The Bizarre Murders, page 17
“You mean,” whispered Miss Forrest, “that a left-handed person—”
“You’re sharp, Miss Forrest,” smiled Ellery. “That’s exactly what I do mean. The murderer’s left hand had held that half. The murderer, then had crumpled that half in his left hand and thrown it away with his left hand. The left hand, then, did all the work. Ergo, as you say, the murderer of Dr. Xavier and the framer of Mrs. Xavier was left-handed.” He paused briefly to study their puzzled faces. “The problem resolved itself, therefore, into discovering which of you ladies and gentlemen, if any, was left-handed.” The puzzlement vanished, to be replaced by alarm. “That was the purpose of our slightly grotesque tests tonight.”
“A trick,” said Dr. Holmes indignantly.
“But an extremely essential one, Doctor. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t so much a test to acquire knowledge as a little research into the psychology of guilt. I knew before we conducted the tests who was right-handed and who was not, purely from recollected observations. I knew, too, from the same source that none of you is ambidextrous. Now there were three people whom we’ve neglected to test tonight: Mrs. Xavier and the Carreau boys.” The twins started. “But Mrs. Xavier, aside from the fact that she was framed and would scarcely have framed herself, is also right-handed, as I’ve had occasion to note many times. As for the twins, preposterous as even the theoretical notion of their guilt is, Francis on the right is naturally right-handed, as I’ve also observed; and Julian on the left, who is left-handed, has his left arm broken and in a cast, making digital manipulation impossible. And,” he added dryly, “since I’m thorough in all things, I’ve proved to my own satisfaction that the only way the lads could have achieved the effect of those thumbprints under the circumstances would have been by crossing their adjoining hands and tearing—a procedure so pointless that it need not be considered. … Well, now!” His eyes glittered. “Who among the rest of you is left-handed? Do you recall what you did tonight, all of you?”
They stirred uneasily biting their lips, frowning.
“Ill tell you what you did,” continued Ellery softly. “Miss Forrest, you picked up the revolver and attempted to discharge it with you right hand. Mr. Smith, you held the revolver in your left hand. But polished it clean with your right. Dr. Holmes, you conducted your mock-examination of my theoretically dead body, I am happy to report, with your right hand almost exclusively. Mrs. Wheary, you snapped the switch with your right hand, and you, Bones, struck a match with your right hand. Mrs. Carreau held the deck of cards in her left hand and dealt with the right—”
“Hold up,” grunted the Inspector, coming forward again. “We’ve got just what we want now. I might explain that Mr. Queen conducted these experiments for my benefit, to prove who was right-handed and who wasn’t. I hadn’t noticed before.” He produced a pencil and paper from one of his pockets and suddenly slapped them down upon the bridge table before the astonished lawyer. “Here, Xavier, I want you to act as our recording secretary. This is a little memorandum to the Sheriff of Osquewa, Winslowe Reid—if and when he gets here.” He continued irritably without pausing: “Come, come, man, don’t sit there dreaming. Write, will you?”
It was all so neat and smooth and noiselessly efficient. The whole psychological effect had been calculated to the last nice detail The irritability of the Inspector, impersonally directed at his head, caused Xavier to snatch up the pencil, his lips working, and poise it above the sheet.
“Write this now,” growled the Inspector, pacing up and down. “ ‘My brother, Dr. John S. Xavier—’ ” the lawyer wrote quickly, with brutal jabs of the pencil, his face pale as death—“ ‘murdered in his study on the ground floor of Arrow Head, his residence situated on Arrow Mountain in Tuckesas County, fifteen miles from the nearest seat of jurisdiction, Osquewa, met his death by shooting at the hand of—’ ” the Inspector paused, and the pencil in Mark Xavier’s left hand trembled, “ ‘at the hand of myself!’ Now sign your name, damn you!”
For a suspended moment, an interval without duration, there was utter silence. They sat forward in their chairs bleakly, without movement, struck dumb.
The pencil dropped from Xavier’s fingers and his shoulders humped with an instinctive defensive contraction of his muscles. His bloodshot eyes were glassy. Then before any of them could stir he was out of the chair, a coordinated organism of terrified nerves and unmanned flesh. The table turned over as he leaped. He bounced the few steps to the French window nearest the table and crashed out upon the terrace.
The Inspector woke up. “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop, I tell you! Or I’ll stop you with a bullet!”
But Xavier did not stop. He scrambled over the terrace rail, landing with a crunching thud on the gravel below. His figure began to fade out as he receded farther from the light shining from the gameroom.
They rose in unison, without moving from their places, and craned out into the darkness, mesmerized. Ellery stood very still, cigaret checked an inch before his lips.
The Inspector uttered a curious sigh, reached into his hip pocket, drew out his service revolver, snapped the safety catch off, leaned against the side of one of the tall windows, aimed at the ghostly dodging figure, and deliberately fired.
Chapter Fourteen
CHEATER CHEATED
THEY WERE ALL TO carry the ghastly memory of that fantastic scene for the remainder of their lives. Themselves turned to stone, the gray little old gentleman leaning against the window, revolver, incredibly in hand, the snort of flame and smoke, the crashing report, the staggering of the almost invisible man running for cover … and then his single scream, sharp and unpleasant as a harpy’s, ending in a thick bubbling gurgle as abruptly as it had begun.
Xavier vanished.
The Inspector adjusted the safety catch, stowed the weapon in his hip pocket, brushed his lips with the same deadly hand in a queer gesture, and then trotted out onto the terrace. He clambered over the rail and with difficulty lowered himself to the ground below.
Ellery awoke, then, and darted out of the room. He vaulted the terrace rail and sped past his father into the darkness.
Their movement broke the spell. In the gameroom Mrs. Carreau swayed and steadied herself on Francis’s shoulder. Miss Forrest, wholly colorless, uttered a choked little cry and sprang forward at the same time that Dr. Holmes, with a gasp, urged his leaden legs toward the window. Mrs. Xavier sank into her chair, her nostrils fluttering. The twins remained rooted to the floor, stricken.
They found the crumpled figure of Xavier on the rocks outside, prone and still. Ellery was on his knees, feeling for the man’s heart.
“Is he—he—?” panted Miss Forrest, stumbling up.
Ellery looked up at his father, who was staring down. “He’s still alive,” he said tonelessly, “and there’s blood on the tips of my fingers.” Then he got slowly to his feet and examined his hands in the quarter light.
“Take care of him, Doc,” said the Inspector quietly.
Dr. Holmes was on his knees, fingers probing. He looked up almost at once. “Can’t do anything here. You must have touched his back, Queen, because that’s where he’s wounded. He’s still conscious, I think. Help me, please, quickly.”
The man on the ground groaned once and from his lips came another bubbling gurgle. His limbs twitched spasmodically. The three men raised him gently and carried him up the steps of the porch, across the terrace and into the gameroom. Miss Forrest followed hastily, with one sick glance over her shoulder into the darkness.
In silence they deposited the wounded man on a sofa near the piano, face down. In the full light of the room his broad back became the focal point of their eyes. A little to the right below the shoulder blade there was a dark round hole raggedly circled by a dark red stain.
His eyes on the stain, Dr. Holmes was stripping his coat off. As he rolled up his sleeves he murmured: “Mr. Queen. My surgical kit on one of the tables in the laboratory. Mrs. Wheary, a large pan of hot water at once, please. The ladies had better go away.”
“I can help,” said Miss Forrest swiftly. “I’ve been a nurse—Doctor.”
“Very well. The others please go. Inspector, have you a knife?”
Mrs. Wheary blundered from the room and Ellery went out of the doorway leading into the cross-hall, opened the corridor door to the laboratory, stumbled about until he found the switch, and immediately saw upon one of the laboratory tables a small black bag with the initials P. H. lettered upon it. He avoided looking in the direction of the refrigerator. Snatching up the bag he ran back to the gameroom.
None of them had moved, despite Dr. Holmes’s admonition. They seemed fascinated by the physician’s deft fingers, the low groans of Xavier. Dr. Holmes was ripping the lawyer’s coat up the back with the keen blade of the Inspector’s penknife. When he had severed the coat he slit the wounded man’s shirt and undershirt, revealing the naked bullethole.
Ellery, stonily watching Xavier’s face, saw his left cheek twitch. There was a bloody foam in his lips and his eyes were only half closed.
Dr. Holmes opened his bag as Mrs. Wheary stumbled in with a huge pan of steaming water. Ann Forrest took this from the old lady’s shaking hands and deposited it upon the floor near the physician’s kneeling figure. He ripped a large piece of absorbent cotton from a roll, dipped it into the water. …
The eyes opened full suddenly and glared without seeing anything. Twice the jaws worked soundlessly, and then they heard him gasp: “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it,” over and over and over, as if it were a lesson he had learned which must be repeated endlessly in some dim schoolroom of his imagination.
The Inspector started. He leaned over Dr. Holmes and said in a whisper: “How bad is he?”
“Bad enough,” replied Dr. Holmes shortly. “Looks like the right lung.” He was bathing the wound quickly but gently, wiping the blood away. A strong odor of disinfectant rose.
“Can we—talk to him?”
“Ordinarily, I should say no. What he needs is absolute quiet. But in this case—” The Englishman shrugged his slim shoulders without pausing in his work.
Hastily the Inspector went to the head of the sofa and dropped to his knees in front of Xavier’s white face. The lawyer was still mumbling: “I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,” with a sort of dull persistence.
“Xavier,” said the Inspector urgently. “Can you hear me?”
The slurred syllables stopped and the head jerked. His eyes shifted ever so little to focus upon the Inspector’s face. Intelligence came into them and a swift spasmodic pain. He whispered: “Why did you—shoot me, Inspector? I didn’t do it. I didn’t—”
“Why did you run?”
“Lost my—head. I thought—Went to pieces. Stupid. … I didn’t do it, I didn’t!”
Ellery’s fingertips cut into his palms tightly. He bent forward and said sharply: “You’re a very sick man, Xavier. Why lie now? We know you did. You’re the only left-handed person in the house who could possibly have torn that six of spades as it was torn.”
Xavier’s lips trembled. “I didn’t—do it, I tell you.”
“You tore that six of spades and put it into your brother’s dead hand to frame your sister-in-law!”
“Yes …” gasped Xavier. “That’s—true. I did. I framed her. I wanted—but—”
Mrs. Xavier rose slowly, horror in her eyes. She put her hand to her mouth and kept it there, staring at her brother-in-law as if she were seeing him for the first time.
Dr. Holmes was working quickly now, with the silent assistance of white-lipped Miss Forrest. The cleansed wound kept oozing blood. The pan of water was crimson.
Ellery’s eyes were mere slits; his own lips were working and there was the oddest expression on his face. “Well, then—” he said slowly.
“You don’t understand,” panted Xavier. “I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed around. There was a book I wanted in the library downstairs. … What’s—that pain in my back?”
“Go on, Xavier. You’re being fixed up. Go on!”
“I—put my dressing gown on and went down to the—”
“What time was this?” demanded the Inspector.
“Two-thirty. … I saw light from the study when I got to the library. The door was closed but the cracks—I went in, found John—cold, stiff, dead. … So—so I framed her, I framed her—”
“Why?”
He tossed about, writhing. “But I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill John. He was dead when I got there, I tell you, sitting at the desk, dead as a stone—”
There was a dressing on the wound now, and Dr. Holmes was filling a hypodermic.
“You’re lying,” rasped the Inspector.
“I’m telling God’s own truth! He was dead—when I got there. … I didn’t kill him.” His head lifted an inch, the cords of his neck white and ropy. “But—I know now who—did. … I know who—did. …”
“You do?” roared the Inspector. “How do you know? Who was it? Speak up, man!”
There was a rich stillness in the room. It was as if all breathing had ceased and time had stopped flowing and they stood suspended in the vast dark reaches of interstellar space.
Mark Xavier tried very hard. He made a superhuman effort. It was sickening to watch him try. His left arm bulged with the strain of raising himself. The red glare in his eyes became redder, hotter, wilder.
Dr. Holmes gripped the skin of Xavier’s naked left arm, hypodermic poised—an impersonal automaton.
“I—” It was the sole result of his effort. His white face went gray, a bubble of blood materialized between his lips, and he sank back unconscious.
The needle bit into his arm.
Then they breathed and stirred again, and the Inspector struggled to his feet and stood wiping his moist cheeks with his handkerchief.
“Gone?” said Ellery, licking his lips.
“No.” Dr. Holmes had risen, too, and was gazing moodily down upon the still figure. “Just out. I’ve given him morphine. Just enough to relax his muscles and keep him quiet.”
“How bad is he?” asked the Inspector huskily.
“Dangerous. I should say he has a chance. It’s all a matter of his condition. The bullet is lodged in his right lung—”
“Didn’t you get it out?” cried Ellery, appalled.
“Probe for it?” The physician raised an eyebrow. “My dear chap. That would be almost certainly fatal. As I say, his chances depend upon his condition. Off-hand I should say his condition is none too good, although I’ve never given him a physical examination. He’s a rather greedy toper, you know, and he runs a little to flesh. Seedy. Well!” He shrugged and turned to Miss Forrest, his expression softening. “Thank you—Ann. You were very helpful. … And now, gentlemen, please help me get him upstairs. Be very careful. We don’t want to induce hemorrhage.”
The four men—Smith stood stupefied in a corner—raised the limp body and bore it upstairs to the bedroom in the western corner of the house overlooking the drive. The others trooped behind, huddled together as if for protection. No one seemed to relish being left alone. Mrs. Xavier was dazed; the horror had not left her eyes.
The men undressed him and got him after delicate work into his bed. Xavier was breathing hoarsely now, but he no longer twitched and his eyes were closed.
Then the Inspector opened the door. “Come on in and don’t make any noise. I’ve got something to say and I want all of you to hear it.”
They obeyed mechanically, their eyes drawn to the quiet figure beneath the sheet. A lamp on a night table beside the bed shed a glow over Xavier’s left cheek and the contour of his left side under the bedclothes.
“We seem,” said the Inspector quietly, “to have pulled another boner. I’m not sure yet, and I haven’t really made up my mind whether Mark Xavier was lying or not. I’ve seen men lie three seconds before they passed out. There’s no assurance that because a man knows he’s dying he’s going to tell the truth. At the same time there was something—well, convincing in what he said. If he merely framed Mrs. Xavier and didn’t kill Dr. Xavier, then there’s still a murderer on the loose in the house. And I want to tell you,” his eyes glittered, “that the next time there won’t be any mistake!”
They continued to stare.
Ellery snapped: “Do you think he’ll regain consciousness, Doctor?”
“Possible,” murmured Dr. Holmes. “When the effects of the morphine have passed off, he may come out of it without warning.” He shrugged. “Or he may not. There are all sorts of considerations. As to death, as well. He may get a hemorrhage after several hours, or he may linger and contract an infection—although I’ve cleansed and disinfected the wound—or succumb to disease.”
“Pleasant,” grunted Ellery. “Aside from that, he has a chance, eh? But what I’m interested in is the fact that he’ll probably regain consciousness. When he does—” He glanced significantly about.
“He’ll tell,” cried the twins suddenly and then, abashed by the sound of their own voices, shrank back against their mother.
“Yes, my lads, he’ll tell. A most intriguing prospect. Consequently I think, dad, that it would be best to leave nothing to chance.”
“I was just thinking that myself,” replied the Inspector grimly. “We’ll take turns watching him tonight—you and I. And,” he added after a pause, “no one else.” He turned sharply to Dr. Holmes. “I’ll take the first watch, Doctor, until two A.M., and then Mr. Queen will relieve me until morning. If we should want you—”
