staring, started. “I? No, no. I couldn’t say, really I couldn’t.”
The Inspector strode to the library door and flung it open. Mrs. Wheary, Mrs. Xavier, the dead man’s brother—they were exactly as he had left them. But Miss Forrest had disappeared.
“Where’s the young woman?” said the Inspector harshly.
Mrs. Wheary shuddered and Mrs. Xavier apparently did not hear; she was rocking to and fro with a staccato motion.
But Mark Xavier said: “She went out.”
“To warn Mrs. Carreau, I suppose,” snapped the Inspector. “Well, let her. None of you can get away, glory be! Xavier, come on in here, will you?”
The man got slowly out of position, straightened, squared his shoulders, and followed the Inspector into the study. There he avoided looking at his dead brother, swallowing hard and shifting his gaze from side to side.
“We’ve an ugly job here, Xavier,” said the old gentleman crisply. “You’ll have to help. Dr. Holmes!”
The Englishman blinked.
“You ought to be able to answer this. You know that we’re all stuck up here until the sheriff of Osquewa can get through to us, and there’s no telling when that will be. In the meantime, in the case of a capital crime although I’ve been deputized by the sheriff to conduct an investigation I’ve no authority to bury the body of the victim. That must be held for the usual inquest and legal release. Do you understand?”
“You mean,” said Mark Xavier hoarsely, “he—he’s got to be kept this way? Good God, man—”
Dr. Holmes rose. “Fortunately,” he said in a stiff tone, “we—there’s a refrigerator in the laboratory. Used for experimental broths requiring frigid temperatures. I think,” he said with an effort, “we—can make it.”
“Good.” The Inspector clapped the young man on the back. “You’re doing fine, Doc. Once the body’s out of sight I know you’ll all feel better. … Now lend a hand, Xavier; and you, Ellery. This is going to be a job.”
When they returned to the study from the laboratory, a vast irregularly shaped room crammed with electrical apparatus and a fantastic growth of weirdly shaped glass vessels, they were all pale and perspiring. The sun was very high now and the room was insufferably hot and stuffy. Ellery threw the windows up as far as they would go.
The Inspector opened the door to the library again. “And now,” he said grimly, “we’ve got time to do a little real sleuthing. This, I’m afraid, is going to be good. I want every one of you to come upstairs with me and—”
He stopped. From somewhere at the rear of the house came the sounds of clashing metal and strident shouting. One of the voices, shrill with rage, belonged to the man-of-all-work, Bones. The other was a deep desperate bellow of vaguely familiar tone.
“What the devil,” began the Inspector, whirling about. “I thought nobody could get—”
He tugged at his service revolver, dashed through the study, and plunged down the cross-hall in the direction of the furious sounds. Ellery was at his heels, and the rest followed with stumbling, bewildered eagerness.
The Inspector turned right where the cross-hall met the main corridor and darted to the far door at the rear which he and Ellery had glimpsed on their entrance to the house the previous night. He flung open the door, revolver raised.
They were in a spotless tiled kitchen.
In the center of the kitchen, amid a clutter of dented pans and broken dishes, two men were struggling, locked in a desperate embrace.
One was the emaciated old man in overalls, eyes starting from his head, screaming curses and tugging at his adversary with maniacal strength.
Over Bones’s shoulder, gross and monstrous, glared the fat face and froggy eyes of the man the Queens had encountered on the dark Arrow Mountain road the night before.
Chapter Six
SMITH
“O H, SO IT’S YOU,” muttered the Inspector. “Stop it!” he said sharply. “I’ve got you covered and I mean
The Inspector strode to the library door and flung it open. Mrs. Wheary, Mrs. Xavier, the dead man’s brother—they were exactly as he had left them. But Miss Forrest had disappeared.
“Where’s the young woman?” said the Inspector harshly.
Mrs. Wheary shuddered and Mrs. Xavier apparently did not hear; she was rocking to and fro with a staccato motion.
But Mark Xavier said: “She went out.”
“To warn Mrs. Carreau, I suppose,” snapped the Inspector. “Well, let her. None of you can get away, glory be! Xavier, come on in here, will you?”
The man got slowly out of position, straightened, squared his shoulders, and followed the Inspector into the study. There he avoided looking at his dead brother, swallowing hard and shifting his gaze from side to side.
“We’ve an ugly job here, Xavier,” said the old gentleman crisply. “You’ll have to help. Dr. Holmes!”
The Englishman blinked.
“You ought to be able to answer this. You know that we’re all stuck up here until the sheriff of Osquewa can get through to us, and there’s no telling when that will be. In the meantime, in the case of a capital crime although I’ve been deputized by the sheriff to conduct an investigation I’ve no authority to bury the body of the victim. That must be held for the usual inquest and legal release. Do you understand?”
“You mean,” said Mark Xavier hoarsely, “he—he’s got to be kept this way? Good God, man—”
Dr. Holmes rose. “Fortunately,” he said in a stiff tone, “we—there’s a refrigerator in the laboratory. Used for experimental broths requiring frigid temperatures. I think,” he said with an effort, “we—can make it.”
“Good.” The Inspector clapped the young man on the back. “You’re doing fine, Doc. Once the body’s out of sight I know you’ll all feel better. … Now lend a hand, Xavier; and you, Ellery. This is going to be a job.”
When they returned to the study from the laboratory, a vast irregularly shaped room crammed with electrical apparatus and a fantastic growth of weirdly shaped glass vessels, they were all pale and perspiring. The sun was very high now and the room was insufferably hot and stuffy. Ellery threw the windows up as far as they would go.
The Inspector opened the door to the library again. “And now,” he said grimly, “we’ve got time to do a little real sleuthing. This, I’m afraid, is going to be good. I want every one of you to come upstairs with me and—”
He stopped. From somewhere at the rear of the house came the sounds of clashing metal and strident shouting. One of the voices, shrill with rage, belonged to the man-of-all-work, Bones. The other was a deep desperate bellow of vaguely familiar tone.
“What the devil,” began the Inspector, whirling about. “I thought nobody could get—”
He tugged at his service revolver, dashed through the study, and plunged down the cross-hall in the direction of the furious sounds. Ellery was at his heels, and the rest followed with stumbling, bewildered eagerness.
The Inspector turned right where the cross-hall met the main corridor and darted to the far door at the rear which he and Ellery had glimpsed on their entrance to the house the previous night. He flung open the door, revolver raised.
They were in a spotless tiled kitchen.
In the center of the kitchen, amid a clutter of dented pans and broken dishes, two men were struggling, locked in a desperate embrace.
One was the emaciated old man in overalls, eyes starting from his head, screaming curses and tugging at his adversary with maniacal strength.
Over Bones’s shoulder, gross and monstrous, glared the fat face and froggy eyes of the man the Queens had encountered on the dark Arrow Mountain road the night before.
Chapter Six
SMITH
“O H, SO IT’S YOU,” muttered the Inspector. “Stop it!” he said sharply. “I’ve got you covered and I mean
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