“Difficult today, aren’t you, Inspector? All right. Object to this. We’ve got a copy, or part of a copy, of the chart Ira followed!”
Gavigan’s eyes popped. “The code!” he exploded.
Merlini brought out the sheet I’d typed (p. 142).
“The Merlini Black Chamber will now explain. In typing a table, the simplest method is to type out all the headings first and then fill in the figures in their proper columns. ‘Depth, Feet, Fathoms, Pressure-Pounds per square inch’ and ‘Time under water from surface to start of ascent:’ Those headings weren’t readable on the ribbon because the last part of the table had backed up on them. But ‘Stoppages at different depths’—we got most of that, and all of ‘Total time for ascent in minutes.’ The next few figures check. The 108–120 is the depth in feet; the 13–20, depth in fathoms; and 48–53½, the pressure in pounds per square inch. But from there on you can’t fit the figures to this chart at all. ‘Up to 15 minutes,’ 15 to 30,’ etc. It should read: 5 minutes, 5 to 10, 10 to 15, etc. But if you’ll look at the chart on page 78, the one for 60 to 68 feet — the agreement is exact. Someone substituted the decompression times of the 60-foot table in the 108-foot table! And with malice aforethought. Our brand-new murder weapon turns out to be a typewriter!”
“Murder with poison and with a typewriter!” Gavigan said. “If that doesn’t indicate a dame!.. And Rappourt could have known all about the bends. Any of them could. They’ve all been talking treasure and diving, and Brooke’s been spouting technical submarine information like a geyser, in an effort to get the backing for his invention. There are reference books on the subject all over the place, here and in Floyd’s room, too.” He confronted Brooke. “Are you going to admit you moved the body now?”
“No. Emphatically not. And I’m not saying any more except on advice of counsel. That’s final.”
“Hunter,” Gavigan ordered. “You stick to Brooke until further orders. Let’s get back to the house.”
He hurried through the door. I heard Brady, who had remained just outside watching the diver and his assistants, say, “He’s onto something else down there, Inspector. They’re sending a line down.”
“What is it?” Gavigan asked.
The man with the phone said, “Rowboat,” and then into the mouthpiece, “Okay, Anton, you’d better start up. You’ve been down there long enough. We’ll bring you to 30 feet first and hold you there 5 minutes, 10 at 20 feet and 15 at 10.”
The bubbles on the water moved toward us. Brady and Hunter hauling on the line, hoisted a dripping rowboat to the rail’s edge. They balanced it there, letting the water drain out.
Merlini pointed to the rowboat’s bottom and three small round holes that perforated it. “And that,” he said, “explains the mystery of the phantom Mr. Y. Bullet boles. Lamb didn’t fire at anyone. He fired into the boats!”
Gavigan was silent as the police launch took us in toward the landing, but I could almost hear the wheels going round under his hat. When we landed and started toward the house, he fell into step beside Merlini. Brady and I tagged at their heels, while Brooke, with Hunter sticking tight like a barnacle, went on ahead.
“When it starts to rain evidence,” Gavigan muttered, “it certainly pours. There’s too damned much. I could arrest Arnold for Linda’s death, or, on account of the capsule, Rappourt. Or Brooke for that matter. His story’s thin as hell. And I could nab Rappourt for switching the tables if, as Brooke says, she’s the only other one who knew Floyd was diving. She could have done both murders! And Ira did the body moving and the letter sending because he was scared pink.”
“Before you cart them all off, Inspector,” Merlini said, “do you remember I said it was possible Rappourt didn’t know there was poison in the capsule she gave Linda?”
“Sure, but you don’t think that now, do you?”
“Had you considered the result of such an assumption?”
“I haven’t had time. That would mean—” Gavigan stopped in his tracks, so quickly I almost ran him down—“someone tried to poison Rappourt and — got Linda by mistake!”
“Uh-huh. Poison traps aren’t all sure fire — only in detective stories. There, you put strychnine in the grapes, or belladonna in the Martinis because only your victim likes those things. And he always gets it. But in real life that’s as risky as walking a tightrope over Niagara with your head in a barrel. Someone who has never eaten a grape before in his life or swallowed anything stronger than pink lemonade would be almost sure to come along and do just that.”
“Rappourt,” Gavigan said reflectively, “took a capsule before each séance and went into a dopey trance intended to look like a scopolamine twilight sleep. Somebody put cyanide in the top capsule in her vial so she’d pop off in her trance.”
“And then she gave the capsule to Linda, thinking it was sugar. It’s suggestive, isn’t it?”
“You bet it is. Brooke again. He figured she’d changed the chart and left him to hold the bag, so he goes after her. She killed Floyd, and he tried to kill her and got Linda.”
“Now you know who the real victim was, what about your first love, Arnold?”
The Inspector looked startled. “Think of everything, don’t you? He’s got plenty of motive. He wanted to keep Rappourt from getting her clutches on the Skelton dough, and he could have wiped out Floyd because he wanted the $8,000,000 treasure for himself. He wasn’t declared in on that treasure hunt very much as far as I could notice. Same thing goes for Miss Verrill. Maybe she did know she was going to get the money under Linda’s will. As for Lamb—”
“Wait.” Merlini said; “Sigrid wouldn’t have killed Rappourt to prevent her reaching for the Skelton money. If Sigrid was going to resort to homicide, she’d have simply killed Linda and collected herself.”
“Hmm. Yes. And isn’t that just what did happen?”
Sigrid, Arnold, Lamb, Gail, and Watrous were sitting on the terrace as we approached, drinks on the table before them. Muller stood in the background busily keeping an eye on Lamb, and Grimm issued from the house just as we came up.
“Phone for you, Merlini,” he called.
Merlini went through the living-room to the library and closed the door.
Captain Malloy submitted a report to Gavigan. “All this crowd say they were in bed and sound asleep, night before last, at the time Floyd kicked off. And they all slept separately. Not a bit of corroboration. And Murphy phoned.” Malloy handed the Inspector a slip of paper. “He dictated that. Description of the guy registered for room 2213. George Sanders. Hasn’t been in much lately. Murphy’s having the room checked for prints and quizzing the night staff. He’ll report again as soon as he gets their statements.”
The Inspector looked up from the memo. His face was grim and spelled fireworks for someone. “That settles his hash,” he said. “Malloy, I want you to—” He saw me standing there, all ears. “Beat it,” he growled.
I retreated across the room, still watching however, as he gave Malloy a string of rapid low-voiced orders. Malloy listened intently, nodded, and then left the room on a run.
Gavigan walked over and pushed the library door open.
We heard Merlini at the phone. “Right. Get going.” Then the receiver clicked.
“Who was that?” Gavigan asked.
“The cat,” Merlini sang in an operatic whisper. “It was the cat!” He came out, whistling the melody from Pinafore.
The Inspector scowled at his back and stabbed impatiently at the phone dial with his forefinger. He spoke into the mouthpiece for a minute or two, muffling his voice in his cupped hand. Then he came to stand in the doorway.