“It is odd,” Merlini said, “very, for a confession. He confessed to opportunity, means, motive, and even intent to kill — but he didn’t confess to murder. Is that little omission what bothers you, Inspector?”
“Did I say I was bothered?”
“No. But it’s all over your face. You can’t think of a good reason why a murderer should confess to so much and not take the last hurdle. And you’re going to be annoyed until you do. I admire you for it. There are some cops who wouldn’t let a little snag like that bother them too much.”
“Yeah. And if he didn’t kill her it’s even more unreasonable that he’d admit all that he did. Unless he’s trying to commit suicide via the hot seat.”
“Or unless he’s telling the truth.”
Gail, sitting in the corner where he had been a silent, inconspicuous listener, said abruptly, “But he can’t be, you know. Not altogether.”
Merlini swung around. “I thought we’d hear from you. The merry-go-round is about to start, Inspector. All aboard.”
“He’s either lying or very badly mistaken about one thing he swears he’s sure of,” Gail continued. “If she died when he says she did, at least three minutes after he came into the room, then she must have taken something into her mouth while he was there. His description of her death indicates a good strong dose of cyanide, such a strong one that she’d have died, or, at the very least, have fallen insensible and had the convulsive seizure within a few seconds, certainly less than half a minute after taking, it — not something over three minutes. His story simply will not hold water on that point.”
“It certainly won’t.” Dr. Hesse stood in the doorway of the darkroom. “She didn’t get the poison by drinking from that glass before he came into the room — or after! Not if the same liquid is in it now as then. Whatever else it contains besides water, there’s no cyanide!”
“Score one for Arnold,” Merlini said. “If he’d poisoned her, he’d have known there was no cyanide in the glass, and he’d have put some there in order to make the story he just told us look good. Likewise, he didn’t empty the cyanide from the glass and substitute tap water because that contradicts his story.”
“Then how the hell did she get the poison?” Gavigan said.
“She drank half a glass of water — aqua pura — before Arnold came in,” Merlini said. “Doesn’t that suggest anything?”
“Sure. She was thirsty.”
“Not necessarily. There are other reasons for drinking water. What if she put the poison in her mouth and drank the water to wash it down? And what if the poison didn’t begin to act on her system for several minutes simply because — can’t you think of something that would prevent it, Hesse?”
Hesse took his cigar from his mouth with a surprised motion as if the answer had just occurred to him. “A capsule. The ordinary gelatine capsule would normally take four or five minutes to dissolve. And if she’d previously had a drink or two, it might take considerably longer since gelatine is insoluble in alcohol.”
“Capsules,” Gavigan said with interest, “That’s a lead—”
Detective Muller burst through the door at the head of the stairs and hurried down the steps. He carried a box that dripped water. He put it on the ping-pong table. “The diver,” he announced somewhat breathlessly, “fished these outa the drink. He’s all excited, but I don’t see—”
We crowded around to look. The box held a dirty Wedgwood pitcher minus handle, its blue and white surface badly chipped, a pewter plate, two forks, slightly bent, and a button.
Dr. Gail gave a slight exclamation of surprise, reached into the box, and picked up the button. “Uniform,” he said after a closer look. “British.” Then he snatched at the plate, took his handkerchief, and mopped at its center, wiping away the muddy black silt and sand. A circular, two-inch embossed area was disclosed in the center of the plate.
Gail looked at it incredulously.
“That,” he said finally, “is the crest of His Majesty’s Ship, Hussar.”
“Eight million smackers,” Gavigan said reverently. “My God! They are real! Arnold’s wrong again. Capsules or not, as soon as I’ve seen Rappourt, I’m going to hustle him in to headquarters; and I’m going to have some new answers or know damn well why not. Malloy!”
Merlini held the pitcher in his hands; passing his long fingers thoughtfully over its raised arabesque design. “I can give you a new answer, right now. Do you mind, Inspector, if I knock Floyd’s alibi into a cocked hat?”
Chapter Sixteen:
THE MAN WITH THE BENDS
Inspector Gavigan pivoted like a revolving door. His skepticism was heavy, but hollow. “And does that clear Arnold?”
“No. Maybe not.” Merlini sat on the ping-pong table, took a deck of cards from his pocket, and began to shuffle them with one hand, an indescribable display of manual dexterity in which several, complicated movements of the fingers fused so smoothly that the cards weirdly appeared to be shuffling themselves. Gavigan, seeing the cards, plunged his hand into his own pocket, brought it out empty, and forcefully emitted several words that glowed with an inner fire.
“But, if Floyd’s supposed presence in Buffalo last night at around ten o’clock,” Merlini went on, “has been deliberately faked, it’s an awfully loose end in the case of the People vs. Arnold Skelton.”
“What are you getting at?” Gavigan growled. “A letter written in advance and posted at a prearranged time by a confederate in Buffalo? Another mystery man, Mr. Q? What do you think this is? A gang murder?”
“No more mystery men. It’s simpler and more impromptu — the heel print on the envelope. What do you suppose that means? Postman been tramping about on the mail?”
“Well. What do you suppose?”
“If I should allow my imagination to run riot,” Merlini replied, dealing himself four aces, still with one hand, “I might suppose something like this. If I wanted to mail a letter from some place I wasn’t, I’d take it, all stamped and neatly addressed, to a railroad station, pick out a likely train and board it just before it pulled out, pretending I’d come to see someone off. I’d drop the letter on the floor under a seat — anywhere that it wouldn’t be found immediately, perhaps not until the cars were swept out at the end of the run. Then I’d let the train go without me. Eventually a passenger or some railway employee would find it. Would it go to the Lost and Found Department? U. S. Mail with a special delivery stamp? Of course not. The finder would mail it. But I couldn’t be certain that the envelope wouldn’t arrive somewhat dirtied and possibly stepped on. Buffalo—10:30. I’d like to see a timetable.”
“You aren’t going to tell me you thought that one up all by yourself!” Gavigan retorted.
Merlini’s smile was the magician’s standard enigmatic one.
“Because,” Gavigan kibitzed, “I know damned well you didn’t. That’s not imagination or deduction; it’s just good memory. That’s exactly what happened in the Milne Kidnap Hoax in ’35. The letter was put on an Albany train and mailed back from Poughkeepsie by the conductor. But just because of a smudged envelope I don’t see why—”
“But you’ll check it, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes. We’ll check it. Quinn, call New York Central.”
Quinn headed for the stairs.
Gavigan looked at Merlini suspiciously. “You’ve got more reasons than that up your sleeve. Come on. Give.”
“Yes. There are more reasons. Three of them. One: if Floyd’s handwriting is as easy to read as his signature, then it compares in legibility with my own script about the way 24-point Caslon Bold does to the Mayan alphabet. And yet, though I type all my other correspondence, I don’t lug a typewriter along on train trips. But if we take that letter at its face value, it would appear that Floyd does. I don’t believe it.”