The Dragon’s Teeth (26 page)

And here is a manufactured ‘Cadmus Cole' signature—synthesized from two photostats of Edmund De Carlos's signature:

Compare all three, please.”

And while they were examining his three exhibits, Mr. Queen added: “As a matter of fact, while this little demonstration piques, in a sense it was unnecessary. You had merely to compare De Carlos's signature on the Cole will—as witness—with Cole's signature—as testator—to see that they were written by the same hand. I've never seen the will before tonight, but I'm surprised you didn't notice the similarity, Mr. Goossens.”

“I'm surprised myself,” muttered Goossens, staring at the exhibits. “And I imagine the Surrogate will be, too!”

The Inspector straightened up. “That's enough for me. You're Cole, Mister, and there's no question about
that.”

District Attorney Sampson looked uneasy. “It certainly appears that way.”

“Why did you pretend to be dead?” demanded the Inspector of the silent man in the chair. “What happened to the real De Carlos? What's behind this masquerade, Cole? With the murder of Margo Cole's impostor hanging over your head, you've got some mighty tall explaining to do!”

The man in the chair looked about wildly. “But I'm not Cole!” he cried in his mumbly voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

He thrust his false teeth back into his mouth and clapped his glasses on his eyes; and this seemed to give him new strength, for he bounded from the chair and began to dance up and down. “I'm Edmund De Carlos! Why, there's one man that's known me for years and years—he could prove in a second who I am, because he knew Cole well, too!”

“And who might that be?” asked Beau with friendliness.

“Angus, Captain of Cole's yacht
Argonaut!
Just give me a little time, Inspector, a little time to locate Captain Angus! He'll tell you who I am! He'll—”

“What would you say,” asked Beau jovially, “if I told you that your Captain Angus is in the next room, waiting to identify you as Cole?”

The sunburnt man's mouth fell open.

“We've been looking for him,” continued Beau crisply, “ever since you had yourself reported dead, Cole. One of our operatives finally located him. He'd retired from active service after you docked at Santiago de Cuba and, having no dependents, he decided to take a busman's holiday. He's been on a round-the-world cruise as a passenger. His ship docked in Frisco yesterday, my operative flew him here and—” said Beau as Ellery opened the reception-room door and beckoned—“here he is!”

A tall lean man, wearing a gray suit and carrying a topcoat and a fedora hat, marched in between the San Francisco detective and Sergeant Velie.

Captain Angus was blackened from years of exposure to the ocean sun. His eyes under heavy black brows were a frosty blue-green, the color of icebergs just below the water-line; and he carried himself with an imperious assurance, as if he were accustomed to command and receive obedience.

He paused just inside the office and looked about.

“Captain Angus?” said Beau cheerfully, stepping forward. “I'm Rummell; this is Ellery Queen, my partner; and those two worried-looking gentlemen over there are Inspector Queen of the Homicide Squad and District Attorney Sampson of New York County.”

The tall man nodded. “Quite a party,” he observed dryly, in a resonant bass voice. “Is this all for me, Mr. Rummell?”

“Captain Angus, I want to ask you just one question.” Beau stepped aside and pointed at the medium-sized, sunburnt, bald-headed man in the center of the room. “Who is that man?”

Captain Angus looked puzzled. He glanced from the bald man to the others and then back to the bald man. “I don't understand. Who should he be?”

“That's what we're asking
you,
Captain.”

The Captain grinned and said: “Why, that's Mr. De Carlos. Mr. Edmund De Carlos.”

BEAU choked, swallowed, spluttered. Then he cried: “De Carlos? Look again! Isn't he Cadmus Cole?”

“Mr. Cole?” Captain Angus threw back his head and guffawed. “I should say not! Mr. Cole is dead.”

“Mr. Cole—is—dead?” repeated Mr. Ellery Queen, seeming to find difficulty with the English language.

“Of course! He died aboard the
Argonaut
three months ago. I fixed the shroud around his body with my own hands, sir—old-fashioned canvas, all shipshape, the way we used to do it in sail.”

Beau roared: “It's a plant, a frame-up! He's been bribed to say that! You'd better tie the can on him, too, pop!”

“Just a moment.” The tall man lost his geniality, and his tone of voice brought about a sudden silence. “Do I understand you to say I'm mixed up in something crooked, Mister?”

“You heard me,” snarled Beau.

“Well, you're a loud-sounding pup,” said the Captain softly, “and I'd like nothing better than to thrash you for that, but the fact is I can prove my statement, because I know where at least five members of the crew are, and they'll bear me out to a man. There wasn't anything funny about Mr. Cole's death—he died just as I reported it by radio to
White Lady.”

“Give it to him properly, Captain,” said De Carlos in a vicious tone.

“Besides, this gentleman couldn't be Mr. Cole. Mr. Cole was a little taller than Mr. De Carlos, thinner, and his eyes were of a different color. Mr. De Carlos is nearsighted, has to wear glasses all the time; Mr. Cole had the best eyesight I ever knew a man of his age to have—right down to the end; never wore glasses in his life. He was completely bald; Mr. De Carlos has a fringe. He didn't have teeth, that's true, just as Mr. De Carlos hasn't; but then Mr. Cole never wore a plate—the inside of his mouth was sensitive, he used to say; couldn't stand the feeling of a plate at all. He was a vegetarian, anyway, and didn't need false teeth.”

In the corner, forgotten, sat Kerrie; and over her face came an expression of hopelessness.

“And that isn't all,” continued the Captain, with a quiet satisfaction at the sight of Beau's consternation. “Mr. Cole had severe arthritis in both hands—
arthritis deformans,
I think it's called. Had it long as I knew him. He once told me he'd got it all of a sudden 'way back in '19 or '20, I don't remember which. Why, his hands were so badly crippled they hardly looked human! All knotted up and discolored. You'd spot 'em in a second. But look at Mr. De Carlos's hands; they're normal in shape and color. Mr. Cole couldn't so much as hold up a pair o' telescopic glasses with either hand. He couldn't even eat by himself, because he couldn't hold a knife or fork. The steward's assistant had to feed him, like a baby.”

Beau began to say something in a strangled voice, but the Inspector put up his hand.

“Have you any proof, Captain, that what you say is true?”

Captain Angus smiled. He drew an envelope bulging with snapshots from his breast pocket and threw it on the desk. “I thought these might come in handy,” he said. “I'm sort of a camera bug.”

The District Attorney seized the envelope and began to look through the photographs. There were dozens of them, large snapshots taken with a sharp, excellent lens.

In many De Carlos appeared beside another man, taller, thinner than De Carlos, completely bald, with twisted and crippled hands. All the photographs had been taken on shipboard, as the backgrounds indicated.

“That”
said Captain Angus with a sly look at Beau, “was Cadmus Cole.”

Ellery grabbed the photographs. Beau took one look and then, the back of his neck furnace-red, stalked off to a corner … the corner opposite the one where Kerrie sat.

“That's enough for me,” snapped the Inspector. He made a sign to the detective and matron. Beau looked frightened—the first time Mr. Queen had ever seen such a look on his partner's face. His shoulders sagging, he averted his eyes.

With Vi clinging to her, Kerrie was marched away, and soon only Captain Angus, the San Francisco man De Carlos, Beau, and Ellery were left.

“You'll excuse me, too,” said Edmund De Carlos, slapping his wig on his skull. “Captain, you're my guest while in New York—don't forget.” He stamped to the door. Then he turned and with a malevolent grin said: “And thank you, gentlemen, for the shave.”

But Beau sprang like a cat, forestalling him. “No, you don't,” he snarled. “You stay!”

He turned, surprised. Mr. Queen had suddenly begun to laugh. He laughed so hard that he doubled up, clutching his abdomen as he sank into the swivel-chair behind his desk.

PART SIX

XX.
Mr. Queen Explains a Logical Fallacy

“You're both mad,” exclaimed Mr. Edmund De Carlos. “Get out of my way.”

“What?” said Beau blankly, watching Ellery.

“If you don't let me go, I'll have you arrested!”

Captain Angus scraped his lean jaws, concealing a smile. “This looks like a private fight. So if you gentlemen will excuse me—”

Mr. Queen wiped his streaming eyes. “Please be good enough to remain, Captain,” he gasped. He began to laugh again.

“What's so funny about what?” growled Beau. “Anybody would think what happened here tonight's a joke!”

“It is. Oh, it is, Beau. A great joke, and it's on me.” Mr. Queen sighed and wiped his eyes once more. “I'd appreciate your remaining too, Mr. De Carlos.”

“I don't see why I should!”

“Because I ask you to,” said Mr. Queen, smiling. He stared at De Carlos. De Carlos clicked his plate agitatedly. “Sit down, gentlemen, sit down. There's no reason why we shouldn't discuss this fiasco like civilized people. Drink?”

Captain Angus brightened. “Now, that's different.”

Ellery produced a fresh bottle of Scotch and several glasses from a desk-drawer. The Captain flung his coat and hat aside, drew up a chair, and accepted a glass companionably.

“You, too, Mr. De Carlos,” said Mr. Queen. “Oh, forget it, man! Mistakes will happen in the best-regulated detective agencies.”

He smiled so disarmingly, and the bottle gave off such a warmly inviting glow under the lamps, that Mr. De Carlos, although surlily, sat down and accepted a glass, too.

“Beau?”

“Don't I look as if I could use one?” Beau asked disgustedly.

“On that basis, you ought to appropriate the bottle. Gentlemen, a' toast! To Logic—never sell her short!” Mr. Queen drank and then beamed at them all.

“Where do we go from here?” grunted Beau. “There's Kerrie back in stir, and we're as far from an answer as we ever were.”

“Not quite.” Mr. Queen leaned back and surveyed them with bright eyes. “Not quite, Beau. This little experience has taught me a lesson:
Always
trust the dictates of pure reason. The little voice warned me, and I was very rude. Ignored him. Completely. Shame on me.”

De Carlos suddenly helped himself to another glassful, which he tossed down with a jerk.

“I told you, Beau,” continued Mr. Queen, his eyes on De Carlos, “that there was one discrepancy in the array of facts at our disposal which bothered me. But the identification of poor old De Carlos here as Cadmus Cole seemed so indisputable that it made me commit the unforgivable sin … the sanctioning of a showdown before the case was complete to the last comma. It embarrassed Mr. De Carlos, it embarrassed me, and as for Inspector Queen, my doting parent,” he grimaced, “wait until he gets me alone within the four walls of our loving home. Did you see his expression as he left?”

“I saw it,” groaned Beau. “But, Ellery, how in God's name could we have been wrong? I still don't see—”

“We based our conclusion that De Carlos was really Cole on three points: his possession of Cole's fountain-pen; his perfect resemblance to the man who visited us in this office three months ago, once you eliminated the false teeth, wig, glasses, and beard; and the crusher—the incontrovertible fact that the handwriting of both persons was identical.”