“Which absolves you, Dr. Gail, of prowling,” Merlini said. “Then he found the boat, Burt?”
“Yes. He got a glimpse of Brooke through the window, realized he was back, and started looking for the boat. He stuck to the shore and worked around. The rain caught him, and he had no light, but about 10 minutes later he found it parked over there.” Burt pointed. “He showed me when we came in. The outside shore of that point of land that sticks out around the houseboat.”
“Where I found the guineas!” Doctor Gail exclaimed.
“Uh-huh,” Gavigan muttered. “Brooke’s got a lot to get off his chest.”
“That’s all,” Burt finished. “Brooke had left the keys in the boat, and Svoboda pushed out. He headed straight across and ran her aground at 130th Street. He played his afternoon performance today, but he missed on the triple somersault and almost did get a twisted back. When I arrived, he was just about ready to take a fast freight out. He’d have done it before except that the other five Whirling Hungarians would have slapped hell out of him if they ever caught up with him. It would have queered the act.”
“And I’m going to queer an act or two right now,” the Inspector said heavily. “Come on.” He turned hastily and almost bolted down toward the other house. We scurried after him, silent at first, watching the tangled path underfoot as the twilight deepened, the red sun dropping swiftly behind the serrated skyline of Manhattan.
“You mean Brooke?” Merlini asked when we came out on the smoother going of the long lawn.
“For one, yes. But I’ve got several things on the fire that may have come to a boil by now. You’d be surprised.”
“I hope so,” Merlini said sincerely. “There’s still a thing or two I want to know badly. The house lights have come up, and most of the mirrors and wires and a lot of the sleight-of-hand is pretty obvious now, but—”
“Know who the murderer is, of course.” Gavigan watched him.
“Yes. Told you I knew that this morning, but before you put the screws on me about that, can I—”
“I happen to know, too.”
Merlini blinked. “I see. Know what the motive was?”
“I can think of one that’ll do, though it’s not necessary. My candidate would just as soon rub someone out as not. To keep in practice.”
“Um. But wouldn’t the D.A. be a lot happier if you furnished him with a nice tailored one? And had you thought of asking the one person who ought to know — the person you very seldom get a chance to question in a murder case—the victim? Should think you’d jump at the chance. The poison Linda got was intended for Rappourt — and she’s still alive. Or was, last I knew.”
“You think—”
“The murderer might try to correct his little error if he so much as suspects we’re on to it. I wish you’d put her through your inquisitorial wringer again before you do another thing.”
Gavigan nodded. “That’s why I put Brady on her tail. So she’d keep. Is that you, Grimm?”
As we came up on to the terrace, a dark figure hurried around the coiner of the house coming up from the boat-house path. Grimm’s voice answered, “Yes, sir.”
Inspector Gavigan’s eyes fastened with interest on the Gladstone bag he carried. Then he snatched it out of Grimm’s hands and sailed into the living-room. Malloy, Sigrid, Dr. Gail, and Quinn were there. Gavigan didn’t even see them. He took the case to a table across the room and opened it hurriedly. As Merlini and I moved forward, he waved us back.
“This is my pigeon,” he said. “You keep—”
For an instant, then, I thought he must have opened the lid of the original Pandora’s box. The arc through which his jaw dropped certainly indicated that he saw nothing much less than a two-headed hippocampus. “I’ll be damned!” The explosive force of his exclamation nearly jarred the room.
He bent instantly over the contents of the suitcase, examining something with almost frantic haste. And then he grinned widely. Merlini, a burning match halfway toward the cigarette in his mouth, stood motionless as granite and stared with a hypnotic concentration, as if trying, by some conjurer’s X-ray vision, to penetrate the sides of the suitcase and fathom its contents. He didn’t look as if he were having any great success. Gavigan seemed to be the one who was dealing himself aces now.
Then Grimm began speaking rapidly in the Inspector’s ear, in a fervent, excited whisper. What he said stimulated the Inspector even more — so much that I expected the ecstatic glow on his face would burst into incandescence at any moment. Once during Grimm’s recital he glanced across at me and grinned broadly. The man seemed not only to have cornered all the aces but the court cards as well!
When Grimm finished, Gavigan slapped the suitcase shut and said, “Are you all set for the grand finale, Merlini?”
Merlini brought the match up to his cigarette finally, just in time. Then he shook his head. “No. Not quite.” He turned to Sigrid and Gail. “Would you mind leaving us for just a moment? Thank you.”
They went into the library and closed the door. Merlini added, “I want to hear just one answer from Rappourt first.”
“Okay.” Gavigan beamed at him indulgently and waved his hand as if he were presenting the Metropolitan Museum with two new wings, fully stocked. “I don’t mind. Go get her, Grimm.”
“Just a minute.” Merlini stopped him. “Where is she?”
Malloy answered. “In her room. And boiling because Brady moved in with her.”
“And the others?”
“Arnold just went out to the kitchen. Domestic conference. Mrs. Henderson wanted to know how many for dinner. Watrous is lying down in his room says his head still bothers him — and Brooke’s in his, with Hunter on duty. Muller’s downstairs watching Lamb polish off the Scotch at that bar.”
“Very good. Do you mind if we see Rappourt in her room? And I’d appreciate it if Grimm would station himself on the sun deck outside and keep an eye on her window.”
It was Gavigan’s turn to look disconcerted now. But he shrugged and said, “Do that, Grimm.”
“And, Burt, you bring our friend, Mr. X.” Merlini started up the stairs. He reached Rappourt’s door first, pushed it open, and said, “Brady, will you station yourself in the hall here at this door, please?”
Brady, who was parked on the window seat with a newspaper, came forward quickly. Merlini stood aside and the rest of us filed in. Madame Rappourt sat in an easy chair as far from where Brady had been as she could get. She glowered at us and started to speak; but her mouth closed again, abruptly, without a word. Mr. X had entered.
“You know each other, I think?” Merlini said casually. Rappourt’s head started a negative motion, but Sandor burst out with a flood of what sounded like apologetic Hungarian. Rappourt’s black eyes snapped at him. Then she cut him off suddenly with a few biting phrases that I knew wouldn’t have been complimentary in any language.
Merlini didn’t give Gavigan a chance to take over. “That answers that question,” he said, his voice rising above its normal tones. “There is one other. You’re not going to like it at first, but I think you’ll answer it. As you can guess, we know how the footprints were made, and with whose help. We know what use you intended to put them to. We know that Watrous’s trick chair didn’t hinder your production of fraudulent psychic phenomena because there should have been two, with Brooke locked in the other. I know how the writing got on that slate. Instead of the more customary chalk, you used a well-sharpened slate pencil. Brooke did the writing by inserting the point through the loosely woven fabric of the bag. That accounts for the wobbly character of the writing. The sealing wax, the careful knotting and tying, and the signatures were merely so much misdirection on the general principle: Give the suckers so much to think about they can’t think straight. Also, we’ve found Floyd, and we know how he died. We know who moved his body and who, with a forged letter, tried to make it appear that he was still alive. We’ve found a suitcase full of 1779 guineas that are counterfeit and some very interesting Hussar relics that are genuine, but stolen. Do you have anything to say to all that?”