Flint’s voice was icy. “You’d have been in a better spot than you are now. What did you do with the body?”
Haggard’s voice nearly faded out. “—grove of pines — along the shore — we — we buried it.”
Flint’s voice was that of a sleepwalker having a bad dream. “I hope,” he said slowly, “that the A.M.A. likes those reasons of yours better than I do.” Then he roared, “Tucker!” A door slammed.
I put the receiver back in its cradle, and, for a moment, stared at nothing. The ghost was apparently that of a man whom Wolff had killed and whose body had been secretly buried. I knew at last why its appearance had effected him as it did.
Kay was shaking me. “Ross, if you don’t tell me—”
“Haggard just took the lid off. We’ve got another corpse. Your father, stepmother, and Dunning were all lying like troopers when they said they didn’t know who the ghost was.” I gave her a rapid summary of the rest of it, then added, “Come on. I want to see Merlini.”
I jumped up and went to the door.
Kay came after me and caught at my arm. “Careful. The lieutenant—”
Her warning was too late. The door was already open and Flint, in person, faced us from the head of the stairs.
“Well,” he said. “So you two don’t speak!”
There didn’t seem to be any answer to that one.
Flint added, “Miss Wolff, your car keys. Where’d you see them last?”
“I’m afraid I left them in the car.”
He gave her a disgusted look, then hurried on down the hall and disappeared into Mrs. Wolff’s room, Doctor Haggard after him.
“My horoscope for today,” I muttered gloomily, “must have predicted floods, typhoons, and ice storms. If it didn’t, astrology is a washout.”
Merlini’s head popped out of Wolff’s room just as we reached it. “Ross, get Tucker up here. Quickly!”
“Tucker? He won’t take any orders from me.”
“Tell him Flint sent you. Tell him anything. But get him.” Merlini hurried back into the room.
“Kay,” I said, “do your Mata Hari imitation. Find out what that means.” I went back to the stairs. Tucker was in the hall below near the front door giving rapid instructions to two uniformed cops.
I called down. “Tucker! The lieutenant wants you on the double-quick. Wolff’s room. Hurry!”
Then I ducked, not giving him a chance to discuss the matter or pop any doubting questions. It worked. I heard him start after me up the stairs.
In Wolff’s room, Merlini was blowing at Galt’s iodine fumer, spraying the purple gas onto the metal surface of the stack of file cabinets in the corner. Tucker burst in, looked around, and scowled at me.
“You said the lieutenant—” Then he saw what Merlini was doing. “Hey, what are you up to? Flint told you to lay off—”
“I know,” Merlini said. “But this is rush. Tucker, if you want to give your boss a surprise that will curl his hair, take a quick look at this.” He pointed to several brown smudges on the face of the cabinet’s top drawer.
Tucker’s professional curiosity started to work. He crossed the room, pulling a magnifying glass from his pocket as he went.
And, behind him from the doorway, a cold voice asked, “What’s going to curl my hair?” Flint stood there, Haggard and Ryan behind him.
No one answered. Merlini looked at Tucker. Then the latter suddenly straightened up and turned. “There’s a print here that matches the ones I’ve got labeled Person Unknown.”
“And this file,” Merlini said distinctly, spacing his words, “is the one that Wolff’s blackmailing visitor was investigating in the study a week ago Saturday night. The ghost leaves the same fingerprints as the dead Mr. Garner!” He glanced at Haggard. “You’re quite certain, Doctor, that—”
But Flint was roaring over Merlini, dropping bombs. “How the blazing hell do you know anything about that? The library doors were under guard. You couldn’t—”
Merlini’s dark eyes twinkled. “You forget,” he said calmly, “I’m a mind reader. And, with so many positively violent thought waves flitting about—” He turned back to Haggard and completed his question while Flint was still sputtering. “You’re quite sure the man was dead?”
Haggard nodded in a dazed fashion. “Those fingerprints can’t match. It’s impossible. Of course he was dead. You don’t think I would have—”
“They match all right,” Tucker put in. “I’ll swear—”
Flint swore too — at Merlini. “If he wasn’t dead then, he is now. They buried him!”
“I know,” Merlini admitted. “And in a grove of pine trees. Remember what the apparition left behind when he appeared in the hall out there yesterday morning? A small, dried cake of mud with pine needles embedded in it! Don’t you think we might take a look into that grave?”
“That’s being done,” Flint growled. He stepped forward and planted himself in front of Merlini. “I want to know how you—”
The phone, just beside him, began to ring. Flint grabbed at it irritably. As he picked it up, he started slightly and gave the receiver a curious look. He gave Merlini another. And his mind worked out loud.
“This receiver’s warm. You couldn’t have been calling outside because I — So, that’s your mind-reading secret, is it? Who?” This last exclamation was directed into the phone. “Yes, he’s here. Who’s this?”
The answer raised Flint’s eyebrows. Hastily, he cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, muffling his voice. I could only make out a word or two from there on.
“—yes, murder — both of them — clear up to their necks — I see — yes. Okay, thanks.” He hung up.
“That,” he said slowly, “was your friend, Inspector Gavigan.”
“It’s about time.” Merlini’s smile was a relieved one. “I was beginning to think my official status would never be confirm—”
“It’s still nil,” Flint said flatly. “You’re not in his county just now. Besides, he warned me not to use handcuffs if I arrested you. He recommended a day-and-night guard.”
Merlini groaned, “There’s liquor at that convention tool” He reached for the phone. “I’ll tell him what I think of his sense of humor, his scandalous conduct, his—”
Flint stepped in front of him. “You’re not telling anybody anything. And you’re tagging right along with me where I can watch you.” He gave me a dirty look. “And you too. Haggard, show us where that grave is.”
Kay tried to get Flint to wait until she had dressed, but he snapped, “This isn’t a sight-seeing tour. Get back to your room. The rest of you start moving.”
A half-dozen stone markers in the little clearing among the pines sagged wearily with the weight of age; the inscriptions on their gray faces were blurred and cryptic. A blue uniform coat hung over one of them, and before another, two red-faced patrolmen were industriously digging. A third stood near by directing operations. Farther back, on the clearing’s edge, the boatkeeper, Scotty Douglass, watched dourly. He was trying to fill a briar pipe and spilling rather more tobacco than he put in because his fingers shook.
“Somebody’s been digging here all right,” the officer in charge reported. “The ground’s loose.” He pointed to a sheet of newspaper spread out close by the grave, its edges weighted down with stones. “Footprint. Nice neat one. Rubber-heel markings that oughta be a cinch.”
Flint knelt, raised the paper and took a look. “Haggard,” he said after a moment, “let’s see your shoes.”
The doctor approached, lifted one foot and let Flint scowl at its sole.
“Those the shoes you wore when you were here that night?”
Haggard nodded. “Yes. I think so.”