmpf! It’s old age creeping up on me. Merlini, do you realize that whatever you may discover with your hypnotic Aim flam won’t be admissible in any court as evidence?”
“I know that. But evidence obtained with the Third Degree isn’t either, and yet the police of this country still resort to that medieval technique. It sometimes gives them leads toward evidence that is admissible. You’ll admit that.”
Gavigan scowled, not wanting to put himself on record. “Okay, if you want to play Svengali, I don’t suppose I can stop you. You’d do it anyway.”
“If that’s all then, Inspector, suppose we adjourn until tonight at eight.” He frowned at Gavigan, signalling him with his eyes to say “yes.”
The latter agreed somewhat reluctantly. “Okay, but if you people are smart,” he said, addressing the others, “you’ll each accept the escort of one of my men until after this monkey business is over. If the murderer should happen to agree with Merlini that one of you knows something that hypnosis may reveal, then that person is in obvious danger.”
Watrous asked, “Then I can go?”
“For the time being, yes,” Gavigan said, “with one of my men.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, thank you, since I’m going to have nothing to do with Merlini’s test.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that. My man goes with you, whether you like it or not. Grimm, you’re delegated. And don’t let him take it on the lam out any back doors. Better have someone with you.”
The Colonel threw him a look that needed its face washed, and then, gathering up Madame Rappourt, he went out. Grimm followed doggedly.
“Malloy,” Gavigan ordered, “get out there and detail men to nu
rsemaid this bunch.”
Duvallo was speaking to Judy. “You come with me, kid. I’ll just see to it you have two nursemaids. Merlini, you’ve certainly managed to cook up a situation. If it wasn’t for Judy, I’d enjoy it. It has everything. Drama, suspense, and danger. I wish you luck.”
Merlini said, “Before you go, Dave, I’d like to see you a minute. The Inspector will look after Judy. Come here.”
Merlini took him by the arm and led him into the study.
As the others got up to leave and were going toward the door, I edged back nearer the study. Merlini and Duvallo were leaning out the window, talking in low tones. They were examining a hook set into the outside frame of the window; a hook from which dangled a rusty pulley that some tenant had used to hold a clothesline. Once Merlini pointed toward the far end of the yard, and I caught two words, “….the tree.” But that was all. When I saw them pull in their heads I moved away.
The others had all gone now. Merlini and Duvallo returned to the living room, and when the latter showed signs of staying, Gavigan sent him off.
“What,” he said then, “were you two up to in there?” Merlini picked up his hat and tried balancing it on his forefinger. “It’s a secret, Inspector. A deep, dark secret.”
The Inspector grumbled. “Going mysterious on me again, are you? Dammit, I’m old enough to know better. There should be a year-round open season on amateur detectives. I might have known you’d set off a lot of melodramatic fireworks. Hypnosis! Bah!”
Merlini grinned. “But, oh, my friend, and ah, my friend, Roman candles give off such a lovely light.”
“And very little illumination,” Gavigan came back acidly. “I’m beginning to wonder if the murderer is among that list of suspects after all. God knows they all act suspicious enough, but I don’t see a theory that’ll explain half the puzzles we’ve got on our hands.”
“And that’s just the trouble, Inspector. The murderer is among that list of suspects, but the evidence is too flimsy. A defense attorney, even one fresh out of college, could take that alibi list as it now stands and say, “The murderer must have been two other guys.”
Death from a Top Hat Page 23
