business.”
The fat man’s arms dropped and he stared stupidly.
“Ah, our friend the motorist,” chuckled Ellery, stepping into the kitchen. He slapped the fat man’s hips and breast. “Not heeled. Tsk! Monstrous oversight. Well, what have you to say for yourself, friend Falstaff?”
A purple tongue slithered over the man’s lips. He was stocky and enormous—a wide, wide bulwark of a man with a small round paunch. He took a step forward and his body wobbled like jelly. He looked for all the world like a dangerous, middle-aged gorilla.
Bones was glaring at him with a convulsive hatred that shook his whole angular frame.
“What have I—?” began the stranger in his unpleasant bass voice. Then cunning crept into his little eyes. “What’s the meaning of this?” he boomed with heavy dignity. “This creature attacked me—”
“In his own kitchen?” murmured Ellery.
“He’s lying!” shrieked Bones, trembling with rage. “I caught him sneaking into the house through the open front door and he snooped around till he found the kitchen! Then he—”
“Ah, the grosser appetite,” sighed Ellery. “Hungry, eh? I thought you’d be back.” He whirled suddenly and searched the faces of the group behind him. They were staring at the fat man with baffled eyes.
“Is he the one?” said Mrs. Xavier huskily.
“Yes, indeed. Ever see him before?”
“No, no!”
“Mr. Xavier? Mrs. Wheary? Dr. Holmes … Strange,” murmured Ellery. He stepped closer to the fat man. “We’ll overlook the little raid just now; certain allowances must be made for starving men if only out of sheer humanitarianism. And with that bulk to feed. … I daresay you were ravenous to have risked coming back today, after the frantic efforts you must have made all night to get through the fire. Eh?”
The fat man said nothing. His little eyes flicked from face to face and his breathing came in hoarse gasps.
“Well,” said Ellery sharply, “what were you doing on the mountain last night?”
The fat man’s bare chest surged suddenly. “And what’s it to you?”
“Still fractious, eh? I might inform you that you’re a damned live suspect for murder.”
“Murder!” The jowls sagged and all the cunning vanished from the froggy eyes in a twinkling. “Wh—who—?”
“Stop stalling,” snapped the Inspector. The revolver was still in his hand. “Who, eh? I thought a moment ago it didn’t make any difference. … Who’d you like it to be?”
“Well!” The fat man sighed hugely, eyes never still. “Naturally. … Murder. … I don’t know anything about this, gentlemen; how could I? I was wandering around half the night looking for a way—for a way out. Then I parked my car down the road a bit and slept until morning. How should I—?”
“Did you drive back to the house at all when you found you couldn’t get past the road below?”
“Why—no. No.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you?”
“I—I didn’t think of it.”
“What’s your name?”
The fat man hesitated. “Smith.”
“His name, he says,” remarked the Inspector to the world at large, “is Smith. Well, well. What Smith? Just Smith? Or hasn’t your imagination got to the point of picking a first name yet?”
“Frank—Frank Smith. Frank J. Smith.”
“Where you hail from?”
“Why—ah, New York.”
“Funny,” muttered the Inspector. “I thought I knew every evil pan in the City. Well, what were you doing up here yesterday evening?”
Mr. Smith licked his purple lips again. “Why—I guess I lost my way.”
“You guess ?”
“I mean I lost my way, you see. When I—yes, when I got to the top here and saw I couldn’t go any farther, I turned round and drove down again. That’s when you met me, you see.”
“You sang a different tune then,” said the old gentleman disagreeably. “And you sure were in one hell of a hurry. So you don’t know anybody in this house, hey? When you were lost last night, you didn’t think
The fat man’s arms dropped and he stared stupidly.
“Ah, our friend the motorist,” chuckled Ellery, stepping into the kitchen. He slapped the fat man’s hips and breast. “Not heeled. Tsk! Monstrous oversight. Well, what have you to say for yourself, friend Falstaff?”
A purple tongue slithered over the man’s lips. He was stocky and enormous—a wide, wide bulwark of a man with a small round paunch. He took a step forward and his body wobbled like jelly. He looked for all the world like a dangerous, middle-aged gorilla.
Bones was glaring at him with a convulsive hatred that shook his whole angular frame.
“What have I—?” began the stranger in his unpleasant bass voice. Then cunning crept into his little eyes. “What’s the meaning of this?” he boomed with heavy dignity. “This creature attacked me—”
“In his own kitchen?” murmured Ellery.
“He’s lying!” shrieked Bones, trembling with rage. “I caught him sneaking into the house through the open front door and he snooped around till he found the kitchen! Then he—”
“Ah, the grosser appetite,” sighed Ellery. “Hungry, eh? I thought you’d be back.” He whirled suddenly and searched the faces of the group behind him. They were staring at the fat man with baffled eyes.
“Is he the one?” said Mrs. Xavier huskily.
“Yes, indeed. Ever see him before?”
“No, no!”
“Mr. Xavier? Mrs. Wheary? Dr. Holmes … Strange,” murmured Ellery. He stepped closer to the fat man. “We’ll overlook the little raid just now; certain allowances must be made for starving men if only out of sheer humanitarianism. And with that bulk to feed. … I daresay you were ravenous to have risked coming back today, after the frantic efforts you must have made all night to get through the fire. Eh?”
The fat man said nothing. His little eyes flicked from face to face and his breathing came in hoarse gasps.
“Well,” said Ellery sharply, “what were you doing on the mountain last night?”
The fat man’s bare chest surged suddenly. “And what’s it to you?”
“Still fractious, eh? I might inform you that you’re a damned live suspect for murder.”
“Murder!” The jowls sagged and all the cunning vanished from the froggy eyes in a twinkling. “Wh—who—?”
“Stop stalling,” snapped the Inspector. The revolver was still in his hand. “Who, eh? I thought a moment ago it didn’t make any difference. … Who’d you like it to be?”
“Well!” The fat man sighed hugely, eyes never still. “Naturally. … Murder. … I don’t know anything about this, gentlemen; how could I? I was wandering around half the night looking for a way—for a way out. Then I parked my car down the road a bit and slept until morning. How should I—?”
“Did you drive back to the house at all when you found you couldn’t get past the road below?”
“Why—no. No.”
“Well, why the hell didn’t you?”
“I—I didn’t think of it.”
“What’s your name?”
The fat man hesitated. “Smith.”
“His name, he says,” remarked the Inspector to the world at large, “is Smith. Well, well. What Smith? Just Smith? Or hasn’t your imagination got to the point of picking a first name yet?”
“Frank—Frank Smith. Frank J. Smith.”
“Where you hail from?”
“Why—ah, New York.”
“Funny,” muttered the Inspector. “I thought I knew every evil pan in the City. Well, what were you doing up here yesterday evening?”
Mr. Smith licked his purple lips again. “Why—I guess I lost my way.”
“You guess ?”
“I mean I lost my way, you see. When I—yes, when I got to the top here and saw I couldn’t go any farther, I turned round and drove down again. That’s when you met me, you see.”
“You sang a different tune then,” said the old gentleman disagreeably. “And you sure were in one hell of a hurry. So you don’t know anybody in this house, hey? When you were lost last night, you didn’t think
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