“But why would I insist that he was dead when it leaves me open to a charge of accessory after the fact to murder, assisting at an illegal burial, and God knows what else?”
“That’s easy.” Flint watched the doctor narrowly. “Maybe you knew the body had been taken from the grave and figured that we couldn’t make a charge stick without it. You said as much a while back. Remember?”
Haggard didn’t answer. We all turned to listen as we heard someone running through the woods, running toward us as it a horde of ghostly specters was close behind. It was the police officer who had earlier tried to stop the fleeing car.
“Lieutenant,” he reported with what can by no means be described as shallow breathing, “we found Dunning! In the garage. He didn’t take it on the lam in that car, but the guy who did gave him a nasty crack on the head and shoved him in one of the other cars out of sight.”
“Can he talk?”
“He did — some. But he passed out again. Tucker says Doctor Haggard better have a look at him right away.”
Flint turned to one of the men who had been digging in the grave. “Newman, take Haggard in. And don’t let him out of your sight. We’ll be along in a minute or two.”
As they started off the lieutenant faced the patrolman again. “What happened, Ryan?”
“Well, he says he ran out of cigarettes and went downstairs to bum one from the chauffeur. His room’s next to the garage in the basement. Leonard wasn’t there but Dunning finds a pack and then, just as he’s leaving, he thinks he hears somebody in the garage. He figures it’s Leonard and he goes in. There’s nobody there, but the garage doors are wide open and that looks fishy. He wonders if maybe somebody is getting ready to take a run-out powder and he looks in the cars to see if they’ve loaded any luggage. When he opens the door of Miss Wolff’s car and sticks his head in, there’s a guy inside who reaches up, grabs his throat, and bangs his head against the dashboard. That’s all he remembers.”
“Who was it? Didn’t he get a look at the man?”
Ryan shook his head. “I don’t know. Tucker’s just asking him that when he passes out on us again.”
Flint looked back at Merlini and myself. “Come on. We’re going in. Ryan, you—”
He stopped. Another man was running toward us from the woods, Tucker this time.
He started reporting before he had come to a full stop. “Lovejoy just phoned. He’s got the guy in the car! It smashed up on the Parkway.”
As he paused to catch his breath, Flint demanded, “Who—”
“The ghost,” Tucker answered, “and this time he really is dead!”
I had expected that, but I wasn’t quite prepared for what followed.
“Just what,” Merlini asked quietly, “makes the sergeant so sure his captive is dead?”
Tucker blinked. “What makes — Well, he said he’d shipped him in to the morgue, so I suppose—”
The lieutenant emitted smoke and flame like an incendiary bomb. “Ryan, bring this crowd in. And don’t lose any of ’em!” He started running toward the house.
Merlini said, “I hope that body’s still in the wagon when it arrives. If it can escape from a grave—”
Then he started running too.
Chapter Fifteen:
A Dead Man Dies
Merlini’s dash after the lieutenant was short-lived. Ryan roared a command to halt. Merlini paid no attention. The policeman drew his gun and fired once in the air.
That got results. Merlini stopped and looked back. “Are you a good shot?” he asked.
“You just keep running,” Ryan promised. “You’ll find out.”
Merlini shook his head. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Hastily Ryan herded us back toward the house. I fell into step beside Merlini. “Got any more rabbits in your hat like that last one?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to look. We still need a few.”
I agreed to that heartily. “We certainly do. Your appealing theory that the haunt is the dead man himself doing a return engagement cancels out quite a few stickers. We don’t need to hunt for a lightning-change impersonator any longer, and it gives an explanation for Scotty’s story, the matching fingerprints, and most of the poltergeist tomfoolery — the smashed china, the transposed pictures, the spilled ink, the library books, the frightened servants. But just look at the ragged fringe of loose ends all around the edges.
“How, if he’s flesh and blood and not a bona fide wraith, did he smash that flower vase? There were witnesses that time and he wasn’t exactly visible. He may use a flashlight to outwit the burglar alarm, but it wouldn’t help him wriggle through locked doors the way he does. How did he vanish from Mrs. Wolff’s room quicker than you can say ‘Scat!’ or was Leonard lying when he insisted no one shinnied out the window? He could have gotten into the study with the key Wolff missed, but how’d he exit again after the shooting when I was watching the window and you guarded the door?
“For that matter, why’d he toss me into the drink? Unless he’s a homicidal maniac, it doesn’t make sense. If he wanted to liquidate a witness to the fact that he was hiding in the study, then why is he so careless with his fingerprints? Why does he leave so many of them everywhere anyway? It almost looks as if—”
“Go on,” Merlini said. “You’re doing fine. As if what?”
“As if he left them on purpose.” But I sounded doubtful.
“Well,” Merlini said matter-of-factly, “why not? Before we knew that the grave was empty, the prints seemed to offer the final proof that the ghost was the real thing. He might have planned that for Wolff’s benefit.”
I objected. “No, you’re slipping. Why would he leave them for Wolff’s benefit when the next thing he does is shoot Wolff? And how come, in that blamed photo, does he show up as transparent as a guppy? Or are you going to tell me that Lady Edgcumbe and General Lee’s mother could do that sort of thing too? Because if you are—”
“I’m not. Those are added wrinkles. But you’re being coy about the photo. You’re the boy who used to wear his Leica to bed. You can explain that one.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It’s just a common garden variety of double exposure, the kind all beginners make when they forget to wind their film between shots. Galt had set up the camera and left it loaded, aimed, focused, and unguarded. Mr. Ghost floats in, clicks the shutter, and puts a shot of the background on the film. The light from the photoflood bulb in the upper hall would have served nicely. He goes upstairs, unscrews the bulb in the corridor, and waits for his cue. Then, when he makes his little bow, I click the shutter again, and the shot of him that I get overlays the background that’s already on the film, giving us a phantom view. He certainly took pains to give Wolff a scare. And why? More blackmail?”
Merlini nodded. “Looks that way. Wolff was shying frantically from unfavorable publicity. He thought he’d killed a man, and he’d tried to cover up by burying the body. Can you think of any better blackmail material?”
“No,” I said. “Don’t think I can. But, if he goes to all that trouble to blackmail Wolff, why does he shoot him? There’s no point in that. And, even if he hadn’t, he couldn’t leave Wolff a spirit message demanding that he put the money in unmarked bills of small denomination on the gravel. Spooks aren’t troubled by the rising cost of living; it’s a contradiction in terms. Wolff would have smelled rats. If he should suspect that the ‘dead man’ is alive it upsets the whole scheme. And if the dead man stays dead, how does he collect?”
Merlini wasn’t very helpful. All he would say was, “You’ve talked yourself into a lovely dilemma there, haven’t you?”
I gave him a suspicious look. “Meaning that you know the answer?”