“I was the one who pounded on that study door before the reports of those two shots died away.”
He let that soak in while he struck a match and lighted his cigarette. “When I didn’t get any answer, I tried to smash the door down. All that got me was a sore shoulder, so I went to work on the lock again. And I was right there, smack in front of that door, every second until the lieutenant here arrived just as I got it open again. If any gun or, for that matter, your bearded assailant, came out that door they were a lot more than semitransparent. They must have been invisible. We’re up against the walking-through-a-brick-wall stunt again — with variations. Variations that I don’t like.”
“Invisible men!” Flint groaned. “Walking through brick walls! Do you have to begin that again?”
“You’re something of a magician yourself, Lieutenant,” I said. “Just how did you happen to wander in at just the proper moment right on cue?”
“After Wolff had bounced you and Merlini, your girl friend got to thinking it over and decided to deal a hand of her own. She phoned the station and reported that a couple of guns had been stolen.”
I turned to Merlini. “And who came up those back stairs just before I ducked into the study?”
“Phillips. He said he couldn’t sleep and decided to take a look around. He came along the hall, turned his light on the front stairs for a moment, and then went back. I had ducked into the library but, as soon as the coast was clear, I came up the stairs again. I assumed you had holed up as I’d suggested, in the bedroom. I had just reached the top of the stairs when the guest-room door opened. I ducked again. Anne Wolff came out, closed the door behind her, and started down the hall in the dark. I heard a door open and close softly. And I hope I’ll never have to live through those next few minutes again. I thought, of course, that she’d gone back to her own room and that she’d find you there, unable to escape because I had the flashlight. I sat tight, waiting for the end of the world and without the vaguest notion of how we could talk our way out of a spot like that. But nothing happened at all. The dark silence of a grave would have been bright and cheerful by comparison. Then, suddenly, I doped it out. You must have gone into the study instead.
“And then, just as I began to breathe easier, Wolff’s door opened. He left it ajar a bit and, in the light from his room, what do I see him do but make tracks for the study! There’s nothing to that yarn about a person’s hair turning white in moments of intense emotional stress. If there were, mine would be. Wolff unlocked the door and went in. The room inside was dark. He clicked the light switch. And, just as the door slammed shut, I heard him cry, ‘Anne!’ in a completely thunderstruck tone of voice. I felt the same way.
“I shook my head and did a mental somersault back to theory number one again. Since Mrs. Wolff had gone into the study, you must be in the bedroom. I decided that perhaps we had better join forces and get set to evacuate. I started down the hall. I was just easing past the study door ‘on tiptoes stealing’ when those shots banged out. I think there’s a gash in the ceiling where my head hit it when I jumped.”
Merlini reached for a refill of Scotch. “And the finishing blow came when I discovered that you weren’t in either the study or the bedroom! My nervous system will never be the same again!”
My own was completely numb. “The ghost,” I said weakly, “improves with practice. He didn’t come out the window, and he didn’t come out the door — at least not visibly. And for good measure, he spirits the gun away too! No trap doors this time either, I suppose?”
“No. The age of trap doors ‘has went.’ Even in the theater. Stages are concrete these days. Lieutenant Flint here, consequently, has to choose between a murderer who goes out like a light and one who can swim. You appreciate his dilemma, don’t you?”
“I can’t very well overlook it. But have you noticed mine? And do you remember who got me into it? And when are you going to do something about it?”
Merlini looked at Flint. “What about Mrs. Wolff? When do we interview her?”
“Now.” Flint, who had been pacing irritably back and forth, turned and strode toward the door. Halfway there he stopped. Running footsteps pounded along the hall outside. Someone banged on our door.
Flint jumped for it, calling, “Come in.”
The door opened and disclosed Sergeant Lovejoy, breathing hard. “Got something,” he reported. “Joe saw a guy trying to get into the boathouse just now. Then he turned tail and headed for the woods, but Joe tackled him. The boys are bringing him up now.”
There were voices and the tramp of feet on the stairs.
“Well, Lieutenant,” I said, “perhaps now you’ll believe in ghosts!”
Chapter Twelve:
Spectral Fingerprints
When Joe’s captive came into the room, convoyed fore and aft by cops, my hope that the elusive phantom had been captured sagged limply and collapsed with the traditional dull thud. The man couldn’t very well have looked any less like the subject of Galt’s spirit photo. His eyes were not black, but bright blue, and his more than generous nose, glowing with the ruby-redness of a port light, was certainly not ascetic — not by a jugful. He was, furthermore, short, tanned, and clean shaven. A desert isle of baldness atop his head was surrounded by a curling white surf of hair. He was distinctly ill at ease, and he eyed us all with deep suspicion.
Flint frowned uncertainly. “I’ve seen you around before.”
“Lieutenant,” the man protested. “I hae na done anything. Why—”
It was obvious as soon as he spoke who he was. The touch of Scottish accent in his voice told us that. “Douglass!” Flint exclaimed. “The missing boatkeeper.”
The prisoner looked around worriedly. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “What’s happened? What are you doin’ here? Why—”
He stopped as Flint took a step toward him. “What are you doing here?”
“I came back to get some clothes and things from ma room o’er the boathouse, and these men—”
“Where the hell have you been for the last four days? Did you know we were just about to drag the Sound for your body?”
Scotty stared at him for a moment, then looked at the floor. “Í,” he said slowly, “I was away.”
Flint scowled. “We noticed that. Go on, talk. Where and why?”
The boatkeeper’s broad fingers twisted nervously at his hat, turning it around and around. “I — well, I was lookin’ for another job. I found one and I hae to get back.”
“Why’d you leave without notice? And without the pay you had coming?”
Scotty’s answer was slow in coming. He still looked at the floor. “I decided I didna want to work here any more.”
Flint waited for him to continue, but Scotty left it at that. “I see.” Flint’s voice was harsh. “How long have you been working for Wolff?”
“Nine years.”
“And all at once you don’t want to work here any more. Just like that?”
Douglass nodded. His eyes lifted once, darted a furtive look at the rest of us, and dropped again.
Flint regarded him thoughtfully for a second, and then let him have it. “Okay. Suppose I guess. It wouldn’t be because you saw a ghost, would it?”
The reaction he got was quite satisfactory. The white tufts of cotton that were Scotty’s eyebrows ascended like twin stratosphere balloons. He stared as though Flint himself were a ghost. But the cat seemed to have got away with his tongue entirely.
The lieutenant began to grow impatient. “You’re going to talk, Douglass. Plenty. You might as well start now and get it over. When—”
Scotty looked around at the rest of us once more. Then he said, “Where’s Mr. Wolff? I want tae see him.”