So there it was.
Nikki sipped her Bombay Cooler, which she had had the providence to take into the garden with her. “Well, suppose you have,” she said, as brightly and illusively as the long reflections on the river. “Those things happen, Dorothy.”
“But Nikki, what shall I do? I don’t want to hurt Miles. He’s a little limited, of course, but salt of the earth, really a darling, and I’m afraid if I ran out on him now... so soon... I mean, I’m afraid—”
“You’re afraid what?”
Dorothy began to cry again.
“See here, Dotty,” said Nikki. “You’ve eaten your cake and now you want it back. That’s bound to be messy.”
“What a horrid way to put it,” said Dorothy, wiping her eyes a little peevishly.
“It’s the man I work for,” said Nikki, taking another sip. “Spells out every spade, and it’s catching. Dotty dear, we’re a couple of the girls, and no men around. How much do you want this character S.E.?”
“S.E.?”
“Somebody Else.”
“Nikki, I love him! I do!”
“And what is Somebody Else’s view of the situation?”
“He says—”
“Wait.” Nikki put her hand on her friend’s bare arm. She said suddenly, “Smile, Dotty. Someone’s coming.”
Miles Senter’s broad figure appeared from around the northeast corner of the house. The lights from the front of the building silhouetted him as he paused in the path, dabbing his half-bald head with a handkerchief, peering into the gloom of the garden.
“Dorothy?” he called uncertainly. “You out there with Miss Porter?”
“Yes, Miles!” said Dorothy.
“Oh,” said her husband, and he was silent. Then he cleared his throat. “So stifling indoors... radio says there’s no relief in sight... I thought maybe you and Miss Porter might like to play some Canasta...” Senter took a slight step toward them, handkerchief in hand.
Nikki found herself thinking aqueously that the poor fish was out of his natural element, and it occurred to her that Miles Senter might be not entirely insensitive after all. And because she felt sorry for him, Nikki looked away as he stepped forward, and that was how she happened to glimpse the descent of the angel—one of the gargoyle-throated chimaeras which had thrust its unlovely form from the tower roof over the garden for three-quarters of a century. The glimmering mass was falling straight for where Miles Senter’s head would be in another step. And Nikki cried out, and the mass fell, and Senter fell, and Dorothy began to shriek with an automatic vitality, as if she were possessed. The burden of her dark litany was death and disenchantment, and the response from the Senter physician, old Dr. Grand, who lived next door and had been dozing in his garden, was more in the nature of a retort. Devil or angel, Dr. Grand remarked as he stooped over the fallen man, it had missed its mark; and he instructed Miles Senter to get off his backside and onto his knees, in a more fitting attitude to thank his Maker.
At this Dorothy’s husband scrambled to his feet, paler than the stone monster in the path, and turned his eyes to the heavens. But it was not out of gratitude for his deliverance. A black head projected from the roof, another gargoyle against the moon, and its owner was demanding in a curious voice what the devil all the noise was about. When neither Miles nor his wife replied, Dr. Grand explained in his crickety way, and there was a silence from the roof, and then David Senter’s dark head vanished. To Nikki the air seemed suddenly chill, and she took no pleasure in it. And when David bounded around the corner to help his brother into the house, Nikki found him even more Byronic-looking than his portrait. And this gave her no pleasure, either.
The next day Ellery patiently pointed out that he made his livelihood inventing far cleverer crimes than Nikki was ever likely to encounter among her acquaintances, and would she please stick to his typing, for her social life was interfering with his contractual obligations—not to mention his publisher’s advance, which was not payable until delivery of the finished manuscript.
“But Ellery, it wasn’t an accident,” said Nikki, using the typewriter as an elbow-rest.
“It wasn’t. I suppose,” said Ellery, falling back helplessly on irony, “that’s a demonstrable conclusion, like most of your conclusions?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you. I examined that tower roof last night, where the thing fell from—”
“With Lens and Calipers Among the Lotus-Eaters. And you found?”
“I told you. Weren’t you listening?”
“You found that the cement holding the doodad to the whatsis was worn as friable as Roquefort. Astounding! And the waterspout weighed—how much, did you say?”
“About a hundred pounds, Mr. Senter said.”
“I refer you to Sir Isaac and the law of gravity. Shall we get back to mere fiction?”
“Be logical, but I still say it was no accident,” declared Miss Porter, unmoved. “And that’s why I suggested to Miles Senter last night—”
The doorbell trilled, and Nikki stopped.
A terrible suspicion darkened her employer’s countenance. “Nikki,” he said in a Basil Rathbone voice, “you suggested what to Miles Senter last night?”
Nikki glanced mutely toward the foyer, which was in full cry.
Ellery groaned.
“You angel, I knew you wouldn’t mind!” and Nikki flew. A moment later Ellery heard her assuring someone that Mr. Queen could hardly wait.
To his astonishment, Ellery found himself immediately feeling sorry for the fellow. The president of Senter Pharmaceuticals all but crawled into view. It was a sort of nervous slither, and it went perfectly with his windy eyes and graying stubble; in fact, Miles Senter gave a creditable impersonation of a dope peddler about to consummate a sale. He offered a trembling hand, refused a drink — “on principle, Mr. Queen” — accepted a cigaret, failed to puff on it, and through it all he was grateful, abjectly grateful that Mr. Queen was bothering to see him at all. The fact was... it was damned awkward... Miss Porter’s being Dorothy’s friend and so on... if Nikki hadn’t saved his life the night before...
“Mr. Senter,” said Ellery, “what are you trying to say?”
Senter studied the dead cigaret in his hand, then he crumpled and crushed it between his fingers. “Queen, I think my wife and my brother are in love with each other.” There was an ashtray at his elbow, but rather remarkably he placed the remains in his pocket. “In love with each other,” he repeated, and he stopped as if he expected Ellery to say something devastating.
But Ellery said nothing at all. And Nikki was finding one of her fingernails interesting.
“Nothing I’ve been able really to get hold of,” Senter mumbled on. “It’s just that Dorothy’s been acting... well, I can’t quite name it, but something’s come between us lately. She’s too darned polite to me!” he blurted. “And David’s a handsome young artist and a devil with the women. Suppose I oughtn’t to have expected much else—what do they say about old fools? — but why didn’t they come to me? Instead of... Well, Mr. Queen,” cried Miles Senter, “what would you think?”
“Using your major premise? Let’s see. Your brother and your wife are in love, and last night a heavy waterspout parted from the roof where your brother has his studio and missed braining you by a hair. It would seem, Mr. Senter, that your brother tried to murder you.”