“Where’d you get that?” Gavigan rapped.
“I was detecting,” Gail replied. “Over there where the mystery man took off last night in his motorboat. Looking for footprints, dropped buttons, cigarette butts — that sort of thing. I found this—30 or 40 feet in from shore, poked down beneath a clump of underbrush.”
Gavigan scooped up a handful of the coins and looked at them. He knelt on the damp stones, unmindful of the neat crease in his trousers, and took a good look at the suitcase.
“If that gold came out of the Hussar,” Gail said, “the historians are going to have a lot of fun poking around at a 150-year-old scandal. Somebody must have put one over on the Bank of England. These coins are all counterfeit! And not such good fakes at that.”
“Hey!” The Inspector dropped the lid of the suitcase as if it were crawling with germs. “You said the ones Harte lifted last night were the McCoy!”
“They are. And he said he found them separate from these others, in a small cardboard box. Right, Harte?”
“Yes.”
“And I remember them pretty well. I suspect that half dozen were the original from which these were made. When we compare them, I think we’ll find that these show the same identical pattern of scratches and wear. Six different patterns in the lot probably. Molds were made of the originals and duplicates cast. Brass. Treated a bit to take off the shine.” He paused a moment and then fired a second broadside. “But that’s not all. That mess plate and the pitcher and so forth that Mr. Novak fished up. They’ve been bothering me.”
Gavigan blurted, “They’re counterfeit too?”
“Oh, no.” Gail shook his head confidently. “They’re genuine enough, and they did come from the Hussar. But I’m annoyed because in 1824—I’ve checked this with some notes of mine — a salvage attempt was made on the Hussar by a party using a diving bell. A foolhardy young man swam out from under the bell and into the Hussar’s cabin. He came up with a Wedgwood pitcher, a pewter mess plate, two forks, and a button. I don’t care for coincidences like that.
While Gavigan stared at him, Merlini took the opportunity to say, “I’m reminded of the four conjurers who performed on the same benefit bill. Successively, they each had a card selected by members of the audience, allowing what appeared to be a perfectly free choice. Four persons picked the ace of spades. People in the audience felt about as you—”
The Inspector recovered sufficiently to ask, “And where has the tableware been since 1824?”
“In the private collection of the great-grandson of the boy who salvaged them,” Gail replied. “I’ve just phoned him. He had a little trouble with thieves about a week ago. A couple of detectives from the 104th Street station came over and looked around. They said they’d let him know if anything turned up, but they didn’t seem optimistic. He hasn’t heard from them since. Answer your question?”
Merlini said, “If the psychiatry business ever goes on the rocks, Doctor, go see Inspector Gavigan. Say I sent you. He might be able to take you on.”
“I suppose you knew about this all the time, Merlini?” Gavigan said with considerable sarcasm.
“No. I’m afraid I can’t say that. But I’m grateful to Dr. Gail. He’s tied together a lot of loose ends.”
“He certainly has, and as soon as we get back to the house—” Gavigan, who had been casting speculative glances at the shy, dark man who stood beside Burt, fidgeting, broke off suddenly and asked, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend, Burt?”
“He is not,” Merlini said, “I’m going to have that pleasure myself. Inspector Gavigan may I present — Mr. X!”
Chapter Nineteen:
UPSIDE DOWN
Mr. X, under this sudden glare of attention, looked at his feet and moved them uneasily.
Gavigan barked at him with impatient ferocity. “What’s your name?”
Mr. X gave him a frightened, bewildered look, glanced nervously at Merlini, and replied, “Nem beselek Engolul.”
“Your cross-examination is going to be difficult, Inspector,” Merlini broke in. “Unless you speak Hungarian.”
The Inspector’s expression said clearly that he did no such thing. Even his English seemed to have deserted him.
Merlini grinned at Burt. “Did you get his story?”
“Yes. One of the Whirling Hungarians goes so far as to speak English. We got it finally.”
“Whirling Hungarians?” Gavigan’s ability to speak came back with a rush.
“A rather special sort of Hungarian,” Merlini said. “He made those footprints. Can you give a demonstration, Burt?”
Burt nodded. “I think so. But outside. Too slippery on this landing.” He jerked a thumb at Mr. X, and they started out. Merlini followed, dropping a few additional crumbs of information over his shoulder as Gavigan, Gail, and myself tagged after him.
“The footprints were to be Madame Rappourt’s mediumistic tour-de-force, the much heralded yet mysterious piece de resistance that failed to — shall I say materialize? — at last night’s séance. Her maiden name, you remember, was Svoboda — Another Hungarian, though not a whirling one. Mr. X is her brother, Sandor Svoboda. That slate message with the ‘D.D.H.’ signature tipped me oft — that and Rappourt’s cryptic remark to Linda, ‘Home will come tonight.’ She was referring, as both Colonel Watrous and myself realized at once, to Daniel Dunglas Home, the astonishing English medium of the 60’s, whose levitation feats were so good that even Sir William Crookes, the famous physicist, swore he had passed his hands beneath Home’s feet while the latter rested in mid-air two feet above the floor. Linda knew about him, naturally, and Rappourt intended to impress her and Lamb by materializing his spirit and having it perform a Home levitation. Medium materializes medium — a new high in something or other. In the darkened room, steps would be heard going across the ceiling and, when the lights went up, the footprints would be found as evidence, along with that ‘Can you not believe now?’ slate message. Too bad it didn’t come off because Ross might have gotten some very lovely infra-red shots. Ready, Burt?”
The Man Who Turns Himself Inside Out nodded, and faced Mr. X on the grass beside the house. They grasped each other’s hands firmly, palm to palm. Sandor placed his right foot against the upper part of Burt’s thigh close to the hip. He grunted, “Hup,” and swung forward and up. Burt’s arms straightened rigidly above his head and Mr. X, balanced on his hands, slowly began to upend. His feet pushed up above his head; his back arched. Burt took a careful tentative step forward, then a second and a third, and walked across the lawn, with Mr. X maintaining a graceful, unwavering handstand atop Burt’s hands.
“An acrobat!” Gavigan’s tone was the same a gardener uses in referring to a Japanese beetle.
“And a good one, too,” Merlini grinned. “You might have deduced that — Mr. X was so expert at slithering out windows open at the top. You really should attend the circus oftener, Inspector. Great educational institution. The Whirling Hungarians are one of the Big Show’s star acrobatic acts. Sandor does the somersault from the teeter-board to a three-high tower of fellow countrymen stacked up on one another’s shoulders and also the triple somersault.” (See circus program on page 18.)
Merlini stopped, watching. Burt said, “Hup,” stepped out from under, and his upside-down partner dropped, turning as he fell, to land on his feet, bouncing like a rubber ball.
“The idea wasn’t original with Rappourt,” Merlini went on. “She swiped it from an old, possibly apocryphal, story about Houdini. He is said to have once topped Home’s famous out-the-window levitation in the manner just demonstrated. He sneaked two acrobat friends into the darkened séance room. And the Boston Boys, a two-man acrobatic team touring England in the ’90’s, used to use the same stunt to get room rate reductions. They’d pick out a landlady who was superstitious. They’d stay one night and call her in first thing next morning. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Stubbs,’ they’d say. ‘Renting us a haunted room! We’re leaving. We can’t stay here — not at this price anyway.’ ‘Haunted?’ the good lady would ask. ‘Yes. We didn’t get a wink of sleep. Something was walking about on the ceiling. Look!’ And they’d point to bare footprints that crossed and recrossed the ceiling.”