see, now. I’m twenty-two—past the marrying age, you see, Inspector—I have a strawberry on my right hip, I’ve a perfectly frightful passion for Ernest Hemingway, I think your politics are stuffy, and I just adore your undergrounds. Cela suffit?”
“Now, Miss Brett,” said the Inspector in a feeble voice, “you’re taking advantage of an old man. I want to know what happened last Saturday morning. Did you notice anything in this room that morning that might have indicated the identity of the previous night’s mysterious visitor?”
She shook her head soberly. “No, Inspector, I did not. Everything seemed quite in order.”
“Tell us just what occurred.”
“Let me see.” She placed her forefinger on her pink lower lip. “I entered the study, as Mr. Sloane has told you, before he and Mr. Khalkis had finished talking. I heard Mr. Sloane remind Mr. Khalkis about the cravats. Mr. Sloane then left and I took Mr. Khalkis’ dictation for about fifteen minutes. When he had finished, I said to him: ‘Mr. Khalkis, shall I telephone Barrett’s and order the new cravats for you?’ He said: ‘No, I’ll do that myself.’ Then he handed me an envelope, sealed and stamped, and asked me to post it at once. I was a bit surprised at this—I generally attended to all his correspondence …”
“A letter?” mused the Inspector. “To whom was it addressed?”
Joan frowned. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I really don’t know. You see, I didn’t examine it very closely. I do seem to recall that the address was in pen-and-ink, not typewriting—that would be natural, anyway, for there’s no typewriter down here—but …” She shrugged. “At any rate, just as I was leaving the room with the letter, I saw Mr. Khalkis pick up his telephone—he always used the old-fashioned instrument by which the operator gets your number; the dial telephone was for my convenience—and I heard him give the number of Barrett’s, his haberdasher. Then I went out to post the letter.”
“What time was this?”
“I should say a quarter to ten.”
“Did you see Khalkis alive again?”
“No, Inspector. I was upstairs in my own room a half-hour later when I heard some one scream from below. I dashed down and found Mrs. Simms in the study, in a faint, and Mr. Khalkis dead at his desk.”
“Then he died between a quarter to ten and ten-fifteen?”
“I fancy so. Mrs. Vreeland and Mrs. Sloane both rushed downstairs after me, spied the dead body and began to bellow. I tried to bring them to their senses, finally persuaded them to look to poor Simmsy, and at once telephoned Dr. Frost and the Galleries. Weekes came in then from the rear of the house, Dr. Frost appeared in a remarkably short time—just as Dr. Wardes appeared; he’d slept late, I believe—and Dr. Frost pronounced Mr. Khalkis dead. There was really nothing for us to do but drag Mrs. Simms upstairs and revive her.”
“I see. Hold up a moment, Miss Brett.” The Inspector drew Pepper and Ellery aside.
“What do you think, boys?” asked the Inspector guardedly.
“I think we’re going somewhere,” murmured Ellery.
“How do you figure that out?”
Ellery looked at the old ceiling. Pepper scratched his head. “I’m blamed if I can see anything in what we’ve learned so far,” he said. “I got all these facts about what happened Saturday long ago, when we were digging into that will business, but I couldn’t see …”
“Well, Pepper,” chuckled Ellery, “perhaps, being American, you’re classed in the last category of the Chinese adage which Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy mentions: to wit, ‘The Chinese say that we Europeans have one eye, they themselves two, all the world else is blind.’”
“Quit being fancy,” growled the Inspector. “Listen, you two.” He said something very decisive. Pepper lost a little of his color, looked uncomfortable, but squared his shoulders and made, to judge from his expression, a mental decision. Joan,
“Now, Miss Brett,” said the Inspector in a feeble voice, “you’re taking advantage of an old man. I want to know what happened last Saturday morning. Did you notice anything in this room that morning that might have indicated the identity of the previous night’s mysterious visitor?”
She shook her head soberly. “No, Inspector, I did not. Everything seemed quite in order.”
“Tell us just what occurred.”
“Let me see.” She placed her forefinger on her pink lower lip. “I entered the study, as Mr. Sloane has told you, before he and Mr. Khalkis had finished talking. I heard Mr. Sloane remind Mr. Khalkis about the cravats. Mr. Sloane then left and I took Mr. Khalkis’ dictation for about fifteen minutes. When he had finished, I said to him: ‘Mr. Khalkis, shall I telephone Barrett’s and order the new cravats for you?’ He said: ‘No, I’ll do that myself.’ Then he handed me an envelope, sealed and stamped, and asked me to post it at once. I was a bit surprised at this—I generally attended to all his correspondence …”
“A letter?” mused the Inspector. “To whom was it addressed?”
Joan frowned. “I’m so sorry, Inspector. I really don’t know. You see, I didn’t examine it very closely. I do seem to recall that the address was in pen-and-ink, not typewriting—that would be natural, anyway, for there’s no typewriter down here—but …” She shrugged. “At any rate, just as I was leaving the room with the letter, I saw Mr. Khalkis pick up his telephone—he always used the old-fashioned instrument by which the operator gets your number; the dial telephone was for my convenience—and I heard him give the number of Barrett’s, his haberdasher. Then I went out to post the letter.”
“What time was this?”
“I should say a quarter to ten.”
“Did you see Khalkis alive again?”
“No, Inspector. I was upstairs in my own room a half-hour later when I heard some one scream from below. I dashed down and found Mrs. Simms in the study, in a faint, and Mr. Khalkis dead at his desk.”
“Then he died between a quarter to ten and ten-fifteen?”
“I fancy so. Mrs. Vreeland and Mrs. Sloane both rushed downstairs after me, spied the dead body and began to bellow. I tried to bring them to their senses, finally persuaded them to look to poor Simmsy, and at once telephoned Dr. Frost and the Galleries. Weekes came in then from the rear of the house, Dr. Frost appeared in a remarkably short time—just as Dr. Wardes appeared; he’d slept late, I believe—and Dr. Frost pronounced Mr. Khalkis dead. There was really nothing for us to do but drag Mrs. Simms upstairs and revive her.”
“I see. Hold up a moment, Miss Brett.” The Inspector drew Pepper and Ellery aside.
“What do you think, boys?” asked the Inspector guardedly.
“I think we’re going somewhere,” murmured Ellery.
“How do you figure that out?”
Ellery looked at the old ceiling. Pepper scratched his head. “I’m blamed if I can see anything in what we’ve learned so far,” he said. “I got all these facts about what happened Saturday long ago, when we were digging into that will business, but I couldn’t see …”
“Well, Pepper,” chuckled Ellery, “perhaps, being American, you’re classed in the last category of the Chinese adage which Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy mentions: to wit, ‘The Chinese say that we Europeans have one eye, they themselves two, all the world else is blind.’”
“Quit being fancy,” growled the Inspector. “Listen, you two.” He said something very decisive. Pepper lost a little of his color, looked uncomfortable, but squared his shoulders and made, to judge from his expression, a mental decision. Joan,
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