The Siamese Twin Mystery (22 page)

Ellery, stonily watching Xavier’s face, saw his left cheek twitch. There was a bloody foam in his lips and his eyes were only half closed.

Dr. Holmes opened his bag as Mrs. Wheary stumbled in with a huge pan of steaming water. Ann Forrest took this from the old lady’s shaking hands and deposited it upon the floor near the physician’s kneeling figure. He ripped a large piece of absorbent cotton from a roll, dipped it into the water. …

The eyes opened full suddenly and glared without seeing anything. Twice the jaws worked soundlessly, and then they heard him gasp: “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it,” over and over and over, as if it were a lesson he had learned which must be repeated endlessly in some dim schoolroom of his imagination.

The Inspector started. He leaned over Dr. Holmes and said in a whisper: “How bad is he?”

“Bad enough,” replied Dr. Holmes shortly. “Looks like the right lung.” He was bathing the wound quickly but gently, wiping the blood away. A strong odor of disinfectant rose.

“Can we—talk to him?”

“Ordinarily, I should say no. What he needs is absolute quiet. But in this case—” The Englishman shrugged his slim shoulders without pausing in his work.

Hastily the Inspector went to the head of the sofa and dropped to his knees in front of Xavier’s white face. The lawyer was still mumbling: “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,” with a sort of dull persistence.

“Xavier,” said the Inspector urgently. “Can you hear me?”

The slurred syllables stopped and the head jerked. His eyes shifted ever so little to focus upon the Inspector’s face. Intelligence came into them and a swift spasmodic pain. He whispered: “Why did you—shoot me, Inspector? I didn’t do it. I didn’t—”

“Why did you run?”

“Lost my—head. I thought—Went to pieces. Stupid. … I didn’t do it, I didn’t!”

Ellery’s fingertips cut into his palms tightly. He bent forward and said sharply: “You’re a very sick man, Xavier. Why lie now? We know you did. You’re the only left-handed person in the house who could possibly have torn that six of spades as it was torn.”

Xavier’s lips trembled. “I didn’t—do it, I tell you.”

“You tore that six of spades and put it into your brother’s dead hand to frame your sister-in-law!”

“Yes …” gasped Xavier. “That’s—true. I did. I framed her. I wanted—but—”

Mrs. Xavier rose slowly, horror in her eyes. She put her hand to her mouth and kept it there, staring at her brother-in-law as if she were seeing him for the first time.

Dr. Holmes was working quickly now, with the silent assistance of white-lipped Miss Forrest. The cleansed wound kept oozing blood. The pan of water was crimson.

Ellery’s eyes were mere slits; his own lips were working and there was the oddest expression on his face. “Well, then—” he said slowly.

“You don’t understand,” panted Xavier. “I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed around. There was a book I wanted in the library downstairs. … What’s—that pain in my back?”

“Go on, Xavier. You’re being fixed up. Go on!”

“I—put my dressing gown on and went down to the—”

“What time was this?” demanded the Inspector.

“Two-thirty. … I saw light from the study when I got to the library. The door was closed but the cracks—I went in, found John—cold, stiff, dead. … So—so I framed her, I framed her—”

“Why?”

He tossed about, writhing. “But I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill John. He was dead when I got there, I tell you, sitting at the desk, dead as a stone—”

There was a dressing on the wound now, and Dr. Holmes was filling a hypodermic.

“You’re lying,” rasped the Inspector.

“I’m telling God’s own truth! He was dead—when I got there. … I didn’t kill him.” His head lifted an inch, the cords of his neck white and ropy. “But—I know now who—did. … I know who—did. …”

“You do?” roared the Inspector. “How do you know? Who was it? Speak up, man!”

There was a rich stillness in the room. It was as if all breathing had ceased and time had stopped flowing and they stood suspended in the vast dark reaches of interstellar space.

Mark Xavier tried very hard. He made a superhuman effort. It was sickening to watch him try. His left arm bulged with the strain of raising himself. The red glare in his eyes became redder, hotter, wilder.

Dr. Holmes gripped the skin of Xavier’s naked left arm, hypodermic poised—an impersonal automaton.

“I—” It was the sole result of his effort. His white face went gray, a bubble of blood materialized between his lips, and he sank back unconscious.

The needle bit into his arm.

Then they breathed and stirred again, and the Inspector struggled to his feet and stood wiping his moist cheeks with his handkerchief.

“Gone?” said Ellery, licking his lips.

“No.” Dr. Holmes had risen, too, and was gazing moodily down upon the still figure. “Just out. I’ve given him morphine. Just enough to relax his muscles and keep him quiet.”

“How bad is he?” asked the Inspector huskily.

“Dangerous. I should say he has a chance. It’s all a matter of his condition. The bullet is lodged in his right lung—”

“Didn’t you get it out?” cried Ellery, appalled.

“Probe for it?” The physician raised an eyebrow. “My dear chap. That would be almost certainly fatal. As I say, his chances depend upon his condition. Off-hand I should say his condition is none too good, although I’ve never given him a physical examination. He’s a rather greedy toper, you know, and he runs a little to flesh. Seedy. Well!” He shrugged and turned to Miss Forrest, his expression softening. “Thank you—Ann. You were very helpful. … And now, gentlemen, please help me get him upstairs. Be very careful. We don’t want to induce hemorrhage.”

The four men—Smith stood stupefied in a corner—raised the limp body and bore it upstairs to the bedroom in the western corner of the house overlooking the drive. The others trooped behind, huddled together as if for protection. No one seemed to relish being left alone. Mrs. Xavier was dazed; the horror had not left her eyes.

The men undressed him and got him after delicate work into his bed. Xavier was breathing hoarsely now, but he no longer twitched and his eyes were closed.

Then the Inspector opened the door. “Come on in and don’t make any noise. I’ve got something to say and I want all of you to hear it.”

They obeyed mechanically, their eyes drawn to the quiet figure beneath the sheet. A lamp on a night table beside the bed shed a glow over Xavier’s left cheek and the contour of his left side under the bedclothes.

“We seem,” said the Inspector quietly, “to have pulled another boner. I’m not sure yet, and I haven’t really made up my mind whether Mark Xavier was lying or not. I’ve seen men lie three seconds before they passed out. There’s no assurance that because a man knows he’s dying he’s going to tell the truth. At the same time there was something—well, convincing in what he said. If he merely framed Mrs. Xavier and didn’t kill Dr. Xavier, then there’s still a murderer on the loose in the house. And I want to tell you,” his eyes glittered, “that the next time there
won’t
be any mistake!”

They continued to stare.

Ellery snapped: “Do you think he’ll regain consciousness, Doctor?”

“Possible,” murmured Dr. Holmes. “When the effects of the morphine have passed off, he may come out of it without warning.” He shrugged. “Or he may not. There are all sorts of considerations. As to death, as well. He may get a hemorrhage after several hours, or he may linger and contract an infection—although I’ve cleansed and disinfected the wound—or succumb to disease.”

“Pleasant,” grunted Ellery. “Aside from that, he has a chance, eh? But what I’m interested in is the fact that he’ll probably regain consciousness. When he does—” He glanced significantly about.

“He’ll
tell,
” cried the twins suddenly and then, abashed by the sound of their own voices, shrank back against their mother.

“Yes, my lads, he’ll tell. A most intriguing prospect. Consequently I think, dad, that it would be best to leave nothing to chance.”

“I was just thinking that myself,” replied the Inspector grimly. “We’ll take turns watching him tonight—you and I. And,” he added after a pause, “no one else.” He turned sharply to Dr. Holmes. “I’ll take the first watch, Doctor, until two
A.M.
, and then Mr. Queen will relieve me until morning. If we should want you—”

“At the first sign of returning consciousness,” said Dr. Holmes stiffly, “notify me at once. At once, please; every second may be important. My room is at the other end of the corridor, you know, next to yours. There’s nothing you can do for him, really, now.”

“Except protect whatever life he’s got left in him.”

“We’ll notify you,” said Ellery. He eyed the others for a moment and added: “For the benefit of anyone who may be contemplating desperate measures, I should like to announce that the man on watch beside this bed tonight will be armed with the same weapon which brought poor Xavier down. … That’s all.”

When they were alone with the unconscious man the Queens felt a curious restraint. The Inspector sat down in a comfortable bedroom chair and loosened his collar, becoming very busy doing nothing of consequence. Ellery smoked gloomily by one of the windows.

“Well,” he said at last, “this is a fine mess we’re in.” The Inspector grunted. “Old Dead-Eye Dick himself,” continued Ellery bitterly. “Poor chap!”

“What
are
you talking about?” grumbled the Inspector uneasily.

“Your propensity for quick, straight, and thoughtless shooting, esteemed sire. It really wasn’t necessary, you know. He couldn’t have escaped.”

The Inspector looked uncomfortable. “Well,” he muttered, “maybe not, but when a man’s charged with murder and promptly takes a run-out powder, what the devil is a poor dumb cop to think? That’s as good as a confession. Naturally I warned him, and then took a potshot at him—”

“Oh, you’re very good at that,” said Ellery dryly. “The heavy years haven’t impaired your eagle’s eye and your marksmanship in the slightest. But still it was a reckless and unwarranted thing to do.”

“Well, suppose it was!” exploded the Inspector, red with exasperation. “It’s as much your fault as mine. You led me to believe—”

“Oh, hell, dad, I’m sorry,” said Ellery contritely. The old gentleman sank back, mollified. “You’re quite right. As a matter of fact, it was more my fault than yours. I assumed—damn my cocksureness!—that because someone had framed Mrs. Xavier for her husband’s murder that that someone must have been the murderer. Of course, on inspection, that’s a wholly unwarranted assumption. Yes, it’s rather far-fetched, but then fantastic facts are no excuse for fantastic logic.”

“Maybe he did lie—”

“I’m sure he didn’t.” Ellery sighed. “But there I go again. I’m not sure. I can’t be sure. Of that or anything. This affair hasn’t found me precisely shining. … Well! Keep a sharp eye out. I’ll be back at two.”

“Don’t worry about me.” The Inspector glanced at the wounded man. “In a way, this is a sort of penance. If he doesn’t come out of this I guess …”

“If he or you or anyone,” said Ellery cryptically, his hand on the doorknob.

“Now what do you mean by
that
?” muttered the Inspector.

“Take a peep outside through that lovely window,” said Ellery dryly, and left the room.

The Inspector stared at him, rose, and went to the window. He sighed at once. The sky above the treetops was a ruddy dark glow. He had quite forgotten the fire in the excitement of the evening.

The Inspector turned the shade of the lamp on the night table to direct more light upon the wounded lawyer. He gazed gloomily down upon the parchment of Xavier’s skin and then with another sigh returned to his armchair. He shifted it so that by merely a half-turn of his head he could see both the single door and the man on the bed. After a moment he thought of something, made a wry face, and took his service revolver from his hip pocket. He looked at it soberly for a moment and placed it in the right-hand pocket of his jacket

He slumped back in the chair in the half light and folded his hands on his flat stomach.

For more than an hour there were intermittent sounds—doors closing, people walking up the corridor, the murmur of low voices. Then silence, gradually, in a subsidence of dull familiar noises, which soon became so complete that the Inspector might have fancied himself a thousand miles from the nearest conscious human being.

He lay in the chair, relaxed, but alert as he had never been in his life. He realized with the penetration of a lifetime’s study of human desperation where the danger lay. A man was dying, and in the power of that feeble tongue lay the danger. No measure, no matter how rash, would be too much for a murderer. … He half wished, as he sat there, that he might have the freedom now to steal into all those darkened rooms about him and surprise someone still awake, or crouching in the gloom. But he would not leave the dying man for an instant. A sudden qualm made him tighten his grip on the weapon in his pocket; then he rose and went to the windows. But access to the bedroom was impossible from that source. Reassured, he returned to his chair.

Time dragged. Nothing changed. The man on the bed lay still.

Once, long after, the little gray man thought he detected a sound from the corridor outside. It was almost, he thought as he sat up tingling in every fiber, as if someone had closed or opened a door. With the thought he sprang noiselessly from the chair, switched off the lamp on the night table, and in the darkness sped to the door. Revolver in hand, he turned the knob without sound, pulled quickly, leaped aside, and waited.

Nothing happened.

He closed the door softly, switched on the lamp again, and returned to his chair. He was not particularly surprised. Even trained nerves were prone to jangle in the black reaches of the night. The sound had probably existed only in his imagination, an echo of his own fears.

Nevertheless, because he was a practical man in all things, he did not put the revolver back into his pocket. Instead, he let it lie loosely in his lap, ready to be snatched up the split second after an alarm.

The night deepened without further sound or incident. His lids began to feel monstrously heavy and from time to time he shook himself awake. It was less hot now than it had been, but it was still stifling enough and his clothes stuck miserably to his body. … He wondered what the hour was and dragged out his heavy gold watch.