The Devil To Pay (21 page)

“Yes, Spaeth,” snapped Ellery. “Have you stopped to ask yourself whom Valerie Jardin could have been telephoning when she called the Spaeth house Monday afternoon?”

“Cripe! If it could have been young Spaeth himself—”

“Who else? I think Walter was in his father’s house at five-thirty-five and that the Jardins have known it all along!”

“If he was,” cried the Inspector, “it puts him in the murder room three minutes after the killing! Well, maybe not in the room, but we could track that down. But it’s a cinch now that he, not Jardin, was the only outsider to enter the grounds during the crime period. He was wearing Jardin’s coat, and we’ve got that coat—stained with human blood.” He looked sly. “And another thing—if he killed his old man, then he also tried to frame Jardin for the crime.”

“Horse manure,” said Fitz.

“Didn’t I let him go Monday night
before
the Jardins? Couldn’t he have beat it back to the
La Salle
and planted the coat and sword in Jardin’s closet? Besides—I never released this—Walter Spaeth’s fingerprints were found on the rapier as well as Jardin’s. Prints on the weapon!”

“What!” said Ellery in a shocked voice.

“I didn’t see any point,” said Glücke sheepishly, “in sort of confusing the Jardin issue—”

“Walter’s prints on the rapier,” muttered Ellery.

“Anyway, the motive still stands—disinherited, wasn’t he? And always scrapping with his old man, too.” The Inspector rubbed his hands. “It’s a case, boys. It’s got the makings of a case. All I need for Van Every is a couple of witnesses in the right places—”

“Excuse me,” said Fitz, making for the door.

Ellery pounced on him. “Where are you going?”

“To make newspaper history, my fine-feathered friend,” said Fitz gleefully. “My God, this yarn will sell a million papers!”

“Fitz,” said Ellery in a ferocious voice, “if you dare print one syllable of what you’ve just heard—” He whispered the rest in Fitz’s ear. Fitz looked pugnacious. Then he looked surprised. Then he began to grin. Ellery dragged him back to Glücke’s desk.

At eight o’clock that night ghosts walked in the Jardin house at
Sans Souci
. They were ponderable and fleshly ghosts with the air of conspirators, moving restlessly about in the room off the terrace which had served as Rhys Jardin’s study. An electric-battery lantern on the floor threw long shadows to the bare walls; no light escaped through the glass wall to the terrace, for the lantern was shielded. The chief spectre was Pink, crouched Indian-fashion on his hams with a pair of receivers over his ears, tinkering with a small apparatus before him in the light of the lantern. A pile of cans variously labeled “Soup,” “Corn,” and “Minced Ham” lay beside him, several open and empty. A tall thin wraith named Queen trod the boards at one side of the room, and a large square one named Fitzgerald patrolled the other. Kneeling beside Pink was a female ghost in riding breeches—queer note in ghostly fashions—with a long tear along one thigh, as if a leg had caught on a sharp stake at the top of a fence.

“Shhh!” hissed Pink suddenly. “Here they come!”

Ellery and Fitz skittered forward. But Val was quicker. The two men fought over the last pair of earphones. Ellery won, leaving Fitz to glare and press his beefy face close to Val’s ear. Through the membranes came the sound of a door closing and Winni Moon’s voice, half-frightened and half-seductive. “In here, Wally, darling. We’re alone here.”

“Winni the Glut,” whispered Val vindictively.

“Are you sure there’s nobody around to overhear?” said Walter’s voice.

Winni’s voice was no longer frightened and altogether seductive. “Not a soul, darling. Nobody comes near me. I’m weally the loneliest person—”

“I can’t stay long, Winni. No one must know I came here. So I’ll have to say it fast.”

“Say what, Walter?” She was frightened again.

“Do you think I’m your friend?”

They could almost see her pout. “I’ve twied awfully hard to
get
you to be, but you never weally showed that—”

“I’m enough a friend of yours to come out in the open, instead of skulking around in the dark like a rat!”

“I don’t know what you
mean
,” complained Winni.

“I’ve been doing some spying on my own. And I know,” said Walter, accenting each word, “all about that little business arrangement between you and Ruhig.”

“Oh!” said Winni. The gasp smashed against the receivers.

“I know that Ruhig told you there was a later will in existence. I know he told you that, unless you married him, he’d produce that will and you’d see those fifty millions pulled right out of your lap!”

“Walter. … How—how did you know that?”

The listeners let out their breaths. “Jeeze,” said Pink. “He’s wonderful,” moaned Val. “Shut up,” howled Fitz. “Let’s get this!” “
Please
,” groaned Ellery.

“—mind how I know. Well, I hate Ruhig’s guts. I know you do, too. Winni, he’s making a jackass out of you!” She was silent. “He’s lying, Winni,” said Walter gently. “There never was such a will. He’s just trying to scare you into marrying him and sharing the fifty millions with him.”

Her voice came through strangely distorted. “Walter, do you mean to tell me it was all—it was all—”

“He invented the whole thing,” said Walter in an earnest, friendly way. “You never saw that will he spoke about, did you?”

“N-no.”

“There! Doesn’t that prove it? Listen, Winni. Forget that fellow; tell him to go to the devil. You and I might make some other arrangements—a settlement. Or maybe even…” His voice trailed off into a mumble, as if he were whispering intimately into her ear.

Val bit a hole in the corner of her handkerchief.

The rest for the most part was inaudible. Within a short time Walter said something about having to get away, and they heard the click of the door, receding footsteps.

“Whee!” cried Val, jumping up.

“I’ll be a cockeyed dinglehoofer,” said Pink slowly. “It worked.”

“Quiet,” urged Ellery. “Let’s see what happens. If I’ve got that blonde baby figured right, she’ll make straight for the telephone.”

They listened eagerly. Two minutes passed. They heard the sound of a door closing again. Whether it was the study door or some other they could not tell. There were more footsteps, quick nervous ones, for five long minutes. And then suddenly the sound of some one running and another click. “Opewator!” It was Winni’s voice, hard and angry.

“I’ll be damned,” said Fitz. He took a flask out of his hip pocket and drank thirstily.

“Wuhig? Anatole Wuhig!… Wuhig! This is Winni. … Never mind that gweasy line! Listen to me, you. I’ve been thinking things over and I think you’re taking me for a wide. … Yes, a wide! Why should I split all that money with you? I’m not going to mawwy you, and that’s final!” There was another long silence, as if Ruhig was talking slowly, voluminously, and persuasively. “Don’t give me that will stuff! I don’t think there ever
was
another will!… I will so discuss it. Yes, and wight this minute! You’re a faker and a liar!… Oh, you’re still twying to pull the wool over my eyes, are you? Well, if there
is
a will and you’ve got it, why didn’t you show it to me?… Yes,
show
it to me! And none of your fakes, either! I know Solly’s handwriting. And I don’t want any what-you-call-’ems—photostatic copies. You bwing the weal thing over this second!… I know you don’t cawwy it awound in your pocket. … All wight, pick your own time.
I
don’t care. There’s no such will, anyway. I’m fwom Missouwi, Mister Wuhig. … Thwee o’cwock tomowwow afternoon? In this house. … Yes!”

Thunder crashed—the receiver being restored to its place. “Just goes to show,” sighed Ellery. “I guess I’m a remarkable fellow.”

“Do you think Ruhig’s bluffing?” asked Val anxiously.

“Not at all. It’s evening, which explains why he can’t bring the will over now. He would if he could.”

“How’s that?” demanded Fitz.

“Obviously it’s in a safe-deposit vault—he’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get his hands on it. And he’s giving himself plenty of time tomorrow to think the situation over. However, I believe Counselor Ruhig will be here per schedule.”

They all started. For out of the earphones burbled a snarl scarcely recognizable as Miss Winni Moon’s voice. “Filthy little cwook!”

V
AL
awoke Friday morning with a buzzing in her ears, which quickly turned out to be the front-door bell. She scrambled out of bed and ran through the living-room, pulling a negligée on hastily. It might be Walter. She hoped it
was
Walter. They had sat up half the night making love and drinking sherry. There had hardly been time, between sips and kisses, to talk. As she ran, Val wondered if she oughtn’t to go back and fix herself up. But then she thought he might just as well get used to seeing her fresh out of bed, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes and no powder or lipstick. Besides, she looked prettier that way. Rhys always said so. Rhys always said that she looked nicer with cold cream on her face and a tissue in her hand than most other women looked ready for presentation at the Court of St. James’s. Rhys always said—“In a minute,” she called gaily, fumbling with the latch. She got the door open and smiled her most ravishing smile. “Oh,” said Val. “Oh. Mibs. Why, what’s the trouble?”

Mibs leaped past her into the foyer and leaned against the wall, pressing her hand to her heart. “Shut the door,” she gasped. “Oh, shut it!”

Val shut it. “What’s the matter, Mibs?”

“Wait—till—I get my breath!”

“You poor thing. Come in here and sit down. Why, you’re shaking!”

The blonde girl sank into Rhys’s armchair, licking her pale lips. “Miss Jardin, I—I’m scared to death.”

“Nonsense,” said Val, sitting down on the arm of the chair. “Why should you be? Let me get you something.”

“No. No, I’ll be all right. It’s just that—” She looked at Val piteously. “Miss Jardin, I’m being… followed.”

“Oh,” said Val, and she got up and went to the sofa and sat down herself.

“I wish Pink were here,” whimpered the girl. “He’d know what to do. Where is he? Why hasn’t he been—”

“Pink’s off on a special sort of job,” said Val slowly. “Tell me all about it, Mibs.”

Mibs drew a quavery breath. “I’ve been nervous ever since you spoke to me Monday night about—about your father and my seeing him Monday afternoon and speaking to Mr. Spaeth. … I went out to the drug store yesterday for a soda and—and I thought somebody was following me. On the way back, too. Some Hollywood wisenheimer, I thought. I didn’t see him. But last night, too. When I went home. The same thing. And now, this morning, on my way to work… Somebody’s after me, Miss Jardin!”

Val sat still, thinking. She tried to look unconcerned, but her own heart was pounding. If Mibs was being followed, that might mean… Could somebody actually be… “We’ll have to be careful, Mibs,” she said in a tone she tried to make light.

“I’m so scared I—I…” The girl was almost hysterical.

Val went to her again and put her arms about the girl. “Have you a family, Mibs?”

Mibs was crying. “N-no. I’m all alone. I’ve only got Pink. I come from St. Lou, and I’ve been here two years and Pink’s been my only f-friend. …”

“Hush. You don’t think we’d let anybody harm you, Mibs!” The girl sobbed. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, honey,” said Val in a bright voice. “Suppose you stay with me for a few days until this blows over. I mean—I’m alone here, and you can sleep in my father’s bed, or with me if you’d like that better—”

“Oh, could I?” cried Mibs, raising a streaked face.

“Of course, silly. It will be lots of fun. You don’t even have to go back to your own place for your things. I’ve got heaps of underwear and stockings and things—”

“Can I have my meals here, too?”

“Certainly. Here, here’s an extra key. Now dry your eyes and fix yourself up and go downstairs as if nothing happened.”

“Yes,” sniffled Mibs.

“I may have to go out later, but I’m sure no one’s going to do anything to you in your own lobby!”

“No. That’s right,” said Mibs, smiling faintly.

“There! Isn’t that better? Now go wash your face.” And Val led the blonde girl to her bathroom with a reassuring laugh and a stomach that felt like one vast, painful vacuum.

“Tell you why I called you,” said Inspector Glücke to Ellery. He stooped over a small safe in his office.

“Nothing’s happened?” began Ellery quickly.

“No, no, we’re in the clear. It’s this.” The Inspector opened his safe and brought out something wrapped in tissue paper, something with the shape of a large bottle. “It was on your tip that we found it,” he said gruffly, “so you’re entitled to get in on it, King. I guess we owe you a lot.”

“What is it?” asked Ellery in an avid voice.

Glücke began carefully removing the folds of tissue. “We had quite a time searching that sewer outside
Sans Souci
but we finally fished this out of the muck. It got stuck near the bottom of the sewer.”

It was an Indian club, soiled and evil-smelling. A red-brown clot adhered to part of the bulging end. “Is that,” frowned Ellery, “blood?” He flicked the clot with one fingernail.

“Nothing else but.”

“Any prints?”

“Some very old ones—just traces of ’em. Jardin’s, the girl’s.” Ellery nodded, sucking his lower lip. “What made you tell me to search that sewer?” asked the Inspector slowly.

“Eh? Oh—a minor reasoning process. By the way, did you find anything else of interest in the sewer?”

“Not a thing.”

Ellery shook his head.

He parked his coupé outside the gate at
Sans Souci
, much to Atherton Frank’s surprise. Indeed, he was even assisted by the detective on duty, who seemed oddly friendly. Frank scratched his head, swinging his half-arm in an interrogatory manner. But no one enlightened him, and Ellery sauntered up the drive toward the Spaeth house. A sense of desolation smote him. It was like coming into the main street of a ghost-city. But he shook his head in impatience at himself and applied his mind to the problem at hand. It was a knotty one; something told him that the key-knot was missing, the discovery of which would unravel the whole puzzle fabric. He avoided the porte-cochère and circled the Spaeth house, trudging along under the geometric row of royal palms and wrestling with thoughts that persisted in slipping through the fingers of his brain. He mounted the terrace steps and sat down almost against the wall in Solly Spaeth’s most elaborate summer chair, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms.