player may draw, and then four cards are place face up in a row, with a fifth card placed face up on a line by itself. The game was well advanced. The second card of the group of four was a ten of clubs. Beneath it, covering most of the ten, lay a nine of hearts; beneath the nine, similarly placed, lay an eight of spades; then a seven of diamonds; then a considerable space; and finally a five of diamonds.
“The six was between the seven of diamonds and the five of diamonds,” muttered the Inspector. “All right. So he picked it out of that row. I don’t see. … Where’s the rest of this six of spades?” he demanded suddenly.
“On the floor behind the desk,” said Ellery. He circled the desk and stooped. When he stood up he held in his hand a crumpled ball of card. He smoothed it out and fitted it to the fragment from the dead man’s right hand. It matched perfectly, beyond the remotest possibility of duplication.
As on the fragment from the dead man’s hand, there was an oval finger smudge on the crumpled piece. It was obviously the smudge of a thumb, like the other. When the halves were fitted together the two smudges faced each other, each pointing diagonally upward to the line of tearing.
“Smudges are from his fingers when he tore the card, of course,” went on the Inspector thoughtfully. He examined the dead man’s thumbs. “Yes, they’re dirty. That damned soot, I guess, from the fire; it’s all over everything. Well, El, I see now what you mean.”
Ellery shrugged and turned to the window to stare out. Dr. Holmes was bent almost double on the black couch, holding his head between his hands.
“He was shot twice and the murderer beat it, leaving him for dead,” continued the Inspector slowly. “But he wasn’t dead. In his last conscious moments he picked that six of spades out of the solitaire game he’d been playing, deliberately tore off half the card, crumpled the other half and threw it away, and then passed out. Why the devil did he do that, now?”
“You’re asking an academic question,” said Ellery without turning. “You know as well as I do. You’ve observed, of course, that there’s no paper or writing implements on the desk.”
“How about in the top drawer there?”
“I looked. The cards came from there—the usual clutter of games inside. Paper, but no pen or pencil.”
“None in his clothes?”
“No. It’s a sports suit.”
“And the other drawers?”
“They’re locked. He hasn’t a key on his person. I suppose it’s in another suit, or if it’s somewhere about he didn’t have the strength to get up and look for it.”
“Well, then,” snapped the Inspector, “it’s plain enough. He didn’t have the means of writing the name of his murderer. So he left the card—the uncrumpled half of the card—instead.”
“Exactly,” murmured Ellery.
Dr. Holmes’s head came up; his eyelids were angry red. “Eh? He left—?”
“That’s it, Doc. By the way, I take it Dr. Xavier was right-handed?”
Dr. Holmes stared stupidly. Ellery sighed. “Oh, yes. I checked on that the very first thing.”
“You checked —?” began the old gentleman, astonished. “But how—”
“There are more ways,” said Ellery wearily, “of killing a cat than one, as any exterminator will tell you. I looked through the pockets of his discarded coat there on the armchair. His pipe and tobacco pouch are in the right-hand pocket. I patted his trouser pockets, too; there’s change in the right pocket, and the left one is empty.”
“Oh, he was right-handed, right enough,” muttered Dr. Holmes.
“Well, that’s good, that’s good. Checks with the card found in his right hand and the direction of the smudge on the corner. Swell! So we’re as well advanced as we were before—not a jot more. What in the name of all that’s holy did he mean by that piece of card? Doc, do you know whom he might have had in mind, leaving a six of spades that way?”
Dr. Holmes, still
“The six was between the seven of diamonds and the five of diamonds,” muttered the Inspector. “All right. So he picked it out of that row. I don’t see. … Where’s the rest of this six of spades?” he demanded suddenly.
“On the floor behind the desk,” said Ellery. He circled the desk and stooped. When he stood up he held in his hand a crumpled ball of card. He smoothed it out and fitted it to the fragment from the dead man’s right hand. It matched perfectly, beyond the remotest possibility of duplication.
As on the fragment from the dead man’s hand, there was an oval finger smudge on the crumpled piece. It was obviously the smudge of a thumb, like the other. When the halves were fitted together the two smudges faced each other, each pointing diagonally upward to the line of tearing.
“Smudges are from his fingers when he tore the card, of course,” went on the Inspector thoughtfully. He examined the dead man’s thumbs. “Yes, they’re dirty. That damned soot, I guess, from the fire; it’s all over everything. Well, El, I see now what you mean.”
Ellery shrugged and turned to the window to stare out. Dr. Holmes was bent almost double on the black couch, holding his head between his hands.
“He was shot twice and the murderer beat it, leaving him for dead,” continued the Inspector slowly. “But he wasn’t dead. In his last conscious moments he picked that six of spades out of the solitaire game he’d been playing, deliberately tore off half the card, crumpled the other half and threw it away, and then passed out. Why the devil did he do that, now?”
“You’re asking an academic question,” said Ellery without turning. “You know as well as I do. You’ve observed, of course, that there’s no paper or writing implements on the desk.”
“How about in the top drawer there?”
“I looked. The cards came from there—the usual clutter of games inside. Paper, but no pen or pencil.”
“None in his clothes?”
“No. It’s a sports suit.”
“And the other drawers?”
“They’re locked. He hasn’t a key on his person. I suppose it’s in another suit, or if it’s somewhere about he didn’t have the strength to get up and look for it.”
“Well, then,” snapped the Inspector, “it’s plain enough. He didn’t have the means of writing the name of his murderer. So he left the card—the uncrumpled half of the card—instead.”
“Exactly,” murmured Ellery.
Dr. Holmes’s head came up; his eyelids were angry red. “Eh? He left—?”
“That’s it, Doc. By the way, I take it Dr. Xavier was right-handed?”
Dr. Holmes stared stupidly. Ellery sighed. “Oh, yes. I checked on that the very first thing.”
“You checked —?” began the old gentleman, astonished. “But how—”
“There are more ways,” said Ellery wearily, “of killing a cat than one, as any exterminator will tell you. I looked through the pockets of his discarded coat there on the armchair. His pipe and tobacco pouch are in the right-hand pocket. I patted his trouser pockets, too; there’s change in the right pocket, and the left one is empty.”
“Oh, he was right-handed, right enough,” muttered Dr. Holmes.
“Well, that’s good, that’s good. Checks with the card found in his right hand and the direction of the smudge on the corner. Swell! So we’re as well advanced as we were before—not a jot more. What in the name of all that’s holy did he mean by that piece of card? Doc, do you know whom he might have had in mind, leaving a six of spades that way?”
Dr. Holmes, still
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