Egyptian Cross Mystery (29 page)

“It remains,” said Ellery disconsolately, “a miniscule compared with the gigantic problem of Krosac. Wells must have had him in mind when he wrote
The Invisible Man.”

That evening Stephen Megara came to life.

He stood in the center of the drawing room in the colonial mansion of his murdered brother grimly surveying his audience. Inspector Vaughn was there, fuming in a Sheraton chair, and gnawing his fingernails with vexation. Ellery sat with Professor Yardley, feeling stupid under the accusing glare of Megara’s eyes. Helene Brad and Jonah Lincoln occupied a sofa, both uneasy; their fingers were intertwined. District Attorney Isham, summoned peremptorily from Mineola by the yachtsman, twiddled his thumbs and coughed incessantly in the doorway. Captain Swift, fumbling with his cap, stood behind his employer, his scraggy neck twisting from side to side under the torture of a stiff collar. Dr. Temple, uninvited but asked to remain, stood before the dark fireplace.

“Now everybody listen to me,” said Megara in a sharp voice, “but you especially—Inspector Vaughn and Mr. Isham. It’s three weeks since my—since Brad was done in. I’m back ten days. Please tell me what you’ve accomplished.”

Inspector Vaughn squirmed in the Sheraton, and snarled: “I don’t like your tone, mister. You damned well know we’ve done the best we can.”

“Not good enough,” snapped Megara. “Not by half, Inspector. You know whom you’re after. You’ve even got a partial description of him. It seems to me that with all the forces at your command and disposal it would be a simple matter to collar your man.”

“Er—it’s just a matter of time, Mr. Megara,” said Isham in a placating voice. The bald spot surrounded by his gray hair was wetly red. “It’s really not simple, you know.”

Vaughn said sarcastically: “You know, Mr. Megara, it hasn’t been all God’s truth here, either. You people yourselves have wasted a lot of our time. None of you’s been strictly on the up-and-up.”

“Nonsense!”

Vaughn rose. “And that,” he added with a wolfish smile, “goes for you, too, Megara!”

The yachtsman’s hard face did not change expression. Behind him Captain Swift swiped at his lips with a blue sleeve and dug his maimed hand into a bulging pocket. “What the devil do you mean?”

“Now, Vaughn,” began the District Attorney, worriedly.

“Now Vaughn nothing! You let me handle this, Isham.” The Inspector stamped forward, a solid menace, and stood so close to Megara that their chests touched. “You want a showdown, do you? Okay by me, mister! Mrs. Brad gave us the runaround, and she was upheld in her phony story by her daughter and Lincoln. Fox led us a merry chase, and wasted our valuable time and a lot of effort. Dr. Temple here”—the physician started, then quietly studied Vaughn’s harsh profile as he began to fill his pipe—“was in possession of important information and tried to act the shiny hero by nabbing two crooks—and maybe worse—all by his lonesome. Result—the crooks make a clean getaway and he gets a sock on the nut. Deserved it, by Judas!”

“You said something,” replied Megara evenly, eyes locked in the Inspector’s, “about
me.
In what way have I hindered your investigation?”

“Inspector Vaughn,” drawled Ellery. “Don’t you think you’re acting rather—er—impulsively?”

“And I don’t want any of your lip either!” shouted Vaughn without turning. He was thoroughly aroused, and his eyes bulged as the cords of his neck tightened. “All right, Megara. The other day you told us a certain story. …”

Megara’s tall figure did not stir. “Well?”

Vaughn smiled a nasty smile. “Well. Think it over.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Megara coldly. “Be explicit.”

“Vaughn,” pleaded Isham.

“I’ll be what I damn please. You know what I’m talking about. Three men left a certain place in a hurry a certain number of years ago. Why?”

Megara’s eyes dropped for the briefest instant. But when he spoke, his tone was puzzled. “I told you why.”

“Sure. Sure you did. I’m not questioning what you
told
us. I’m questioning what you
didn’t
tell us.”

Megara stepped back, shrugged, smiled. “I really believe, Inspector, that this investigation has gone to your brain. I told you the truth. Naturally, I couldn’t give you a twelve-hour autobiography. If I left anything out—”

“It’s because you thought it wasn’t important?” Vaughn laughed shortly. “I’ve heard that before.” He turned and took two steps toward his chair; then he swung about to face the yachtsman again. “But remember—when you call us to account—that our job isn’t just looking for a killer. It’s fishing through a lot of tangled motives, concealed facts, and downright lies, too. Just remember that.” He sat down, blowing his flat cheeks out.

Megara shook his wide shoulders. “I’m afraid we’ve strayed from the point. I didn’t call this council of war to bicker or to start an argument. If I gave you that impression, Inspector, I apologize.” Vaughn grunted. “I have something definite in mind.”

“That’s fine,” said Isham heartily, stepping forward. “Dandy, Mr. Megara. That’s the spirit. We can certainly use a constructive suggestion.”

“I don’t know how constructive it is.” Megara spread his legs. “We’ve all been waiting for Krosac to strike. Well, he hasn’t. But you can take my word for it that he’s going to.”

“What d’ye intend to do?” asked the Inspector tartly. “Send him an invitation?”

“Exactly.” Megara’s eyes bored into Vaughn’s. “Why can’t we rig up a trap for him?”

Vaughn was silent. Then: “A trap, hey? What have you in mind?”

The yachtsman’s white teeth glistened. “Nothing definite, Inspector. After all, your experience in such matters qualifies you rather than me. … But knowing Krosac will come eventually, we have nothing to lose. He wants me, does he? Well, let him have me. … I think your continued presence around here has made him lie low. If you stay here for another month, he’ll continue to lie low for another month. But if you should go away, for example, confess yourself beaten …”

“An excellent idea!” cried the District Attorney. “Mr. Megara, you’re to be congratulated. It’s deplorable that we haven’t thought of it before. Of course Krosac won’t strike while the police are infesting the place—”

“And he’ll be pretty damned careful not to strike when we fade out of here all of a sudden,” grumbled Vaughn. Nevertheless, his eyes were thoughtful. “He’s a brainy scalawag, and I’m sure he’d smell a rat. … But there is something in what you say,” he added grudgingly. “It’ll bear thinking about.”

Ellery sat forward, eyes gleaming. “Commendable courage, Mr. Megara. Of course, you realize what the consequences of failure will be?”

Megara did not smile. “I haven’t knocked about the world without taking chances,” he said grimly. “I don’t underestimate his slimy cleverness, mind you. But it isn’t really taking a chance. If we work it properly, he’ll try to do me in. And I’ll be ready for him—the Captain and I—eh, Captain?”

The old seaman said gruffly: “I never seen a hard case yet that you couldn’t settle his hash with a marlinspike. That was in th’ old days. T’day I got a nice new gun, and so’ve you, Mr. Megara. We’ll handle the dirty lubber.”

“Stephen,” said Helene; she had withdrawn her hand from Lincoln’s and was staring at the yachtsman. “You can’t mean to leave yourself without any protection at all from that horrible maniac! Don’t—”

“I can take care of myself, Helene. … What do you say, Inspector?”

Vaughn got to his feet. “I’m not sure. It’s a big responsibility for me to assume. The only way I could do it would be to make a feint at withdrawing my men from the grounds and the Sound, but to lay an ambush aboard your boat. …”

Megara frowned. “Too clumsy, Inspector. He’d be sure to suspect.”

“Well,” said the Inspector stubbornly, “you’ll have to give me time to think it over. We’ll let ’er ride as she is for a while. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

“Very well.” Megara tapped the pocket of his yachtsman’s coat. “Meanwhile, I’m ready. I’m not going to skulk aboard the
Helene
like a lily-livered yellowbelly for the rest of my life. The sooner Krosac takes a crack at me the better I’ll like it.”

“What do you think?” asked Professor Yardley later, as he and Ellery stood at the eastern wing of the Brad house watching Megara and Captain Swift stride rapidly down the path, in the dim illumination of the house lights, toward the Cove.

“I think,” said Ellery with a scowl, “that Stephen Megara is a fool.”

Stephen Megara had scant time in which to display his courage—or his foolishness.

The next morning, Tuesday, while Ellery and the Professor were at breakfast, a man ran into the Professor’s dining room, unmindful of old Nanny’s scandalized protests, with a message from Vaughn.

Captain Swift had been discovered in his cabin aboard the
Helene
a few moments before trussed up and unconscious from a vicious blow at the back of his head.

Stephen Megara’s headless body had been discovered, stark and horrible, lashed to one of the antenna masts above the superstructure.

“Many investigations hinge on the detective’s observation of a tiny discrepancy. One of the most annoying cases in the records of the Prague police was solved after six weeks of pure darkness when a young sergeant recalled the seemingly insignificant detail that four grains of rice had been found in the trouser cuff of the dead man.”

—VITTORIO MALENGHI

I
T WAS A SILENT
company that embarked from the mainland to the
Helene
that morning. A silence enforced by the horror of this swift and murderous act after long days of lull: a silence of the stunned. Ellery, pale as his linen suit, stood nervously at the rail of the big police launch and stared at the yacht. It did not require a queasy landsman’s stomach to make him feel sick; the nerves of his stomach were stabbing and throbbing, and he tasted bitter nausea in his dry mouth. The Professor standing quietly at his side was muttering, over and over: “Incredible. Monstrous.” Even the detectives accompanying them were subdued; they all kept studying the trim lines of the yacht as if they had never seen it before.

Men moved rapidly about the deck. The center of activity seemed to be about the superstructure amidships; a little knot of men stood there, the vortex, and grew every instant as police launches anchored alongside and their crews of police and detectives clambered aboard.

And, limned clearly against the placid morning sky, was that ghastly symbol, clad in blood-smeared pajamas. It was stiffly attached to the first of the two antenna masts. It resembled nothing human, least of all that vigorous, warm-blooded man who had spoken to them a bare twelve hours before. It mocked them from its position of eminence; its two legs, strapped to the mast, were attenuated out of all proportion to human shape; the whole dreadful effigy of flesh gave the illusion of heroic size.

“Christ on Golgotha,” croaked Professor Yardley. “Lord, it’s hard to believe, hard to believe.” His lips were ashen.

“I’m not a religious man,” said Ellery slowly, “but for God’s sake, Professor, don’t blaspheme. Yes, it’s hard to believe. You read the old stories, history—of Caligula, of the Vandals, of Moloch, of the Assassins, of the Inquisition. Dismemberments, impalements, flayings … blood, the pages are written in blood. You read … But mere reading doesn’t begin to give you the full, the hot and smoking horror of it. Most of us can’t grasp the monstrous versatility of madmen bent on destroying the human body. … Here in the twentieth century, despite our gang wars, the Great War, the pogroms still raging in Europe, we have no clear conception of the true horror of human vandalism.”

“Words, just words,” said the Professor stiffly. “You don’t know, and I don’t know. But I’ve heard stories of returned soldiers …”

“Remote,” muttered Ellery. “Impersonal. Mass madness can never be so directly sickening as the orgiastic satanism of individual madness. Oh, hell, let’s stop it. I feel sick enough.”

Neither man said another word until the launch drew alongside the
Helene
and they had climbed the ladder to the deck.

Of all the busy men holding down the
Helene’s
decks that morning, Inspector Vaughn seemed the least touched by the phantasmagoric nuances of the crime. To him this was business—bad business, fantastic and bloody business, to be sure, but quite in the line of duty; and if his eyes rolled and his mouth said bitter things it was not because Stephen Megara—into whose living eyes he had glared the night before—hung like a figure of red and mutilated wax on the antenna mast, but because he was horrified by the shocking inefficiency, as he evidently believed it to be, of his subordinates.

He was storming at a lieutenant of water police. “Nobody got by you last night, you say?”

“No, Inspector. I’d swear to it.”

“Stop alibi-ing. Somebody
did
get by!”

“We were on the lookout all night, Inspector. Of course, we had only four boats, and it’s physically possible that—”

“Physically possible?” sneered the Inspector. “Hell, man, it was done!”

The lieutenant, a young man, flushed. “Might I suggest, Inspector, that he came from the mainland? After all, we could protect only the north, the Sound side of the yacht. Why couldn’t he have come out from Bradwood or nearby?”

“When I want your opinion, Lieutenant, I’ll ask for it.” The Inspector raised his voice. “Bill!”

A man in plainclothes stepped out of a group of silent detectives.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Bill rubbed his unshaven jaw and looked humble. “That’s a lot of territory we’ve got to cover, Chief. I’m not saying he didn’t come that way. But if he did, you really can’t blame us. You know yourself how easy it is to make a sneak through a bunch of trees.”

“Listen, men.” The Inspector stepped back and clenched his right fist; they listened. “I don’t want any debates or alibis, understand? I want facts. It’s important to know how he got to the yacht. If he came across the Sound from the New York shore, that’s important. If he came from the Long Island mainland, that’s important. Chances are he didn’t go through Bradwood itself. He’d know it was patrolled. Bill, I want you to—”