Halfway House (28 page)

“I’ve handled ’em.” Bill took it grimly.

“Lord, Andrea, don’t look so apprehensive! This is just an extra safety measure. Now, off with you both. Take good care of her, Bill.”

“We may have some trouble with Andrea’s people,” grinned Bill, waving the revolver. “Is that why you’ve given me this?”

“You might,” said Ellery gravely, “use it on Fish-Face.”

Bill seized Andrea’s arm, still grinning, and hustled the bewildered girl out of the apartment. Ellery walked quickly to the window. He stood motionless until he saw Bill and Andrea running down the stone steps below, Bill’s left hand gripping Andrea’s arm and his right jammed into his pocket. They jumped into the town-car and were gone. The nondescript car parked down the street rolled off at once. Eyes gleaming, Ellery sprang for the telephone in the bedroom and called the Long Distance operator. While he waited his lips were screwed up in a most extraordinary expression. “Hello, De Jong… De Jong? This is Ellery Queen calling. Yes, from New York… Fine, thanks. I say, De Jong, what happened to the evidence in that Wilson case?”

“Cripes, you still harping on that?” growled De Jong. “What evidence?”

“Well, specifically, that chipped plate I saw you stow away the night of the murder. The plate with all those match-stubs on it.”

“Oh, that’s on file down here.” A note of curiosity crept into the Trenton policeman’s voice. “Why?”

“For excellent reasons immaterial at the moment. De Jong, do something for me. Dig out that plate with its contents and—” Ellery paused—“
count the match-stubs
.”

“What?” He could almost see De Jong blinking. “You spoofing?”

“Never more serious in my life. Count the stubs. And call me back. I’ll be waiting.” He gave his number. De Jong grunted and hung up. While he waited Ellery paced again with lean and hungry strides. At last the telephone rang.

“Well?” he snapped.

“Twenty.”

“Twenty,” said Ellery slowly. “Well, well, what do you think of that? Thanks, De Jong. Thanks ever so much.”

“But what the hell is the idea? Count the matches! I don’t—”

Ellery smiled vaguely, murmured something, and hung up. He stood still for a moment, musing. Then he threw himself on the bed. After a while he got up to fish a cigaret out of his coat-pocket. While he smoked he examined his face absently in the mirror over his bureau. Then he went back to the bed again. Finally he flung his butt into an ashtray and went into the living-room. Djuna was clearing away the breakfast dishes, his dark gypsy face scowling at the cup Andrea had used.

He looked up briefly. “That his girl,” he demanded, “that girl?”

“Eh? Oh, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Djuna looked relieved. “I guess she’s all right,” he said. “Pretty keen.”

Ellery went to the window and clasped his hands behind his back. “Djuna, you always were a mathematics shark. How much is left when you subtract twenty from twenty?”

Djuna looked suspicious. “Any kid knows that. Nothing!”

“No,” said Ellery without turning, “that’s where you’re wrong, my son. When you subtract twenty from twenty, oddly enough you have left…
everything
. Now isn’t that curious, Djuna?”

Djuna snorted and went on with his work; he knew the uselessness of discussion at times like this. And after a moment Ellery said, with a sort of wonder in his voice, “Everything! Lord, the thing’s as plain as a pikestaff now.”

“Yah!” said Djuna derisively. Ellery went to the big armchair reserved for the Inspector and covered his face with his hands. “A
what
did you say?” frowned Djuna. But Ellery did not reply. So Djuna shrugged and sailed off to the kitchen with his tray.

“As plain as a pikestaff. Plainer.” Ellery sprang out of the chair suddenly. “Yes, by thunder!” he shouted. And he made for the bedroom and the telephone with the swift determination of a man who sees clearly and grimly that there is work to be done.

“The public,” Thomas De Quincey once wrote, “is a bad guesser.” If hedonistic Tommy was right about the public of his own time, then man in the mass has changed remarkably during the past century. For any fashioner of crime tales these days will tell you that the modern public—at least, that part of the public which seeks its escape in detective fiction—is a very good guesser indeed; much too good, if you ask me. In fact, from the letters hurled at my poor head it would appear that the reader who is fooled is the exception rather than the rule.

But we have a sound defense. Guessing isn’t fair. Although each writer is his own Hoyle in composing the rules of the game, we all manage to agree on that fundamental. Guessing isn’t fair because the number of characters in any detective story is necessarily limited; and somewhere, at some stage of the tale, the reader is bound to suspect in his turn the character who ultimately is unmasked as the author of all the villainy.

For many years I have been a voice crying in the wilderness —I trust not vainly—beseeching readers to repress heroically their guessing proclivities and play the game scientifically. It’s harder, but immeasurably more fun.

Why not begin with the problem of Joseph Kent Gimball’s murder?

At this point in the story you are in possession of all the facts needed to build up a complete and logical solution of the crime. Your job is to spot the vital clues, assemble them in rational order, and from them deduce the one and only possible criminal. It can be done; it has been done, as you will see.

If you fail, of course, you can always fall back on the old reliable guesswork. If you succeed, let me know about it. As a matter of fact, that’s hardly a necessary admonition. If you succeed, I will know about it. And, as Inspector Queen likes to point out, how!

E
LLERY
Q
UEEN

“While we are examining into everything
we sometimes find truth
where we least expected it.”

U
NTIL THE DAY
Andrea related her curious little story of the half dozen match-stubs, the riddle of Joseph Kent Gimball’s death remained in a state of suspension, fixed there by the dark hands of fate. But when the story was told, animation superseded suspension, mystery became knowledge, suspicion turned into certainty. The case was snatched out of those dark hands by Mr. Ellery Queen, who directed its destiny thereafter with all the carefulness and cunning which years of experience as a diagnostician of crime had taught him.

Ellery was monstrously busy for days after the event. Whatever he was conniving, he meant it to be secret from most; his two hurried trips to Trenton were surreptitious, and no one knew of his dozens of telephone calls except those persons to whom they were addressed. He conferred privately with various hard-looking individuals; he sought the professional advice of Sergeant Velie; and, if the truth had been known, arranged a certain matter of unsuspected and illegal entry with a bland disregard of the civil rights of a free citizenry which would have made his father, the Inspector, shudder.

Then, his plans made, he came out into the open.

He began hostilities, strangely enough, on a Saturday. Whether this was a whim of chance of cynical design Ellery never explained, but the mere fact served to heighten the tension. The persons concerned could not help but recall the bloody events of that other Saturday when Gimball felt the cold bite of metal in his heart; the memory was clearly reflected by their strained faces.

“I’ve called you ladies and gentlemen together,” Ellery announced that afternoon in the Borden apartment on Park Avenue, “out of no idle desire to hear myself make a speech. There’s magic in the wind, and time is crowding me. Some of you may have lulled yourselves into a state of lethargy, feeling secure in the monotony of the
status
quo
ante
. If that’s so, it’s unfortunate; before the day is over I promise to awaken you with what may prove considerable rudeness.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Jessica. “Are we never to have any peace? And what right have you—?”

“None whatever, legally speaking. Nevertheless,” sighed Ellery, “it would be wisdom to humor my little fancy. You see, the tragedy of Joseph Kent Gimball’s death is about to be exhumed.”

“You’re reopening the case, Mr. Queen?” growled old Jasper Borden with a bitter half-twist of his lips. He had insisted upon being wheeled downstairs; he sat among them with the immobility of a corpse, only his one good eye alive.

“My dear sir, it has never been closed. Lucy Wilson of Philadelphia has been convicted of the crime, but her conviction did not solve it. Certain forces have been continuously at work since that grotesque
débâcle
in Trenton. They have never relaxed. I’m happy to announce,” Ellery said dryly, “that their efforts have been rewarded.”

“I can’t see that that concerns these good people,” said Senator Frueh sharply, playing with his beard, his shrewd little eyes intent on Ellery. “If you have new evidence take it to the prosecutor of Mercer County. Why continue to harass this group? If you want to make a fight of it,” he added in a grim tone, “I’ll be glad to oblige personally—I know the rules.”

Ellery smiled. “Oddly enough, Senator, that reminds me of something that was said some time ago by our friend Marcus Valerius Martial. African lions, he pointed out, rush to attack bulls; they do not attack butterflies. As an epigram—”

The lawyer was purple. “You leave these people out of whatever devilry you’re up to!” he shouted.

“Spare the rod?” sighed Ellery. “You wrong me, Senator. If I could, obviously I would. I’m afraid you’ll have to endure the nausea of my company for just a while longer. After that… well, let’s not discuss the future. I’ve found that the future generally gets where it’s going despite every effort of mere Man to arrest its progress.”

Jessica toyed with her handkerchief in an annoyed way, but she was stiff with enforced self-control. Grosvenor Finch stirred uneasily, watching her. Only Andrea, sitting quietly to one side, and Bill Angell, standing behind Andrea’s chair, seemed unaffected. Both kept their eyes riveted on Ellery. “No further objections?” murmured Ellery. “Thank you.” Glancing at his wristwatch, he said, “Then I think we had better be on our way.”

“On our way?” Finch was puzzled. “Where are you taking us?”

Ellery picked up his hat. “To Trenton.”

“Trenton!” gasped Andrea’s mother.

“We are going to revisit the scene of the crime.”

They all went pale at that, and for a moment were too startled to speak. Then Senator Frueh jumped up, brandishing a fat fist. “Now, that
is
going too far!” he roared. “You’ve no authority—I shall forbid my clients—”

“My dear Senator. Have you a personal objection to visiting the scene of the crime?”

“I’ve never been there!”

“You relieve me. Then that’s settled. Shall we go?”

Nobody stirred but Bill. The old millionaire asked quietly, in his bass voice: “May I ask what you hope to achieve by this unusual procedure, Mr. Queen? I know you would not make such a painful request unless you felt it to be necessary to some end you have in mind.”

“I had rather not explain my hopes, Mr. Borden. But the plan is simple. We are going to engage in a very dramatic undertaking. We shall re-enact the murder of Joseph Kent Gimball.”

The eyelid drooped. “Is that essential?”

“It was necessity that mothered the invention, sir, but the demonstration will be art in imitation of nature. Now, please, ladies and gentlemen. I shall greatly dislike having to exert official pressure to compel your attendance.”

“I shan’t go,” said Jessica Borden sullenly. “I’ve had enough. He’s dead. That woman is—why don’t you let us alone?”

“Jessica.” The old invalid turned his good eye toward his daughter. “Get your things on.”

The woman bit her thin lower lip. Then she said submissively, “Yes, Father,” rose, and went upstairs to her bedroom.

No one said anything until Jasper Borden again broke the silence. “I believe,” he said heavily, “that I shall go, too. Andrea, ring for the nurse.”

Andrea was shocked out of her immobility. “But, Grandfather—!”

“Did you hear what I said, child?”

Ellery retired to the door to wait. They all rose now and began to scatter, moving slowly. The piscine butler appeared loaded with hats.

“Ellery,” said Bill in a low voice.

“Hello, Bill. Well, how has your job worked out during the past few days? I don’t see any scars or wounds.”

Bill was grim. “It’s been hell. The duchess is a demon on wheels. I haven’t been able to get in here at all until today. But Andrea and I worked out a plan. I’ve been spending my days hanging around outside, watching. She agreed not to set foot from the apartment when I wasn’t on duty. At other times, we’ve been out together.”

“Promising start for a young couple with honorable intentions,” grinned Ellery. “Any signs of trouble?”

“No.”

Andrea came down, dressed for the street. She had a light coat on and her right hand was jammed into its pocket. It was almost as if within that pocket she were gripping a gun. Bill took a step toward her eagerly, but she shook her head, looked around, and signaled Ellery with her blue eyes. Ellery frowned, watching the pocket. Then his nod told Bill to wait where he was, and he stepped out into the corridor with Andrea.

She began in a swift whisper, “I had to talk to you before—,” and stopped to look around again, apprehensively.

“Andrea, whatever is the matter?”

“This.” The hand came out of the pocket. “This came in the mail this morning, wrapped in cheap paper, addressed to me.”

Ellery did not take it. His eyes rested on it for a moment and then searched her face. The hand holding the object trembled. It was a cheap little plaster group of figures, colored a mottled red. The group represented three squatting monkeys on a pedestal. One had his paw on his mouth, one on his eyes, one had both paws on his ears. “Speak no evil, see no evil, hear no evil,” said Andrea in the same whisper. “Or however it goes. Isn’t it insane?” She laughed rather hysterically. “But it frightens me. It’s—”