Greek Coffin Mystery (18 page)

Ellery leaned forward, pounding the desk. “To sum up: Khalkis, to have said he was going to order neckties like the one he was wearing, and then to have ordered red ties, must therefore have
known
that he was wearing a red tie. Fundamental. In other words, Khalkis knew the color of the necktie that was draped around his neck at the time Sloane conferred with him.

“But how could he, a blind man, have known the color, since it was
not
the color called for by the Saturday schedule? Well, he might have been told the color by some one. But by whom? Only three people saw him that morning before he put in the call to Barrett’s—Demmy, who dressed him according to schedule; Sloane, whose word-for-word conversation concerning the ties did not once refer to them by color; and Joan Brett, whose one reference to the ties that morning, addressed to Khalkis, also omitted mention of its color.

“In other words, Khalkis wasn’t
told
the color of the changed tie. Was it mere accident, then, if he himself had changed from the scheduled green to the red one he later wore—was it mere accident that he picked a red tie from the rack? Yes, that’s possible—for remember that the cravats on the rack in the wardrobe were not arranged by colors—they were mingled in a confusion of colors. But how account for the fact that, whether he picked the red tie by accident or not, he
knew
—as his subsequent actions proved—that he had picked a red tie?”

Ellery ground his cigaret slowly against the bottom of an ashtray on the desk. “Gentlemen, there is only one way in which Khalkis could have
known
he was wearing a red tie. And that is—he could distinguish its color visually—
he could see!

“But he was blind, you say?

“And here is the crux of my first series of deductions. For, as Dr. Frost testified and Dr. Wardes corroborated, Georg Khalkis was afflicted by a peculiar type of blindness in which sight might return spontaneously at any time!

“What is the conclusion, then? That last Saturday morning, at least, Mr. Georg Khalkis was no more blind than you or I.”

Ellery smiled. “Questions arise at once. If he could suddenly see after an authentic period of blindness, why didn’t he excitedly inform his household—his sister, Sloane, Demmy, Joan Brett? Why didn’t he telephone his doctor—in fact, why didn’t he inform Dr. Wardes, the eye-specialist then visiting in his house? For only one possible psychological reason: he did not want it known that he could see again; it suited some purpose of his own to continue leading people to believe that he was
still
blind. What could this purpose have been?”

Ellery paused and drew a deep breath. Knox was leaning forward, his hard eyes unwavering; the others were stiff with attentiveness.

“Let’s leave it there for the moment,” said Ellery quietly, “and tackle the clew of the percolator and the tea-cups.

“Observe the superficial evidence. The tea-things found on the taboret indicated clearly that three persons had drunk tea. Why doubt it? Three cups showed the usual signs of usage by their dried dregs and the ring-stains just below the rims inside; three dried tea-bags were in evidence and prodding them in fresh water elicited only a weak tea-solution, proving that these bags had actually been employed in making tea; three desiccated, squeezed pieces of lemon were there; and three silver spoons with a cloudy film, indicating use—you see, everything tended to show that three persons had drunk tea. Furthermore, this substantiated what we had already learned; for Khalkis had told Joan Brett on Friday night that he expected two visitors, the two visitors had been seen arriving and entering the study—and this made, with Khalkis himself, three people. Again—superficial corroboration.

“But—and it’s a leviathan ‘but,’ gentlemen—” grinned Ellery, “how superficial the indications were was at once revealed when we looked into the percolator. What did we see there? A percolator, to put it tersely, with too much water. We set about proving our surmise that there was too much water. By draining the water from the percolator we discovered that it filled five cups—the fifth not quite full, to be sure, since we had previously drawn off a tiny sample of the staled water in a vial for later chemical analysis. Five cupfuls, then. Later, when we
refilled
the percolator with fresh water, we drained off exactly six cupfuls when the tap ran dry. This meant, then, a six-cup percolator—and the stale water had filled five cups. But how was this possible if
three
cupfuls had been used for tea by Khalkis and his two visitors, as all the superficial signs indicated? According to our test, only
one
cupful had been taken from the percolator, not three. Does this mean that only a third of a cup of water had been used for each of the three men? Impossible—there was a circular tea-stain around the inner
rim
of the cup, indicating that each cup had been
full.
Well, then, was it possible that three cupfuls actually had been drained from the percolator, but that later somebody had added water to the water already in the percolator to make up the difference of the two missing cupfuls? But no—an analysis of the stale water from the little vialful I had taken indicated by a simple chemical test that no fresh water was present in the percolator.

“There was only one conclusion: the water in the percolator was authentic, but the evidences on the three cups were
not.
Some one had deliberately tampered with the tea-things—the cups, the spoons, the lemon—
to make it appear that three people had drunk tea.
Whoever tampered with the tea-things had made just one mistake—he had used the same cupful of water for each cup, instead of taking three separate cupfuls out of the percolator. But why go to all this trouble to
make it appear
that three people were there when it was
accepted
that three were there—from the two visitors and Khalkis’ own instructions? For only one possible reason—emphasis. But if three people were there, why emphasize what is established?

“Only because three people, strange as it seems, were
not
there.”

He fixed them with the feverish glittering eye of triumph. Some one—Ellery was amused to see that it was Sampson—sighed appreciatively. Pepper was profoundly absorbed in the discourse, and the Inspector was nodding his head sadly. James Knox began to rub his chin.

“You see,” continued Ellery in his sharpest lecture-voice, “if three people had been present and all had drunk tea, there would have been three cupfuls of water missing from the percolator. Suppose now, that all had not drunk—people sometimes refuse such mild refreshment in these days of American prohibition. Very well. What’s wrong in that? Why go through this tortuous rigmarole of making it
appear
that all had drunk? Again, only to substantiate the accepted belief, fostered by Khalkis himself, please note, that three were present in that study a week ago Friday night—the night Grimshaw was murdered.”

He went on rapidly. “We are therefore faced with this interesting problem: if three were not present, how many were? Well, there might have been more than three: four, five, six, any number of people might have slipped into that study without being seen after Joan Brett admitted the two visitors and went upstairs to tuck the bibulous Alan in his little bed. But, since the number cannot by any means at our disposal be fixed, the theory of more than three leads nowhere. On the other hand, if we examine the theory that, there were fewer than three present, we find ourselves on a heated trail.

“It couldn’t have been one, for two were actually seen entering the study. We have shown that, whatever it was, it was not three. Then, according to the only alternative in the second theory—the theory of fewer than three—it must have been two.

“If two people were there, what are our difficulties? We know that Albert Grimshaw was one—he was seen and later identified by Miss Brett. Khalkis himself was, by all the laws of probability, the second of the two. If this is true, then, the man who accompanied Grimshaw into the house—the man ‘all bundled up,’ as Miss Brett described him—must have been Khalkis! But is this possible?”

Ellery lit another cigaret. “It is possible, decidedly. One curious circumstance seems to bear it out. You will recall that when the two visitors entered the study, Miss Brett was not in a position to see into it; in fact, Grimshaw’s companion had shoved her out of the way, as if to prevent her from catching a glimpse of what was—or what was not—in the interior of the room. There may be many explanations for this action, but certainly its implication is in tune with the theory of Khalkis being the companion, for he naturally would not want Miss Brett to look into the study and notice that he was not there when he should have been there. … What else? Very well—what are the characteristics of Grimshaw’s companion? Physically he approximated Khalkis’ size and build. That’s one thing. For another, from the incident of Mrs. Simms’ precious puss, Tootsie, Grimshaw’s companion could
see.
For the cat, perfectly still, lay on a rug before the door and the bundled man checked himself with one foot in the air and then deliberately walked around it; if he were blind, he could not have avoided stepping on the tabby. This checks, too; for from the necktie deductions we have demonstrated that Khalkis was not blind the following morning, but was pretending to be—and we have every reason to postulate the theory that his sight may have returned to him at any time after a week ago Thursday, on the basis of the fact that the last time Dr. Wardes examined Khalkis’ eyes was on that day—the day
before
the incident of the two visitors.

“But this provides the answer to my former question, which was: Why did Khalkis keep silent about his recovery of sight? The answer is: If Grimshaw were discovered murdered, if suspicion pointed, in Khalkis’ direction, he would have the alibi of blindness to support his innocence—for it would be said that Khalkis, blind, could not have been the unknown man, the murderer of Grimshaw. The explanation of how Khalkis engineered the physical elements of his deception is simple: after he had ordered the tea-things that Friday night and Mrs. Simms had retired, he must have slipped into his overcoat and derby and stolen out of the house, met Grimshaw probably by prearrangement, and reentered with Grimshaw as if he were one of the two expected visitors.”

Knox had not stirred in his chair; he seemed about to speak, then blinked and maintained his silence.

“What confirmations have we of Khalkis’ plot and deceptions?” continued Ellery blithely. “For one thing, he himself fostered the idea of three people by his instructions to Miss Brett—deliberately saying that two visitors were expected, that one of them wished to keep his identity secret. For another, he deliberately withheld the information that he had recovered his sight—a damning circumstance. For another, we know positively that Grimshaw was strangled from six to twelve hours
before
Khalkis died.”

“Damned funny mistake to make!” muttered the District Attorney.

“What was that?” asked Ellery pleasantly.

“I mean this business of Khalkis using the same water to fill each of the faked cups. Pretty dumb, I’d say, considering how clever the rest of it was.”

Pepper interrupted with a boyish eagerness. “It seems to me, Chief,” he said, “with due respect for Mr. Queen’s opinion, that it may not have been a mistake after all.”

“And how do you figure that, Pepper?” asked Ellery with interest.

“Well, suppose Khalkis didn’t
know
that the percolator was full. Suppose he took it for granted that it was only half-full or something. “Or suppose he didn’t know it was a percolator that normally held six cups when full. Either one of these suppositions would account for his seeming stupidity.”

“There’s something in that.” Ellery smiled. “Very well. Now this solution does leave certain loose ends, none of which we can settle conclusively, although we can hazard reasonable inferences. For one thing, if Khalkis killed Grimshaw, what was his motive? Well, we know that Grimshaw visited him, alone, the night before. And that this visit gave rise to Khalkis’ instructions to Woodruff, his attorney, to draw up a new will—in fact, he telephoned Woodruff late that night. Urgency, then—pressure. The new will changed the legatee of the Khalkis Galleries, a considerable inheritance, and nothing else; who this new legatee was Khalkis took scrupulous pains to keep secret—not even his attorney was to know. It isn’t far-fetched, I think, to say that Grimshaw, or possibly some one Grimshaw represented, was the new legatee. But why should Khalkis do this amazing thing? The obvious answer is blackmail, considering the character of Grimshaw and his criminal record. Don’t forget, too, that Grimshaw was connected with the profession; he had been a museum attendant, he had been jailed for the unsuccessful theft of a painting. Blackmail by Grimshaw would mean a hold on Khalkis, who is also in the profession. That to me seems the probable motive; Grimshaw had something on Khalkis, something in all likelihood connected with a shady phase of the art-business or some nefarious transaction involving an art-object.

“Now let me reconstruct the crime with this admittedly suppositional motive as a foundation. Grimshaw visited Khalkis Thursday night—during which visit we may assume that the ultimatum, or the blackmail project, was launched by the jail-bird. Khalkis, either for Grimshaw or Grimshaw’s factor, agreed to alter his will in payment—you will probably find Khalkis to have been in straitened financial circumstances, unable to pay cash. Khalkis, after instructing his lawyer to draw up a new will, either felt that the change of will would still leave him open to future blackmail, or suffered a complete change of heart: in any event, he decided to kill Grimshaw rather than pay—and this decision, incidentally, points strongly to the fact that Grimshaw was acting for himself and not for some one else, otherwise Grimshaw’s death would be of little avail to Khalkis, since there would still be some one in the background to take up the blackmail cudgels for the murdered man. At any rate, Grimshaw returned the next night, Friday, to see the new will for himself, fell into Khalkis’ trap as indicated, and was killed; Khalkis hid his body somewhere in the vicinity, perhaps, until he could permanently dispose of it. But then fate stepped in and Khalkis, from the excitement of the racking events, died of heart-failure the following morning before he was able to finish the job of permanently getting rid of the body.”