“The situation is certainly contrary,” Merlini said. “We’ve been plagued with disappearing men all morning, and now it’s a horse on the other foot. A production trick, instead of a vanishing trick. The mystery is not how the murderer escaped, but where did the corpse come from?”
“Yeah. And if it’s a trick you’ve got listed in your catalogue, I’ll buy it. I want to know—”
“His feet were clean. That’s your clue. If he was dressed when he came into that room, then his clothes melted or something. I don’t like that. Reminds me of the Great Ceeley and the beautiful, but not so bright, wench he hired in London for a lightning-change illusion. Will Goldston made her a trick three-in-one costume that consisted of a British army uniform, a Belgian uniform — this was in ’15 during the early days of the war — and Britannia’s dress. They fitted skin-tight and one on top of the other, each costume with a concealed cord that ended in a differently shaped button, which, when pulled, caused its particular costume to collapse, instantly revealing the one next underneath. The button on the Britannia outfit was to enable her to shuck that quickly in her dressing-room after the act. But on opening night when Ceeley fired the gun — her cue to pull the first button — she brought the house down. She pulled all three buttons at once! Instead of a lightning change it was a lightning strip-tease! And not so very tantalizing either.”
Gavigan cut in brusquely “Save your reminiscences for your memoirs. What do you mean, the clean feet are the clue?”
“They suggest that if he was undressed when he entered that room, he didn’t walk in. Were his hands clean too?”
“Yeah. So he didn’t walk on his hands.”
“And must have been carried in. While, if he was dressed when he entered, someone must have removed his clothes. In either case I give you Mr. X again.”
“Uh-huh,” Gavigan muttered, pacing the floor irritably. “Somebody carried him in via the fire escape, dropped him on the floor, closed the window, locked it, and walked out the door, letting it lock behind him. Somebody the hotel help paid no attention to because he was familiar to ’em — because he has a room there.”
“And a room off that same fire escape. Have you checked on rooms 2013 and 2213 and so on?”
“There should be a report on my desk now. I had that done as a matter of routine. Phone headquarters, Malloy, and see if Murphy uncovered anything.”
Merlini spread the deck of cards out along his arm, balancing them from wrist to shoulder. His arm dropped suddenly, pulled in, and then shot out with lightning-like rapidity. His hand scooped at the cards, gathering them neatly from mid-air as they fell. “Glad you like the solution, Inspector. In case you haven’t noticed, it clears up another thing or two also. Now that we know it’s Floyd, we know why the body was nude.”
“We do?”
“Of course. You saw Floyd’s clothes upstairs. Marquis is his tailor; and the suits are all custom made, imported fabrics and the like. Ripping out labels and laundry marks wouldn’t have prevented identification. You’d only have had to query half a dozen of the swankiest tailors, and you’d have got the corpse’s name with a complete set of his measurements in no time. The person who carried that body in there realized that. So he simply took away the clothes altogether. I like the direct way he solves a problem like that. And he gets another orchid because he also realized that, if a photo of the corpse should make the papers, some of Floyd’s friends or relatives might recognize him. So he simply undressed him a bit more. He shaved off the mustache.”
“Yes. I’ll go along with you on that. It hangs together. Might be why the body was moved, too. A body in an empty, unregistered-for hotel room doesn’t give us anything to link to. Not a half-bad way to dispose of a body at that. But since it wasn’t murder, why the devil—”
“You’re starting that premise from the wrong end, Inspector. You mean, with all that monkey business afoot, it might very well be murder. And that’s not all. The person who typed that letter and forged Floyd’s name may have done so in order to mislead Floyd’s intimates further. If they did notice a report of an unidentified corpse answering fairly well to Floyd’s description, it wouldn’t register because they would think he’s neither dead nor missing, but on a trip. Furthermore he’s apparently written a letter that he mailed after the body was found. Someone has a flair for detail.”
“And the person who did the body-moving,” Gavigan added, “the mustache shaving, and the clothes swiping also had access to this typewriter! Our one list of suspects does for both bodies! And Arnold could have done all that — all except — except how the hell did he plant that letter on the 1:20 train? He was eating lunch here with four witnesses. And — Malloy! Take Quinn and go over those people upstairs. Find out what they were up to night before last, especially 1 a. m. Get alibis. Quinn, you check and find out if that water taxi brought Floyd back here after Henderson took him in. I’m going to look at that houseboat. If anyone did any diving it was out there. I’ll want Hunter and you, too, Brady. And lock that darkroom as you leave and hang on to the key.”
Merlini got to his feet. “I want to make a phone call first.” His long legs carried him quickly up the stairs and out, before Gavigan had a chance to get inquisitive.
And that reminded me of something. So, as we all went up and through the kitchen, I slipped, as unobtrusively as possible, into the back stairway I’d noticed there, leading to the second floor. But Gavigan saw me.
“Hey. Where’d you think you’re going?”
“Bathroom,” I said, trying to make it sound urgent.
He frowned but let me go. I headed for the phone in Linda’s room and found it was the one Merlini had chosen. He was replacing the receiver as I came in.
“Did you know you’re a wanted man, Ross?” he said. “I’ve been talking to Burt. He says that theater crowd you work for is wild. The director, the producer, and both angels have all been in his hair trying to locate you. They’ve got a private detective agency on the job and they had your description included in a Missing Persons broadcast about an hour ago.”
“That bad? I’ll ask for a raise. Let’s have that phone if you’re through. I’ve just remembered that a friend of mine was looking for you yesterday. I promised him something. Hello. City desk—”
I gave Ted an earful, no more than the Inspector would have to dish out as soon as the reporters caught up with him, but enough to make some nice fat headlines. He acted as if there hadn’t been anything to slap on the front page for the last month except the weather. And, if I hadn’t hung up on him finally, I’d be talking yet.
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Merlini said. “If Gavigan ever — wait!” He took his handkerchief and polished off the phone receiver. “You should know better than to leave your prints on the scene of your crime.”
“Come on,” I said impatiently. “Let’s go. The Inspector might shove off without us.”
I headed for the window and the sun deck, that being the most direct route. Merlini followed me; but, as we went toward the flight of steps, he said, suddenly, “Wait, Ross.”
He had halted near another window, attracted by what he saw inside. He peered in for a moment and then rapped lightly on the pane. The sound acted with electric swiftness on the man who sat there, intent at something on the writing desk before him. He jumped guiltily and his head jerked, turning toward the window. It was Colonel Watrous. He saw us and with quick pantomime beckoned us in, holding an admonitory finger to his lips.
Merlini lifted the window sash, and we crossed the sill quietly. Watrous wore a pair of earphones clamped over his head, and the wire attached to them led to an open, brown suitcase, its interior completely filled by what appeared to be a built-in combination radio and phonograph. The raised lid disclosed a revolving phonographic turntable and sound arm. One end of the suitcase, also hinged, was lowered, showing a bakelite panel bearing rheostat and tuning dials.