Queens Full (6 page)

Joan was waiting in an armchair. She looked tired and withdrawn.

“This is all Roger's idea,” she said, managing a smile. “From the way he's been carrying on—”

“Do you want my help, Joan?”

“Well, if Roger's right—”

“I'm afraid he is.”

“But it's so stupid, Mr. Queen. Why would Foster Benedict accuse me? And even if he had some mysterious reason, how can anyone believe it? I didn't go near him … I've always hated knives,” she cried. “I couldn't use a knife on a trout.”

“It isn't a trout that was knifed. Joan, look at me.”

She raised her head.

“Did you kill Benedict?”

“No! How many times do I have to say it?”

He lit a cigaret while he weighed her anger. She was an actress of talent and resource; her performance the night before in the face of Benedict's coarse horseplay had proved that. It was a difficult decision.

“All right, Rodge,” Ellery said suddenly. “Speak your piece.”

“It's not mine. It's Joan's.”

“I'm all ears, Joan.”

Her chest rose. “I lied to Chief Newby when I said I'd never known Foster Benedict before last night. I met Foster six years ago here in Wrightsville. I was still in high school. Roger was home from college for the summer.”

“In
Wrightsville?
”

“I know, he acted as if he'd never heard of Wrightsville. But then I realized it wasn't an act at all. He'd simply forgotten, Mr. Queen. He was one of Scutney Bluefield's house guests for a few weeks that summer.”

“He didn't even remember Scutney,” Roger said bitterly. “Let's face it, the great lover was one step ahead of the butterfly net.”

“Then it was a practical lunacy,” Ellery remarked. “For six months out of every year in the past ten or twelve years Benedict practiced house-guesting as a form of unemployment insurance. Dullman claims he averaged fourteen, fifteen hosts a year. He must have had a hard time keeping track. Go on, Joan.”

“I was sixteen, and Foster Benedict had been my secret crush for years,” Joan said in a low voice. “When I read in the
Record
that he was staying at Mr. Bluefield's I did a very silly thing. I phoned him.”

She flushed. “You can imagine the conversation—how much I admired his work, my stage ambitions … He must have been having a dull time, because he said he'd like to meet me. I was in heaven. He began to take me out. Drives up to the lake. Moonlight readings … I certainly asked for it.”

She sat forward nervously. “I guess it was like one of those old-time melodramas—the handsome lecher, the foolish young girl—the only thing missing was the mortgage. Would you believe that when he promised me a part in his next play I actually fell for it?” Joan laughed. And then he went away, and I wrote him some desperate love letters he didn't bother to answer, and I didn't see or hear from him again until last night.

“And then when he made his royal entrance into the Playhouse, he not only didn't remember Wrightsville, or Mr. Bluefield, he'd forgotten me, too.” She was staring into the mirror of the time-polished floor. “I was a stranger to him. Just another scalp to add to his collection. I'd meant so little to him not even my features had registered, let alone my name.”

“I warned you six years ago Benedict was poison,” Roger shouted, “but would you listen? Ellery, if you knew how many times I've begged her to get off this acting kick and marry me—”

“Let's get to you, Rodge. I take it your evasions last night covered up a prior acquaintance with Benedict, too?”

“How could I explain without dragging Joan into it?”

“Then you met him at the same time.”

“I knew she was dating him—a high school kid!—and I'd read of his weakness for the young ones. I was fit to be tied. I collared him one night after he took Joan home and I warned him to lay off. I said I'd kill him, or some such juvenile big talk. He laughed in my face and I knocked him cold. He was sore as hell about it—I'd mussed up his precious profile—and he banged right down to headquarters to prefer charges of assault. That was when Dakin was chief. But then I guess Benedict had second thoughts—bad publicity, or something. Anyway, he dropped the charges and left town.”

“Did the brawl get into the
Record?
”

Roger shrugged. “It was a one-day wonder.”

“And was Joan named in the story?”

“Well, yes. Some oaf at headquarters shot his mouth off. Dakin fired him.”

Ellery shook his head. “You two are beyond belief. How did you expect to keep a thing like that from Newby? Last night when you denied having known Benedict, Joan, didn't you notice Newby send one of his men on an errand? He's a city-trained policeman—he wouldn't take your word. He'd check the
Record
morgue and his own headquarters files. He may even have phoned the New York City police to search Benedict's apartment—Benedict's bragged often enough in print about his collection of feminine love letters.

“So Newby either knows already, or he'll very soon learn, that you lied to him on a crucial question, and exactly what happened six years ago, and exactly why. Don't you see what you've handed him on a silver platter?”

Joan was mute.

“From Newby's viewpoint there's a strong circumstantial case against you, Joan. Situated in the only other dressing room on that side of the theater, you had the best opportunity to kill Benedict without being seen. The weapon? You wouldn't have had to move a step out of your way en route to Benedict's dressing room to take the knife from the tool chest. What's been holding Newby up is motive.”

Joan's lips moved, but nothing came out.

“Newby knows perfectly well that Benedict's conduct onstage last night, rotten as it was, toward a girl who'd never laid eyes on him before would hardly pass muster as a reason for her to run for the nearest knife. But with the background of that romance between you six years ago in this very town, Joan, and your lie about it, and especially if the New York police dig up your letters, Benedict's humiliation of you in public last night takes on an entirely different meaning. It becomes a motive that would convince anybody.

“Add to opportunity, weapon, and motive Benedict's dying declaration, and you see how near you are to being formally charged with the murder.”

“You're a help,” Roger stormed. “I thought you'd be on Joan's side.”

“And on yours, Roger?”

“Mine?”

“Don't you know you're Newby's ace in the hole? You threatened six years ago to kill Benedict—”

“Are you serious? That was just talk!”

“—and you beat him up. You've admitted the knife that killed Benedict is yours, and you brought it to the theater the day of the murder. You probably can't account for your whereabouts during every minute of the short murder period. If not for Benedict's statement, Newby would have a stronger case against you than against Joan. As it is, Rodge, you may be facing an accessory charge.”

For once Roger found nothing to say. Joan's hand stole into his.

“However,” Ellery said briskly. “Joan, do you still maintain you didn't kill Benedict?”

“Of course. Because I didn't.”

“Would you be willing to take a test that might prove you didn't?”

“You mean a lie detector test?”

“Something far more direct. On the other hand, I've got to point out that if you did kill Benedict, this test might constitute evidence against you as damning as a fingerprint.”

Joan rose. “What do I do, Mr. Queen?”

“Rodge, ask the police officer in the car parked across the street to drive Joan and you to Newby's office. I'll meet you there.” He took Joan's hand in both of his. “This is beginning to shape up as quite a girl.”

“Never mind her shape,” Roger said. “Can't you go with us?”

“I have something to pick up first,” Ellery said, “at a hardware store.”

ACT III. Scene 2.

He walked into Anselm Newby's office with a small package under his arm to find Joan and Roger seated close together under Newby's mineral eye. A tall, thin man in a business suit turned from the window as Ellery came in.

“Fowler's been telling me about some test or other you want to make, Queen,” the little police chief said acidly. “I thought we'd agreed you were to keep your nose out of this case.”

“That was a unilateral agreement, you'll recall,” Ellery said, smiling. “However, I'm sure you wouldn't want to make a false arrest, and the Prosecutor of Wright County wouldn't want to try a hopeless case. Isn't that so, Mr. Odham?” he asked the man at the window.

“So you know who I am.” The tall man came forward with a grin.

“The
Record
runs your photo with flattering regularity.”

Prosecutor Odham pumped Ellery's hand. “Art Chalanski, my predecessor, has told me some fantastic stories about you.”

“Apparently Chief Newby doesn't share your enthusiasm for fantasy,” Ellery murmured. “By the way, Mr. Odham, you
were
about to charge Joan Truslow with the Benedict murder, weren't you? I haven't dared ask the chief.”

Newby glared and Prosecutor Odham chuckled. But there was no humor in his frosty gray eyes.

“What have you got, Mr. Queen?”

Ellery said politely to the police chief, “May I see the knife?”

“What for?”

“In a moment. Don't worry, Chief. I shan't so much as breathe on it.”

Newby opened the safe behind his desk and brought out a shallow box padded with surgical cotton. The bloodstained knife lay on the cotton. He held on to the box pointedly.

“This thin short line of indentations in the tape of the handle.” Ellery made no attempt to touch the knife. “Have you determined yet what made them, Chief?”

“Why?”

“Because they may either blow up your case against Joan or nail it down.”

Newby flushed. “You'll have to show me.”

“I intend to. But you haven't answered my question. Have you decided what kind of marks these are?”

“I suppose you know!”

“Anse,” Odham said. “No, Mr. Queen, we haven't. I take it you have?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” Newby said. “What are they marks of?”

“Teeth.”

“Teeth?” The Prosecutor looked startled. So did Joan and Roger.

“Maybe they're teeth marks and maybe they're not,” Newby said slowly, “though I admit we didn't think of teeth. But even if they are. Only two could be involved—”

“Four,” Ellery said. “Two upper and two lower—there are corresponding impressions on the other side of the haft. What's more, I'm positive they're the front teeth.”

“Suppose they are. These could only be edge impressions, and they're certainly not distinctive enough for a positive identification.”

“You may be right,” Ellery said soberly. “They may not prove to be positive evidence. But they may well prove to be negative evidence.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Suppose I can demonstrate that Joan Truslow's front teeth couldn't possibly have left these marks? Or any pairs of her contiguous teeth upper and lower, for that matter? Mind you, I don't know whether they demonstrate any such thing. The only teeth I've experimented with so far are my own. I've explained to Joan the risk she's running. Nevertheless, she's agreed to the test.”

“Is that so, Miss Truslow?” the Prosecutor demanded.

Joan nodded. She had a death grip on the sides of her chair seat. As for Roger, he had entangled himself in an impossible combination of arms and legs, like a barricade.

Odham said, “Then, Mr. Queen, you go right ahead.”

Ellery's package remained intact. “Before I do, let's be sure we agree on the significance of the teeth marks. Last night Roger told us he didn't put the freshly taped knife in the tool chest backstage until the act was nearly over. Rodge, were those marks in the tape when you dropped the knife in the chest?”

“You've forgotten,” Roger said shortly. “I've never seen them.”

“My error. Take a look.”

Roger untangled himself and took a look. “I don't see how they could have been. The knife wasn't out of my possession until I put it in the chest, and I'm certainly not in the habit of gnawing on knife handles.” He went back to Joan's side and barricaded her again.

“What would you expect Fowler to say?” Newby said.

Joan's hand checked Roger just in time.

“Well, if you won't accept Roger's testimony,” Ellery said, “consider Arch Dullman's. Dullman last night said he saw the knife in the chest directly after the curtain came down—as Benedict came off stage, in fact—and he was positive there were no indentations in the tape at that time. Didn't Dullman tell you that, Chief?”

Newby bit his lip.

“By the testimony, then, someone bit into the tape after Benedict entered his dressing room and before we found him. In other words, during the murder period.” Ellery began to unwrap his package. “The one person who we know beyond dispute handled the knife during the murder period was the murderer. It's a reasonable conclusion that the impressions were made by the murderer's teeth.”

Chief Newby's teeth were locked. But Odham said, “Go on, Mr. Queen, go on.”

Out of the wrappings Ellery took a roll of new black plastic friction tape and a large hunting knife. He stripped the cellophane from the roll and handed roll and knife to Roger. “You taped the original knife, Rodge. Do a repeat on this one.” Roger set to work. “Meanwhile, Joan, I'd like you to take a close look at the original.”

Joan got up and walked over to Newby. She seemed calmer than the chief.

She really has talent, Ellery thought. “Notice the exact position of the marks relative to the edge of the handle.”