“The trap gun,” Flint said regarding the contraption with a jaundiced eye. He pulled back the firing pin and removed an empty cartridge case. “And it’s been fired. Somebody placed it on top of that bookcase where we found the thumbtack holes at just about the height of a man’s head. The string ran across the room and was tacked to the wall opposite. A nice thing to run into in the dark! When you hit the string you’re in line with the gun. And somebody did. But who? And when?”
The desk phone at his elbow rang as though it had been waiting the cue and gave him one of the answers. Flint, still scowling at the weapon, reached for the phone, talked a moment, scowled still more, and then replaced the receiver.
He glared angrily at the trap gun.
Merlini said, “Bad news?”
“I don’t know what it is,” Flint answered. “The medical examiner’s just had a look at the body. He wants to know what the hell a powder burn is doing on the left cheek!”
Merlini lifted an eyebrow. “Now that,” he said, “is interesting. I hope your medical examiner doesn’t walk into a trap too.”
Flint blinked. “What does that mean?”
“He might jump at conclusions. He might assume that those lacerations and the cracked skull were the sole cause of death. He might not do a full-dress autopsy. I’d like to know if there’s anything else that could have—”
“Anything else?” Flint’s surprise brought him up out of his chair. “Isn’t that enough? What—”
Merlini pointed a long forefinger at the trap gun. “That ominous gadget and the powder burn set off a positively explosive train of reasoning. It suggests that there has been a second attempt on Smith-Garner-Zareh Bey’s life. Or maybe we better just call him Smitty for short.” Merlini’s finger moved lip and pointed at Flint. “Suppose you’d tried to eliminate someone by not digging him up on schedule. Then, a week later, when you’re sure your victim is thoroughly dead, he pops up again pretending to be a spook. You don’t dare contradict him because he knows you tried to do him in. What would you do then?”
Flint’s eyes returned to the trap gun.
“Exactly,” Merlini said. “You’d buy another chance at him, before he has a go at you. But this particular victim has more lives than a cat. The trap gun misses too. And then—”
“That,” I broke in excitedly, “does it! Wolff is it!”
Flint growled at me. “Wolff is what?”
“The guy who was supposed to dig Smith up. Look at the way the pieces go together. Smith returns from the dead, discovers Wolff has taken a powder, and pretends to haunt the place, knowing that the reported poltergeist phenomena will bring Dudley back from Miami on the run. It does. So Smith shows his face, makes it obvious he knows Wolff double-crossed him, and really starts to blackmail him this time. No wonder Wolff had the jumping jitters. And that’s how Smith, although pretending to be dead, could still collect. Wolff, the blackmailee, was the one who knew damn well the spook was phony.
“So Wolff tries again. He sets the trap gun. But Smith’s rabbit foot is working overtime. The trap gun’s not such a hot murder method anyway. A body wound with a .25 might not be too fatal. Wolff put the gun up on the bookcase aimed for the head and Smith, going into a dark and none too familiar room, has his hand out ahead of him. He trips the string before he’s quite in the line of fire. And then — well now he knows for sure how Wolff feels about him. Also he’s a bit fed up with being the clay pigeon all the time. So when Wolff arrives later to view the body, he lets him have it.”
“Okay,” Flint said with a complete lack of enthusiasm. “Go on. Then what? Where does Smith go from there? You and Merlini both insist that he didn’t leave that study by either of the only two possible exits. And don’t give me that walking-through-a-brick-wall gag again either.”
“Dammit!” I growled. “I don’t know how he got out. I don’t know what happened to Charlie Ross, the ‘Marie Celeste,’ or Judge Crater either. But something did. And Smith got out.” I pointed to the revolver. “The murder gun got out didn’t it? You can’t say it wasn’t in the study when Wolff was shot. And now it turns up on Smith. What more do you want?”
“I want,” Flint insisted stubbornly, “A way out.”
“There’s another little objection too,” Merlini said. “If Wolff was the one who tried to kill Smith by not digging him up, it would mean that he knew Smith was only playing dead. It would mean that the whole scene in the study a week ago was an act. How do you explain that? Why, in heaven’s name, would those two be working together? A sensible answer and ten cents in stamps to cover handling charges gets you a kewpie doll, a screen test, and an all-expense-paid trip to the South Pole.”
Flint suddenly smacked his fist down on the desk and growled, “Harte, you shut up! Merlini, you stick to the subject. What about that autopsy? You haven’t said anything so far that—”
“I haven’t had a chance,” Merlini protested. “When Ross threw his pipe dream into the machinery I was about to point out that after someone has twice tried to kill Smith, the man with nine lives obligingly pops off in an ordinary run-of-the-mine traffic accident. It’s too much. It’s not in character. I smell mice. I want an autopsy.”
“But dammit, man,” Flint objected, “that car was ten miles away, traveling at sixty per, the windows closed, a cop in pursuit! How the hell can you get dirty work at the crossroads out of that? Your imagination is working overtime.”
“Maybe,” Merlini nodded. “But just the same I wish you’d hint to that medical examiner that you’d like a toxicological report.”
“A toxi—” Flint gaped. We all did. Then, slowly, he added, “Poison — a slow one that would hit him after he’d left, while he was driving—” His hand reached out for the phone.
“Or,” Merlini added, “a narcotic. Or even a steering gear that had been tampered with. We should take a good look at that car too.”
Flint was already barking a number at the operator. Then, tangling his metaphors, he said, “If you’ve got any more rabbits like that one up your sleeve would you mind breaking them gently? Hello! George? Look, tell Doc I want the works on that traffic-smash victim. A complete autopsy with toxicological report. Yes, that’s what I said. And soon.”
He slammed the receiver back into place and stood up. “Sergeant, I’m going to take a look at that car with Mastermind here. I’m leaving you in charge.” He glanced at me. “And see that no one else tries to lam before we get back. Surround the damn place.” He started for the door.
I protested quickly. “Lieutenant, come off it. I’m going along. I’ve got a story to write. Besides I can’t be the guy who didn’t dig the zombi up—”
“No?” Flint shot back. “You were out here that night.”
“But I couldn’t have set the trap gun. Someone’s been with me every minute tonight except—”
“Except when you were in the study!”
“No, dammit, not then. When I was in the water. Smith was in the study when I was.”
“Maybe that’s when you poisoned him then.” Flint opened the door. “And Sergeant, see that he doesn’t phone any newspapers. Come on, Merlini.”
I turned to Merlini, hoping for some assistance. I didn’t get it. He hadn’t even been listening.
“Lieutenant,” he said, “I suppose it’s too late to keep the traffic accident and Smith’s death under cover?”
Flint stopped and looked back. “Yeah. Way late. It’s on the wires by now. Why?”
“But you could give orders that none of your men mention it out loud, that no papers come into this house, and that the lighting system blows a fuse or something so that none of the radios hereabouts will function?”
Flint scowled. “I don’t get it.”