perched on the edge of the desk, waited patiently. If she knew what was coming, she gave no sign. Alan Cheney grew tense.
“We’ll see,” concluded the Inspector aloud. He turned back to the others and said to Joan, dryly, “Miss Brett, let me ask you a peculiar question. Exactly what were your movements this past Wednesday night—two nights ago?”
A veritable silence of the tomb descended on the study. Even Suiza, long legs sprawled to their full length along the rug, cocked his ears. A jury of eyes sat in judgment on Joan as she hesitated. At the instant of Queen’s question, her slim leg ceased its pendulum movement, and she grew very still indeed. Then it resumed its swing, and she replied in a casual tone: “Really, Inspector, it’s not a peculiar question at all. The events of the preceding few days—Mr. Khalkis’ death, the confusion in the house, the details of the funeral and the funeral itself—had left me rather worn out. Wednesday afternoon I ambled about Central Park for a breath of air, had an early dinner and retired immediately after. I read in bed for an hour or so, and turned in at about ten o’clock. That’s quite all.”
“Are you a sound sleeper, Miss Brett?”
She said with a little laugh: “Oh, very.”
“And you slept soundly all that night?”
“Of course.”
The Inspector placed his hand on Pepper’s rigid arm and said: “Then how do you account for the fact, Miss Brett, that at one o’clock in the morning—an hour after Wednesday midnight—Mr. Pepper saw you prowling about this room, and tampering with Khalkis’ safe?”
If the silence had been thunderous before, it was earth-shaking now. For a long moment no one drew a normal breath. Cheney was staring wildly from Joan to the Inspector; he blinked and then focused an unholy glare on Pepper’s white face. Dr. Wardes had allowed a paperknife, with which he had been playing, to slip from his fingers; and his fingers remained in a clutching position.
Joan herself seemed the least disturbed of them all. She smiled and addressed Pepper directly. “You saw me prowling about the study, Mr. Pepper—you saw me poking in the safe? Are you sure?”
“My dear Miss Brett,” said Inspector Queen, patting her shoulder, “it won’t do you the slightest good to stall for time. And don’t place, Mr. Pepper in the embarrassing position of calling you a liar. What were you doing down here at that hour? What were you looking for?”
Joan shook her head with a bewildered little grin. “But, my dear Inspector, I don’t know what either of you is talking about, really!”
The Inspector eyed Pepper slyly. “Only I was talking, Miss Brett. … Well, Pepper, were you seeing a ghost or was it the young lady here?”
Pepper kicked the rug. “It was Miss Brett, all right,” he muttered.
“You see, my dear,” continued the Inspector genially, “Mr. Pepper seems to know what he’s talking about. Pepper, what was Miss Brett wearing, do you recall?”
“I certainly do. Pajamas and a negligée.”
“What color was the negligee?”
“Black. I was sitting, dozing, in the big chair there, across the room; I suppose I wasn’t visible. Miss Brett stole in, very cautiously, closed the door and turned the switch on that small lamp on the desk. It gave me light enough to see what she was wearing and what she did. She rifled the safe. She went through every paper there.” The last sentence came out in a torrent, as if Pepper were very glad indeed to get his recital over.
The girl had grown perceptibly paler which each successive word. She sat biting her lip with vexation; tears had sprung into her eyes.
“Is that true, Miss Brett?” asked the Inspector evenly.
“I—I—no, it isn’t!” she cried, and covering her face with her hand, she began to weep convulsively. With a strangled oath young Alan sprang forward and laid muscular hands on Pepper’s clean collar. “Why, you rotten liar!” he shouted, “implicating an
“We’ll see,” concluded the Inspector aloud. He turned back to the others and said to Joan, dryly, “Miss Brett, let me ask you a peculiar question. Exactly what were your movements this past Wednesday night—two nights ago?”
A veritable silence of the tomb descended on the study. Even Suiza, long legs sprawled to their full length along the rug, cocked his ears. A jury of eyes sat in judgment on Joan as she hesitated. At the instant of Queen’s question, her slim leg ceased its pendulum movement, and she grew very still indeed. Then it resumed its swing, and she replied in a casual tone: “Really, Inspector, it’s not a peculiar question at all. The events of the preceding few days—Mr. Khalkis’ death, the confusion in the house, the details of the funeral and the funeral itself—had left me rather worn out. Wednesday afternoon I ambled about Central Park for a breath of air, had an early dinner and retired immediately after. I read in bed for an hour or so, and turned in at about ten o’clock. That’s quite all.”
“Are you a sound sleeper, Miss Brett?”
She said with a little laugh: “Oh, very.”
“And you slept soundly all that night?”
“Of course.”
The Inspector placed his hand on Pepper’s rigid arm and said: “Then how do you account for the fact, Miss Brett, that at one o’clock in the morning—an hour after Wednesday midnight—Mr. Pepper saw you prowling about this room, and tampering with Khalkis’ safe?”
If the silence had been thunderous before, it was earth-shaking now. For a long moment no one drew a normal breath. Cheney was staring wildly from Joan to the Inspector; he blinked and then focused an unholy glare on Pepper’s white face. Dr. Wardes had allowed a paperknife, with which he had been playing, to slip from his fingers; and his fingers remained in a clutching position.
Joan herself seemed the least disturbed of them all. She smiled and addressed Pepper directly. “You saw me prowling about the study, Mr. Pepper—you saw me poking in the safe? Are you sure?”
“My dear Miss Brett,” said Inspector Queen, patting her shoulder, “it won’t do you the slightest good to stall for time. And don’t place, Mr. Pepper in the embarrassing position of calling you a liar. What were you doing down here at that hour? What were you looking for?”
Joan shook her head with a bewildered little grin. “But, my dear Inspector, I don’t know what either of you is talking about, really!”
The Inspector eyed Pepper slyly. “Only I was talking, Miss Brett. … Well, Pepper, were you seeing a ghost or was it the young lady here?”
Pepper kicked the rug. “It was Miss Brett, all right,” he muttered.
“You see, my dear,” continued the Inspector genially, “Mr. Pepper seems to know what he’s talking about. Pepper, what was Miss Brett wearing, do you recall?”
“I certainly do. Pajamas and a negligée.”
“What color was the negligee?”
“Black. I was sitting, dozing, in the big chair there, across the room; I suppose I wasn’t visible. Miss Brett stole in, very cautiously, closed the door and turned the switch on that small lamp on the desk. It gave me light enough to see what she was wearing and what she did. She rifled the safe. She went through every paper there.” The last sentence came out in a torrent, as if Pepper were very glad indeed to get his recital over.
The girl had grown perceptibly paler which each successive word. She sat biting her lip with vexation; tears had sprung into her eyes.
“Is that true, Miss Brett?” asked the Inspector evenly.
“I—I—no, it isn’t!” she cried, and covering her face with her hand, she began to weep convulsively. With a strangled oath young Alan sprang forward and laid muscular hands on Pepper’s clean collar. “Why, you rotten liar!” he shouted, “implicating an
Similar Books
