Halfway House (29 page)

“Another warning.” Ellery frowned. “Our quarry is growing nervous. Did you save the wrappings?”

“Oh! I threw them away. I’m sure you couldn’t have got anything from them.”

“Tush. You confident people. And you’ve messed that thing up so that even if there were fingerprints on it they’re gone. Have you told Bill about this?”

“No. I didn’t want to worry him. Poor Bill! He’s been such a comfort these past few days—”

“Put it back in your pocket,” said Ellery sharply. “Someone’s coming.” The elevator-door opened and a tall figure stepped out. “Ah, Jones! Good man. Nice of you to come,” said Ellery.

Andrea blushed and fled into the apartment. Jones’s surly, blood-shot eyes remained fixed on the open doorway through which she had vanished. “Got your message,” he said thickly. He was apparently very drunk. “Don’t know why I came. They don’t want me here.”

“Well,” said Ellery cheerfully, “they don’t want
me
here, either.”

“What’s up, Sherlock? More deep stuff?”

“I thought you might like to join us. We’re bound for Trenton and an experiment.”

Jones laughed. “Or for hell. It’s all the same to me.”

The sun was a sliver of orange arc over the trees beyond the Delaware when they reached the isolated shack near the Marine Terminal. Ellery, piloting his Duesenberg in the van of the fleet of cars, had led them by a circuitous route on the outskirts of Trenton to Lamberton Road with a caution that indicated his reluctance to attract the attention of some inquisitive reporter roving the city streets.

It had been a sultry day; the leaves of the trees surrounding the shack were motionless. The foliage was so still, stood up so woodenly, that there was something unreal about the scene, as if it were a crude and lifeless imitation of nature. Even the surface of the river, glimpsed beyond the wooded shore, was only a glassy representation of living water. In this solitude the shack stood silently, a poor daub on a brutal landscape.

There was no conversation as Ellery, with a quick glance about, led his unwilling guests into the shack. They were making stern efforts to control themselves, all except Jasper Borden, whose grim eye in that iron face missed nothing. Finch and Bill Angell had some difficulty in maneuvering the old invalid’s wheelchair, which had been carted along, into the house. But finally they were all inside, disposed along the walls, quiet as awed children, the lamp on the table lit against the dimness of dusk and Ellery holding the center of the stage.

For a time he said nothing at all, content to let them steep themselves in the atmosphere of the place. Nothing, apparently, had altered since that eventful night weeks ago except that the area beyond the table was clear, the suits of clothing on the wall-rack were gone, and the odor of death had dissipated. But as they stood and sat there, watching emptiness, it came back distilled by their imaginations until they could almost see the dead flesh of Gimball frozen in its agony on the floor between them.

“Now if you will excuse me,” said Ellery suddenly, striding to the door, “I’ll get the props. As long as we’re staging a drama, we may as well use the technical terms. Please don’t move, anyone.”

He went out quickly, shutting the door behind him; and Bill moved over and set his back against it. The side door was shut. But suddenly, in the deep and awkward silence, it made a noise; and their eyes flew about in something like panic. It was open. The tall willowy figure of Ella Amity stood framed in the doorway.

“Hullo,” she said slowly, looking around. She wore no hat. Her red hair against the light of outdoors was a flaming and untidy nimbus about her hair. “It’s little Ella, folks. May I come in?” She calmly moved forward, closed the door, and stood there with roving, gleaming eyes. After a moment they looked away. The newspaper-woman’s nostrils began to quiver.

“So this is the dump where he got it, eh?” muttered young Jones, staring at the floor beyond the table with his blood-streaked eyes.

“Shut up, Burke,” said Finch irritably. Senator Frueh’s hand paused in its restless stroking of his beard, then resumed with a queer energy. Andrea sat in the armchair Lucy Wilson had occupied on the night of the murder. She was very still and seemed asleep. Bill’s head swiveled from side to side carelessly; there was a febrile flush on his tan cheeks.

The front door opened, and they started again, but it was only Ellery, lugging a large suitcase. He shut the door and turned. “Ella Amity,” he murmured. “Well, well, Ella. Where did
you
come from?” He seemed in a strange and secret way disturbed.

“A birdie whispered to me today,” the red-headed woman said lightly. “Told me something was going to pop around here. So here I am. I think you’re a heel for not letting me know.”

“How did you get here?”

“Walked. Good for the figure. Don’t worry, darling, I’ve nothing up my sleeve, and my record’s clean. I’ve been out back mooning at the river. Or is it sunning? Well, no matter. What’s going on here?”

“Keep quiet and perhaps you’ll find out.” Ellery went abruptly to the table, slung the suitcase on it. “Bill. I want you to run into town for me on an errand.”

Bill growled: “What—”

But Ellery pounced on him and spoke for some time in an urgent
sotto
voce
. Bill nodded. Then, with a glance about that was oddly savage, Bill shoved the door open and disappeared. Ellery, who seemed especially solicitous about the door, closed it again. Without a word he went back to the table, opened the suitcase, began pulling things out of it. They were realistic stage properties, the actual articles removed by Chief De Jong from the scene of the crime after the initial investigation. As he worked in silence, they heard the sound of a motor outside. The curtains had been drawn at the windows, so they could not see what was going on, but they knew it was Bill Angell leaving for Trenton on his mysterious errand, and they glanced uneasily at one another. Bill seemed to be having difficulty in getting started. His car made a good deal of noise as he raced the engine. The racket was so loud that when Ellery began to speak they had to lean forward to hear. By this time they were grateful for the light of the lamp; darkness had fallen unexpectedly outside.

“There,” said Ellery, depositing the last article in its proper place and returning to the table to stand tall and motionless in the lamp’s radiance. “The stage is set. You will observe that Gimball’s clothes are now back on the wall-rack; that the wrapped package containing his birthday gift of a desk-set to Bill Angell is again on the mantel above the fireplace; that the clean, empty plate is once more on the table near the lamp. The only thing that’s missing is the body of the victim. But that, I feel sure, will be supplied by your own imaginations.”

He flicked one hand over his shoulder. Their eyes went obediently to the spot on the floor indicated, and although it was still a bare patch of fawn rug, it was dreadfully easy to visualize the sprawled body that was no longer lying there.

“Now let me retrace for you,” continued Ellery in a brisk tone, his eyes glittering in the lamplight, “the antecedent events of that day, June the first. A recapitulation will help you understand what happened subsequently. I’ve compiled a timetable which may not be completely accurate, but it gives the relative times involved closely enough to serve our purpose.”

Senator Frueh tried to interrupt, but he had to pause and lick his dry lips first. “Whatever that purpose is. I think this is the most preposterous—”

“The gentleman from Eighty-seventh Street,” said Ellery, “has the floor, Senator. I will be grateful for your absolute silence, as well as the silence of everyone else here. You will have unfettered opportunity later to talk to your hearts’ content.”

“Keep quiet, Simon,” said Jasper Borden out of the side of his mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Borden.” Ellery waved a finger. “Observe. This is the afternoon of Saturday, June first. It is raining outside—raining hard. The rain is lashing at the windows. There is no one here. It is still light, the lamp is unlit, the package is not on the mantelpiece. The doors are closed.”

Someone drew a tremulous breath. Ellery went on in a swift, merciless voice. “It is five o’clock. Joseph Kent Gimball is in New York, at his office. He has come in from Philadelphia in the old Packard, probably not stopping here on his way in, otherwise he would have left the Packard here and taken his Lincoln to New York. The fact that the Packard was found parked in the side driveway indicates that that was the last car he used.

“Now. He has already sent two telegrams, one to Bill Angell, one to Andrea, both worded identically and asking the addressees to meet him in this place at nine tonight and giving minute instructions about how to find it. In the afternoon he has supplemented his telegram to Bill by telephoning Bill at his Philadelphia office, again urging him to be present at the rendezvous tonight.

“What does he do at five? He leaves his office, goes down to where he has parked the Packard near his New York office, and drives off to the Holland Tunnel bound for Trenton. In the car he has the dummy sample-case of his Wilson personality and the wrapped birthday gift he has purchased in Wanamaker’s Philadelphia yesterday intended for his brother-in-law. He reaches this shack at seven o’clock, runs up the side drive. It is still raining. A little later the rain stops. Meanwhile, the rain has washed away all traces of former footprints and tire marks, leaving, as it were, virgin ground.”

Senator Frueh muttered something that sounded like “tiresome old wives’ tale,” but promptly stopped as the old millionaire glared at him.

“Pipe down, Senator,” snapped Ella Amity. “This isn’t Congress, you know. Go on, Ellery. You fascinate me.”

“Gimball is in this room,” said Ellery coolly, as if there had been no interruption. “He wanders about, puts the gift on the mantel, pauses at the window to scan the sky. He sees the sky has cleared. It is still early; he is restless, worried; he needs something to take his mind off the ordeal of confession to come. So he goes out by the side door and trudges down the path to the boathouse, leaving his footprints in the hardening mud. He hauls out his sailboat and scuds off down the Delaware to quiet his nerves. It is seven-fifteen.”

They were sitting forward gripping the arms of their chairs, those who sat, and those who stood clutched the backs of the chairs. “To this point I have described what probably occured,” Ellery went on, “because the description concerned itself with a man dead and buried. But now we come to the living. Andrea, I shall need your assistance. It is eight o’clock. You have just driven up to the shack and parked the Cadillac roadster you borrowed from Mr. Jones, parked it in the main driveway facing toward Camden. Will you re-enact what you did?”

Andrea rose without a word and went to the door. She was pale now with a cold pallor that made her fresh young face ghastly. “Shall I… go outside?”

“No, no. You’ve just opened the door, let us say. Pretend that it’s open.”

“The lamp,” she whispered, “was off.”

Ellery moved. The room went black. From the darkness his voice came, disembodied, sending a chill up their spines. “It was not so dark as this. There was still some light outdoors. Go on, Andrea!”

They heard her moving slowly forward toward the table. “I—I looked in. The room was empty. Of course, I could see, although it was getting dark here. I went to the table and switched on the lamp—this way.”

The light clicked on; they saw her standing by the table, face averted, hand on the chain under the cheap shade. Then her hand fell. She stepped back, looked around at the fireplace, the clothes-rack, the dingy crumbling walls. She glanced at her wrist. Then she turned and went to the door again. “That’s all I did—then,” she said, again in a whisper.

“End of Scene I. Thank you; you may sit down now.” She obeyed. “Andrea realizes that she is an hour early; she goes out, gets into the roadster, drives off toward Camden, probably onto Duck Island, for what she has testified was an hour’s spin. The criminal,” said Ellery curtly, “arrives at eight-fifteen.” He paused, and the silence was unbearable. Their features might have been carved out of the living rock of an age-old convulsion of nature. The night, the sullen lowly room, the grisly whispers of outdoors, were twisted about their consciousness, not to be shaken off.

“The criminal has driven up at eight-fifteen from the direction of Camden in the Ford coupé she has stolen from Lucy Wilson’s garage in Fairmount Park—no matter when. She is outside now. She steps carefully onto the stone ledge outside the door. She opens it, comes in swiftly, closes it again, whirls about, prepared for—”

He was at the door now, acting out his recital. They followed him, fascinated. “She sees the place is empty, however. She relaxes, pushes back her veil. For a moment she is puzzled; she has expected to find her victim here. Then she realizes that he has gone off somewhere, but that he has been here: the Packard is outside, the lamp inside is lit; Gimball must be nearby. She will wait. She expects no interference; this is an isolated spot and she believes that no one in the world except herself and Gimball are aware of its relationship to Gimball. She prowls, restless. She sees the package on the mantelpiece.” He strode to the fireplace, reached up, tore away the wrappings of the package ruthlessly. The gift-set lay revealed. Ellery took the bundle to the table, bent over it. “Needless to say,” he murmured, “she wore protecting gloves.” He lifted out the still blood-stained paper-cutter, the little card, stained now by the many fingers that had handled it.

“Observe what chance has thrown into the path of this woman,” he said sharply, straightening up. “She finds the card, indicating that the desk-set is a gift from Lucy Wilson and Joseph Wilson. She has stolen Lucy Wilson’s car to frame her for the crime, but here, at hand, is something even better: a weapon identifiable with Lucy Wilson! Whatever weapon the criminal has intended to use, she discards it at once. She will use the paper-cutter. It will be another and stronger link to Lucy Wilson. She does not know, of course, how fortunate she is, for it is quite impossible that she should have known that Lucy Wilson’s fingerprints were on the knife. At any rate, she puts the package back on the mantel. But the knife is not with it; the knife is in her hand.”