Date: 1936-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Crime; Classics; Thriller
Description: Raised in Japan by American expatriates, Karen Leith now lives a reclusive life in New York, known chiefly for her highly regarded novels, of which the latest has won a major American literary award. When she is found on the floor behind her desk, surrounded by blood, it looks like foul play. But the only possible suspect is Leith’s future daughter-in-law, Eva, who has recently become engaged. Eva swears by her innocence, even though she was the last to hear Leith alive and the first to find her dead. Eva was waiting outside Leith’s office to share the happy news and maintains that no one ente
Publisher: Signet

The Door Between

Ellery Queen

PART ONE

Chapter 1

When Karen Leith won the major American prize in literature her grateful publisher surprised every one, including himself, by successfully wheedling his prima donna into a public appearance.

Even more surprising was Miss Leith’s permission to stage the insub-stantial pageant in her own Japanese garden behind the prim house in Washington Square.

A great many important people came, studding the unimportant ones like raisins in a cake; and everybody was happy, none more so than Miss Leith’s publisher, who had never dreamed his most difficult piece of prop-erty would consent to put herself on exhibition—and in her own garden, too!But winning the literary award seemed to do something to the small, shy, still-pretty woman who had come quietly out of Japan in 1927 and sequestered herself behind the opaque walls of the house in Washington Square, from whose sanctuary she sent forth incredibly enameled and beautiful novels; and the handful who had met her before swore they had never seen her so excited and friendly.

But most of the crowd had never seen Karen Leith at all, which made her party more of a debut than a triumph. For a woman reputed to be as scary as a bird, she stood the ordeal well. In fact, she seemed to challenge attention, for she had draped her frail figure in a gorgeous Japanese kimono and brushed her blueblack hair back in the loose sleek bulging Nipponese style. Even the more critical gentry present were disarmed, however; Karen carried herself so gracefully in the quaint costume that they knew what seemed a challenge was nothing of the sort and that she was simply more at ease in Japanese garb than she would have been in a Fifth Avenue modiste’s gown. Ivory and jade pins lay in her hair like crown jewels; and indeed Karen was royalty that evening, receiving her guests with that bloodless excitement under disciplined calm of a queen at her coronation.

The celebrated author of Eight-Cloud Rising was a tiny creature of such feathery structure that, as one poetic gentleman remarked, a delicate wind would have rocked her and a gale swept her bodily away. Her cheeks were pale hollows under the curious and careful cosmetics. In fact, she looked ill; and there was a floating quality in her gestures that suggested the fatigue of neurasthenia.

Only her eyes were vivacious: they were gray and Caucasian, aglitter and yet a little masked in their violet settings, as if they had somewhere in her rather mysterious past learned to shrink from blows. The ladies all agreed with unusual magnanimity that she possessed a rather fantastic prettiness, more on the ethereal side and quite ageless; almost like a ceramic of the East or one of her strange ceramic novels.

Karen Leith was what she was, every one agreed; and what she was nobody knew, for she never went out and she kept to her house and garden like a nun. And since the house was inaccessible and the garden wall high, biographical details were maddeningly scanty: she was the daughter of an obscure American expatriate who until his death had taught comparative literature at the Imperial University in Tokyo, and she had spent most of her life in Japan. And that was nearly all.

* * *

Karen was holding court in a small pavilion at the center of the alien garden, preparing tea according to a Japanese ceremony she called Cha no yu. She singsonged the peculiar sounds with such ease it seemed almost as if English were an acquired language rather than her heritage. Her girlish hands were busy with a whisk stirring powdered green tea in a rather rudely fashioned Korean bowl of thick, aged pottery. A very ancient Oriental woman dressed in Japanese costume stood silently behind her, like a protecting deity.

“Her name is Kinume,” explained Karen in answer to a question concerning the old woman. “The dearest, gentlest soul. She’s been with me for—oh, centuries.” And for an instant Karen’s pretty, exhausted face darkened unaccountably.

“She looks Japanese and yet she doesn’t,” said one of the group in the pavilion. “Isn’t she tiny!”

Karen hissed something in what they all took to be Japanese, and the old woman bowed and pattered away.

“She understands English quite well,” said Karen apologetically,

“although she’s never learned to speak it fluently . . . . She doesn’t come from Japan proper. She comes from the Loo-choo Islands. That’s the group, you know, that lies on the edge of the East China Sea, between Taiwan—Formosa, you know—and the mainland. They’re even a smaller people than the Japanese, but better-proportioned.”

“I thought she didn’t look quite Japanese.”

“There’s some question among ethnologists about the stock. It’s been said that the Loo-chooans have Ainu blood—they’re hairier and have better noses and less flattened cheeks, as you saw. And they’re the gentlest people in the world.”

A tallish young man with pince-nez glasses remarked: “Gentle is as gentle does. How gentle is that, Miss Leith?”

“Well,” said Karen with one of her rare smiles, “I don’t believe there’s been a lethal weapon used in Loo-choo for three hundred years.”

“Then I’m all for Loo-choo,” said the tallish young man ruefully. “A murderless Eden! It sounds incredible.”

“And not exactly typical of the Japanese, I should say,” put in Karen’s publisher.

Karen glanced at him. Then she passed the bowl of tea around. A literary reporter asked a question.

“Taste it . . . . No, I don’t remember Lafcadio Hearn. I was barely seven when he died. But my father knew him well—they taught together at the Imperial University . . . . Isn’t it delicious?” It was delicious irony, not tea. For the first recipient of the bowl was the tallish young man with the pince-nez glasses, whose name was Queen and who was present unimportantly as a writer of detective stories.

But Mr. Queen could not have been expected to detect the irony then; recognition was to come later, under less pleasant circumstances. At the moment he remarked that the tea was delicious, although privately he thought it a nasty mess, and passed the bowl on to his neighbor, a middle-aged male gorilla with the stoop of a student, who refused it and sent it on its way.

“I’ll share everything with you,” explained the big man pathetically to Karen, “but germs.”

Every one laughed, for it was an open secret that Dr. John MacClure knew more about Karen Leith than any one else in the world, and indeed that he proposed shortly to learn even more. His sharply light blue eyes in their chunky setting rarely left Karen’s face.

“Why, Doctor,” cried a lady who wrote stony, inhibited novels about New England, “you haven’t a spark of poetry in you!” Dr. MacClure retorted: “Neither have germs,” and even Karen smiled faintly.

Manning of the World, who had been trying to recall the year of Lafcadio Hearn’s death, finally said: “Don’t bite me, Miss Leith. But wouldn’t that make you about forty?”

Karen began to stir another bowl of tea calmly.

“Remarkable,” murmured Mr. Queen. “That’s when life begins, I’m told.”

Karen’s shy and wary glance fixed on Dr. MacClure’s chest. “That’s a coincidence. Life begins at fifty, or fifteen.” She drew a breath very lightly. “Life begins when happiness begins.”

The women looked at one another, knowing what Karen meant; for she had made her mark and won her man. One of them asked Dr.

MacClure, rather maliciously, what he thought.

“I don’t practise obstetrics any more,” he said shortly.

“John,” said Karen.

“Well!” He waved his thick arms. “I’m not interested in the beginning of life. I’m interested in its ending.”

And no one had to explain what he meant, for Dr. MacClure was the arch-enemy of death.

* * *

For a space they were still; as one who wrestled constantly with death Dr. MacClure gave forth a powerful effluvium that occasionally silenced people. There was something dusty and yet clean about him, as if even mortal dirt became sterilized on contact with him; and people thought of him a little uncomfortably in terms of carbolic acid and white robes, like the high priest of some esoteric cult. Legends had sprung up about him.

Money and fame meant nothing to him; perhaps, as a few envious souls in his profession commented bitterly, because he had plenty of both.

Most human beings to him were insects crawling after microscopic values, creatures fit only for laboratory dissection; and when they annoyed him he slapped them down impatiently with his hairy, antiseptic paws.

He was an unkempt, absent man. No one could remember the time when he had not worn a certain ancient brown suit, unpressed, depilated, and edged with fuzz, which clung to his shoulders plaintively. He was a strong man, and a tired man, and while he did not look his age he never-theless contrived to seem a hundred.

It was a curious paradox that this man, who made people feel like awed children, should himself be a child in everything but his work. He was angry, helpless, and socially timid; and quite unconscious of the effect he had on people.

Now he looked appealingly at Karen, as a child looks at its mother in an emergency, wondering why every one had stopped talking.

“Where’s Eva, John?” asked Karen quickly. She had a sixth sense for his moments of confusion.

“Eva? I think I saw her—”

“Here I am,” said a tall girl from the step of the pavilion. But she did not come in.

“There she is,” said Dr. MacClure gratefully. “Having a nice time, honey? Have you—”

“Where have you been, dear?” asked Karen. “Do you know every one?

This is Mr. Queen—isn’t it?—Miss MacClure. And this—”

“We’ve all met, I think,” said Eva MacClure with a faint social smile.

“No, we haven’t,” said Mr. Queen truthfully, rising with alacrity.

“Daddy, your tie’s under your ear again,” said Miss MacClure, ignoring Mr. Queen and glancing coldly at the other men.

“Oh,” sighed Karen, “it’s impossible keeping him presentable!”

“I’m all right,” mumbled Dr. MacClure, backing into a corner.

“Do you write, too, Miss MacClure?” asked the poet hungrily.

“I don’t do anything” said Miss MacClure in a sweet voice. “Oh, will you excuse me, Karen? I think I see some one . . .

She went away, leaving a chastened poet behind her, and vanished among groups of noisy people being served outlandish edibles by a corps of Japanese servants recruited for the evening. But she did not speak to any one and as she made her way to the little bridge at the end of the garden she was frowning very fiercely indeed.

* * *

“Your daughter is lovely, Doctor,” panted a Russian lady-writer whose bosom was swathed passionately in tulle. “Such a healthy-looking creature!”

“Ought to be,” said Dr. MacClure, fumbling with his tie. “Perfect specimen. Had proper care.”

“Glorious eyes,” said the poet unpoetically. “A little too distant for me, though.”

“Oh, Eva’s going through a stage,” smiled Karen. “Tea, somebody?”

“I think it’s wonderful how you’ve found time to raise a family, Doctor,” panted the Russian lady.

Dr. MacClure glared from the poet to the Russian lady; they both had poor teeth and, besides, he detested being discussed in public.

“John finds time for every one but himself,” said Karen hastily. “He’s needed a rest for ages. More tea?”

“Mark of greatness,” said Karen’s publisher, beaming on every one.

“Why on earth didn’t you go to Stockholm last December, Doctor?

Imagine a man snubbing the donors of the international medical award!”

“No time,” barked Dr. MacClure.

“He didn’t snub them,” said Karen. “John couldn’t snub anybody.

He’s just a baby.”

“Is that why you’re marrying him, my dear?” asked the Russian lady, panting more than ever.

Karen smiled. “More tea, Mr. Queen?”

“It’s so romantic,” shrilled the New England novelist. “Two prize-winners, two geniuses, you might say, combining their heredity for the creation of—”

“More tea?” said Karen quietly.

Dr. MacClure stamped off, glowering at the ladies.

The truth was, life was beginning for the good doctor at fifty-three.

He had never thought of himself in terms of age, but neither had he thought of himself in terms of youth; and to have youth pounce upon him from behind both amused and nettled him.

The medical award he could accept without loss of equilibrium; it meant no more than a thickening of the annoyances always besieging him

—newspaper interviews, invitations to medical functions, the conferring of honorary degrees. He had shaken the whole business off indifferently.

He had not even gone to Stockholm, although he had been notified of the award the previous autumn. A new research had absorbed his attention and May found him still in New York, prowling about his empire at the Cancer Foundation.

But falling in love with Karen Leith so astounded and upset him that for months he had gone about in a resentful silence, plainly arguing with himself; and he was still a little irritable about the whole subject. It was so damned unscientific—a woman he had known for over twenty years! He could remember Karen when she was a sullen sprig of seventeen, annoying her patient father with unanswerable questions about Shakespeare in the Leith house in Tokyo, with Fujiyama towering like ice cream to the southeast.

Dr. MacClure had been young then, in Japan on a wild-goose chase connected with his early cancer researches; but even in those days he had not thought of Karen except in disapproving terms. Her sister Esther, of course, had been different—he often thought of Esther as she was then, with her golden hair and dragging leg, like an earthbound goddess. But Karen—why, between 1918 and 1927 he hadn’t seen her at all! It was infantile. Naturally, for sentimental reasons he had become her physician when she left the East to settle in New York—old times, that sort of thing. Proved something. Bad business, sentiment. Being Karen’s physician should have drawn them apart . . . the professional relationship . . . .

It had not. Dr. MacClure, cooling off as he idled through the groups in the Japanese garden, chuckled despite himself. He had to admit to himself, now the die was cast, that he rather enjoyed the experience of feeling young again. He even looked up at the moon and for one mad, unscientific moment wished he were alone with Karen in this impossible little garden with its queer, tangy Japanese blooms.

Chapter II

The little bridge was convex and snubby; it bulged in absurd fashion, and Eva MacClure stood on the bulge leaning on the rail and staring darkly down.

The tiny water was black except where the moon lay, and there was so little of it that when something hungry came up in the middle of the moon and gulped, the gulp sent circles to the boundaries of the pool in three seconds. Eva knew it was three, because she counted them in one corner of her mind.

Everything was tiny here: the gnarly dwarf trees of time—plum—with their sweet blossoms in the shadows beyond the bridge, the pool, the voices of Karen’s guests piping thinly out of the clothing gloom, the crinkly Japanese lanterns like miniature accordions strung overhead on invisible wires. Among the meticulous cameos of tsutsuji and shobu and fuji and botan—azalea, iris, wistaria, peony, all the Japanese flowers Karen loved—Eva felt like an overgrown schoolgirl in toyland.

“What’s the matter with me, anyway?” she thought despairingly as she watched a circle widen.

It was a question she had been asking herself for some time. Until recently she had been a healthy young vegetable ripening underground.

She had felt no real sense of pain or pleasure; she merely grew.

“Biting people’s heads off!”

It was good soil Dr. MacClure had provided. Eva grew up in a Nantasket paradise, laved by salt winds made pleasanter by the lavish acrid smell of wildflowers. The doctor sent her to the best schools—schools he investigated suspiciously beforehand. He provided money, good times, wardrobe, the care of handpicked women for her. He had made his moth-erless house a home for her; and he had inoculated her character against infection with the same sure knowledge with which he supervised the hygiene of her body.

Yet those were formative years and Eva experienced no biting emotion. She knew she was forming—even a plant must have a vague sensibility of its growth: like all growing things she felt life tracing its course through her body, doing extraordinary things to her, shaping and building her, filling her full of meanings too green for expression and destinations too far away to be more than glimpsed. It was an interesting time, even an exciting time; and Eva went about in a glow, happy only as a plant is happy.

But then, suddenly, something went dark about her, as if some monstrous light-organism had swallowed up the sun and bathed the world in evil, unnatural colors.

From a gay and lovely vegetable she became overnight a creature of moods, chiefly black. Food lost its savor. Fashions, which had always been exciting, became dull—she quarreled bitterly with her dressmaker; her friends, whom she had always managed beautifully, became intolerable—
she lost two of them forever by telling them some plain truths about themselves.

It was all very mysterious. The theatre, the books she loved, the witcheries of Calloway and Toscanini, cocktail parties, the fascinating quest for bargains in the Boston and New York stores, the gossip, the dancing, the Causes she was always championing—all the interests and activities which had filled in the outline of her pleasant existence inexplicably began to fade together, as if there were a conspiracy against her. She even took it out savagely on Brownie, her favorite horse at the Central Park stables; and Brownie was so outraged that he dumped her unceremo-niously into the middle of the bridle-path. It still ached where she had fallen.

All these wonderful symptoms, coming to a head in an unusually insidious spring in New York—Dr. MacClure had long since given up the Nantasket house except for occasional week-ends—really reduced themselves to a simple diagnosis, if only Dr. MacClure had been ordinarily observant. But the poor man was too obsessed with his own excursion into romance these days to see farther than the end of his nose.

“Oh, I wish I were dead,” said Eva aloud to the little gulps in the pool; and for the moment she really did.

* * *

The bridge creaked, and from the way it trembled underfoot Eva knew a man had come up behind her. She felt herself grow warmer than the warmness of the evening warranted. It would be too silly if he—

“Why?” asked a man’s voice. It was not only a man’s voice, it was a young man’s voice; and what was more embarrassing, the voice was quite hatefully amused.

“Go away,” said Eva.

“And have you on my conscience for the rest of my life?”

“Don’t be unpleasant, now. Go away.”

“See here,” said the voice, “there’s water right under you and you look pretty desperate. Were you thinking of suicide?”

“Don’t be absurd!” flared Eva, swishing around. “The pool isn’t two feet deep.”

He was a very large young man, almost as large as Dr. MacClure, Eva was chagrined to notice; and he was despicably good-looking. Not only that, he was dressed in dinner clothes, which somehow made matters worse. The same piercing keen-puckered eyes people remarked in Dr.

MacClure beamed down at her; and altogether Eva felt like a child.

She decided to snub him, and turned back to the rail.

“Oh, come now,” said the large young man, “we can’t let it go at that.

I have a certain social responsibility. If it wasn’t drowning, what was it to be—cyanide by moonlight?”

The obnoxious creature moved up to her side; she felt him. But she kept looking at the water.

“You’re not a writer,” said the young man reflectively. “Although the place is crawling with them. Too young, I’d say, and too desperate. The breed here tonight’s well-fed.”

“No,” said Eva icily, “I’m not a writer. I’m Eva MacClure, and I wish you would go away from here as fast as you can.”

“Eva MacClure! Old John’s daughter? Well!” The young man seemed pleased. “I’m glad you don’t belong to that crowd out there—I really am.”

“Oh, you’re glad,” said Eva, hoping it sounded as nasty as she meant it to sound. “Really!” It was getting worse and worse.

“Detest writers. Mumbo-jumbo artists, the whole crew. And not a good-looker in the crowd.”

“Karen Leith is very beautiful!”

“No woman’s beautiful past thirty. Beauty is youth. After that, make-up. What they call ‘charm.’ . . . I’d say you could give your future motherin-law cards and spades.”

Eva gasped. “I think you’re the most—the rudest—”

“I see ‘em with their clothes off,” said the young man negligently.

“Same as the rest of us that way—more so.”

“You—what?” faltered Eva. She thought she had never met a more detestable person.

“Hmm,” he said, studying her profile. “Moon. Water. Pretty girl studying her reflection . . . . Despite the gloomy philosophy, I’d say there was hope.”

“I don’t know why I’m talking to you,” said Eva in a muffled angry voice. “I’ve been watching the goldfish and wondering when the creatures sleep.”

“What!” exclaimed the detestable young man. “Then it’s a worse case than I thought.”

“Really—”

“Looking into a pool under the moon and wondering when goldfish sleep! That’s a worse sign than wishing you were dead.” Eva turned to give him her most freezing stare. “May I ask just who you are?”

“That’s better,” said the young man with satisfaction. “We always take a positive emotion, like anger, as a good sign in the morbid cases. I’m a man named Scott.”

“Will you go away,” said Eva rudely, “or shall I, Mr. Scott?”

“You needn’t turn that pretty nose of yours up so. It’s the only name I ever had. Scott, Richard Barr. And it’s ‘Doctor,’ although you may call me Dick.”

“Oh,” said Eva in a small voice. rrThat Scott.” She had heard of Dr. Richard Barr Scott. She could not have helped hearing about Dr. Richard Barr Scott, unless she had gone off to Patagonia. For some time her friends had been frothing slightly at the mouth over Dr. Richard Barr Scott, and it had become a cunning habit in many feminine quarters to visit Dr. Richard Barr Scott’s luxurious offices on Park Avenue. Even vigorous mothers had been known to come down suddenly with the most complicated ailments, although from the way they all dressed for a visit to Dr. Scott’s one would have thought they were going to a cocktail party at the Ritz. The reports which reached Eva’s moody ears had been most enthusiastic.

“So you see,” said Dr. Scott, looming over her, “why I was concerned.

Purely professional reaction. Bone-to-a-dog business. Sit down, please.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Sit down, please.”

“Sit down?” murmured Eva, wondering how her hair looked. “What for?”Dr. Scott cocked an eye about. But except for the myriad fireflies and the tiny dinning voices, they were alone in that part of the Japanese garden. He placed a hard cool hand on Eva’s bare hand, and she was annoyed to feel goose-pimples. She rarely felt goose-pimples. So she froze him again and snatched her arm away.

“Don’t be a child,” he said soothingly. “Sit down and take off your shoes and stockings.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind!” gasped Eva, surprised out of her dignity.

“Take ‘em off!” growled the large young man with sudden menace.

Eva found herself the next moment deposited on the stone lip of the pool beside the little bridge, obeying instructions. She thought she must be dreaming.

“Now,” said Dr. Scott briskly, squatting beside her. “Let’s see. Ah!

Lovely legs. Lovely feet. Lovely arches—I see they haven’t fallen yet.

They will . . . . Put ‘em in the pool, please.”

For all her secret misery and confusion Eva began to enjoy the situation; it was mad and romantic, like something out of a fluffy book. He was a rather unusual doctor, she admitted grudgingly to herself; the reports hadn’t at all exaggerated.

“Lovely,” repeated Dr. Scott thoughtfully.

Eva was astounded to feel a jealous pang. He had done this sort of nonsensical thing before, that was it; that was most definitely it. It was part of his professional technique. A society doctor! Eva sniffed, losing some of the enjoyment. She knew all about them from Dr. MacClure.

Clever young men who got by on personality, the bedside manner. Parasites, Dr. MacClure called them. Handsome, of course, preying on the weaknesses of silly females. They were a menace to society; Eva felt that quite beyond argument.

She would show him. Thought he’d caught another fish, did he? Dr.

MacClure’s daughter! No doubt it would be good advertising, hanging in his office like a—like a pelt . . . . Eva was just about to snatch up her stockings when she was shocked to feel him grasp her ankles firmly and splash them into the pool.

“Lovely,” said Dr. Scott again, absently.

The coolness of the water enveloped her bare feet, spreading up her legs over her heated skin.

“Cool?” asked Dr. Scott, still absently.

Eva was outraged at herself. All that came out of her mouth was a meek: “Well—yes.”

Dr. Scott roused himself, shaking off what seemed to be a thought.

“That’s fine! Now, young woman, you answer some personal questions.” Eva stiffened instantly; but the water felt so pleasant she relaxed the next moment, furious with herself.

He nodded, quite as if he had expected it. “Hot feet, short tempers.

And vice-versa. Infallible remedy in warm weather.”

“Is this the usual preparation for an examination, Dr. Scott?” asked Eva tartly.

“What?”

“I mean—do you have a pool in your office, too? What do you do for a moon?”

“Oh,” said Dr. Scott, a little blankly.

“I suppose,” sighed Eva, wriggling her toes with pleasure, “this is what comes of eating suki-yaki, or whatever it is.” Dr. Scott gazed at her oddly. Then he roused himself again and said:

“You see, we must suspect many causes when a young female gets suicidal impulses.” He sat down beside her on the cement. “How old are you?”

“No chart?” asked Eva.

“What?”

“Twenty,” said Eva docilely.

“Digestion?”

“Quite.”

“Appetite?”

“Until recently,” said Eva darkly, “I ate like a sow.” Dr. Scott surveyed her straight back, smooth arms, and cleanly moulded figure, a little lambent with moonlight. “Hmm,” he said. “That’s refreshing. Most refreshing.”

Eva smiled in the silver darkness. Most of her friends warred constantly on the common enemy of appetite, keeping two worried eyes on their scales.

“How much do you weigh?” continued Dr. Scott, still surveying.

“One-eighteen,” said Eva, adding wickedly, “stripped.”

“Well, well! Get plenty of exercise?”

“Only the horse gets more.”

“Any fatigue on rising in the morning—ache in your bones?”

“Goodness, no.”

“Notice any lapses of memory—difficulty in concentrating?”

“Not a bit,” said Eva demurely, and the next instant she was angry with herself again. Being demure! What was the matter with her? She compressed her lips.

“Nothing wrong with your metabolism, apparently. Sleep well?” Eva yelped, snatching her feet from the pool. A goldfish had nibbled, not unnaturally, at the bait of a wriggling toe. Eva steeled herself and slipped her feet back in the water.

“Like the dead,” she said firmly.

“Dream much?” asked Dr. Scott, pretending not to have noticed.

“A good deal,” said Eva. “But don’t ask me what I dream about, because I won’t tell you.”

“You have already,” said Dr. Scott dryly. “Well, let’s see. Get the patient’s own diagnosis. Often helpful in psychiatric cases—can’t see anything physical at the moment. What do you think’s the matter with you?”

Eva drew her legs out of the pool definitely, tucking them in and inspecting the young man with frigidity.

“Now, please, don’t be difficult. You misunderstood. I was rehearsing the lines of a—a play I’m giving next week for my settlement children.”

“ CI wish I were dead,’ “ repeated Dr. Scott reflectively. “A little morbid for the tots, I should think.”

Their eyes locked; and after a while Eva turned back to the hungry little gullets in the pool, feeling hot and cold in alarmingly rapid alterna-tion.“All this piffle about when goldfish sleep,” drawled the large young man. “Don’t give me that. Have you any women-friends to speak of?”

“Mobs,” said Eva stiffly.

“For instance? I think I know some of your crowd.”

“Well, there’s Karen,” said Eva, desperately trying to think of some one different.

“Nonsense. She’s not a woman. She’s a cloud! And twice as old as you, too.”“I don’t like women any more.”

“How about men?”

“I hate men!”

Dr. Scott whistled, as if a great light had fallen. He lay back on the grass skirting the lip of the pool, resting his head on his palms. “Restless, eh?” he remarked to the dappled sky.

“Sometimes.”

“Cramps in your legs occasionally, as if you’d like to kick somebody?”

“Why—!”

“Kids at the settlement suddenly get on your nerves?”

“I didn’t say—”

“Dream things you’re ashamed of? Yes, I know that.”

“I never said—”

“Moony over picture-stars—Howard, the Gable menace?”

“Dr. Scott!”

“And of course,” said Dr. Scott, nodding at the moon, “you inspect yourself in the mirror rather oftener than usual these days, too.” Eva was so startled she began to cry: “How did you—?” but then bit her lip and felt terribly ashamed, really undressed. How could any one ever marry a doctor? she asked herself fiercely. It must be horrible living with a

—with a human stethoscope who knew what made you tick. It was true.

Everything he had said was true. It was all so true and so embarrassing Eva hated him. She had never thought she could hate any one quite so much as she hated him. It was bad enough having an old doctor strip your sacred secrets from you, but a young one . . . She had heard he was only a little past thirty. How could he have any respect . . .

“How did I know?” said Dr. Scott dreamily from the grass; she felt his eyes burn on her naked shoulders—at least, one spot between her shoulder-blades tingled. “Why, it’s just biology. It’s what makes babies possible.”

“You’re—simply—horrid!” cried Eva.

“A stunner like you. Spring—twenty—she hates men, she says . . . .

Oh, my aunt!”

Eva furtively inspected herself in the water. Something was happening to her inside—a little boiling area in the region of the diaphragm, hot and jumpy.

“Never been in love, of course,” murmured Dr. Scott.

Eva sprang to her bare feet. “Now I am going!”

“Ah, touched the nerve. Sit down.” Eva sat down. That boiling was the most curious thing. She knew she was miserable, and naturally he was the most insufferable creature; yet the area was spreading to her chest and it was beginning to make breathing difficult. “Well, that’s what you need.

That’s what you want. Dr. Scott’s prescription for young females. Love, or whatever it is you women call it. Do you good.”

“Goodbye,” said Eva, almost in tears. But she did not go.

“Trouble with you,” said Dr. Scott, and in the queerest way she knew he was looking at the back of her head, “is that you’ve been smothered by your environment. Brains, genius, fame—all around you, keeping you down. Get yourself a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of new duds and a husband, and you’ll never feel another ache or pain.” The most stifling silence fell. It was not at all the kind of silence that falls between physicians and patients. But then physicians rarely conduct moonlight examinations of young females in Japanese gardens near water.

What was even more peculiar was Eva’s sudden feeling that she was no longer a patient. As if his self-assur-ance had passed over to her, leaving her full of strength and him a little empty . . . . It came like a stroke of lightning. One moment the Japanese cicadas had been scratching away, and the next the world turned upside down. Inside the despair of months was magically gone, dissolved in the boiling spot that now churned her whole body.

It was peculiar, too, that now the young man was silent, she wished she might hear his voice again; and at the same time she was conscious of a wonderful power that said he might speak, but because of her it would be in a different tone.

Eva had never experienced a dangerous moment before. But she knew instinctively that this was such a moment, and that the danger was the pleasantest thing she had ever tasted.

She heard him breathing on the grass behind her, breathing rather harder than a physician should. And she was glad; and all at once in a freeing gush happy, for she knew that the wonderful power was a power women feel at certain moments with certain men, a power she had never felt with any one before.

And she held him in the palm of her hand; she knew that calmly, although he lay beside her and her back was straight and inscrutable to him. She knew that she had only to turn around to make something sweet and impossible happen.

But now that she had her moment, she felt an irresistible urge to hold it at bay. She began slowly and deliberately, back still turned to him, to pull her discarded stockings onto her legs. He did not move. Then she slipped her shoes on, concentrating on the task. The fireflies flickered in and out of sight. The voices were planets away. The gulps in the pool punctuated everything—the silence, the strain, the sweet hostility.

Physician!

And Eva rose lazily and only then did she turn and look at him, knowing how nice she must appear with her slender figure twisting at the waist in its sheath of voile. But now she was above him, and he had to look up at her slim height, cool and amused and inwardly trembling. Eva felt like a lady-knight triumphant over the body of a dragon; and she suppressed a giggle and an impulse to put her foot on his chest.

But she felt like doing a mad thing. She had never felt quite so strong and irresponsible before.

“Well, you’re the doctor,” she said, looking down at him.

He stared up at her with wide-open man’s eyes, curiously a little angry. The moment stood still; she could almost feel his arms hard and convulsed about her, with the garden spinning and sound and life and darkness dropped off the edge of consciousness. She even relished the taste of his anger, joyful in her knowledge that she had surprised his defenses . . . . She could see his body contract, getting ready to spring up from the grass.

“Eva!” roared Dr. MacClure’s voice.

Eva went cold all over. Dr. Scott scrambled to his feet and began brushing himself off in a futile, powerful way.

“Oh, there you are,” growled Dr. MacClure, stamping across the bridge. Then he caught sight of the young man and stopped short. Eva stood between them, clutching her handkerchief.

The coldness vanished and the happiness with its boiling returned.

Eva could have laughed aloud between the two men looking each other over, the middle-aged one inspecting the young one with his remarkably sharp light blue eyes, and the young one returning the inspection half-truculently.

“This is Dr. Richard Barr Scott, daddy,” said Eva composedly.

“Ha,” said Dr. MacClure.

Dr. Scott mumbled: “ ‘Dyado,” and put his hands into his pockets. Eva knew that he was very angry indeed, and was very glad.

“Heard of you,” grunted Dr. MacClure.

“Good of you,” scowled Dr. Scott.

And already they measured each other, potential antagonists, and Eva was so happy she felt faint.

Chapter III

And so, if life began for Karen Leith at forty, and for Dr. MacClure at fifty-three, it.began for Eva MacClure at twenty, in the romantic setting of Karen Leith’s garden-party in May.

Eva grew, she burgeoned; she became a woman fulfilled overnight, complete and self-assured. All her problems dropped away like useless leaves.

The joy of the hunt obsessed her. She threw herself into the ancient game as if she had been playing it for years—a game in which the huntress stood still, and the prey came seeking its doom, helplessly. Dr. MacClure was not the only physician in New York to be confused; young Dr. Scott actually grew haggard.

They were engaged in June.

“There’s only one thing, daddy,” said Eva to Dr. MacClure shortly after. It was a sweltering night, and they were in Karen’s garden. “It’s about me and Richard.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Dr. MacClure.

Eva stared at her hands. “I wonder if I ought to tell him—you know, that you and I . . . “

Dr. MacClure looked heavily at her; he seemed more than usually tired these days, and he had aged considerably. Then he said: “Yes, Eva?” Eva was troubled. “That you’re not really my father. It doesn’t seem right not to tell him, but—”

Dr. MacClure sat still. Karen, beside him, murmured: “Don’t be a fool, Eva. What good can it do?” Somehow, in her flowered frock, with her hair combed tightly back, Karen seemed older, her advice sounder.

“I don’t know, Karen. It just doesn’t—”

“Eva,” said Dr. MacClure in the gentle voice no one but his two women had ever heard. He took her hands in his own, engulfing them.

“You know, darling, that I couldn’t love you more if you were my own daughter.”

“Oh, daddy, I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it,” said Karen a little sharply. “Don’t tell him, Eva.” Eva sighed. The event had taken place in her childhood, to her a blank prehistoric time. Years later Dr. MacClure had sensibly told her about her adoption, and the vague trouble it had caused her had never entirely disappeared.

“I won’t if you say so,” she said doubtfully, for it seemed to her that silence was wrong; and yet she was glad to be advised to keep silent—
afraid of anything, no matter how slight, which might threaten her new-found happiness.

Dr. MacClure lay back on the bench, closing his eyes. “It’s better that way,” he said.

“Have you fixed the date?” asked Karen quickly, glancing at the doctor.

“Not definitely,” said Eva, shaking off her dismal mood. “I suppose I’ve been acting like an idiot—all one grin—but I do wish we were married. I get the queerest feeling sometimes—as if . . . “

“You’re the strangest child,” murmured Karen. “Almost as if it were never going to happen?”

“Yes,” said Eva with a little shiver. “I—I don’t think I could stand that, after all the . . . Marrying Dick is the only thing in the world I want.”

“Where is he?” asked Dr. MacClure dryly.

“Oh, at some hospital. There’s a bad case of—”

“Tonsils?” said the doctor.

“Daddy!”

“Aw, now, honey,” he said instantly, opening his eyes, “don’t mind me.

But I want to prepare you for the life of a doctor’s wife. I want—

“I don’t care,” said Eva defiantly. “It’s Dick I’m interested in, not his work. I’ll attend to that when I get around to it.”

“I’ll bet you will,” chuckled Dr. MacClure, but his chuckle died very quickly and he closed his eyes again.

“Sometimes I think,” said Eva desperately, “that we’ll never be married. That’s what I meant by a feeling. It’s—it’s really appalling.”

“For heaven’s sake, Eva,” cried Karen, “don’t act like a silly girl! If you want so much to marry him, marry him and have it over with!” Eva was silent. Then she said: “I’m sorry, Karen, if my thoughts seem silly to you.” She rose.

“Sit down, darling,” said Dr. MacClure quietly. “Karen didn’t mean anything by what she said.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Karen. “I—It’s nerves, Eva.” Eva sat down. “I—I guess I’m not myself either these last few days.

Richard seems to think we ought to wait a while. He’s right, too! There’s no sense in rushing things. A man can’t change his whole life overnight, can he?”

“No,” said Dr. MacClure. “You’re a wise girl to have found that out so soon.”

“Dick’s so—I don’t know, comfortable. He makes me feel good all over.” Eva laughed happily. “We’ll go to all the funny little places in Paris and do all the crazy things people do on honeymoons.”

“You’re sure of yourself, aren’t you, Eva?” asked Karen, resting her dark head on Dr. MacClure’s shoulder.

Eva wriggled ecstatically. “Sure? If what I feel isn’t sureness . . . It’s the most blessed thing! I dream about him now. He’s so big and strong, so much of a baby . . . “

Karen smiled in the darkness, twisting her small head to look up at Dr.

MacClure. The doctor sat up and, with a sigh, buried his face in his hands.

Karen’s smile faded, her eyes becoming more than usually veiled; there was anxiety in them, and something else on her pretty and ageless face that Eva had seen rather frequently of late.

“Here I am,” said Eva briskly, “talking about myself while you two . . .

Do you know you both look simply awful? Don’t you feel well, either, Karen?”

“Oh, I feel quite as usual. But I think John’s badly in need of a vacation. Maybe you can talk him into one.”

“You do look dreadfully peaked, daddy,” scolded Eva. “Why don’t you close up that dungeon of yours and go abroad? Goodness knows I’m not a doctor, but an ocean voyage would do you a world of good.”

“I suppose it would,” said the doctor suddenly. He got up and began to patrol the grass.

“And you ought to go with him, Karen,” said Eva decisively.

Karen shook her head, smiling faintly. “I could never leave this place, dear. I’m made with deep roots. But John ought to go.”

“Will you, daddy?”

Dr. MacClure stopped short. “Look here, honey, you go ahead with your young man and be happy and stop worrying about me. Y’ou are happy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Eva.

Dr. MacClure kissed her while Karen looked on, still faintly smiling, as if all the time she were thinking of something else.

* * *

At the end of June Dr. MacClure yielded to the determined campaign against him and dropped his work for a vacation in Europe. He had lost weight and his suit had begun to hang on him in a despairing sort of way.

“Be sensible, Doctor,” said Eva’s fiance rather bruskly. “You can’t go on this way. You’ll keel over one of these days. You’re not made of iron, you know.”

“I’m finding that out,” said Dr. MacClure with a wry smile. “All right, Dick, you win. I’ll go.”

Richard and Eva saw him off; Karen, whose lassitude kept her chained to her house, did not come, and Dr.

MacClure said his goodbyes to her privately in the garden in Washington Square.

“Take good care of Eva,” said the big man to Richard, while the gong was clamoring on shipboard.

“Don’t worry about us. You take care of yourself, sir.”

“Daddy! You will?”

“All right, all right,” said Dr. MacClure grumpily. “Lord, you’d think I was eighty! Goodbye, Eva.”

Eva threw her arms about him and he hugged her with some of his old simian strength. Then he shook hands with Richard and they hurried off the boat.

He stood waving at them from the rail until the liner straightened out in the river. Eva suddenly felt funny. It was the first time they had ever been separated by more than a few miles; and somehow it seemed significant. She cried a little on Richard’s shoulder in the taxi.

* * *

August came and went. Eva heard from Dr. MacClure sporadically, although she wrote him every day. But the doctor was not a writing man, and the few letters he sent were like himself—precise in detail and strictly impersonal. He wrote from Rome, Vienna, Berlin, Paris.

“He’s visiting all the cancer men in the world,” said Eva indignantly to Richard. “Some one should have gone with him!”

“He’s probably having the time of his life,” grinned Dr. Scott. “It’s the change that’s important. Nothing wrong with him physically—I went over him with a finecomb. Let him alone.”

They were busy days for Eva. She strode about in the smothering summer cool as a vernal deity, engaged in the fascinating business of gathering her trousseau. There were teas given by friends, and week-end jaunts with Richard to the seashore, and much gracious queening over females who were still a little dazed at the suddenness and thoroughness of her conquest. She saw Karen infrequently and felt a little ashamed of herself.

Dr. Scott was inclined to be gloomy. “Practise fell off this month. I know what’s done it, too.”

“Well, doesn’t it always in the summer?”

“Ye-es, but—”

A horrible suspicion flashed across Eva’s mind. “Richard Scott, don’t tell me it’s because of you and me!”

“Frankly, I think so.”

“You—you gigolo!” cried Eva. “Attracting all those—all those creatures! And just because you’re engaged to me they’ve stopped coming.

I know ‘em—cats, all of them! And you’re as bad as they are. Sorry because . . . “

She started to cry. It was their first quarrel and Eva took it very hard.

As for Dr. Scott, he looked as if he had just stepped on something squashy.

“Darling! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I’m mad about you! You’ve ruined me! But I love you just the same, and if those damned hypochondriacs won’t come, the devil with ‘em.”

“Oh, Dick,” she sobbed in his arms. “I’ll slave with you. I’ll do anything!”

And after that Eva was very happy again, because he kissed her in a special place and then took her to the corner drugstore for a chocolate ice-cream soda, which she loved.

* * *

In early September Dr. MacClure wrote from Stockholm that he was coming home. Eva went flying to her fiance’s office with the letter.

“Hmm,” said Richard critically, scanning the neat chirography.

“About as informative as a mummy about himself.”

“Do you think the trip’s done him good?” asked Eva anxiously, as if Dr. Scott could see across four thousand miles.

“Must have, darling. Now don’t worry. If he’s not all right we’ll fix him up as soon as he lands. He’s at sea now.”

“I wonder if Karen knows,” said Eva excitedly. “I suppose she does.

Daddy must have written her.”

“I’d think so. After all, she’s his future wife.”

“And that reminds me, Richard Scott.” Eva plucked at a flower on his desk. “Talking about future wives . . . “

“Yes?” he said blankly.

“Oh, Dickie, don’t be stupid!” Eva blushed. “Can’t you see . . . I’m—”

“Oh,” said Richard.

Eva faced him. “Dick, when are we going to be married?”

“Now, angel—” he began, laughing and pulling at her.

“No, Dick,” said Eva quietly. “I’m serious.”

They faced each other over his desk for a long time. Then Dr. Scott sighed and sat limply down in his swivel-chair. “All right,” he said irritably. “I’m licked. I thought—I’ve got to the point where I’m eating you for breakfast and seeing you in every chest I poke at with my ‘scope.”

“Dick!”

“I never thought I’d get to saying to a woman, T can’t live without you,’ but I’m there, all right. Damn you, Eva, I’ll marry you the minute old John comes home!”

“Oh, Dick,” whispered Eva, for her throat was too full. She came around the desk and dropped tiredly into his lap, as if after a great struggle . . . .

After a while Eva kissed Richard’s handsome nose on the tip, slapped his hand, and wriggled off his lap. “Stop that! I’m going right down to Washington Square and see Karen.”

“Give me a break, will you?” he growled. “You can see Karen any time.”

“No. I’ve been neglecting her dreadfully and besides—”

“Me, too,” he grumbled, pressing a button on his desk. His nurse came in. “No more patients today, Miss Harrigan.” As the nurse went out he said: “Now come here.”

“No!”

“Do you want me to make a fool of myself and chase you all around the office?”

“Oh, Dickie darling, please,” said Eva, busily powdering her nose.

“I’ve got to see Karen.”

“Why all this love for Karen?”

“Let me go! I want to tell her, you fool. I’ve got to tell somebody.”

“Then I guess I’ll take a nap,” he said disconsolately. “I know you when your chin sticks out! I was up all night holding Mrs. Maarten’s hand and convincing her having a baby was like having a tooth pulled.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” crooned Eva, kissing him again. “She’s very pretty, isn’t she? Have a nice nap.”

“Will I see you tonight? After all, we ought to celebrate—”

“Dick! Don’t! Dick—Yes,” said Eva, and fled.

* * *

Eva emerged into the Park Avenue sunshine looking exactly like a girl who has just been well-kissed and the date of her marriage set. She was so full of happiness that the doorman grinned and the taxicab driver threw away his toothpick to open the door for her.

She gave Karen’s address and leaned back in the cab, closing her eyes.

So here it was at last. Marriage—just around the corner. Not any old marriage, but marriage to Richard. There would be a lot of gossip, of course—how she had thrown herself at him and practically hog-tied him; but let them talk. They were all envious. And the more envious they were, she thought blissfully, the happier she would be. It was awful thinking such a thing, but she wanted every woman in the world to be jealous of her. She felt a little stifled under her jacket.

Mrs. Richard Barr Scott . . . It sounded nice. It did sound nice.

When the cab stopped in front of Karen’s Eva got out and paid the man off and paused on the stoop to look over the Square. The park was brilliant in the four o’clock sunshine, brilliant and beautiful with its geometrical grasses and the fountain and the nurses wheeling baby carriages. Watching the carriages, Eva felt herself flush; she had been thinking of babies recently rather more than was decent. And then she thought that if she and Richard could not live in Westchester or Long Island after they were married, nothing would be sweeter than to live in a house like Karen’s. It was quite the nicest house she knew in New York.

With a really livable series of bedrooms—the drapes—

She rang the bell.

Their own place in the East Sixties was just an apartment. Despite all the fussing Eva had lavished on it, it had never been anything but an apartment. But Dr. MacClure had refused to move farther than a whistle’s blast from his Cancer Foundation, and it was true that a whole house would have been a useless luxury, since Eva was never at home and the doctor, of course, virtually lived in his laboratory. The doctor . . . For a secret moment Eva was gladder than she had ever been that Karen and Dr. MacClure would some time be married. She felt a little guilty, thinking of going away and leaving him all alone in that awful apartment.

Perhaps they could—

A strange maid opened the door.

Eva was surprised. But she went through the vestibule and asked: “Is Miss Leith home?”—a silly question, but one you always asked, somehow.

“Yes, Miss. Who’s calling?” The maid was a sullen young creature, as yet apparently untrained.

“Eva MacClure. Oh, you don’t have to announce me—I’m not company,” said Eva. “What happened to Elsie?”

“Oh, she must have got fired,” said the maid with a trace of animation.

“Then you’re new here?”

“Yes’m.” She had empty, stupid eyes. “Three weeks,

• • >j it is.

“Heavens!” said Eva in dismay. “Is it that long? Where’s Miss Leith?

In the garden?”

“No’m. Upstairs.”

“Then I’ll go right up.” Eva mounted the wide stairway lightly, leaving the new maid to stare after her.

Downstairs and in the basement servants’ quarters Karen Leith’s house was as Western as the interior decorator could make it; but upstairs Karen and the East had had their way. All the bedrooms were Japanese, full of furniture and gewgaws Karen had brought back with her from her father’s house in Tokyo. It was a pity, thought Eva as she went up, that so few people had ever seen Karen’s bedrooms; for they were as quaint and absurd as specimen rooms in a museum.

She thought she saw a kimono-clad figure going through the doorway of Karen’s sitting-room as she turned into the upstairs corridor; and Eva hurried after.

Sure enough, it was Kinume, Karen’s ancient maid; and Eva saw the tiny alien creature quite clearly, just going into Karen’s bedroom through the sitting-room and closing the bedroom door behind her. Eva also saw, before Kinume disappeared, that the old woman was carrying a single blank sheet of deckle-edged Japanese stationery and an envelope, very delicate with their faint rose-on-ivory pattern of chrysanthemums.

Eva was about to knock on Karen’s door when it opened a little and Kinume’s tiny figure backed out, without the stationery, saying something in her sibilant speech. rrOi! Damare!” Eva heard Karen say petulantly from inside the room.

(rGo men nasai, okaasan “ lisped Kinume hastily, shutting the bedroom door and turning around.

The old Japanese woman expressed surprise in the only way Eva had ever detected in her—by a slight widening of the ellipses of her eyes. “

‘Lo, Eva. You no coming see Missie long time.”

“Hello, Kinume,” said Eva. “No, I haven’t, and I’m terribly ashamed.

How are you, and how’s Karen?”

“Me good,” said Kinume, but she stood her ground by the door.

“Missie no good.”

“Is Karen—” began Eva, perplexed.

The wrinkled mouth set firmly. “You no seeing Missie now,” Kinume announced in her polite, hissing little voice. “Missie liting. She finish soon.”

Eva laughed. “I wouldn’t disturb her for the world. A major novelist!

I’ll wait.”

“I go tell Missie you here.” Kinume turned back to the door.

“Don’t bother. I haven’t anything to do, anyway. I’ll read a book or something.”

Kinume bowed and, folding her tiny hands in her sleeves, pattered off, closing the sitting-room door behind her. Eva, left to herself, took off her hat and jacket and went to the odd mirror to primp herself. She poked at her hair and wondered if she would have time tomorrow for a permanent.

And her hair did need a good washing. Then she opened her bag and took out her compact and wondered while she opened the lipstick whether Dr.

MacClure would bring her back one like Susie Hotchkiss’s. Mr. Hotchkiss had brought her quite the most fascinating gadget from Paris. She dabbed with her little finger three times at her lips, and then stroked the rouge on rather critically. Dick had kissed them a little out of shape and he hadn’t let her do a really good job before she left his office. The stuff wasn’t supposed to smudge, but it did. Eva made a mental note to get another lipstick like the peach-coral at home.

And after a while she went to the window to look out at the garden, patchy in the late afternoon sun.

The window was barred. Poor Karen! The way she had had her sitting-room and bedroom windows hemmed in iron when she bought the Washington Square house! It was absurd in a grown woman. New York would always be a terrifying place to her. Why on earth had she ever left Japan?

Eva flung herself down on one of Karen’s queer littlecouches. The room was so peaceful; it was a lovely place to think. Birds were chirruping in the garden—Karen’s sitting-room and bedroom occupied the entire back of the house, overlooking the garden—and the shouts of children in the Square were very far away . . . . To think of Richard, and of being married . . . . Eva wished for an instant that Richard—darling Dick—
might be with her, in her arms. Poor Dick! He’d looked so surly—like a child denied its candy . . . . i

!There was no sound from the bedroom next door, no sound at all. Eva picked up a book from a little teak-wood table and idly flapped its pages.

Chapter IV

At five-thirty by the ship’s New York chronometer the Panthia was slashing through a pleasant sea. It was growing dark beyond the eastern horizon, and Dr. MacClure lay in a deckchair staring at the thin hazy line behind, where sky touched water fantastically.

The open upper deck was deserted near the dinner-hour. But one young man, tallish and wearing pince-nez glasses under his linen cap, was weaving his way along the deck, occasionally stopping to elbow the rail and gaze accusingly at the placid sea. As he passed Dr. MacClure his face lightened from green to yellow.

“Dr. MacClure!”

The doctor’s head rolled around and he studied the young man’s face blankly for a moment.

“Probably don’t remember me,” said the young man. “Name’s Queen.

I met you in May, at your fiancee’s garden-party in Washington Square.”

“Oh, yes,” said Dr. MacClure, smiling briefly. “How are you?

Enjoying the trip?”

“Well . . . “

“Had the most wretched time myself. Seasick since Southampton.

Never have been able to stomach the ocean.”

Mr. Queen grinned under his greenish mask. “You know, I’m the same way. Suffer the tortures of the damned. If I look as badly as you do, Doctor—”

“Haven’t been well,” grumbled Dr. MacClure. “It’s not all vial de mer.

My folks packed me off to Europe. Can’t say I feel any better for it.” Mr. Queen clucked. “Father in my case. Practically had me shang-haied. Inspector Queen of the New York police department. If I did feel any better, this westward passage has taken it all out of me again.”

“Say! You’re the detective-story fellow. I remember now. Sit down, Mr. Queen, sit down. Haven’t read any of your stories—can’t stand the damned things—but all my friends . . . “

“Have probably written me letters of complaint,” sighed Ellery Queen, dropping into the next chair.

“I mean,” said Dr. MacClure hastily, “I don’t like detective stories.

Not yours especially. Scientific information always garbled. No offense, you understand.”

“That’s what I meant,” said Mr. Queen gloomily.

He was rather shocked at the change in the doctor’s appearance. The chunky, powerful face was gaunt and the clothes looked pitifully loose.

“Haven’t noticed you before,” said the doctor. “But then I’ve practically lived in this chair.”

“I’ve been too sick to do anything but groan in my cabin and munch at dry chicken sandwiches. Been abroad long, Doctor?”

“Couple of months. Poking around the capitals, seeing what was being done. Stopped over at Stockholm for a visit to the prize people. Had to apologize for forgetting to come, and all that. They were pretty decent about it, considering the size of the check.”

“I read somewhere,” smiled Ellery, “that you donated it to your Foundation.”

Dr. MacClure nodded. They sat in silence for some time, gazing out to sea. Finally Ellery asked: “Is Miss Leith with you?” He had to repeat the question.

“Eh? I beg your pardon,” said the doctor. “Why, no, Karen’s in New York.”

“I should think a sea jaunt would have done her good,” said Ellery.

“She looked rather done in in May.”

“She’s run down,” said the big man. “Yes.”

“Post-novel fatigue,” sighed Ellery. “You scientific fellows don’t know what hard work is. And Eight-Cloud Rising! It’s like a piece of perfect jade.”

“I wouldn’t know,” murmured the doctor with a tired smile. “I’m just a pathologist.”

“Her grasp of Oriental psychology is simply uncanny. And that glittering prose!” Ellery shook his head. “No wonder she’s feeling it. Lost weight, I’ll wager.”

“She’s a little anasmic.”

“And high-strung, eh? Comes of a delicate strain, no doubt.”

“Mostly nerves,” said the doctor.

“Then why on earth didn’t she come with you?”

“Eh?” Dr. MacClure flushed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I—”

“I think,” smiled Ellery, “you’d rather be alone, Doctor.”

“No, no, sit right down. Little tired, that’s all . . . . No secret about it.

Karen’s extremely timid. Damned near a phobia with her. Afraid of burg-lars—that sort of thing.”

“I noticed her windows were barred,” nodded Ellery. “Funny how a notion like that will get you down. Result of her life in Japan, I suppose.

Completely out of tune with her American environment.”

“Maladjusted.”

“I’ve been told she never leaves her house even for an overnight visit—
spends all her time either indoors or in her garden.”

“Yes.”

“Reminds me of Emily Dickinson. In fact, one would almost say there had been some tragedy in Miss Leith’s life.”

Dr. MacClure turned deliberately around in the deck-chair and stared at Ellery. “And what makes you say that?” he asked.

“Why—was there?”

The doctor sank back and lit a cigar. “Well . . . there was something.

Years ago.”

“Family?” suggested Ellery, who had an insatiable curiosity about everything.

“A sister. Esther.” The doctor was silent for a while. “I knew them both in Japan in ‘13, just before the War.”

“A tragedy of some sort, no doubt?” said Ellery encouragingly.

Dr. MacClure put his cigar in his mouth with an abrupt gesture. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Queen . . . I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Oh, sorry.” After a while, Ellery said: “Just what was it you got the award for, Doctor? I never could get scientific details straight.” The doctor brightened visibly. “Proves what I said. You fellows are all the same.”

“But what was it?”

“Oh, a lot of foolishness, as usual premature. I happened to be fooling around with enzymes, probing into the oxidation process in living cells—
the fermentation process involved in respiration . . . following up the work Warburg of Berlin did. I didn’t strike it there, but I got off on a tangent . . . well.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know yet. But it looks encouraging.”

“That sort of thing in cancer research? I thought doctors were gener-ally agreed cancer is a germ disease.”

“Good God, no!” shouted Dr. MacClure, bouncing up in the chair.

“Where the devil’d you hear that? Germ disease!” Ellery felt squelched. “Er—it isn’t?”

“Oh, come now, Queen,” said the doctor irritably. “We discarded the germ theory of cancer twenty years ago, when I was a squirt with delu-sions of grandeur. A lot of men are working with hormones—there’s definitely a basic hydrocarbon connection. I have a hunch we’re all going to come out at the same place—”

A steward stopped before them. “Dr. MacClure? There’s a New York call for you on the telephone, sir.”

Dr. MacClure got hurriedly out of the deckchair, his face heavy again.

“ ‘Scuse me,” he muttered. “That may be my daughter.”

“Mind if I trail along?” said Ellery, also rising. “I’ve got to see the purser.”

They followed the steward in an odd silence to the A-deck lounge, where Dr. MacClure entered the ship-to-shore telephone room with a quick step. Ellery, waiting for the purser to placate a florid woman passionate about something, sat down and rather thoughtfully eyed the doctor through the glass walls. There was something bothering the big man—something which might possibly explain, he thought, more than the convenient excuse of “overwork” Dr. MacClure’s poor health . . . .

He sprang out of the chair the next moment, and then stood still.

As the connection was made and Dr. MacClure spoke into the instrument, something happened to him. Ellery saw the big man stiffen in his seat beyond the glass walls, clutching the telephone convulsively, his craggy features drained of blood. The shoulders sagged then and the whole man seemed to cave in.

Ellery’s first thought was that the doctor had suffered a heart-attack.

But he instantly realized that the expression on Dr. MacClure’s face was not caused by physical pain; the pale lips were twisted with shock, the shock of immense and horrified surprise.

Then Dr. MacClure was at the door of the cubicle, fumbling with his collar as if he wanted air.

“Queen,” he said in an unrecognizable voice. “Queen. When do we dock?”

“Wednesday. Before noon.” Ellery reached out to steady the man; the iron arm was shaking.

“My God,” said Dr. MacClure hoarsely. “A day and a half.”

“Doctor! What’s happened? Has your daughter—?”

Dr. MacClure braced himself and with an effort walked to the leather chair Ellery had vacated and sat down, staring at the glass walls. His eyeballs were yellow, speckled with red darts. Ellery motioned violently to a steward, whispered to him to bring a long drink, and the man left running. The purser was already hurrying across the lounge, followed by the florid woman.

The big man suddenly shook through the length and thickness of his body. And his face screwed up in the queerest expression of pain, as if he were wincing at a terrible thought that refused to leave his brain.

“An awful thing,” he mumbled. “An awful thing. I can’t understand it.

An awful thing.”

Ellery shook him. “For God’s sake, Doctor, what’s happened? Who was that?”

“Eh?” The red-specked eyes gazed up at him unsee-ingly.

“Who was it?”

“Oh,” said Dr. MacClure. “Oh. Oh, yes. The New York police.” Chapter V

Eva sat up on the couch at half-past four and yawned, stretching her arms. The book she had picked up from the inlaid table she dropped, wrinkling her nose; it was dull. Or perhaps that wasn’t fair—she’d really not been able to put two consecutive sentences together. There were so many things to think about—the wedding, the honeymoon, the house, where to live, the furniture . . .

If Karen didn’t finish what she was doing soon, she thought, she would curl up and go to sleep. There was still plenty of time before the six o’clock call she contemplated to Dr. MacClure in mid-ocean, although she could hardly wait. She did wish Karen would come out, or something.

They’d call the Panthia together! Or should she keep the news as a surprise for Dr. MacClure when the Panthia docked Wednesday morning?

The telephone rang in Karen’s bedroom.

Eva sank back on the silk pillows, not listening, half-smiling. But the telephone rang again. It stopped. It rang.

That was funny, thought Eva, staring at the closed door. The telephone was on Karen’s writing-desk in front of the oriel windows overlooking the garden, and that was where Karen sometimes did her work.

She had only to reach over . . . There it was again!

Could Karen have lain down for a nap? But surely that shrill signal would have awakened her. Was she in that funny, mysterious old attic of hers? But . . . Another ring.

Perhaps she was deliberately ignoring it. Karen was a queer person—
nervous, temperamental—she might be so annoyed at the ‘phone that she wouldn’t answer it out of pique. It. was an army rule in the house that she wasn’t to be disturbed for any reason whatever while she was in her quarters working. So the telephone . . . Eva relaxed on the pillows as the bell rang once more.

But she sat up very quickly a moment later. There must be something wrong! Kinume had said Karen was “liting”—but what was she writing?

Kinume had brought her stationery and envelope! Then she wasn’t working on her new novel at all; she was writing a letter. But if she was writing a letter, why didn’t she answer her telephone?

The telephone rang for the last time, gave up.

Eva scrambled off the couch, skirt flying, and ran across the sitting-room to the bedroom door. Something had happened to Karen. She was ill—Kinume had said so—she had looked poorly the last time Eva saw her

—perhaps Karen had fainted or had had an attack of something. That was it! She burst into Karen’s bedroom so precipitately that the door banged against the wall and swung back, bumping into her. And Eva stared, her heart hammering, hardly knowing what to expect.

At first she thought the room was empty. There was no one in the low funny little Japanese bed and the writing-desk in front of the oriel windows was untenanted. In fact, the chair behind the desk, facing her, was pushed neatly into the kneehole on the farther side, for Karen’s desk and chair were so placed as to catch the light from the triple window over her shoulder when she worked.

Eva crossed to the far side of the room, looking around, puzzled.

Everything was in place—the beautiful Japanese screen beyond the bed against the wall; the water-colors; the large empty bird-cage hanging beside the bed; the Kakemono by the great Japanese painter Oguri Sotan, which Karen prized so dearly; the delicate bric-a-brac—everything was in place except Karen herself. Where was she? She had certainly been in the bedroom a half-hour before; Eva had heard her voice. Unless she was upstairs in that attic no one had ever seen . . . .

Then Eva spied two tiny Japanese shoes, toes down, hanging over the step of the little dais behind the desk, where the floor of the oriel was raised above the level of the bedroom. And Karen’s feet were in the shoes, clad in white Japanese stockings, and there was a scrap of kimono visible . . . .

Eva felt her heart contract. Poor Karen! She had merely fainted after all. Eva ran around the desk. There was Karen lying face down on the dais, stretched along the step of the dais, her kimono almost fastidiously draped about her little form . . . . Eva opened her mouth to call Kinume.

But her mouth closed again. She blinked and blinked and blinked, in a futile, dazed way, everything in her paralyzed but her eyes.

There was blood on the dais.

There was blood on the dais. Eva kept blinking, so stunned her brain could think nothing but that. Blood!

* * *

Karen’s face was twisted sidewise to Eva, resting on the polished dais, and the blood was staining the floor near her white throat. There was so much of it, as if it had gushed out of that hideous slit, that red-lipped wound in the soft front of Karen’s throat . . . . Eva covered her eyes with a little animal whimper.

When she put her hands down one part of her numbed brain was already functioning weakly. Karen was so still, her exhausted cheeks were so white, so bluish-white, her lids so marbly and veined—Karen was dead.

Karen was dead of a stab-wound in her neck. Karen was . . . was murdered.

The thought repeated itself, ringing in her head like the telephone bell that had rung and rung. Only the telephone bell had stopped, and the thought would not. Eva’s hand groped for the desk; she felt she must hold on to something.

Her hand touched something cold, and instinctively she jerked away and looked. It was a piece of metal, a long piece of metal tapering to a point and with a bow on the other end. Scarcely conscious of what she was doing, Eva picked the thing up. It was—that was queer! she thought dully

—half of a pair of scissors. She could even see the little hole at the base of the blade, between the blade and the finger bow, where the screw which held the two halves together had once dropped out. But it was the oddest-looking scissors she . . .

Eva almost screamed this time. That blade, that sharp wicked point . . .

the weapon, the weapon that had killed Karen! Some one had killed Karen with half a scissors and wiped the blade off and—and left it! Her hand jerked again, and the metal thing fell, striking the edge of the writing-desk and slithering off into a little waste-basket half-full of paper debris to the right of the chair. Unconsciously Eva passed her fingers over her skirt, but the cold and evil feel of the thing remained.

She tottered around the desk and dropped to her knees on the dais beside Karen’s body. Karen, Karen, she thought wildly; such a queer and pretty thing, so terribly happy after so many shut-in years, and now so horribly dead. Eva felt herself go weak and put out her hand to steady herself on the dais floor. And this time her fingers touched something like tepid jelly, and she did scream—a formless, almost voiceless scream that whispered in the silent room.

It was Karen’s coagulating blood, and it was all over her hand.

She jumped to her feet and retreated blindly, half-mad with nausea and horror. Her handkerchief, she must wipe . . . She fumbled in the waistband of her skirt, ridiculously careful not to get a spot of the sticky red stuff on her skirt or waist. She found the handkerchief and wiped and wiped, as if she could never get herself clean; wiped her fingers and smeared the handkerchief with jelly-red smears and kept staring blindly at Karen’s bluing face.

Then her heart stopped beating. Some one was chuckling without amusement, dryly, behind her.

Eva whirled so fast she almost fell. She did fall back against the desk, the bloody handkerchief clutched to her breast.

A man was leaning in the open doorway of the bedroom, leaning and chuckling in that dry and humorless way.

But his eyes were not chuckling at all. They were very cold gray eyes, and they were watching not her face but her hands.

And the man said in a low, slow voice: “Stand still, gorgeous.” Chapter VI

The man heaved against the jamb, came straight, and walked into the room on the balls of his feet. He walked so carefully that Eva felt a hysterical impulse to laugh. But she did not, for it struck her remotely that there was grace in the way he walked on the balls of his feet, as if he had done it many times before.

The man refused to look at her face; all his attention coldly persisted in centering on her hands. The bloody handkerchief, thought Eva in a dim horror . . . „ She dropped the hateful thing on the floor and started to push away from the desk.

“I said stand still.”

She stood still. The man stopped, his eyes flickered, and still looking at her he walked backward until he came to the door, and then he found it by groping for the knob behind him and quickly and noiselessly shut it.

‘T—She’s—” began Eva, gesturing in a fluttery way over her shoulder.

But her mouth was so dry she had to stop.

“Shut up.”

He was a young man with a bleak brown face, as crisp and seared as autumn leaves. The words came out of his mouth like drops of ice-water through lips that barely parted.

“Park it right where you are. Against the desk. And keep those hands of yours where I can see them.”

The room spun. Eva closed her eyes, dizzy. Keep those hands of yours . . .

Her legs were frozen, but her brain was going like a machine. The words didn’t make sense. Keep those hands of yours . . .

When she looked again he was standing in front of her with a trace of puzzlement in the gray diamonds of his eyes. And now he was not looking at her hands, which were spread beside her on the desk, but at her face.

He was reading her face. He was taking it in, feature by feature—her brows, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, her chin—going over them one by one, like an accountant taking inventory. Eva tried to make sense out of chaos, but nothing clicked into place. She thought it might be a dream, then hoped it might be a dream. She almost convinced herself it was a dream and closed her eyes again to make it so.

She did not hear him move, which proved it was a dream. For when she next opened her eyes he was gone.

But then she turned her head and there he was behind the desk, in the oriel, resting on one knee beside Karen’s body, not touching Karen, not touching the blood, almost not touching the floor he was kneeling on.

Eva could see his hard brown young face clearly, intent on the body. It was like no face she had ever seen; none of the men she knew—not Dr.

MacClure, not Richard Scott—had a face like his. It was perfectly smooth in its brownness, almost hairless, like a mask one molecule thick. Eva would have said it was the face of a boy if not for the hardness, the expres-sionlessness of it. It was as if a grown man had kept himself alive in a world of enemies by putting up an impenetrable brown shield. He had broad shoulders and large clean brown hands. As he leaned over, Eva could see no trace of wrinkled belly; he was flat and hard there, too, where Richard—where Richard was a little soft. Where Richard . . . Oh, Richard! . . . And his big body was clothed a little too nattily in a gray Palm Beach suit with a dark blue shirt and white silk tie, and he wore a hat a little too rakish—a white Leghorn pulled down over one gray eye.

The brown man came to his feet in a bound and began to stalk. From object to object in the room, stalking. That was it, thought Eva; stalking like a hunter. He was looking the place over without touching anything, looking it over and looking for something at the same time. And always he managed to keep her in full view, turning and walking and stopping with a delicate nervous energy that reminded her of a race-horse.

Who was he? Eva thought. Who was he? Once the thought came, it flooded her with panic. Who was he? She had never seen him before. It was inconceivable that he was a friend of Karen’s or of any one Eva knew

—she knew no men like him. He was different even from the race-track gamblers he vaguely resembled, or the strange men who lounged about Times Square.

Who was he? How had he got into the house? Could he have been in the bedroom all the time? But Eva knew it was empty except for Karen when she had burst in.

Then why had he come? What was his business? Was he a—gangster?

There ivas what might have been a bulge . . . Had—he—

Eva’s breath caught, and he was in front of her before she could move.

He caught up her two hands and held them in one of his with an easy clutch that hurt her. With the other hand he gripped her chin and shook her head a little; but her teeth rattled and tears came to her eyes.

“Talk fast, sweetheart.” He spoke like a machine-gun now. “What’s your name?”

She was surprised to hear herself say, in a fascinated way: “Eva. Eva MacClure,” like a child.

From the lightest constriction of his hands she knew that he recognized the name; but his eyes gave no sign.

“What time did you blow in here?”

“Four. About four o’clock.’’’

“Who spotted you?”

“The maids.”

She wondered idly why she was answering this stranger’s questions, but all the will had gone out of her and she could only respond to stimuli like a jellyfish being poked.

“Jap?”

“Kinume was up here giving Karen some stationery. I heard Karen’s voice from the sitting-room but didn’t see her. She didn’t know I was here. Kinume came out and told me Karen was writing. I sent her away and waited.”

“What for?”

“I wanted to talk over—something—something with Karen.”

“How long did you wait?”

“It was four-thirty when the telephone rang in here,” said Eva mechanically. “It kept ringing and finally stopped.” Somehow she knew he knew all about the telephone call; but how he knew it, or how she knew he knew it, she could not have said. “I was frightened and came in here and found—her.”

Her voice somehow got to the end of the sentence. The man was weighing her again, again puzzled. It was remarkable how those gray eyes could hold you . . . .

“What were you doing with the bloody handkerchief?” The handkerchief was at their feet; he kicked it.

“I—I went over to look at Karen and got some blood on my hands from the floor. I wiped it off.”

He released her hands and chin slowly; she felt the blood seep back into the grooves his fingers had made.

“All right, sweetheart,” he said slowly. “I guess you’re too dumb to lie.”Eva’s knees gave way and she sank to the floor, leaning against the desk and crying and crying, like a fool. The brown man stood over her wide-legged, looking down, still puzzled. Then his legs moved away, and although she could not hear him she knew he was restlessly prowling again.

Richard . . . . If only Richard were here. In his arms she would be safe

—safe from this brown man with his terrifying eyes. Oh, if she were only his—for always, married, safe, safe forever. She wished fiercely that she could stop crying, but try as she would she could not. Richard . . . . And her father. But the instant she thought of Dr. MacClure she shut the thought up in a locked closet of her mind. She refused to think of the huge tired man on the high seas.

* * *

Glass exploded behind her and something flew over her head to thud in front of her on the floor.

The stranger, who was just about to step on the dais behind her, almost got the missile in his face. His arm went up in a blur to shield his eyes from the spattering glass of the oriel’s central window; and then he and Eva from opposite sides were looking down into the garden from which the missile had come. How she had got up from the floor Eva had no idea. All she remembered was the crash of glass, and then she was in the oriel with the brown man. The blood, the little quiet figure . . . . She found herself pressed against the brown man’s hardness.

But the garden was empty; whoever had broken the window was gone.

Eva began to laugh so hard she thought she would never stop. She rocked against the brown man in little convulsions of mirth, feeling him hard against her, not feeling him at all. Then she stepped down from the dais and swayed against the desk and laughed and laughed until the tears flowed again.

“Throwing stones,” she gasped. “Throwing stones—with Karen—with Karen . . . “

He slapped her so hard with his open palm that she squealed with pain and shrank away from him, 011 the edge of collapse.

“I told you to shut up,” he said, frowning; but it sounded in the oddest way like an apology.

He turned away from her at once, as if he were ashamed. Not, thought Eva wildly, for having slapped her, but for having been apologetic about it. She watched him, feeling so stupid and empty that unconsciousness would have been a relief.

The stranger looked briefly at the broken window. It was the central window which had been shattered—both panes, for the window was open from the bottom. He stared thoughtfully at the thick vertical iron bars, uniformly six inches apart, which protected all three windows on the outside. Then he went over to look at the rock. On the way he glanced at his wristwatch.

The rock was lying in the middle of the bedroom. It was the most ordinary rock imaginable. Its underside was uppermost, black with bits of loam, some of which was scattered over the floor, and damp-looking, as if it had just been picked up in the garden. It was an oval five inches thick in its longer diameter. He prodded it with his foot and turned it over; the other side was clean. And that was all.

“Screwy,” he said after a moment; and Eva knew he had reached a decision. “Some kid.” His light shrug dismissed the incident. “Miss MacClure.”

“Yes?” sighed Eva.

He straddled the rock and looked at her. “You sure you heard Karen Leith’s voice when the Jap gave her the stationery?” ttT»)) I m sure.

“That the stationery—that wad of paper on the desk?” Eva looked. There was the deckle-edged sheet with its faint rose-on-ivory pattern of chrysanthemums. But it was crumpled into a ball. The blank envelope lay near it.

“It looks the same,” said Eva in a lifeless voice.

He moved then, toward her, and taking out a handkerchief picked up the crumpled sheet with it, smoothing the sheet out. Something was written on it—Eva read the words, but her mind refused to function normally, and the words remained meaningless. The word “Morel” did sink in—that was Karen’s lawyer. It was apparently the beginning of a letter to Morel which had never ended. It stopped in the middle of a sentence.

“That her handwriting?”

“Yes.”

He crumpled the paper carefully and dropped it back on the desk in the exact spot on which he had found it. Then he went around the desk and looked through all the drawers.

“No other stationery,” he muttered, and stood musing a moment, pulling at his upper lip. “Look, sister. The Jap woman’s out. She gave Leith the sheet of paper and left. It was blank when you saw it in the Jap’s hand?”

“Yes.”

“Then she couldn’t have done it. Leith woman wrote on it after the Jap left. Proves Karen was alive after the Jap left. All right.” He glanced again at his wristwatch.

“Kinume,” said Eva. “Kinume wouldn’t do a thing—like this.”

“I said she didn’t, didn’t I?” He was growing angry. “You were in that sitting-room all the time. Leave it at all?”

“No.”

“Who went in and came out while you were waiting in there?”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody!” He seemed startled. The old puzzlement came back into his eyes as he searched her face. She wondered why. No, she didn’t.

Nothing mattered, really, with Karen—with Karen dead. All she wanted was Dick . . . .

The brown man ran to the door, listened, yanked it noiselessly open, stood on the threshold looking over the sitting-room. There were two doors in the sitting-room—the one from the corridor and the one in which he stood. He rasped without turning around: “You’re sure, now.

You didn’t fall asleep?”

“Nobody went in or out.”

He came back, clenching his hands lightly. “The Jap again. How long was she in this bedroom?”

“Not ten seconds.”

“Nuts!” His face reddened with anger. “Karen was knifed while you were sitting in that room. You say nobody passed through it. Then how the hell did the killer get in? Even supposing the killer was in here hiding before the Jap maid brought the paper, how the hell did he get out? Tell me that. Well, tell me!”

“I don’t know,” said Eva. Her head ached and it was hard to think. It didn’t seem important.

He was growing angrier. Why was he so angry? “All right. Killer didn’t get out through the sitting-room.” It was as if he were debating it with himself. “But he must have got out—he’s not here now. How?

Through these windows? They’re all barred. Let’s get crazy. Let’s say he never got in at all—was outside all the time, hanging from a rope from the roof or some cockeyed thing, and threw the knife at her through the bars.

Then why isn’t the knife still sticking in her neck? No dice . . . . And there’s no door in this room to the hall—there’s just this one door from the sitting-room. God damn it!”

“That’s not so,” said Eva dully. “There is another door.”

“Where?” He whirled around, stabbing the room with his eyes.

“But don’t touch it, please, please don’t.”

“Where is it?”

“Karen—Karen never allowed any one to touch it. No one—no one ever went near it. Not the servants or any one.” He was over her now, so furious she could feel his hot breath on her forehead. “Where is it?” he muttered.

Eva whimpered: “Behind the Japanese screen. The screen is hiding it.” He was there in two leaps, flipping the screen aside. “Where’s it go?

Quick!”

“To—to the attic. Where Karen used to do most of her writing. No one’s ever been up there—not even my father. Oh, please don’t . . . “ It was an ordinary door set in an ell of the room. His fever drained off, leaving him colder than before. He did not move, did not touch the door.

He stared. Then he turned around. “It’s got a bolt. The bolt is in the socket. On this side of the door “ He was not angry at all now, just watchful

—watchful as he had been when he had first come into the room. His shoulders were hunched a little. “Did you touch this bolt?”

“I haven’t been near it. Why—what—?”

He chuckled again, that same dry humorless chuckle.

“I—I don’t understand,” whispered Eva.

“It sure looks bad for you, beautiful,” he said. “It sure looks like curtains for you.”

There was the ghostliest sound from the dais. It froze them both.

Eva’s hair—she could feel each hair rise—tickled her scalp. It was a gurgle, a faint thick gurgle, a horrible gurgle, but human and . . . alive.

“Oh, my God,” whispered Eva. “She’s—she’s—”

He was past her before she could move; and when she found the strength in her legs to move, he was already kneeling.

Karen’s eyes were open and they were glaring at Eva with such intensity that Eva closed her own eyes to shut off the glare. But she opened them again, because she could still hear the gurgle which came from that torn throat without the least flutter of the bloodless lips.

The man said harshly: “Miss Leith. Who stab—”

He never finished. The glare glazed over, never moving; and something red gushed out of Karen’s wry mouth—Eva saw it before she turned her head blindly, her own breath coming in gusts.

The man rose. “Could have sworn she was dead. Damn it! She hung on like .. Then he took out a cigaret and very slowly lit it, putting the burnt match in his pocket and not looking at Karen any more.

When he spoke, the words dribbled with the smoke out of his hard young mouth. “What have you got to say for yourself?” Eva could only look at him; she scarcely heard his voice.

“Haven’t even got the brains to alibi yourself,” he said bitterly. “What the hell brought me here today? I’m going soft.”

“You said—” began Eva in a cracked voice. “You said I—”

“Gorgeous, you’re on one tough spot. Either you’re the dumbest jane I ever met, or the smartest.” His cold eyes brooded on her, still weighing, still puzzled.

“What do you mean?” she faltered. “I don’t—”

“She was alive when you got here. Between the time the Jap left and the time the ‘phone rang, nobody could have got in or out of this bedroom through the sitting-room, because you said so yourself. Nobody could have got out through these barred windows. Nobody could have got out through the only other door in this room—that one going up to the attic . . . because it’s bolted from inside here. So what? There’s just no other way to get out. Figure it out for yourself.” She shivered suddenly, rubbing her eyes. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” she said in a quiet tone. “I guess I’m a little—a little . . . the shock of Karen’s . . . You can’t mean—•”

He pulled her to him with his free arm and twisted her about until she was staring into his troubled gray eyes. “I mean,” he said savagely, “that no one did get out, because no one could have got out. I mean you’re the only one in this whole God-damned world who could possibly have bumped her off!” His face swam before her, the brown oval darkening, fading, going out before her eyes. Richard, Richard, Richard, please. Please come, Dick.

Dick . . .

“And not only that,” she heard his voice going on, in the same savage troubled way, “in just about two shakes of a lamb’s tail the New York police department is going to come into your life. Karen Leith had an appointment with a Headquarters dick for five o’clock this afternoon in this room. And it’s two minutes to five now.”

Then she heard her own voice, remote and unrecognizable, screaming thinly: “No! I didn’t do it! Oh, please, you’ve got to believe me! I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

But all the time another voice was saying inside her brain that everything had come down with a crash, that there could be nothing more

—no Dick, no marriage, no happiness . . . no life.

PART TWO

Chapter VII

From far away Eva’s cheeks began to tingle under the impact of remote blows. And she began at the same time to hear the brown man’s voice saying remotely: “Snap out of it. For the love of Mike, fainting!

Snap out of it.”

Then his voice came in full and bass, and she opened her eyes to find herself on the floor again with the brown man kneeling by her and slapping her with curt, snappy strokes that hurt.

“Stop slapping me,” said Eva feebly, pushing his hand away and sitting up. “I’m not a child.”

He hauled her to her feet and held her close to his chest, gripping her elbows; he shook her. “Did you knife Karen Leith or didn’t you? Talk, will you! . . . Faint-ing!”

He glowered down at her resentfully. Karen’s bedroom went dark again. Something like this had happened long ago. Long ago. There had been a boy in Nantasket with a quick brown face, like his, and hard gray eyes, like his; and she had once fallen from a tree and fainted and the boy had slapped her until she awoke screaming with the sting to slap back at him and call him names, red all over because she had fainted and he had seen her so. Her palms itched in the darkness, and she had to fight with herself to keep from slapping the brown man back. The fight dispelled the darkness.

“No,” said Eva. “I didn’t.”

His eyes were so suspicious, so puzzled, so like a little boy’s in their hardness and uncertainty, that Eva illogi-cally felt sorry for him.

“If you did, tell me. I can keep my mouth shut if I want to. Talk!” Eva MacClure, thought Eva—a girl engaged to be married, the envy of her friends, the center of a closed little universe of her own . . . caught in a trap. Caught in an enormous trap. She felt the bite of it. It cut clear through, shearing through everything with one snick of its jaws. Its painful teeth cut through the shadows, too. Karen—Karen was just a stiffening corpse, Dr. MacClure a man far away, Dick Scott a dangling delicacy never more to be tasted. Only she remained in this shut-in world of nasty reality—this frightening room with its corpse and blood and brown man . . . only she remained, and this bitter brown man holding fast to her elbows. Or no—it was she who was really holding fast to him. He was good to cling to. The grip of his hands was strong and warm and immediate.

“I didn’t kill Karen, I tell you.” She went limp against him.

“You’re the only one. Don’t try to kid me—I’ve been kidded by experts. No one else could have done it.”

“If you’re so sure, why do you ask me?”

He shook her again, pushing her back, looking down into her eyes.

Eva closed them, and opened them the next moment.

“You’ll have to believe me,” she sighed. “I can only give you my word.

You’ll have to believe me.”

He scowled, pushed her from him, and she fell back against the writing-desk. His mouth was a straight line.

“Damn fool,” he muttered. She knew he was talking about himself.

He began to look around with those quick animal movements which had such power to fascinate her.

“What are you going to do?” breathed Eva.

He jumped for the attic door, whipping out his handkerchief. He wrapped the linen around his right hand and went for the bolt on the attic door like a beast charging its prey. His swathed fingers grasped the little knob of the sliding bar and pushed. The bar did not move. He changed position and pulled. The bar refused to budge.

“Stuck.” He kept pulling. “That handkerchief. Get a move on. With the blood on it.”

“What?” said Eva dazedly.

“On the floor! Burn it. Quick.”

“Burn it,” repeated Eva. “Why? Where?”

“Fireplace in the sitting-room. Shut the door there first. Get a move on, will you!”

“But I have no—”

“My coat pocket. Damn it, jump!”

Eva jumped. Things had gone completely beyond her. Her brain was a blank, and she was grateful.

She fumbled in his pocket as he struggled with the stubborn bolt, feeling the writhing of his hips as he twisted and tugged. His lips were all but invisible and the tendons of his neck swollen and rigid. Then she found the packet of matches, cool against her fingers.

She walked back, picked up the blood-smeared handkerchief by its monogrammed corner, and went slowly into the sitting-room. As she shut the sitting-room door to the hall she could hear the brown man panting in the bedroom over the bolt.

Then she was on her knees before the fireplace.

* * *

A fire had recently gone out in the grate; there were still a few ashes, debris. Eva found herself thinking mechanically that it had been cool the evening before and that Karen was always feeling chilly. Karen, with her thin blood. But it was Karen’s blood on Eva’s handkerchief. Karen’s blood.

The wisp of cambric fell into the grate and Eva found her fingers trembling so badly she had to strike three matches before she could achieve flame. Some coils of half-charred old paper beneath the kerchief caught fire and the fire touched the edge of the cambric.

Karen’s blood, thought Eva. She was warming Karen’s blood . . . . The kerchief blazed up with a little hiss.

Eva got to her feet and stumbled back into the bedroom. She did not want to see that bloody handkerchief burn. She really did not. She wanted to forget that handkerchief, that thing on the floor that was not Karen any more, that choking around her own neck . . . .

“I won’t stay here any more!” she screamed, bursting in on him. “I’m going to run away—hide! Take me away from here—Dick, home, anywhere!”

“Stop it.” He did not even turn around. The light cloth was strained across his shoulders.

“If I get out of here—”

“You’re through.”

“The police—”

“They’re late. It’s a break. Did you burn it?” His brown face was shiny with perspiration.

“But if they don’t find me here—”

“The Jap saw you, didn’t she? Damn—this—bolt.” He chopped at it with the edge of his wrapped hand, savagely.

“Oh, God,” moaned Eva. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t—”

“If you don’t pipe down—I’ll—clout you one . . . . Ah!” The bolt gave suddenly with a scream. His wrapped hand yanked the door open. He disappeared into the gloom beyond.

Eva dragged herself to the open door and leaned against the jamb. It was a cramped space; there was a flight of narrow wooden steps leading up . . . . To the room in the attic. The room. What was in the room? . . .

Her own room in the apartment. Her bed, the lovely candlewick spread, yellow dots against the white crepe; the third drawer from the top in her bureau, where she kept her stockings rolled into balls. The closet with her summer hats. The old suitcase with its torn labels. Her new black underwear that Susie Hotchkiss had said was worn only by kept women and actresses; how angry she’d been! The Bouguereau atrocity over her bed—
it had bored her and scandalized Venetia and Dr. MacClure had liked it . . . .

She heard the brown man swooping about overhead, heard the metallic click of a window-latch, the thin screech of a window being opened . . . . She’d forgotten to put away the nail-polish. Venetia would scold her with all the good fury of her good black soul. She’d spilled a drop on the hooked rug . . . .

Then he was bounding down the narrow staircase toward her, shoving her out of his way, leaving the door open. He looked around at the bedroom again, his chest rising and falling lightly.

“I don’t understand,” said Eva. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you an out.” He did not look at her. “What will I get for it—
hey, gorgeous?”

She shrank against the jamb. So that was why—

“I’ll tell you,” he said bitterly. “A kick in the pants. Teach me to mind my own damned business.”

He lunged for the Japanese screen and set it carefully against the wall, out of the way.

“What are you doing?” asked Eva again.

“Giving the cops something to think about. The door was bolted from inside here, so I’ve opened it. They’ll figure the killer got in and out that way. They’ll figure he climbed from the garden to that ell-roof back there, up into the attic.” He chuckled. “Two windows up there, both locked—
from the inside, of course. Nobody could have got in. But I opened one of

‘em. I ought to be in King’s Park.”

“I don’t understand it,” whispered Eva. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

“They’ll figure he got in through the attic window, came down here, pulled the job, and made his getaway the same way. Powder your nose.”

“But—”

“Powder your nose! Do I have to do that for you, too?” Eva ran back to the sitting-room for her bag; it was on the funny couch where she had been reading that book . . . how long ago? There was a faint odor of fire, fire and—

He was looking around the bedroom again, making sure, making sure.

Downstairs—they both heard it—the doorbell rang.

* * *

Eva opened her bag somehow. But it was torn from her fingers, snapped shut, flung on the couch. She found herself lifted off the floor and deposited with a thump beside it.

“No time,” whispered the brown man. “Better anyway—you look as if you’d been crying. What were your hands on in there?”

“What?”

“What did you touch? For the love of Mike!”

“The desk,” whispered Eva. “The floor under the windows. Oh!”

“For God’s sake!”

“I forgot! Something else. The bird with all those shiny stones on it!” She thought he was going to slap her again, his eyes were so hot and furious. “Bird. Stones. What the hell! Listen. Keep your trap shut. Follow my leads. Cry, if you feel like it. Faint. Do any damned thing you please, only don’t talk too much.”

He didn’t understand. The bird, the half-bird. “But—”

“When you have to talk, tell ‘em what you first told me.” He was racing back to the bedroom again. “Only don’t say anything about that attic door being bolted.

Understand? The way it is now is the way you found • >> it.

He was gone.

He was gone, and the only thing Eva was conscious of was the clamor of her heart. The police! She could hear voices—the new maid’s, Kinume’s, a man’s heavy and vibrant . . . on the stairs at the end of the hall. The two maids seemed to be protesting and the man to be jeering at them.

He didn’t understand, thought Eva, sitting tight on the couch and clutching the edge of its seat with spread hands. That little half-scissors she had found on the desk, with its bright semi-precious stones, its bird shape, the blade the beak, the shank the body, the bow the legs . . . . He had thought she was crazy. But she had handled it!

She jumped from the couch, opened her mouth to call him.

A fist smacked against the sitting-room door from the hall.

Eva fell back on the couch. She started to say: “Come in,” but she was surprised to find that nothing came out of her mouth but a rush of breath.

From the bedroom the brown man’s voice was saying urgently: “Come on, come on, sister. Give me Police Headquarters. Where are you? Come on, there!”

He kept repeating the words “Police Headquarters” rather loudly. The rapping on the door stopped and the knob spun and the door was smashed open.

* * *

Eva saw a small emaciated gray man with a brand-new felt hat on his head and an old blue-serge suit standing alertly in the doorway, his right hand in his hip pocket.

“What’s this about Police Headquarters?” demanded the newcomer, not moving and looking around. The white maid and Kinume were peering in fright over his shoulder.

“I think—” began Eva, then remembered what the brown man had told her and stopped.

The man in the doorway was puzzled. “You Miss Leith?” he asked courteously, still looking around without moving.

“Police Headquarters!” yelled the brown man from the bedroom.

“What the hell’s the matter with this line? Hey! Operator!” They heard the violent jiggling of the hook.

The little gray man moved then, swiftly; but the brown man moved even more swiftly, for they met outside the bedroom and the brown man’s shoulders filled the doorway.

Eva, sitting on the couch, felt like a spectator at an exciting melodrama. She could only sit and watch, and feel her heart hammering at the base of her throat. Only this was real. It was real melodrama . . . real.

“That’s service,” drawled the brown man. “They send a fly-cop up before you can even tell ‘em there’s been a crime. Hello, Guilfoyle. How’s the missus?”

The gray-haired man scowled. “So it’s you again, huh? What the hell is this merry-go-round?” He turned to Eva. “I said you Miss Leith—

Karen Leith? I was sent up here—”

Kinume, from the doorway, burst into a cascade of sibilant Japanese.

The brown man glanced her way, and she stopped. Both maids, thought Eva suddenly, seemed to know him. Then he caught Guilfoyle’s arm and spun him about.

“That’s not Karen Leith, you dumb cluck. That’s Miss Eva MacClure.

Take your hat off to a lady.”

“Listen, Terry,” said Guilfoyle plaintively. “Don’t start, now. What is this, anyway? I was sent—”

“I said take your hat off,” laughed the brown man, and he twitched the new felt hat off Guilfoyle’s head. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

“You’ll find Miss Leith in there.”

Guilfoyle stooped for his hat, petulantly. “Take your hands off me, you. What is this? I get an order from the boss to come down here and all of a sudden I walk into Terry Ring.” His pale features sharpened with suspicion. “Say! Crime? Did you say a crime?”

So that was his name, thought Eva. Terry Ring. Probably Terence. He did look Irish. And he was so different now with this man, Guilfoyle, this detective. Good-humored; yes, quite good-humored, his gray eyes crinkling like crepe at the corners, his hard lips smiling. Only his eyes remained as they had been when he had walked in on her. Watchful. He had watched her. Now he was watching Guilfoyle.

Terry Ring stepped aside with a mock bow and the detective ran by him into the bedroom.

“Didn’t I tell you to take your hat off?” said Terry Ring. “Now will you take your hat off?”

He looked after Guilfoyle, still smiling; but his left hand made a slight soothing gesture in Eva’s direction that was so friendly she doubled up on the couch and began to weep normally and luxuriously into the haven of her hands.

Terry Ring then stepped into the bedroom without looking back and shut the door; and through her sobs Eva heard the exclamation of the man Guilfoyle and the clatter of the telephone being snatched from Karen’s writing-desk.

Chapter VIII

Things happened after that. Eva watched them without really seeing them or hearing their meaningless sounds. Time must have passed, but Eva sat on the couch unconscious of it, suspended in haze.

The sitting-room was suddenly overrun, she was conscious of that; as if it had been a caterpillar’s nest one moment sleek and white and still and the next eruptive with crawling larvae.

There were men, many men, only men. First two uniformed officers from a radio car; she saw their insignia. Then two plainclothesmen from some precinct. Then a big man, bigger than Terry Ring, with the biggest shoulders Eva had ever seen; the man’s name was Sergeant Velie and although he seemed to know Terry Ring they did not speak. Then there was a little gray man, littler and grayer than Guilfoyle, with an air of authority and a mild voice and very, very sharp eyes, whom every one greeted respectfully and whose name seemed to be Inspector Breen, or Queen—Eva didn’t quite catch it. There were also men with cameras and men who went about like women with little brushes and bottles. The two rooms filled with smoke. It was like Saturday night at a men’s political club.Finally there was a man named Prouty with a black cigar and a doctor’s bag, who went into the bedroom and shut the door. When he came out two men in uniform brought in a basket and went into the bedroom and shut the door. Then the two men came out with the basket, and it seemed heavier than before, because Eva could see the effort with which they carried it.

Eva wondered what they could be carrying in a basket, like a side of beef.There were questions, too, while Terry Ring jeered at the busy men about him and contrived always to be near Eva with a word, a glance, an air. Inspector Queen asked some questions himself, speaking very mildly to Kinume and the new maid, whose name Eva discovered was Geneva O’Mara; and in a most fatherly and sympathetic tone to Eva herself, asking his little questions and smiling and saying things in undertones to men named Flint and Piggott and Hagstrom and Ritter.

And all the while men wandered about without the least semblance of plan, and others crawled up and down the attic stairs and shouted for help and called encour-ment to one another and made jokes that Eva felt dimly were in bad taste.

Once Eva felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to find little Kinume standing brokenly by the couch, the wrinkled old face contorted with pain, the slanted eyes red with weeping. She groped for Kinume’s hand and pressed it, feeling very motherly toward the old Japanese woman. That was not long after the two men carried the basket out.

She made Kinume sit beside her; and the old woman rocked a little in her grief, hiding her face in the folds of her kimono sleeves. Eva was surprised at that; somehow she had never thought of a Japanese as capable of emotion. It struck her suddenly that just because their eyes were shaped differently was no sign they possessed no tear-ducts. The discovery so warmed Eva’s heart that she embraced the old, fragile shoulders.

There was talk about the brown man, too—a bit here, some scraps there—hilarious references to his past, present, and probable future, and some cruel comments on his paternity. Eva found herself ignored and almost pleasantly listening in the ferment; nothing was real, anyway, and all this, while it had undoubtedly happened, couldn’t possibly have happened. All the rules of human conduct were suspended: one could eavesdrop, laugh, lie, murder, do anything at all while one’s head swam in the hurly-burly and smoke and questions and merriment.

It seemed Terry Ring was one of those strange creatures known as a

“private detective.” He knew all the regular police and they all knew him; but there was animosity between them. The gibes were thinly sheathed and barbed.

He was a “self-made man,” it appeared, rising out of the miasma of the East Side where, despite all better fortune, he still lived. He was twenty-eight—”a mere broth.” In the past he had been circus barker and sand-hog, race-track gambler and checker in a meat-packing house, hobo, professional baseball player, pool shark and, for a short time, Hollywood extra. Eva thought it odd a man so young should have been all these things; he must have begun early, she thought; she felt a spasm of pity for him. She knew instinctively that he was an orphan, a product of the streets, one of the very children she contended with daily at her settlement house. How he had drifted into his present occupation did not clearly come out; some one said it was “the breaks,” and there was reference to a notorious jewel-robbery in Hollywood, a grateful motion-picture star, innuendoes that Terry Ring tossed off lightly while his eyes remained, unrelaxing, on Eva.

But always Inspector Queen came back with some pertinent little question—when Terry Ring had got there—how it was neither Kinume nor Geneva O’Mara had heard him come into the house—how it was there were no footprints in the soft earth below the ell-roof, where the

“killer” had “undoubtedly” dropped in making his escape—what Terry was doing there at all.

“Be a good boy, now, Terry,” said Inspector Queen good-naturedly.

“I’ve always been a friend of yours. What were you doing here today?”

“I had a date with Karen.”

“The O’Mara girl says you were here last week, too.”

“I had a date with her then, too,” said Terry with a wink at the Inspector; and they both chuckled and the Inspector nodded in a pleased way, quite as if this were gospel truth, but all the while his sharp, sharp eyes went from Eva to Terry and then to Kinume and finally back to Eva.

“And you, Miss MacClure—didn’t you hear anything at all in the twenty minutes you sat here—a gasp, a cry, a word, any sound at all?” Eva shook her head; she saw Terry Ring behind the Inspector, tall as a tree, looking at her. “I was reading a book. And—and thinking.”

“Not really reading, then, eh?” beamed the old man.

“I . . . I’d just got myself engaged to be married, you see,” sighed Eva.

“So—”

“Oh! I see. Naturally. Naturally you’d be thinking. Deaf as a post, I’ll bet. It’s too bad. There must have been some sound.” He moved away and Eva saw Terry Ring move with him, turning abruptly on his heel and going into the bedroom . . . . The bedroom. The bedroom.

Panic seized her. That waste-paper basket . . . the half-scissors had fallen into the basket when she had dropped it. Were there papers in the basket? It seemed—yes, there were. Perhaps they wouldn’t find . . . But they would. Eva knew they would. The police always found everything.

They’d know it was the weapon in a minute. They had been looking for it for some time. Of course. Karen had been stabbed. There was always the chance the murderer had left his weapon behind. They’d look until they found it. If only she dared follow them . . . .

Terry Ring had gone into the bedroom and no one had stopped him.

They tolerated him, that was it. He was a privileged character. Not even a reporter had been admitted—she heard them all over the house downstairs, clamoring angrily. But Terry Ring stalked about like a—well, like some sort of minor god with a special dispensation from the police department. They must know him very well. They must have confidence in his integrity, or they wouldn’t—Or would they? Perhaps they suspected him!

Perhaps they were watching him, giving him rope . . . . Eva shivered.

All he had told them was that he had had an appointment with Karen for five—that seemed significant to the funny little Inspector—and that he had come in, finding the downstairs door open (which Geneva O’Mara denied), just before Guilfoyle, who stood about now watching his mates’

activity with a grieved expression. He had found the body and Miss MacClure over it in a state of near-collapse. He had tried to telephone Headquarters. And that was all . . . . Eva had fitted her story to his. She had come to call on Karen, Kinume had told her Karen was writing, she had waited in the sitting-room, and then when the telephone rang and went unanswered she had gone into the bedroom, thinking something had happened to Karen. She had been there only a moment when Terry Ring had come in and found her.

They asked Kinume questions, and the old woman in her broken English told about Eva’s arrival and the deckle-edged writing-paper which, she claimed, Karen had sent her for only a short time before Eva came. They came to Eva for a verification of Karen’s handwriting with the crumpled letter. They had found no other writing-paper in the bedroom, it appeared. Then they took Kinume away and questioned her some more.

The little Inspector seemed bothered by the strange telephone call.

Terry Ring stood about and just smiled. He kept smiling all the time now.

But that little half-scissors, thought Eva. Had they found it? She kept glancing at men’s faces, trying not to appear anxious. And what would the brown man say when they found it? He would probably—Eva’s cheek tingled again. He did slap people so. Then she felt absurd and watched some more. He would blame her for not telling him about it. Everything was so mixed up. She leaned back against the couch, too sick to think any longer.

* * *

Inspector Queen was saying: “Miss MacClure.”

Eva glanced up. He was standing before her, smiling, and there was a man with an inky pad and some small sheets of marked paper beside him.

It had come. It had come! What was he saying? She tried desperately to concentrate.

“Now don’t be alarmed, Miss MacClure. This is going to be very helpful to us.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Terry Ring come out of the bedroom. The Inspector had come out of the bedroom, too. Eva sent one full glance at the brown man, and looked quickly away. He knew; the Inspector knew. No, the Inspector couldn’t; he didn’t have her fingerprints yet. But Terry Ring remembered what she had said about the bird and the stones. He knew.

“In your confused state,” said the Inspector, patting her shoulder, “you must have touched some things in the bedroom; and certainly you handled many objects in this room. We can discount this room, because you say no one went through it all the time you were in here. But the bedroom is important.”

“Yes,” said Eva stiffly.

“Now we have found some fingerprints in the bedroom—several different sets—and we must find out whose prints they are. We must find out which are Miss Leith’s, which are the Japanese woman’s, which are yours, and so on. What’s left over may be . . . You see?”

“What about mine?” asked the brown man, winking.

“Oh, we’ll take yours, too,” chuckled the Inspector. “Although I know darned well you didn’t leave any. I wouldn’t want you as a murderer.” They laughed together, heartily.

She held out her hands, trying to keep them from trembling, and the fingerprint man did things very swiftly with them. It was all over in an incredibly short time, and Eva stared at the ten inky patterns on the two sheets of marked paper.

“So those are my fingerprints,” she thought. It was all over. It was all over. She was so exhausted she could not even cry. She could only sit there and watch the little Inspector patter off with his men, and feel Terry Ring’s terrifying smile transfixing her from above.

Eva had just decided that she must never breathe a word about her handling of the scissors to any one—not to Dick, not to Dr. MacClure, not even to Terry Ring.

Perhaps he didn’t remember. Perhaps she hadn’t really got her fingerprints on the half-scissors at all. Perhaps no one would ever find out.

Then she heard the voice, and it was so welcome and so anxious and so warm with distress that it poured over Eva like a balm, soothing her and making her legs tremble with reaction.

Everything would be all right. Now everything must be all right. It was Dick. She needn’t worry any longer about Terry Ring or Inspector Queen or any one.

She stretched her arms out to him and he dropped to the couch beside her, his handsome face puckered with worry and tenderness. She knew every one was looking—Terry Ring, too; she saw him looking—but she didn’t care. She burrowed into young Dr. Scott’s arms like a child, rubbing her nose on his chest.

“It’s all right, darling,” he was saying over and over. “Take it easy. It’s all right.”

“Oh, Dick,” she sighed, and burrowed some more. She was glad, inside, that Terry Ring was looking. She had her own man, now, to take care of her. He needn’t think he was almighty. This was her family, now, her very own. He was a stranger. She put up her face and kissed Dr. Scott.

Terry Ring smiled.

The doctor sat crooning his song of reassurance over her and Eva felt peaceful. Nothing could go wrong now.

“For God’s sake, Eva, what happened?” whispered Dr. Scott at last. “I can’t believe it. It’s too damned unreal.”

It was not all right. Not any more. She had forgotten.

She was a fool ever to have thought, even for a second, that her troubles were over. “What happened?” What happened? What happened was that she had lost Dick forever.

Eva sat up slowly. “Nothing, Dick. It’s just—Some one’s murdered Karen. Nothing at all!”

“You poor kid.” His doctor’s eyes were looking her over. “Why don’t you cry it out?” He seemed to feel that her calmness was unnatural. If he only knew!

“I’ve cried already. Don’t worry about me, Dick. I won’t make a fool of myself.”

“I want you to make a fool of yourself. You’ll feel better. You mustn’t forget, darling—there’s your father.”

Yes, thought Eva; there was Dr. MacClure. There was Dr. MacClure.

“You’ve got to be ready for him. This is going to be a terrible shock to him. When he comes, it’s you who’ll have to comfort him.”

“I know, Dick. I’ll be all right.”

“They’ve notified him already. I’ve been talking to that Inspector.

They got the Panthia on the wire. He won’t be here before Wednesday morning . . . Eva.”

“Yes, Dick.”

“You aren’t listening.”

“Oh, I am, Dick, I am!”

“I don’t know what it was—something bothered me after you left, something made me restless and I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d come down here and pick you up . . . Eva.”

“Yes, Dick.”

She felt his arms tighten about her. “I want you to do something for me. And for yourself.”

She pushed away a little, staring up into his eyes.

“I want you to marry me right away. Tonight.”

Marry him! How she had wanted to this afternoon—how she wanted to now, this instant, without even getting up from the couch!

“Silly. We have no license.” How could she talk so calmly?

“Tomorrow then. We’ll go down to City Hall tomorrow.”

“But—”

“You can do it all in one. We’ll be married before your father gets back. Quietly . . . darling.”

Eva thought desperately. How tell him things had changed since the afternoon? He would want to know why. And she didn’t want ever to have to tell him. There was a noose around her neck. All it needed was some one—Inspector Queen, that huge and frightening Sergeant Velie—to come along and yank it tight. But if she married Dick now, the noose would tighten around his dear neck, too. She couldn’t drag him into her own trouble. The scandal, the papers, all the sucking leeches . . .

A voice said to her inside: “Tell him. Everything. He’ll understand.

He’ll believe you. He’ll stand by you.”

But would he? After all, it did look black against her—if you knew the facts. But Terry Ring knew the facts, and he . . . But she was in his power, that was it. He had some ax of his own to grind. She was a pawn to him—
he didn’t really believe her innocent. How could any one? How could Dick, if he knew? It just wasn’t possible for any one else to have killed Karen. Terry Ring had said so. It would be too much to expect even from a lover—perfect faith in the face of the most damning facts. And she would never be able to bear Dick’s standing by her if he thought her a murderess.

Everything was against her. That time she had had an argument with Karen . . . over what? She did not remember. But it was a bitter argument, and Elsie—Karen’s former white maid—had overheard. Of course they would dig up Elsie; they would dig up every one who had ever been connected with Karen . . . . Then there was the time—only a few months ago—when Dr. MacClure had had his understanding with Karen. Eva had been against it. Eva had always thought Karen strange. She had never liked Karen; every one knew that. When you analyzed it, there was too much shut-in about her, too much mystery, an air of hidden things; and hidden things were so often shameful. And Karen had known. They had always been polite to each other after the Leith-MacClure engagement was settled; but it had been a women’s politeness, sharp and acid underneath. Suppose they found—

“No, Dick!” cried Eva. “No!”

He was surprised at her vehemence. “But, Eva, I thought—”

“It’s different now, Dick. With Karen dead, all this hateful mystery, daddy . . . I couldn’t now. Not for a while. Please understand, darling.

Please.”

“Of course I understand.” He patted her hand. But she knew he did not; there was something almost queer in the depths of his eyes. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have suggested it. I only thought it might help—”

“I know, Dick. You’re the dearest dear. Oh, Dick!” She cried then, against him, and he seemed to take a rather absent comfort from her tears. They sat there in the center of the noisy room, oblivious to everything.

Then Terry Ring said: “Hello. Pulling the weeps

5J again?

Eva sat up like a shot. He was smiling down at them, as cool and immaculate and unruffled as if murders and crying women and dangerous secrets were part of his everyday existence.

Dr. Scott rose, and the two big men looked at each other. “Who’s this?” he said abruptly. “Why don’t you fellows let her alone? Can’t you see what a shock she’s had?”

“Dick,” said Eva, putting her hand on his arm. “You don’t understand.

This is the gentleman who—who came in when I found . . . This is Mr.

Ring.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Dr. Scott colored. “Nasty business.”

“Uh-huh,” said Mr. Ring, and then he looked at Eva. There was a question and a warning in his gray eyes. Eva almost gasped. The pure, unadulterated nerve! Warning her not to say anything to her own fiance!

But then Eva remembered that she hadn’t said anything to her own fiance after all, and why; and she felt so miserable and alone she almost burst into tears again, only she had no more tears left. She could only sit there dumbly and, for the second time in a few months, but with much more point, wish herself completely and peacefully dead.

Chapter IX

Tuesday passed blurrily. Eva had to go down to Police Headquarters.

Terry Ring was there; he did not speak to her. Dr. Scott was a little stiff in the iron surroundings, but he stood by her and tried to defend her from everything. There were statements to sign and more questions to answer.

Eva did not eat all day. In the evening Dr. Scott took her back to the MacClure apartment in the East Sixties. There was a cable waiting from Dr. MacClure.

It said simply: “Do not worry. Docking Wednesday a.m. Chin up.

Love. Dad.”

Eva wailed at the magnificence of it and completely ignored the pile of telephone messages on the foyer table—condolences from friends which had poured in all day and driven poor black Venetia crazy. Eva flung herself on the maple bed and let Dr. Scott put cold compresses to her forehead. The telephone rang, and Venetia reported that it was a Mr.

Terence Ring on the wire. Dr. Scott growled that Miss MacClure was not at home, and Eva did not have the strength to argue.

He gave Eva something nasty to drink and she fell asleep. When she awoke at ten he was still sitting by her, scowling at the window. He went into the kitchen and came back, and a little later Venetia brought some hot soup. Eva felt so drowsy she fell asleep over the soup and did not know until next morning that Dr. Scott had flung himself on the living-room divan and slept there in his clothes all night, to the complete horri-fication of Venetia, whose sturdy Baptist soul was constantly rebelling at the loosenesses of modern life.

Wednesday morning on the way to the midtown pier they had to dodge reporters like a pair of fleeing criminals. But when they finally reached the sanctuary of the big shed there was Terry Ring, in a honey-colored gabardine suit and a brown shirt and a yellow tie, lounging near the Customs desk and looking bored. He did not even glance at them. Dr.

Scott surveyed the tall tan figure with a wrinkle between his eyes.

The doctor left Eva in the waiting-room and hurried off for information. No sooner had he gone than Eva looked up to find the brown man before her.

“Hi, gorgeous,” said Terry. “Look better this morning. Where’d you get that hat? It looks swell.”

“Mr. Ring,” said Eva hurriedly, glancing about.

“Terry to you.”

“Terry. I didn’t get a chance to thank you for all you—”

“Skip it. I’m a dope. Listen, Eva.” He said it so naturally Eva scarcely noticed it. “Did you spill the real story to your boy-friend?” Eva looked down at her perforated pigskin gloves. “No.”

“That’s a smart girl.” She was angry with herself for not wanting to look up at him. “Just keep on keeping your mouth shut.”

“No,” said Eva.

“I say yes!”

“No. Please. I couldn’t keep it from my father. It’s not right, Mr.

Ring.”

“Terry.” She knew he was angry by the growl in his voice. “Don’t you realize the jam you’re in? First you’re smart, then you’re dumb!”

“Terry.” Eva felt she had to say it. “Just what is it you’re helping me for?”He did not answer. She looked up then, and saw his eyes flickering in an embarrassed and yet furious way.

“If it’s money,” said Eva quickly, “I—”

She thought he would strike her then and there, in full view of the waiting-room. “Listen to me. Listen to me.” He stooped, his brown face mahogany with passion. Then it went suddenly mauve and he said quietly:

“How much you got?”

“Oh,” said Eva. “I’m so sorry.”

“Afraid I was going to shake you down, huh? Don’t you ever say anything like that to me again.”

Eva felt terribly ashamed; she put her gloved hand on his arm, but he jerked it away and stood straight again. Under the front dip of her yellow coolie felt she saw his fists open and close.

“I’m really sorry, Terry. But what could I think?”

“Because I’m a roughneck. Huh!”

“I don’t know why you’re doing this for me—”

“I’m a guy in a tin shirt. I go around rescuing maidens in distress.”

“But if I can trust a perfect stranger, then surely I can confide in my own father?”

“Suit yourself.”

“And then I can’t put you in any more danger than—”

“Yah,” he jeered. “Who’s going to help you?”

She felt her temper surge. “Dick! You’re the most—”

“Why didn’t you give him the lowdown, then?”

Eva’s eyes fell. “There was a—reason.”

“Scared he’d run out on you?”

“No!”

“Only a louse would do that. You’re afraid. You don’t want to find out your pretty boy’s a louse. Don’t tell me”

“You’re simply the most loathsome—”

“You know the spot you’re in. That old shark Queen doesn’t miss many tricks. I’ve seen him work before. He’s suspicious. You know he is.”

“I’m afraid,” whispered Eva.

“You ought to be.” He stalked away. There was boyish cruelty in the swagger of his walk; he had pushed his tan fedora off his forehead in a bitter sort of way.

Eva watched him through a mist. He did not leave the pier. He went back to the Customs desk to be surrounded by a swarm of reporters.

* * *

“The Panthia’s in Quarantine,” reported Dr. Scott, dropping to the bench. “They’ll be taken off by a police boat—special arrangement with the port authorities. They should be on their way in now.”

“They?” repeated Eva.

“Your father and a fellow named Queen. Seems they met on the boat.”

“Queen!”

Dr. Scott nodded gloomily. “That Inspector’s son. No connection with the police. He writes detective stories or something. Wasn’t he at Karen’s coming-out party?”

“Queen,” said Eva again in a damp voice.

“I can’t imagine what he can have to do with it,” muttered Dr. Scott.

“Queen,” said Eva feebly for the third time. She didn’t like that name at all. It was uncanny how it kept turning up. She remembered vaguely the tallish young man in pince-nez eyeglasses at Karen’s party—he had seemed a decent enough sort, and he had looked at her quite humanly. She had even been rude to him, which was pleasant. But that was then. Now . . .

She leaned against Dr. Scott’s shoulder, afraid to think. He was looking down at her again with that funny look—so like the look Terry Ring had given her—and already, despite the fact that he was tender with her and she was so grateful for his tenderness, something had sprung up between them that had never existed before.

The day of the chocolate soda seemed inconceivably distant.

Then Dr. Scott saw the reporters swooping down on them, and he pulled her to her feet and they fled.

* * *

Eva never recalled much about her reunion with Dr. MacClure, probably because she had a guilty conscience and chose to forget as much of it as she could. For all her resolutions and the stiffening she had given herself for two nights and a day, it was she who broke down and he who was steady. She wept on his breast as she had wept when broken dolls were human and the fields about the Nantasket house had seemed the spread of the world. She wept because he was so steady.

It was all the more tragic because he was so thin and earthy-colored and aged. His eyes were hot red circles, as if he had done his own crying in private on board ship and had not slept since hearing the news.

The tallish young man in pince-nez had murmured something sympathetic and vanished for a while on the pier, to return not long after from the direction of the telephone booths, looking grim. Probably telephoning his father! thought Eva with a shiver. Then he spoke negligently to a group of loungers with large feet and everything took on acceleration

—Customs, formalities, even delays. And the press, who had been irresistible, ceased to molest them. When the doctor’s luggage was on its way to the MacClure apartment young Mr. Queen herded the three of them toward the taxicabs, quite as if he had constituted himself their male duenna.

Eva contrived to linger behind with her fiance. “Dick—would you mind? I’d like to talk to daddy alone.”

“Mind? Of course not.” Dr. Scott kissed her. “I’ll make some excuse and beat it. I understand, dear.”

Oh, Dick, thought Eva, you don’t understand at all! But she smiled wanly at him and let him take her to where Dr. MacClure and Ellery Queen were waiting.

“Sorry, sir,” said Dick to the doctor. “I’ve simply got to get back to the hospital. And now that you’re here—”

Dr. MacClure rubbed his forehead in a tired way. “Go on, Dick. I’ll take care of Eva.”

“See you tonight, darling?” Scott kissed her again, glanced rather defiantly at Ellery, and drove off in a cab.

“All aboard,” called Ellery. “Jump in, Miss MacClure.” Eva did not jump in. She pressed her pigskin bag to her breast and looked terrified.

“Where are we going?”

“With Mr. Queen,” said Dr. MacClure. “Don’t worry, honey.”

“But, daddy! I wanted to talk to you.”

“We can talk with Mr. Queen, Eva,” said the doctor oddly. “I’ve sort of engaged him.”

“Not really engaged, Miss MacClure,” said Ellery, smiling. “Let’s say as a matter of friendship. Will you get in?”

“Oh,” said Eva in a choked voice, and she got in.

And all the way uptown, while Mr. Queen chattered on about European politics and the quaint ways of the Bretons, Eva wondered with a sinking stomach how kind Mr. Queen would be when he learned the truth.

* * *

Djuna, the Queens’ dark-eyed boy-of-all-work, had to be forcibly restrained from prolonging his joyful demonstration at the return from abroad of his idol. Eventually Ellery managed to quiet him and get him busy in the kitchen preparing coffee. And for a while Ellery busied himself about their comforts, with cigarets and cushions and Djuna’s coffee and gossip.

Then the doorbell rang, and Djuna opened the door. Whereupon a tall brown young man with his hands in his pockets sauntered through the foyer without being asked. Eva caught her breath.

“Hi, Queen,” said Terry Ring, scaling his hat onto the mantel.

“Remember Mrs. Ring’s brat Terence?”

Even here!

If Ellery was displeased at the interruption, he did not show it. He shook hands cordially and introduced Terry to Dr. MacClure.

“My dad’s told me all about your part in this deplorable business, Terry,” said Ellery. “That is—all he knows, which doesn’t seem to be much.”

Terry smiled, eyed Dr. MacClure, who returned the stare, and sat down.

Eva murmured, sipping her coffee: “So you know Mr. Ring?”

“Who doesn’t? Terry and I are brothers under the skin. We’ve both pestered the department so long they hate the sight of us.”

“Only difference,” said Terry amiably, “is I work at it and you don’t. I always say,” he continued, speaking over Eva’s head, “you can trust a guy who works for his living, but you can’t always trust a—what do you call it?

—dilettante.”

So he didn’t want her to tell Ellery Queen. As if she would! She suppressed a shiver.

And then she sat very still. Mr. Ellery Queen was regarding her with fixity. He turned to regard Terry Ring the same way. Then he sat down with a cigaret and regarded both of them together.

“Well, Terry,” he said at last, “and what’s the purpose of this unexpected visit?”

“Friendly, just friendly,” grinned Terry.

“I suppose you know you’re being watched.”

“Huh? Oh, sure,” said Terry with a wave of his hand.

“I’m informed that since the afternoon of Miss Leith’s death you’ve been following Miss MacClure about like a masher.” The brown man’s eyes contracted. “That’s my business.”

“And mine,” said Dr. MacClure quietly.

“It couldn’t be,” said Ellery, “that you’re afraid Miss MacClure may say something to some one which might be damaging—let’s say, to you?” Terry opened a fresh packet of cigarets. Ellery got up and politely held a match for him. “What put that idea in your head?”

“Dr. MacClure and I have decided you know rather more than you’ve told my father.”

“That makes you a couple of smart hombres. Been spending the doc’s dough on trans-Atlantic telephone calls?”

Ellery blew some smoke. “I think we’d better start with a fresh slate.

All right, Doctor.”

Eva said in a rush: “Daddy, can’t we—I mean, i^t’s have this talk with Mr. Queen some other time. Let’s go home. I’m sure Mr. Queen and Mr.

Ring will excuse us.”

“Eva,” said Dr. MacClure heavily. He placed his hairy hands on her shoulders. “I want you to tell me something.”

Eva was so frightened she gnawed at the forefinger of her glove. She had never seen Dr. MacClure so pale, so stern. The three men just looked at her; she felt trapped.

“Eva.” The doctor tilted her face up. “Did you kill Karen?” The question burst over her with such shock she could not reply. She could only stare back into Dr. MacClure’s troubled blue eyes in a daze.

“You’ve got to answer me, honey. I must know.”

“And I,” said Ellery, “I must know, too. As a matter of fact, Miss MacClure, you’re doing your father a great injustice by looking at him with such horror. The question is really mine.”

She dared not move, dared not glance at Terry Ring.

“I’d like to have one thing understood,” said Ellery cheerfully, and Dr.

MacClure made a broken gesture and sat down on the divan. “We’re four people in a room, and these walls haven’t even the vestige of ears. And my father is away.”

“Your father,” choked Eva.

“You must understand, Miss MacClure, that there’s no sentiment in our family where business is concerned. My father lives his life, and I live mine. Our methods, our techniques, are different. My father looks for evidence, I look for truth. They don’t always turn out to lie in the same direction.”

“What do you know?” asked Terry Ring abruptly. “Let’s cut the prelims.”

“All right, Terry, it’s cards on the table. I’ll tell you just what I know.” Ellery crushed out his cigaret. “I’ve been in constant communication with my father from the Panthia. He hasn’t been specific, but I think he’s suspicious of both of you.” Eva lowered her eyes. “Dad works cautiously. I should say that neither of you is out of the woods.”

“Eva, honey,” groaned Dr. MacClure. “Why don’t you—”

“Please, Doctor. Now I want to explain my own position. I’ve got to know Dr. MacClure well, and to like him immensely. I’d met Miss Leith and you, Miss MacClure, and your father has been kind enough to tell me many things about the background of your relationship which, frankly, have aroused my interest. I agreed to help. My father knows that; I’ve told him. From now on he goes his way and I go mine. What I learn I keep to myself, what he learns he keeps to himself.”

“Come on,” drawled Terry Ring. “You’re wasting time.”

“Is it so valuable? Now from what I’ve gathered, it appears that an unknown assailant got into Miss Leith’s house through the attic window, came down the attic stairs, stabbed Miss Leith, and made his escape by the same route. This is a theory. But a theory only. For there’s apparently not a single clue, not a single item of evidence, to support it . . . no footprint in the garden under the ell-roof, no fingerprints so far, nothing at all but a hypothetical way of entrance and exit. It’s the only theory which accounts for Miss Leith’s murder on the basis of physical accessibility.” He shrugged. ff Unless you stabbed her yourself “

“Oh,” said Eva faintly, and Terry started.

“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but as I’ve explained to your father, Miss MacClure, I must treat these things as problems in mathem-atics. There is no evidence to support the theory of an outsider using that open window and door. And you were admittedly in the next room.”

“Eva—” began Dr. MacClure in an agonized tone.

“If you can’t satisfy me about your innocence,” continued Ellery gently, “I shall step out now. With you guilty, this is no case for me—and I shouldn’t care to take it for Dr. MacClure’s sake.”

“Satisfy you!” cried Eva, springing up. “How can I? How could any one!”

“Did you?” muttered the doctor. “Did you, honey?” Eva seized her temples with both hands, pushing the coolie hat back.

“I think I’m going . . . No one could believe me. There’s nothing I can say. I—I’m just trapped!”

“Stop it,” said Terry in a low voice.

“I won’t! I didn’t kill Karen! Why should I want to kill her? I was happy—Dick had just promised to marry me—I rushed over to tell Karen.

Even if I had a reason, would I have murdered Karen feeling as I did Monday afternoon? Kill!” She sank back in the chair, trembling. “I couldn’t kill a—a bug.”

The doctor stared at her with a different light in his eyes.

“But if I told you the truth,” continued Eva hopelessly, “I—”

“Don’t be a fool,” growled Terry. “Remember what I said!”

“Yes?” prompted Ellery.

“You’d have to say I did it. Any one would, any one. Any one!” She began to cry on the arm of the chair.

“Perhaps that’s just the reason,” murmured Ellery, r7 wouldn’t.” Terry Ring looked at her, and then he shrugged and went to the window to smoke furiously. Dr. MacClure leaned over to brush her hat off and stroke her hair.

Ellery went to the chair and lifted Eva’s face.

Then Eva sobbed: “I’ll tell you everything.”

Terry swore and hurled his cigaret butt out the window.

* * *

When Eva was finished she lay back and closed her eyes, drained and empty. Dr. MacClure was cracking his knuckles in a savage, masochistic way, glaring at his shoes.

Terry said from the window: “All right, Sherlock. What’s the verdict?” Ellery went into his bedroom and shut the door. They heard the tinkle of the telephone. Then he came out and said: “I really can’t do anything until I’ve gone over that house. I’ve asked Morel, Miss Leith’s lawyer, to meet us there. There are some questions I want to ask him. Miss MacClure.”

“Yes?” said Eva without opening her eyes.

“I want you to get a hold on your nerves. You can help tremendously by being sane about this thing.”

Tm all right.”

“She’s all right,” said Terry.

“And you, Terry. You’re a professional. Apparently you spotted Miss MacClure’s predicament in a moment. What do you think?”

“I think she’s okay just as long as you keep your mouth shut about that bolted door.”

“Always the iconoclast,” murmured Ellery. He took a turn about the room. “I confess it’s a poser. If we assume Miss MacClure’s innocence, the thing’s impossible. It can’t have been done. And yet apparently it was . . . .

Terry, why were you in Karen Leith’s house Monday?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s hardly co-operative. And how did you know a Headquarters detective was due there by appointment with Karen Leith, at her own telephoned request Sunday morning, at five o’clock Monday?”

“A little birdie told me.”

“Most important of all, why did you become an accomplice of a girl who the facts said was a murderess?”

“I’ll tell you that,” rapped Terry, swinging about. “Because it’s too damned pat. Because she’s the only one. Because things just don’t happen that way. Because I thing she’s being taken for a ride!”

“Ah! Frame-up, eh?”

“Frame-up?” Dr. MacClure shook his head wearily. “That’s impossible, Ring. There just isn’t any one—”

“But mostly,” said Terry, going over to Eva and smiling down at her,

“because I think she’s telling the truth. Maybe I’m a sucker; I don’t know.

But stick to it, kid. I’m with you to the end of the line.” Eva flushed; her lower lip quivered. Terry scowled then and began to march across the room.

“I haven’t told you, Ring,” began the doctor awkwardly, “how much I appreciate—”

“Thank him” said Terry, disappearing into the foyer. “He goes for that stuff in a big way.” And they heard the slam of the front door.

“I think,” said Ellery dryly to Eva, “you’ve made a conquest. It’s the only time, to my knowledge, that the feat has been accomplished.” Chapter X

On the way downtown in a taxicab Ellery asked: “Did any one know in advance that you were going to Karen Leith’s house Monday afternoon?”

“No one except Dick.” Eva leaned against her father’s shoulder; they both seemed to take comfort from it. “And Dick only knew at a few minutes to four.”

“You went on impulse?”

“Entirely.”

“Terry Ring is wrong, then. You couldn’t have been framed.” To their astonishment they found the peripatetic Mr. Ring in the Washington Square house, guying Inspector Queen, who seemed to be doing nothing at all but enjoying the banter. The two Queens greeted each other with their eyes and then Ellery introduced Dr. MacClure, who looked tired and ill.

“Why don’t you go on home, Doctor?” said the Inspector. “This can’t be pleasant for you. We’ll talk some other time.” Dr. MacClure shook his head and put his arm about Eva.

The Inspector shrugged. “Well, son, here’s the layout. Kept just as it was found, except for the body.”

Ellery’s nostrils were undulating a little. He gave only a glance to the sitting-room and went straight into the bedroom. They followed him in silence.

Ellery stood on the threshold and looked. He looked and looked without stirring. “Find the weapon?”

“Well—yes,” said the Inspector. “Yes, I think we have.” Ellery glanced up at his coy tone and began to prowl. “By the way,” he said, looking through the writing-desk, “just how and why did Miss Leith call for a detective?”

“She ‘phoned Headquarters around nine Sunday morning and asked to have a man sent over here at five o’clock Monday. Guilfoyle came and found her dead, with Miss MacClure and Terry here. As she didn’t say why, we’ll probably never know.”

Eva turned her face away. Everything the little old man said went through her like a knife.

“Are you sure,” asked Ellery, “it was Karen Leith who ‘phoned?”

“The Japanese woman, Kinume, was right here with her when she called up. Listen, Terry,” chuckled the Inspector, “why don’t you come clean? Give us a break.”

“I’m listening,” said Terry shortly.

“You ‘phoned Karen Leith several times over last week-end—fact, you called her Sunday afternoon. O’Mara girl told me. What was your business with Miss Leith?”

“Who says it was business? You coppers give me a

• »> pain.

Inspector Queen shrugged philosophically. He could wait. He had always been good at waiting . . . . Ellery straightened up and fixed his gaze on the empty birdcage hanging near the low Japanese bed.

“Is that supposed to be symbolism, or was there really a bird in that cage?”

“I don’t know,” said the Inspector. “That’s the way we found it. Was it empty when you came in here Monday, Miss MacClure?”

“I really don’t remember.”

“It was empty,” snapped Terry.

“Oracularly spoken,” said Ellery. “Do you know anything about the bird that probably inhabits it, Doctor?”

“Very little. I’ve seen it around, that’s all. Some sort of Japanese bird that Karen brought back with her from Tokyo nine years ago. She was very much attached to it—gave it as much care as a child. Kinume would know more about it; they came over together.”

The Inspector went out and Ellery resumed his leisurely inspection of the room. He did not glance once into the passage beyond the open attic door. He did look at the bolt, however. Dr. MacClure sat down on a queer little Japanese footstool and buried his face in his hands. Eva edged closer to Terry. There was something in the room that made talking difficult.When the Inspector returned he was followed by Kinume, who carried a second cage—different from the one hanging over the bed. There was a bird in the cage. The white maid, O’Mara, was behind Kinume, stopping in the doorway and peering in with a stupid, avid, and yet fearful curiosity.

“What a beauty!” exclaimed Ellery, taking the cage from the Japanese woman. “You’re Kinume; I remember. You are sorrowful that your mistress has been taken from you, Kinume?”

The old woman lowered her eyes, still red from weeping. “This is evil thing, gentleman,” she muttered.

Ellery looked from her to the bird. The two seemed somehow to go together. There was something exotic about the creature, with its head, wings, and tail of purple and its purplish-chocolate body, with delicate hairlines of white on its throat. It had a strong beak, and from beak to tail it was about a foot long. It seemed to resent Ellery; it fixed its brilliant eyes on him, opened its beak, and emitted a harsh, ugly cry.

“Natural compensation,” remarked Ellery. “There had to be a touch of ugliness somewhere. Kinume, what is the name of this bird?” ffKashi-dori” hissed Kinume. “You saying—jay. Loo-choo kashi-dori. He come from my land. He old.”

“Loo-choo jay,” said Ellery thoughtfully. “He does look jayish. Why is he not in his cage in this room, Kinume?”

“Sometime he here, sometime he downstairs. In other cage. In room of sun. He make noise at night, Missie no can sleep.” Kinume hid her eyes in her kimono sleeves and wept. “Missie love. Missie love more’n anything. Missie take care all time.”

“I’ll say,” said the O’Mara girl unexpectedly from the doorway. Then, startled by the sound of her own voice, she looked around swiftly and began to retreat.

“Just a moment! What was that?” demanded Ellery.

She stopped, hesitated, began fingering her hair. “I didn’t say nothing,” she replied sullenly.

“But you did.”

“Well, she was crazy about that thing.” The girl began to edge toward the sitting-room door again, eying the Inspector.

“Come here,” said Ellery. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“What’s all this fuss about a bird?” scowled the Inspector.

“No fuss at all. I’m just seeking information. What’s your name and how long have you been here?”

“Geneva O’Mara. Three weeks.” She was frightened now, and with a stupid perversity which seemed characteristic she was also ill-humored.

“Do you take care of this bird?”

“She does. But I wasn’t here a week— she was sick—” she interpolated, pointing at Kinume with Nordic scorn, “so I had to feed him his beef and egg and whozis, and the devil got out of the cage and flew into the back yard and we had a terrible time chasing him. He wouldn’t come down from the roof. I thought Miss Leith would throw a fit, she was that mad.

She’d like to fire me on the spot. She was always firing her maids. Elsie told me—that’s the last one. All except her

“You bad girl!” cried Kinume, her slanted eyes flashing.

“You shut up!”

“Please,” said Dr. MacClure; and the white girl took fright again and fled. The Loo-choo jay squawked again.

“Take that damned thing out of here,” said the doctor wearily.

“Birds,” said Terry Ring; he looked disgusted.

“You may go,” said Ellery to Kinume; and she bowed humbly and took the caged bird away.

* * *

Ellery was just smoothing out the ball of Japanese stationery on the writing-desk when a fat little man in a crushed linen suit and carrying a briefcase bustled in, mopping his bald spot.

“I’m Morel,” he announced in a squeak. “Miss Leith’s lawyer. Hello, Inspector. Hello, Miss MacClure. Ah, Doctor! Let me extend my sincere sympathy. An awful tragedy. The work of some madman, no doubt. And you—I’ve seen your picture—Mr. Ellery Queen, of course.” He offered a wet hand.

“Yes,” said Ellery. “I think you know every one, then, but Mr. Ring.”

“Mr. Ring,” said Morel, squinting. “How do.” Terry Ring looked at the wet hand. “Uh—now, Mr. Queen, just what—”

“Have you read this letter?”

“Yesterday. Odd that she didn’t finish it. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was—I mean, before she could finish—” The lawyer coughed.

“Then who crumpled it?” said Terry Ring disdainfully.

Ellery glanced at him and then read the letter. It was written in a small, almost scientifically precise script, and it was dated Monday afternoon.

“Dear Morel:

“My records show that I have certain moneys outstanding in Europe in payment for foreign rights. The largest item is in Germany, as you know, chiefly because since the Nazi law went into effect German publishers may not send money out of the country. I want you to check over the whole list at once, thoroughly and completely—there’s something due from Spain, Italy, France, and Hungary on book royalties, and a few odd newspaper and serial items from Denmark, Sweden and so on—and try to effect immediate payments. See if you can’t make some sort of reciprocal arrangement between Hardesty and Fertig; I understand a paper exchange of credits has been effected by some authors as between their English agents and German publishers.”

“How is it,” asked Ellery, looking up, “that Miss Leith asks you to check up on her foreign royalties, Mr. Morel? Didn’t she have a literary representative?”

“Didn’t believe in them. Trusted me absolutely. I’ve been her attorney and agent and heaven knows what else.”

Ellery went on to the second paragraph:

“Morel, I want you to do something for me. It is a matter of the utmost importance, and extremely confidential. I know I can trust you never to expo—”

“Hmm,” said Ellery. “Stopped before she explained. I think Terry’s right. She simply changed her mind.”

“It’s important to know what she was referring to,” squeaked Morel. “I want most definitely to know.”

“Who doesn’t?” growled Terry; and Dr. MacClure and Eva went to the writing-desk to read the letter together.

The big man shook his head. “The only thing I can think of that’s important and confidential is a will.”

“No, sir. No, sir. Miss Leith told me only last week that she was eminently satisfied with her will as it stood.”

“She died testate, then?” demanded Ellery.

“Yes. She willed her estate on liquidation to be split into literary endowments for the benefit of several institutions of learning—”

“Colleges,” said Terry, interpreting. He seemed to dislike Morel.

“One endowment,” proceeded the lawyer stiffly, “goes to the Imperial University of Tokyo. She taught there, you know, after her father died.”

“So Dr. MacClure has told me. How about personal bequests?”

“None.”

“But didn’t she intend to change her will in view of her coming marriage with Dr. MacClure?”

“She did not, sir.”

“Wasn’t necessary,” said the doctor tonelessly. “My own income is considerably larger than hers, and she knew it.”

“Just screwy, the whole thing,” decided Terry.

“But didn’t any one—I mean, any individual—stand to gain by her death?”

“Not a living soul,” squeaked Morel promptly. “Miss Leith had a large annual income from the estate of a long-deceased paternal relative—a great-aunt, I think. Under the terms of the aunt’s will Miss Leith was to receive the income until she attained the age of forty, after which the principal also became hers.”

“Then she died a wealthy woman?”

“Depends,” said the lawyer, “what you mean. Wealth—ha, ha!—is a comparative term. Well-cushioned, I should say.”

“But I thought you said she had inherited a fortune?”

“Oh, not yet! Fact is, she died before the stipulated age for the turning over of the fortune. That is, she died before forty—her fortieth birthday was to have been in October. Missed it by a month, b’George!”

“That’s—interesting, to say the least.”

“Or rather unfortunate. You see, the aunt’s will provided against that contingency, too. If Miss Leith died before reaching the age of forty, the entire aunt’s estate was to go to Miss Leith’s nearest blood-relative.”

“Who is?”

“No one at all. She hadn’t any. Absolutely alone in the world. Told me so herself. And so now the aunt’s estate goes to certain charities specific-ally provided for in the aunt’s will.”

Inspector Queen scratched his jaw. “Dr. MacClure, was there any disappointed suitor in Miss Leith’s life?”

“No. I was her first—and last.”

“Mr. Morel,” said Ellery, “do you know anything about Miss Leith’s private affairs which might give us a clue to her murder?” Morel swabbed his bald spot again. “Does this answer you? She told me not long ago that she hadn’t an enemy in the world.” Terry Ring said: “That’s what she thought.” Morel looked at him with two bright little eyes, murmured something Delphic, bobbed, and took himself and his briefcase off without ever having opened it. Eva wondered rather hysterically why he had brought it at all.

And Ellery said: “You know, that’s strange. Here’s a woman with everything to live for, to whom death could only have been the cruelest misfortune. She was famous—she had just achieved one of the highest honors possible to an American author. She was potentially—almost immediately—very rich: in a month she was to have inherited a fortune.

She was happy, and had every prospect of becoming happier—in a short time she was to have been married to the man of her choice . . . . And suddenly, in the midst of all this beatitude, she’s struck down by an assassin.”

“It’s beyond me,” muttered Dr. MacClure.

“Why do people commit murder? For gain? But no one stood to gain a single penny by her death, except a few public institutions which can scarcely be suspected of homicide. For jealousy? But there was obviously no love-entanglement in her life—this was not a crime pas-sionel. For hate?

But you heard what Morel said—she hadn’t an enemy. It’s certainly strange.”

“I wish I knew what to suggest,” said the doctor. There was a stiffness about him that made Eva avert her face.

“That lawyer mightn’t have been so far wrong at that,” said Terry Ring suddenly. “A lunatic.”

And they were silent.

* * *

Finally Ellery said: “Sit down, Miss MacClure. This is brutal for you people, I know. But I may need you. Sit down.”

“Thank you,” said Eva faintly. “I—I believe I will.” She sat down on the edge of the low bed.

Ellery circled the writing-desk and began to pick at the debris in the waste-paper basket.

“And then there’s that rock that broke the window,” complained the Inspector. He pointed his shoe at the rock, lying on the floor exactly where Eva had seen it last.

“Oh, the rock,” said Ellery, glancing at it. “You know, Terry has a theory about that rock, dad. He thinks some child threw it. Mischief.” He continued to delve in the basket.

“He does, does he? Might be, at that.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Ellery, scooping something out of the bottom. He handled it as if it were a bomb.

“Don’t worry about prints,” said the Inspector casually. “It’s been mugged.”

Dr. MacClure came forward with staring, bloodshot eyes. “That’s something new,” he said sharply, with a resurgence of his old force. “I’ve never seen that before, Mr. Queen.”

“It’s not new,” corrected the Inspector. “At least, that’s what the old woman says. She says Miss Leith brought it over with her from Japan.” It was the half-scissors Eva had discovered on the desk Monday afternoon. The whole implement, when the missing half was in place, Ellery saw at a glance, must have presented the appearance of a bird with brilliant plumage and a beak two and a half inches long. The workmanship was unmistakably Oriental. The metal was inlaid with porcelain in a cunning fashion. The blades must in the whole scissors have represented the beak, the shanks the body, and the bows the legs—a most unorthodox-appearing scissors, but from the sharpness of the blade a serviceable one.

Chips of semiprecious stones of all colors encrusted the body in an illusion of feathers; and in the light coming through the oriel windows they glittered with a multicolored fire. Despite the five-inch length of the half-scissors it lay so lightly in Ellery’s hand that he could hardly feel it—as feathery as the creature it was meant to represent.

“Ingenious idea. I wonder what kind of bird it’s supposed to be.”

“Kinume says it’s a crane—she gave it some Japanese name like tsuru or something,” explained Inspector Queen. “Sacred bird, she says. It seems Miss Leith was fond of all birds.”

“I remember now! The Japanese crane—symbol of longevity. It doesn’t seem to have been very prophetic, does it?”

“You can see something subtle in it if you want,” said the old man dryly. “To me it’s just the knife that killed her.” Eva felt as if she must scream if the little man preserved his mild inscrutability one second longer. Oh, if only she’d remembered in time and they had wiped off her fingerprints!

“You’re sure that’s the weapon?” murmured Ellery.

“Sam Prouty says the wound is exactly the same width and thinness as that blade there. It could hardly be a coincidence.”

“No. But it could be something else.”

“Not the sheath!”

“What sheath?”

“We found a case upstairs in the attic room that the Jap woman says always used to hold the scissors. But it’s not sharp.”

“The attic?” Ellery’s eyes were on the writing-desk, fixed on a stick of gold sealing-wax and a metal seal whose insignia was a Japanese ideogram; but he did not seem to see them.

The attic! Eva had completely forgotten about the attic. The attic she had never seen and that no one had ever been permitted to see. What was up there? But she didn’t really care. It made no difference . . . .

“So the scissors came from up there,” said the Inspector. “That’s why nobody remembers it but this Kinume. It’s been broken for years, she says. Seems to fit, all right. Killer got in through the attic window, picked up this half-scissors, came down, stabbed Miss Leith, wiped the blood off the blade, dropped it in the basket, and escaped the way he’d come. Yes, it does seem to fit.”

Was there the merest trace of mockery in his voice? Eva wondered wildly. What he said was impossible—the murderer cotildn’t have come from the attic. Not with the door bolted from inside the bedroom. Did he really believe what he was saying?

“I think,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “I’ll have a look at that attic.” Chapter XI

The stairs were narrow, steep, and creaked; and after Ellery went Eva and her father together, feeling the need for proximity. For an instant Terry Ring contested with Inspector Queen for the curious right to trail the procession; and it was the brown man who, to the Inspector’s irritation, finally won. The old man disliked people behind him; he specially disliked people who mounted creaky stairs without the least noise.

They emerged into a cool, slope-ceilinged room, not at all the chamber of mysteries Eva’s aroused imagination had pictured it: after the climb in the shadows it glowed with sun, an innocent, dainty, almost virginal room not even remotely sinister. Its two windows were dressed in blowy marquisette curtains and its bed, a four-poster of maple, was covered with the same cheery chintz that framed the curtains in flowers.

But there were old Japanese water-colors on the walls and mats on the polished floor that could only have come from beyond the Pacific.

“What a pleasant room!” exclaimed Eva involuntarily. “No wonder Karen could write here.”

“I find it,” said Dr. MacClure in a choking voice, “stuffy.” He went to the open window and turned his back to them.

“And what a queer mixture of East and West,” remarked Ellery, glancing at the tiny teakwood desk with its ancient typewriter. “It’s an anomaly that doesn’t exist downstairs.”

In one angle of the room there was an electric refrigerator with a kitchen cabinet above it and a gas-range to its side. A tiny bathroom, quite modern in its fixtures, led off the bedroom; it had a small window and a skylight, but no other door. The little apartment looked as if it had been lived in by a woman of refined and lacy habits—a guarded haven, the door at the head of the attic stairs its sole exit to the world.

“That’s solitude with a vengeance,” said Ellery. “What did she do—
divide her time between the rooms downstairs and this attic?”

“She wrote Eight-Cloud Rising here,” said Eva with tears in her eyes. “I never dreamed it was so—nice.”

“From what I’ve been able to find out,” said Inspector Queen, “she’d lock herself up here for a week or two at a time when she wanted to write something special.”

Ellery glanced at the tiers of bamboo bookshelves crowding the walls

—works of reference in half a dozen languages, books in Japanese, books by Lafcadio Hearn, Chamberlain, Aston, Okuma; translations of the Japanese poets in English and French and German—all in the midst of a library of classic Occidental literature catholic in range and aged with use.

And on the desk and in its drawers, which Ellery proceeded calmly to go through, were more books, scraps of manuscript, whole sections of rather enigmatic notes neatly typed—the complete paraphernalia of the writer, fixed in time by the extinction of the writer’s life, arrested in the very-process of creation. To Eva, repelled and fascinated, Ellery’s brusque inspection of the littered papers seemed a sacrilege.

He picked up, then, a slender scissors-sheath of walrus-tusk ivory, covered with relief carvings, with a silk cord attached at the end of which dangled a good-luck coin inscribed with a Japanese motto.

“The scissors-case,” nodded the Inspector.

“Have you found the other half of the scissors?”

“Not yet. It’s probably been lost for years.”

Ellery laid the case down, looked around, and went to an open closet door. The closet was hung with women’s things—a variety of rather faded-looking garments; on its floor were two shoes. There were no hats or coats. He looked in, looked down, shook his head, and went to the tiny maple dressing-table on which lay a comb and brush, a toilet set, and a lacquered box full of quite beautiful trinkets, hair-pins, manicuring imple-ments. His eyes narrowed.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Inspector Queen.

Ellery took off his pince-nez, polished them, and put them back on the bridge of his nose. Then he went back to the closet. He lifted a print dress by its hanger, looked at it. He put it back and took out another, a black silk trimmed with ecru lace. He put that one back, too, pulled his lower lip, stooped, regarded the two shoes on the floor. Then something caught his eye and he fished it out of the back of the closet, where it had been half-hidden by the hanging garments. It was an old violin-case.

A peculiar suspicion began to form in Eva’s mind. She wondered if he had noticed. The others didn’t seem—

Ellery opened the case. Inside lay a chocolate-colored violin, its four strings dangling from the peg-box, having snapped apparently from the heat of some past summer. He regarded it, a broken Muse, for a long time.

Then, carrying the case, he crossed to the bed and deposited it on the chintz. They were all staring at him now—even Dr. MacClure, who had been impelled to turn from the window by the palpable silence.

“Well,” sighed Ellery. “Well!”

“Well what? What’s the matter with you?” demanded the Inspector crossly.

Terry Ring said in a deep voice: “The eminent Mr. Queen is going into his dance. Made a find, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery lit a cigaret and stared at it thoughtfully. “Yes, I have. A rather remarkable one . . . . Karen Leith did not live in this room!”

“Karen—didn’t—” began Dr. MacClure, goggling. Eva could have screamed. So Mr. Queen had seen it! Her brain was boiling with thoughts.

If only—that one thing—maybe—

“No, Doctor,” said Ellery. “For years, I should say, and until very recently, this room has been occupied as permanent living-quarters by another woman altogether.”

Inspector Queen’s little mouth fell open, and the hairs of his gray mustache bristled with surprise and indignation.

“Oh, come now!” he cried. “What do you mean Karen Leith didn’t occupy this room? The boys have been over—”

“Let’s say,” shrugged Ellery, “that the boys weren’t functioning at par.

There’s really no question about it.”

“But it’s not possible!” spluttered Dr. MacClure.

“My dear Doctor! Am I justified in believing that Miss Leith was right-handed?”

“Of course she was!”

“Yes, I seemed to recall that she mixed her Japanese tea on the evening of the garden-party with her right hand. So that fits. Isn’t it also true that your fiancee was at most five feet one or two inches tall and weighed no more than a hundred and five pounds?”

“That’s right, Mr. Queen,” said Eva breathlessly. “She was five-one-and-a-half and weighed a hundred and three!”

“And she was a pronounced brunette, of course—quite the blackest hair I’ve ever seen. With a dark, sallow complexion.”

“Well, well?” said the Inspector impatiently.

“Well! She was right-handed—yet I saw at a glance that this violin was used by a left-handed person. Most unusual.” He picked up the violin, fingered the dangling strings. “Look at these strings. The usual order, from left to right as you face the instrument, is G, D, A, E.

These run, as you can tell by the thickness of each string, E, A, D, G.

Reversed. Left-handed.”

Ellery put the violin back into its case and went to the closet. He lifted out the print dress again.

“How about it, Miss MacClure? Would you say this dress could be properly worn by a woman as short and light as Miss Leith?”

“Oh, goodness no,” said Eva. “I saw that the moment you took it out of the closet. Karen wore a size twelve—awfully small. That’s at least a thirty-eight. And so is the black silk you looked at!” He hung the print back, went to the dressing-table. “And would you say,” he asked, taking up the hairbrush, “that these strands of hair came from Karen Leith’s head?”

They were crowded about him now. They saw several ash-blonde wisps of hair caught in the tufts of the brush.

“Or,” Ellery went on, picking up the powder box of the toilet set, “that this very light shade of powder would have been used by a woman as dark-complex-ioned as Karen Leith?”

Dr. MacClure dropped onto the bed. Eva pulled his huge, shaggy head to her breast. Now there was some one! Some one for that terrible little Inspector to think about! A woman had lived up here, a strange woman . . . . Inspector Queen v/ould think this woman had killed Karen.

He would have to. She was glad, glad! She refused to think at all about the fact that the woman couldn’t have killed Karen—not with that bolted door.

Not with that bolted door. Bolted door. Bolted door . . .

“I’ll have some one’s hide for this,” said the Inspector angrily.

* * *

Ellery restored the powder box and hairbrush to their places on the dressing-table. He said rather abruptly: “The picture is quite clear. The woman who occupied this room can be reconstructed. Did your men find any fingerprints here?”

“Nary one,” snapped the old man. “The room must have had a thorough cleaning recently. The Jap woman won’t talk.”

“Let’s see,” mused Ellery. “From the dresses—I should say she’s about five feet seven or eight inches tall. She must weigh between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and forty. She has naturally light blonde hair and a fair complexion. From the type of garment in the closet—not a young woman. Do you agree with me, Miss MacClure?”

“Yes, they’re the sort of things a woman in her forties might wear.

Quite old-fashioned, too.”

“And she plays, or used to play, the violin. And there’s a secret—some important secret—bound up with her. Otherwise why Miss Leith’s deception? Why didn’t she ever reveal the existence of this woman? Why did she go to such pains to conceal any hint of her?—the ironclad rule that no one was to come up here, for example; the frequent changing of white servants; the soundproof walls—if you’ll just examine them . . . .

A secret!” He whirled on Dr. MacClure. “Doctor, doesn’t my description fit any one you know?”

Dr. MacClure rubbed his face slowly. “I don’t recall—”

“Think. It’s probably no one from the American chapter in her life.

This thing has the earmark of age. Japan, Japan!” He leaned forward eagerly. “Come, Doctor, think! You knew her in Tokyo—her family . . . “ He unbent very slowly. “Her family. Yes, that sounds—Wait!” He ran to the closet and returned with the two shoes. “Here’s something else; I almost forgot. Two shoes. Two right shoes. And that’s all. No left. Don’t you see?”

“Good for you, Sherlock,” muttered Terry Ring.

“They’re brand-new. They’ve never been worn.” Ellery smacked them together in his impatience. “It suggests one of two things—either a woman with her right leg gone, or something so wrong with it she wears a specially built shoe—either possibility making the normal right shoe of no utility. Well, Doctor?”

Dr. MacClure looked as if he were striking an attitude. But his voice came queerly strained. “No. It’s impossible.”

“Daddy!” cried Eva. She shook him. “What? Tell us!” Terry Ring drawled: “Of course, it would be easy enough to find out.

Just a matter of time, Doc.”

“I say it’s impossible!” roared the big man. Then his shoulders sagged and he went to the window again.

This time his voice came hard and flat, without the least intonation.

They could see his hands, however, crushing the chintz drapes.

“There was one woman in Karen’s life who fitted your description.

When I knew her she was blonde, fair, about the same height and weight as you’ve pictured the occupant of this room, was left-handed, and played the violin. But that was over twenty years ago. She was twenty-two . . . .

She wore a specially built right shoe, for she’d had a short right leg from birth. It—dragged.”

“Who was it, Doctor?” asked Ellery gently.

“Karen’s sister. Karen’s elder sister Esther.”

Eva, who was on her feet, groped blindly for the bed behind her. This was too much, really too much. She knew about Esther Leith. She knew why Dr. MacClure had said it was impossible for Esther Leith to have lived in this attic room . . . .

“That couldn’t be a coincidence,” said the Inspector slowly. “That must be the woman.”

“Do you think so?” Then Dr. MacClure turned around and they saw his face. Eva made a little whimpering sound. “Do you think so? Then what will you say when I tell you that Esther Leith never left Japan? That Esther Leith is still in Japan?”

“Oh, come,” snapped the old man. “You can’t be sure of that.”

“I’m quite sure of that,” said Dr. MacClure grimly. “Esther Leith died in Tokyo in 1924—over twelve years ago.”

PART THREE

Chapter XII

“Did you see Esther Leith die, Doctor?” asked Inspector Queen quietly.

“Don’t pay any attention to this nonsense, Eva,” growled the big man.

“It’s just some damned fantastic coincidence.”

“But, daddy,” cried Eva, “her own sister! It’s—it’s horrible.”

“I say don’t believe it! Do you hear me?”

“Now don’t fly off the handle,” said the Inspector. “We won’t get anywhere that way.”

“It’s preposterous!” stormed the doctor. “Esther committed suicide—
threw herself into the Pacific during a holiday outing!”

“Was that,” asked Ellery, “the tragedy you were so reluctant to discuss on the Panthia Monday afternoon, Doctor?”

“Yes.” The doctor scowled. “Naturally I didn’t like to discuss it. I was in New England at the time, and Karen wrote me all about it. In fact, there was even a piece in the Boston papers, where Dr. Leith originally came from, about it.”

“Funny,” mused the Inspector.

“It is true, Inspector!” cried Eva inconsistently. “Karen once told me about it. She didn’t like to discuss it, either, but she told me about it.”

“Excuse me a minute,” said Inspector Queen.

He brushed past Ellery and they heard him descending the attic stairs.

Terry Ring shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he had been awaiting his opportunity to do so.

“All right, Thomas,” they heard the Inspector call out in the bedroom below. “Keep a sharp eye out,” and then they heard him coming up again.

When he appeared at the head of the stairs they saw he was carrying a small bundle of letters, tied with a length of thin red silk ribbon.

“What’s that?” demanded Ellery. “I didn’t see that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” retorted the Inspector in an amiable tone.

“We put it away the very first thing. It didn’t mean much then—but it does now.”

Dr. MacClure was staring at the bundle and the last vestige of color left his rocky cheeks.

“You see we know,” said the Inspector kindly. “It’s a bunch of letters Miss Leith kept—found it in the bottom of that old teak chest in the cellar. Most of them are dated 1913, but there are two from 1918, and the 1918 ones were written by you, Doctor, to Esther . . . Leith . . . MacClure

“ Dr. MacClure sat suddenly down in the chair by the desk. “I suppose the others are the correspondence between Esther and Floyd?” he groaned. “I see how foolish it was to hope—”

“Daddy,” frowned Eva. “What is this all about?”

“I should have told you long ago,” said the big man wearily. “Esther Leith was my sister-in-law. In 1914 she married my brother Floyd in Tokyo.”

The doctor told his story in a lifeless voice. When in 1913 he had crossed the ocean westward in search of the cancer clue that never materi-alized, his younger brother Floyd, also a medical doctor, had accompanied him. He told something about his brother—an irresponsible youngster, gay, harmless, easily influenced, who had worshipped his elder brother and had studied medicine more in emulation of an idol than from personal desire.

“We met the Leith girls in Tokyo,” said Dr. MacClure, staring at the floor, “through old Professor Mat-sudo, the man I’d come to Japan to see.

He taught pathology at the Imperial University, and of course he knew Hugh Leith, the American teacher of literature. Leith rather liked us—he didn’t see many Americans in those days—and the result was we spent a lot of time at his home. Well, Esther and Floyd fell in love, and they were married in 1914, in the summer—a few weeks before Japan declared war on Germany.”

Eva went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.

“But you loved her, too,” said the Inspector. He tapped the bundle of letters. “It wasn’t hard to see, Doctor.”

He flushed. “Damn those letters! Well, I won’t deny it. I was a pretty serious young man in those days, though, and I could see Floyd had the inner track. I don’t think he ever knew—how I felt.”

“Darling,” whispered Eva.

“When they were married the war was already talked about and . . .

Everything had. gone wrong—my search was a failure—well, I went back to the States, leaving Floyd in Japan. He fell into his new life easily—he loved the country, and he wanted to stay there with his wife. I never saw him alive again.”

He was silent for a while. The Inspector said encouragingly: “Go on, Doctor. He was killed, wasn’t he—in an accident? One of your 1918
letters to Karen Leith refers to it.”

“Yes. Karen wrote me all about it. Floyd had one hobby—guns. He’d always been an enthusiast, and he set up a shooting-range in the garden of his Tokyo home after his marriage to Esther. He’d tried to teach her to shoot even before.”

“She shot him?” asked Ellery sharply.

They could barely hear his voice. “Oh, it was one of those cursed accidents—there have been thousands of them. She was aiming at the target and he was standing dangerously near. And she was nervous. The bullet went through his brain. He died instantly. Never knew what hit him.” He paused again. But the Inspector said: “That isn’t all, is it, Doctor?

There’s a reference to another woman—”

“So you know that, too! I never dreamed those letters were still . . . “ Dr. MacClure got to his feet and began pacing. “Yes. There was another woman. It was never proved, and I can’t be sure even now. Even if there was, I know Floyd didn’t mean anything by it. He was handsome and weak, and women were attracted to him. I’d swear he loved Esther, and Esther only. But—apparently there was gossip. Somehow it got to Esther’s ears.”

“Oh,” said Eva pityingly.

“You’d have to know Esther. She was a magnificent woman, really beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, a writer . . . but her physical deformity preyed on her mind, and I suppose any whisper of a defection by Floyd would have given her agony. So when she shot Floyd, she came to believe”—his face darkened—”that subconsciously she had tvanted to kill him, that it hadn’t been an accident at all, that it had been murder. And after a while she even talked herself into believing that it had been conscious and deliberate murder.”

“Was that why she committed suicide?” asked Ellery.

“Yes. After the inquiry, which completely exonerated her, she had a nervous breakdown and went temporarily insane.” The doctor’s face was wet with perspiration. “The accident occurred in 1918. I went out there when I heard about it, saw I couldn’t do anything, and returned to the States. That was early in 1919.” He paused for no apparent reason, then went on. “Dr. Leith had died in 1916, during the War, so Karen was left alone with Esther. Then in 1924 I learned that Esther had drowned herself and in 1927 Karen pulled up roots and came to New York. I didn’t even know she was coming—the first I learned of it was mention of her name in the literary column of a Boston newspaper. Naturally I looked her up and . . . everything followed.” He wiped his face slowly. “So you see why I say it’s nonsense about Esther being the woman who lived in this room.”

Eva stiffened. “I know! It’s all so simple. Karen just reconstructed this room, with all of her sister’s clothes and things, out of sentiment. Of course—that’s it! Daddy’s right—she isn’t alive at all.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Terry Ring, studiously examining his fingernails. “What did Karen do—save her sister’s hairbrush with some of the hair on it?”

“Wait!” Eva held her throat. “Or it’s possible she is alive, but . . . a little mad. Daddy, you said she went insane after the accident. That might account for—for Karen’s keeping up the pretense of her suicide and . . .

having her live here. If she was harmless—maybe Karen didn’t want to put her in an institution—”

The Inspector looked thoughtful. “Say, there’s something in that, Miss MacClure.”

Ellery went over to the writing-desk and fingered some papers. He looked troubled. “Well, you”d better get on the job, dad. You have a pretty full description, and she can’t have been gone long, whoever she is.” “I’ve already put Thomas on it. He’s going to check with Japan by cable on the death certificate, and so on. If we find anything phony about her death, we’ve got samples of her handwriting for a cross-check—some of these old letters.”

“I tell you it can’t be,” said the doctor futilely.

Inspector Queen went to the head of the stairs and shouted: “Kinume!

Hey! come up here, Kinume—attic!” He turned back and went on in a grim tone: “There’s one check we can make right now. Karen Leith didn’t keep a woman hidden up here for years without help. Somebody had to assist her. If the woman is Esther Leith, it’s certain this old Japanese woman was in on it. She came over with Miss Leith, didn’t she? Kinume!” Dr. MacClure said hoarsely: “I don’t think she—”

“Somebody had to clean up this place. Fact, it was cleaned only a few days ago, as I said before. Somebody had to watch. And if the woman was cracked, somebody had to do the dirty work. Come up here, Kinume.” The old woman ascended slowly, stopping on each step to catch her breath. When she finally appeared her oblique eyes were filled with fear; her frail figure was trembling. She glanced about the attic room involuntarily, as if to see if some one she knew was there; and then lowered her eyes and folded her hands in her sleeves and waited.

“Kinume,” said the Inspector, “where is Esther?” Kinume said calmly: “ ‘Lo, Eva, ‘lo, Dr. MacCloo.”

“Did you hear what I said? Where’s Esther Leith!” Kinume bowed. “Missie Esther dead. She die long time. She die in big water.”

“Who lived in this room?”

“Missie Karen. She live here some time.”

“Nobody else, huh?”

“Missie Karen, she live here.”

“Did you clean this room a few days ago?”

“Missie no let nobody this room. Missie holluh.”

“All right,” sighed the Inspector. “Get out. When a Jap won’t say anything, he just won’t, that’s all.”

And Kinume bowed again and went sedately down the stairs, unmindful of his carelessness with pronouns.

“Suppose you two go on home and get some rest,” continued the Inspector. “There’s nothing more you can do today. When I get something on this Esther business, I’ll ring you.”

“Goodbye,” said Eva in a low voice to no one in particular. But as she and Dr. MacClure, who looked grateful, began to descend the stairs Terry Ring stirred himself, as if to follow.

“No,” said the Inspector softly. “Not you, Terry.” Chapter XIII

“Oh,” said Terry Ring, and he stopped. The Inspector went to the attic door and closed it.

Ellery sighed and stepped to the window to look down at the garden.

It was peaceful in the dusk, and quite empty. He wondered if on the evening of Karen Leith’s garden-party the woman who had lived in this attic had not stood where he was standing now, with the lights off, looking down even as he was looking down. And he wondered, too, what had been in her heart.

He noticed that shutters were folded back from the window—heavy wooden shutters, with just a few decorative holes for air. And rolled up there was a midnight-blue shade. Yes, he thought, it was very like a cell.

“It’s incredible,” he remarked without turning around, “how a human being could have lived here for years without a single person even suspecting. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of.”

“Never mind that now,” said Inspector Queen. “Terry!”

“What is it this time, pop?” sighed the brown man. “The bracelets?

Come on, act your age.”

Ellery turned. The two men stood facing each other like polite duel-lists, and each was smiling a little.

“I’ve known you for a good many years,” said Inspector Queen mildly.

“You’ve always been a good boy.

You’ve kidded some of the men at Headquarters at times, but I’ve never known you to do a crooked thing or, for that matter, a mean one.

I’ve always liked you, Terry.”

“That goes double, pop,” said Terry gravely.

“Why don’t you tell me where you figure? You can help us, Terry.

There’s a lot behind this thing. What do you know?”

“Well, if the Giants fold again, I’ll root for the St. Louis Browns next year, so help me,” said Terry.

“I can’t see,” replied the Inspector without turning a hair, “that you’ve got anything to gain by working against us. Who’s going to pay your fee?

Karen Leith’s dead.”

The shot went home, but only for an instant did it show. Then the brown man grinned. “When’s the funeral?”

“Now that’s pretty sad,” said the old man, “pretty sad, my boy. You see, if I didn’t know your record I’d hold you as a material witness. Lone-wolf private dicks don’t appeal to me. They’re a pretty shady lot, most of them. Blackmailers, strong-arm men, labor spies, ex-lushes—a bad crew.

But you’re different, Terry.”

“That’s swell, pop. I can use a recommendation like that,” said Terry heartily. “Can I quote?”

“You can quote this,” said the Inspector. “If you don’t talk you’ll be in the Tombs before the week is out.” Terry Ring began to look around the room. “What are you looking for?”

“A ‘phone. I’ve got to call my lawyer. Isn’t that what all crooks do when the law gets its monkey up?”

The Inspector’s voice rose. “By God, I’ll book you on a charge that’ll stick!”

“Gosh,” said Terry. “Then it looks as if I’m in for it.” The old man’s face darkened with fury. He jumped to the stairway and yelled: “Thomas! Where the devil are you? Thomas! Come up here!” Terry waited complacently while the thunder of large feet shook the room beneath them; and then Sergeant Velie’s colossal figure surged into view.

“What’s the matter?” he rumbled. “Is this bird act->> ing up?

“Take him downtown and make him talk!” roared the Inspector.

Sergeant Velie rubbed what passed for his hands together. “Come along, Terry.”

“Go to hell,” said Terry pleasantly. He was backed against the bed now, leaning against one of the posts; and his body was loose and slightly crouched, although the smile never left his face.

“Say, that’s too bad,” said Sergeant Velie with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, toots. I used to kick you in the pants when you sold papers on Centre Street. You coming, or do I have to pick you up and carry you?”

“You,” asked Terry, “and how many hundred like you?” The Sergeant’s grin became a snarl. He licked his leathery lips and oent for a spring.

“Just a moment,” sighed Ellery, “before we unleash the primitive.” The Sergeant unbent and looked a little sheepish. “Don’t you think, dad, you’re letting your temper run away with you? Terry’s right in one thing

—you’d get him down to Headquarters but he’d be out in two hours. And he might be pardonably vengeful, if you mussed him up. The newspaper boys like him.”

The Inspector’s mustache bristled as he glared at the brown man, who looked interested. Then he yanked out his snuff-box, pinched some brown stuff into his nostrils, inhaled prodigiously, sneezed a Cyclopean sneeze, and said with a growl: “Come along, Thomas. I won’t forget this, Terry.” With Sergeant Velie trailing his trim little figure like a wolfhound after a terrier, the Inspector marched down and out of sight. They heard the bedroom, door bang a moment later.

“Whew,” said Terry, taking out a cigaret. “Great little guy, your old man.” He chuckled. “I like to see him get mad. Butt?” Ellery took one and Terry held a match for him. “What would you have done,” murmured Ellery, “if that man-eater had really jumped you?

I’ve seen Velie mop up a mob of seven single-handed. And they weren’t exactly mama’s boys, either.”

“Damned if I know,” said Terry, scratching his head. Then he grinned ruefully. “In a way I’m sorry you stopped him. I’ve always wanted to see if I could put that big ape away, but I never had a real excuse.”

“Oh, come along,” said Ellery. “You he-men give me a pain.”

* * *

On their way downstairs they passed Kinume. The old woman was trudging up like any other old woman; she flattened against the wall to let them by, keeping her aged eyes on the carpet. Ellery looked back; she was trudging upward again.

“Won’t do her any good,” remarked Terry dryly, “if she’s up to any devilment in those rooms. That mugg Ritter would slough his own grandmother.”

Ellery frowned. “Kinume . . . She could solve one problem, anyway.

Blast these Orientals!”

“What you got against her?”

“Oh, nothing but admiration. It’s the temper of the race that frets me.

You know, the Japanese are probably the most inferiority-complexed people on earth. That’s why they’re always raising so much hell in Asia.

It’s the curse of the superior-white-man psychology.”

“How do you get away with that kind of stuff?”

“Don’t be funny. I mean that Kinume has never overcome her venera-tion for a white skin. She was Karen Leith’s creature. Now unquestion-ably she knows everything that went on in that attic room, but Karen swore her to silence and her typical loyalty to the lack of pigmentation in an epidermis keeps her old mouth as tightly shut as—well, let’s say as yours.”

“Oh,” said Terry; and after that he was silent.

They had to pass through a small sunroom in the rear to get to the gardens. The vinaceous-hued Loo-choo jay hung in his cage there, and as they approached the back door he followed them balefully with his brilliant, inhuman eyes.

“He gives me the willies,” said Ellery uncomfortably. “Scat!” The jay opened his powerful beak and emitted a raucous, unlovely cry in Ellery’s direction that raised the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. He followed his companion hastily onto the little back verandah overlooking the garden.

“I should think,” he growled, “Karen Leith would have wrung his gorgeous neck.”

“Maybe,” suggested Terry, although he was patently thinking of something else, “maybe he’s a one-woman bird.”

They strolled down among the flower-beds, alone in the garden among the dwarf trees, the scents of late blossoms, and the chirp of unseen birds. It was so cool and pleasant that Ellery winced a little guiltily at the thought of the slight stiff body lying on a slab in Dr. Prouty’s morgue.

“Let’s sit down,” he said. “I haven’t had time to think.” They seated themselves on a bench facing the rear of the house, and for a while neither man spoke. Terry smoked, waiting. And Ellery slumped on the tail of his spine and closed his eyes. Once Terry caught sight of an ancient Japanese face pressed to a lower window, watching; and again the sullen, stupid face of Geneva O’Mara, the white maid, from another. But he gave no sign, and after a time the faces disappeared.

Then Ellery opened his eyes and said: “There are so many unknown quantities in this equation that it isn’t possible even to guess at the answer.

I must have some of them cleared up. You hold the key to one—I think an important one.”

“Do I?”

“Pshaw. In whose interest do you think I’m work-ing?

“How should I know? If you think Eva MacClure’s innocent, it’ll be the first time you ever took anybody’s word for anything.” Ellery laughed. “Aren’t you wearing a somewhat similar brogan?” The brown man scuffed some gravel on the path.

“Very well,” sighed Ellery, “let’s see what a little unassisted guesswork can accomplish. First of all, there’s that matter of the telephone call Monday afternoon which Karen Leith didn’t answer, for the good and sufficient reason that she was dead when the ‘phone rang. It’s been annoying my father, but I can’t say it’s really annoyed me. I’ve felt all along that you made that call.”

“Guess again.”

“Oh, really, Terry!” protested Ellery with another laugh. “Don’t be a child. It doesn’t take genius to see that you and Karen Leith were connected with a professional bond—that is, you knew her through your business, which is private detection. No offense, but it’s improbable that she was interested in your mind.”

“What the hell’s wrong with my mind?” flared Terry. “Just because I never went to college, like the rest of the stuffed shirts—”

“Oh, it’s a very good mind, except that I don’t believe it would have entranced Miss Leith. Your physique might have appealed more . . . Very well, she engaged you in your professional capacity. Secret stuff—people don’t go to private detectives unless they want secrecy. Secret stuff—and there’s the trail of a woman hidden in that attic for years. Connection? I think so. Yes, indeed!”

“All right. What of it?” said Terry sullenly.

“Precisely what is the connection?”

“You’re doing the guessing.”

“Hmm. Suddenly Miss Leith takes the necessary steps to establish a second connection—this time with the regular police. Deduction: either you failed her and she was forced to turn to the conventional channels of investigation; or you had succeeded and your success somehow completed the dirty end of the job.”

“Why, you—” began the brown man, beginning to rise.

Ellery touched his arm. “Tut, tut. Such muscles! Sit down, Tarzan.” Terry glared, but obeyed. “In either event, your services were no longer required. Let me romance a bit. You were piqued. It’s your business to know things, and somehow you learned that she had called for a Headquarters detective. She may even have told you so herself.” Terry remained silent. “Knowing of the five o’clock Monday appointment with Guilfoyle, you hotfooted it down to Washington Square, stopped in at University Place, let’s say, to ‘phone. No answer. The times coincide—in a minute or so you were in the house and found her dead.”

“You’re cockeyed,” said Terry. “But I’ll tell you one thing, seeing as there’s no witness. I did make that call. So what? Anything wrong in that?”

“Ah,” said Ellery—a little luxury of triumph he was immediately sorry for, since his companion turned sullen again. “Well, as long as I’m theorizing . . . Terry, I don’t believe our friend the blonde woman was in that house at all last week-end. What do you say to that?” The brown man jumped up. “You’ve got inside information!” he cried.

“What the hell d’ye think you’re doing—pumping me when you know!”

“Then it’s true.”

Terry’s excitement dissipated. He stared down at Ellery, made a mock motion—hitting himself lightly in the jaw with his own fist—and shrugged. “A sucker again. You’re slicker than I thought you were.”

“That is praise,” grinned Ellery. “I see it all now. The blonde woman escaped from the attic. Her escape terrified Karen Leith—why, I confess I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.”

“You’re good at that, all right,” said Terry gloomily.

“She hired you as a private investigator to trace the woman. You took the case. She became impatient. Apparently she felt it imperative to have the woman located. When you called her to make a negative report, she fired you and told you she was turning to the regular police, gave you the details. That riled you. You decided to horn in.”

“Warm,” conceded Terry, kicking the gravel.

“Did she tell you the name of the blonde, or that she had lived in the attic?”

“No, I found that out by myself. She just said it was some one she was interested in and gave me a description.”

“No name?”

“No. Said she’d probably use a phony.”

“How did you find out about the attic?”

“What do you want—all my trade secrets?”

“So you couldn’t find the woman?”

Terry Ring rose and deliberately sauntered up the path. Ellery watched him intently. He stooped and picked up a rock from the border of the path, weighing it in his hand. Then he wheeled and came back.

“I’ll give it to you straight, Queen. I don’t trust you.”

“Why did you help Eva MacClure? What difference would it have made to you if that door had remained bolted and the police arrested Eva as the only possible killer of Karen Leith? Eh?” Terry Ring looked at the rock in his hand. “Is it possible that you had made a deal with some one else in the meantime? That you were double-crossing Karen Leith about the blonde woman?”

For an instant Ellery felt the breath of danger whistle by his ears. The brown fist about the rock tightened, and it occurred to him uncomfortably how easy it would be to brain a man with that innocent-appearing excre-ment of Nature. Then Terry whirled and raised his arm and let fly. The rock went like a baseball to the top of the garden wall at the side, struck a branch hanging over from a tree in the next garden, and disappeared with a faint series of thuds.

“You can talk your damned head off,” he panted. “I’m not answering any of your lousy questions.”

Ellery was staring, however, wide-eyed at the branch, which hung dolefully now, broken, from the tree. “Good lord,” he said. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“Do what on purpose?”

“Aim at that branch?”

“Oh, that.” Terry shrugged. “Sure.”

“Heavens, man, it’s a good forty feet!”

“I’ve done better,” said Terry indifferently. “I aimed at the tip leaf, but I only hit the third one.”

“And with an oval stone,” murmured Ellery. “Do you know, Terry, that gives me an idea?”

“I once pitched for the Reds . . . What idea?” His head came up abruptly.

Ellery looked up. He looked up at a barred window on the second story of the house, a window whose panes, one behind the other, had been shattered Monday afternoon by a stone.

* * *

Terry growled: “You know I was up there with the girl when that rock broke the window Monday. So what the hell are you—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” said Ellery impatiently. “Terry, find a rock about the same size and shape as the one that broke that window. Even smaller, if you can.”

Terry shook his head and began scouting about the garden. “Say!

Here’s a bunch of ‘em!”

Ellery came on the run. And there they were—a number of smooth rock ovals almost perfectly matched, as far as he could judge the same size as the stone now lying on the floor of Karen Leith’s bedroom. They hemstitched the border of the path. In one place there was a gap among the evenly spaced rocks, and an oval depression in the soft earth.

“So it came from here.”

“Looks like it.”

Ellery picked two of them up. “Take a few.” And as Terry stooped he walked back to the bench and looked up again at the barred, broken window. “Well,” he said after a pause, “here goes,” and he twirled his arm and threw the stone.

It struck two feet to the left of the barred window, crashing against the wall and falling back into the garden.

“It’s not so easy at that,” he muttered, while Terry watched frowning.

“Off-centre, hard to get a grip. Umph!”

He threw the second one. This time it landed a foot below the barred window. A startled head peered through the bars protecting the sitting-room window.

“Hey!” yelled Detective Ritter. “What the hell you guys doin’ down there?” Then he recognized Ellery.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Queen. What’s the matter?”

“A rather unsuccessful experiment in the interests of pure science,” said Ellery disgustedly. “Don’t mind the noise, Ritter. And watch your noddle. We may pull a miracle.”

The detective hastily withdrew his head from view. From the lower windows Kinume and the O’Mara girl were watching again, fascinated and frightened.

“You try,” urged Ellery. “You’ve been a professional pitcher, haven’t you? You can hit specified leaves on trees from a distance of forty feet, can’t you? Try to break that window up there—the one next to the broken one.”

“How do you expect me to get the stone past those bars?” demanded Terry, glancing up at the oriel windows.

“The very point. That’s your problem. You’re an expert. Proceed.” Terry stripped off his coat, loosened his lemon-yellow necktie, flipped his hat on the bench, and hefted one of the oval rocks. He squinted up at the righthand oriel window, shifted position, settled his feet securely in the gravel, wound up his arm, and let fly. The rock clanged against two iron bars and thudded back into the garden.

“Again,” said Ellery judicially.

Terry tried again. This time he gripped the stone differently. But the window remained intact; only an iron bar protested.

“Not bad,” said Ellery. “Once more, my gifted friend.” For the third time the stone dropped back, leaving the window unbroken; a fourth time, a fifth . . .

“Hell!” said Terry disgustedly. “It just can’t be done.”

“And yet,” said Ellery in a thoughtful tone, “it was.” Terry retrieved his coat. “No one can tell me that some one aimed to throw one of those rocks through those bars. I wouldn’t even have tried it if you hadn’t told me to. There can’t be more than a half-inch or so clear-ance on each side of the rock when it gets smack between two bars.”

“No,” said Ellery, “that’s quite true.”

“Big Train couldn’t have done it!”

“No,” said Ellery, “I don’t believe Mr. Johnson could.”

“The Diz couldn’t do it!”

“Nor Mr. Dean. You know,” said Ellery, frowning, “this demonstration proves something.”

“Yeah,” said Terry sarcastically, clamping on his hat. “It proves the rock had nothing to do with the murder, I knew that Monday afternoon.” Chapter XIV

Venetia was waiting for the MacClures with a set table and drawn tubs; and the doctor fled the black woman’s affectionate advances to wallow in a steaming bath. There were pages of notes in Venetia’s labor-ious hand in the message book on the telephone table in the foyer, a stack of telegrams and letters, and boxes and sheaves of flowers.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Eva. “I suppose we’ll have to answer all these people. I didn’t know Karen had so many friends.”

“It ain’t her” sniffed Venetia. “It’s Dr. John. They’s been mo’ doctors!”

“Hasn’t Dr. Scott called?”

“No, honey, he ain’t. Now look-a here. You go take off your clo’es an’

soak in that tub, you hear me?”

“Yes, Venetia,” said Eva submissively, and went to her room. Venetia glared at the telephone and returned, muttering, to her kitchen.

The telephone rang four times while Eva was bathing, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything any more. As she used the big puff on her body in the black-tiled bathroom, looking at herself in the full-length mirror, she wondered what it must feel like to die. If you died like Karen there was a bite, a pain, and then . . . what? What had Karen been thinking of as she lay on the dais before the oriel windows, unable to move, unable to open her eyes, dying, knowing she was dying-—perhaps even hearing everything Terry Ring and Eva had said? Oh, if only she’d had the courage, thought Eva, to feel Karen’s heart! Karen might have talked. Karen might have said something in that last gasping moment which would have solved everything . . . That glare in Karen’s eyes when she gurgled in her torn throat and they saw she was still alive. The brown man thought—Eva knew he had—that Karen was accusing Eva with her eyes. But Eva knew how impossible that was. Eva knew that the glare was only the last glare before death, when Karen saw the light fail and felt her heart stop beating . . .

Eva dashed the puff over her eyes angrily. Then she sat down before the vanity to cold-cream her face.

All those telephone messages, letters, flowers. People must have been puzzled and uneasy. They didn’t quite know what to do. When a person died decently you telephoned and wrote notes of condolence and sent flowers, all very sad and gracious and beautiful, and every one felt that it was good to be alive, even the mourners who saw the dead one in every dark nook and cranny. But when a person was murdered! The book of etiquette didn’t say anything about that. Especially when the victim had been murdered under mysterious circumstances and no one knew who might have done it. You might send flowers to the murderer!

It was so absurd and so tragic that Eva put her head on the vanity and wept through the cold-cream. If people only knew! If people only knew that she was the only one who could have murdered Karen Leith—she, Eva MacClure, herself, the girl, the woman. If Dick only knew . . .

“Eva,” called Dr. Scott from the other side of the bathroom door.

He’d come!

Eva scrubbed off the cold-cream, dashed cold water over her face, dried and powdered it, used her newest shade of lipstick in three dabs—
peach-coral to match her nails and the glints in her hair—wriggled into her Turkish-towel robe, flung open the door, and fell into Dr. Scott’s arms.

* * *

Venetia, hovering in the bedroom doorway, was shocked.

“Eva! You—that ain’t decent!”

“Go away,” said Dr. Scott.

“Now, you listen to me, suh! I’m goin’ right in an’ tell Dr. John—”

“Venetia,” said Eva through her teeth, “go away.”

“But yo’ hair—it’s all mussed, and you’s in bare feet!”

“I don’t care,” said Eva, and kissed Dr. Scott for the third time. He felt her body tremble under the woolly toweling.

“You’ll catch yo’ death of cold on that floor!”

Dr. Scott detached himself from Eva’s arms, went to the bedroom door, and firmly closed it in Venetia’s outraged face. Then he came back and picked Eva up and sat down with her in the Cape Cod rocker.

“Oh, Dick,” moaned Eva.

“Don’t talk, darling.”

He held her very tightly, and Eva through the warmth of his arms and her own distress began dimly to wonder. There was something bothering him. That was it. He was comforting her, but it was really himself he was trying to comfort. And his unwillingness to talk showed that he didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to think about anything. He just wanted to sit there holding her in his arms and feeling her closeness.

She pushed away from him and flung her hair back from her eyes.

“What’s the matter, Dick?”

“Matter? Why do you ask that? Nothing at all.” He tried to pull her down again. “Let’s not talk, Eva. Let’s just sit.”

“But there is something wrong. I know it.” He tried to smile. “What makes you so intuitive all of a sudden? It’s been a bad day, that’s all.”

“The hospital? You poor lamb!”

“I lost a confinement case. Caesarian. She’d have been all right if she’d taken care of herself.”

“Oh,” said Eva, and she snuggled down again.

But now, perversely, he seemed to want to talk, as if defending himself was important. “She lied to me. I’d put her on a rigid diet. I couldn’t watch her like a dog, could I? Now I find out she’d been stuffing herself with ice cream and whipped cream and fatty meats and God knows what else.” He said bitterly: “If a woman can’t tell the truth to her doctor, what chance does a mere husband stand?”

So that was it. Eva lay still in his arms. Now she understood. It was his way of asking questions. She could feel the slightly unsteady beating of his heart. Those puzzled looks he had been giving her since Monday evening!

“And then I’ve been hounded by those damned reporters all day.” It was all coming out now, Eva thought, in a gush. “What the devil do they want of me? I haven’t done anything! One filthy sheet had my picture this afternoon. Young Society Doctor Denies. Denies what? My God! I don’t know anything!”

“Dick,” said Eva quietly, sitting up.

“I felt like slamming into the lot of ‘em! What’s the lowdown, Doc?

Who bumped Karen Leith? What’s your angle? Where do you fit in? Is it true she was a cardiac? Did you tell your fiancee not to talk? Why? Where?

When? How?” He snapped his jaws shut, glowering. “They’ve been infesting my office, pestering my patients, hounding me at the hospital, cross-questioning my nurses—and they want to know when we’re going to be married!”

“Dick. Listen to me, dear.” She took his flushed face in her hands. “I want to tell you something.”

The tip of his handsome nose, that Eva had so often kissed, grew faintly pale. He said: “Yes?” in a hoarse voice. Scared. He was scared. Eva could see it written all over him. She almost asked him what he was scared of. But she knew.

“The police don’t know everything about Karen’s death. There’s one important thing they don’t know.”

He sat very still, not looking at her. “Yes?” he said again, and this time he didn’t even try to keep from showing how scared he was.

“Oh, Dick!” cried Eva in a rush. “That door wasn’t open! It was bolted from inside the bedroom!”

There. It was out. She felt better already. Let him be scared, Eva thought with a little snap. If he was scared, this would petrify him.

It did petrify him. Dr. Scott half-rose from the Cape Cod chair, almost dumping Eva onto the floor. Then he sank back. “Eva! What door?”

“The door in Karen’s bedroom which leads to the attic stairs. When I came into the room that door was bolted. Bolted from inside the bedroom.”

Eva kept looking at him appraisingly, wondering at her lack of excitement. The only thing she felt was compassion; he looked terribly distressed. He worked his mouth twice.

“But, Eva,” he said in a dazed tone, “how could any one have—No one could have got away through the attic, then!”

“No.”

“And the windows in the bedroom—”

“They’re barred,” said Eva, as if she were talking about the trimming for a new hat.

“And the only other way out is through the sitting-room, where you were waiting.” His eyes brightened. “Eva! Some one did go through that sitting-room. That’s it, isn’t it? Somebody went through and you’ve—
well, you haven’t told the police.”

“No, darling,” said Eva. “Not even a mouse went through.”

“But, good God!”

“I didn’t lie about that, if that’s what you mean.” His mouth worked again, and then he set her down on the floor and began to race up and down, like a man hurrying for a train. “But, Eva, you don’t know what you’re saying. That means no one—no one but you could have . . . “

“That means,” said Eva calmly, “that no one but I could have murdered Karen. Say it. Don’t be afraid to say it, dear. I want you to say it. I want to hear how you say it.”

He stood still then, and looked at her, and she looked back at him, and there was no sound except Dr. MacClure’s growl about something to Venetia from the living-room.

Dr. Scott’s glance wavered. He slammed his hands into his pockets and kicked Eva’s rug so hard it wrinkled up in protest. “Damn it all!” he exploded. “It’s impossible!”

“What’s impossible?”

“The whole situation!”

“What situation—the murder . . . or ours?”

He tousled his hair so desperately Eva wanted to look away. “Listen, Eva. I’ve got to think. You’re got to give me time to think. You can’t spring a thing like this—”

Eva pulled the white robe closer about her. “Look at me, Dick. Do you believe I killed Karen?”

“Good God, no!” he shouted. “How should I know? A room—one exit only—nobody went through . . . What’s a man to think? Be reasonable, Eva. Give me time!”

It was so absurdly inconsistent, so full of pain and doubt, so really definite, that Eva felt a stab in her chest, as if something had suddenly broken inside. For an instant she fought down the feeling that she was going to be ill.

But she wasn’t through. There was still one thing more to say. One thing more to ask. Then, she thought, she would really know. She steeled herself.

“Monday afternoon you asked me to marry you. I held you off, Dick, because of that bolted door. I wanted time, too, because I—I couldn’t bear to tell you. And yet I couldn’t marry you without telling you. Don’t you see? Well, now I’ve told you.”

Eva stopped, because there was really no necessity to be any blunter about it. They weren’t children; certain things took on adult meaning without being said in so many words.

He licked his lips. “Get married—you mean, now?”

“Tomorrow,” said Eva relentlessly. “Whenever you get the license. At City Hall. Connecticut. Anywhere.”

It didn’t sound like her own voice. Perhaps that was because there was a coating of ice around her heart, chilling each drop of blood as it went through. She really had found the answer to her question. He didn’t have to speak. Monday he had wanted to marry her; today, Wednesday, he was asking for time.

Eva didn’t quite expect what happened. He seized her hands. “Eva!” There was something new in his voice. “I’ve just thought of it. Who unbolted that door Monday before the police came—you, or that Ring fellow?”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” said Eva listlessly. “It was Mr. Ring.

He thought of it, and saved me.”

“Who else knows?”

“Daddy. Mr. Queen—the young one.”

“Every one but me!” He was bitter. “And you expect me to—” He scowled at her. “What’s going to happen when that Inspector finds out?”

“Oh, Dick,” whispered Eva, “I don’t know.”

“What’s Ring’s game? Why should he do a thing like that for a girl he never saw before?” Dr. Scott’s eyes were inflamed. “Or do you know him!

Do you?”

Stupid; it was all so futile and stupid. “No, Dick. He’s merely been kind to me in his own way.”

“His own way,” sneered Dr. Scott. “I know his way! That East Side scum! I’ve looked him up. I’ve been finding out things about him. Crony to every gangster in town! I know what he wants. I know his sort!”

“Dick, that’s the foulest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Defending him! I just want to know what dirt my intended wife’s getting into. That’s all!”

“Don’t you dare talk to me that way!”

“Mixed up in a filthy murder—”

Eva flung herself on the bed and buried her face in the candlewick spread. “Oh, go away,” she sobbed. “I never want to see you again. You think I killed her.

You suspect me of all sorts of horrible things with—with that Terry person. Go away!”

She lay there, pressed into the mattress, crying into the spread, the robe askew and her bare legs dangling over the floor. But she didn’t care.

It was all over. He—he was gone; that was gone, too. Now that he was gone, although she hadn’t heard the door bang, she saw how unreasonable she had been to expect him just to believe. Blindly, without questions. It wasn’t human. No woman could expect it of any man. After all, what did he know about her? Nothing, nothing at all. When a man and woman were in love and spent their time kissing and babbling nonsense, they really didn’t get to learn much about each other. They came to learn every line in each other’s face, every trick of breathing and kissing and sighing—
but nothing else, nothing real, nothing on the inside, about which knowledge was paramount. So how could she blame him? And there was his career. It meant everything to him. Now that he suddenly found out, without warning, that his fiancee was up to her neck in a murder, how could he help thinking about his own future—about how people would whisper behind his back—even if everything turned out all right? He was sensitive; he came from a good family; perhaps his family was behind all this—pumping away at him, talking to him. That stiff-necked mother of his from Providence, his bankerish father with the mean face . . .

Eva sobbed harder. She saw it all now, what a selfish and uncompre-hending little beast she’d been. He couldn’t help his family, or the situation she found herself in. He was just a man—a dear, dear . . . And now she had sent him away for good, and even the chance for happiness had escaped, and there was nothing facing her but that grim and terrible little Inspector.

Dr. Scott unclenched his fists and dropped on the bed, close to her, pressing against her, his face contorted with contrition and eagerness.

“I love you. Darling, I love you. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Just kiss me, Eva. I love you.”

“Oh, Dick!” wept Eva, twisting and putting her arms tightly about his neck. “I didn’t understand. It’s my fault for expecting . . . “

“Don’t say any more. We’ll see it through, together. Just hold me—
this way. Kiss me, darling.”

“Dick . . . “

“If you want to get married tomorrow—”

“No! Not until everything—everything—”

“All right, darling. Whatever you say. Just don’t worry.” And a little later Eva lay still on the bed and he sat still beside her, only his fingers moving, his cool physician’s fingers stroking her temples, soothing the pulsing blood-vessels, making her peaceful and sleepy. But above her tumbled hair Dr. Scott’s face was drawn and troubled.

Chapter XV

“The trouble with this case,” complained Ellery to Terry Ring on Thursday afternoon, “is its unbelievable instability. It’s a bee flashing from flower to flower. You can’t keep up with it.”

“What’s the matter now?” Terry flicked ashes off his mauve tie on its field of wine-colored shirtfront. “Damn it, there goes a burn in my tie!”

“By the way, must you wear these atrocious shirts?” They paused at the little bridge in Karen Leith’s garden. “It seems to me that recently you’ve taken to sporting an almost male-bird coloration. It’s September, man, not spring!”

“You go to hell,” said Terry, flushing.

“You’ve made the wrong movie star your idol.”

“I said go to hell! What’s on your mind today?”

Ellery dropped a pebble into the tiny pool. “I’ve made a discovery that bothers me.”

“Yeah?”

“You knew Karen Leith, at least for a short time. And I know you’re a self-taught and dependable student of human nature. What kind of woman would you say she was?”

“I only know what I read in the papers. Famous writer, around forty, kind of pretty if you like ‘em washed out, clever as hell and just as deep.

Why?”

“My dear Terry, I want your personal reaction.” Terry glared at the goldfish. “She was a phony.”

“What!”

“You asked for it. She was a phony. I wouldn’t have trusted her with my old lady’s store teeth. Mean streak. Tough as a floozy underneath and ambitious as hell. And no more conscience than Dutch Brenner’s mouth-piece.”

Ellery stared at him. “My worthy opponent! That’s characterization.

Well, it’s true.” His grin faded. “You don’t know, I imagine, just how true it is.”

“Doc MacClure’s lucky to be rid of her. He’d have punched her in the nose in three months if they’d ever hitched up.”

“Dr. MacClure belongs to the Leslie Howard rather than the Victor McLaglen school, for all his physique. Nevertheless, it’s probably true.” Terry said casually: “If the doc hadn’t been on a ship a thousand miles to sea when she was bopped, I’d say he did it himself.”

“There were no hydroplanes around, if that’s what you’re thinking,” chuckled Ellery. “No, I fancy I know what’s bothering the doctor. And it’s more concerned with Eva than with his deceased fiancee.” He studied the pool. “I wish I knew exactly what it is.”

“Me, too,” said Terry. He fingered his tie. “Come on, spit it out.

What’s up? What did you find out?”

Ellery started from his reverie and lit a cigaret. “Terry, do you know what Karen Leith really was? I’ll tell you. A parasite. A very special kind of pediculous monster. One of the most incredible vessels of evil God ever designed for skirts.”

“You going to talk or aren’t you?” said Terry impatiently.

“What amazes me is how she was able to concentrate on one vicious objective for years, going through what must have been agonies of continuous apprehension. It’s indecent. Only a woman could have done it

—a woman as full of silence and fury as she must have been. I don’t know what’s behind it, but I can guess. I think, many years ago, she loved Floyd MacClure.”

“That’s tall guessing, my friend.”

“A love-affair crushed at its inception . . . yes, it might have started the ball rolling.”

“Ah, nuts,” said Terry.

But Ellery was gazing again in profound reflection at the pool. “And then there’s the crime itself. Even knowing what the Leith monster was, the crime remains an enigma.”

Terry flung himself in disgust on the grass and tipped his pearl-gray felt over his eyes. “You should have run for Congress.”

“I’ve been over those two rooms upstairs with, figuratively, a stethoscope and a selenium cell. I tested those bars on the oriel windows.

They’re solid iron imbedded in concrete and there’s nothing wrong with them. Immovable. Not set in false sockets. None has been recently replaced. No, no one got in or out of those windows, Terry.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I tackled the door and bolt. You found the door bolted from inside her bedroom, but it was conceivable that the bolt might have been drawn from the wrong side of the door by some mechanical contrivance.”

“Whoosh,” said Terry from under his hat. “You’ve been reading one of your own lousy detective stories.”

“Oh, don’t sneer; it’s been done. But not with this particular door. I tried with every method known to my peculiar science, and none of them worked. So mechanics was out.”

“You’ve certainly made progress, haven’t you?”

“With the doors and windows eliminated, I thought of—don’t laugh now—”

“I’m laughing already!”

“A secret panel. Well, why not?” asked Ellery defensively. “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. You don’t spit on your great-grandmother just because she’s hung around a long time? But there isn’t any panel. That room’s as solid as the walls of the Great Pyramid.”

“Closets?”

“Are just closets. I don’t know.” Ellery made a face. “It leaves you with the hollowest feeling.”

“You’re telling me,” said Terry glumly.

“I’ve thought of everything—that the crime, for instance, might have been committed through the window-bars, with the murderer somehow outside. But that doesn’t gel, either—there’s the weapon.

“It was withdrawn from Karen’s neck. It was wiped off. Even if we postulate the strained theory that Karen stood at the window, was knifed through the bars, fell, that the killer wiped off the blade and threw the knife through the bars to land on the desk . . . it still doesn’t gel. The body was out of position for that. And there should have been a trace of blood on the sill, on the floor directly below the sill. But the bloodstains are along the edge of that dais. She couldn’t have been stabbed from the window at that spot, unless her assailant was a gorilla.”

“Even a gorilla wouldn’t have arms that long.”

“It makes you think of Poe. It’s mad. It’s impossible.”

“Unless,” said Terry, squinting, “Eva MacClure’s a liar.”

“Yes, unless Eva MacClure’s a liar.”

Terry got to his feet with a leap. “Well, she isn’t! I’m not the prize sucker of all time, am I? I tell you she’s on the level. She told the truth. I couldn’t be wrong. I’ve been right about women too damned many times!”

“Human beings will do inconsistent things to save their skins.”

“Then you do think she killed that phony!”

Ellery did not reply for some time. A goldfish flopped back into the water, leaving circles. “There’s one other possibility,” he said suddenly.

“But it’s so fantastic I scarcely credit it myself.”

“What is it? What is it?” Terry stuck his brown face forward. “The hell with how it looks. What is it?”

“It involves Eva herself. It would make it possible for her to have told the truth and yet to have . . . “ He shook his head.

“Talk, you exasperating ape!”

But just then Ritter pressed his red face to the bars of the sitting-room window upstairs and yelled: “Hey, Mr. Queen! These MacClure people are here, askin’ for you. Mr. Queen!”

“Stop bellowing.” Ellery nodded curtly to Terry. “Trail along. I’ve asked them over.” Then he winced. “We may as well get it over with.”

* * *

But when they went into the house they found three people—Dr.

MacClure, Eva, and Dr. Scott. Eva looked quieter this afternoon, as if she had spent a peaceful, dreamless night. And Dr. MacClure had got a grip on himself: the redness had left his eyes and there was something resigned, almost fatalistic, in them. But Dr. Scott looked as if he had slept badly; and somehow, without being told, Ellery knew that the story of Karen Leith’s mysterious blonde tenant had been related to him. But why, he thought, should that worry young Dr. Scott? Did he have a traditional distaste for family skeletons?

“Hello,” he said with an attempt at cheerfulness. “You all look worlds better today.”

“What’s happened?” asked Dr. MacClure. “You sounded—”

“I know,” sighed Ellery. “It’s important, Doctor.” He stopped to let Kinume flit by. Then he said to his fingernails: “If I have something of—
well, great and tragic significance to tell you . . . is it all right to disclose it before Dr. Scott?”

“Why not?” asked the young doctor angrily. “If you’re ready to spill something before this fellow—” he stabbed at Terry with his forefinger

—”why not before me? I’ve more rights than he has! I’m—”

“You don’t have to be so damned snooty about it,” said Terry, swinging on his heel. “I’ll go.”

“Wait,” said Ellery. “I want you here, Terry. Let’s not become involved in emotional entanglements, please. This is something much too grave to be squabbled over.”

Eva said quietly: “I told Dick last night—everything.”

“Oh. Well, that’s your affair, Miss MacClure. You know best.

Upstairs, please.”

He led the way, saying something to Ritter at the head of the stairs, and when they entered the sitting-room Ritter closed the door behind them. Terry went last, as usual, and Dr. Scott turned at every few steps to glare back.

“Let’s go up to the attic,” said Ellery. “I’m expecting Karen Leith’s publisher. We can wait there.”

“Buescher?” frowned Dr. MacClure. “What’s he to do with it?”

“I need him to verify a conclusion of mine.” And Ellery in silence led them up the attic stairs.

They were scarcely in the slant-roofed room when Ritter’s voice yelled from below: “Hey, Mr. Queen! This Mr. Boosher’s here.”

“Come up, Mr. Buescher,” called Ellery. “I suppose we may as well make ourselves comfortable . . . Ah, Mr. Buescher. You know the MacClures, of course. And this is Dr. Scott, Miss MacClure’s fiance, and Mr. Ring, a private detective.”

Karen Leith’s publisher offered a sweating palm to the two young men, but he said to Dr. MacClure: “I’m horribly sorry, Doctor. I’ve sent my condolences, but . . . Great shock, of course. Nastiest business. If there’s anything I can do—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Buescher, it’s all right,” said Dr. MacClure steadily.

He went to one of the windows and clasped his hands behind his broad back.

Buescher was a calfish man with a clever face—a prancer, something of a buffoon. But no one who knew him underrated his intelligence. He had built up a house with seven important authors and a score of paying small fry out of nothing but a hope and a plan. He sat down gingerly on the edge of a cane chair, putting his hands on his skinny knees. His large, innocent eyes went from face to face and finally settled on Ellery’s.

“Just how can I help you, Mr. Queen?”

“Mr. Buescher, I know your reputation very well,” said Ellery. “You’re a clever man. But how good are you at keeping secrets?” The publisher smiled. “A man in my position learns to keep his mouth shut. Of course, if it’s anything illegal—”

“Inspector Queen knows already. I told him this forenoon.”

“Then in that case . . . naturally.”

“Knows what, Queen?” demanded Dr. MacClure. “What?”

“The reason I pound the point,” said Ellery, “is that to a publisher this information might be tempting. Marvelous publicity, and all that.” Buescher spread his hands without lifting them from his knees. “I think,” he said dryly, “if it concerns Karen Leith, we’ve had as much publicity in the last few days as the traffic will bear.”

“But this is ever so much more important news than Karen Leith’s death.”

“More important—” began the doctor, and stopped.

Ellery sighed. “Dr. MacClure, I have proved to my own satisfaction that the occupant of this room was Esther Leith MacClure.” The doctor’s back twitched. Buescher sat staring.

“Miss MacClure, you were wrong yesterday. Esther Leith MacClure is as sane as you or I. That makes,” he said with a snap of his teeth, “that makes Karen Leith something of a fiend.”

“Mr. Queen, what have you found out?” cried Eva.

Ellery went to the teakwood desk. He opened the top drawer and extracted a red-ribboned bundle of old letters, the bundle Inspector Queen had shown them the day before. He laid this on the desk. Then he poked his finger at a neatly stacked series of typewritten papers.

“How well did you know Miss Leith’s work, Mr. Buescher?” Buescher said uncertainly: “Very well, of course.”

“In what form was she accustomed to deliver her novels?”

“Typewritten.”

“You read them yourself in the original manuscript?”

“Naturally.”

“All this is true, of course, of Eight-Cloud Rising, her last novel—the prize-winner?”

“Especially true of Rising. I recognized at once that it was a significant novel. We were all quite mad about it.”

“Do you recall that when you read the manuscript there were written corrections? I mean—typed words crossed out, penciled emendations careted in?”

“There were a few, I believe.”

“Is this the original manuscript of Eight-Cloud Rising?” Ellery handed the man a thin sheaf of manuscript. Buescher affixed a pair of gold spec-tacles to his nose and glanced through the papers.

“Yes,” he said at last, handing them back. “Mr. Queen, may I ask what the point of this—ah—extraordinary inquisition is?” Ellery put down the manuscript and picked up the neat pile he had poked. “I have here various samples of Karen Leith’s handwriting—indis-putably Karen Leith’s, according to Morel. Dr. MacClure, would you be kind enough to look these over and confirm the lawyer’s opinion?” The big man came away from the window. He did not take the papers from Ellery. He merely stood with his hands behind his back and glanced at the top sheet.

“That’s Karen’s handwriting, all right.” And he went back.

“Mr. Buescher?”

The publisher was more thorough. He went through the pile. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes.” He was perspiring.

“Now then,” continued Ellery, setting the pile down and picking up the manuscript again, “let me read you a few fragments from Eight-Cloud
Rising.” He adjusted his pince-nez and began to read in a clear voice.

“Old Mr. Saburo sat on his haunches and laughed to himself at nothing; but from time to time a thought was visible through the vacant veils of his eyes.”

He paused. “Now let me read you the sentence as it is emended in pencil.” He read slowly:

“Old Mr. Saburo sat on his haunches and laughed to himself at nothing; but from time to time a thought flickered behind the empty windows of his head.”

“Yes,” muttered the publisher. “I remember that.” Ellery flipped a few pages.

“Unperceived from the terrace Ono Jones perceived her standing in the garden below.”

He looked up. “This, observe, has been changed to read as follows.” He looked down.

“Unperceived from the terrace Ono Jones perceived her black shape standing across the moon.”

“I don’t quite understand—” began Buescher.

Ellery turned more pages. “Here’s a place in which a Japanese summer sky is described as f cloisonne’ The word has been crossed out, and f enamel’

substituted. In the same paragraph the panoramic outdoor scene over the characters’ heads is fan inverted, delicate bowl.3 The writer changes her mind and the sentence becomes: fThey stood beneath a painted teacup turned upside down.’” Ellery closed the manuscript. “Mr. Buescher, what kind of corrections would you call these?”

The man was plainly puzzled. “Why, creative ones, of course. Question of feeling for the look of certain words—one figure of speech as against another. Every writer makes them.”

“They’re highly personalized? No one would dare take such liberties with some one else’s work?”

“Well, you’re a writer yourself, Mr. Queen,” said Buescher.

“In other words, you would say Karen Leith penciled in those corrections—and all other such corrections in all her novels?”

“Certainly!”

Ellery went to the man with two things. “Please compare the handwriting of the manuscript corrections,” he said quietly, “with the attested handwriting of Karen Leith.”

Buescher stared for an instant; and then he grabbed the papers and began feverishly scrambling through them. “My God,” he mumbled.

“Some one else’s handwriting!”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Ellery. “From this and certain other indications the truth is very clear. Karen Leith did not write Eight-Cloud Rising.

Karen Leith did not write The Sun, which preceded it, nor Water Children, nor any of the other gifted novels ascribed to her pen and which she took credit for. Karen Leith had no more to do with the works on which she built her international reputation than Mr. Buescher’s lowliest proofreader.”

“But there must be some mistake,” cried Eva. “Who could have written them? Who’d permit some one else to get credit for his own writing?”

“Not his, Miss MacClure—her. And I didn’t say it was by permission, which is the most deceptive of words. There are many ways of executing a vile and treacherous plan.” Ellery pursed his lips. “All these novels were written by Karen Leith’s sister, Esther.”

Dr. MacClure sat down suddenly on the edge of the window.

“There’s really not the slightest question about it,” said Ellery. “I’ve checked it every possible way and the answer’s always the same. The handwriting of the revisions is definitely Esther Leith’s—I have plenty of samples of her writing in that bunch of old letters—dating as far back as 1913. There are a few time differences, but I had them expertized this morning and the verdict was unanimous. And it couldn’t be that Esther has been acting merely as her sister’s secretary, because as Mr. Buescher has told you the corrections are creative.”

Dr. Scott cleared his throat. “Aren’t you perhaps making more of it than really exists? Possibly the corrections were Miss Leith’s, with her sister acting as a mere stenographer.”

“Then how do you explain,” said Ellery, picking up a fat notebook,

“that in this notebook, in Esther Leith’s handwriting, is the complete working plan of Eight-Cloud Rising—copious notes, all creative, all personal, with little side-comments which clearly indicate the ideas were hers?”

“But she’s dead,” said Eva. “Daddy says so. Karen—Karen told me so.”

“Your father was deliberately misled by Miss Leith, as you were.

Esther is alive. According to the story of her ‘suicide,’ it took place in 1924. But all of these books have been written since, you see.”

“But they could have been old books, old notes, dating ‘way back, and just dug up—”

“No, Miss MacClure. Most of them show internal evidence—references to contemporary events—which far postdate 1924. She’s alive all right, and she wrote Karen Leith’s books, and she wrote them in this very room.”

“Good lord,” said Buescher. He was on his feet now, restlessly pacing.

“The scandal! It will turn the literary world upside down.”

“Not if we don’t want it to,” said Dr. MacClure hoarsely. His eyes were red again. “She’s dead. Why resurrect—”

“And then there’s the prize,” groaned the publisher. “If there’s been fraud here, or plagiarism—”

“Mr. Buescher,” said Ellery abruptly, “could Eight-Cloud Rising have been written by a madwoman?”

“Good God, no!” shouted Buescher. He rumpled his hair. “I can’t figure it out. Perhaps this Esther Leith did it willingly—for some reason of her own. Perhaps—”

“I don’t suppose,” drawled Ellery, “Karen Leith stood over her sister with a revolver and forced her into a living death.”

“The—the calmness of her! At the party in May—”

“There are other ways,” finished Ellery. He sat down behind the teakwood desk, thinking.

“Nobody’d believe it,” moaned Buescher. “I’d be the laughingstock—”

“And where is the poor soul?” cried Eva. “After all, it isn’t fair to her.” She ran over to the doctor. “I know how you feel, daddy, about raking up this—this—If Karen did this horrible thing to her it’s up to us to find Esther and make it up to her!”

“Yes,” muttered the doctor. “We’ve got to find her.”

“Why not wait until you do?” said Terry Ring coolly. “You can keep quiet about it and then decide when you talk to her.”

“Terry’s right,” said Ellery. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do. I’ve already discussed it with my father. He’s redoubling his efforts to locate her.”

“Oh, I know he will!” cried Eva. “Daddy, aren’t you happy that she’s alive and—” She stopped. There was something rather awful in the big man’s face. Eva remembered his shy, grim confession that once, in his youth, he had loved the woman his brother had married. But he sighed and said: “Well, we’ll see. We’ll see.” Then Ritter bellowed from downstairs: “Mr. Queen! The Inspector’s on the wire!” Chapter XVI

When Ellery came up from Karen Leith’s bedroom his face was grave.

“They’ve found her!” said Eva.

“No.” Ellery turned to the publisher. “Thank you, Mr. Buescher.

That’s all, I think. You won’t forget your promise?”

“I’m not likely to.” Buescher wiped his face. “Doctor—I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“Goodbye, Mr. Buescher,” said Dr. MacClure steadily.

The publisher shook his head and went away with compressed lips.

When the sound of Ritter closing the sitting-room door after him came up the attic stairs Ellery said: “My father wants you folks to come down to Centre Street at once.”

“Headquarters again,” said Eva damply.

“I think we’d better go now, please. Dr. Scott, you needn’t come if you prefer not to. He didn’t mention you.”

“Well, I want to,” said Dr. Scott shortly. He flushed and took Eva by the elbow and steered her down the stairs.

“What is it?” whispered Dr. MacClure to Ellery quickly. “Is he—has anything—?”

“I don’t know, Doctor, he wouldn’t say.” Ellery scowled. “But I know my father, and he sounded triumphant. We’d better be prepared for the worst.”

The doctor nodded wordlessly and followed the young couple down the steep stairs.

“It’s the pay-off,” said Terry Ring out of the side of his mouth. “I know your old man, too. I wondered when he’d get around to those fingerprints.”

“It has to be more than fingerprints, Terry.”

“Did he want me, too?”

“No.”

Terry gripped his pearl-gray fore and aft and set it firmly on his head.

“Then I’ll come.”

When the deskman showed them into Inspector Queen’s office at Police Headquarters, the old man was deep in conversation with Morel, the fat little lawyer.

“Oh, come in,” said the Inspector, rising; his bird’s eyes were bright.

“I think you all know Mr. Morel—well, it doesn’t matter. Just a servant of the public—aren’t you, Morel?”

“Ha, ha,” said Morel; he was perspiring copiously, and he seemed to find it difficult to meet the eyes of the MacClures. He bounced up and ran behind his chair, as if he felt the need for more than a spiritual prop.

“You, too?” growled the old man, spying Terry. “Just like a bad cent. I didn’t want you. Clear out.”

“I think you do want me,” said Terry.

“Oh,” said the Inspector grimly. “Well, sit down, all of you.”

“Goodness!” said Eva with a hysterical laugh. “This all sounds so dreadfully serious.”

“You, too, Dr. Scott, as long as you’re here. Although it may not be so pleasant for you.”

Scott said in a faltering voice: “May not—” He went pale, and after one sidewise glance at Eva looked away.

The Inspector sat down. “Now why do you think I want you, Terry?”

“Because you were damned anxious to know yesterday what I knew.”

“That’s different,” said the old man instantly. “That’s a horse of a different color, my boy. Ready to talk, eh?” He pressed a button. “Now that’s a sensible lad. Now you’re the old Terry again. In the first place—”

“In the first place,” said Terry dryly, “I’m not talking till I find out what’s up your sleeve, you old robber.”

“Mmm. It’s a deal, is it?”

“Do I stay?”

“You stay . . . Mushie.” A man in uniform had come in. “Take it down.” The man seated himself at the side of the desk and opened a stenographer’s notebook. “Now then.” The old man rubbed his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “Miss MacClure, why did you murder Karen Leith?”

* * *

So here it is, thought Eva calmly. Here it is. My big moment. She almost laughed aloud. He had found the fingerprints. And nobody could do anything about that—not Dr. MacClure, who sat like a chunk of granite; not Terry, who put his hands slowly into his pockets; not Dr.

Scott, who bit his lip and then, as if remembering a lesson, took her hand; not Ellery Queen, who stood motionless at the window with his back turned as if he hadn’t even heard . . . .

It was going to be pleasant in prison, Eva thought. They gave you rough underwear and shapeless prison dresses and made you scrub floors . . . at least, that’s the way the movies had it, and their experts knew.

She wondered how she could sit so calmly and think so calmly, with the thunder of collapse in her ears and the iron doors of the prison blotting out everything in her young and foolish and unlived life. It might even be worse. It might even be . . .

But that was one thing Eva could not bring herself to put into a thought. She closed her eyes to fool the word. But the word kept sneaking back, forcing her to think it, and after that she felt a little sick and her legs trembled under the sheer silk as if she had run a mile without stopping.

“Just a moment,” said Ellery.

“No,” said Inspector Queen flatly.

“Yes. I don’t know what you have but—don’t be hasty. Take your time. Miss MacClure won’t run away. Take your time.”

“I’ve taken,” said the Inspector, “all the time I’m going to. I’ve got my job to do.”

“Don’t you realize what a mistake will mean to Miss MacClure?”

“The gossip, the notoriety, the newspapers,” gasped Dr. Scott.

“She should have thought of that when she stabbed Karen Leith.

Besides, I’m a policeman, not a judge. Keep out of this, all of you . . . .

Wait. Ellery, do you know anything that says Eva MacClure did not stab that woman?”

“Not yet. But I’ve caught a glimmer—”

The old man turned away. “Well, Miss MacClure?”

“I—I beg your pardon,” stammered Eva. “I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.”

“Not listening!”

“For God’s sake!” shouted Dr. MacClure. “Can’t you see the child’s on the verge of collapse? Eva!” He bent over her, angry, bristling, his old self. “Hold on! Don’t lose your nerve, honey! Do you hear me?”

“Yes. Yes,” said Eva faintly. She tried to open her eyes, but it was the queerest thing—they wouldn’t open. Just as if they were stuck together.

“You damned old stinker!” roared Terry Ring. He sprang to the Inspector’s desk and glared. “Who the hell d’ye think you are, kicking that poor kid in the slats this way? Murder! She couldn’t murder a fly! Making the kid take the rap because your department’s too damned dumb to nab the real killer! For two cents—”

“Hey,” said the old man quietly. “Don’t forget yourself, you big lunk.

What is this, a gang-up? You seem to forget one thing, all of you. I don’t throw accusations of murder around. I’ve got evidence.” His eyes blazed.

“As for you, Terry, you’d better stop playing Miss MacClure’s game and start thinking about yourself. I might be able to slap an accessory charge on you!”

Terry quieted down; the wine color left his face. He went over to Eva’s chair and stood behind it. Morel, watching like a frightened porpoise, could scarcely stand still. He kept shifting his glance to the door.

“All right, dad. Let’s have it,” said Ellery. He had not moved from the window.

The Inspector took something which was carefully wrapped in cotton batting out of his top drawer. “This is the weapon that killed Karen Leith.” He glowered. “It has Eva MacClure’s fingerprints on the blade, bow, and shank.”

“My God,” said Dr. Scott hoarsely. Eva heard him as from a long distance off.

“The blade was wiped clean of blood, but you weren’t very careful afterward, were you, Miss MacClure?” The old man was in front of her now, brandishing the half-scissors. Its encrusted stones glittered in the light.

“She can explain that,” said Terry. “She—”

“I’m talking to Miss MacClure. You needn’t answer, Miss MacClure.

The police stenographer is ready to take down everything you may say.

But it’s your right to say nothing, and my duty to warn you that if you do talk the State may use it against you.”

Eva opened her eyes. They came open easily, as if what he had said was a key to a door.

“Eva—honey. Don’t talk,” groaned Dr. MacClure.

“But it’s all so silly,” said Eva in a marveling voice. “I went in there and saw Karen lying there and leaned on the desk and my hand touched that—that thing. Before I knew what I was doing I picked it up. Then I realized it must have killed her and I dropped it. It fell off into the basket.”

“I see,” said Inspector Queen, never taking his clever eyes off her. “So that’s your story. Was it wiped clean when you picked it up?” She stared.

“Was there blood on it?”

“No, Inspector Queen.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this when I questioned you Monday afternoon?”

“I was afraid,” whispered Eva.

“Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know. Just afraid.”

“Afraid it would look bad for you?”

“I—Yes. I suppose so.”

“But why should you be afraid if you didn’t kill Karen Leith? You knew you were innocent, didn’t you?”

“Of course! I didn’t kill Karen! I didn’t!”

The Inspector surveyed her in silence. Then Eva’s eyes fell and filled with tears. It was supposed to be a sign of clear conscience and honesty to be able to look a person straight in the eye. But how could she, when that eye was so merciless, so hostile, so suspicious? Any one with sensitivity would look away from something disagreeable, cruel . . .

“If that’s all you’ve got, pop,” said Terry Ring derisively, “you’d better go home and play your harmonica.”

Inspector Queen stalked back to his desk without replying. He opened the top drawer again, put down the half-scissors, and took out a manila envelope. Then he stalked back.

“In the grate of the fireplace in the sitting-room next to the scene of the crime,” he said, “we found this.” He took something out of the envelope. Eva forced herself to look, feeling nauseated. It was impossible.

It couldn’t be. Fate couldn’t play such a mean trick. But it had. It had.

There it was, the corner of her cambric handkerchief, just the corner, with the hypotenuse of the triangular scrap a wavy, charred edge, and her silk-stitched initials of white smeared hideously with Karen Leith’s blackish blood.

She heard Terry Ring suck in his breath behind her. That was one danger he hadn’t foreseen. That was the only job he’d given her to do, had thought she’d done, and that he saw she had bungled. She could almost feel his bitterness, the bite of his contempt, from behind.

“Is this your handkerchief, Miss MacClure?”

“Eva! Don’t answer, honey! Don’t say a word. He’s got no right!” She’d run away before making sure the handkerchief was completely consumed. And, of course, the fire petered out. It would. It would.

“It bears the initials E M,” said the Inspector coldly, “and you needn’t delude yourself, Dr. MacClure, that it will be hard to prove this handkerchief belongs to your daughter. As a matter of fact—” But then he stopped, as if he felt he might say too much. “Another thing. This stain on the corner is human blood. Our chemists have established that. They have also established that it is blood of the type in Karen Leith’s body—a rather unusual type, just to make it easier for us and harder for you, Miss MacClure.”

“Eva. Shut up,” said Terry queerly. “Keep your mouth shut.”

“No!” Eva managed to get out of the chair. “This is stupid, stupid!

Yes, it is my handkerchief, and it is stained with Karen’s blood, and I did try to burn it!”

“Ah,” said the Inspector. “Did you get that, Mushie?”

“My God,” said Dr. Scott again, in exactly the same way as before. He seemed incapable of saying anything else. Terry Ring glanced at Ellery, shrugged, and lit a cigaret.

“But it was only because I’d stooped over Karen in the oriel and—and got some blood from the floor on my hand, and wiped it with my handkerchief. It was like jelly.” Eva shuddered. “Don’t you see? Any one would have done it. No one likes to—to get blood on his fingers. You wouldn’t, would you?” She began to sob. “And then I burned it. I burned it! I was afraid again, afraid!” She collapsed in the doctor’s arms.

“So that’s how it was,” said Inspector Queen.

“Listen, pop, Inspector.” Terry Ring caught the old man’s arm. “I’ll give it to you on the level. It was my idea. I told her to burn it.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

“When I popped in there she told me what had happened. I made her burn the damned thing. So don’t think you can pin that on her. I’ll testify to that!”

“And why,” purred the Inspector, “did you advise Miss MacClure to burn the handkerchief, Mr. Ring? Were you afraid, too?”

“Because I knew what a dumb cop with a catcher’s mitt for a brain would think if he found it. That’s why!”

Morel coughed. “Inspector Queen. Do you really need me? I have—ah

—a client waiting . . . .”

“You stay where you are!” yelled the old man. Morel shrank back, clutching the chair harder. “Did you get down what this wisenheimer said, Mushie? Okay! Now, Miss MacClure, I’ll tell you what really happened!

“You stabbed Karen Leith with the half-scissors, you wiped the blood off the blade with your handkerchief, and then you tried to burn the handkerchief to destroy the evidence. We have two exhibits—evidence no lawyer could shake—to prove our theory. If our friend Mr. Ring wants to stick to his story that it was his suggestion to burn the handkerchief, we’ll hang an accessory charge around his neck.

“We have the Japanese woman’s testimony to prove that Karen Leith was alive when you were left alone in the sitting-room. We have your own statement, taken at the scene, that no one went through that sitting-room during the half-hour in which you claim you sat there. We have Karen Leith’s own letter to prove that she had no thought of murder or death in her mind when she sat down to write an ordinary business note to Morel

—a letter which wasn’t started until after Kinume gave her the stationery, which was just when you arrived. We’ll show that only the murder could have interrupted that letter. We have Terry Ring’s own statement of Monday that when he arrived he found you in the bedroom over the still-living body of Karen Leith, with no one else there.” The old man spun about. “Well, Morel, you’re a lawyer. Is there a case?”

“I—I’m not a criminal lawyer,” stuttered Morel.

“Well,” said Inspector Queen dryly, “Henry Sampson is—and he’s the smartest D.A. this town ever had. And Sampson thinks he’s got something to work on.”

There was a profound silence, punctuated rather than broken by Eva’s exhausted sobbing on Dr. MacClure’s breast.

“Excuse me for butting in,” said Terry Ring in the silence, “but what about the blonde dame from the attic?”

* * *

The Inspector blinked. Then he went over to his desk and sat down.

“Oh, yes. The blonde woman. Karen Leith’s sister.”

“Yeah, her sister. What about her?”

“What about her?”

“Don’t you think you might clear that up before you go putting the finger on this poor kid? You know that Karen Leith kept that woman practically a prisoner for nine years in that room. You know she escaped.

You know she had damned good reason to hate her sister’s guts—with the little one stealing her stuff and taking credit for it. You know she had a way to come down and a way to get out. You know the scissors came from the attic, where she lived!”

“Karen Leith’s sister,” murmured the Inspector. “Yes, indeed. Doctor, we’ve traced that suicide business.”

“You listen to me!” shouted Terry.

“The body was never found in the sea. She just disappeared. We also found out that when Karen Leith came over from Japan, she traveled with two people—this Kinume and a blonde woman who kept to their cabin all through the voyage and was listed under an obviously false name. That’s why Miss Leith didn’t let you know she was coming—she wanted to get settled and her sister hidden away before any one from her old life found out.”“Then it is true,” mumbled Dr. Scott unexpectedly. “That woman—
the one who murdered Dr. MacClure’s brother—”

“That’s a damnable lie!” thundered the doctor. His light blue eyes flamed so dangerously Dr. Scott paled still more.

“I think,” said Ellery from the window in a cold tone, “that we’re beginning to divagate. You mentioned something about a case.” Father and son eyed each other. “I haven’t heard a whisper about motive.”

“The State doesn’t have to prove motive,” snapped the old man.

“But it comes in handy when you’re trying to convince a jury that a harmless young woman of spotless reputation and no previous criminal record stabbed her father’s fiancee to death with murderous intent.”

“The funny part of it is,” said the Inspector, teetering in his chair,

“that I was puzzled at first about the motive, too. I couldn’t figure why a girl of Miss MacClure’s bringing-up and family should turn killer. It’s one reason I held back. But all of a sudden I find a motive—a motive any jury will understand, even sympathize with.” He shrugged. “But that’s out of my line.”

“Motive?” Eva raised her head from the arm of her chair. “I had a motive to kill Karen?” She laughed wildly.

“Morel.” The Inspector swiveled. “What did you tell me today?” Morel struggled as he felt their eyes on him; it was apparent he would have welcomed escape with open arms. He dabbed at his forehead with an already wet handkerchief. “I—Please understand, Dr. MacClure. It was a pure accident. I mean I didn’t intend to meddle. But when I found out—
naturally, my duty to the law—”

“Cut the baloney,” growled Terry Ring.

The lawyer did not seem to know what to do with the handkerchief.

“Years ago Miss Leith left a certain—well, large envelope in my care with instructions to—well, open it on her death. I’d—well, completely forgotten about it until this morning. Then I opened it, and the papers in it all related to Esther Leith MacClure—old letters between Dr.

MacClure and Miss Leith dated 1919, a written statement by Miss Leith making certain arrangements for the disposition of her sister—in case of her own death—to send her back to Japan secretly—”

“They’re all here,” said the old man, patting his desk.

And now, as he looked at Dr. MacClure, there was pity in his eyes.

“You’ve kept the secret well, Doctor. I know why you did. But I’m sorry—

I’ve got to reveal it.”

“Don’t tell her. Let that one—thing—be,” whispered Dr. MacClure.

He hovered over the Inspector, his hands shaking.

“I’m sorry. It’s a good show you’re putting on, Doctor, but the girl knows. Even if you don’t think she knows, I tell you she does.” He took a long document from a basket on his desk and caught Eva’s eye. He cleared his throat. “I have here, Miss MacClure, a warrant for your arrest, charging you with the murder of Karen Leith.”

“I think,” began Eva, swaying on her feet, “I think—”

“No. Wait, Inspector.” Terry Ring was in front of the desk, speaking fast. “That deal we spoke about. I’ll make it. Give the kid a chance. She’s no common criminal. Hold off on the pinch. You can’t go off half-cocked with this Esther at large.” The Inspector said nothing. “She could have done it, I tell you! She had two motives. One was the dirty deal her sister gave her. The other was the money—the Leith woman’s money coming from her great-aunt.”

“Yes?” said Inspector Queen.

“Morel will tell you! Karen Leith died before forty. The aunt’s fortune then goes to Karen’s nearest blood-relative. But with Esther alive, she’s the relative! Her sister! She gets that dough! Morel.”

“Y-yes.”

“How much is involved?”

“Nearly a million and a quarter.”

“There! See, Inspector? That’s dough, isn’t it? She falls into that dough, doesn’t she?” Terry’s gray eyes glittered. “And where’s your motive for this kid here? It can’t stand up against a million and a quarter!” The Inspector said: “What’s the deal, Terry?”

Terry straightened up. “If you ask me hard enough,” he said coolly, “I think maybe I might be able to find Esther Leith for you.” The old man smiled. “No dice, Terry. You’re forgetting one thing.

Morel, what would have happened to that money if Karen Leith had lived another month?”

“She would have inherited it,” said Morel nervously. “It would have gone to her estate.”

“And she left all her money to charities and institutions, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“In other words, Terry, if Eva MacClure hadn’t killed Karen Leith when she did, she would never have got her hands on that fortune at all—
neither she nor Esther Leith.” Terry frowned, puzzled. “And then the fingerprints on the weapon are the girl’s. The handerchief is the girl’s.

And there’s no evidence to show that Esther was even in the house during the commission of the crime. Nothing doing, Terry.” He paused. “But—
you say you know where she is? I’ll remember that.”

“Never have got her hands on the fortune!” sneered Terry. “What’s the matter with you, pop—you crazy? How could Eva ever get her hands on it? It could go only to a blood-relative—”

Dr. Scott broke his bonds. He said unsteadily: “Inspector Queen. Was that the motive you mentioned—I mean, my fiancee committed murder for money}”

“That,” said Inspector Queen, waving the warrant, “and revenge.”

“Daddy,” said Eva. “Did you hear what he said? Revenge!”

“Stop acting!” said the Inspector sternly. “Dr. MacClure’s no more your father than I am!”

“Not—Eva’s—father—” said Dr. Scott, dazedly.

“Revenge?” repeated Eva, swaying a little more.

“Revenge for what Karen Leith did to Esther—keeping her prisoner for nine years, stealing her work, her life, her family, her happiness.”

“I think,” said Eva faintly, “I think I’ll go mad if some one doesn’t—
tell—me—what . . . “

“What the hell difference could it make to her “ demanded Terry fiercely, “what Karen Leith did to her sister Esther? You little dumbbell!” The Inspector replied: “What difference? Oh, I don’t know. Mightn’t it possibly make you boil a little if a woman like Karen Leith did what she did to your own mother?”

“Her—mother—” gasped Dr. Scott.

“Yes, Dr. Scott. Esther Leith MacClure is your fiancee’s mother.” Eva gaped. Then she screamed in an unrecognizable voice: “My mother!”

Terry Ring and Ellery Queen jumped for her as she tottered, but it was the brown man who got there first.

PART FOUR

Chapter XVII

“I’m all right,” said Eva, pushing him away. “Just let me alone, please.” She felt for the back of a chair.

“I’m telling you she didn’t know,” said Dr. MacClure to Inspector Queen. “I tell you I’ve kept it from her . . . .” But there was no belief on the Inspector’s face, and the doctor made a gesture of despair. “Eva. Eva, honey.”

“Did you say my mother?” asked Eva, looking at the Inspector in a very strange way. She seemed quite calm.

But Dr. MacClure saw her eyes, and he brushed aside Dr. Scott, who was standing helplessly by, and took Eva’s elbow and led her like a child to the Inspector’s leather settee. “Get me some water.” Terry was out and back in a matter of strides with a brimming paper-cup from the cooler in the outer office. The big man chafed Eva’s arms and legs, put water to her lips. And Eva’s eyes filled with awareness, and pain.“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, hiding her face in the doctor’s coat.

“There, honey. It’s all right. It’s my fault for keeping it from you. Cry, honey—”

“He said . . . Then Karen was my aunt. You’re my uncle. She— she’s my mother!”

“I didn’t think you’d ever find out. And when I learned she was dead—
how was I to know, honey?—it did seem wiser not to tell you.”

“Oh, dad! My own mother!”

Dr. MacClure was calmer than Ellery had seen him since Monday afternoon on the V ant bio’s deck. And he held his shoulders straighter, as if they carried a lesser burden now.

“Take some water, honey.”

The Inspector said: “Very pretty, but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask—” The big man looked at him, and the Inspector bit the end of his mustache and sat down.

“You’ll want to know about it now, Eva,” said the doctor, stroking her hair. “Yes, she’s your own mother—a beautiful and brilliant person. The sweetest woman I’ve ever known.”

“I want her. I want to see her,” sobbed Eva.

“We’re going to find her for you. Lie down, Eva.” He laid her back on the settee and rose to walk up and down, up and down. “I’ll never forget that cable—when you were born. It was from Floyd, and he was very proud. 1916—the year your grandfather died . . . Hugh Leith. Two years later Floyd’s accident occurred, and your mother’s breakdown. Karen—” his face darkened—”Karen wrote me, and I went straight to Japan, dropping everything. This was at the end of 1918, right after the Armistice.” Eva lay on the settee and saw her mother painted on the ceiling. It was funny, to find out a thing like that, just when . . . Tall, stately, with her ash-blonde, lovely hair; beautiful, of course, and with that pitiful dragging leg that invested her with a single touch of earth. The picture was so clear . . . .

“Esther was in a sanitarium. Her nerves had completely collapsed as a result of Floyd’s death and the way it happened. For a time she was out of her mind. But she regained her sanity. In the process something happened to her. She lost something vital—I don’t quite know what.”

“Did she remember what had happened?” asked Ellery.

“She could think of nothing else. I saw that the fear that she had murdered Floyd would haunt her to the end of her life. She’s a sensitive creature, a bundle of delicate nerves—in those days a poet of great promise.”

“But why did she insist on harping on that one subject, Doctor? Did she really have a guilty conscience?”

“I tell you I investigated it! It had been sheer accident. But there was something I couldn’t put my finger on. I don’t know what it was. It held her back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t do anything with her. It was just as if—well, as if another and inimical force was working outside her, hurting her, delaying her recovery, giving her no rest.”

Poor darling, thought Eva. Poor darling. She had always secretly envied her friends for their mothers, even the ones who were cheap and vain and empty. All of them had something to give their daughters that seemed precious, that blotted out the cheapness and vanity and emptiness . . . . Her eyes filled with tears again. And now that she almost had her mother back—what? Scandal. Arrest. Perhaps—

“I stayed in Japan as long as I could. Karen was—helpful. Now that her father was dead, she said, she had her own career to make, and besides she had to take care of Esther. Esther had no aim in life; she needed attention; she was hardly in a condition to bring up her child. Even then,” shouted the doctor, brandishing his fist, “I’ll bet Karen’d concocted her devilish scheme!” His voice sank. “But how was I to know?” The Inspector stirred uneasily. Morel, he noticed, had taken advantage of the confusion to make his escape. Nothing was working out right, he thought. He pursed his lips.

Dr. MacClure said gently to Eva: “It was Karen who suggested I take you back with me, honey—adopt you. You were less than three then, a skinny little thing with long curls. Of course I knew you would never remember. Well, I did it. We had to do it legally, get Esther’s signature.

To my surprise, she gave it. She even insisted on giving you up, and I took you back with me.” He paused. “And here we are.” And here we are. Eva stared at the ceiling. For the first time the shame of it crept burning over her. Eva MacClure a murderess! Her mother a . . .

They would say it was heredity. That murder, vengeance were in her blood, in Esther’s blood, that was Eva’s. How was she to face them? How was she to face—Dick?

She turned her head slowly. He was standing by the Inspector’s door, shifting from one foot to the other, looking as if he had a bad taste in his mouth and was trying to swallow it. It struck Eva suddenly that her fiance had done nothing, nothing at all. He had been dumb and comfortless. He had been obsessed with thoughts of personal escape.

“Dick. Why don’t you go home? Your work—the hospital—” She watched him as she had once seen Dr. MacClure watch the writh-ings of a guinea pig undergoing anesthesia.

But he said stiffly: “Don’t be silly, Eva. With this insane charge hanging over you—” He came to her then and stooped to kiss her. His lips felt cold against her cheek.

And here we are, Eva thought. Here am I, stretched out like an animal on the dissecting table, under the eyes of men . . . . She sat up suddenly, swinging her legs to the floor with a clatter.

“You’re not going to frighten me,” she said fiercely to the silent Inspector. “I’ve been acting like a scared child. But you won’t scare me! I did not kill Karen Leith. I did not know my mother is alive. I didn’t even know who my mother is! I’ve given you perfectly reasonable explanations for the fingerprints and the handkerchief. Why aren’t you fair?”

“That’s the stuff, baby!” said Terry Ring, grinning. “Tell the old baboon where the hell he gets off.”

“And you,” said Eva scornfully. “If you know where my mother is, why don’t you tell us? Take me to her this instant!” Terry blinked. “Now listen, kid, take it easy. I didn’t say I knew positively. I only said—”

“Why don’t you make him tell?” cried Eva to the Inspector. “You’re awfully good at scaring a woman, but when a man stands up to you—” Terry grabbed her arm. “Listen, kid—” She shook it off, glaring at the old man. “You’d better find her! God knows what’s happened to her—
alone in New York for the first time in her life, after spending nine years cooped up in an attic!”

Inspector Queen nodded at his stenographer. “All right, Mushie,” he sighed. “Send Thomas Velie in. We’ll want to book her.” Eva relaxed very slowly. Very slowly she stared about her—at Dr.

MacClure, pacing, pacing; at Dr. Scott—who was he? it seemed to Eva she had never seen him before—nibbling at a fingernail and studying the sky through the window; at Terry Ring lighting one cigaret from another and frowning deeply; at Ellery Queen, motionless and impotent as the onyx figurine on Inspector Queen’s desk.

The police stenographer said: “Yes, sir,” and rose. But before he could get to the door it swung open and a tall, lanky, black-jowled man wearing an archaic derby and smoking a black cigar slouched in.

“Oh, company?” scowled Dr. Samuel Prouty, Assistant Medical Examiner of New York County. “Hello,

Queen. Ah, Dr. MacClure! Sorry about all this . . . . Listen, Q. I’ve got bad news for you.”

“Bad news for me?” said the Inspector.

“You know that half-scissors—the one you’ve got in your desk?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“It didn’t kill Karen Leith.”

* * *

Terry Ring drawled in the very special silence: “Well, what do you know about that.”

“You wouldn’t kid an old man, would you, Sam?” asked the Inspector, trying to smile.

“I’m telling you,” said Prouty impatiently. “Listen, I’ve got to be back at the Morgue in twenty minutes and I can’t stand here gassing. But after that first autopsy report of ours on Tuesday, I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“I guess you do,” growled the old man.

Terry Ring went over to Dr. Prouty and pumped his limp hand. “The Marines have landed!” Then he went to Eva and led her, chuckling, to the settee. “Sit down, kid. This is your show now.”

Bewildered, Eva sat down. She had never felt more alert in her life; it had something to do, she knew vaguely, with the adrenal glands; and yet nothing made sense. The half-scissors . . . the fingerprints . . .

“My fault,” said Prouty. “I was busy and left the autopsy to—well, never mind. He’s a youngster and hasn’t had much experience. Besides, I thought it was merest routine. There didn’t seem to be any doubt about the agency of death.”

Ellery ran over to him and gripped his lapel. “Prouty, stop babbling before I throttle you! If the half-scissors didn’t kill her, what did?”

“A different . . . If you’ll give me a chance—” Ellery smacked his father’s desk. “Don’t tell me the knife-wound was inflicted over a first wound, a smaller wound— to obliterate it!” The black jaw, which needed a shave badly, dropped. “Lord! I never dreamed . . . Is there any way of telling, Prouty? Is the venom recognizable?”

“Venom?” repeated Dr. Prouty dazedly. “It was just yesterday. I’d been thinking over the case—its curious angles. I got to thinking about Kinume.” Ellery was exultant. “And then I remembered Karen Leith’s remarking in the spring that the old Japanese woman came from the Loo-choo Islands. I promptly referred to Britannica and found—pure hunch, mind you!—that a majority of the islands, especially a place called Amami-Oshima, are infested with a genus of venomous reptile called habu”

“Ha—what?” said Prouty, goggling at him. rrTrimeresurus—I hope I’ve remembered it correctly. No rattle, scaly head, attain a length of six to seven feet, and their bite causes quick death.” Ellery drew a deep breath. “It teas the marks of fangs underneath, Prouty?” Prouty took the dangling cigar out of his mouth. “What’s the matter with him, Q.—is he crazy?”

Ellery’s smile vanished. “You mean it wasn’t a snake?”

“No!”

“But I thought—” began Ellery feebly.

“And who said anything about the knife-wound obliterating another, smaller wound underneath?”

“But when I asked you—”

Prouty threw up his hands. “Look, Q. Put in a call to Matteawan, and then bring out that half-scissors.”

The Inspector took the batting-wrapped half-scissors from his drawer.

Prouty unwrapped it. “Hmm. Then I was right.” He threw the thing on the desk and produced a small cardboard box from his pocket. There was a wad of wool inside, and nestling on the wool like a jewel was a small sliver of steel, sharply triangular in shape.

“Dug this out of her throat myself this afternoon. My assistant missed it Tuesday.” Pie handed the box over to the Inspector, and they crowded around.

“The tip of a scissors blade,” said the old man slowly. “Snapped off by the blow. And the tip of this half—” he glanced over at the half-scissors on the desk—”is still intact.”

“Same kind of tip exactly, wouldn’t you say?” muttered Terry.

“What do you think, El?”

“No question about it. This sliver is the tip of the missing half-scissors.”

“Then you’re right, Sam,” said the old man gloomily. “This half of the scissors couldn’t have knifed her. It was the other half.”

“Okay, kid!” Terry ran over to Eva. “You sleep in your own bed tonight!”

“Found the other half?” asked Prouty, going to the door. “No!”

“Well, all right, don’t bite my head off.” Prouty scratched his jaw. “Uh

—Dr. MacClure. I don’t want you to think this sort of bungling is usual with our office. Green hand. You know—”

Dr. MacClure waved an absent hand. “By the way,” said Ellery, “what else did you find, Prouty? I didn’t see the report.”

“Oh, nothing much. A coronary thrombosis—did you know that, Doctor? I believe you were her physician.”

“Suspected it,” muttered the doctor.

“Coronary thrombosis?” repeated Ellery. “I thought that was a form of heart disease exclusive with men.”

“It’s commoner in men,” said Prouty, “but plenty of women have it.

Karen Leith had a nice thrombus. That’s why she died so quickly.”

“Quickly? She lingered for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Ordinarily with a throat wound they’ll live for hours. Bleed to death, and that takes time. But with a weak pumper they’ll die in a matter of minutes sometimes.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing interesting. Anaemia—weak stomach. But that’s about all.

After my young man’s boner I did a thorough autopsy myself . . . . Look here, I’ve got to be going. ‘Bye, Doctor.” And Prouty disappeared.

“I never told Karen about the thrombosis,” sighed Dr. MacClure. “It would only have worried her, and it wasn’t a serious condition. The life she led—no exertion or excitement, plenty of care—she could have lived for many years without danger.”

“She struck me,” said Ellery, “as something of a hypochondriac.”

“Never had another physician—ideal patient,” said the doctor grimly.

“Followed my instructions and advice to the letter. I suppose she thought she had a lot to live for.” He sounded bitter.

“By the way, what sort of married life did she contemplate? I’m curious, because I don’t see how she intended to keep up the deception about her sister Esther afterward.”

“She wanted a ‘modern’ marriage. Separate establishments, separate careers, she was to keep her own name—all the rest of it. At the time it sounded like a Lucy Stoner’s whim. But now—” Dr. MacClure scowled

—”now I see why. It would have enabled her to continue the deception.” He exploded suddenly. “It’s damnable how a woman can fool a man!” Or a man, thought Eva, a woman. She said quietly: “I think you can go back to your office now, Dick. There’s no more danger for today—is there, Inspector?”

The Inspector picked up the warrant and slowly tore it in half.

“Sorry,” he said. But he did not sound sorry. He sounded angry.

“Then I think,” said Dr. Scott with difficulty, “I think I’ll go, Eva . . . .

I’ll call you tonight.”

“Yes,” said Eva, and when he made as if to stoop and kiss her again, she turned her face away. He straightened up, smiling a little foolishly; he was white around the lips. Then he left without a word.

“You people might as well go, too,” said the Inspector. “Or no. Wait a minute. You didn’t happen to see the other half of those scissors around anywhere Monday afternoon, did you, Miss MacClure?”

“No, Inspector.” Eva scarcely heard him. The two-carat square-cut diamond on the fourth finger of her left hand burned.

“How about you, Mr. Ring?”

“Me?” said Terry. “Not me.”

“It couldn’t have been in one of your pockets, now, could it, when I let you go Monday?” asked the old man bitterly. “Teach me never to—” But he did not finish.

“Come on, Eva,” said Terry with a grin, seizing Eva’s arm. “The old razorback’ll charge you with lifting his leather if you don’t get out of here quick!”

Chapter XVIII

“Chow’s on me,” said Terry Ring as they stood on the sidewalk before the Centre Street building. He was in high spirits. “Come on, I’ll take you all over to Fung’s. There’s one Chink that knows how to make egg-roll.”

“I’ll go anywhere,” said Eva. She inhaled deeply and with rare enjoyment, as if she had never realized how sweet free air, even in New York, could be.

“How about you, Doc?”

“Can’t eat the stuff,” said Dr. MacClure absently.

“Then we’ll go somewhere else—”

“No.” He kissed Eva. “Run along, honey. Forget everything. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Eva, but she knew she would not, and she knew he knew she would not. “Oh, come along with us, daddy! We’ll go—”

“A walk will do me worlds of good.” He paused, and then suddenly said: “Don’t ever call me anything else, Eva,” and swung off up the street.

They watched him in silence as his tall, bulky figure marched off toward the police academy on the next block.

“Swell guy,” said Terry. “How about you, Queen? Haven’t you got anywhere to go, either? I’ll bet you’re tired.”

“I’m hungry,” said Ellery.

Terry looked disappointed for an instant. Then he yelled: “Hey, taxi!” and Eva found herself faintly smiling.

He chattered incessantly on the short jolting trip to Chinatown, paid off the driver with a bill, said: “Keep the change, sucker,” and steered them across the narrow Pell Street sidewalk to what looked like the entrance to a cellar.

“Don’t mind the looks of this joint. It’s the real McCoy. All the Chinks eat here themselves. Hello, Fung.” A broad-cheeked Chinese smiled and bobbed in the basement restaurant. The place was empty except for three old Orientals wearing black hats and drinking rice wine out of beery bottles. “Never mind, Fung. I’ll pick my own table. It’s the one the cockroaches keep away from.”

He led them to a corner, held a chair gallantly for Eva. “The cockroaches,” he said, “were a gag.” She smiled again. “The walls are a poisonous green, and plenty dirty, but the kitchen’s spotless. Want to see it?”

“No, thank you.”

“That’s it! You’ve got a dimple near your mouth that you ought to show more often. Hey, Queen! Cheer up. You still seeing snakes?” He chuckled.

“Shut up,” said Ellery irritably. “What on earth do you eat in a place like this?”

“Leave it to Uncle Oscar. Wei!” A little Chinese with an apron tied around his waist and no necktie scuttled over. “Big-big Wan-Tan. Egg-roll, three portions. Shrimp chop-suey. Chow mein, Canton style. Heavy on the rice. Wine. Tea. Shove off!”

“That sounds like an awful lot,” said Eva. ‘Til just have some chow mein and tea.”

“You’ll have what I give you.” Terry chucked his hat carelessly over his shoulder and, by a miracle, it stuck to a peg on the wall. “Take your coat off if you’re hot, Queen. Fung won’t mind.”

“Miss MacClure might.”

“Oh, I don’t!”

“Say, you’re all right, gorgeous! Feel better?”

“You haven’t given me a chance to feel anything,” said Eva. “Where is my mother, Terry?”

Terry glanced away. Through the swinging kitchen doors Wei was emerging, like Atlas, bearing an enormous tray. “I don’t know.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said.” He turned back and took her hand, feeling her fingers absently. “That’s some sparkler, isn’t it? I had to say something, kid. I thought maybe the old boy would fall for it. Stalling, that’s all.”

“Then you don’t know!” cried Eva. “Nobody knows anything!”

“Take it easy, Eva. Don’t think. Remember what your old man said.

He’s right. Forget it. It’ll all come out in the wash.” Wei arrived and set a huge tureen before them with a slip-slopping bang. “Wan-Tan,” he announced, and shuffled off.

It was a clear Chinese soup choked with doughy masses and floating thick chunks of pork, like chips on the river. The steam smelled savory.

“Ah,” said Terry, rubbing his hands. “Here, kid, give me your plate.

Chinese knishes, those are. Know what a knish is? I used to buy ‘em on the cuff off old Finkelstein down in Cherry Street when I was a kid peddling papers. He had a little wagon that he pushed—”

To Ellery, listening as Terry rattled on, not giving Eva time to think, making her smile, making her talk, everything looked extremely bleak. As he attacked the soup it occurred to him that for all his breeziness and lack of polish Mr. Terence Ring was an extraordinarily subtle young man. You never knew, he reflected, what Mr. Ring was really thinking.

“Soup’s delicious,” said Ellery. “Now excuse me for interrupting the autobiographical details, but it seems to me, Terry, you’re suspiciously like a man whistling in the dark.”

“You here yet?” groaned Terry.

“What am I going to do?” said Eva in dismay. “You’re right, Mr.

Queen. It’s no good pretending.”

“Have some of this egg-roll,” said Terry.

“You’re sweet, Terry, but it’s really useless. I’m in this up to my ears.

And you know it.”

Terry glared at Ellery. “Well, you know your old man. What’s he going to do now?”

“Look for the missing half of the scissors. You’re sure you didn’t see it anywhere, Eva?”

“Positive.”

“It wasn’t there,” snapped Terry. “Whoever pulled this job took it away with him. Your old man knows that, too. His men went over those premises with a vacuum-cleaner. Cellar, grounds, house inside and out—” Ellery shook his head. “I wish I knew what to suggest. But I don’t—
completely at sea. I’ve never seen a case so fruity in appearance and with so little actually to chew on.”

“I’m glad of one thing,” said Eva, pecking at the egg-roll. “Mother couldn’t—have done it. Not with that door bolted from inside Karen’s bedroom.”

“Well, we have a breathing-spell, anyway. Until dad finds out about that bedroom door, we’re all right,” said Ellery.

“How’s he ever going to find out? The only way he will is if one of us spills.” Terry scowled. “There’s one who might.”

“Who?” But Eva, flushing, knew whom he meant.

“The guy who gave you that diamond. This Scott. What the hell ever made you fall for him? Have some of this chop suey.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about Dick that way! He’s upset—why shouldn’t he be? It’s not easy for him, with a fiancee on the verge of being arrested for murder.”

“Well, it’s no easier for you, is it? Listen, kid, he’s a heel. Give him his walking papers.”

“Please!”

“If I may interrupt this romantic interlude,” said Ellery, putting down the chopsticks with which he had been vainly trying to snare a piece of shrimp, and groping for a fork, “I think I’ve thought of something.” They cried together: “What?”

Ellery put the paper napkin to his lips. “Eva, where were you standing when friend Terry went over to the bedroom door—I mean the one going to the attic—and discovered it was bolted?”

Terry’s eyes contracted. “What difference does that make?”

“Possibly a great deal. Well, Eva?”

She was staring from him to Terry and back again. “I think against Karen’s desk. Watching. Why?”

“That’s right,” said Terry. “Why?”

“Did you see the bolt before he went to the attic door?”

“No. The Japanese screen was hiding it. I told him where the door was and he threw the screen aside.”

“His body was blocking the door, then? You didn’t see the bolt until he moved aside?”

“I didn’t see it then at all. He just told me—”

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Terry. “What the devil are you driving at, Queen?”

Ellery slumped back. “You know, I have the type of mind that simply will not digest an impossibility. I’m a chronic unbeliever, Terry.”

“Skip the embroidery!”

“Here’s a situation in which the facts say only one solution is possible.

Hypothetically there are three exits from Karen Leith’s bedroom. One is a window—but the windows were iron-barred. One is the door to the attic

—that, however, was bolted from inside the bedroom. The third is the sitting-room—but Eva says not a soul passed through it, and she didn’t leave it for an instant.

Solution: Eva killed her aunt. She was the only one who could possibly have committed the murder. That is, if the basic facts are really true”

“Well, she didn’t do it,” said Terry pugnaciously. “So what?”

“Patience, my boy. I’m arguing on the assumption, of course, that Eva is innocent.”

“Thank you,” said Eva ironically.

“Well, what facts have we? The windows—that was a fact I confirmed myself; they simply couldn’t have been used as an exit. The sitting-room

—if we assume, as we do, that Eva is guiltless then we must also assume that she is telling the truth, and that no one did pass through.

Consequently, we have left only the bolted door to the attic.” Ellery sat up. “And strangely enough, Terry, the evidence that the door was bolted cannot be confirmed.”

“I don’t get you,” said Terry slowly.

“I’m sure you do. How do we know the door was bolted when Eva entered the bedroom and found her aunt dying? Did she see it? No, the screen concealed it. Then you arrived, and eventually you flung the screen aside and announced that the door was bolted. Did Eva see it even then?

No! And shortly after that, she fainted. True, when she revived, she did see the bolt—you began wrestling with it, finding it apparently stuck—but only after she had been unconscious for some time “

“Who do you think you’re kidding?” Terry’s face was mahogany again. “She was out only a few seconds. And that bolt was stuck!”

“So you say,” murmured Ellery. “We’ve only your word for it.” Eva was staring at the brown man now with a horrified inquiry; and he was so furious she thought he would blast Ellery across the room. But he controlled himself and said in a choked voice: “All right, let’s say for the sake of argument that I put one over on Eva. Let’s say the door wasn’t bolted when I looked, I only made believe it was. Why? What was my big idea?”

Ellery thrust a forkful of chow mein into his mouth. “If the door wasn’t bolted at all, the situation isn’t impossible. That’s one point in favor of the theory. It’s possible for some one to have got in through the attic, killed Karen, and escaped the same way.”

“But why should I lie about the bolt!”

“Suppose,” mumbled Ellery through the chow mein, “suppose you had stabbed Karen Leith.”

“You crazy—crackpot!” shouted Terry.

Fung ran up, wringing his hands. “Te’y! You no yell. You no make noises. You stop!”

“You go to hell!” yelled Terry. f7 did it? Why, you—”

“Now, now, Terry, you haven’t the contemplative spirit. I’m only saying ‘suppose.’ Can’t you suppose calmly? If the attic door was really open all the time, then you could have been the one who got in by the attic route, stabbed Karen Leith while Eva sat waiting in the sitting-room, escaped by the attic, and then came back through the front of the house in order to bolt that door from inside the bedroom!”

“But why?”

“Oh, that’s of the very essence of simplicity. To frame Eva for the crime. To make her appear the only possible criminal.”

“Yah!” sneered Terry. “You’re off your nut. If I made believe the bolt was in the socket, then why the hell did I turn around and save the kid by pulling it out of the socket again?”

“Yes,” said Eva breathlessly. “That doesn’t make sense, Mr. Queen.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Ellery. “Mm, this is really excellent tripe . . . . Well, you might have un-framed your victim, Terry, after having first framed her, for the simplest reason in the world. Story-book reason. Sizzling Romances. Mush-mush. The grand and instantaneous passion. You fell in love with her. First sight, you know. Wei! Would you be kind enough to pour some more of this execrable wine?” Eva turned cherry-red and fumbled with her fork. Fell in love! It was the most preposterous . . . He was so self-sufficient. Big and strong and defiant and confident. Terry Ring would never fall in love at first sight.

Not he. He would be slow, careful, watchful. He’d always have a good reason . . . . She glanced sidewise at him and was startled to see him eating furiously, eyes on his plate, manipulating the chopsticks with a savage energy, while the tips of his small, delicate brown ears burned like redfire on election night.

“You see,” sighed Ellery, setting his glass down, “there’s a reason for everything.”

“Don’t talk to me,” snarled Terry. “I didn’t kill that woman. The bolt was in the socket. And I don’t fall for any dame. Get me?”

“Well, don’t be so vehement about it,” said Ellery, rising. “It’s hardly complimentary to the young lady. Will you excuse me a moment? Wei, your telephone, if any.”

Wei gesticulated, and Ellery strolled through the archway into Fung’s supplementary establishment. Terry and Eva ate in silence, Terry with very Chinese gulps, Eva delicately and with absorption. The three old Chinese gentlemen in black hats glanced over at them and began to gabble suddenly in their contrapuntal tongue. Terry, who understood a little Cantonese, felt his ears burn more brightly. They were saying, it appeared, that the little flower of the brown white man had displeased him, to judge from his wrath, and that it were better to endure the Torture of a Thousand Cuts than to endure a woman who had grown unendurable.

“You know,” said Eva suddenly, “this is the first time we’ve ever been alone. I mean—since Monday.”

“Give me that rice.” He continued to flick chow mein into his mouth.

“I haven’t really thanked you, Terry, for being so wonderful to me.

Don’t mind Mr. Queen. I think he was just trying to amuse himself. I know how silly—”

“What’s silly?” he demanded, throwing down the sticks.

Eva colored again. “I mean this love nonsense, and all that. I know why you helped me. You were sorry for me—”

Terry swallowed hard. “Listen, kid, he’s right.” He seized her hand.

“First time I ever fell for a skirt, so help me! Poison to me, women. But I’m nuts about you. I can’t sleep or anything. I keep seeing you all the time!”

“Terry!” said Eva, snatching her hand away and looking around. The three Chinese gentlemen shook their heads. The ways of the white man were ever mysterious.

“I never thought I’d fall for a girl like you, anyway. I’ve always liked the big ones. I mean—you know—plenty of what it takes. You’re so damned skinny—”

“I’m not,” cried Eva. “I weigh—”

“Well, maybe skinny isn’t the word,” he said judicially, looking her over. “But you need fattening up. And then there’s your nose. Turned up

—that’s what I mean. Like Myrna Loy’s. And the dimples.” He scowled.

“Sucker for a dimple!”

Eva felt rather like laughing, and then rather like crying. Things happened so suddenly these days. Terry Ring! This large, uncouth . . . She felt instantly ashamed. That wasn’t very nice. And he was real, and exciting. You never knew what he would do or say next. Life with him would be . . . But Eva stopped herself. It was all too ridiculous. What did she know about him? For that matter, she was engaged to another man!

“I know I must seem like some kind of freak or greaseball to you,” muttered Terry. “No education except what I’ve picked up, dragged up on the streets, no manners or anything. I guess it’s just my lousy luck to fall for a girl who’s miles above me.”

“I don’t like you any better for saying that. Manners and education and how you were brought up—they don’t mean very much.” Eva added bitterly: “Karen Leith proved that.”

“Not that I give a damn, you understand!” he snarled. “I’m okay. I get along all right. And if I wanted to learn what spoon to use on the Beluga, why—say, I’ve learned tougher things than that!”

“I’m sure you have,” murmured Eva.

“What’s this stuffed shirt you’re hooked to got that I haven’t got?

Running out on you! No guts, that’s what he’s got. A yellow streak a mile wide—that’s what he’s got!”

“Now please, Terry,” said Eva desperately. “I won’t have you saying things like that about Dr. Scott.”

“So he’s got a family. Me—I was swiping rolls from a bakery and sleeping on the docks at seven. All right, he went to some fancy college and became an M.D. and has dough and knows all the answers and gets all the nitwits on Park Avenue chasing him—”

“That’s quite enough, Terry,” said Eva, coldly.

“Aw, listen, kid, forget it.” He rubbed his eyes. “I guess I’m being a dope. Forget it.”

Eva smiled suddenly. “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Terry. You’ve been nicer to me than . . . any one.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’ll never forget that.”

“ ‘Scuse,” said Fung in Terry’s ear. “Te’y, you come.”

“Huh? Some other time, Fung. I’m busy.”

But Fung was insistent. “You come, Te’y. You come!” Terry looked away, looked up again. Then he rose, fingering the knot of his tie. “Excuse me a minute, Eva. It’s probably some guy on the

‘phone.”

He stalked away after the Chinese, and Eva saw them vanish through the archway into the adjoining room.

* * *

As she opened her bag to get her compact, Eva wondered just why Ellery Queen had thought it necessary to employ artifice in order to speak to Terry Ring. For a moment the world contracted around her and she felt alone again.

Eva slowly unscrewed her lipstick and poised the inner lid of the compact. In the mirror she caught a glimpse of the two men standing together just beyond the archway, in earnest conversation. She saw Terry’s face, and it looked worried. And she also saw something small pass from Ellery to Terry, and Terry putting it into his pocket.

Mystery! More mystery. Eva stroked the lipstick on—two daps on the upper lip, one in the center of the lower lip; and while her little finger spread the red stuff, shaping it to the curve of her lips, she wondered with a constriction of her heart where it would all end. She put the lipstick away, and powdered herself, and in the mirror regarded the nose which Terry Ring had so fervently admired. And she even tried out—quickly, furtively, of course, and feeling a little guilty—the dimple at the left side of her mouth.

Then the two men came back, grinning to conceal an unconcealable gravity, and Terry paid for the meal, incredibly, with a dollar bill and some coins, and flipped a half-dollar at Wei, who caught it very deftly, and took Eva’s arm and led her up into Pell Street, squeezing her elbow experimentally and yet with reassurance.

And Mr. Ellery Queen followed, sighing.

Chapter XIX

Terry was just putting his arms around Eva on Friday morning and kissing her dimple when Mrs. Rabin-owitz, the elderly widow who came in every day to clean his Second Avenue apartment and fix his meals, woke him up.

“Huh? What?” grumbled Terry, sitting up in bed.

“It’s a telephone,” said Mrs. Rabinowitz, firmly shaking his brown shoulder. “Get up, you loafer! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself, sleeping nakkid?”

“All right, all right. Scram, Gwendolyn,” growled Terry, beginning to throw his covers off.

Mrs. Rabinowitz screamed, then giggled, then retreated in haste.

Terry got into his robe and cursed. People ought to have their heads knocked off for telephoning at seven o’clock in the morning! But when he picked up the receiver he stopped frowning quickly and grew very quiet indeed.

“Oh, it’s you. Wait a minute.” He ran over to close the living-room door. “All right. What’s the bad news?”

“You may take your hair down now, Terry,” said Ellery. “They’ve found her.”

“Uh, huh,” said Terry. Then after a while he said: “What do you mean?”

“Now, look here,” said Ellery. “I haven’t got up at six-thirty just to parry your evasions, my fine fellow. You know as well as I. They’ve found Esther Leith MacClure, and if you’re interested as I think you are, you’ll get into your pants pronto.”

“Philadelphia?”

“So you do know! Yes. The flash came late last night.” Terry stared at the telephone. “What else?”

“That’s all we know so far. Dad’s sending Sergeant Velie down there by the ten o’clock train. I thought we might trot down there ourselves—a little earlier.”

“What for?”

“You never know. Are you with me?”

“Does Eva know?”

“Not yet. Nor Dr. MacClure. I thought we might get the doctor off quietly and take him with us.”

“Where’ll I meet you?”

“At the MacClure apartment. A half-hour?”

“Make it twenty minutes.”

Terry jumped for the shower. He did not bother to shave. He was dressed and at the door in eight minutes. But he stopped with a thoughtful frown, went back to his bedroom, took a .38 automatic out of his dresser drawer, slipped it into his coat pocket, chucked Mrs. Rabinowitz under her third chin, and left running.

* * *

Dr. MacClure was just about to drink his tomato juice when the house

‘phone rang. He put the glass down untouched.

Venetia called: “It’s fo’ you, Dr. John. Some man Queen. He’s downstairs.”

The doctor jumped to the telephone. As he listened, his face went slowly gray. “Yes.” He nodded several times. “No, she’s still asleep. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He went to the door of Eva’s bedroom and listened. But Eva was not asleep; she was sobbing. The doctor knocked, and the sobbing stopped.

“Come in,” said Eva in a muffled voice.

The doctor went in and found Eva in bed with her back turned to the door. “I’ve got to go out for a while, honey. The Foundation . . . What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Eva. “I just didn’t s-sleep very well.”

“Dick?”

She did not reply; he saw her shoulders heave. As he bent over to kiss her he thought grimly of young Dr. Scott and of his complete silence and absence the evening before. Dr. MacClure thought he knew why young Dr. Scott had not Called. And he thought it was not inconceivable that young Dr. Scott would never call again. Young Dr. Scott had found the pace just a little too hot for him. He had wanted a fiancee, not a victim of circumstances; a wife, not a potential headline.

The doctor fondled Eva’s tumbled hair. He saw on her writing-table the diamond ring, lying on a sealed envelope . . . .

He left a vague message for Inspector Queen, should he call, with Venetia, and took the elevator down to the lobby. The three men did not shake hands, did not speak. Terry had a taxicab waiting and they all got in, the driver saying: “Was that Penn Station?”

* * *

They missed the eight o’clock by ten minutes and had to wait another fifty for the next train. They dawdled away the interval by having breakfast in the terminal restaurant. There was no conversation. The doctor ate stolidly, without looking up from his plate.

On the train Dr. MacClure sat looking out the window. Ellery leaned back beside him and closed his eyes. And Terry Ring, in front of them, divided his time between three morning newspapers and the smoking car behind.

At ten forty-five, as the train pulled out of the North Philadelphia station, Terry Ring reached for his hat and said: “Come on.” The doctor rose, Ellery opened his eyes, and they went single-file to the platform. At the West Philadelphia station they disembarked and made for the Broad Street shuttle, which was waiting. But as they were about to enter Ellery stopped.

“Where has she been staying, Terry?”

Terry said reluctantly: “West Philly.”

Dr. MacClure’s lids came down. “You knew!”

“Sure, Doc. I knew all the time,” said Terry in a low voice. “But what the hell? What could I do?”

After that, Dr. MacClure kept glancing at the brown man—while they went down into the street, while they got into a taxicab, while Terry gave the driver an address.

“Why go there first?” demanded Terry, leaning back.

“There’s plenty of time,” muttered Ellery.

The cab pulled up before a black-red brick house in a narrow, mean-dering, dilapidated street. A sign outside said: Rooms. They got out and, as Dr. MacClure stared hungrily up at the cheaply curtained windows, Ellery said to the chauffeur: “Wait.” Then they mounted the high, dowdy stoop.

An old woman with wispy gray hair and a disagreeable expression opened the door. “I declare respectable people haven’t any rights any more! Well, come in and get over with it.”

Panting, she led them upstairs to a tan-varnished door very like four others on the floor. She opened it with a long steel key and stood back, hands on her drooping hips. “They told me,” she said venomously, “to keep it just the way it was—why, I don’t know. There it is. I lost a good chance to rent it yesterday, too!”

It was a dingy, dirty chamber with a bed whose spring sagged in the middle and a dresser with one leg broken, so that the thing leaned forward tiredly. The bed was unmade, its blankets tumbled about. A pair of black pumps lay on the floor, one of them with a grotesquely built-up heel and sole; there was a gray woolen dress over the bony rocking-chair, a pair of silk stockings, a slip.

Dr. MacClure went to the dresser and fingered a bottle of ink and a pen which lay there; then he turned around and looked at the bed, at the rocker, at the shoes, at the gilt-bracketed gas-jet over the bed, at the torn streaked blind on the window.

“The detective just stepped out for a minute,” said the old woman less truculently, struck by the silence. “If you want to wait—”

“I think not,” said Ellery abruptly. “Come, Doctor. We can’t learn anything here.”

He had to take the doctor’s arm and lead him like a blind man.

* * *

The taxicab took them to Police Headquarters and, after a half-hour of annoying and fruitless inquiry, they finally found the official Ellery was seeking.

“We want to see Esther Leith MacClure,” said Ellery.

“Who are you?” The official, a broad-nosed individual with black-ening teeth, inspected them suspiciously in turn.

Ellery handed him a card.

“One of you Sergeant Velie of the New York police?”

“No, but it’s perfectly all right. I’m Queen’s son—”

“I don’t care if you’re Queen himself! I got my orders not to give any information to any one but this Velie. He’s coming down with a man from the Missing Persons Bureau.”

“I know, but we’ve come from New York just to find out—”

“No information,” said the broad-nosed man shortly. “I got my orders.”

“Look,” said Terry. “I know Jimmie O’Dell down here. I’ll look him up, Queen, and we’ll find out—”

“Say, I remember you,” said the man, staring. “You’re the private dick from New York. Well, it won’t do you any good, see? O’Dell’s got his orders, too.”

Dr. MacClure said stiffly: “For God’s sake, let’s get out of here. This haggling over—”

“But surely we can see her,” protested Ellery. “This is a case of identification. This man is Dr. John Mac-

Clure, of New York. He’s the only one who can make a positive identification.”

The man scratched his head. “Well, I guess you can see her, all right.

They didn’t say anything about that.”

He took up his pen and scratched out a pass to the Philadelphia city morgue.

* * *

They stood around the stone slab in the mortuary, silent. The attendant lounged by indifferently. Dr. MacClure, that man of death, did not seem affected by the sight of death. Ellery could see that the swollen, bluish features, the rigid neck muscles, the distended nostrils were invisible to the big man. It was the regularity of feature he was seeing, the long blonde lashes, the still-beautiful hair, the curve of cheek, the tiny ears. He looked and looked, with a marveling expression on his gaunt face, as if a miracle had happened and he was witnessing a resurrection.

“Doctor,” said Ellery gently. “Is that Esther MacClure?”

“Yes. Yes. That’s my darling.”

Terry turned aside, and Ellery coughed. The big man had said the last words in a murmur that Ellery knew he did not realize was audible. It was disturbing to Ellery’s sense of decorum. Not indecent, exactly, but too—
well, naked. He realized suddenly that he had never really seen the man before.

He caught Terry’s embarrassed eye and gestured with his head toward the distant door.

To Ellery’s amazement, when they emerged from the iron gates into the lower-level waiting room at the Pennsylvania Station, there was Eva sitting on a bench and staring at the clock, which stood at two. From the fact that she was not waiting at the gate Ellery knew that she was not seeing the clock at all. They had to go up to her and shake her.

“Oh, dear,” she said, and sat there with folded hands.

Dr. MacClure kissed her, sat down beside her, took one of her black-gloved hands. Neither of the younger men said anything; but Terry winced and lit a cigaret. She was dressed in black—a black suit, a black hat, black gloves.

She knew.

“Inspector Queen told me,” she said simply. The area about her eyes, although powdered, was puffy.

“She’s dead, Eva,” said the doctor. “Dead.”

“I know, daddy. You poor, poor thing.”

Ellery strolled over to the nearby newsstand and said to a spruce little gray old man: “What’s the idea?”

“You didn’t think,” said Inspector Queen calmly, “that you were going to get away with anything? I’ve had the MacClure girl and Terry tailed since Monday. I knew you were going to Philly this morning before you even got on the train.”

Ellery flushed. “We didn’t find out anything, if that’s any balm to your dignity.”

“I knew that, too. Come over here.”

Ellery followed his father in a helpless, angry mood. He disliked mysteries. He had always disliked mysteries; they annoyed his sense of intellectual balance. That was why he had always been so interested in the solution of crimes . . . . There were too many mysteries now altogether.

Instead of simplifying, everything had massed up. Little things were clear: that Dr. MacClure had expected to find Esther Leith MacClure alive, and that a last secret hope had died in him with the news of her death. And that Terry Ring had expected nothing but what they had found—that Esther Leith MacClure had died by her own hand. He had known of her suicide all along. And Ellery could even invent a reason for Terry’s long silence. But that was not enough. Not enough . . . .

“We can talk sensibly for a change,” said the Inspector, pausing at the bench. “Now that the truth’s out.”

“The awful truth, eh?” smiled Dr. MacClure; and it was an awful smile.

“I’m sorry, Doctor. This must be a pretty bad blow to you.” The old man seated himself and took a pinch of snuff. “Did you make a positive identification this morning?”

“It’s Esther. I haven’t seen her for seventeen years, but it’s Esther. I’d know her—under any conditions.”

“I didn’t think there was much doubt about it. Hello, Terry! You see, the Philadelphia police couldn’t identify the body at first. When she was found dead Monday night of cyanide poisoning—”

“Monday night “ repeated Eva in a faint voice.

“—there wasn’t a direct clue to her identity. She had given the landlady a false name and address. They tried to locate some one who knew her under that name and at that address, but they found out right away both were phony. She’d given a local street—Philadelphia—and there wasn’t even a street by that name.”

“How late Monday night?” frowned Ellery. “That blasted bureaucrat in Philadelphia wouldn’t give me any information at all.”

“After midnight. The landlady’d got suspicious or something—I haven’t any details myself. Well, when the New York description went out

—fair, blonde, around forty-seven, five feet seven or eight inches tall, weight between one-thirty and one-forty, and with a crippled right leg—
they finally checked their morgue records and tied up our description with the rooming-house suicide. Notified us late last night.” The Inspector sighed. “I’ve got my man Velie down there now to get the original of her suicide note.”

“Suicide note!” exclaimed Dr. MacClure.

Ellery stiffened. “What suicide note?”

“They found a note crumpled in her hand under the bedclothes.”

“She wrote a note?” muttered Terry incredulously. No one heard him but Ellery.

Inspector Queen stroked his mustache with embarrassment. “Look here, Miss MacClure, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I know what this is going to mean to you.” Eva turned slowly. “Every bad thing has something good about it. The good thing—for you—is that the Leith murder is solved.”

Dr. MacClure jumped up from the bench. “The Leith murder—”

“Sorry, Doctor. In this note she left before committing suicide, Esther MacClure confessed to the murder of her sister.”

“I don’t believe it!” cried Eva.

He took a folded sheet from his pocket and spread it flat. “They dictated the note to me over the ‘phone last night. Would you like to read it?”Eva’s hand went out in a groping gesture; and Dr. MacClure took the paper from her fingers as they grew nerveless and slack. They read the message together, in pale silence; and then the doctor handed it futilely to Ellery.

Terry Ring scanned it eagerly over Ellery’s shoulder.

Even through the Headquarters stationery and the mechanical perfec-tion of Inspector Queen’s deskman, some of the profound fatigue and depression of its author emerged.

To Whoever Finds Me:

I cannot leave this world without a word.

I have been my own judge. Now I am my own executioner. I have taken a life; I take my own.

Dear daughter, forgive me. Believe me, my darling, you have given me secret happiness. It is more than I have given you. Your mother is a monster; thank God the monster was human enough to keep her shameful secret from you. Bless you, dearest.

Dear John, I have poisoned your life. 1 know you loved me long ago.

And now that you love my sister, our lightning destiny strikes once more.

I have seen it coming and I have been powerless against it. And so I have done what in my monstrous helplessness I must do . . . . If only you had not gone away! If only you had taken her with you! For you are the only one in the world who might have saved my sister’s life. But with your leaving went her last protection against our insensate fate, her last hope.

May God have mercy on both our souls—my sister’s and mine.

Goodbye, John. Take care of my sweet girl.

Bury this, you who find me, with my body.

Ellery felt Terry gripping his arm. “Come here!” They moved aside. “Look,” said Terry fiercely. “Something’s all cockeyed!”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, she wrote it all right. But she never killed her sister!”

“How do you know?” Ellery was re-reading the letter.

“I tell you I know! She couldn’t have, anyway. How did she get out of Karen’s bedroom if she did? Even if she came back from Philadelphia to pull the job and then returned to take poison in that West Philly hole!”

“Well,” murmured Ellery, “somebody killed Karen Leith, and therefore somebody got out of that room. Why not she?” Terry stared at him. “Where do you stand? Your old man thinks the case is solved. Are you going to tell him about that bolted door?” Ellery did not reply; he read the letter through a third time. Terry kept staring at him with a calculating coldness.

Then the Inspector said from behind them: “What are you crackpots jawing about?”

“Oh, we’ve been discussing this note,” said Ellery instantly. He slipped it into his pocket.

“It’s a funny thing,” said the Inspector thoughtfully. “After letting herself be shut up like a prisoner by this Leith woman for nine years, she suddenly goes haywire. Why did she wait so long? I guess she went completely crazy.”

“That’s it,” said Terry. “Something snapped all of a sudden. That’s it, pop.”

“You know,” frowned the Inspector, “I’ve been thinking over this business. You get the queerest notions. Why do you suppose this Japanese woman, Kinume, had to bring Karen Leith a sheet of stationery from downstairs? You’d think the Leith woman would have gone up to the attic

—there was plenty of writing-paper up there.”

The brown man’s face settled like hardening plaster. But he said smoothly, with a laugh: “Leave it to pop, here, to think of something fancy! What’s the difference? You’ve got your killer for the books, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know,” said the Inspector in a troubled way.

“I’ve just realized it’s been bothering me . . . . Well, it’s easy enough to find out. We’ll ask her.”

“Dad—” began Ellery.

But the Inspector was already on his way back to the bench. Terry said swiftly: “I’m going.”

“Where?”

“Leith house. I’ll see that Jap first. Let go of me!”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Ellery. “Terry, don’t be an ass.

You’re liable to stir up something that would never have come out at all.”

“Let go of me!”

“No.” They glared into each other’s eyes.

“What’s the matter with you two?” demanded the Inspector. They turned and found the old man, Eva, and Dr. MacClure behind them.

“I’ll pop this half-baked son of yours on the nose!” said Terry coldly; but he managed to grimace at Ellery. “Telling me—”

“You stop that,” said the old man with irritation. “I’m getting sick and tired of you. Come on, Ellery. The MacClures are going with us.”

“Say, don’t go, Eva,” said Terry quickly, barring her way. “You’re all in. Why don’t you amble home and—”

“No,” said Eva drearily. “I want to pick up some of my—some of my mother’s things.”

“You can do that tomorrow!”

“Ring,” said Dr. MacClure.

“But—”

“Please let me pass,” said Eva coldly.

Terry dropped his hands and shrugged.

Chapter XX

The white maid, O’Mara, admitted them to the house in Washington Square. She wore her old expression of sullenness; her stupid eyes were stormy.

“Say, how long you going to keep me here?” she demanded on seeing the Inspector. “You ain’t got no right to keep me here. My boy-friend says so—he works for a lawyer. And who’s going to pay my wages—huh?

Answer me that!”

“You mind your tongue,” said the Inspector mildly. “It won’t be long now, if you’re civil.”

“I’ll pay the girl’s wages,” said Dr. MacClure.

“Oh, then it’s all right,” said the girl instantly, smiling at the doctor.

“Where’s Kinume?” inquired the old man.

“Somewheres around.”

They went upstairs in silence and found Detective Ritter dozing on the sitting-room couch. “Where’s the Jap woman, Ritter?”

“Huh? Ain’t seen her, Inspector.”

“Well, go find her.”

Ritter departed yawning and Eva took a timid step toward the bedroom. The Inspector said in a kindly voice: “It’s all right, Miss MacClure. Go on up if you want to.”

“I’ll go with you!” said Terry.

“I’d rather be alone, Terry.” Eva vanished through the door leading to the attic stairs. They heard her dragging herself up to the attic, slowly, and yet with determined steps.

“Poor kid,” said the Inspector. “It’s certainly hard on her, Doctor. If there’s anything we can do—”

Dr. MacClure went to the window and looked out over the garden.

“Inspector. What will be the disposition of Esther’s body?”

“There’s nothing the law wants of her any more, Doctor.”

“I want to make arrangements for her funeral.” He paused. “And for Karen’s, too, of course.”

“Certainly . . . . Ah, come in, Kinume.”

The Japanese woman stood timorously in the doorway, her oblique eyes luminous with apprehension. Ritter loomed majestically behind her, cutting off escape.

“One moment, Inspector.” Dr. MacClure turned around, went to Kinume, took her wrinkled ochre hands. “Kinume.” Kinume mumbled: “ ‘Lo, Dr. MacCloo.”

“We know all about Karen, Kinume,” he said gently. “And about Esther.”

She looked up at him, frightened. “Esther she die. Esther long time die in big water.”

“No, Kinume. You know that isn’t true. You know Esther lived in the little room upstairs. You see, it won’t do any good to lie, Kinume.”

“Esther die,” said Kinume stubbornly.

“Yes, Kinume. Esther is dead. But she died only a few days ago. The men of the police have found her body in another city, not far away. You understand?”

For a horrified instant the old woman stared up into his eyes; and then she burst into tears.

“You need not lie for any one’s sake any longer,” said the doctor in a murmur. “Kinume.” She kept weeping. “Only Eva is left to you, Kinume.

Only Eva. Do you understand, Kinume? Only Eva!” But the old woman was too drowned in her sorrow to catch the subtleties of Occidental suggestion. She could only moan: “Missie die.

Now Esther die. What becoming Kinume?”

Terry muttered to Ellery: “It’s no use. She doesn’t get it.” The Inspector beamed approval; he permitted Dr. MacClure to lead her to the couch and to sit her down, whereupon she began to rock to and fro in her grief.

“Don’t you worry about what will become of you, Kinume,” said the doctor insistently. “Would you like to take care of Eva?” Kinume nodded suddenly through her tears. “Kinume take care Eva’s mother. Now Kinume take care Eva.”

“Protect her?” whispered the doctor. “Say, do nothing to bring her harm? Yes, Kinume?”

“I take care Eva, Dr. MacCloo.”

The doctor straightened up and returned to the window. He had done all he could.

“Kinume,” said Ellery. “It was Miss Karen who told you never to say anything about Miss Esther’s being alive in this house?”

“Missie say no tell, I no tell. Now Missie dead, Esther too!”

“Do you know who killed your Missie, Kinume?” murmured the Inspector.

She raised her tear-stained face in bewilderment. “Kill? Who kill Missie?”

“Esther.”

Kinume looked from one to another with her mouth slightly open; it was evident that this intelligence was too much for her. She began to weep again.

From the door Eva said faintly: “I can’t—I can’t touch a thing up there. It’s so—quiet. What’s the matter with me?”

“Come here, kid,” began Terry. “Don’t—”

But Eva went steadily to Kinume and sat down, putting her arms about the weeping Japanese. “Don’t worry, Kinume. We’ll take care of you.”

“Look,” said the Inspector, sitting down on the other side of the old woman. “Do you remember Monday afternoon, Kinume? When Miss Karen sent you downstairs for some paper to write on? You remember?” The gray head nodded; her face was hidden against Eva’s breast.

“Do you know why Miss Karen sent you for writing-paper? For surely she knew that in the attic room there was much paper. Do you remember, Kinume? Did she say?”

Kinume sat up, showing her face. It looked blank and haggard in its yellow age. The three men standing held their breaths. So much depended on Kinume. So much . . . .

“Missie no can going Esther’s room,” said Kinume.

So they had failed. Everything for nothing. On the couch Eva sat stonily, waiting with folded hands as a prisoner waits for sentence of death.

“She couldn’t go—” began the Inspector in a puzzled way. Then he stopped. He looked around at them. They were all so still. Terry Ring—
he was actually not breathing. Dr. MacClure—so like a dead man. Ellery, so quiet and tense. Eva MacClure . . . so resigned.

He shook the old woman’s arm with sudden violence. “What do you mean she couldn’t go to Esther’s room? Tell me, Kinume! Why couldn’t she? The door was open, wasn’t it?”

Poor Kinume was deaf to overtones. The thought that was beating through the air— Yes. Say it was open. Say it teas open—did not reach her.

She rocked a little more and said: “The door it stuck. We no can opening.”

“Which door? Show me!”

Kinume rose a little eagerly, as if anxious to reveal now how co-operative she could be, and plodded into the bedroom to the open doorway leading to the attic. She pressed her wrinkled fingers against a panel; and to Eva, rooted to the couch, it was just like a finger on an electric button.

This time, she thought dully, there was no possible intervention. This time, she knew, was the end.

Inspector Queen quietly filled his chest with air. “Stuck, eh? This little bolt here—it would not push?”

“Stuck,” nodded Kinume. “Missie try open—can not. Kinume try—no can. We try and try; no strong enough. Missie mad. She say Kinume go down, bring liting-paper—she want lite letter. Kinume go.”

“This was just before Miss Eva came, was it not?”

“Eva coming then. Soon as Kinume bring up liting-paper.”

“I see,” said the Inspector, exhaling.

I see, thought Eva. He knew the truth at last. So now, no matter what mother had written, it has finally come home to roost upon me. He saw—
and to Eva it seemed that he had a thousand eyes, they were so sharp and merciless again as he studied her from the bedroom doorway.

“So you’ve taken me for a ride on the merry-go-round after all, young woman,” said the Inspector. “But it’s my last ride. And yours.”

“Listen, Inspector,” began Terry desperately. “She got it all wrong—”

“Oh, there’s something wrong, all right—very wrong indeed. Your mother couldn’t have killed Karen Leith, Miss MacClure. Just before the crime the attic door wouldn’t open. So no one could have come in or gone out of this bedroom through that door—Karen Leith couldn’t even have admitted any one into this room through that door. The windows are barred—no one could have used them. And no one, you said yourself, passed through this sitting-room. Then how could your mother have done it? She couldn’t. Only you could. You murdered your aunt.”

“I have said it so often that it’s useless for me to say it again,” said Eva in a barely audible voice. “But for the last time—no. I did not kill Karen.”

“Yes,” said Inspector Queen. He glanced at Terry. “And now that I come to think of it, Mr. Smart-Aleck Ring, I see where you fit in. You unbolted that door after the crime, before Guilfoyle got here. If two other women couldn’t do it, the chances are Miss MacClure couldn’t have, either—so you did it, to open up a way of escape for a killer you knew didn’t exist. You knew all along only this girl could have killed Karen Leith!”

Eva said: “Please. Oh, please. You must—”

“Don’t talk, Eva,” said Terry rapidly. “Don’t open your mouth. Let him rave.”

“As for this woman Esther, I see now where I went wrong. Stand still, Ring! Ritter, watch him. She was shielding her daughter—confessing to her daughter’s crime. She couldn’t have been telling the truth, because she couldn’t physically have committed the crime.”

In the frozen atmosphere the telephone rang on Karen Leith’s writing-desk in the next room. It rang again. Finally the Inspector said:

“Watch, Ritter,” and ducked out of sight.

“Hello? . . . Oh, Thomas! Where are you? . . . Well, so you’ve found me! What do you want?” The old man listened; he listened some more.

Finally, without another word, he put the telephone down and returned to the sitting-room.

“That was Sergeant Velie of my staff,” he said slowly. “He has just returned from Philadelphia. His news removes the last doubt. From what he tells me it appears I’m wrong about Esther’s motive in confessing to a crime she didn’t commit. That’s just one more detail to be cleared up. She can’t have been shielding her daughter, because to do that she had to know Karen Leith was dead. And she couldn’t have known Karen Leith was dead. That reference to ‘saving my sister’s life’ must have meant something else.”

“What has Velie found out?” asked Ellery harshly.

“That Esther Leith MacClure was dead forty-eight hours before her body was found! She committed suicide last Saturday night. And Karen Leith wasn’t murdered until Monday afternoon. So that makes your mother, Miss MacClure, doubly innocent—and you as guilty as hell!”

* * *

Eva with staring eyes and a wild cry jumped from the couch and rushed past Ritter into the hall. They heard her clattering down the stairs; they heard the bang of the front door mingled with her sobbing breaths before they could move a muscle.

“Eva,” groaned Dr. MacClure, and he sank onto the couch.

The Inspector shouted, and Ritter, his mouth open, stirred himself.

But somehow before he could get through the doorway there was Terry Ring in his way. And as they collided Ritter fell heavily, roaring with astonishment.

“I’ll get her for you, pop,” said Terry Ring in a hard flat voice; and Inspector Queen stared at the .38 automatic in Terry’s hand and remained where he was; and Ritter, sprawled on the floor, chose immobility, too.

“I’ll find her. I always did want to be a cop,” said Terry grimly; and before they knew it, he was gone after Eva, and the door, with its key on the sitting-room side, was closed in their faces.

Then the most surprising thing of all occurred. They had all forgotten little Kinume. Little Kinume went quietly to the door—so quietly they could only gape—turned the key in the lock, pattered across the room, and under Inspector Queen’s nose tossed the key through the iron bars of the sitting-room windows out into the garden.

“Damn!” screamed Inspector Queen, finding his tongue again. He danced up and down, brandishing his fists over Ritter’s outstretched neck.

“I’ll give them what for! I’ll show ‘em! This is a conspiracy, a—a . . .

Lunkhead! Fool! Shoemaker!” He yanked at Ritter’s collar. “Break down that door!”

Ritter scrambled to his feet and began futilely to lunge at the stout panels.

“Escape, will they? Run, will they? They’ve hanged themselves!” The old man scuttled for the bedroom door.

“What are you going to do?” asked Dr. MacClure, staring.

“Have a warrant made out,” shouted the Inspector, “charging ‘em with murder and accessory murder—that’s what!”

Chapter XXI

Mr. Ellery Queen rang the bell of his own apartment. And after some time Djuna opened the door, looking frightened.

“It’s all right,” said Ellery, walking briskly into his living-room; but there was no one there. “Djuna, lock the front door. I say,” he called out irritably, “it’s all right, you maniacs!”

Terry Ring stuck his head out of Ellery’s bedroom. “Well, don’t call out the reserves. Come on, kid.”

Eva crept out of the bedroom and dropped into the overstuffed chair, to crouch in one corner of it with her arms crossed over her chest, as if she were chilly. Terry looked at the revolver in his hand, flushed, and stowed it away.

“Now,” said Ellery, scaling his hat aside, “what in tunket’s name was the brilliant idea, Eva? Have you gone out of your mind?” Eva looked miserable. “Running away! And you, Terry. I thought you had more sense.” He lit a cigaret in disgust.

“So did I,” said Terry bitterly. “At least, I used to have. Give me a fag, will you? I’ve been handing her hell.”

Ellery offered his case. “You pulled a gun on my father!”

“I did not. It just came out of my pocket and that fool Ritter got in my way. Well, what could I do? She’s absolutely the most helpless female I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t know anything. I couldn’t leave her alone. They’d have picked her up on the first street corner.”

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” said Eva hollowly. “How is daddy? I

—I didn’t think of him when I ran.”

“I’ve sent him home. How do you think he is?” Ellery scowled at her.

“Broken up, of course. He took Kinume with him. The old lady’s got more spunk than any of us.”

She looked at him. “What shall I do?”

“If I had any more sense than you two I’d say give yourself up,” snapped Ellery. “But I’ve been afflicted with the same mental disease. Of course you realize this can’t go on. Sooner or later you’ll be found.”

“She’s in the safest place in New York,” drawled Terry, flinging himself on the divan and smoking at the ceiling. “Imagine pop’s face when he finds out where she’s been!”

“You have the most perverted sense of humor. Imagine his face when he finds out I’ve connived at it!”

“Terry’s told me,” said Eva limply. “How you gave him your own key at Fung’s. I don’t know why you two men are so kind—”

“Yeah,” said Terry. “What are you yowling about? Using this place as a hideout was your idea.”

“Well, suppose it was! It’s all so damned silly.” Ellery glared at his cigaret. “You’d think this girl was the first to be a suspect in a murder case. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m disgusted with myself.”

“I told you,” said Terry. “She’s got the queerest way of making sane men go screwy. I don’t understand it myself.”

“Sometimes I think—” Eva hid her face. “Sometimes I think I really did kill Karen—in a bad dream, not knowing, not—” Ellery paced restlessly. “This kind of talk won’t help. We can’t shut out reality any more. We’re face to face with it at last. At the most you have a few hours of freedom, and after that—it’s behind the bars.”

“I’m ready to give myself up now,” whispered Eva. “When he—he said those things something made me run. You always run away from what frightens you. Call him, Mr. Queen.”

“Shut up,” growled Terry from the divan. “You can’t back out now—
now you’ve got to stick it out. Maybe something will happen.”

“A miracle?” Eva smiled humorlessly. “I’ve made a mess of everything.

Everybody I touch is touched by . . . Like mother. Like my mother.” She paused, and then said suddenly: “It’s like a curse. Does that sound absurd?

But I’ve got you into trouble, Terry, and I’ve given daddy only heartache, and made Mr. Queen lie to his father, and—”

“Shut up!” yelled Terry. He got off the divan and began to follow Ellery around the room. Djuna watched them, bewildered, from a crack in the kitchen doorway. The two men circled each other blindly, like men in a fog.

“There’s no use keeping quiet any more,” mumbled Terry. “She’s in your hands, Queen—so am I, as far as that goes. It’s all balled up. I guess I haven’t exactly-covered myself with glory. It’s . . . “ Eva closed her eyes and lay back against the chair.

“Look,” said Terry. “Karen Leith got in touch with me a week ago Thursday. She told me about Eva’s mother—only she didn’t call her that.

Just something about a friend staying with her, who was a little sick in the head, and that this friend had taken it on the lam during a ‘spell,’ and she was afraid the poor thing would come to some harm, and wouldn’t I please find her without any publicity and bring her back. It sounded cockeyed, after I got the description—it seems the blonde woman had ducked out during the night without being spotted. I scouted around; I was suspicious. I don’t like funny cases. I even got into that attic without the Leith woman knowing. I saw enough to tell me that something was pretty much off-color. But I took the case—she insisted she didn’t want the police in on it—and got to work.”

Ellery stopped pacing. He sat down and sucked on his cigaret. Eva lay in the big chair watching the brown man’s every movement.

“Well, it wasn’t hard.” Terry flung his butt into the dead fireplace. “I got on her trail—traced her via the Penn R.R.—right into Philadelphia. I tried O’Dell there, at Headquarters, but they didn’t know anything.

Anyway, it was detail after that—a taxi driver—you know the technique. I kept reporting to Karen by ‘phone, not telling her how hot I was. Wanted to find out what it was all about. I’d already made it my business to size up the layout—who the Leith woman was, about Doc MacClure, about Eva

—but none of it made sense.

“On Monday morning I found her. In that rooming-house. I got into the house, into her room without that old she-weasel of a landlady seeing me. I found her dead of poison.” He glanced at Eva, and away. “I’m sorry, kid.”Eva felt that she could never experience an emotion again. She was dry and empty inside, like a sunbaked gourd.

“I saw right away she’d poisoned herself, and that she’d been dead a couple of days. I didn’t see the suicide note, because I didn’t touch anything. I began to figure. Should I tell the Leith woman or not? Should I tip off the police? Finally I decided to go back to New York and have it out with Karen—see what she said. The whole thing struck me as funny as hell. So I went back without telling anybody Esther was dead. The landlady must have found her late Monday night by accident. Let’s have another butt.”

Ellery gave him one in silence.

“I got back to New York late Monday afternoon. I already knew Karen had an appointment with a Headquarters detective for five o’clock, because she’d told me so Sunday over the ‘phone, when she fired me. So I figured she must be pretty scared about that blonde woman if she was willing to go to the police after saying she didn’t want ‘em. I ‘phoned from the drugstore on University Place, and there was no answer. I figured I knew something nobody else knew, and if there was anything hot on the fire, I wanted my hunk of it.” He muttered apologetically: “You know how it is in my business.”

“And no one answered,” mused Ellery. “In other words, Karen Leith died without learning that her sister was dead?”

“I guess so. Well, I beat it up to the house and found Eva.” Terry scowled again. “After I helped the kid, I was on the spot. I knew Esther couldn’t have pulled the Leith job, because I knew she was dead before Karen was. At the same time, I wanted to give the kid here all the time there was. That body in Philadelphia was my ace in the hole. If I saw the kid in a bad jam, I was going to see to it that the proper identification was made . . . . Anyway, I played for time, and here we are at the deadline.

Your old man’s finding out about that attic door spoiled everything.”

“And that’s all, Terry? You’re sure that’s all?” Terry looked him in the eye. “I’m on the square now, Queen. That’s all I know, so help me.”

“Oh, Terry,” said Eva; and he went to her and looked down at her and she looked up at him. And then he stooped and put his arms around her in an awkward, embarrassed way, and she clung to him.

Ellery sat and smoked furiously.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later Ellery looked up. “Eva.” She turned her head vaguely from Terry’s arms. Ellery sprang to his feet. “While you were lying on the couch in the sitting-room—before you discovered your aunt’s body—didn’t you hear a sound coming from the bedroom?”

“Your father asked me that Monday. No, I didn’t.”

“You’re sure?” he said mechanically. “Think, Eva. Any movement, the sound of a scuffle, an outcry, a scrap of talk?” Eva drew her brows together. Movement, scuffle . . .

“There may be a clue there,” muttered Ellery. “There’s a piece missing. If I could get my hands on it . . . Think, Eva!” The oddest thing was ringing in her head—a harsh sound that baffled description, some sonic curiosity trembling on the verge of remembrance.

What was it? What was it? While she was reading the book . . . .

“I know!” she cried. “The bird!”

Terry mumbled: “The bird?”

“That bird! It squawked!”

“Oh, lord,” said Ellery; his fingers, putting the cigaret to his mouth, were shaking slightly. “The Loo-choo jay!”

“It’s just come back to me. I even remember now thinking what an awful voice it had—so inhuman and annoying.”

“The Loo-choo jay,” repeated Ellery in a wondering voice. “So that’s it!” “What?” asked Terry swiftly. “What is it?” Eva and he sat up straight, staring at Ellery.

“The key to this whole business,” said Ellery, pacing and smoking like a madman. “If it’s only possible! Didn’t you say—one of you; I don’t recall which—that the cage was empty when you entered the bedroom just after the crime?”

“Sure it was empty,” began Terry, and then he stopped to look puzzled. “Say, how could Eva have heard the bird squawk if the damned thing wasn’t there?” He seized Eva by the shoulders. “Or was it? Was it in the bedroom when you went in? It wasn’t when I got there!” Eva wrinkled her forehead. “I’m sure it wasn’t. I’d remember if it had been flying about, or if it flew out. And now that I think of it, I’m sure it wasn’t in the cage. No, it wasn’t there.”

“I’ll be damned!”

“Of course,” said Ellery half-aloud, “it’s possible the bird wasn’t actually in the room. It may have been outside, and Eva heard it from . . .

Wait a minute.”

He ran to the bedroom. “Eva! What’s your home ‘phone number?” Eva gave it to him. They heard him seize the telephone, give the number.

“Hello! . . . Oh. Well, let me speak to Dr. MacClure.” Eva and Terry were in the doorway, watching, puzzled, but aware of a tightness in the atmosphere that seemed to be strangling uncertainty and squeezing out hope.

“Dr. MacClure! This is Ellery Queen.”

“Have you found her, Queen?” asked the doctor hoarsely.

“Are you alone?”

“With Venetia, my colored woman. And Kinume. Well?”

“Yes. She’s at my apartment. Safe for the moment.”

“Thank God!”

Ellery said eagerly: “Let me speak to—”

But Dr. MacClure said in an agitated voice: “Just a second. There’s the doorbell. If I don’t return in a few moments, hang up. It may be your father or one of his men. Queen—take care of Eva!” Ellery waited, drumming on the telephone table. In the doorway Terry and Eva crept closer together.

“It’s all right,” said Dr. MacClure with relief. “It was only that O’Mara girl. The Inspector let her go and she’s come up here for the money I promised her.”

Ellery’s face brightened. “Talk about luck! Hang on to her, Doctor.

Now let me talk to Kinume.” He waited, saying to them in a swift aside:

“Keep praying, you two. Something tells me—”

Kinume piped thinly: “ ‘Lo? ‘Lo? You got Eva?”

“Yes. Listen, Kinume. You would like to help your Eva, would you not?”

“I help,” said Kinume simply.

“Good! Then you must answer some questions.”

“I answer.”

“Listen carefully, think deeply.” Ellery spoke in a deliberate tone, spacing his words. “When you brought up the writing-paper to Miss Karen Monday afternoon, just before you saw Eva behind you, was the Loo-choo bird in its cage in the bedroom? You know—Loo-choo kashi-dori? In cage?” ffKashi-dori in cage. Yes.” It was as if Kinume had promised him his reward in heaven. Ellery beamed with sheer joy. “Kinume, one thing more. You know how Miss Karen was attired when she was found dead, do you not?”

“In kimono. She wearing kimono some time.”

“Yes. But what I want to know is this: How was she attired when you entered the bedroom with the writing-paper?”

“Same. In kimono.”

He looked disappointed. “How was she dressed when the door was stuck, before she sent you for the writing-paper?”

“Oil That time she wearing dress, ‘Merican dress.”

“Ah! Thought so,” muttered Ellery. “Short time, too. Just a few minutes before . . . .” He said swiftly into the telephone: “You have done well, Kinume, and Eva thanks you. Let me speak to Dr. MacClure . . . .

Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, what is it, Queen? What have you found?”

“A good deal! Bless Kinume! Now listen to me carefully. I can’t do this over the telephone. I want you to take Kinume and this girl Geneva O’Mara and come down to my apartment. Do you understand?”

“Anything you say. Now?”

“This instant. Doctor, be careful. Make sure no one sees you. Do you think you can get out of the house unobserved?”

“There’s the tradesmen’s entrance in the rear,” muttered the doctor.

“And the emergency stairway. It can be managed, I imagine. Do you think they’re watching me?”

“It’s conceivable. They’ll naturally figure Eva would try to get in touch with you. So be careful.”

“I will,” said the doctor grimly. And he hung up.

Ellery turned to the waiting pair. “I think,” he said lightly, “that we are about to enter that critical phase of the plot which is technically known as the denouement. Buck up, Eva.” He patted her cheek. “And now why don’t you two relax in here while I meditate a little in the living-room?” He went out and shut the door behind him.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Eva opened the bedroom door, Ellery opened his eyes, and Djuna opened the front door simultaneously. Eva was a little flushed, and her eyes looked saner and clearer than they had looked for days. And Terry followed her like an awkward boy, looking foolish.

“Daddy!” She ran to Dr. MacClure. Ellery pulled the two waiting women into the living-room.

“Close that door, Djuna,” he said swiftly. “Don’t be frightened, now, Kinume. Nor you, Miss O’Mara. I want to talk to both of you.”

“What do you want, anyway?” demanded the Irish girl sullenly. “The doctor pulls me here like I’m—”

“You’ll be all right. Doctor, you weren’t followed?”

“I don’t think so. Queen, what is it? You’ve given me more hope in the last half-hour than—”

“Before this bird gets started, Doc,” interrupted Terry Ring, shuffling forward, “I want to tell you that—”

“If anybody says anything,” remarked Inspector Queen from the doorway, “it will be yours truly.”

Ice settled down, and became silence. They all shrank a little, like guilty conspirators caught in the act.

Then Ellery hurled his cigaret away. “You would show up at the wrong time!” he said angrily.

“I’ll talk to you,” said Inspector Queen without taking his eyes from Terry and Eva, who had instinctively drawn together, “later. Thomas, make sure this time they don’t take a walk.”

“They won’t,” said Sergeant Velie from the foyer. He shut the apartment door and set his back against it.

Dr. MacClure, looking curiously shrunken, sank into the armchair.

“So you followed me after all.”

“It’s all right, daddy. It’s better this way,” said Eva steadily.

“We always watch the back exits, Doctor. Thomas!”

“Yep.”

“Where’s that warrant?”

“Right here.” The Sergeant shoved his bulk forward, dropped a paper into the Inspector’s hand, and retreated.

“Eva MacClure,” began the old man coldly, unfolding the paper, “I arrest you—”

“Dad.”

“I arrest you—”

“Dad. Before you go on. I want a word with Dr. MacClure.” The Inspector’s face was livid. “And you,” he said bitterly. “To think you’d do a thing like this to your own father! Harboring a criminal in my own house. I’ll never forgive you for that, Ellery.”

“Do I get a word with Dr. MacClure,” said Ellery gently, “or don’t I?” The Inspector glared at his son. Then he half-turned away, biting viciously on the ends of his mustache.

“Doctor,” whispered Ellery in the big man’s ear, “there’s one chance left—a desperate chance, I warn you. If I’m wrong, we’re through.”

“Are you wrong?”

“Whether I am or not is in the lap of the gods. Will you gamble Eva’s immediate chances on me?”

Dr. MacClure pressed the hand lying small and still in his own. Terry Ring was watching Inspector Queen and the mountain of human flesh behind him with a lidded, cobra daring; but it was the alertness of desper-ation. Wherever he looked, except in Ellery’s direction, the doctor saw surrender, defeating defiance.

“If you can save Eva, go to it. I’ll back you to the limit.” Ellery nodded, went over to his father, and said: “You’re determined to arrest this girl for the murder of Karen Leith?”

“And neither you nor all the devils in hell,” snapped the Inspector,

“are going to stop me!”

“I think,” murmured Ellery, “we’ll manage without help from his satanic majesty. Well, you can spare Miss MacClure and yourself a lot of grief by tearing up that warrant.”

“She’ll defend herself in court!”

“You were saved once before from making a mistake. Don’t make another, dad.”

Inspector Queen rasped his jaw, irritated beyond measure. “She didn’t kill Karen Leith, eh? Despite all the evidence?”

“She didn’t kill Karen Leith.”

“I suppose,” said the Inspector derisively, “you know who did!” And Ellery said: “Yes.”

PART FIVE

Chapter XXII

“It’s premature,” said Ellery, “but your insistence on immediate action forces my hand. Logically this case has only one proper solution. In view of your haste, we’ll have to resort to intellectual proof and defer the legal proof for a while.”

“If you know the right answer to this jigsaw,” said Terry Ring grimly,

“I’ll hang up my license and go back to baseball. Eva, sit down here with me. This bird has me groggy.”

The Inspector eyed Sergeant Velie and made a little futile signal.

Then he, too, sat down; and Sergeant Velie came in to lean against the foyer jamb and listen.

“I won’t deny,” began Ellery, lighting another cigaret, “that I’ve harbored my full quota of fantastic theories. This has been the damnedest case. A number of grainy little facts, interesting, puzzling, and apparently incompatible. Studding a central situation that, on the face of it, is frankly impossible.”

They sat very still.

“Here’s a case in which a room has two exits—the door to the attic and the door to the sitting-room. There is no possible exit through the iron-barred windows, and the room is structurally without hidden passages. Yet the attic door after the crime was found bolted from inside the room itself, making it impossible for any one to have left by that route; and the other door led to the sitting-room, where during the entire period of the crime Miss MacClure sat. And Miss MacClure has maintained stubbornly that no one passed through that sitting-room. Impossible situation, as I say.

Yet Karen Leith was alive when Miss MacClure seated herself there, and was dead by violence when Miss MacClure burst into the bedroom.” Ellery made a face. “There were so many oblique theories possible.

One was that the attic door wasn’t bolted at all, and that Terry Ring only pretended it was. I ragged him about that yesterday. But it really didn’t make sense; and besides Kinume did testify that the wood was warped and the bolt stuck. Another was, despite all your insistence, Eva, that some one did pass through that sitting-room while you occupied it.”

“But that can’t be,” cried Eva. “I tell you no one did. I know I didn’t fall asleep!”

“But suppose,” murmured Ellery, “you were hypnotized?” He paused a moment, enjoying their stupefaction. Then he laughed and said: “Don’t blame me for thinking of hypnosis. There had to be some rational explanation if you were innocent, Eva. Hypnosis explains the phenomenon. The only trouble with the theory is that it’s far-fetched, absolutely incapable of proof, and—quite untrue.” Dr. MacClure sank back, sighing with relief. “I’m glad that’s not your explanation.”

Ellery squinted at his cigaret. “For it struck me, if I proceeded on the assumption that Eva didn’t kill her aunt, that there was one sane, reasonable, and provocative theory that explained everything, that made it unnecessary to resort to fantasy, that was really so simple it’s surprising no one thought of it before.

“Look at the facts. Eva MacClure is the only one who could have murdered Karen Leith—the only physical possibility. That’s what the facts seem to say. But suppose—let’s just suppose—that Eva MacClure didn’t murder Karen Leith. Is it still true that she’s the only physical possibility—is it still true that if she’s innocent the crime couldn’t have happened? No. There is one other person who could have stabbed Karen Leith and caused her death.”

They stared at him. Then Terry Ring said gruffly, and with a disappointment hardly concealed: “You’re crazy.”

“Oh, come,” said Ellery. fr Couldn’t Karen Leith have stabbed herself ?”

* * *

An automobile horn honked impatiently in West Eighty-seventh Street. But in the Queens’ living-room time stopped, arrested by pure astonishment.

Then the Inspector was on his feet, red-faced and protesting. “But that’s not murder—that’s suicide!”

“Perfectly true,” admitted Ellery.

“But the weapon,” cried the old man. “What happened to that missing half-scissors with the broken point? With the weapon gone from that room, it can’t have been suicide!”

“Why must we always resent the truths we haven’t thought of ourselves? You say that the missing weapon wasn’t in that room, that therefore the crime was not suicide but murder. I say the facts point indis-putably to suicide—facts all of you have overlooked. And I suggest we worry about the phenomenon of the missing weapon when we come to it.” The Inspector sank back into his chair; and for a space he tugged at his mustache. Then he demanded in a calm voice: “What facts?”

“That’s better,” smiled Ellery. “What facts? Now we’re launched.

What facts point to suicide as the answer? I say there are five—three minor, two major, with little participles of fact hanging from the last like fruit from a tree.”

Terry Ring was gaping at Ellery; he put his arm about Eva and shook his head as if he could not believe his ears. Dr. MacClure sat forward a little, listening intently.

“The minor ones are relatively weak—but only relatively. They gather strength from the major ones. Let me begin with the weak sisters.

“First. What was the last thing, as far as we know, that Karen Leith did of her own volition before the actual events of her death? She began a letter to Morel. Who is Morel? Her lawyer and literary representative.

What was the letter about? It was a demand that Morel check over the royalty moneys due her from abroad——’at once, thoroughly and completely . . . to effect immediate payments.’ There was a definite note there, finality of demand, as if she had said: ‘Morel, the time has come to clean up my affairs.’ Foreign royalties are notoriously slow; they come in, but at their sweet time. Why this sudden insistence on immediacy? Did she need money? No, we learn she had more than enough. Why this sudden insistence,” demanded Ellery, “unless she was thinking of cleaning up her affairs—then, Monday afternoon, in her room, a few minutes before she died! Isn’t that what many suicides do just before taking their lives? It isn’t conclusive by any means, and logically it might have a simple, unaccented meaning. But—it’s a point. It’s a point that gathers strength, as I said, from the other things.”

He sighed. “The next paragraph in her letter to Morel—the paragraph she didn’t finish—we’ll never be able to evaluate beyond question, now that she’s dead. But it can’t have referred to anything but her sister Esther. Probably she intended to place the whole matter of Esther’s secret disposition, when she should be found—remember Karen died still thinking Esther was alive—in Morel’s hands. But then she crumpled the letter unfinished . . . as if she had changed her mind, as if she didn’t care what happened . . . about her money, about her sister, about secrecy, about anything. It fits. It fits with the suicide theory.” He crushed out his cigaret. “Point three is just as inconclusive by itself and just as significant when you add it to its big brothers.” He went over to little Kinume, crouched in a corner confused by all this talk. “Kinume, you remember the scissors—in the shape of a bird? The thing that cuts?”

“Oil Missie Esther bring from Japan. It always broke. In case.”

“And it was kept always in the attic room, was it not?” Kinume nodded. “Last time I seeing is when I clean attic.”

“So you did clean it,” muttered the Inspector.

“And when was that?”

“Sunday.”

“The day before Karen’s death,” said Ellery with satisfaction. “It fits!

The Japanese scissors were kept in the attic, they belonged to Esther, they were never in Karen’s bedroom downstairs. Yet we find them in Karen’s bedroom after the crime. Who could have brought them down from the attic? Not Esther—Kinume saw them there Sunday, and Esther was dead in Philadelphia Saturday night. Then the probabilities point to Karen as having fetched those scissors from the attic herself. Even if she didn’t—
even if she asked Kinume to fetch them for her (which is a distinction of no importance)—why? Certainly not to provide a convenient weapon for some murderer. Certainly not as scissors—they were broken and had no utility as scissors. I say that Karen’s deliberate fetching of that unusual implement to the scene of her death before the bolt got stuck, which was shortly before her death, indicates psychologically that she intended to use it for the purpose of taking her own life.”

“But why such a queer thing?” demanded the Inspector.

“There’s a reason for that, too,” said Ellery, “which I’ll get to in a moment.

“But let me go on to point number four, the first really powerful indication of suicide. Kinume told me over the telephone a few minutes ago that when she left the bedroom just before Karen’s death the Loo-choo jay

— that bird that dislikes me so vociferously— was hanging in its cage beside
Karen’s bed.”

“It was?” said the old man slowly.

“It was. We never thought of asking her that specific question before, and Kinume isn’t the sort that volunteers information when she has been trained for years to keep her mouth shut. But the bird was hanging in its cage in the bedroom just before the crime, and when Eva entered the room a half-hour later, the cage was empty. This is confirmed by Terry.

Let me ask you: Who released that bird during the half-hour interval?”

“Karen was the only one who could have,” muttered the doctor.

“Exactly. Only Karen. Karen released her beloved pet from its bondage.”

“But how did it get out of the room?” demanded Terry.

“Very simply. Since it couldn’t have opened the cage itself, then Karen

—alone in the room—must have opened the cage for it. This suggests that she took out the bird, carried it to the window, and passed it out through two of the iron bars. A human being couldn’t get out through those bars,” said Ellery casually, “but a bird could.”

He frowned. “Karen loved that cursed jay—all sorts of testimony to that effect. The bird was never allowed out of its cage. The only time it had got loose within the memory of man was when Miss O’Mara”—the Irish girl looked even more sullen—”in feeding it during an illness of Kinume’s some weeks ago let it get away from her and it escaped into the garden. Will you tell us again, as you told us Wednesday, what happened on that occasion, Miss O’Mara?”

“I don’t know what for,” snapped the girl. “She all but tore my head off. Miss Leith, I mean; wanted to fire me. Let me go, will you? I want to get out of here.”

But Ellery said: “You see? Now we have logical reason to believe that a few minutes before she died Karen Leith, who had always jealously kept her bird caged, herself took it from its cage and sent it off through the barred window. She gave it its freedom. Why? Why do people free well-beloved pets? Because their thralldom to an individual is over. Because their thralldom ends with the individual’s end. Because Karen Leith meant to commit suicide.”

The Inspector bit his fingernails.

“And so we come to the fifth, really the most conclusive point of all. It is compounded of an Occidental mind turned Oriental, of a kimono, of a little raised step, of a jeweled dagger, of a wound in the throat. It is compounded of everything Karen Leith’s warped soul was, and of everything Karen Leith’s tired body did. And if this point had stood alone, it would have told me Karen Leith committed suicide.”

“Will you explain?” said the Inspector fretfully.

“It’s a nice point—really beautiful; perfect symmetry. What was Karen Leith? Well, her skin was white, but its underside had turned yellow. She had lived so long in Japan, loved so deeply things Japanese, that she had become more than half Japanese. Consider how she lived in Washington Square—in quarters nostalgic for Japan, Japanese furniture, art, decora-tions; even her garden was Japanese. At every opportunity she wore Japanese dress. She loved Japanese customs—do you remember that ceremonious tea? She had been brought up in a semi-Japanese home, had associated with Japanese friends, with Japanese servants, had taught Japanese students at the Imperial University after her father’s death. In a sense, she was a convert to the spirit of Japan—it isn’t difficult to think of her as mentally and psychologically more Japanese than Occidental. As a matter of fact, there have been numerous instances of Westerners becoming converted to Japan—do you remember Lafcadio Hearn, for instance?

“Now if you consider Karen Leith in this light, what is suggested by the specific conditions of her death: dressed in a Japanese kimono, her throat cut, the weapon a thing of steel and crusted with gems? Eh? Why, a half-hour or so before her death, did she change from ordinary Western dress—as Kinume will tell you—to the kimono? How explain the rather delicately grim choice of death—a cutting of the throat? Why that specific weapon—half of a begemmed Japanese scissors, which in the absence of a

‘jeweled dagger’ can easily be visualized as such? I’ll tell you why.” Ellery waved his pince-nez. “Because these three elements—jeweled dagger, cut throat, and kimono—are mandatory in the age-old Japanese ceremony of hara-kiri. And hara-kiri is the age-old Japanese ceremony of suicide.”

“No,” said the Inspector stubbornly after a moment. “No! That’s not so. I don’t know a lot about it, but I do know that this hara-kiri business isn’t throat-cutting. I heard of a case of a Jap a few years ago who did it by disembowelment. I looked it up then. They always slash their abdomens.”

“This Japanese was a man?” demanded Ellery.

“Yes.”

“You didn’t look into it deeply enough. I did. Male Japanese suicides cut their abdomens open. Females their throats.”

“Oh,” said the Inspector.

“But that isn’t all. Hara-kiri isn’t promiscuous; it must have narrow and specific motivation. It’s all neatly tied up with honor. You do not take your life by hara-kiri lightly in Japan. It’s only when you’ve committed a dishonorable act. This ritual form of suicide wipes out the dishonor—at least, that’s the esthetics of it. But how about Karen Leith? Didn’t she have a dishonor to wipe out—the theft of her sister’s genius? And didn’t she die on a little step—the edge of the dais before the oriel windows—
which makes it easy to visualize her as kneeling? But that’s another requirement in hara-kiri, you see.

“No, no. One, or even two, of these five indications—except the last—
would have meant little. But with this last and the other four to bolster it, a theory of suicide is erected which simply cannot be disregarded.” They were silent.

At last the Inspector exclaimed: “But there’s no confirmation, there’s no evidence, there’s no proof. It’s only a theory. I can’t let Miss MacClure out on an unsupported theory. Be reasonable!”

“I’m being the soul of reason,” sighed Ellery.

“And then where’s that missing half of the scissors with which you say she killed herself?” The old man rose, shaking his head. “It’s no go, Ellery. You’ve got a pretty theory with a hole in it, and I’ve got a theory with evidence to back it up.”

“Look,” said Ellery. “Had you found that missing half-scissors with its identifying broken point near Karen’s body, with all the other conditions remaining the same, wouldn’t you have accepted a theory of suicide?

Would the mere presence of Eva MacClure in the next room have convinced you it was murder?”

“But we didn’t find the weapon by the body, you see. I mean the real weapon—not the other half with Miss MacClure’s fingerprints on it.”

“You want proof.”

“That’s what the jury will want,” said the Inspector apologetically.

“Even before that, that’s what the District Attorney will want. You’ll have to satisfy Henry Sampson, not me.”

It sounded final. Eva relaxed against Terry hopelessly.

“In other words,” continued Ellery in a murmur, “I’ve got to do two things: explain why the weapon wasn’t found on the scene of the crime; and then locate it. If I can do both, you’ll be satisfied?”

“You do em.”

“Just where did you search? Tell me again.”

“The whole place.”

“No, no, be specific.”

“The whole interior of the house. We didn’t miss a thing. We even searched the cellar. That goes for the attic, too. And the grounds around the house, thinking maybe it had been thrown out of a window. But it wasn’t.” His sharp eyes rested on Eva. “Despite what you say, it would have been a cinch for either Miss MacClure or this Terry spalpeen to have sneaked it off Monday, when I let ‘em go.”

“Or passed it to an accomplice outside the house?”

“Yes!”

Ellery chuckled suddenly. “Have you given any real thought to that rock?” he asked.

“The rock?” repeated Inspector Queen slowly.

“Yes, yes, that very common garden-variety of rock from the border of the path behind the house. The rock that shattered Karen Leith’s window shortly after the crime.”

“Some kid threw that.”

“I said that long ago,” said Terry. Then they both glared at Ellery.

“Well, did you ever find a trace of such a child?”

“What’s the difference?” grumbled the Inspector.

“And if you’ve got anything up your sleeve,” he added testily, “I wish you’d come out with it!”

“The other day,” said Ellery, “Terry and I tried an experiment. Ask Ritter. He saw us and probably thought we were insane. We stood in the garden and threw rocks of the approximate size and shape of the one that broke the window. We threw ‘em at those very oriel windows.”

“What for?”

“Well, Terry’s an ex-baseball player, you know. Professional pitcher.

He can throw. I saw him throw. Wonderful control—almost perfect marksmanship.”

“Stop it,” growled Terry. “You’ll have me making a speech in a minute. Come on!”

“Terry,” continued Ellery equably, “at my direction tried a half-dozen times to send a rock past those iron bars into Karen Leith’s bedroom. He failed each time—the rocks struck the bars and fell back into the garden.

As a matter of fact, he didn’t even want to try—any one, he said, with any sense would know you couldn’t throw a rock five inches long by three inches wide between two iron bars only six inches apart—moreover, throwing upward, from an awkward position, from the ground to a second-story window.”

“It was done, wasn’t it?” demanded the Inspector. “That proves it can be done, Terry or no Terry.”

“But not that it was intended to be done! Terry was right. No one with sense would even have tried, seeing those iron bars so close together. And even if they had, why? Why should any one have tried to throw a rock into that room from the garden? Not to attract attention, because that would imply a distraction in order to draw attention away from something; but nothing happened. Not to hit any one, because that would be even more futile than to try to get the rock past the bars in the first place.

Not as a warning, because no warning came afterward. Not to send a message, because no message was tied to the rock.

“No, dad, you can’t escape it. The rock that broke Karen Leith’s window wasn’t meant to break Karen Leith’s window. It got past the bars and into the room only by accident. That rock wasn’t thrown at Karen Leith’s window at all!”

They all looked so puzzled Ellery smiled. “If the rock wasn’t thrown at the window, what was it thrown at? Surely at something near the window, in that approximate area? What could that something have been? Well, we know that just before she died Karen Leith released her Loo-choo jay through that window. Then the Loo-choo jay was on the outside, probably somewhere in the vicinity; it had lived too long in that house to leave it. Suppose the bird had flown to the gable just above the oriel windows—
that is, to the edge of the roof—and perched there? Just suppose? Can’t you conceive of some one hurling a stone at the bird from the garden and of the cast falling short and of the stone entering the room by merest accident?”

“But what could that have to do—” began Dr. MacClure in frank amazement.

“We’re supposing,” said Ellery whimsically. “Now we know that a few weeks ago the jay escaped through the carelessness of Miss O’Mara. We also know that Miss Leith bawled the hell out of Miss O’Mara for that carelessness. Now let’s suppose again. Let’s suppose Miss O’Mara was in the garden late Monday afternoon and suddenly saw that very bird perched on the gable or on the top of the oriel window outside. Mightn’t Miss O’Mara instantly think that Karen Leith would hold her responsible for what she pardonably thought was a second escape of the bird?

Wouldn’t it be natural for Miss O’Mara to try to catch the bird and return it to its cage in the sunroom before the ogrish Miss Leith found out? But the pesky creature was high up, quite beyond her reach; and so isn’t it easy to suppose that Miss O’Mara picked up a rock from the border of the path and threw it up at the bird to scare it into flying down?” The Irish girl looked so frightened as their eyes turned on her that they knew Ellery had supposed with remarkable point.

She retorted with a defiant toss of her head: “All right. What about it?

There’s nothing wrong in that, is there? What are you all looking at me that way for?”

“And then when the window crashed you grew frightened and ducked out of sight around the house, eh?” asked Ellery softly.

“Yeah!”

“And when you thought the coast was clear you came out again and found the bird peaceably pecking about the garden and caught it and restored it to its cage in the sunroom?”

“Yeah,” she said sullenly.

“You see,” sighed Ellery, “that was the only reconstruction which accounted for two things: the disappearance of the Loo-choo jay from its bedroom cage upstairs just before the crime and its appearance in the sunroom cage downstairs just after the crime. And it was all ably assisted into crystallization by the curious incident of the rock.” The Inspector frowned. “But what has all this to do with the missing half-scissors?”

“Well,” said Ellery dryly, “it establishes the bird at the top of the house, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t get you!”

“I mean that this bird of Karen Leith’s is a jay. I mean that all jays are notoriously thievish. I mean that like all jays the Loo-choo must be instinctively attracted by brightly colored objects. And I say that after Karen Leith gave the jay its unwanted freedom it felt unaccustomed to its new estate and tried to return to its mistress. I say that it alighted on the window ledge, folded its wings, strutted through two of the iron bars—the window was open from the bottom, remember—and flew down to the floor of the dais where Karen Leith lay dying in her own blood. And I say that half-scissors with its broken point was lying there by her hand, steeped in her blood. And I say that, attracted by the glitter of the semiprecious jewels which stud the shank and bow, the jay picked up the weapon with its beak, a strong one (and a light weapon), flew up to the window sill, and walked out between the bars. Let me point out that the half-scissors is only five inches long, and the space between the bars is six inches. Outside, what did the Loo-choo bird do? With the instincts of its jayish, magpie-ish blood, it looked for a place to hide its attractive find.

But where did we leave the jay? Perched on or near the roof of the house.” Ellery chuckled. “You searched in the house, around the house, even under the house, so to speak, but you didn’t search on top of the house. So it all ties in very neatly, and if you find that missing half-scissors lying on the gable or in the eaves-trough on the roof, then I’m right and you’re wrong.”

So that was the gamble, Dr. MacClure thought grimly; and he saw now with clarity what a gamble it was. The whole thread of Ellery’s reasoning was fine and gossamer; it seemed real—but was it? Only the roof could tell. And if the roof disappointed them . . . He pressed Eva’s hand, and Eva returned the pressure convulsively. None of them was capable of a word, and all of them were painfully aware on what a slender thread Eva’s safety hung.

The Inspector frowned. “I’ll admit it’ll look different if we find it where you say it is. But even so, why couldn’t this girl still have murdered her aunt, then released the bird from the cage herself, and sent it flying away through the bars with the half-scissors? Tell me that!” It was such a startling thought that the three huddled together stiffened with a single movement.

But Ellery shook his head. “What would Miss MacClure’s motive have been?”

“To get rid of the weapon!”

“Ah, but if she murdered Karen Leith the best illusion she could hope to create would be that of suicide! Yet by disposing of the weapon she would accomplish what? That which actually happened—to make the crime look like murder and herself like the only possible murderess. No, dad, that doesn’t wash.”

The Inspector grunted, defeated.

“I’m hoping,” continued Ellery quietly, “that we’re lucky. There’s one thing in our favor. It hasn’t rained since the crime. If the half-scissors was dropped by the jay in a protected spot, like the eaves-trough, it should still show fingerprints. The worst we have to contend with is the effect of dew.

But if the weapon hasn’t rusted, you’ll have absolute proof of Miss MacClure’s innocence.”

“It’ll show the Leith woman’s prints!” shouted Terry.

“Yes, and hers only. And if you find that, dad, even you will have to admit that the last doubt of Karen Leith’s suicide will have been removed.”

* * *

Gloomily the Inspector put in a call to Police Headquarters; and gloomily he commandeered two cabs and had the party driven downtown to the Leith house in Washington Square.

Two men from Headquarters were waiting for them when they arrived—fingerprint experts.

Sergeant Velie scoured the neighborhood for a long ladder. Then Ellery clambered from the garden up to the sloping roof, and the first thing he saw was the glitter of the missing half-scissors with its broken point lying in a semi-protected position in the eaves-trough almost directly over Karen Leith’s oriel windows.

As Ellery straightened up, waving the blood-tipped weapon, Terry sent up a shout from below that almost tumbled Ellery into the garden; and from where they stood in a group, craning, there was a cry of hysterical joy from Eva as she threw her arms about Dr. MacClure.

The fingerprint men found clear, unmistakable impressions of Karen Leith’s fingers all over the rustproof metal. And the fingerprints of no one else. And, as a last proof, one of them fitted the tiny triangular sliver of steel from Karen Leith’s throat to the broken end of the half-scissors, and it matched exactly.

Chapter XXIII

On Friday night the MacClures were shepherded by Terry Ring into a swanky place in the East Fifties and had a dinner which did not “smell,” as Terry put it with characteristic candor, “of the East Side.” They were subdued, and for the most part dined with only monosyl-labic conversation. The doctor looked tired, and Eva positively exhausted.

“Thing about you,” said Terry at last, “is you need a rest. Change.

Vacation. Something to take your mind off things. Now you can go off and marry this Park Avenue guy.”

“Didn’t Eva tell you?” asked Dr. MacClure subtly. “She’s returned Scott’s ring.”

“No!” Terry set his fork down and stared. “Well, what do you know about that,” he said, staring some more.

Eva flushed. “It was a mistake, that’s all.”

“Well, say,” mumbled Terry. “That’s swell—I mean, too bad.” And he seized his fork and attacked his filet with such zest that Dr. MacClure hid a smile behind his napkin.

“Why didn’t Mr. Queen come?” asked Eva hastily, to change the subject.

“He’s got a headache or something,” said Terry. He flung his fork down again, to the horror of the hovering waiter. “Look, gorgeous. How about you and me . . . “ He picked it up again. “Forget it.”

“I think,” said Dr. MacClure, rising, “you two will have to suffer along by yourselves. I’m going.”

“No,” cried Eva. “Don’t go, daddy.”

“No, really,” said the doctor, “you’ll have to excuse me. I’d expected to see Queen this evening. I haven’t really thanked him properly for all he’s done.”

“Then I’ll go, too,” said Eva, beginning to push back from the table. “I owe him more than any one.”

“You’ll stay right here,” growled Terry, hauling her back. “Go on, Doc, scram. I’ll fix her wagon.”

“Daddy,” wailed Eva.

But Dr. MacClure shook his head and smiled and left.

“Look,” said Terry eagerly, leaning far across the table. “I’m not much

—I know that. But if you—”

“Poor daddy,” said Eva. “He looks simply awful. All this suspense and worry have aged him ten years. He looks worse tonight than he looked yesterday. He—”

“He’s a swell guy,” said Terry heartily. “Say, he’s got tact! We’ll get along all right. Eva, would you . . . “

“I’m worried about him,” frowned Eva, poking at her chop. “He’s going to plunge right into work at that Foundation of his like a madman. I know him. He really ought to go away again.”

“You and him and me, too,” cried Terry. “We could all go together!”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Eva, widening her eyes.

“I mean—say we all—Look.” Terry bellowed at her.

“The first thing I’m going to do is hie me up Park Avenue a way and take a poke at that palooka who ran out on you!”

“Terry!”

“Well, all right, I won’t if you say so,” grumbled Terry. His brown features twisted desperately; he took a deep breath and leaned far forward again. “Eva, what say you and I—”

“Pardon,” whispered a firm voice. They looked up. It was the headwaiter. “Pardon, pardon, Monsieur, mais vous faites trop du bruit I”

“Huh?” said Terry blankly.

“Monsieur will be so kind!”

“Go away, Lafayette,” said Terry, seizing Eva’s hands. “Look, hon, what I meant was—”

“He says,” said Eva faintly, pulling away, “that you’re making too much noise.”

“And if Monsieur does not abate the tone,” added the headwaiter even more firmly, “I shall ask him to depart!”

Terry stared up. Then he said flatly to Eva: “Stay right where you are.” He got to his feet and faced the Gallic gentleman spread-legged.

“Did I understand you to say,” he asked in a gentle voice, “that I’m making too much bruit for this dump?”

The headwaiter took a backward step. “Philippe! Antoine!” Two large and swarthy gargons came up. “Escort M a’m’selle and Monsieur—”

“Hold everything, Antoine,” said Terry.

A silence fell. All over the restaurant people were staring, shocked. Eva felt herself grow hot and cold by-turns. She could have crawled under the table.

“Please, Terry,” she whispered. “Don’t forget where—Please don’t—”

“Proceed, Antoine,” said the headwaiter nervously.

Antoine’s brawny fist reached for Terry. Terry crouched a little, and Eva shut her eyes. She knew what was coming. A brawl. In a nice restaurant. Where did he think—It would be in the newspapers . . . . The last straw!

“I said hold it,” she heard Terry say, in such a peculiar tone that she opened her eyes quickly.

Terry was hanging on to Antoine’s fist almost imploringly. And he was perspiring. “Listen, Antoine,” he said, licking his lips. “You ever been in . . . love?”

Antoine gaped. He looked at the headwaiter. The headwaiter paled.

He said, quavering: “Perhaps Monsieur does not feel well? Perhaps a doctor—”

“Love! Love!” said Terry tensely. “You know what love is, don’t you?

A-mour! Kitchy-koo! L-o-v-e!”

“He is era-zee,” muttered Antoine, carefully retreating.

“Sure I’m crazy!” shouted Terry, waving his long arms. “I’m off my nut trying to figure out a way to propose to my girl, and he tells me I’m making too much noise!”

Eva thought she knew what Joan of Arc had gone through at the stake.

Her cheeks felt burned to crisps. She had never been so humiliated in her life. The restaurant was in an uproar. Everybody was laughing. Even the headwaiter smiled, definitely relieved.

“You oaf!” panted Eva, jumping up. “After all I’ve been through!” And she fled, pursued by bellows of delight from all sides. It was like a nightmare. How could he—The—the—

But she got only as far as the rubber mat under the canopy outside.

There, inexplicably, she found Terry facing her.

“Listen, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Marry me and put me out of my misery!”

“Oh, Terry,” sobbed Eva, putting her arms around his neck. “I’m so happy. You’re such a fool. I love you so much.”

There was an enthusiastic huzza behind them, and they wheeled to find the restaurant doorway thronged and the headwaiter bowing gallantly in their direction.

“Vive la France,” said Terry feebly, and he kissed her.

Dr. MacClure’s ring was answered by Djuna, who looked first surprised, then angry, and finally philosophical. Djuna was accustomed to people who appeared, hat in hand, at the conclusion of a case.

“Hello,” said Ellery slowly, getting out of the armchair before the fireplace. “Come in, Doctor.”

“I won’t keep you long,” said Dr. MacClure. “I felt that I hadn’t thanked you properly, and of course—”

“Oh, that.” Ellery seemed embarrassed. “Sit down, Doctor. Dad’s at Headquarters cleaning up the last details and satisfying the reporters. So I’m rather alone.”

“Terry says you aren’t feeling especially well,” remarked the doctor, accepting a cigaret. “I suppose it’s the reaction. Really wonderful piece of rationalization. You don’t look well. How do you feel exactly?”

“Low. It’s funny, but it struck me that you’re rather peaked yourself.”

“Oh, I.” The doctor shrugged over his cigaret. “Well, I’m human. No matter how calloused the human temperament becomes, there are some things that penetrate it. One is danger to some one you love. Another is shock—there was Esther, and finding out she was alive, only to find out she was dead after all. And there was,” he added quietly, “Karen.” Ellery nodded, staring into the dark fireplace. The doctor sighed and rose. “Well, it’s hardly necessary for me to put into words—”

“Doctor, sit down.”

Dr. MacClure looked at him.

“I must talk to you.”

The big man’s arm remained poised, the cigaret smoldering in his fingers. “There’s something the matter, Queen?”

“Yes.”

Dr. MacClure seated himself again. The anxiety returned to his gaunt, chunky face. His brows met.

Ellery got out of his chair and went to the mantel. “I’ve been thinking hard all afternoon and evening. I’ve hardly got out of that chair . . . Yes, there’s something the matter.”

“Vital?”

“Extremely.”

“If you mean,” began the doctor slowly, “that Karen didn’t really commit suicide . . . “

“Oh, she committed suicide, all right,” said Ellery, scowling at the crossed sabres above the mantel. “That part of it is right.”

“Then what do you mean?” The big man jumped up. “You can’t mean that somehow Eva—that she’s still—”

Ellery turned around. “There are certain aspects of this case, Doctor, which have not yet been touched upon. The case is not closed by any means. It’s closed as far as the police are concerned—my father, too—but that’s not enough. I have a terrible problem to solve—the most difficult in my experience. I don’t know, frankly, what to do.” The doctor sank back in bewilderment. “But if Eva isn’t—if Karen committed suicide—I fail to see—”

“I’m glad you’ve come. Apparently there’s a design in human relations that isn’t quite material.” Ellery removed his pince-nez and began to polish them absently. “Your coming resolves some of the difficulty. Have you a little time, Doctor?”

“Of course. As long as you want me.” The big man stared at him anxiously.

Ellery went to the kitchen. “Djuna.” Djuna appeared like Jack-in-the-box. “How would you like to take in a movie?”

“I don’t know,” said Djuna doubtfully. “I saw all the pictures around here.”

Tm sure you’ll find something.” Ellery pressed a bill into the boy’s hand. Djuna stared up at him. Their eyes locked.

Then Djuna said: “Sure. I guess so,” and he went quickly to the closet and got his hat and let himself out of the apartment.

“You see,” said Ellery, as soon as the door closed, “my dilemma is an unusual one: Shall I tell my father what I know and he doesn’t, or shan’t I?

And since there’s a delicate point involved that isn’t amenable to the usual methods, I’m forced to ask for your help.”

“But how can I help you, Queen? Do you mean that it has something to do with Eva, after all?”

Ellery sat down and slowly lit a cigaret. “Suppose I begin at the beginning. In the final analysis, it’s not an ordinary decision; it’s not even my decision. You’ll have to make it. And I’ll be guided by your advice—
whether to leave the case officially closed, as it is tonight, or open it tomorrow with a bang that will rock New York.”

Dr. MacClure was pale. But he said in a steady voice: “I’ve stood almost every shock possible to human flesh, so I suppose I can stand another. Go on, Queen.”

* * *

Ellery took a folded sheet of paper out of the pocket of his dressing-gown. The doctor waited quietly as Ellery unfolded it.

“I have here,” began Ellery, “my father’s copy of the suicide note left by your sister-in-law Esther in Philadelphia.”

“Yes?” said the doctor blankly.

“The original, of course, is in dad’s hands. Let me assure you at once

—there’s nothing wrong with the authorship of that letter. The handwriting has been checked and established as Esther’s beyond any question.

“Now, of course,” continued Ellery in a faraway voice, “we’ve got to make certain readjustments of interpretation regarding this letter, in the light of Karen Leith’s suicide. We assumed that Esther’s reference to herself as a murderess applied to Karen Leith—that is, that she was confessing to Karen Leith’s murder. Well, obviously, if Karen committed suicide Esther couldn’t have murdered her. She couldn’t have murdered her even if Karen hadn’t committed suicide, since Karen was alive when Esther was dead. Nor could Esther have been deliberately taking the blame for Karen’s death, since Karen wasn’t dead when Esther wrote the note.”

“Of course she was referring to my brother’s death, not Karen’s,” nodded the doctor. “Apparently until she took her own life Esther considered herself Floyd’s murderess.”

“Yes. That’s undoubtedly so. Her old phobia. Now that’s significant, because it fully implies the answer to one of the most puzzling phases of the entire case—exactly what hold it was that Karen had on Esther which made Esther submit to a life of fantastic exploitation by her own sister . . .

to the extent of even agreeing to seem dead.”

The doctor knit his brows. “I don’t see—”

“It’s all a matter of the most cunning and morbid and vicious psychology,” said Ellery. “You said yourself you were astounded at the depths of Esther’s obsession seventeen years ago—how she insisted on thinking that she had murdered your brother against all the plain facts. But can you understand her obsession if I visualize for you a clever, unscrupulous woman who undid every step in Esther’s cure—who kept whispering to Esther that she had killed your brother intentionally, who so worked on the poor, harassed, tortured soul that eventually Esther was sure she had murdered her husband?”

The doctor was gaping at him.

“It explains everything,” said Ellery gloomily. “It explains Esther’s eagerness to send her child away—for how could her gentle nature stand the thought that some day her daughter would learn she was the daughter of a murderess? You told me yourself how Esther pressed the point that you adopt Eva and take her to the States, to bring her up in ignorance of her parentage.”

“That’s true,” muttered the doctor. “And Karen backed her up.”

“Of course; the idea was probably planted by Karen! Now Karen was a twisted being. There’s no doubt about that. To have done what she did, to have planned the foul thing she planned, she must have been off-center morally, a conscienceless, scheming woman. She knew Esther’s talent, a talent she herself did not possess. And Karen was a woman of tremendous ambition. So she fostered Esther’s belief that she had murdered your brother Floyd; and in Esther’s unbalanced emotional state she easily became a prey to Karen’s ambition and lay down under Karen’s thumb . . . . Why did she do it? It wasn’t only ambition. It must have been thwarted passion, too. I think Karen Leith loved your brother Floyd. I think she wanted to make Esther suffer for having won the man she herself wanted.”

The doctor shook his head in a dazed way.

Ellery glanced at the sheet. “ ‘Your mother,’ she wrote to Eva—this is Esther speaking in her suicide note—’is a monster; thank God the monster kept her secret from you.’

“What can that mean except that everything Esther submitted to was for Eva’s sake? Eva, then, was Karen’s strongest weapon—she convinced Esther that if Eva should ever learn that her mother had murdered her father, Eva’s whole life, her outlook on life, would be ruined. And Esther agreed. She saw that. She saw that Eva must never know.

“Is it so hard to visualize Karen coldly and fantastically planning Esther’s ‘death’ by ‘suicide’ in Japan, with Esther’s consent and co-opera-tion, just because she—Karen—felt her ambition would be consummated by removing to the States and reaping the full harvest in her native country of Esther’s genius? Is it so hard to see that Karen would take delight in this notion of getting close to Eva, so that Esther would suffer agonies in proximity with her daughter, knowing that she could never reveal herself? For that would be part of Karen’s revenge, too . . . . And always Karen had one weapon to insure Esther’s silence. To threaten Esther that she would tell Eva who her mother was and what she had done!”

Dr. MacClure clenched his hairy hands. “The devil,” he said in a dry, remote rumble.

“Or at least,” nodded Ellery, “the devil’s mate. But I haven’t got to the most interesting point of all. Listen.” He read again from the copy of Esther’s suicide note. “ Tor you are the only one in the world who might have saved my sister’s life.’ “ Ellery cried: “ ‘Who might have saved my sister’s life’! How did Esther know that Karen was doomed to die? How could Esther have known that Karen would be dead, when Esther herself died forty-eight hours before Karen!”

He got out of the chair and began to pace restlessly.

“Esther could only have known if she knew Karen meant to commit suicide. But how could Esther have known in advance that Karen planned suicide? Only if Karen had told her. ‘I have seen it coming,’ she writes,

‘and I have been powerless against it.’ Then Esther took a desperate step.

She didn’t want Karen to die and herself to be found alive in that house—
she didn’t want herself found even dead in that house, for in either event Eva would have found out after Karen’s death that her ‘monster’ of a mother was alive. So, in panic, Esther fled, to commit suicide herself in another city under a false name. That’s what she was referring to when she wrote: ‘And so I have done what in my monstrous helplessness I must do.’ “

“It’s very clear,” said the doctor tiredly.

“Is it, Doctor? Why did Karen commit suicide?” Ellery leaned across the little table. “Why? She had everything to live for—fame, wealth, approaching marriage. Why did she commit suicide?” The doctor looked startled. “You said yourself it must have been remorse, conscience.”

“Do you think so? Does a woman like Karen Leith really experience remorse? Then why didn’t she confess to the world before she committed suicide? Remorse means an awakening, a rebirth of human conscience—
and it brings with it an effort to repay, to atone, to give back. Did Karen Leith die telling the world she had been a fraud for years? Did she change her will to restore to Esther what was rightfully hers? Did she do any of the things a conscience-stricken woman would have done under the peculiar circumstances? No. She died as she had lived—hiding a secret. No, Doctor, not remorse!

“And what,” cried Ellery, “is the tone of Esther’s letter? Is it the letter of a woman who has just been told by her sister the truth about that sister’s real crime against her? What did Esther mean by ‘our lightning destiny,’ ‘our insensate fate’? Isn’t there even a note of sympathy in the way she wrote about Karen? And, even if she had been an angel, could Esther have written sympathetically about Karen if she had just learned that Karen had lied to her about that seventeen-year-old murder, that Karen had wilfully and criminally used her, with a lie and a threat as weapons? No, Doctor, Karen committed suicide not out of remorse for what she had done to Esther; Karen committed suicide without having told Esther the truth about what she had done to Esther. Karen committed suicide for another reason altogether—a reason having nothing to do with Esther, a reason she could confide to Esther, a reason that could make Esther write sympathetically about her and pray God’s mercy on both their souls!”

“You confuse me,” said the doctor, passing his hand over his forehead.

“I don’t understand.”

“Then perhaps I can make you understand.” Ellery picked up the tran-script again. “ Tf only,’ “ he read, “ ‘you had not gone away’—referring to you, Doctor. ‘If only you had taken her with you. For you are the only one in the world who might have saved my sister’s life.’ Does that make it clearer?”

“Esther meant,” sighed the doctor, “that if I hadn’t left for that European vacation, or if I had taken Karen with me, Karen probably wouldn’t have committed suicide.”

“But why,” asked Ellery in a soft voice, “did she write that you’re the only one in the world who might have saved Karen?”

“Well,” frowned the doctor, “a fiance’s influence—I was the only one Karen really cared for—”

“Why did she write that with your leaving went Karen’s last protection, her last hope?”

The doctor stared at him with his light blue eyes, painfully focussed.

“I’ll tell you, Doctor,” said Ellery slowly. “This room is a tomb, and I can tell you. I can say it aloud in this room—I can voice this fancy of mine, this little thing, this monstrous and persistent thing, this conviction that has tortured me all evening.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dr. MacClure, gripping the arms of his chair.

“I mean, Doctor, that you murdered Karen Leith.” Chapter XXIV

Dr. MacClure got out of the chair after a moment and went to the window, to clasp his hairy hands behind him in the loose and powerful way to which Ellery had become accustomed. The big man turned around then, and to Ellery’s astonishment there was an expression of quiet amusement on his face.

“Of course, Queen,” said the doctor, chuckling,

((5’ 1 ‘)) you re joking.

“I assure you I’m not,” said Ellery a little stiffly.

“But, man—you’re so inconsistent! First you say Karen committed suicide—and what’s more, prove it!—and now out of a clear sky you accuse me of murdering her. You’ll understand my natural bewilderment.”

Ellery scraped his lean jaw for an instant. “I can’t decide whether you’re amusing yourself at my expense or being very forbearing. Doctor, I’ve just accused you of the worst crime on the human calendar. Would you like me to defend my accusation?”

“By all means,” said the doctor instantly. “I’m curious to learn how you go about logically proving that a man can kill a fellow-creature in a house in New York while he’s lying in a deckchair on a ship in mid-ocean, a day and a half from port.”

Ellery flushed. “You’re insulting my intelligence. In the first place, I didn’t say I could prove it by strict logic. In the second place, I didn’t say you committed the murder of Karen Leith with your hands.”

“You interest me even more. How did I do it—with my astral body?

Come, come, Queen, confess you’re having a little joke with me, and let’s stop this discussion. Come on over to the Medical Club and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“I haven’t the slightest objection to drinking with you, Doctor, but I think we had better clear the air first.”

“Then you are serious.” The doctor surveyed Ellery thoughtfully, and Ellery felt a little uncomfortable under the direct scrutiny of those penetrating eyes. “Well, go ahead,” said the doctor at last. “I’m listening, Queen.”

“Smoke?”

“No, thank you.”

Ellery lit another cigaret. “I must repeat, in quoting again from Esther’s letter—why were you the only one in the world who might have saved Karen? Why were you her last hope?”

“And I must repeat—although I can’t pretend to know beyond question what was in poor Esther’s mind—that it seems to me a simple matter.

My physical presence, Karen’s attachment to me, would have prevented her from taking her own life.”

“Yet Esther didn’t seem too sure, did she?” murmured Ellery. “She didn’t say you could have saved Karen’s life; she only said you might have.”

“You’re quibbling about pretty distinctions,” said Dr. MacClure.

“Certainly I might have; even had I been here Karen might still have committed suicide.”

“On the other hand,” said Ellery mildly, “the suspicion struck me that if there was any uncertainty in Esther’s mind about your inability to prevent Karen from committing suicide, the reason may have had nothing at all to do with you as Karen’s lover, you see.”

“I’m dense tonight,” smiled the doctor. “I confess I don’t grasp what you’re driving at.”

“Doctor,” said Ellery abruptly, “what is it that you can do better than any one else in the world?”

“I’ve never been conscious of any overwhelming superiority. But I’m flattered, naturally.”

“You’re too modest. You are famous for—you have just received international recognition for—you have devoted your life, your renowned skill, your fortune to—the study and treatment of human cancer.”

“Oh, that!” said the doctor, waving his hand.

“Every one knows that you are top cancer man in your profession.

Even Esther must have known that—she was shut in physically, but her books show how closely through reading she kept in touch with the world.

Now isn’t it strange that Esther, knowing you to be the greatest authority on cancer, should write that you are the only one in the world who might have saved Karen’s life?”

Dr. MacClure came back to his chair and sprawled in it, folding his hands on his chest and half-closing his eyes.

“This is fantastic,” he said.

“Not really,” drawled Ellery. “For we still must find a reason why a woman who has everything to live for should suddenly take it upon herself to commit suicide. We have no motive, you see. Unless we say: She felt the hand of death upon her. She was suffering from an incurable disease.

Unless we say: She knew death to be a matter of only a short time.

“Then her suicide in the face of her impending personal happiness, her fresh and supreme literary honors, her comfortable circumstances, her inheritance of a large fortune only a month away—then, I say, her suicide in the face of these things becomes comprehensible. And only then.” The doctor shrugged in a queer way. “You’re suggesting, I believe, that Karen had cancer?”

“I believe that that was what Esther had in mind when she wrote that you were the only one in the world who might have saved her sister’s life.”

“But you know as well as I that in the autopsy report of your own Dr.

Prouty there was no mention of cancer!—not a breath of it. Don’t you think if Karen’d had an advanced cancer he would have found it in autopsy?”

“Exactly the point!” Ellery pounded the little table. “Karen Leith committed suicide thinking she had cancer when she didn’t have it at all!

And her sister Esther thought the same thing!”

The doctor’s face was calm and grave now. He sat up a little in the chair. “I see,” he said quietly. “So now it’s out. So that’s what you had in mind.”

“Yes! Karen’s body showed no trace of cancer, yet she committed suicide thinking she had it. Then she was convinced beyond a doubt of an organic trouble that didn’t exist!” Ellery leaned forward. “Who do you suppose, Dr. MacClure, could have convinced her?” The doctor said nothing.

“Let me quote you. ‘She never had another physician.’ ‘She followed instructions to the letter. Ideal patient.’ Yes, Doctor, you were her physician, you diagnosed her simple condition of neurasthenia and ansemia—
loss of weight and appetite, perhaps malnutrition, probably indigestion, discomfort after eating—as cancer, and because you were her fiance she believed you, and because you were the greatest authority on cancer in the world she didn’t dream of consulting another doctor, and you knew she would not!”

The doctor still said nothing.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you did a thorough job. You may even have shown her X-ray pictures purporting to be hers. You certainly told her she had a hopeless type of cancer—probably stomachic, spreading to the liver and abdomen, quite inoperable, too far gone for surgery. You did it so well, you were so convincing, that within a short time, without ever having said a direct word or made a direct suggestion, she was psychologically your victim, so that in her neurotic condition it was inevitable that she should give up the fight and plan suicide.”

“I see,” said the doctor, “that you’ve been asking questions.”

“Oh, I telephoned a doctor I knew well, asked him casually—
discovered how simple it would be for an unscrupulous physician to convince a neurotic, anaemic patient that she had cancer!”

“In all this,” said the doctor pleasantly, “you have overlooked the possibility that a physician might, with the best intentions in the world, make a wrong diagnosis. I have known cases where every test and symptom indicated cancer—yes, including X-rays—and the truth was quite otherwise.”

“Most unlikely, Doctor, that you erred, in view of your knowledge and experience. But even if innocently it was a wrong diagnosis, why did you tell her? Just before your marriage? It would have been kinder to keep her in ignorance.”

“But an erring physician, sincerely thinking it was cancer, could not keep the patient in ignorance. He would have to treat the case, no matter how far gone.”

“And yet you did not, did you, Doctor? You abandoned your ‘patient’!

You went off to Europe! No, Doctor, you weren’t feeling kind—quite the reverse. You deliberately told her she was suffering from an incurable cancer, you deliberately told her treatment was worse than useless. You did this to torture her, to take away the remnant of hope—in the light of what happened, to drive her to suicide.”

The doctor sighed.

“Now do you understand,” demanded Ellery softly, “how a man might kill a woman from a very great distance?”

The doctor shaded his face with his hand.

“Now do you understand what I meant when I said that, despite the fact that Karen Leith committed suicide, she was really murdered by you?

It’s a queer sort of murder, Doctor, mental murder, murder by pure suggestion, but murder it is . . . as much murder as if you’d been in that room and driven that half-scissors into Karen Leith’s neck with your own hand, instead of being in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in a deckchair.”

Dr. MacClure looked thoughtful. “And what motive in all this fantastic theorizing,” he asked, “do you ascribe to my Machiavellian self?”

“Not Machiavellian,” murmured Ellery, “and the motive was human and understandable and even worthy. For somehow you found out—
between Karen Leith’s garden-party and the time you sailed—that Esther Leith MacClure, whom you had loved long ago in Japan, had for all these years been occupying the attic above your fiancee’s head . . . a prisoner, crushed, lied to, exploited, used, the products of her genius stolen—all the rest of it. You may even have seen Esther yourself, and spoken to her, and kept quiet for Eva’s sake. But somehow you found out, and your affection for Karen turned into bitterness and a desire for vengeance—you saw the woman for the first time as she really was, a monster who didn’t deserve to live.”

“On that point,” said Dr. MacClure, “there is no argument.”

“It was even unnecessary for you to act,” continued Ellery gloomily,

“when you were notified on shipboard that your fiancee had been murdered. You had gone away, certain that she meant to take her own life; but discovering that she was apparently murdered gave you a terrific shock. You never dreamed of that. You reacted normally. You were anxious about Eva—even conceived the possibility that she had discovered the secret, too, and murdered Karen herself. You were convinced Karen had been murdered until I proved her a suicide—and then you felt the stigma of murder on your own hands, and knew that you had killed her after all.”

And Dr. MacClure said: “May I have another cigaret?” Silently Ellery offered him one, and for a long time they sat opposite each other, smoking like very good friends who feel such a communion of spirit that conversation is unnecessary.

And finally Dr. MacClure said: “I’ve been trying to think of what your father would say if he’d been present here tonight.” He smiled, shrugging.

“Would he believe such a story? I wonder. For what proof exists? None at all.”“What is proof?” asked Ellery. “It’s merely the clothing of what we already believe to be true. Anybody can prove anything, given sufficient will to believe.”

“Nevertheless,” said the doctor, “our courts and our code of justiciary ethics perhaps unfortunately operate on a more tangible basis.”

“That,” admitted Ellery, “is true.”

“So let’s say we’ve had a pleasant evening of fiction,” said the doctor,

“and stop this nonsense and go down to my club for that drink I promised you.” He rose, still smiling.

Ellery sighed. “I see I must show all my cards after all.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dr. MacClure slowly.

“Excuse me.” Ellery got up and went into his bedroom. Dr. MacClure dabbed his cigaret out in an ashtray, frowning a little. Then Ellery came back, and Dr. MacClure turned and saw that he was carrying an envelope.

* * *

“The police,” said Ellery at once, “know nothing of this letter.” He handed the envelope to the doctor. The big man turned it over in his strong, hair-backed fingers. It was a delicate envelope, very thin in texture, with a faint rose-on-ivory pattern of chrysanthemums. On its face, in Karen Leith’s neat hand, were the words: To John. The flap on the reverse side had been sealed in Karen’s gold wax with the odd little ideographic Japanese seal the doctor knew so well. Some one had slit the envelope open; between its frayed top edges the doctor saw a folded sheet of deckle-edged notepaper. The envelope was dirty and dew-stained, as if from long exposure to the weather.

“I found it,” said Ellery, watching the doctor, “this afternoon in the eaves-trough on Karen Leith’s roof. It was lying near the half-scissors. It was sealed, and I have opened it. And I haven’t told any one about it—
until now.”

“The jay,” said the doctor a little absently.

“Undoubtedly. It must have made two trips through the bars—one with the half-scissors, the other with this envelope. I suppose the gold wax attracted its thieving eye.”

The doctor nodded and turned the envelope over again. “I wonder,” he murmured, “where Karen got this? I thought when she sent Kinume for the stationery that she had none available—”

“Oh, she probably had one sheet and envelope left,” said Ellery indifferently, “but since she had two letters to write, one to you and one to Morel . . . “

“Yes,” said Dr. MacClure. He put the envelope down on the little table and turned his back to Ellery.

“Unfortunately,” said Ellery, “we can’t always order things as we should like. Had that bird not interfered, everything would have been different. For in that envelope, if you will take out the note, is Karen Leith’s last message. In it she says she is going to take her own life, and in it she tells why—because, she says, the cancer you had diagnosed as incurable made suicide the only way out.”

Dr. MacClure muttered: “So that’s how you knew! I thought that intellectual process was a little farfetched.”

But Ellery said: “So you see why I had to ask your advice, Doctor. It’s too bad that I’m cursed with a never-satisfied mind. I’m dreadfully, dreadfully sorry. Yours was a crime that deserved a better fate than being found out. I had to ask your advice because I can’t decide what to do. I feel that the decision must remain in your hands.”

“Yes,” said the doctor thoughtfully.

“You can do one of three things: walk out of here and preserve your silence, in which case you toss the ethical problem right back in my lap; walk out of here and give yourself up to the police, in which case you deliver the finishing blow to poor Eva; or walk out of here and—”

“I think,” said the doctor quietly, turning around, “that I know what I have to do.”

“Ah,” said Ellery, and he groped for his cigaret-case.

The doctor picked up his hat. “Well,” he said, “goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” said Ellery.

Dr. MacClure extended his powerful right hand. Ellery shook it slowly, as one shakes the hand of a friend for the last time.

* * *

When the doctor had gone, Ellery sat down before the fireplace in his dressing-gown, reached for the envelope, stared at it glumly for a moment and then, striking a match, ignited one corner of the paper and laid it down on the empty grate.

He sat back with folded hands, watching the envelope burn. Something Dr. MacClure had said in those last moments came back to him. “So that’s how you knew! I thought that intellectual process was a little farfetched.”

And Ellery thought of how carefully he had searched Karen’s house late that afternoon for the stationery, without telling any one; and of how he had sat down in the stillness of Karen Leith’s death-room to imitate her handwriting in the two essential words; and of how he had slipped a blank sheet of the deckle-edged paper into the prepared envelope and sealed the envelope and then slit it open and then affixed the gold wax to the flap with Karen Leith’s own seal. And of how he had dirtied it and faked the marks of dew.

Intellectual process! Yes, he thought, very intellectual indeed.

And he wondered as he watched the gold wax melt and run under the heat: How prove a case of mental murder? How prove that a man can commit murder not with his hands but with his brain? How punish a natural force, like the desire for rightful vengeance? How catch a wind, or trap a cloud, or make justice condemn itself to death?

Ellery stared morosely into the grate. The last fragile scrap of stationery was licked up by the flame as he watched, and all that was left was a residue of ash with a gold blob weighing it down like a mass of mortality.

And he thought that bluff was man’s defense against the impalpable, and conscience his only guide. And he thought how easy it was, and how terrible it was, with only pen and ink and paper and wax as his tools, for a man to accomplish the one and stir up the other.

He shivered a little before the dark fireplace. It was too much like playing God to feel entirely comfortable.

The End

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