Inspector could speak, Ellery said sharply: “Go on, Mr. Sloane. And did you remind him before you left?”
Sloane blinked. “Naturally. I think Miss Brett will bear me out. You remember, don’t you, Miss Brett?” he asked anxiously, turning to the girl. “You had come into the room just before Georg and I finished talking over the day’s affairs—you were waiting to take some dictation.” Joan nodded emphatically. “There, you see?” said Sloane in a triumphant voice. “That’s just what I was about to say. Before I left, I said to Georg: ‘You asked me to remind you, Georg, about the ties.’ He nodded, and I left the house.”
“And that’s all that happened between you and Khalkis that morning?” demanded the Inspector.
“That’s all, sir. Everything exactly as I’ve told you—our exact words. I didn’t go to the Galleries at once—I had a business appointment downtown—so it wasn’t until I got to the Galleries two hours later that I was informed by one of our employees, Miss Bohm, that Georg had died not long after I’d left the house. Mr. Suiza here had already gone to the house. I went back at once—the Galleries are only a few blocks away, you know, on Madison Avenue.”
Pepper whispered to the Inspector, Ellery stuck his head into the circle, and the three men had a hurried conference. The Inspector nodded and turned to Sloane with a gleam in his eye. “I asked you before, Mr. Sloane, whether you noticed anything amiss in this room last Saturday morning and you said no. A few minutes ago you heard Miss Brett testify that the man we found murdered, Albert Grimshaw, called upon Khalkis the night before Khalkis died, with a mysterious feller who tried, hard to keep his identity secret. Now what I’m getting at is this: That mysterious feller may be an important lead. Think hard: Was there anything in the library here, on the desk perhaps, that shouldn’t have been here? Something that this secretive man may have left—something that might give us a clew to his identity?”
Sloane shook his head. “I don’t recall anything like that. And I was seated right by the desk. I’m sure that if there was something there which didn’t belong to Georg I should have noticed it.”
“Did Khalkis say anything to you about his having had visitors the night before?”
“Not a word, Inspector.”
“All right, Mr. Sloane. Stick around.” Sloane sank into a chair beside his wife with a relieved sigh. The Inspector beckoned familiarly to Joan Brett, a little smile of benevolence on his grey face. “Now, my dear,” he said in a fatherly voice, “you’ve been very helpful thus far—you’re a witness after my own heart. I’m really interested in you. Tell me something about yourself.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Inspector, you’re transparent! I assure you I haven’t a dossier. I’m just a poor menial, what we call in England ‘lady help.’”
“Dear, dear, and such a nice young lady,” murmured the old man. “Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless you want to know all about me,” she smiled. “Very well, Inspector Queen.” She arranged her skirt primly over her round knees. “My name is Joan Brett, I worked for Mr. Khalkis for slightly over a year. I am, as perhaps my British accent, now a little blurred by your hideous New Yorkese, has already told you—I am a lady, a lady, Inspector!—of English extraction. Shabby gentility, you know. I came to Mr. Khalkis with a recommendation from Sir Arthur Ewing, the British art-dealer and expert, for whom I had worked in London. Sir Arthur knew Mr. Khalkis by reputation and gave me a very nice character indeed. I arrived at an opportune time; Mr. Khalkis required assistance badly; and he engaged me, at a jolly honorarium, I assure you, to act as his confidential secretary. My knowledge of the business swayed him, I fancy.”
“Hmm. That’s not quite what I wanted—”
“Oh! More personal details?” She pursed her lips. “Let me
Sloane blinked. “Naturally. I think Miss Brett will bear me out. You remember, don’t you, Miss Brett?” he asked anxiously, turning to the girl. “You had come into the room just before Georg and I finished talking over the day’s affairs—you were waiting to take some dictation.” Joan nodded emphatically. “There, you see?” said Sloane in a triumphant voice. “That’s just what I was about to say. Before I left, I said to Georg: ‘You asked me to remind you, Georg, about the ties.’ He nodded, and I left the house.”
“And that’s all that happened between you and Khalkis that morning?” demanded the Inspector.
“That’s all, sir. Everything exactly as I’ve told you—our exact words. I didn’t go to the Galleries at once—I had a business appointment downtown—so it wasn’t until I got to the Galleries two hours later that I was informed by one of our employees, Miss Bohm, that Georg had died not long after I’d left the house. Mr. Suiza here had already gone to the house. I went back at once—the Galleries are only a few blocks away, you know, on Madison Avenue.”
Pepper whispered to the Inspector, Ellery stuck his head into the circle, and the three men had a hurried conference. The Inspector nodded and turned to Sloane with a gleam in his eye. “I asked you before, Mr. Sloane, whether you noticed anything amiss in this room last Saturday morning and you said no. A few minutes ago you heard Miss Brett testify that the man we found murdered, Albert Grimshaw, called upon Khalkis the night before Khalkis died, with a mysterious feller who tried, hard to keep his identity secret. Now what I’m getting at is this: That mysterious feller may be an important lead. Think hard: Was there anything in the library here, on the desk perhaps, that shouldn’t have been here? Something that this secretive man may have left—something that might give us a clew to his identity?”
Sloane shook his head. “I don’t recall anything like that. And I was seated right by the desk. I’m sure that if there was something there which didn’t belong to Georg I should have noticed it.”
“Did Khalkis say anything to you about his having had visitors the night before?”
“Not a word, Inspector.”
“All right, Mr. Sloane. Stick around.” Sloane sank into a chair beside his wife with a relieved sigh. The Inspector beckoned familiarly to Joan Brett, a little smile of benevolence on his grey face. “Now, my dear,” he said in a fatherly voice, “you’ve been very helpful thus far—you’re a witness after my own heart. I’m really interested in you. Tell me something about yourself.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Inspector, you’re transparent! I assure you I haven’t a dossier. I’m just a poor menial, what we call in England ‘lady help.’”
“Dear, dear, and such a nice young lady,” murmured the old man. “Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless you want to know all about me,” she smiled. “Very well, Inspector Queen.” She arranged her skirt primly over her round knees. “My name is Joan Brett, I worked for Mr. Khalkis for slightly over a year. I am, as perhaps my British accent, now a little blurred by your hideous New Yorkese, has already told you—I am a lady, a lady, Inspector!—of English extraction. Shabby gentility, you know. I came to Mr. Khalkis with a recommendation from Sir Arthur Ewing, the British art-dealer and expert, for whom I had worked in London. Sir Arthur knew Mr. Khalkis by reputation and gave me a very nice character indeed. I arrived at an opportune time; Mr. Khalkis required assistance badly; and he engaged me, at a jolly honorarium, I assure you, to act as his confidential secretary. My knowledge of the business swayed him, I fancy.”
“Hmm. That’s not quite what I wanted—”
“Oh! More personal details?” She pursed her lips. “Let me
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